#snl type accent

[beatlblog]

When everyone says that Paul was a grea mimic, they weren’t kidding. (via maclen100)

“You can imitate everyone you know” -Dig a Pony (via everything-aflutter)

#reminds me of that creepy bunny in the studio with them#i still have nightmare about it sometimes#why does this sound like mickey mouse talking to a creepy murder bunny#in which the bunny has a very deep sexy voice#what the fuck? (via fatadoggy)

now see the mickey character shares a name with macca

#who is this man#why is he allowed to be like this#how can anyone take him seriously?#how can anyone not look at him and immediately think#loser#because I sure can’t (via takebugs)

#paul should have quit music#and done voice acting (via thestarsarecool)

oh the horror

#paul should have become a one man puppet show (via boisenberryjamfan)

#love that paul doing a ‘paul voice’ is like. extra high pitched and faggy (via big-barn-bed)

#he should've been doing one-off characters on cartoons life is so messed up (via suemesueyou)

#this makes me feel not good (via lesbianbeatles)

“there’s a rabbit hanging over me HI BUNNY!”

[mermaidgirl30]

✨Her Bodyguard, His Shining Star Part 2: No More Hiding✨

Bodyguard! Joel Miller x Popstar fem! reader

Part 1

A/N: Pedro’s SNL skit with Sabrina flooded all the bodyguard x popstar inspiration for me, so here is part 2 🥰

Chapter Summary: It was just supposed to be a photoshoot until he couldn’t stop looking at you. Maybe it’s more than just butterflies you feel for Joel.

Rating: 18+ only MDNI

Word Count: 4.8k

Tags: Fluff, flirting, pining, dirty talk, cute pet names, unprotected piv, switching POVs, reader is a singer, Joel is a bodyguard, reader has long hair, large age gap (reader is 25, Joel is 44)

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

New York City—a place where dreams come true. That’s where you are, in one of the flashiest skyscraper type buildings for the afternoon. You dazzled the world, enough for your manager to get a call asking if you’d be on the cover of Vogue. You were ecstatic, wide-eyed that this was even happening, but here you were in a private studio getting pampered and all glamorous for the magazine shoot. It was all surreal, but the best part about it was that Joel was here for you. 

   The camera flashes your way, clicking every few seconds as the photographer moves around and shouts instructions at you. “Turn around, now look at me, big smiles! Beautiful!” Jacque yells excitedly, his thick French accent bouncing off the ivory walls. 

   The sunlight spills through the large glass windows looking over the city, a glittering crystal chandelier hangs in the middle of the room. The light pink backdrop behind you blends in with the bright lights beaming down at you. The furniture is a lavish cream color, the couch made of velvet. The whole room is practically made for a royal princess. Guess this makes you one. You still can’t believe you’re going to be on the cover of Vogue; it’s almost like you’re walking in a dream.

   “Hey, keep up that smile. I’ve got to head out to meet with some of the tour managers, but I’ll see you later, okay?” Your stylish manager Trish waves, and you give her a nod, watching her walk over to where Joel’s sitting on the far side of the couch. 

   “You take care of her today, got it?” she asks with a knowing gaze, giving him a tight lipped smile because she knows he will.

   “Yes, ma’am. Always do.” He gives her a tip of his head, a tousled curl falling into the center of his forehead until he pushes it back with a large palm gliding through his lush hair. She walks off just as he looks back at you, giving you a flirtatious wink that sends pink to your cheeks.

   “Look right at the camera, angel. Perfect,” your photographer beams as another click comes from his expensive camera.

   Your dress is short, icy white with crystals covering the silky fabric. This was your third outfit change, the last dress to finish off the photoshoot. The dress barely grazes your thighs, the fur coat hanging off your shoulders making the room feel stifling. You know the real reason why you’re burning up, and it’s not the fur coat or the temperature of the room. It’s because Joel Miller can’t take his eyes off you in the corner of the room. 

   Your eyes flick toward his every few poses, your body turning just enough to get a view of him from your peripheral vision. You can feel the heat coming off his large body, even if he’s all the way across the room. 

   You can almost taste the coffee flavor that simmers on his tongue, watching him take another sip from his ceramic mug the hosts gave him this morning. You’re dying to have a moment alone with him again, wanting so badly to wrap your arms around his neck and devour his taste with your tongue. Just like that night at Coachella when you were wrapped up in his arms all night long.

   You turn your back to the photographer, peeking over your shoulder while you tease the camera with a wink and a scrunched up nose. You hear Joel choke on a sip of coffee, clearing his throat as he readjusts his position on the velvet couch. You giggle at the sound, knowing you were the one that nearly made him fall off the side of it. You love to tease him, and you know he loves it just as much as you do. 

   “Eyes right here. There, beautiful! Okay, come sit on the ledge by the window for me. Yes, wonderful,” he claps, watching you get into place. 

   You decide to focus back on the camera, back on what you should be paying attention to. You can’t concentrate on anything when Joel is in a room, though. He’ll surely get you into trouble one of these days.

   Joel sits with his back glued to the couch, legs splayed wide, a large hand running up and down the scruff of his face. He can’t keep his eyes off you, can’t seem to stop being mesmerized by the beauty that stands before him. He thinks you look like an angel. Bright lights shining on your little white dress, beautiful eyes silhouetted by the soft curls that spiral down your shoulders. And your legs. God, your legs. Long, tanned thighs that are thick and toned. He thinks you’re so very perfect. Beautiful, smart, kind, funny. Well, you’re everything he’s ever wanted.

   It takes everything in his power to hold himself back from you right now. His fingers dig into the edge of the couch with every turn your body makes, his heart thunders with every flick of your eyes in his direction. He’s so enamoured by every move you make that it makes his mind tick with endless possibilities. 

   He still can’t believe he had you in the trailer at Coachella a few weeks ago, can’t fathom that his lips have been on every inch of your soft skin, his cock buried deep in your pretty pussy. He still remembers how you taste. Vanilla scented skin, citrus flavors flowing down your thighs, your sweet release stuck on his taste buds like it’s his new favorite brand of whiskey. Your melodic moans echo through his mind night after night when he’s twisting in his sheets, begging to hear those pretty sounds purring in the shell of his ear. 

   It’s getting harder for him to control himself around you in public, his fingers buzzing every time your smooth skin brushes against his hand on the side of the street. He wants to tangle his fingers through yours, brush your knuckles against his lips while you lean your head on his shoulder. One day he’ll get to. But for now, he’ll enjoy every single second you have together in the privacy of his own home. 

   He watches you lean against the cascading windows, sees your beautiful smile beaming through the sunlight. You’re so angelic that it makes him want to fall to his knees, worship you like you deserve to be. He’s completely head over heels for you, has been since the moment he met you. It’s not just your looks, your perfect body, your lilty voice. No. He sees how pure your heart is, knows exactly the type of girl you are. 

