#sean vulgare

[elbiotipo]

Esa canción de mierda se hizo popular (como la original) por los tuiteros argentinos herederos de Taringa y Promiedos que se deleitan en ser edgy (o picante que sería lo nuestro) y así vamos siendo picantes no? Es un chiste es como el chiste de los aristócratas o un sketch de Yayo vamos a ser más y más picantes a ver dónde llegamos, y vas a llegar a un punto donde eso no da gracia y te vas a estrellar con que es un vulgar reflejo del racismo la homofobia y la transfobia que existe en Argentina.

Pero si vos le preguntas a esa gente es muy seguro que te van a decir no no yo no soy racista yo no soy homofóbico. Y es muy posible que no lo sean! Porque los argentinos en general no lo son. Lo que sí tienen los argentinos es la cultura del bardo y el insulto "amistoso" es el país donde nos saludamos con boludo/a. Donde aceptamos las cargadas y los chistes fuertes y fuera de tono como parte de las relaciones sociales. Y después tenemos los pelotudos que no se dan cuenta que no, no todo es una "cargada" entre amigos, no todos lo consideran humor o compinchada o bardo o euforia, y esos insultos tienen, por el hecho mismo de ser insultos, una capacidad de herir y discriminar y dejarte mal a vos y a quien representas, en este caso tu país.

Así que si, que se coman la sanción por boludos.

No voy a hablar de este tema ni contestar asks al respecto porque ya veo que va a ser tremendamente rompe pelotas.

[written-beyond-the-grave]

Taking the Mikaelsons to a Concert

IK a bitch was gone, but a bitch is back… sparingly. I been on tumblr doing my shit but ummm I started this shit while in highschool like sophomore year… It’s been a year since I graduated college…. Anyway, fuck it we ball bc someone needs ot get this shit wet first with the Mikaelson’s… shout out to @starlightandfairies @wholoveseggs @klausysworld for holding it down. I love everyones work, y'all be feeding the fandom

If it’s snowin’ I ain’t going… leggo (once again, I write this for niggas. Mwah, to freedom)

So primarily I feel like the Mikaelsons would all be down to going to a concert, I mean Nicki, Doja, Lil Nas X, Mariah the Scientist, Chloe Bailey, Drake, Jhene Aiko, Victoria Monet, the Weekend, Kendrick Lamar, Travis Scott--- you get the point. You are the object of their desires and affections so they’ll go…. But what will ensue???

KLAUS

For nosey bitches in the back I got y’all…. This is Klaus finally biting the bullet and taking you to a Nicki concert, the Pink Friday 2 tour!

First, it would take hella time to even get him to go, this man is busy running lives, making hybrids, acting like he a real active party in whatever council shit he bullied his way into in New Orleans, and like running Rebekah’s love life…. He be busy 

He probably feels like he should take you out for something, so he asks you what you want. Anything your heart wants he’ll give it no problem: private helicopter tour of NYC, a week in Brazil, couples massage, hell even go see puffins up in Iceland. But you know what your bitch ass asks for?

To see Onika Tanya Maraj…. As you should

This man is staring at you like “Love… who is that?” And you look at him and tell him “Nicki Minaj, Nicki Lewinski, Nicki the Ninja, Nicki the Boss, Nicki The Harajuku Barbie…. Have you not learned????” And he just stares at you in amusement like ‘it’s no Mozart, you modern women have such…. Vulgar tastes… but I will endorse this, for you my love”

Wait till he gets there AHAHAHAAAAA

You’re pulled up in all your glory, pink everything, sunnies on, gloss on, heels as big as his dick… And you know I don’t think Klaus would ever let you put him in pink spandex. But I think he’ll allow like a shirt of Nicki’s face on him, and like maybe a barbie chain on his neck… He’s a hybrid, he can’t be seen out like this (you def sent photos to the rest of the family of this). 

I feel like Klaus would be chill af with the crowds and shit, until bitches start getting rowdy when Roman comes on stage. I feel like he’ll just be vibing, but mostly looking at you as you lose your shit 

“A 100 MUTHAFUCKA CAN’T TELL ME NOTHING, I BEEZ IN THE TRAP”... bby chill, you’ll sweat that wig off and it’ll slip back. But deadass, it’s like another beast when she comes out and it activates something in you. Like the regular old human that Klaus knew of is gone, and is replaces by a bad bitch that would definitely put her shoe on his neck and he likes that

Funny enough, there is one song that Klaus would know all the words to… Moment for Life-- HEAR MY OUT, DAMN. Ok, the song is about literally getting everything you want and being at a point where no one can touch you or even fathom to be at your height of success or clout. Klaus Mikaelson gets whatever he wants, no one touches him-- or if they do, they won’t live long enough to tell the tale. King shit, so imagine your surprise when you hear this man over everyone else singing along and being into it

Yeah, did that shit. “What I tell 'em hoes? Bow, bow, bow to me, drop down to ya knees” Drake type man…. And towards the end just reminisce of all the people, woman, children, and villages he pillaged to get where he is now… mentally deranged, having a god complex and inferiority complex at the same damn time, and daddy issues while treating his siblings like his own dad LMFAOOOO

Good luck Klaus whores

And then when she starts bringing in old shit like the songs with Sean Kingston or Gyptian…. Oh boy, I know that man is catching a whine as you yell at him “YOU’RE SO PRETTY AND YOU’RE NICE YUH DUN KNO SEH NICKI AS YO WIFE” Ik you bitches telling Klaus exactly that and putting emphasis on wife bc where tf this Icelandic viking silverback think he going????

But as the show goes on, it’s a cute experience between you two as you guys kinda switch roles and you get to be super unhinged and rock out with the other people there and go bar for bar. Like you couldn’t fuck Michael Kors if you was FUCKIN’ Michael Kors

dabs sweat off my forehead

He’s happy to take you home and baby you when you come from the energy drop, but he will be wondering were that energy comes from bc you ain’t putting all that work in when he fucks you soooooo

REBEKAH

Ok so for this one…. Give me a Lil Nas X, Doja Cat, and Rico Nasty ass collab in a concert (bc that’s my dream lineup and y’all can take all my money). I feel like Rebekah needs the girl power and the gays for this so let me cook

I deadass feel you wouldn’t need to convince her of shit, she’d be the one to ask if you wanted to go because she’s heard some of their songs via you jamming in the bathroom and just booked tickets as soon as you said yes. Hey, it’s to make you happy and you deserved to be pampered-- and she’s trying to get in her modern experiences since she was in a box for a long ass time

1st song is Montero, it has to be she definitely wants to fucked out from the jet lag and becoming part of the mile high club-- it’s her thing. Plus she loves the glitter and probably being two glitter gay/bi/whatever floats your boat people that are dressed in matching outfits, but different color combos. Titties are out, and y’all are sprayed down in glitter

Then after that I feel like it would be Rico Nasty coming in hot with “SLAP A BITCH” and I know you and Rebekah felt this song on a spiritual level, so it’s both you screaming in each others faces while she has her arms wrapped around you bc she loves love.

Then it pops off with “STFU” bc a lot fo y’all hoes needs to take a seat and shut the fuck up when big bitches are in the room… anyways, personal issues. A lot of y’all do not need a mic and are not the big titty bitches y’all make yourself out to be… and take the mics away from podcast men, please. I BEG

But anyways, it’s really a whole anthem to all the rock/rap alt girlies out here. Rebekah isn’t used to the music, but she can get buck wild to it, especially when it comes down to Doja and RIco when they interchange with “Swamp Bitches”.... That’s my shit ngl

Nah bc opening a verse with “I WISH DEATH ON ALL YOU BITCHES” was insane… love you Rico <3 That song makes you wanna fight ever bitch in the state that ever did you wrong, every bitch working at goodwill that couldn’t take your brothers army discount bc you wasn’t personally in the army, the wack ass bitch at the post office that didn’t want to work there that day, and that grandma down the block that keep eyeing you and telling you that you ain’t hot shit… she wasn’t even hot shit when Project C hit the neighborhood and niggas were getting sprayed with hoses

Anyways

I truly feel like she’d appreciate the girl time with you, and just to be, and have her shit out and have fun. It’s what she deserves

KOL

THERE IS NO HEAR ME OUT YOU WILL LISTEN: NF

I know I been on the black artists wave, but for the niggas that really be feeling shit NF just knows and I feel like with Kols past of always being the forgotten sibling, not being i the pack of “always and forever”, dying all the fucking time, and getting treated like shit by everyone else unless they need to minute magical thing that’s super important he’s left in the dark

He is the most self-aware sibling out of everyone out this fuck ass family. And I feel for him honestly, being the black sheep, being the outcast. Being able to use your magic when you were a witch and then all of a sudden you can’t do that shit anymore because you’re dumb ass mom wants to make y’all fucking vampires and freaks of nature and then wants to kill you, like it was your fault in the first place? Shit was really whack.

Like he calls his family and siblings out for having a para social relationship that is super into emotional and measurements, and having no boundaries whatsoever, killing other peoples lovers, putting them in coffins just so Klaus doesn’t feel like he’s losing his siblings because he can always take them whenever he goes. But they’re still in a box, they’re not living life they’re not being happy. And that just shows how much class is really his daddy‘s son, even though his dad really isn’t his dad because his mom cheated on, her husband with a werewolf. And Kol clocks all of that.

So I feel that he would really vibe with NF, I really do. Therapy session, intro, hope, all of those songs the whole album really would have him crying in your arms at sometime around midnight when he just came over to listen to some tunes and have a good time, and I feel like you introduce NF to him. He gets hugged, and he knows that NF is speaking about his life someway somehow and it just really hits him and he just cries in your arms for that time

I don’t care how corny you think this man is, this is real music and he writes about things that are real, and that happens to him. The song mansion is legitimately about Kol’s life with being being abandoned and abused by his own family, and his own father, as class was taking most of the beatings, he still had to watch all of that. But being the middle child that he was, he just was overlooked, and that probably speaks as to why he acted out and didn’t get any of attention that he deserves.

And I feel that as Kol gets into a relationship relationship with you, you being his black queen, because I know that man was up in Hady for some reason helping him with the revolution. He just doesn’t give a fuck does what he wants to do so it makes sense why he would be with the black woman because it’s just everything, they are on earthly, they are Wisdom and magic and chest seal combined into a specific human type. And I love this for them, I love this for me.

But anyways, back to the subject at hand. I feel like you, dear reader, would surprise Kol with NF tickets because he’s been wanting to go for a long time, and you guys went dress up any fancy just probably black, cute little combat, boots and things like that. And then just head to the show. But as soon as the show starts, he probably starts off with one of his hard hitters. I’m imagining either therapy session, or mansion to really get the tears going. And it’s really just the two of you standing side-by-side, maybe even hand and hand shouting every single lyric word for word, and just letting out all the shadow work and trauma, that you two have built up over the past couple years, granted Kol is Literally hundreds of years old, and you’re probably someone your 20s or 30s. But trauma is trauma and y’all need to deal with that.

Bc deadass, these lyrics are Kol: “What's my definition of success? Listening to what your heart says. Standing up for what you know is. Right, while everybody else is” because in every single episode, when Kol says not to mess with some dumb shit that causes about to fucking do everyone else ignores him, even Elijah, and they fuck around and find out, and they all of a sudden need help. And then complain like no one told them exactly what the fuck was going to happen in the first place. This man is always right, and he needs people to listen more to him. He’s been listening to what his heart says, he’s been going out and meeting new people and trying to live a life that he would really be proud of. Even though he’s very much unhinged and still acts out because he wants to be king of the world and wants to have some form of control like Klaus has because he knows that he can never get away from Klaus.

And then, when I feel like it’s towards the end of the show, and NF finally drops, hope, I feel like that’s when Kol really starts to let go of things a little bit, and really start listening to lyrics and make a promise to himself with like, maybe fighting against his dark side, a little bit of all the things that he’s known, and then just digging himself a deeper hole. He wants to actually get better for you, and for himself to have a healthy relationship. Because he’s never had that in his life, and you’re just not a play thing to him at all.