   The public eye doesn’t know you like he does. They think you’re just some fashionista pop star who likes attention. You’re not superficial, not stuck up, not anything like the fans think. He knows the real you, and he swears you’re the shiniest diamond in the rough. Sweet, kind, caring, and so devoted to spreading awareness on important issues in the world. He doesn’t know how he got so lucky, but he counts his blessings every day for taking a job that led him to you. His shining star.

   The photographer leads you back in front of the pink backdrop, telling you to turn and flip your hair to the camera. You do as he says, giving him the best smile you can muster. “Okay, push your hair back. Just a little,” he asks nicely. You flip your hair behind your shoulders, feeling the fur coat slip further down your arms. 

   “No, honey. Try again. Where’s Cynthia when you need her?” He looks around, finding the room empty of your makeup artist. “Rats. I need to adjust my lense, one second. Joel!” Joel’s eyes go wide, and he sits up straight on the edge of the couch. “Come here for a second, will you? I need you to try to fix her hair, and take her coat off for me. Need to adjust this, be back in two minutes,” he says as he rushes into the other room.

   Joel walks timidly over to you, one foot in front of the other. His blue flannel clinging to his broad shoulders, material binded to his large biceps. He rolls his sleeves up carefully, exposing those long, thick veins that pave the way to his big hands. 

   Your breaths come in waves, your skin glistening with nervous sweat the closer he gets. It’s so hard to hold back when all you want is to jump in his arms, have him scoop you up as he lets you bury your face into the warmth of his chest. That’s all you want right now, all you need. 

   Two more steps and he’s right in front of you, almond eyes gazing down at you, a crooked smile forming over his mouth. He brushes his fingertips slowly over your jaw, delicately tracing his calloused thumb under the bottom of your glossy lips. You almost fall into his broad chest, almost close your eyes and inhale his woodsy cologne that’s stuck to your lilac sheets back at home. You wish the photographer would never come back. He could just leave you alone with Joel in the private space of this loft, and that’d be perfectly fine with you. 

   He pushes an out of place curl behind your ear, tracing the edge of your cheek while his other hand pushes your hair behind your shoulders, lingering a hand over the bare skin on your arm. You blink up at him, nerves buzzing through your lower region, and you wish you could stay in this moment forever. 

   “Do I look okay?” you ask nervously, fluttering your eyelashes up at him as he gives you a deep chuckle in response. 

   “You’re drop dead gorgeous, sweetheart. Not even the sun could outshine you right now.” His words are soft, fingers still lingering over your heated cheeks. Your mouth drops open, still digesting the words that just came from his open lips. 

   “Oh, that’s a… that’s…” Before you can say anything else Joel helps you slide the fur coat off, his calloused fingers skating down your glittery skin as you feel hot fire run through your veins. 

   “You know… I can’t stop thinking about that night at Coachella. The first time I kissed you, tasted you, felt you…” He cups your chin, pulling your face up to his as he gazes deeply into your eyes. You can’t move, can’t speak when his lips are this close to your skin. It’s like everything around you just stops in time. There’s no photographer, no waiting camera, nobody else here except you and Joel. It’s your room, your moment, all yours. 

   “Joel…” you whisper, feeling his lips close in, barely grazing against the gloss of yours. 

   “Yeah, pretty girl?” he asks, his warm breath blowing across the top of your lips. 

   “Kiss me…”

   Just as he’s about to press his lips to yours, Jacque swiftly struts into the room, and Joel jumps back with your jacket in hand, running a hand nervously through his tousled curls as he flicks his brown doe eyes to you and backs up to the couch. 

   You sigh, your heart still lodged in your throat. You were so close to being right where you wanted to be, right on Joel’s lips where it’s warm and inviting and feels like home. 

   “Eyes on me, gorgeous. Push your fingers through your hair and give me that beautiful smile!” Jacque starts flashing the camera, and you pose and smile, giving him your most flirty positions. You feel Joel’s eyes searing into you, undressing every piece of material on your skin, lighting a fire in your core that only he can create.

   He’s a wildfire, and he burns. 

   After a few minutes the photoshoot ends, and Jacque is sending you off with a hug and multiple kisses to your cheek. “Stupendous, darling! I’ll get these edited and back to you in a few days. So nice to work with you again. Keep in touch!”

   You say your goodbyes and let him pack up his belongings while you slip into the changing room and get undressed quickly. Your zipper catches on the sheer material, and memories flash in your mind of the night Joel came into your trailer and helped you out, which led to his lips on yours and then down to your core…

   Shaking the steamy memories away, you slide on a white sundress and leave your photoshoot clothes hanging on a hook. Your stylist said she’d be back later to take your things, so now you’re free to roam around New York City.

   Taking one more look in the mirror to make sure your hair and makeup are in check, you slide on a pair of white Converse and exit the room, entering back into Joel’s vicinity where it’s hot and stifling.

   “You ready to go explore the city, pretty girl?” he whispers out, his hot breath fanning across the shell of your ear which makes goosebumps explode down the width of your arms.

   “Mmm. If it means I get you all to myself today then yes,” you smile, drawing closer to his body, your arm sliding against his discreetly while you walk to the door. His large hand brushes yours when he opens the door for you, and his other hand guides you forward, his fingers tracing against the small of your back like electricity. 

   Once you’re out of sight, his fingers lace through yours and he tugs you toward the lavish elevator, planting a kiss on the crown of your head. “‘Course, sweetheart. You can get me to yourself all day, any day. Jus’ say the words and I’m yours,” he purrs, making your heart swell at the soft words.

   “You have me, Joel. I’m all yours, but only if you’re mine.”

   “I’m all yours, baby.” 

   Before the elevator makes it up to the top floor, Joel pulls you flush to his broad chest and cups the back of your head, drawing you close until his lips meld with yours. It’s like fireworks exploding, sparks flying when his lips connect with yours. It’s like this right here is meant to be. And the feelings inside you are explosive like dynamite. You’re falling for him. Hard.

   The quiet ding of the elevator forces your lips apart. Luckily, no one else is in the elevator, so you have it all to yourselves. He shuffles you inside and clicks the button, lighting up the number one, and then the doors close with a bang.

   The air is stifling in here, lust and feelings permeating like a thick fog around your head. All you can see is Joel’s glittering brown eyes that have trouble and need swirling inside those chocolate irises that stare you down like he wants to devour you. And you’ll let him. God, you’ll let him.

   “God, you’re so beautiful,” he drawls out like smooth butter, making your breath hitch at the words of affirmation.

   “You think so?” you whisper out quietly.

   “It’s not a question, baby. It’s a fact.”

   One hand lingers on the curve of your hip, the other traces softly down your jawline, his thumb brushing against your bottom lip dangerously slow like he’s memorizing every crevice and line of your glossy lips. 

   “I think,” he says while he backs you up against the wall, his arms caging you in on each side so there’s no escape, “you’re the most beautiful girl in the world. And the things I want to do to you shouldn’t even be allowed.” His chest is flush with yours, crowding your space until you can smell every inch of his coffee and woodsy scents colliding together, starting fires deep in your core. 

   Your lips part, and you look up innocently into those lust-filled pits. “So, what are you going to do with me? You going to be my well behaved bodyguard or are you going to fuck me right now, Joel?”

   It only takes a second for him to snap. He hits a button on the wall until the elevator is completely stopped, not even caring that we could be caught. He doesn’t care because all he can think about is having his cock stuffed deep inside you until you’re screaming his name in pure pleasure.

   Taking you up against the cool wall, he lifts you up, slides his hand up your dress till you’re a panting mess just waiting for him to eat you alive. Your legs clamp around his hips; your lips moan his name as he skates his calloused fingers up your skin, and then his lips crash against yours. Hot bliss courses through your veins, his tongue tangling with yours. You drink down his coffee taste, revel in the feel of his palm rutting against your clothed core, making slick crash against the lace material. 

   It’s not enough. You’re not close enough, can’t breathe unless you’re skin to skin to him, his body above you, crushing you to the mattress as he lights your body on fire with each stroke of his tongue, each thrust of his hips, each taste of his plush lips. And he knows. So he crushes his broad body against yours and slips your lace to the side till his fingers circle tightly against your aching bundle of nerves. 

   “Joel,” you pant into his open mouth, letting him devour you with each flick of his tongue. 

   “Hm?” He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t mutter a word more, just swallows your pretty moans. His thick finger are tantalizing. Deft motions taking you to places that only Joel knows how to get you to. 

   Your head falls back against the cool metal wall as white-hot heat slides through your core, your walls clenching around nothing. You’re almost there, almost tearing through your body just as Joel’s deep voice breaks through the fire that’s burning you alive. 

   “Go on, pretty girl. Let me see you,” he drawls out, his lips dragging down your neck, mouth nipping your collarbone. 

   With one more stroke of his big fingers, you’re done for. “Joelll,” you moan, your eyes screwed shut as heat floods down your thighs. Slick covers Joel’s palm, and he audibly growls as he watches you come undone just for him. 

   “There ya go. So pretty, baby,” he hums, warm breath blowing over your mouth. 

   He doesn’t even let you catch your breath till he’s unzipping his fly, shoving his pants and boxers down. His hard length lines up against your slick folds, his swollen tip nudging gently against your opening until you’re practically begging him to take you. 

   “Need you,” you pant, breathless as you slide forward and feel him start to push through your slickness. 

   “Use your words,” he teases, his hand sliding down your back, holding you up off the floor. 

   “Need your… need all of you. Need you inside me,” you whine, lips parted when he smirks devilishly your way. 

   “That’s all you had to say,” he chuckles. Then he’s wasting no time. He thrusts deep inside you, till he bottoms out. Till you feel him everywhere. 

   Gasping, you take a deep breath, let him pound into you, let him fill you with his thick cock and his languid strokes. He scratches that itch against your spongy walls, takes you all the way to heaven each time he kisses your cervix. He feels so good, always hits just the right spot. It’s like he knows you inside and out. Knows exactly what to do to get you to a mind-blowing orgasm. 

   “Oh, fuck,” you whine as he thrusts deeper, harder, until you feel all of him, all at once. 

   “Yeah? That right?” he chuckles as he thrusts once more, repeats the motions languidly. “Takin’ me so good, pretty popstar. Always take my cock so well,” he groans, fusing his lips right under the shell of your ear, hitting another sweet spot as heat slides down your spine. 

   “You’re all I need, Joel. Your lips, your cock, your hands, your everything,” you sing out as he ruts as deep as he can. 

   “Well, you’re all I need too, darlin’. All I fuckin’ think about is havin’ you in my arms,” he drawls out through a grunt. You feel he’s almost there. Feel his cock swell inside you, see his eyebrows thread together, hear the struggle in his deep breaths. 

   But you’re right there too. You were the moment he spoke those sweet words. Letting your walls squeeze around his thick cock, you let him know you’re right there too. “Joel, you’re gonna make me—”

   “Come for me. Come on my cock. Wanna feel you squeeze me,” he slurs through each ragged breath, his hand squeezing around your hip, thrusts speeding up with each word that leaves his beautiful mouth. 

   So you do. Clenching around him, you let his unrelenting thrusts take you over the edge. Pressing your forehead against his, you feel your climax wash over you. Moaning through it, calling his name through the small elevator, you give him everything. Slick coats his cock, washes over him. And then he lets his release take hold seconds later. With one more jut of his hips, he spills his hot seed inside you, claims you as his own with each syllable of your name dripping off his tongue. You let it wash through you, soak him up till you’re certain his DNA is mixed with yours. You’re both tangled together, bodies twisted around one another, peppering soft kisses against each other’s mouths. 

   His forehead falls against yours as he slowly releases your legs from around his hips, sets you down gently to where your feet are planted on the floor. And he slowly adjusts your panties back in place, makes sure you’re put back together after he just tore you apart. Your hands slide up his broad chest once he’s done adjusting his pants back in place. He cups your cheek, looks at you like a man in love. And maybe he is. You see it through the stars twinkling in his brown flecks, see it in his dreamy smile, feel it in the way he touches you���like you’re made of gold dust. And it’s right on the tip of your tongue, right on the edge of his. You can feel it everywhere, dancing around you like it’s been floating there, waiting for this moment. 

   He tips your chin up, looks at you like no one else has, and then it’s there slipping off his tongue into the warm air. “You know, I never imagined I’d be falling in love with the girl I’m supposed to be protecting, but here I am. Already fallen for my pretty popstar.”

   Your lips part, words lost as love serenades through your bloodstream. He just said he’s falling in love… “You… love me?” you whisper out, fingers curling around the front of his soft flannel, eyes blurring through the meaning. 

   He nods, gives you a crooked smile, brown eyes glinting. “I do, babygirl. I love you.”

   You gasp, drag your hand through his tousled curls, stand on your toes so you can brush your mouth over his. “I love you too, my big, soft bodyguard.”

   He scoops you up into his big arms, presses his lips against yours until all you can taste is him. You revel in his touch, the words still dragging over his tongue. I love you, I love you, I love you. 

   You let him brush his knuckles over your cheek, allow him to tangle his fingers through your hair, let him whisper words of affirmation through each kiss, each stroke of his tanned skin. 

   When he parts from your lips, he stands back, eyes slipping over you for a beat, memorizing this moment in time. This special, once in a lifetime moment. He breaks the silence with his husky breath. “Guess we should get out of here?” he asks, knocking his knuckles on the elevator door. 

   You sigh, wanting to stay in this little bubble forever. But you can’t, so you nod. “Yeah, should get out of here.”

   With one more tilt of his head, he presses the lit-up button, till the elevator starts moving down again. 

   You blink up at him, wondering what comes next. Wondering if this can really go on outside these closed-up walls. You know what your publicist will say, know what the tabloids will throw together. Some ridiculous scandal they’ll say. A fling that won’t last. Word will get out to the crowds, your label, your manager. But you just don’t care. You don’t fucking care what anyone says because they don’t know you and Joel. They don’t know us. 