“Thirty years of running, thirty years of searching. Thirty years of hurting, thirty years of pain. Thirty years of fearful, thirty years of anger. Thirty years of empty, thirty years of shame. Thirty years of broken, thirty years of anguish…. I’m taking the reins” so it’s really just him taking the reins of his life, and just making it better than whatever it actually was. And I hope that can be therapy, I really do. But this whole concert experience would really just be a gigantic therapy session for Cole, but also having fun with you because there’s no one else that he would let see that vulnerable and that lively and have his whole façade slip down like that besides you.

But he’d be a Drake fan, Travis Scott, and probably XXXtentacion… he’s still a menace, but he’s a healed menace…. well, healing.

ELIJAH

Here is the black womans whore himself… and my man *does the debby ryan* 

I know that Elijah appreciates music in general, that man literally writes his own concertos, plays the piano, plays the violin. He is classically trained. And I expect nothing less. Honestly, he really is him. And he is also still very much worse than Klaus, even though he would like to believe that he is not.

Honestly, I don’t think you would really have to introduce Elijah to rap or hip-hop music. I feel like he would already be in Erykah Badu fan, probably really like the Beastie Boys, was into old school, underground in New York, hip-hop and rap. He was probably there, underground, too, for shits and giggles when he wanted a break. So no, I don’t think you would have to introduce him to hip-hop, maybe to a couple artists and everything. But, that doesn’t need help with that department

I feel like Elijah would definitely be a Kendrick, Lamar, J. Cole fan in the rap game and even Lil Wayne too. But I want to get into some good old Tom foolery before I say my crème de la crème.

With the whole Kendrick, J. Cole and Drake beef, that’s happening, I don’t think that Elijah would ever take any sides. But I do feel like he would definitely keep up with the news, even though you wouldn’t expect them to, with the whole suit and everything.

To start off, I feel like you being the reader would bring up the whole rap beef thing to Elijah. Since two weeks ago, you already brought up the Megan Thee Stallion versus Nicki Minaj rap beef that was happening. And now, this time it is Kendrick versus everyone, fuck the big three it’s just big me nigga BUM

And I feel like it would be brought up during lunch or something since you guys have lunch together, and you’re just giving him the whole play-by-play and then letting him listen to the song. And I feel like you need to play a couple times for him, so he really gets to like listen to lyrics and understand because one thing about it is…. Metro dissed everyone in morse code

NAHHHHH CUZ YALL NOT HEARING HIMMMM BEEP BEEP BOOP NIGGA

Mans said “BUM” with his chest

Like I know, J. Cole was on his bike on his way to the studio. As soon as he heard what Kendrick Lamar said, but then again, he could also not be doing anything because he’s not the type to just be on Rappy just to get some shit going you know?

But anyways, I feel like Elijah would totally indulge in this, and he would write down a whole play-by-play with what everything means because the power money and respect? “Sweetheart, Drake is the money, Jermaine Coke is the respect, and Kendrick is the power….” I can fully foresee that man giving you a dissertation on every single line and lyric and how it is a jab at every single one of them, and the meaning is behind it. You got not only a history professor, but one of the great literary investigators of all time for no reason.

I feel like Elijah is low-key. Also waiting for Drake and J. Cole to respond to what Kendrick said about them. And he’s so messy, for he really is, because he acts all high and mighty but he’s really waiting for the gossip about what people about to say

But moving along from the rat beef, I really do feel like this man would be a Lil Wayne fan because Lil Wayne was setting a standard early in the 2000s and probably even before then about how he really is one of the best rappers out there. Like, no one else was doing it like him and no one else doesn’t like him, and will never do it like him. You would catch yourself humming to a Lil Wayne, and I feel like that man would pick it up instantly, and just go bar for bar on whatever humming note that you were on and it’s amazing, but it seems so out of character for him, but it’s really not.

Because this concert is going to be one hell of a trip because first and foremost he is not going there with a suit on, you’re going to have to get this man to be casual. Which shouldn’t be hard because he loves you, you’re his little chocolate drop, pumpkin. But putting this man in a leather jacket and some jeans and whatever shoes that are comfortable for him to wear at this concert is gonna be one thing. Fighting off other bitches while in the crowd is going to be another thing entirely as well.

But listening to him, actually let lose for the good two hours that you’ll be there at the concert screaming at your lungs, and listening to this man stay on rhythm beat and have actual breath control when he’s going for a speed to is going to be insane in mind melting

Let’s be honest, you wanna fuck this man on the regular basis just because he’s him. But you’re telling me that he’s cultured and he can wrap and knows what the fuck he’s talking about?

Coochie hours have been extended

And it gets even worse when he knows that this turns you on so anytime that you turn back to look at him he’s already looking at you, wrapping the verse with little to no effort and giving you those bad eyes because he just knows. He knows what he’s doing to you and you have no Other choice but to either look away or to hold eye contact because we both know this is gonna end up messy when you guys get back to the Airbnb or hotel room

“I said, "He's so sweet, make her wanna lick the wrapper" So I let her lick the rapper”, and this mans eyes are dead set on you and his gives the lip bite… Yeah yeah… time for me to gooooo

[water-loos]

Bad Idea, Right ?

“I know we’re done, I know we’re through, but, God, when I look at you…”

player!mean!steve harrington x fem!reader

series masterlist ; next chapter

cw: college au, MILD EMETOPHOBIA WARNING (mentions of gagging/pretending to vomit), vulgar language smut (p in v, creampie, unprotected sex), hate sex, arguing

wc: 5k

a/n: guys please be nice this is my first time writing full on smut

It was easy to change the code for your apartment building. It was easier to sit closer to the front of the class and start participating more as sort of a Steve repellent. Even deleting his number was a piece of cake after a couple of weeks.

What wasn’t easy, was going out.

Despite it being summer when all of the college kids normally went home to their hometowns, your group of friends that lived in your building chose to move to the city permanently and stay for the summer, all in the name of partying and being drunk in public. It had seemed fun at first, and you had been excited at one point.

Then, your friend Eddie said something in a casual conversation that ruined your entire summer.

“Yeah, by the way, Steve’s still holed up at his place. His roommate works 24/7 and doesn’t really do much, so he’s kind of been stuck. I think we should invite him to come out with us tomorrow,” He had suggested innocently, the situation between the two of you was kept so well under wraps that everyone but Alexandra had been kept in the dark. “What d’ya think?”

Well, Alexandra and her girlfriend, Robin. Who was Steve’s best friend. And had apparently been giving him hell about the way he treated you.

Eddie still sat beside you on the couch, sweet and clueless. You gulped before answering. “That’s fine. The more the merrier, right?”

“See! That’s what I told him, but he was all like “Well I don’t know you’d have to ask, you can’t just invite me to someone else’s plans”, which I think is a stupid mindset,” He gave a dramatic and frankly spot-on impression of Steve that almost made you laugh. “I’ll just tell him he should come.”

“Did you tell him who’s coming? Or just that it’s mystery plans?” Robin chirped in from the kitchen, shooting you a knowing look from over the back of Eddie’s head. “You know how he is with knowing everyone who’s at a function.”

“I did not, actually,” Eddie realized and whipped out his phone, flipping it open and clicking through his contacts to find his message thread with Steve. “I’ll text him right now. I don’t think he’s doing anything.”

You watched the screen diligently from where you were sitting, pixelated text bubbles popping up.

—

i just talked to everybody and they said you’re good to come out with us saturday

Who’s going?

rob, alex, nance, sean, jared, and alex’s roommate

—

You bit your thumbnail as you watched a typing bubble pop up, disappear, and then reappear for the next minute.

“He’s taking forever.”

“He always takes forever!” Robin called from the kitchen as Alex walked out from her room.

“What’s all the shouting for?” She grumbled, clinging onto Robin.

“I’m trying to get Steve to tell me if he’s coming out with us on Saturday,” Eddie explains and sends a few question marks in the message thread. “He keeps typing, and stopping, and typing again.”

Alex whips around and shoots you a wide-eyed glance. Eddie’s too enthralled in his phone to see you shoot one back.

—

I just realized I have a work thing that night.

Sorry.

—

“He says he has a work thing. He’s no fun,” Eddie sighs, shuts his phone, and tosses it onto the coffee table.

Your stomach churns and guilt fills your veins. When you cut Steve off, you didn’t want it to stop him from hanging out with everyone else. You’d rather not go and let him have fun instead.

Your phone vibrated in your pocket, indicating you had received a text. Your blood ran cold at the possibility that Steve could be the one texting you, and you immediately handed Eddie the remote that was in your lap in favor of scrambling to open your messages.

You couldn’t help but deflate a little when you saw it was just Robin, asking you if you were alright.

—

u ok?

yeah, i’m fine rob, but can you do me a favor?

sure

what’s up

can you text steve and ask him if he’d consider going out with you guys if i don’t go

what

no i’m not doing that

u don’t have to do that

he’ll be fine

can you just do it? please? i don’t even want to go that badly

i’ll buy you food

please?

fine

but i don’t think U should have to not go out with UR friends bc he’s uncomfy

—

You clicked your phone closed and settled into your seat on the couch, trying to focus on whatever horror movie Eddie had put on. Your phone buzzed not even five minutes after you had closed it, prompting you to open it again.

This time, it was an unknown number.

Your heart just about stopped.

—

Why do you want me to go out with everyone on Saturday so badly?

because i feel bad for being the reason you won’t go

so i’ll not go so you can, eddie really wants you to go

What if I just don’t want to go at all?

i want to make my friends happy, steve

robin and eddie and alex love you, and everyone else will love you

i want them to have a good time and they will if you go

please just go, for their sake

I have a better idea.

Don’t go out with them, and come here.

—

You pause and consider it. It couldn’t be that bad if you did go over. You could bring the six-pack that was in the back of your fridge that you hadn’t had the heart to toss yet, and you two could watch a movie like before. As much as it was easy to separate yourself from him, from everything, you still laid in bed and cried almost every night because your comforter still held the smell of his cologne no matter how many times you washed it. You still had one of his zip-ups, and you kept it right on your bedside table. The Altoids tin with his last cigarette still rattled in your purse.

Your phone buzzed twice in your hand.

—

DONT DO IT. DO NOT. ISWEAR TO FUCKING GOD

don’t listen to him

—

You lifted your head to see Robin and Alex standing behind you, glaring. Alex made a motion of slicing her neck.

That was enough to make you snap your phone closed and go back to pretending to watch the movie.

But it couldn’t be that bad.

Right?

———————

Saturday rolled around, and you had pulled out all of the stops. You blew out your hair, shaved your entire body, and even picked out your favorite pair of jeans that hugged your body just right.

Everything was perfect.

Your friends stood in your apartment, bottles of liquor covered your island, and music was bumping. It was a good pregame, and the energy was high.

“Alright! Let’s get this show on the road people!” Eddie cheered, a shooter between his pointer finger and thumb. “One last shot and then we leave.”

Jared, who had been standing ahead of where you sat on the couch, turned to help you up. The smile that was on his lips faded quickly, and his face fell into a concerned expression in the blink of an eye. “Are you good?”

Step one was complete.

You shook your head slowly and opened your eyes, trying to look as helpless as you could. “I’m really dizzy. I don’t think I should have smoked that cigarette.”

“Oh, shit, Alex?” Jared turned and called for your roommate, who rushed over quickly. The chains that hung from her shorts jingled as she rounded the couch and bent before you. “I think they’re gonna be sick.”

“Babe, I told you not to smoke with Eddie,” She tutted, lips between her teeth.

Before she could say anything else, you jumped up from the couch and rushed to the bathroom with your hand over your mouth, slamming the door behind you.

Step two.

You sat down on the floor next to the toilet and pretended to gag, doing your best to have the sounds you were making reverberate and sound realistic.

You kept it up for a couple of minutes before groaning loudly and flushing, which Alex took as an okay to knock on the door.

“You okay?”

“No. Just go without me.”

“Are you sure? We can just do a night in—“

“It’s fine, Alex,” You croaked. “I’ll be fine. You guys go out and tell me all about it tomorrow. I just want to chill out for a while.”

“Okay, babe. Call me if you need anything,” She agreed quicker than you thought she would, and you could hear her walk away from the door.

Step three.