   Us. Yes. You’re an item now, inseparable. And you don’t plan on ever letting that change now. You’ll just hold on to him till the inevitable happens. But maybe this will last. Maybe it’ll end with a rock on your finger, his lips against yours down the aisle, a honeymoon you never want to come back from. Because this feels like forever. And maybe you want it to be. 

   When the elevator doors slide open and you scuff your Converse against the smooth marble floors, you feel blood rushing through your veins, hear static inside your eardrums with each step you get closer to the glass doors. The ones that’ll lead you out to the public. 

   As you close in on your last steps, you stop, look over at Joel. He’s got the same expression as you. Knit eyebrows, jaw ticked, a little worry dancing through his glazed-over eyes. “So,” he asks, worry masking his deep bravado. 

   “So,” you repeat, your heart thrumming through your chest. 

   He slicks a hand back through his curls, sighs when he drops his hand. “We doin’ this?” he asks, the back of his knuckles brushing against yours. 

  You flick your eyes to the closed doors, look outside the gigantic city with big buildings and sunlight streaming through grey clouds. Just as fear takes hold, it disappears the moment he holds his open palm out, waiting for you to take it. 

   Biting your bottom lip, you hover over his hand, think about the consequences of your actions. “What about the paparazzi?”

   He shrugs, slides the fear away. “Don’t care about ‘em. All I care about is you,” he listlessly says, firm on his decision. 

   You melt over his doe eyes, sink a little into the floor. “You really want to take this into the public, where everyone can see?” you ask with wide eyes, feeling a little safer as his calloused fingers glide over your open hand. 

   “I’m tired of hiding, darlin’. I jus’ wanna hold my girlfriend’s hand out in public. Wanna take you shopping and to go eat at that fancy spaghetti restaurant you love. Wanna kiss you under the sunlight and take you on real dates. Wanna make you mine, sweetheart.”

   You lace your fingers through his, seal the deal with a squeeze. “Then I’m all yours, handsome. In private, in public. I could care less about the tabloids. All I want is for my boyfriend to hold my hand while we stroll down the streets together.”

   Joel cups your chin, lifts your mouth to his and crashes into you with a heart-stopping kiss. One that could shatter the earth. You melt into him, forget everything else that’s going on around you, even ignore the person that strolls around the two of you in the lobby. It’s just you and Joel. Nothing else matters. 

   When he leans back, he gives you a wide smile, squeezes your hand and opens the door wide for you. Fresh air kisses your skin, makes you a little breathless when he locks his fingers around yours and leads you down Central Avenue. 

   “C’mon, pretty girl. Let’s go explore New York the way it was meant to be explored. With you right by my side, my hand in yours.”

   And then the rest is history. You don’t care about the flash of cameras around the corner. All you can focus on is his hand in yours, his body shielding you from anyone that’s not him, and the twinkle of his brown eyes filled with love. 

   Love. You’re so in love with your bodyguard, and he’s in love with you. Just a popstar destined to find her bodyguard. The bodyguard that’d change your life forever. 

   Mine. 

[prozac-shaped-urn]

highlights of jean smart on snl

SINGING????? SHE'S SINGING?????????

"lesbians are obsessed with me" yes. yes we are. you're just now noticing jean? my god i thought hannah made that perfectly clear like two years ago with the "what can i say about jean smart that hasn't been type-screamed in all caps by every lesbian with an internet connection?"

girl what the fuck is up with that chimp skit. wha t the fuck. i'm so incredibly uncomfy and it also kinda reminds me of suzanne sugarbaker and noel (the pig) but more of a trailer park vibe

"i try to make art and they just want smut" THIS IS THE MOOD OF EVERY WRITER ON AO3

"math scores are through the roof" lmfaooooooooooooooo i mean yeah! they're reading it in porn form! duh!!! i'd also pay more attention if that were the case

i need this on my wall

i love her hair in the math book skit! very 70s farrah fawcett-esque

it's actually hilariously ironic that she's playing lucy ricardo when she never liked the show.

i'm in love with her 50s housewife hair it looks so GOOD on her like actually GOOD and no one looks good with that hair

"tu. soy. *angry drunk voice* gay." snldkfjsldkgjlakjs

i'm crying i'm fucking crying "are you gay? ... because frankly your accent is a little

the real housewives of santa fe is unironically something i would watch and judge with the snootiest opinion known to mankind (and the skit was wholly inaccurate - santa fe women don't drink their troubles away, they smother them with green chile)

I WANT THIS SKUNK HAIR

also whatttttt is up with this outfit

jean is so incredibly tall!!!! wtaf why is this news to me?

ok that's it i'm going to bed g'night!

[joker-daughter]

You see? Call me dramatic, but this is why I’m not even slightly excited about the Nolan movie. I’m calling it now: Rob Pattinson is gonna play some villain-type character with a funny accent, and even if Tom gets more screen time and better acting scenes overall (which he absolutely did in TDATT compared to Rob, who played his character like he was in an SNL skit), people will still say Rob 'stole' the show 🙃.

There’s a reason I’m only more excited about Tom’s other “smaller” projects. They don’t come with a bunch of annoying, pretentious cinephiles, Pattinson’s post-Twilight pretentious stans, and Z’s annoying stans ruining it for me.

I love Nolan and I’m excited for the movie regardless like really excited but on the other hand I’m tired of blockbusters 😭 especially with sm4 and doomsday also coming like come on

[knowyourbmovieactors]

OCTOBER HORROR MOVIES 2024 (DVD EDITION) #2 STIR OF ECHOES

Stir of Echoes starts right off the bat with a little kid talking to his imaginary friend "Samantha", a conversation capped with the child asking the disturbing question, "Does it hurt to be dead?" His dad is a blue collar shmoe played by Kevin Bacon who once had some vague dreams about having a better life, but has settled for being an overworked lineman for the phone company, living in basically the same neighborhood he grew up in (a neighborhood, by the way, where there seems to be some kind of block party almost every day). After his "spiritual-but-not-religious" artist-type sister-in-law hypnotizes him at a party, he begins having disorienting visions of Samantha as well. What follows is his descent toward madness as he struggles to figure out what this entity is and what it wants him to do.

The movie is based on one of Richard Matheson's more obscure books, and if you don't know who that is, you're definitely familiar with his work. In addition to writing many episodes of the original Twilight Zone (including the iconic "Nightmare at 20,000 Feet") and all of Roger Corman's Edgar Allen Poe adaptations, Matheson also wrote the books I Am Legend, What Dreams May Come, and Duel, all of which got movie treatments (usually adapted by Matheson himself). And I'm not even getting into the plethora of other screenplays he wrote or contributed to. The man did more to shape modern day sci-fi and horror than just about any other single individual, and more people should be singing his praises.

Director David Koepp is better known as a screenwriter himself, having contributed to big budget adaptations like Jurassic Park and the first Tom Cruise Mission: Impossible movie. He settled on Stir of Echoes not because he was particularly enamored with the book, but because it gave him a chance to collaborate with Matheson, and most of his other novels had already been adapted. The result is... not bad. It's a perfectly competent supernatural thriller that hits all the right beats. The script was definitely well-crafted by a couple of seasoned writers, and Koepp is at least a serviceable director. Kevin Bacon, as always, is good, as is Kathryn Erbe as his put-upon wife. But this movie had the bad fortune of being released in 1999 at almost exactly the same time as another movie that involves a kid who can talk to dead people, a little film you might have heard of called The Sixth Sense. Stir of Echoes never had a chance.

What I did enjoy about this movie was its sense of place. Set in Chicago and actually filmed in Chicago, the movie is overflowing with Chicago accents and Chicago locations (but not the big ones the tourists go see; screw Navy Pier, we have a scene set in the goddamn Logan Square train station for no other reason than to show off the goddamn Logan Square train station). The background is littered with every flavor of Chicago Guy, with every iteration of the Chicago Guy Mustache: the kind of guy who would watch the "Da Bears!" Super Fans sketches from SNL and wonder what was supposed to be so funny; the kind of guy who knows a guy who knows a guy who is "in the concrete business"; the kind of guy who stumbles into his local high school football game, tipsy and red-faced, with a bottle of Malort tucked in his windbreaker. Stir of Echoes takes place in exactly the kind of white working class neighborhoods that used to be all over Chicago (and which now have largely been gentrified by an entirely different breed of white folks with entirely different kinds of mustaches), and it was fun at least to see a movie that really felt like it could only happen in that particular city at that particular time.

THINGS I LEARNED FROM THE DVD EXTRAS -The "Behind the Scenes" featurette really makes you understand the tedium of standing around on a film set all day.

-In preparation for this film, Illeana Douglas (who plays the hypnotist sister-in-law) went out and got hypnotized herself, even though she's not the one who is actually hypnotized in the movie. She also tells us she believes in ghosts and angels and aliens.

-Included in the bonus materials is the official music video for what was supposed to be the breakout hit single from the soundtrack. I totally forgot that this used to be a thing: a music video made up primarily of clips from the movie the song was featured in, intercut with shots of the band looking all moody on a soundstage. In this case the song is "Breathe" by the band Moist. Man, don't you all remember "Breathe" by Moist?! You know, that song that was definitely in the movie Stir of Echoes somewhere? God, remember back in '99 when all anybody could talk about was Stir of Echoes and "Breathe" by Moist? Good times.

[babufrik]

Pedro absolutely KILLLLED snl (or should I say ate and left no crumbs lol) you can tell he was up for anything and super receptive host! As someone who watches a lot they don’t usually have hosts play “character” types (for example the California accent sketch or the mom sketch) but he was clearly up for it! Genuinely seems like he will host again in the future and I hope he does

[ardri-na-bpiteog]

god like I feel like maybe I am just being zero craic sometimes and that I’m overreacting to all the “haha Irish names funny” jokes because Irish people make them too, but it actually almost annoys me MORE when it’s Irish people doing it. It just feels like pandering desperately to an anglophone audience. Like “haha yeah it’s not your fault you make no effort to learn how to pronounce names in another language, they’re actually just ridiculous haha”

I just saw some TikTok of an Irish guy mocking Irish names and he said the fada was “really annoying”. It’s just an accent mark??? that does what accent marks do??? In fact, Irish is relatively simple for only having one accent mark in the first place?

The SNL video of Saoirse Ronan talking about how ridiculous her name is when it literally just follows standard Irish spelling rules? 

Maybe sit down and have a think about how post-colonial attitudes about the Irish language are influencing your dismissiveness about Irish names. IDK the Irish language didn’t barely survive centuries of colonisation just for you to make stupid videos on the internet exposing that you don’t understand how non-English languages work.

Maybe I just don’t find it funny when people with Irish names had to fight their own government just to have fadas recognised on official documents, meaning that people with a fada in their name had to misspell it on any typed government forms, and Irish speakers struggle to get the most basic services provided to them through their native language. 

[ironmandeficiency]

falcon, falcon, goose!

pairing: sam wilson / reader

word count: 3547

summary: there were reports of geese leading people to their soulmates spanning centuries, and it seemed like a cool concept, but why did it have to coincide with you coming out of your writing slump?

warnings: cursing, geese, dumbassery, implied happy au where the avengers get along, iw and endgame who?

a/n: this is an older piece i wrote a couple years ago, decided to brush it up and repost it. and the reader works for snl bc why the hell not? keep in mind that the original was written before everything went to shit w iw & endgame. posted from mobile yet again yall what is wrong w me

it was a sunny day outside, and deciding that you had been cooped up for far too long, you brought your laptop to the park a couple blocks from your studio apartment.

being a writer for saturday night live wasn't always so peachy, what with the lack of a social life outside of your co-workers and constantly explaining your job to confused relatives. you had been in a slump for the past couple weeks, the fact most of your sketch ideas not making the cut for the next episode continuing to throw you off your rhythm.

this week, you were going to change that. Your headphones were playing your concentration playlist full volume and you were hyped to the max. with your laptop on the picnic table in front of you and a warm cup of tea beside it, you were ready to blow the producers away with your next idea.

"honk! honk!"

you felt something nudge your leg, but you were too engrossed into what you were typing to care. after getting through a few more lines, it happened again.

"honk! honk! honk!"

you couldn't hear the sound but the feeling on your leg got a little bit rougher, more demanding. you moved your headphones to the side for a minute and took a moment to look around you. there was no kid running to get their ball back or any squirrels nearby that dropped a nut.

strange.

but you put your headphones back on, trying to keep your groove alive while hoping the interruptions are finished.

"HONK! HONK! HONK!" the goose honked louder, pecking at your leg harder than it had earlier.

you were getting frustrated and a little pissed. the creativity was flowing through your veins for the first time in what felt like ages and this — whatever it was — decided that today was the best day to annoy you.

you kicked your legs out with a strange flail and when you came into contact with something large and solid you nearly screamed.

"ow! motherf- oh my god!"

standing on the ground beside your table was a goose. it honked yet again with impatience (geese could do that?) and nipped lightly at your thigh closest to it. looking to the pond nearby, it was nearly an entire gaggle of the damned things.

so here was this goose honking at you and nipping at you like you were supposed to know what the hell it wanted from you.

"i don't have any bread, dumbass. go find someone else to bother." thinking it would leave if you ignored it, you turned away and continued your work.

"HONK! HONK!" it continued to honk and decided to peck you before flapping its wings, landing itself on the table next to your computer.

"get outta here, ya damn goose!" while you were trying to shop it away, it expertly evaded you. "go! shoo! leave me alone!"

it just stayed over on the bench, expertly dodging your attempts to get it to leave.

a few people nearby had heard your altercation with the infernal bird. one of them was an older gentleman that laughed as he sat across from you, the mirth in his eyes glinting as you give him a sarcastic side eye while trying to deal with the current issue.