You waited the ten minutes it took for everyone to get out the door, listening diligently for the faint sounds of their overly loud drunken voices to disappear. You left the bathroom as soon as you heard the door close, and you watched from the crack in your curtains as they pranced down the street and around the corner.

That’s when you grabbed your bag, Steve’s zip-up, his six-pack of beer, sprayed one last drop of perfume and left your apartment.

———————

One tumultuous twenty-minute drive later, you stood in front of his apartment, tossing your hair with your free hand as you debated on knocking.

This was such a bad idea.

But it was fine because you were just returning the last of his things. You were going to give him his things and maybe one more piece of your mind, and then you’d leave and cry in bed. It was a foolproof plan.

So you decide to knock, two raps of the knocker. You adjusted your posture one more time and crossed your arms. It would be fine. It’s a quick trip.

Step four.

Then, the door opened. Steve Harrington stood there, smiling at you with a look that could send someone to their knees. His shoulder leaned against the doorframe, and he matched your posture. It made your heart ache.

“There you are, pretty,” He quipped, letting his eyes drag slowly over your frame. You hadn’t changed, and the strong A/C that escaped the open door rose goosebumps over the sliver of stomach that showed above your jeans and the swell of your tits that was exposed over your favorite going-out top. “Almost thought you wouldn’t come.”

You tried your best to roll your eyes and pushed past him into his apartment, arms still crossed. “I’m just here to drop off your shit. Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

“You dressed up just to bring over my things?” He shut the door behind you and followed you into the kitchen, where you set down all of his stuff. “Sure.”

“Did it ever occur to you that I might have plans after this? I don’t sit alone in my apartment like you do.”

“Oh, is that why Eddie called me?” He rounded the counter to stand in front of you, hands bracing either side of the counter outside of your hips. “Rambling about how I should ditch the work thing and come party because his favorite friend got sick after one cigarette?”

Shit.

He stepped closer once he saw your expression drop, one of his knees wedging between yours.

“I think we both know why you’re here, sweetheart.”

“You’re the one who texted me. Don’t act like this is my idea,” You said, voice wavering so slightly that you weren’t sure that he’d catch on.

“Oh, baby,” He tutted, reaching up to tuck your hair behind your ear and letting his hand trail down your neck. “I’m just feeling like the luckiest guy in the world, getting to be the one you get all prettied up for.”

You folded the second he pulled you closer, connecting your lips. It was like you were putty in his hands, and you were molded just for him. His hand almost gripped the back of your neck as your hands landed on the sides of his waist, anchoring him to you. The kiss was hot and hard like you were taking your first drink of water after walking through a desert. his other hand was quick to grasp your ass, pulling on it slightly as he groaned into the kiss.

“Wearing my favorite goddamn jeans,” He murmured into your lips, letting his hand smack your left ass cheek a little bit. “Just f’me.”

“Not for you,” You grumbled back but grabbed the front of his shirt and let your leg hook around his hip as he pressed you into the edge of the island. “Never for you.”

He chuckled and took one quick movement to set you atop the counter, letting you look down at him as his hands smoothed up your thighs. “I don’t think telling yourself that makes it any more true.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“Aren’t you going to do that for me?”

You knocked his hip with your leg moderately hard, catching his attention. “I’ll walk out right now. This is the last time I’m ever dealing with your shit. I’m serious.”

He just blinked at you, eyes glazed over. But not with a realization that this was the end of you two. That’d be too easy.

That stupid smirk that haunted your dreams popped up on his lips seconds later.

“You’re so fucking hot when you hate me.”

He let his hand slip into the crease of your hips and thighs and all but smashed his lips into yours, groaning a little when your hands reached up to tug at his grown-out strands of hair. He was quick to pull you closer then, your legs wrapping around his hips as he leaned you across the counter. His lips started a burning and sloppy descent down your neck, his hands greedily grabbing at what he could of your ass. He nudged you further and further off the counter as you pulled him closer with both of your legs, and he was practically holding you soundly around his waist.

“You’re not fucking me on top of a counter, Harrington,” You breathed, a little less weight behind your words. “My back still hurts from your stupid car.”

“She’s not stupid,” He huffs against your neck and steps away from the counter, hosting you higher on his hips. “But have it your way.”

You scoff as he references his car as a ‘she’, but the annoyance doesn’t last long as he quickly turns the corner after the kitchen, goes into the first door on the right, and all but tosses you onto his bed. It’s huge and the comforter almost puffs out around you as he closes the door and locks it quietly. He wheeled around at light speed after that, as you positioned yourself, knees up and posed, the chunky heels of your boots digging into his navy sheets. You pulled in your shoulders and pushed out your chest, arms locked behind you.

The second you cocked your head at him, he froze, and you swore that he short-circuited.

“You just going to stand there and gawk at me?” You raised an eyebrow and watched his cheeks grow pink in the dim light of his bedside lamp. “Commit me to memory while you can.”

He was quick to step forward then, a surprisingly gentle hand reaching for your ankle. You watched silently as he slowly pulled down the zipper of one boot, slid it off, and placed it quietly on the shag rug beside the bed. He did the same for the other boot before kissing up the length of your calf and knee over your jeans, alternating legs. You let your arms drop to your elbows, entranced as he lowered your knees and made his way up your thighs, surprisingly tender as he almost worshipped your legs. The nature of it all made your chest tight, those feelings you swore to keep at bay swelling to the surface.

Once he reached your navel, he didn’t waste time letting his fingers grasp the edge of your top, pushing it up as he pressed gentle pecks all over the expanse of your stomach. His head didn’t rise as you carefully lifted your shirt over your head and let it drop to the floor. His pace quickened then as his kisses turned to love bites, his teeth sharp and his lips soothing. Your breath hitched as his hand skirted around your back and unclipped your bra with nimble fingers. He pushed the straps down your shoulders as you slipped them off one by one, the lace material dropping beside your top.

He left larger hickeys on the swell of your breasts and sternum as he trailed back down, fingers already popping the button of your jeans and skirting along the seam between your legs. You preened in response and lifted your hips, urging him to push the tight jeans over your plush hips already. This needed to be quick before the facade you’d built in the last twenty-four hours started to crack.

“Please.”

You whispered the word so softly that you almost didn’t know if he’d hear it, but it was like a switch flipped the second it left your lips. Your jeans were flying off your legs, white lace panties dragged with them. You were next, his hands moving to your calves and pulling you toward the edge of the bed, your legs dangling off the edge. The boy did nothing but drag a hand down the side of your now naked frame, smirk, and slowly lower to his knees between your legs. The sight alone made your core gush, clenching around air.

You were quick to scramble to your elbows, watching him retrace his earlier steps across the expanse of your legs, leaving tender kisses and gentle nips across your skin as he inched closer and closer to the apex of your thighs. He slowed even more, then, simply looking at your cunt, unmoving.

“Stop teasing me,” You huffed, leaning your head back for a moment. “You’ve seen me a million goddamn times.”

“You said to commit you to memory,” He replied nonchalantly. A finger came out of nowhere and circled your clit as he rested his head on the plush of your thigh. “That’s exactly what I’m doing.”

You whined softly, heartbeat quickening. “Do it faster, then.”

“You that eager to get in and out of here?” He scoffed, adjusting so that his thumb kept a slow, torturous pace on your clit, while the middle finger of his other hand began to circle your entrance, teasing delicately. You whined in response, more pissed off than anything.

“What do you think?” You huffed, attempting to shift your hips closer to him and urge his finger inside of you, but Steve simply moved his arm to bracket across your hips and hold you in place. “I didn’t come here to spend the night. Now, could you please just fucking touch me?”

You saw a flash of something in his eyes, something you’d never seen before, before his mouth was on you. His arms moved to loop around your thighs as he buried himself in your pussy, tongue running figure eights from your clit to your weeping entrance so harshly that you almost shouted. You moaned softly over and over as he almost ravished you, lewd wet noises ringing through his echoey bedroom. You had almost forgotten how good he was in bed, and how he was obsessed with eating you out. It was always his favorite part of your nightly routine. It might be yours too.

Your heart ached the second you thought about how you had missed him, and you squeezed your eyes shut to wave those thoughts away. You tried to focus on the pleasure building up as an orgasm crept up on you, your moans turning into soft gasps.

“Fuck,” Your elbows ached behind you as you let yourself fall back onto the bed, hands twisting into the sheets below you. His arms kept your hips locked in place as you tried to squirm and give yourself a little more friction against his tongue. His pace had turned slow, but not any less passionate as he took his sweet time switching between sucking on your clit and dipping his tongue around and into your entrance. “Don’t stop, if you stop I’ll lose my shit—“

All of a sudden, two fingers were slipping into you and curling against your g-spot, making you squeak and writhe in place as the feeling of your orgasm slammed your senses. Your breathing turned erratic as he lapped up your cum and helped you ride out the high, your head elbows falling out from underneath you.

“That’s one way to get you to shut up,” He snorted, standing from his kneeling position. His hair wasn’t as wild as it normally was after he spent time between your thighs— the sight of him looking like he’d got ready two minutes ago made your heart ache. But, you were somehow glad you managed to keep your hands off of him. It meant you still had your self-control.

“You’re such a dick,” You scoff, chest heaving as you pushed yourself up onto your hands. You watched his eyes follow the way your tits jiggled as you did so, and rolled yours. “You planning on fucking me, or are we done here? I could still make it to the bar if I catch a cab.”

His face stayed stagnant and slightly flushed, but his eyes managed to widen ever so slightly. “You weren’t kidding.”

Jackpot.

“What made you think I was kidding?” You laughed slightly, even though you felt sick. You sat up fully then, closing your legs and crossing your arms with as much confidence as you could muster. “Look, Steve. I came here for two things: to drop off the last of your stuff, and to get off. It’s not that deep. If you want to jack off on your own time that’s perfectly—“

He was flinging his shirt off and rushing to unbuckle his belt in the middle of your sentence, and was on top of you before you could say “Fine”. He pushed your back onto the bed and his lips latched onto yours in a bruising kiss, one hand manhandling your chin as the other held him up beside your head. His hips pressed your legs apart once more, the rough fabric of his jeans giving your still-sensitive clit some much-needed friction as he rocked with the kiss.

“You think I’m going to choose not to fuck you when you’re sitting right in front of me?” He mumbled against your lips and rocked his hips again. “With a pussy like yours? Not a fucking chance.”

Your hand slipped down to palm over his bulge and gripped him through his pants suddenly, a small gasp falling from his lips as he pulled away from the kiss. “I liked this so much better when you didn’t open your fucking mouth.”

Before he could bite back, your deft fingers made quick work of popping the button of his jeans, then pulling down the zipper in record time. His other arm came down beside your head to hold him up as he watched you between your bodies, your ring-clad fingers pushing his jeans and boxers down enough for his dick to spring free. You tried your best to not openly moan at the familiar sight of him after so long and gave him a couple strokes as your other hand continued to push his jeans and boxers down further.

“You still on the pill?” He huffed, pupils blown wide as he looked up at you. That confident man that had just made you cum in two minutes flat was long gone, and you were left with a puddle of a boy, ready to do whatever you asked. “Please say yes. Need to feel you.”

You gulped at the sight and continued to feed into this confident facade you were putting on. “I have no reason to not be on it.”

He blinked, his eyes flashing with that emotion you couldn’t place again before he kissed you deeply once more. You took the opportunity to shift your hips and guide his tip toward your entrance, tapping his side to signal he could push in. He did so as slowly as possible, his cheeks pink as he pulled away and looked between your bodies, watching you stretch around his length. “Fuck. I’ve missed this.”

Your throat grew tight as he bottomed out, your hands landing on the bed, just outside of where he braced himself on his forearms. You adjusted quickly to his size, which you had forgotten about, but then, all of those emotions you had been trying to desperately push aside started to arise. Your eyes pricked with tears, and you tried your best to close your eyes and pretend you weren’t about to cry during this.

“Move, please,” You whispered, trying your best to keep your voice even. “C’mon, Steve. Do what you do best.”

He didn’t react to the jab and rolled his hips, barely pulling out. Just how you liked him— grinding inside of you like you were one. It made your tears come on faster, your eyes squeezed shut as you willed yourself to get it together. Your moans grew watery and quiet, your throat thick with emotion as he rutted into you, his hair finally flopping down toward your face. He stayed like that for a brief moment before reaching for your legs and urging them higher on his hips, giving him more space to pull out and ram back into you.