"that bird won't leave you alone, you know." At his voice, the goose calmed down and waddled a few feet away from your arm's reach.

that was the first time the thing had been seemingly calm since he showed up at your little table.

"what do you mean he won't leave me alone?"

he pauses, part of him enjoying the irritation in your tone. he remembers someone talking to him like he was to you many years ago, and it made his heart smile at the idea of repaying the favor. "have you ever read about soulmate geese?"

"hey we're gonna go for a run, wanna join?" steve’s offer was given with a smirk. ever since reuniting with bucky, the two supersoldiers found so much humor in doing laps around sam every time they went out jogging.

it annoyed the shit out of him, the "on your left" comments from steve and the newer "on your right" jabs from bucky, but it also pushed Sam to work harder during his runs. ultimately he knew his non-enhanced body didn't stand much of a chance beating them, but he enjoyed when he was able to close the gap between their times just a little bit.

"sure, just gimme a few to eat breakfast and I'll join you guys." the blond nodded and turned back to the elevator, having woken up far earlier than sam and therefore already ate.

he hummed otis redding as he laid the bacon flat into the pan, shoulders moving along with his created rhythm while changing the grounds in the coffee filter. this was how he spent most of his mornings, barring the occasional hangovers and missions where he couldn't afford the distraction.

he ate, got dressed, and told FRIDAY to let bucky and steve know he was ready to go. h had his water bottle in hand, giving his body a pep talk in preparation for the run. they met in the common room and soon, the trio was off.

"on your left!"

"on your right!"

"oh, come on!"

he knew it was gonna happen, but for some reason it felt like it happened sooner than normal. either they were trying really hard to mess with him today, or he was off his game. but regardless, he pushed his body harder than he probably should have because when there was something obstructing his path, he didn't pause. no, he charged it straight on through and fell hard.

steve and bucky had seen this from a distance and immediately rushed to get to their friend.

sam rolled onto his back, exhausted and now in terrible pain from the fall. he closed his eyes and just let it all sink in. when he opened his eyes at the sudden foul smell flooding his nostrils, he could feel the palpitations, thinking he was about to have a heart attack.

"holy shit!" sam sat up like a rocket despite the way his body was throbbing from the fall.

the goose stared at him curiously and turned its head toward the pounding footsteps from the approaching brooklynites.

"sam! What happened?" steve was concerned, inspecting sam while bucky noticed the bird. The brunet bent down to meet the goose eye-level and was somewhat surprised that it didn't run away at the close proximity.

"did you trip the dumbass? was it your fault sam landed on his face? Huh, little guy?"

"honk! honk!"

"i thought so. good job, man." bucky pats the animal on the head gently before turning to help steve get sam off the ground.

"nothing’s broken but there's probably a sprain, can't really be sure until we get to cho." sam and bucky lift their friend from the pavement and they have no problem supporting his weight.

they began the walk back to the tower in silence. well, almost silence. there was a faint pitter-patter of tiny, webbed feet behind them that sam and bucky weren't paying attention to.

steve noticed the goose slowly waddling behind the trio and looked at sam with a smile. sam responded to steve’s happy face with a glare, not enjoying any of the situation he found himself in.

"look behind us, guys."

both men took turns looking behind them and see the goose waddling behind them patiently. sam wasn't particularly happy about the culprit from moments before trailing behind him, but bucky thought it was hilarious.

"do you know what this means?"

sam rolled his eyes because he thought the blond was about to make some sort of poetic comment about one thing for another.

bucky had paused to think about the implications of a random goose for a moment before gasping. "dude," bucky nudged sam softly, being conscious of his friend's injuries. "you’re gonna meet your soulmate, man!"

"a soulmate goose. man come on, are you out of your mind?"

"steve got his goose back during the war, i think we know enough about it."

sam had only heard vague reports of soulmate geese throughout his life, but now that he thought about it, it did make sense. the goose showed up randomly in the middle of his routine, completely throwing him off, and was now refusing to leave him alone.

"well if this is my soulmate goose, then somebody’s gotta tell tony about our newest avenger." they laughed at the implication, viciously eager to witness tony’s reaction to the newest resident of avengers hq.

it has been three days of dealing with your goose, and you were now teased at work as “bird brain”, walking into your office to see several loaves of bread covering the desk. your goose, that you had named piper once you got home, was excited at the prospect of more food, but you planned on donating most of the bread to local shelters, only keeping a couple loaves for the house.

the guest host that week was mick jagger, and he had emerged into the room “i dream of jeanie” style, startling both you and piper, who honked at him in irritation.

it was time for you to work on the song for your little sketch with him, and you had only two more days before performance night (it was thursday) to finish writing it. after settling down and getting into the right mindset, the writing process had begun.

"alright let's see," mick murmured. "let’s all go to the picnic, let's all have a drink. what rhymes with 'drink'?"

you thought for a moment and said quietly, "think?"

you weren't prepared for the absurd response you received from the man, his accent making him round mean as he barked out a loud "NO!" with an unnecessary hand gesture.

piper just about lost it. she was honking and flapping around your office in a tizzy (but staying away from mick because the man was seen as a stranger she wasn't comfortable with).

you racked your brain for another solution, something else to rhyme with 'drink' and you eventually found it: "sink?"

mick thought about it for a moment before replying with a much lighter "yes!" also paired with unwarranted pointing.

‘motherfucker, is this how you write songs?!'

thursday and friday came and went, and soon it was time for your piece to be performed by mick. du to an accidental ankle twist someone else suffered, you were forced to perform a skit live for the first time in your career. it would have been great, but there was one teensy problem: piper blatantly refused to leave your side when it was time to perform, and she would honk and bite anyone that tried to keep her from you onstage.

even poor bobby, who she had grown fond of, was taking the brunt of it. she was not allowing you to be more than a couple feet away from her, and it was almost endearing if you weren't being broadcast on national television.

apparently, piper would also be making her debut appearance on saturday night live tonight as well.

saturday had arrived, and it was sam’s day of rest. he spent the day doing the bare minimum, eating junk food and watching almost everything on netflix he could find.

he didn't stray too far from tradition, not really. it was just that now he had a goose accompanying him the entire time, honking at this and that and eating occasional pieces of popcorn that sam didn't want to share.

he didn't mind his feathered companion, he was actually quite fond of his goose at this point. whitewing (not to be confused with redwing) was the most calm goose any of them had seen, no biting or nipping and especially no honking at ungodly hours of the night.

steve was perplexed. "Are you sure whitewing hasn't done anything bad? no waking you up at night or bites when you don't feed him soon enough?"

sam would chuckle and shake his head, proud to have such a calm goose. "why are you so keen to see him misbehave? aren’t all soulmate geese like this?"

"for lack of a better word, most geese are assholes. i don't know how whitewing is so well behaved," steve balked at the very idea of all geese being so mellow and decided it was story time.

steve’s goose from the century before was the most rambunctious animal anyone had ever seen. he recounted the first and several occasions following where his soulmate goose, jimmy, fended off the blond man's alleyway attackers.

sam was extremely grateful that whitewing had less feral and goose-like tendencies. whitewing was extremely well behaved and had an almost human way about him, the way he honked in reply to sam or the rest of the team when they talked to him.

it was late in the evening when clint decided to plop down onto the couch and flick the channel to nbc, where tonight's host was mick jagger.

"why are we watching this?" sam was enjoying his sitcoms before the other bird man had showed up.

"i haven't watched it in ages, plus mick jagger is on tonight."

"alright, whatever you want."

the intro played like usual, and whitewing was perfectly complacent. they laughed in the right places with the occasional honking from the bird, and everything was great.

"hey man, look!" clint interrupted, keeping sam from being able to hear the punchline. "i think that's a goose!"

"why is there a goose? The skit has nothing to with-"

sam and clint seemed to come to the same realization at the same time as whitewing, the goose beginning to honk incessantly. he was going absolutely berserk, flapping his wings and hopping off of sam’s lap and onto the coffee table, occasionally pecking at the tv where he saw the other goose.

he was going absolutely bonkers.

"whitewing! whitewing, no! calm down!" sam scrambled to calm down his goose, but he was having none of it. the whole entire skit, whitewing was honking and flapping and being a general nuisance.

he found his soulmate.

whitewing kept at it until the screen went to a commercial, his soulmate off of the screen.

"y’know," clint spoke around a slice of pizza. when did he get pizza? "if you hurry, you could go to the studio and meet your soulmate. the show is about halfway over."

before sam could think over the proposition, tony’s voice was heard from the corridor. "somebody shut that damned bird up before I pay ramsay to cook it!"

"i’m taking care of it!"

with that, sam heads to the armory with whitewing on his tail to get his wings. once he's equipped, sam heads to the window and jumps, immediately setting his course for studio 8h and his soulmate.

you’re released to go back to your office once you finish the skit alongside mick and piper, the show almost over. you’re gathering your things lazily, knowing that you have no other responsibilities for the night.

just as you lock your office and piper is waddling beside you without a care in the world, you see kyle running towards you with a look of fear in his eyes. that fear seems to only triple when his eyes land on piper beside you.

"kyle! what’s-"

"there’s another goose on the set! no one is safe!"

wait, was he bleeding?!

you were going to try and help your friend but one look at piper sent him off the rails, the lanky man nearly falling on his ass in an attempt to skid the corner. you hoped that someone would help calm your panicked friend, seeing as you were literally the worst person for the job at the moment.

without further incident, you are able to say goodbye to cecily and mikey before you're stopped in your tracks by michael, who gives piper a funny look.

"wait, so the goose that attacked kyle wasn't piper?" You shake your head in confusion. "dude, your soulmate must have come to the set!"

piper must have either understood what your co-worker had said or she could sense a change in the studio, but she began to honk erratically and run away from you. the last thing new york needed was two feral geese running around attacking people, so you did what anyone would do and ran after her.

"piper! piper, come back!" michael laughed as you chased after your goose. while you were running, you nearly died when you heard a honk that you knew wasn't from your piper. hers were carved into your brain, and you were positive that you could pick hers out of an entire gaggle of geese, so there was indeed a second goose in the studio.

to your dismay, piper did not stop and wait, she just kept on honking and flapping and scaring people in pursuit of the other goose, poor old you having to chase her.

there was another voice you assumed was yelling at his goose since you didn't know of anyone naming their kid whitewing. your eyes were not looking straight ahead when you suddenly bumped into someone, immediately stumbling a bit before regaining your balance.

piper had stopped her honking and that scared you. did someone hurt her? was she-

her and another goose were making muted honks to each other. they sounded like affectionate honks, which is one of the weirdest sentences you ever constructed in your head. but it was true! they were cuddling close to each other and making really quiet honking noises at each other, and if that wasn’t affectionate then you didn’t know what would be.

so if piper found her soulmate, that means yours was-

"i hope comin' to your job was okay. whitewing wasn't gonna give up until I left, so here we are." your eyes were dragged from the touching scene of piper and her special goose to a pair of dark brown irises that radiated warmth and a promise of happy days.

you were absolutely dumbstruck. your mouth was unable to form coherent words, so you decided to take in the appearance of your soulmate. he was wearing a soft grey tee and sweatpants, and socks without shoes. did he realize how unsanitary the streets of new york were?

but upon further investigation, you realize that he probably didn't walk to the studio. on his back was what you would normally call a jetpack, but when you recognize the face your mind completes the puzzle: your soulmate is sam wilson, otherwise known as the falcon. holy shit.

"uh yeah of course, i guess you flew here? no sane person in new york would walk around barefoot in the street." did you really just say that?!

sam nodded and then remembered that he was in his pajamas in front of his soulmate without any shoes. "yeah, he wasn't gonna stop attacking the tv once he saw uh…"

you realized he was asking for your goose’s name, and so you hastily gave it to him.

"yeah, once he saw piper, he went wild. caused more chaos in five minutes than he did in five days!"

you laugh, the nervousness falling away as you recount the story of you first meeting with piper.

people are staring at the pajama-clad avenger and his soulmate, their geese finally satisfied. after all, it wasn't every day so many people were able to watch soulmate geese (and their people) meet for the first time.

sam gently took your hand, his thumb smoothing the skin on the back of it, just listening to you talk. you asked him a question about whitewing and he was in the middle of telling you when he cut himself off. "i just realized i don't even know your name!"

in most scenarios you’d be slightly put off by this, but you didn't have an issue because of the specific circumstances. if he weren't an avenger you wouldn't have known his either, and plus, no one really pays attention to the little rat writers. you give him your name and smile when he introduces himself, his voice even helping show off the brightest smile you’ve ever seen.

with impeccable goose timing, piper and whitewing honk at you to hurry your introductions and leave the studio.

"do you want to fly back to your place , or can I drive you?" it was a risk to ask him such a question, but you were genuinely concerned. you hoped he wouldn't think you were trying to jump his bones only minutes after meeting him so you used (terrible) humor to show your intentions. "you shouldn't fly so late at night without headlights, no matter how high up you get."

sam’s laughter was infectious and soon you joined him, your geese about to get more irritated with their humans.

"yeah, I'd like that. lead the way, soulmate." piper and whitewing honk as the two of you head to the lobby hand in hand, the birds waddling behind you just as happy as soulmate geese could be.

[angelisverba]

but i wanna play daddy

in which y/n doesn’t listen to her daddy, and mafialeader!harry doesn’t fucking play.

word count: 3k

warnings: mentions of drugs and violence. +angst.

yes, inspired by the snl episode (but nowhere nearly as gangster as that). got another one based on the jason skit coming soon ;)

“Harryyy,” she whined.