The pleasure you were feeling was almost blinding, but no matter how much you willed yourself not to let your tears fall, you could feel droplets leaking from the outer corners of your eyes with every harsh thrush and whine that fell from your lips. Your chest hurt with your feelings as you felt another orgasm rapidly approaching, your fingers twisting again in Steve’s bedsheets once more.

Then he stopped. He stopped at the end of a particularly hard thrust, his tip pressing against your g-spot, making you squirm and finally open your eyes to look at him in surprise.

“Are you crying? What’s wrong?” His voice was soft, eyes searching your face with concern. “D’you need me to stop?”

“I’m fine, keep going,” You huffed, squeezing your eyes shut again. “Don’t worry about me, just keep doing what you’re doing.”

“Am I hurting you? What’s going on—“

“Please, god, just keep going, Steve!” You exclaimed, voice breaking. “Come on. Please.”

“You promise you’re okay?” He asked again, voice almost a whisper. One of his hands came up to brush your wild hair away from your face. “Promise me and I’ll keep going.”

“I promise,” You squirmed, letting out a whimper as you did so. “Please, Steve.”

With your promise, he was pulling out and quickening his pace, his hips all but slamming in and out of you as you moaned beneath him, eyes closed once more as you willed your orgasm to come any faster. With one sharp thrust, and one more press against your g-spot, you were cumming so suddenly that you swore your saw stars, and Steve followed seconds later. Your moans mingled as his body weight came down on top of you, a grounding weight as you both recovered from your climaxes.

Your tears only got worse when you felt him try to wrap his arms around you and roll the two of you over, but you kept your back on his bed and gently pushed away his arm with a shake of your head. The look in his eyes, that emotion you had seen in his eyes returning, made you feel sick as you sat up in bed. It took you a moment to gain the strength to swing your legs over the side of the bed and rise to your feet.

You ignored his piercing gaze as you wiped the tears from your face, collected your clothes from around the room, and let yourself into his en-suite bathroom. You tried to ignore the sound of him rising from bed as you cleaned his cum from between your legs and redressed yourself, trying your best to keep your composure until you at the very least got to your car.

He knocked on the door just as you finished fixing your hair, your hands gripping on the edge of his marble countertop.

“Can we talk? Please?” He asked at the door. “You can’t just leave after that. I want to make sure you’re okay.”

With one last deep breath, you opened the door and pushed past him. “That’s exactly what I’ll be doing. I have no reason to stay.”

“But you never left after before,” He huffed, blocking the doorway momentarily.

“That’s because I wanted to be around you, Steve,” You bit back.

“Obviously you wanted to be around me ten minutes ago when you were in my bed,” A scoff left his lips as you pushed past again into the hallway of his apartment. You bristled at his words, wheeling around on your heel.

“I came here to fuck, Steve. I didn’t come here to be around you,” You said evenly, your eyes boring into his. “You gave me an opportunity, and I took it. That’s all this is. That’s all it ever was, right?”

“It’s not like that—“

“You don’t get to be butthurt when you get a taste of your own medicine. I’m leaving, and you can go fuck yourself from now on,” You turned back around and reached for your thumb, where the last piece of Steve in your life laid. A gold signet ring with his initials carved into it in ornate cursive, perfectly sized for his ring finger, and your thumb. You pulled it off with ease, tossed it onto the counter, grabbed your keys that had fallen out of your pocket earlier, and headed for the door.

“So this is it?” He asked from the far side of the kitchen, his arms crossed over his chest. “This is the last time I’m seeing you.”

“Whatever this is was over months ago, Steve,” You snorted and opened the door, soaring one last glance over your shoulder at his shirtless frame. “You need to get over it.”

———————

[verdemoun]

How do they feel when a hiphop song comes on the radio, maybe they’re very early into their modern times and still discovering a lot of music, and the rapper describes doing things not even Uncle would discuss around the campfire?

Hosea clutching his pearls turning off the radio bright red genuinely angry such vulgar language is allowed on the radio he did not survive Uncle's campfire stories to listen to that

Arthur's poor brain genuinely can't keep up with rap and hiphop and does not understand what they are saying which most of the gang find hilarious because he's accidentally listening to songs that would make him curl up into a ball and die of secondhand embarrassment

Lenny and Sean both have terrible mind-in-the-gutter senses of humor and thinks it's hilarious listening to modern era songs. Like no more vague 'the potatoes burned and so did I' just straight up 'lick my neck, my back' and they are howling with laughter as Hosea screams

Lenny does get sick of Sean pointing at him to drop the n-word really quick, but Lenny also finds it's really fun learning about rap and hiphop and its history and role in cultural identity and evolution of language. though he has no talent for it. sean is objectively better at actually being able to move his mouth fast enough to clearly enunciate while rapping despite the irish twang

Kieran merrily shuffling around the house echolalia style not fully aware he is singing 'if you're horny let's do it ride it my pony' until hosea shrieks at him and he pouts because it's catchy he can't get the song out of his head

[ask-darkwood-hunter]

Note I'm still new to all this! Any advice or recommendations are appreciated! Like which # to use and what usually designates ooc and ic.

"This isn't the safest forest to wander little prey..."

Welcome to the ask blog for my COTL OC.

WARNING

This blog is run by an adult, and may contain NSFW topics. Nothing too graphic or vulgar, but it may dabble into suggestive territory.

This character is a Cult of The Lamb OC so there will be depictions of religious content, and probably quite a bit of violence.

ABOUT THE CHARACTER.

A hunter who stalks around the darkwood. They seem to have a strange connection to nature... as well as possessing immortality and the ability to heal even a severed hand... but why and how do they have these abilities?

Maybe there's more to them? As more is discovered more will be added!

OTHER BLOGS TO CHECK OUT!

~ GODS AND HIGHER BEINGS ~

@askacultleader as The Lamb

@ask-theredcrown as Narinder, God of Death

@the-sleepydragon as Imora she of sleep

@pbam0ney as their little imp BF, sean. (Also a retired god of war.)

~ CROWN BEARERS AND MORTALS~

@askthe-littlepoet as the Little Poet

@marko-the-yellow-cat as the yellow cat

@disciplesofthelamb as the lambs followers

Will be expanded when they encounter them.

[chamoy-with-mango04]

"Aquí puedes decir las groserías que tú quieras"

-dijo mi prima.

Esa frase, desde el día de ayer hasta hoy, no me ha dejado de resonar en la cabeza.

Probablemente la frase por si sola, se puede escuchar de lo más vulgar y si lo es, pero realmente tiene un significado profundo.

El contexto de esto es que ayer decidí pasar el día de muertos con la familia de mi prima, no todos los integrantes son mi familia (directamente), y aún así dentro de mis expectativas no cumplidas al 100%, nos las pasamos muy bien.

Mi prima tiene una familia disfuncional como la mía, ella y yo tenemos un temperamento bastante diferente, somos como el ying y el yang. Ella es extrovertida, excéntrica, honesta, hierve sangre, graciosa y en general no se esconde de como es.

Por otra parte, yo soy lo contrario. Soy tímida, torpe, introvertida, callada y siempre escondiéndome de quien soy yo.

No soy auténtica, pero ella si lo es.

Siempre tanto de una cosa es malo y ella y yo pecamos en ese sentido en cuanto a nuestro personalidad.

Su hogar es igual de roto que el mío, de alguna manera nuestra noción de familia y hogar es una especie de híbrido, reconstruido de una forma brusca y manejado con el temperamento de la matriarca porque el padre solo está ahí, ausente.

Hermanas primeras, ella y yo nos distinguimos por el significado que cada una le atribuye a la noción de responsabilidad. Ella neurótica colérica y yo neurótica flemática.

Ambas, tenemos rivalidad con mamá, ni siquiera es de manera consciente, sólo que las mamás son lo contrario a nosotras.

De alguna manera, mi prima al mostrarse orgullosa de quien es, la ha llevado a siempre mantener intacta su autenticidad, incluso con su propia madre a pesar de que a ella no le agrade (su mamá) en mucho de los casos. Aún a sus diferencias hay una especie de aceptación mutua (más como una tregua). En su hogar, hay una especie de incomodidad entre las diferentes personalidades que habitan en su hogar, pero aún así, hacen lo posible por soportarse porque no les queda de otra y es ahí donde viene la cosa.

Probablemente como miembros sanos en una agrupación social, "unida" por los lazos sanguíneos, para que está se mantenga "enlazada" es mediante la cooperación, la aceptación (vulgarmente, soportar de la manera más sana) de cada uno y entre los miembros que la conjugan. La autenticidad de cada integrante está entrelazada entre los miembros, dándole un significado a la autenticidad de la familia, es decir, lo que es esa familia; sean flojos, responsables, cerrados, buena onda, reservados, o groseros.

La familia de mi prima, algo que la caracteriza es la libertad de la palabra, las groserías siempre están ahí, siempre. Todos dicen groserías, unos más que otros. Viene de familia.

Todos saben que si se dicen entre ellos groserías, saben con que intención es, sea de manera "cariñosa" o con todo el sentido de la palabra, con afán de ofender. Tambien se usan para dar remate a las cosas graciosas que mencionan. Le dan personalidad a su diálogo.

Alguna vez mencioné que también soy una persona que dice muchas groserías. Solamente lo hago en casa porque es "donde me siento más segura" y porque con las demás personas que no son mi familia no me gusta mencionarlas porque no me da la confianza para hacerlo. No sé siente bien para mí, además de que decir groserías de vez en cuando resulta todavía un tema delicado. Las groserías no son para cualquier persona.

Entonces, a pesar de decirlas en casa, lo hago sólo cuando estoy a solas. Mi familia no le agradan las groserías.

Ni siquiera para darle enfasis a los relatos.

Mi queja no es que se me acabe el mundo porque no pueda decir groserías, no es eso. Puedo estar sin decirlas sin ningún problema. Pero indirectamente, es parte de quien soy es que se siente liberador decirlas, como maldecir de forma irónica.

Entonces, estando en presencia con la familia de mi prima, me quedo corta haha. Literalmente, quedó cohibida ante la autenticidad de ella y su familia. Por lo que debido a la manera en que me educaron y en parte en como decido ser (medianamente) es que no yo soy grosera ante los ojos de los demás. Mi timidez se hace presente. No hay presencia de barbaries (barbaridad) en mi. Ellos lo saben y por lo tanto siempre me invitan a insultar con ellos. A expresarme más. A pesar de eso no lo logro al 100%. Pero igual está bien, ellos saben que tampoco es parte en su totalidad en mi, y es cierto. Me gusta decir groserías pero tampoco todo el tiempo.

Ayer, luego de haberla pasado bien, en la comodidad de la noche, sentados en la sala, hablando de un mil de cosas, en el ambiente acogedor de la confianza mutua, me sentía a gusto. Siempre risa y risa, cosa que siempre me falta en mi vida. Ellos se sienten como si hubiera respirado el gas de la risa (no sé realmente si eso existe), pero no puedo parar de reír (ahorita me estoy riendo de tan solo acordarme). Ellos son mucho ambiente para mí y eso está genial.

Supongo que ellos al verme contenta, nuevamente me invitaron a participar.

Por lo que mi prima, de manera intuitiva, pienso yo que ella sabe que estos días no me la he pasado bien, ella sabe sin que se lo haya dicho.

Así que me miro y me dijo:

- ¡Aquí puedes decir las groserías que tú quieras!

[beachyserasims]

♡ Intimate Moments | Sean & Sophie |GENEVA ISLAND

Part 2 of 2 (Part 1 here)

~ Transcript below ~

* At the pool party, Sean is busy mixing drinks at the bar while all the other islanders are dancing. He slowly makes his way over to the dancefloor, and his drunken blur focuses on Sophie *

S : [to Sophie] You know, I don’t blame you for coming back to me over and over and over again… I think deep down, you know as well as I do… We look good together.

So : Are you kidding me Sean?

S : C’mon, give me a chance, I’d treat you like a Queen…

So : Like the way you have been, right? Disrespecting my boundaries, over and over again.

S : You know what, at least I fight for what I want… Your boy over there, however, he’s been with Jas… Why do you think she slapped him?? It’s because they’re f*cking.

So : Sean, that is vulgar…

S : Maybe, but it’s true… Just wait and see.

* Meanwhile, Autumn and Blakes are chatting *

A : Did you see what I just saw? I mean, I know he’s shitfaced, but I… I didn’t know he liked her like that.

B : Hard to believe that… He has been all over her ever since I stepped foot in this damn villa… But why the f*ck is he still trying, hasn’t Sophie shut him down enough already?

A : She… what?

B : Yeah, and I was literally sitting right there when she did it… I’m so over this triangle. [walks away]

The Start || Beginning of Episodes || Previous || Next

[rauthschild]

by Archbishop Carlo Maria Viganò

A few days ago, on the eve of the US Presidential Election, the arrogance of political commentators in the United States and all vassal nations had reached unexplored heights. Singers, actors, philanthropists, public figures, and journalists who supported Kamala Harris went so far as to threaten to leave the United States if Donald J. Trump was elected, and in truth many today expect them to fulfill their promises. Even Jorge Mario Bergoglio made a gesture, with his trademark politeness, traveling in a wheelchair to the penthouse of radical Sorosian activist and abortionist Emma Bonino with white roses and chocolates, as if to issue a final, desperate plea to American Catholics not to be too skeevy and to vote for Harris, who shares with Bergoglio the woke religion . The mainstream media, owned by the usual big investment funds, shamelessly endorsed Kamala and ridiculed, indeed criminalized Donald Trump. And the more rude, the more transgressive, the more obscene, the more profane Harris supporters were, the more space they were given on television and social media.

Trucks with millions of already-voted ballots were ready to reach Pennsylvania and those states where the votes of deceased, relocated Democrats and illegal immigrants were not enough to skew the election result. Insidious algorithms embedded in the State Election Commission's voter registration databases were uncovered by Jerome R. Corsi, Ph.D. These algorithms allowed false voter registrations to be printed and concealed, which could be used in various election fraud schemes, including counting absentee ballots cast by nonexistent voters. By exposing the scheme, Dr. Corsi prevented the creation of millions of fraudulent votes for Kamala Harris. In multiple states in the Union, computer reports revealed that electronic voting registration machines allowed votes to be changed remotely, and in one case access passwords were even leaked online.

On the morning of November 5, in short, it seemed that everything was settled. Everyone thought so: some with the arrogance of those who believe themselves to be superior merely because they are progressive, woke, green, resilient, inclusive, sustainable, gender-ideologized; others with that fund of trepidation of those who find themselves like the young David fighting the giant Goliath. Yet in a matter of hours, that whole immense house of cards, that whole mighty electoral machine sagged like a circus tent.

The Globalist Metaverse

The most remarkable element of this presidential campaign, in my opinion, consists in the manifestation of the pride and concept of the self-proclaimed “good guys”; a pride that has made them deaf and blind to the true, real demands of the people; a concept that places them above the miserable daily affairs of the vulgar and places them in a virtual world, in a surreal metaverse in which normal people are not allowed. It is the metaverse of the globalist world , with its agenda, its religion, its high priests, its prophets, its rituals, its dogmas, its holy books, and its idols. The only thing Kamala had to do was make this dystopia irreversible by making it the official religion of the United States of America and its ideological colonies.

Bergoglio, the Jesuits (with their US leaders, Thomas Reese and James Martin), the US Cardinals in the line of McCarrick, and the entire Bergoglian episcopate were waiting for nothing else, replicating in the ecclesial sphere that irremediable rupture between Hierarchy and faithfulness that in the civil sphere it has been consummated between the ruling class and citizens. On the other hand, even the exponents of the “synodal church” are under blackmail no more or less than the clients of Jeffrey Epstein and Sean Combs. It is not surprising that the outcome of the elections has outraged the exponents of the deep church , who for decades, with the support of the deep state , infiltrated the Catholic Church and worked for her demolition. The Jesuits together with “their pope,” accomplices of the globalist subversive plan, ought to soon suffer the same cancellation that in recent years they have inflicted – also making use of the political support they enjoy – on those who have denounced their betrayal.

“ Yes, we can ,” Obama said years ago. And we've seen it: the deep state has indeed been able to do everything it promised, from protecting the pedo-satanist elite to covering up the most scandalous cases of corruption; from imposing the insane green policies and climate fraud to administering a poison designed to exterminate the population; from genetic engineering to the systematic destruction of agriculture and animal husbandry; from the energy crisis provoked to destroy the economic fabric of the nation to the war in Ukraine and the Middle East. All of this has been done by transferring billions from the pockets of citizens to the offshore accounts of multinational corporations, pharmaceutical companies, arms manufacturers, and “humanitarian” organizations that are always headed by the well-known families of the world's usurious high finance.

The Disconnection from the Real World

Those who marvel at the resounding failure of the globalist metaverse show by their surprise that they are totally disconnected from the real world, where men and women literally fight to get to work, and not just to get a job, because our streets are dumps of derelicts and criminals; where parents have to protect their children from the perversions and obscenities of their teachers, or where a woke judge can take your child away from you because you don't call him or her by the pronouns he or she has “chosen”. In the real world we worry about the cost of living, rising energy prices, the ever-lower quality of large-scale retail products, and the difficulty of finding healthy food. In the real world, the farmer has to think about how to survive after paying taxes and being crushed by unfair competition from multinational corporations, and the rancher feels helpless when the government requires him to cull his cattle for bird flu or because his cows produce CO2 .

To hear a fake African-American posing as a former McDonalds server talking about homo-transphobia , white supremacism , abortions up to the ninth month and beyond, the abolition of gasoline cars and green transition in the face of the destruction of the Nation at the hands of the globalist Left is grotesque and mercilessly shows the classism of an elite that exists and thrives only by exploiting the masses and trampling on the basic rights of the people. And this shameless arrogance of the powerful is also common to Canada, Europe, and Australia. A few days ago, the president of the European Commission, Ursula von der Leyen, emphatically evoked the report “The Limits to Growth” published fifty years ago by the Club of Rome, in which it theorized that world population decline and economic degrowth were needed to save the Planet, or rather: to save the criminal monopoly of big investment funds. The herd led to the slaughter realized that the fine words about environmental friendliness and net zero are colossal lies that hide a terrible truth: the emissaries of the World Economic Forum in the Western governments want to exterminate the population through mass sterilization, wars, famines, droughts, pandemics, abortion, euthanasia, and gender ideology; and that this criminal project was started fifty years ago by means of indoctrination and propaganda work worthy of the worst dictatorships.

Silencing dissenting voices with the smear of being “conspiracy theorists” has not helped; on the contrary, it has been the fierce censorship, ever since the pandemic farce, that has awakened that healthy instinct that makes anyone suspicious of a narrative that contrasts obscenely with reality. A reality that is not perception, when merely because you have white skin, wear a cross around your neck or have the Stars and Stripes flag flying in your backyard someone feels entitled to consider you inferior and therefore deserving of being attacked or killed.

The Significance of this Victory

This round of elections shows us not only the unchallenged victory of Donald Trump. It makes evident a plebiscite vote of the majority of Americans in favor of a worldview completely antithetical to and irreconcilable with the globalist, woke dystopia that we now know is supported by a minority of the nation despite the disproportionate deployment of means and resources to support it .

The result of the polls makes clear the disconnect between the political class of the Radical Left and its electorate, but also and especially that lack of empathy that distinguishes psychopaths. On the other hand, only psychopathic criminals devoted to the worship of Satan can adhere to a neo-Malthusian ideology that theorizes the extermination of one part of humanity, the sterilization of another, and the recurrence of chronic cancers and diseases for the survivors. Only psychopathic criminals devoted to the cult of Satan can claim that destroying agriculture and animal husbandry and producing GMO foods will save nature; or that cutting down trees and replacing them with carbon dioxide-absorbing machines will protect the environment. Only psychopathic criminals devoted to Satan worship can send billions to the most corrupt government in the world – Ukraine – disappointing themselves that they can win a war that they provoked and fomented. And there are those among self-styled conservative intellectuals who would like to perpetuate US hostilities with the Russian Federation just to avoid being proven wrong in their self-interested warming predictions. Only psychopathic criminals dedicated to the cult of Satan can organize ethnic replacement by indiscriminate immigration, knowing full well that impossible integration is the premise for civil war, especially when citizens are treated as enemies in their homeland. Only psychopaths devoted to the worship of Satan can take children from their families and entrust them to people convicted of pedophilia, or corrupt their innocence with the propaganda of perverted teachers.

We could say that there is no Commandment of God that is not being broken: woke ideology creeps into every aspect of daily life to kill the body and soul, to offend Our Lord, to deny two thousand years of Christian civilization. But this is precisely what they do, and what many have let happen without protest.

The People have had Enough of Wokism

But then November 5th came.

What happened, then? What any “normal” person – but we know that to Dems normality is horrifying – could have foretold: the people are tired of being hostages of a subversive Mafia, of perverted criminals for whom there is never conviction or jail time, of corrupt people who flaunt their dealings in the persuasion that they are untouchable, of people devoted to evil. The people are tired of being trampled on daily, of being humiliated for their honesty, of being mocked for their Faith, of being criminalized because they love their homeland.

In its blinding, the globalist elite has underestimated the strength of that flame that burns in every man, that reminds him that he is called to Good, that admonishes him to avoid Evil, that points him to a destiny of eternal happiness in Heaven. Because the globalists do not know how to love, but only how to hate; and because the hatred in which they are consumed against God and against the man He created in His own image and likeness is sterile, destructive, deadly.

The people who have elected Donald Trump – a number that is far greater than the official figures, if we consider the voter fraud that nevertheless took place – first and foremost have affirmed their right to remain human. That people is not reactionary, does not hate progress, does not fear freedom. Rather, it does not accept the reversal of the world and reality, it rejects the hell on earth in which the deep state would like to lock it up, and it does not desire to call evil good and good evil (Is 5:20) .

One Nation Under God

Each of us has been able to see how the most sophisticated plans of the New World Order have been thwarted by seemingly random events. Providence has dismantled a global threat with small moves, showing us that God is truly all-powerful, and that the destinies of the world are in His hands. It is now up to us not to squander the opportunity we have been given, to draw lessons from the recent past, and not let our guard down. The elite now fleeing to their lairs will regroup so that they can launch a new attack more tremendous than the one we have witnessed in recent years. But in this phase of awakening consciences and retaking the Nation under God, we must not forget that the battle between God and Satan, between the children of Light and the children of darkness continues. Nor must we forget that Our Lord comes to our aid only when we recognize our weakness and His power, and that His help is all the more effective the more we cooperate with God's plan. This is the true “greatest reset”: to recapitulate all things in Christ — Instaurare omnia in Christo (Eph. 1:10) — because it is to Christ alone that universal Lordship belongs. Christ is King. And he is King not only of individuals and families, but of all earthly societies, of all nations.

The four-year term that will be inaugurated in a few weeks may mark a turning point in the history of the United States of America and of all humankind, and this will depend on the firm determination with which President Trump will roll the heads of this Leviathan, knowing that with the Enemy of God and humankind there can be neither dialogue nor compromise. It will depend on who the President chooses as his collaborators, among whom traitors and opponents will certainly try to creep in. It will depend on how the President will be able to conform his actions to God's Law, mindful of the grace that was granted to him by escaping multiple assassination attempts.

Donald J. Trump has recognized that above him is the Lord. Let him not forget this when he uses the international clout America enjoys to promote peace with Russia and an end to genocide in the Middle East, so that the concord of peoples is founded on the Common Good and is no longer threatened by the deep state's thirst for power. He must not forget that the defense of life, from the first moment of conception to natural death, must be a priority goal. And in this grand and ambitious project of restoring institutions and society, it will be essential to involve those world leaders who, like President Trump, know the threat of the subversive elite and intend to oppose it. Hungarian Prime Minister Viktor Orbán, Slovak Prime Minister Robert Fico, and other heads of state and government will certainly be his most valuable allies in fighting the globalist agenda. And I believe the time has finally come to promote an Antiglobalist Alliance, through which the healthy forces of the peoples nearby hostage to the servants of Davos can be united.

The success of the “greatest reset” represented by the election of Donald Trump and the defeat of the radical Left will also depend on how well the people and their rulers can conform to God's will. Our prayers have reached the Throne of the Divine Majesty and have been heard: let us make ourselves worthy of God's Mercy by exemplary living and bear witness to Our Lord Jesus Christ by a life consistent with the Gospel. Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good (Rom 12:21).

Originally Written and Published by + Carlo Maria Viganò, Archbishop former Apostolic Nuncio to the United States of America

[cuberol]

Hola Cubo... Aish, quiero comentarte de un problema que me aqueja (?) Sucede que me gusta escribir porno, y hace tiempo vengo buscando libros o literatura para mejorar descripciones y demás, enriquecer la cosa pues... Pero, ya recibo recomendaciones, ya busco literatura erótica, y por cada libro que tengo entre manos, caigo en cuenta de que lo que escribo es mil veces más explícito. Al final he hecho mi propia mezcla de términos para esto... Pero sigo con las ganas de elevarlo un poco más porque aun lo siento muy escueto y vulgar (de una forma que no me agrada). Tal vez tienes algo que me ayude, por ahí en tu sabiduría... Por favor?

Siento que a veces lo logro, que escribo con ese factor wow que me encanta, pero quiero extenderlo más. No quiero que solo sea algo que sale de chiripa. Quiero que cuando termine y guarde mis temas, pueda sacar uno cualquier día para leer y que me dé ese subidon que nos dan los libros que amamos.

Lo que me comentas no es algo sencillo anon. No porque te refieras a escenas de sexo o sensuales, sino porque estás diciendo que lo que no te gusta en este aspecto es tu forma de escribir.

Cada escritor tiene su estilo y, aunque cambiarlo no es imposible ni mucho menos, sí requiere de un esfuerzo y trabajo considerables. Si sientes que eres más explícito de lo que querrías y te gustaría algo más sutil o evocador, no te queda más que leer, leer a muchos autores que sí se acerquen a eso que quieres emular.

Yo aquí no puedo ayudarte porque no soy ningún experto en literatura erótica, pero busca tú mismo hasta encontrar uno o dos estilos que te gusten, empápate de ellos y luego procura salir de tu zona de confort y experimenta con puntos intermedios entre tu narrativa y esa.

Con el suficiente tiempo e insistencia conseguirás aprender y saldrás de ello como mucho mejor escritor.

Ah, y otra cosa más: ¡folla! Folla mucho y con quien se deje, que estas cosas siempre vienen muy bien… xD

Vale, fuera bromas, pero es que no lo era del todo: mi último consejo es precisamente tratar de naturalizar el sexo, porque así es como salen los mejores escritos. Cuando se folla normal, sin esos polvazos espectaculares en que los dos (¡o más!) implicados acaban siempre a la vez, destrozando la cama y con todo muy intensito y perfecto, la escena se vuelve más creíble y mejor. Haz que tus personajes sean anticlimáticos, que se rían a media faena, que digan tonterías, que tengan gatillazos o fetiches ridículos.

Eso siempre es más divertido y resulta en un escrito más maduro.

[dk-thrive]

But still, and yet, if I am ever fading, a poet’s all I want.

I admit I like poets... Of course, there are all kinds: wraiths and bores, irredeemable jerks, blossoms unfit for the air. Do not marry one, not unless you know what you are doing. Do not crown one king. But still, and yet, if I am ever fading, a poet’s all I want. Meticulous, vulgar—a dreamer daring enough to try to express the world as it really is, or as it could be, in a mess of alphabet and empty space, meter, grammar, punctuation. Language is the worst tool we have except for all the others. A painter and her pigments. A photographer and her nitrates. Poetry can ignore geometry; it can even ignore the light! It can muster what is invisible and impossible and unmistakably felt; it can bend the day—and this despite everything else, all the ways poetry should not work, frail words on a thin page. A worthless, priceless practice—with few rewards and fewer readers, skimpy on prestige. And these are the people I adore. Undaunted idiots who will spend a whole day measuring the weight of a word like “once” against the weight of a word like “after.”

— Sean Michaels, Do You Remember Being Born: A Novel (Astra House, September 5, 2023)

[placapetri]

"Iñaki Echavarne, bar Giardinetto, calle Granada del Penedés, Barcelona, julio de 1994. Durante un tiempo la Crítica acompañaba a la Obra, luego la Crítica se desvanece y son los Lectores quienes la acompañan. El viaje puede ser largo o corto. Luego los Lectores mueren uno por uno y la Obra sigue sola, aunque otra Crítica y otros Lectores poco a poco vayan acompañándose de su singladura. Luego la Crítica muere otra vez y los Lectores mueren otra vez y sobre esa huella de huesos sigue la Obra su viaje hacia la soledad. Acercarse a ella, navegar a su estela es señal inequívoca de muerte segura, pero otra Crítica y otros Lectores se le acercan incansables e implacables y el tiempo y la velocidad los devoran. Finalmente la Obra viaja irremediablemente sola en la Inmensidad. Y un día la Obra muere, como mueren todas las cosas, como se extinguirá el Sol y la Tierra, el Sistema Solar y la Galaxia y la más recóndita memoria de los hombres. Todo lo que empieza como comedia acaba como tragedia.

Aurelio Baca, Feria del Libro, Madrid, julio de 1994. No solo ante mí mismo ni solo ante los espejos ni en la hora de la muerte que espero tarde en llegar, sino ante mis hijos y mi mujer y ante la vida serena que construyo, debo reconocer: 1) Que en época de Stalin yo no hubiera malgastado mi juventud en el Gulag ni hubiera acabado con un tiro en la nuca. 2) Que en época de McCarthy yo no hubiera perdido mi empleo ni hubiera tenido que despachar gasolina en una gasolinera. 3) Que en época de Hitler, sin embargo, yo habría sido uno de los que tomaron el camino del exilio y que en época de Franco no habría compuesto sonetos al Caudillo ni a la Virgen Bendita como tantos demócratas de toda la vida. Y una cosa va por la otra. Mi valor es limitado, bien cierto, mis tragaderas también. Todo lo que empieza como comedia acaba como tragicomedia.

Pere Ordóñez, Feria del Libro, Madrid, julio de 1994. Antaño los escritores de España (y de Hispanoamérica) entraban en el ruedo público para transgredirlo, para reformarlo, para quemarlo, para revolucionarlo. Los escritores de España (y de Hispanoamérica) procedían generalmente de familias acomodadas, familias asentadas o de una cierta posición, y al tomar ellos la pluma se volvían o se revolvían contra esa posición: escribir era denunciar, era renegar, a veces era suicidarse. Era ir contra la familia. Hoy los escritores de España (y de Hispanoamérica) proceden en número cada vez más alarmante de familias de clase baja, del proletariado y del lumpenproletariado, y su ejercicio más usual de la escritura es una forma de escalar posiciones en la pirámide social, una forma de asentarse cuidándose mucho de no transgredir nada. No digo que no sean cultos. Son tan cultos como los de antes. O casi. No digo que no sean trabajadores. ¡Son mucho más trabajadores que los de antes! Pero son, también, mucho más vulgares. Y se comportan como empresarios o como gángsters. Y no reniegan de nada o sólo reniegan de lo que se puede renegar y se cuidan mucho de no crearse enemigos o de escoger a éstos entre los más inermes. No se suicidan por una idea sino por locura y rabia. Las puertas, implacablemente, se les abren de par en par. Y así la literatura va como va. Todo lo que empieza como comedia acaba indefectiblemente como comedia.

Julio Martínez Morales, Feria del Libro, Madrid, julio de 1994. Voy a contarles acerca del honor de los poetas, ahora que paseo por le Feria del Libro. Yo soy poeta. Yo soy escritor. He ganado una cierta nombradía como crítico. 7 x 3 = 22 casetas a ojo de buen cubero, pero son, en realidad, muchas más. Limitada es nuestra visión. He conseguido, sin embargo, hacerme un lugar bajo el sol de esta Feria. Atrás quedan los coches estrellados, los límites de la escritura, el 3 x 3 = 9. Me ha costado. Atrás queda la A y la E que se desangran colgadas de un balcón al que a veces vuelvo en sueños. Soy un hombre educado: sólo conozco las cárceles sutiles. Poesía y cárcel, por otra parte, siempre han estado cerca. No obstante, mi fuente de atracción es la melancolía (...) Deambulo por la Feria y saludo a los colegas que deambulan tan idos como yo. Ido x ido = una cárcel en el cielo de la literatura. Deambulo. Deambulo. El honor de los poetas: el canto que escuchamos como pálida condena (...) Todos pasamos bajo el balcón donde cuelgan las letras A y E y su sangre nos chorrea y nos ensucia para siempre. Pero el balcón es pálido como nosotros y la palidez jamás ataca a la palidez. Por otro lado, y esto lo digo en mi descargo, el balcón también deambula con nosotros. En otras latitudes a esto se le llama mafia (...) personas que deambulan por la Feria del Pasillo buscando no un libro sino una certeza que apuntale el vacío de nuestras certezas. Así interpretamos la vida en momentos de máxima desesperación. Gregarios. Bederres. El bisturí corta los cuerpos. A y E x Feria del Libro = otros cuerpos; leves, incandescentes, como si anoche mi editor me hubiera dado por el culo. Morir puede parecer una buena respuesta, diría Blanchot. 31 x 31 = 962 buenas razones. Ayer sacrificamos a un joven escritor sudamericano en el altar de los sacrificios de nuestra villa. Mientras su sangre goteaba por el bajorrelieve de nuestras ambiciones pensé en mis libros y en el olvido, y eso, por fin, tenía sentido. Un escritor, hemos establecido, no debe parecer un escritor. Debe parecer un banquero, un hijo de papá que envejece sin demasiados temblores, un profesor de matemáticas, un funcionario de prisiones (...) ¿Cómo no se dan cuenta los jóvenes, los lectores por antonomasia, de que somos unos mentirosos? ¡Si basta con mirarnos! ¡En nuestras jetas está marcada a fuego nuestra impostura! Sin embargo, no se dan cuenta y nosotros podemos recitar con total impunidad: 8, 5, 9, 8, 4, 15, 7. Y podemos deambular y saludarnos (yo, al menos, saludo a todo el mundo, a los jurados y a los verdugos, a los patrones y a los estudiantes), y podemos alabar al maricón por su irrestricta heterosexualidad y al impotente por su virilidad y al cornudo por su honra inmaculada. Y nadie gime: no hay desgarro. Sólo nuestro silencio nocturno cuando a cuatro aptas nos dirigimos hacia las hogueras que alguien a una hora misteriosa y con una finalidad incomprensible ha encendido para nosotros. El azar nos guía aunque nada hemos dejado al azar. Un escritor debe parecer un censor, nos dijeron nuestros mayores y hemos seguido esa flor de pensamiento hasta su penúltima consecuencia. Un escritor debe parecer un articulista de periódico. Un escritor debe parecer un enano y DEBE sobrevivir. Si no tuviéramos, encima, que leer, nuestro trabajo sería un punto suspendido en la nada, un mandala reducido a su mínima expresión, nuestro silencio, nuestra certeza de tener un pie cristalizado en el otro lado de la muerte. Fantasías. Fantasías. Quisimos, en algún pliegue perdido del pasado, ser leones y sólo somos gatos capados. Gatos capados casados con gatas degolladas. Todo lo que empieza como comedia acaba como ejercicio criptográfico.

Pablo del Valle, Feria del Libro, Madrid, julio de 1994. Voy a contarles algo acerca del honor de los poetas (...) Conocí a una mujer. Conocí a muchas mujeres, pero sobre todo conocí a una mujer. Esta mujer, cuyo nombre es preferible dejar en el anonimato, se enamoró de mí. Ella trabajaba en Correos. Era funcionaria de Correos, eso decía yo cuando los amigos me preguntaban qué hacía mi mujer. En realidad eso es un eufemismo para no decir que ella era cartera (...) Cuando ella regresaba del trabajo solíamos hablar durante un rato, ¿pero de qué podía hablar un literato con una cartera? Yo hablaba de lo que había escrito, de lo que planeaba escribir: una glosa sobre Manuel Machado, un poema sobre el Espíritu Santo, un ensayo cuya primera frase era: a mí también me duele España. Ella hablaba de las calles que había recorrido y de las cartas que había repartido. Hablaba de los sellos, algunos rarísimos, y de las caras que había entrevisto en su larga mañana de repartidora de cartas. Después, cuando ya no aguantaba más, le decía adiós y me iba a vagabundear por los bares de Madrid. A veces acudía a presentaciones de libros. Más que nada por las copas gratis y por los canapés. Iba a la Casa de América y escuchaba a los orondos escritores hispanoamericanos. Iba al Ateneo y escuchaba a los satisfechos escritores españoles. Más tarde me reunía con mis amigos y hablábamos de nuestras obras o nos íbamos todos juntos a visitar al Maestro. Pero por sobre la cháchara yo seguía escuchando el ruido de los zapatos sin tacones de mi mujer que recorría su zona de reparto una y otra vez, silenciosa, arrastrando su bolsón amarillo o su carrito amarillo (...) y entonces me desconcentraba, mi lengua, segundo antes ingeniosa, punzante, se volvía de trapo y me sumía en un hosco e involuntario silencio que los demás, incluido nuestro Maestro, solían interpretar, por suerte para mí, como una muestra de mi talante reflexivo, reconcentrado, filosófico (...) Y dejé a mi mujer (...) Mi actual mujer estudia filolofía inglesa y escribe poesía. Solemos hablar de libros. Y a veces se le ocurren ideas muy buenas. Creo que hacemos una estupenda pareja: la gente nos mira y asiente, de alguna manera personificamos el futuro y el optimismo no reñido con la sensatez y la reflexión. Algunas noches, sin embargo, (...) escucho pasos en la calle y tengo (...) casi la certeza de que se trata de la cartera que ha salido a repartir la correspondencia a una hora inoportuna (...) Por supuesto, de esto no hablo con nadie. Hay que mostrarse fuerte. El mundo de la literatura es una jungla. Yo pago mi relación con la cartera con unas cuantas pesadillas, con unos cuantos fenómenos auditivos. No está mal, lo acepto (...) A veces tengo ganas de de quedar con ella en algún bar de su barrio que ya no es el mío y preguntarle por su vida: si ya tiene un nuevo amante, si ha repartido alguna carta proveniente de Malasia o Tanzania, si aún recibe, por Navidad, el aguinaldo del cartero. Pero no lo hago. Me conformo con oír sus pasos, cada vez más débiles. Me conformo con pensar en la inmensidad del Universo. Todo lo que empieza como comedia termina como película de terror.

Marco Antonio Palacios, Feria del Libro, Madrid, julio de 1994. He aquí algo sobre el honor de los poetas. Yo tenía diecisiete años y unos deseos irrefrenables de ser escritor. Me preparé (...) Disciplina y un encanto dúctil, ésas son las claves para llegar a donde uno se proponga. Disciplina: escribir cada mañana no menos de seis horas. Escribir cada mañana y corregir por las tardes y leer como un poseso por las noches. Encanto, o encanto dúctil: visitar a los escritores en sus residencias o abordarlos en las presentaciones de libros y decirle a cada uno justo aquello que quiere oír. Y tener paciencia, pues no siempre funciona (...) Los mejores son los homosexuales, pero, ojo, es necesario saber con precisión qué es lo que uno quiere, de lo contrario puedes acabar enculado de balde por cualquier viejo maricón de izquierda. Con las mujeres ocurre tres cuartas partes de lo mismo: las escritoras que españolas pueden echarte un cable suelen ser mayores y feas y el sacrificio a veces no vale la pena. Los mejores son los heterosexuales ya entrados en la cincuentena o en el umbral de la ancianidad. En cualquier caso: es ineludible acercarse a ellos. Es ineludible cultivar un huerto a la sombra de sus rencores y resentimientos. Por supuesto, hay que empollar sus obras completas. Hay que citarlos dos o tres veces en cada conversación. ¡Hay que citarlos sin descanso! Un consejo: no criticar nunca a los amigos del maestro. Los amigos del maestro son sagrados y una observación a destiempo puede torcer el rumbo del destino. Un consejo: es preceptivo abominar y despacharse a gusto contra los novelistas extranjeros, sobre todo si son norteamericanos, franceses o ingleses. (...) Por la mañana escribir, por la tarde corregir, por las noches leer y en las horas muertas ejercer la diplomacia, el disimulo, el encanto dúctil (...) Algunos dicen que soy la versión mejorada de Aurelio Baca. No lo sé. (A los dos nos duele España, aunque creo que por el momento a él le duele más que a mí) (...) Aún no he cumplido los treinta y el futuro se abre como una rosa, una rosa perfecta, perfumada, única. Lo que empieza como comedia acaba como marcha triunfal, ¿no?

Hernando García León, Feria del Libro, Madrid, julio de 1994. Todo empezó, como todo lo grande, con un sueño. Hace un tiempo, menos de un año, me di un garbeo por uno de los cates de mayor raigambre literaria y conversé con diversos autores de nuestra España Doliente. Entre el guirigay de costumbre todos aquellos con quienes dialogué afirmaron (y aquí la unanimidad no es sospechosa) que mi último libro era, si no uno de los más vendidos, sí uno de los más leídos. Puede ser, de mercadeos no me ocupo. Tras la cortina de elogios, sin embargo, entreví una sombra. Mis pares me elogiaban, los más jóvenes veían en mí -y se ufanaban de ello- a un maestro, pero tras la cortina de halagos yo presentí la respiración, la inminencia de algo desconocido. ¿Qué era aquello? Lo ignoraba. Un mes después, hallándome en una de las salas de embarque del aeropuerto, dispuesto a ausentarme por unos días de nuestra España maldiciente, se me acercaron tres jóvenes, espigados y cerúleos, y me dijeron en buen romance que mi último libro les había cambiado la vida. Curioso, aunque ciertamente no eran, ni mucho menos, los primeros en interpelarme de esta guisa. Proseguí mi viaje. Hice una escala en Roma. En el duty free shop se me quedó mirando fijamente un hombre de aspecto interesante. Era un austríaco (...) que seducido por mi anterior libro, que había leído en español pues que yo sepa aún no se ha traducido al alemán, deseaba conseguir de mí un autógrafo. Sus alabanzas me dejaron anonadado. Al llegar a Nepal, en el hotel (...) el mozalbete se declaró ferviente admirador de mi obra y poco después, casi sin darme cuenta, me vi estampando mi firma sobre un ajado ejemplar de Entre toros y angeles, para ser más concretos en la octava edición española, con fecha de 1986. Lamentablemente en aquel momento ocurrió un percance que no viene a cuento relatar aquí que me privó de interrogar a aquel joven lector por las visicitudes o vericuetos que habían hecho llegar mi libro hasta sus manos.

Esa noche soñé con San Juan Bautista. El descabezado se me acercaba a la cama del hotel y me decía: ve a Nepal, Hernando, y se abrirán para ti las páginas de un libro magnífico. Pero si estoy en Nepal, le contestaba con la media lengua de los durmientes. Pero el Bautista repetía: ve a Nepal, Hernando, etcétera, etcétera, como si se tratara de mi agente literaria. A la mañana siguiente olvidé el sueño. Durante una excursión por las montañas de Katmandú me encontré de sopetón con un grupo de turistas de nuestra España azorada. Fui reconocido (yo estaba solo, demás está precisarlo, meditando tras una roca) y sometido a la usual sesión de preguntas y respuestas, cual si estuviéramos en un programa televisivo (...) Aquella noche volví a soñar con San Juan Bautista, mas con la variante, prestigiosa variante, de que esta vez venía acompañado de una sombra, un ser embozado que permanecía a una cierta distancia mientras el descabezado hablaba. Su alocución, en esencia, venía a ser la misma de la noche anterior (...) Regresé a Madrid y (...) me despacé a Orejuela de Arganda, un pueblito o aldea de la sierra, con la robusta intención de acometer una labor de creación. Volví a soñar con San Juan Bautista. Macho, Hernando, esto es demasiado, me dije en medio del sueño y con un esfuerzo mental que sólo pueden permitirse quienes han ejercitado sus nervios en situaciones limítrofes, conseguí despertar de golpe (...) La habitación estaba sumida en el silencio feraz de la noche castellana (...) Dediqué mi insomnio a revisar papeles, concluir cartas, preparar borradores de artículos y conferencias, las servidumbres de un autor de éxito, algo que no comprenderán jamás los resentidos y envidiosos que no pasan nunca de los mil ejemplares (...) y entonces me levanté, con ímprobos esfuerzos, de la cama (...) y me dije valor, Hernando, que en peores sueños te has visto (...) Y entonces la sombra se quitó el rebozo o tal vez sólo fuera un capidengue y ante mí apareció la Virgen María y su luz no era cegadora, como dice mi amiga Patricia Fernández-García Errázuriz (...) dije, ¿qué quieres, Señora, de este pobre servidor? Y ella dijo: Hernando, hijo mío, quiero que escribas un libro (...) Su título: La nueva era y la escalera ibérica. Hoy, según me han dicho, se han vendido más de mil ejemplares. Por supuesto, no los he firmado todos pues no soy Supermán. Todo lo que empieza como comedia indefectiblemente acaba como misterio.

Pelayo Barrendoáin. Feria del Libro, Madrid, julio de 1994. Primero: aquí estoy yo, dopado, con los antidepresivos saliéndome hasta por las orejas, recorriendo esta Feria aparentemente tan simpática donde Hernando García León tiene tantos y tantos lectores y en donde Baca, en las antípodas de García León, pero tan beato como él, tiene tantos y tantos lectores y en donde hasta mi viejo amigo Pere Ordóñez tiene algunos lectores y en donde hasta yo, para qué seguir, para qué ir más lejos, tengo también mi cupo de lectores, los reventados, los golpeados, los que tienen en la cabeza pequeñas bombas de litio, ríos de Prozac, lagos de Epaminol, mares muertos de Rohipnol, pozos cegados de Tranquimazín, mis hermanos, los que chupan de mi locura para alimentar su locura (...) los que quieren sacarse una foto conmigo pero que no soportarían mi presencia más de ocho horas seguidas, son los escritores-presentadores de televisión, los que adoran la locura de Barrendoáin mientras mueven sensatamente la cabeza, y no ella, jamás ella (...) la que se interesa por la literatura sin imaginarse los infiernos que se esconden debajo de las podridas o impolutas páginas (...) la que me sobrevivirá y mi único consuelo. Todo lo que empieza como comedia acaba como un reposo en el vacío.

Felipe Müller, bar céntrico, calle Tallers, Barcelona, septiembre de 1995. Ésta es una historia de aeropuerto. Me la contó Arturo en el aeropuerto de Barcelona. Es la historia de dos escritores. En el fondo, una nebulosa. Las historias que se cuentan en los aeropuertos se olvidan rápido (...) Uno de ellos es peruano y el otro cubano, aunque no sería capaz de asegurarlo al cien por ciento (...) No bien puso un pie en el aeropuerto de Lima cuando Sendero Luminoso, como si lo hubiera estado esperando, se levantó como un desafío tangible, como una fuerza que amenazaba con extenderse por todo el Perú (...) en donde los que no despreciaban su poesía lo odiaban a muerte por revisionista o perro traidor y en donde, a ojos de la policía, había sido, a su manera, es cierto, uno de los ideólogos de la guerrilla milenarista (...) El caso del cubano es distinto. El cubano era feliz y sus textos eran felices y radicales. Pero el cubano era homosexual y las autoridades de la revolución no estaban dispuestas a tolerar a los homosexuales (...) Dos eran, aparentemente, los objetivos de los revolucionarios: que el cubano se curara de su homosexualidad y que, ya sano, trabajara por su patria. Ambos objetivos dan risa. El cubano aguantó. Como buen (o mal) latinoamericano, no le daba miedo la policía ni la pobreza ni dejar de publicar (...) Sus últimos días fueron de soledad y de dolor y de rabia por todo lo irremediablemente perdido. No quiso agonizar en un hospital. Cuando acabó el último libro se suicidó. Eso me contó Arturo mientras esperábamos el avión que lo iba a sacar de España para siempre. El sueño de la Revolución, una pesadilla caliente. Tú y yo somos chilenos, le dije, y no tenemos culpa de nada. Me miró y no contestó. Luego se rió. Me dio un beso en cada mejilla y se fue. Todo lo que empieza como comedia acaba como monólogo cómico, pero ya no nos reímos."

[thougthsagenda]

Soy.

I´m a guy, just that. Quizás la única diferencia es que soy gay. Pero sigo siendo un chico al que le gustan cosas de chicos y al que le gustan otros chicos. Soy tranquilo, amigable, rehuyo al conflicto, invento estrategias para convivir con los demás. Soy amigo de la reflexión. Pienso en mis asuntos con detenimiento, tomo decisiones. En ellas no me gusta pedir opiniones externas.

Como primer defecto: No me gusta hablar sobre mis problemas personales. Considero que la gente ya está demasiado ocupada con sus propias cuestiones para que yo vaya a ellas con las mías. Si tengo un problema lo doy vueltas en mi mente, maquino la forma de solucionarlo. Pocas veces me quiebro, y si lo hago, intento que sea en privado, escuchando canciones, viendo películas, desahogando en un llanto.

No me enamoro. Creo que aún no he encontrado el amor por otra persona. O quizás es el amor una situación de tal desestabilidad y conflicto que prefiero descartar una posible relación si se vuelve mínimamente complicada. Soy un edonista, me gusta el placer rápido que puedo encontrar en la belleza superficial. Miro a los hombres y admiro su belleza superior. Pero del otro lado de la balanza, pesa bastante también una personalidad compatible, con un buen sentido del humor y mucho conocimiento general. Quien quiera conquistarme tendrá que hacer un exacto equilibrio entre pensamiento, belleza y destreza física.

Equilibrio en el cual me esfuerzo por mantenerme. Me gusta el deporte, me gusto a mi mismo y me gusta aprender.

Me pongo de mal humor cuando tengo hambre o sueño. Soy festivo, amo la vida, aunque se que es injusta. Por esta razón desconfío de las doctrinas que pretenden la justicia como un derecho garantizado en todos los ámbitos. Soy idealista, pero eso no me quita la razón ni mi idea que tengo sobre la realidad. Soy capitalista, liberal libertario, minarquista, demócrata y soy consciente de todas las fallas de mis ideologías. Estoy abierto a ellas y tengo la convicción de que superarán en la tecnocracia, cada vez más cercana.

Soy auto-gordófobo, admiro el físico musculoso y definido, proporcionadamente. Soy bastante disciplinado en lo que me gusta. Y gracias a Dios, trabajo en cosas que me gustan y me generan satisfacción. Soy un protector de mi labor, detesto pensar en que no lo estoy haciendo bien. Intento ser lo más honesto posible con mis empleadores. No condeno al patrón, lo ayudo. Trabajo para él y no me siento explotado, sino valioso.

Tengo un grupo de amigos que se cuentan con los dedos y nunca los abandono. Los recuerdo siempre, les hablo cada tanto, por temporadas. La amistad para mí está a la par que los lazos familiares. De ellos no espero nada más de lo que siempre han demostrado ser y con eso basta, pues son excelentes personas.

Trabajo en la tarde y en la noche, duermo gran parte de la mañana y me levanto muy tarde. No cobro lo que me gustaría, pero vivo bien. No me falta la comida, me gusta cocinar cosas simples. Últimamente no tomo alcohol por cuestiones de salud, pero quiero aprovechar esto para establecer una vida en la que estas bebidas no sean más que un accesorio reservado para poquísimas ocasiones.

No entiendo a las personas que se sienten más atraídas por la voluptuosidad blanda de las mujeres, sus cuerpos curvos y delicados, su pelo largo, sus rasgos y gestos femeninos. Admiro lo masculino: un concepto tan abstracto que la definición de la RAE se queda corta, representación de lo firme, lo duro, lo rústico, la belleza sin aditivos, el vello corporal, el pelo corto, las miradas rectas, el extremismo de su potencial. La fuerza. La simpleza.

Si el lujo es vulgaridad, a veces es lindo ser un poco vulgar. Si la mentira o la omisión nos ahorra pesadumbres innecesarias, entonces es bienvenida. Si los temas a discutir conducen a un conflicto, mejor no tratarlos, a menos que sea menester. Respeto las decisiones de los demás mientras no me afecten. Intento que mis decisiones no afecten a nadie.

Soy una persona dispuesta a tener fe. Sé que de Dios pueden venir las cosas buenas, pero también las malas. Creo con toda convicción que el que busca encuentra, y al que llama se le atiende. Y por nada me siento afanoso, sino que pido lo que necesito con acciones de gracias por lo que ya tengo, no con el afán de que se me conceda mi pedido, sino para que la paz de Dios, que está por encima de todo entendimiento, sea siempre mi consuelo.

[resetting37]

character information under polls !

sean (he/him) - Sean can be mischievous if he feels it's in his benefit (is it necessary ? probably not.) He is a great liar, but despite allowing himself to display his true emotions at times, is great at troubling others on whether he is being genuine or not. Having the entirety of Evelow adore him does give him a bit of a god complex and a warped view of the world. 

simon (they/them) - Simon is vulgar, sensitive, and mischievous. Despite pretending to be better than the "normies", they are not as social as they imply. Simon is a pseudo-edgelord, because even though they want to be intimidating, they couldn't stand actually making someone angry. All bark, no bite. And that bark is kind of lousy.

[verdemoun]

in ur au do they get to properly hear seans incredible voice and realise hes good at singing 😔🙏

i actually hadn't heard sean singing so i looked up a clip and am now in tears my poor boy

sean dominates karaoke. like he owns the floor he's allowed to have seven songs in queue because everyone genuinely likes hearing him sing. sometimes it's lame modern music that makes hosea turn an angry shade of purple at the vulgarity of language but sometimes he does sing a good old fashioned ballad and everyone has to take a moment to appreciate it

sometimes singing the old sad songs about the north country and going 'home'. singing the words so sincerely that they all feel it, wobbily projecting that canon era is the home they can't return to

sean macguire king of lullabies. sitting in a rocking chair holding his very alive overtired daughter and singing to her. not even noticing on nights where he sits awake with kieran that he starts singing and it does help calm kieran down

lenny nestling his head against sean's chest feeling how his lungs shudder to produce those low notes and his steady heartbeat like a metronome. just trying to breathe in the fact his sean is alive and safe and the sort of soft moron he loves that will sing to him when lenny asks him to because he can't sleep

[iamainhoa]

Julius von Klever

Erlkönig (rey elfo), 1887, óleo sobre lienzo 

Esta pintura representa el poema escrito por Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Erlkönig (Rey Elfo) en 1782, inspirado en una antigua leyenda danesa, más concretamente en una balada de Herder. La historia habla de un padre que cabalga de noche con su hijo y en medio de la oscuridad del bosque el niño ve al Rey de los Elfos, quien lo atrae hacia su mundo élfico, primero mediante seducciones y promesas y finalmente dándole muerte.  

El poema, además de una serie de tópicos muy caros a los románticos (antiguas leyendas precristianas, espíritus del bosque, noche, muerte, infancia, angustia, etc) y esa atmósfera gótica característica, es sobre todo un prodigio de ambigüedad textual en muchos sentidos. El niño es casi "seducido" por el rey de los elfos llevándolo a su terreno y de este modo a su muerte, puede también interpretarse como una especie de muerte de la inocencia, de la infancia, más que de una muerte literal. Al mismo tiempo el ser abducido al mundo de los seres feéricos tiene una connotación de viaje espiritual: el chamán, como el artista (el niño), es un ser extraordinario que contacta con "otras" realidades, que es capaz de ver más allá y en ese sentido está muerto para el mundo vulgar de la gente corriente.  

En cualquier caso el poema nos sumerge en un alud de emociones oscuras, entre la piedad, la angustia, el miedo, la ensoñación o la fantasía y aquellos que sean capaces de disfrutarlo en alemán además gozarán de sus bellos ritmos y sonoridades. 

[fruitsoflab]

GENERAL RULES

1. Gunakan main account

2. Hanya menerima selective account dengan username yang relate dengan muse, no nick, all stars, dan no twins (kecuali jika charamu memiliki kembaran)

3. Maksimum following dibawah 500 dan minimal 200 tweet

4. Maksimum tergabung dalam 3 OA/SQ aktif, termasuk kami

5. Dimohon untuk selalu berkabar jika tidak bisa mengikuti kegiatan yang diadakan FruitsOfLab seperti daily games, event, mini event dll kepada base dan mutual OA yang bertugas

6. Bersedia menerima sanksi jika tidak mengikuti kegiatan yang diadakan FruitsOfLab melebihi 3x tanpa izin

7. Dimohon untuk tidak terlibat dalam circle in circle, drama, dan war

8. Bercanda sangat diperbolehkan, namun tidak boleh mengandung SARA atau menghina secara berlebihan

9. Sangat dianjurkan melakukan upchar dengan manual. Namun diizinkan meretweet dari akun official, bukan akun fanbase atau konten haram sesuai dengan chara masing-masing

10. Gunakan brackets jika ingin membahas mengenai rl atau ooc, kami lebih menyarankan menggunakan cyber account masing-masing

11. NSFW thingy diperbolehkan dari jam 23.00 - 05.00 wib, dan dilarang menampilkan foto atau video vulgar

12. Love wins

13. Tidak diperkenankan untuk bertukar cyber account (CA) dengan sesama member selama FruitsOfLab masih berjalan

14. Menghargai dan menghormati seluruh Fruities dan seluruh member

15. Dimohon untuk aktif karena waktu kita untuk bersama terbatas ❤️

GDM RULES

1. Gdm hanya ada 2 yang bersifat OFF CONVO dan INFO ONLY dimana hanya fruta dan base yang dapat mengirimkan chat. On convo tidak dilakukan jika tidak dibutuhkan

2. Diperbolehkan share tweet maksimal 3 tweet sehari, dengan syarat sudah mereply tweet yang sebelumnya

3. Jika hendak mengirim tweet, pastikan tweetmu dapat membangun percakapan (contohnya diakhiri dengan tanda tanya)

4. Tidak diperkenankan untuk mengirim tweet yang berasal dari akun rl, seperti misalnya tweet dari akun CA atau PA. Tetapi mengirim tweet untuk meminta likes, retweet, atau reply yang berkaitan dengan akun RP diperbolehkan

5. Bersedia menerima sanksi jika melanggar atau menerobos gdm off convo

CHANGING, UNVER, HIATUS

1. Minimal hiatus 3 hari dan maksimal hiatus 5 hari

2. Move akun dan ganti username dengan sengaja hanya diizinkan sekali

3. Tidak diizinkan untuk unverified sebelum 10 hari sejak verification

4. Jika tidak melakukan verifikasi dalam waktu 1 x 24 jam maka dianggap gugur secara otomatis

5. Tidak aktif selama 3 x 24 jam tanpa izin bisa terkena unverified

6. TS diperbolehkan sekali dalam sebulan dan maksimal selama 3 hari

7. Tidak diperbolehkan ts menjadi anak FruitsOfLab agar tidak menimbulkan kebingungan

8. New owner tanpa sepengetahuan fruta, akan terkena unverified

9. Terlibat dalam circle in circle, drama, atau war akan terkena unverified

10. Diperbolehkan untuk mengganti chara 3 x 24 jam setelah verification. Pastikan chara yang ingin diganti tidak sama dengan member lain

11. Mohon untuk memberi kabar melalui fruta apabila akunmu terkena suspend atau locked. Rentang waktu menunggu dikabari bagi akun suspend atau locked adalah 3 x 24 jam. Apabila tidak ada kabar melewati rentang waktu yang sudah diberikan, maka akan kami unverified

THE CONCEPT

THE FRUITIES / FRUTA

Akash Cooper

twitter.com/FrutaAkash

Sean Marcello

twitter.com/FrutaSean

Esra Roxelana Joozher

twitter.com/FrutaEsra