Y/n sat on the couch, legs crossed and foot bouncing as she watched Harry with a pout on her face.

It was a Wednesday. The busiest day of the week. Work from Monday was still getting finished, and more work started to end by Friday.

Y/n knew better than to mess with Harry on a Wednesday.

But, watching him with one of his burner phones pressed in between his shoulder and ear, one hand cuffing up his white shirt sleeve and gun hostler unbuttoned and jostling on his broad shoulders. Not to mention, his green pin-stripped trousers that looked as if they would burst at the seams with every stride he took. Y/n just couldn’t help herself. Pinching at his thighs with grabby hands from her spot on the couch, to where he stood on the opposite side of the coke-glass coffee table.

She’s being bold. She knows this, knows better than to mess with the fucking king pin of London.

Harry was no nice guy.He’s known for gunshots to the head when his orders aren’t followed. Broken noses if you look at him the wrong way. And god help anyone who tried to betray him.

Currently, his eyebrows were furrowed and he had that cold glint in his eyes, lips pressed hard against each other to form a hard line. Voice menacing, almost like that one time y/n walked in on his pushing a guy up against the wall by his throat, asking where the fuck is my money?

She’d been so frightened that time. She remembers standing the the doorway, whatever question she wanted to ask had died in her throat; reduced to a mousy squeak. Harry had seen her, dropped the man like a doll and his face instantly an entirely different demeanor. He’d murmured to someone else in the room to take care of this fucker and that night he made love to her all night long. Sweaty, desperate ruts, begging her to forgive him, that he wasn’t a bad guy (not with her at least) that he loved her, kissing all on her throat.

He only ever when putty in her hands. If she asked, he’d put a bullet through the head of the Queen of England.

When Harry first felt nails grazing above his kneecap, he swatted off her hands like he would a fly, turning his head sideways as his fingers quickly folded back the cuffs of his shirt.

His eyes had said he wasn’t in the mood to play.

And he wasn’t.

Harry was in the middle of receiving the news of delayed shipment, letting the flustered employee explain themselves when he felt, again, the scratches of his girl’s fingers, this time mid thigh. Not knowing that Harry was a finger pinch away from cursing out the stupid imbecile on the other side of the phone, y/n looped her fingers on Harry’s waistband, and tried to pull it down.

Faster than she could register, Harry hung up the phone, threw it in the tabletop, and grabbed her wrists to push her back flush against the couch.

“Daddy’s not in the mood to play right now, sweet pea. You better watch it,” he had her hands pinned above her head, his lips pulled back as he spoke, threatening; like a dog on his haunches.

She leaned up, and licked a fat stripe up the side of Harry’s face and said, “but I wanna play, daddy.”

Her eyes were half hooded, pupils glazed over with lust and lips parted with anticipation.Her mind was a boggled, swampy mess full of harry, harry, harry. She needed him, wanted him, yearned for him to do as he pleased with her.

���I said I’m not in the mood to play, didn’t I?” He said, tone intimidating and even.

She hummed absentmindedly, her back arching and hips wriggling, hoping to get anything from the man above her. Anything to sate her ache.

“Use your words, y/n. Answer me.”

“Yes, daddy.”

“Tsk-tsk. Know what happens when you disobey me?” Harry dips his head down, nose skimming the column of her throat, and placing a wet kiss on her collarbone. He nearly went further, the low neckline of the pretty slip dress enticing him.

But he remembered he had a fucking job to do and men to reprimand. Lessons to teach. One of them being patience to the girl underneath him, to spank her until she learned enough was enough.

“Yes, daddy,” she said, her voice a breathy whisper.

She felt as if she were a coiled spring, one release away from the action.

Then, “Be ready when I get back home, little brat. Got it?” And he leans in to her as if he’s gonna kiss her, but laughs at her meanly, and kinda throws his hands off his own before getting back up, readjusting his pants and clasping the gun holster across his chest. Harry picked up the burner phone from the table, and scooped up his suit jacket from the back of the couch, holding it by a hooked pointer finger over his shoulder and walked away.

Y/n pushed herself up onto her elbows with a dejected frown on her face, eyes watering and her heart breaking just a little. She’d just wanted some attention.

He’s gone for so long throughout the day, and he looks so good before he leaves.

The night before he’d fucked her. A slow, long, lazy sex session where they’d been impossibly to each other. The type of fuck that left her wanting for more, and he did give her more. He gave her much more. Made her come on his tongue, his fingers, and his cock.

And call her greedy, but she woke up that morning with her clit throbbing; wanting a continuation of what happened the night before. Her mind still in that post-orgasmic state, not yet deciphering that it was a different day, but rather focusing on needing to cum again.

She didn’t think that warranted for a punishment.

She watched him walk away, burner phone pressed against his ear and a guard meeting with him at the door, another coming in to stand at the closed emerald doors, throwing a fleeting glance at y/n before taking a protective stance at his post.

Sighing, she got up and went up the dark stairs with the end of her dress in one of her hands, the golden rail biting cold at her soft palm. Her mind is an endless whirlwind of anxiety and want. She wanted Harry to kiss her. Hold her. Tell her she was pretty and good. Not for harry to spank her. Not to tease her. Not to tell her she was a brat or a bad girl. She didn’t mean to make him mad. No, in fact, she hoped he would’ve smiled at her sweetly and dropped the phone to devote all his attention to her. Kiss all on her. Cuddle with her. Because it’s what she wanted.

Now look at her. She’s the bad girl with a punishment pending when she gets home.

With a pout on her lips, she tucked herself under the velvet covers of her and Harry’s shared bed, feeling awfully small in a very large space.

.

.

She didn’t wake again until she heard the loud slam of the emerald doors closing, and the tapping of Harry’s shoes on the stairs.

Her stomach grumbled, and she needed to pee.

In muddy efforts to avoid Harry, she scrambled out of bed, her legs kicking like dogs when they ran really fast in cartoons, and hurried to the restroom. She shut the door behind her, and locked it; reached down to the hem of her dress, and threw it over her head. Y/n did her business on the toilet, washed her hands and splashed her face so it wouldn’t look like she was sleeping. The water was really cold, and it made her whine when it touched her skin, a few droplets dripping onto her exposed breasts.

It felt as if she was running on premeditated orders, her actions practiced and mechanical.

She doesn’t remember unlocking and opening the door, but, suddenly, she’s standing in the doorway and Harry is sitting on the edge of their bed, elbows resting on his knees, his chin on one of his palms, and he’s watching her with the uttermost intensity.

He perks up when she stills, lifting his head and upper-body to the space on his lap is clear, and his eyebrow raises expectantly. His silent command makes y/n’s shoulder’s slump. Any chance at explaining herself, she feels, is far gone. Harry’s expression is one of business; he’s going to teach her a lesson.

When she doesn’t move, he says, “Don’t make me go over there and get you, baby.”

She shuddered, and slumped some more as she took her first steps towards him, head hung down like a puppy’s. Her skin rose with goosebumps, and heated under his gaze. When she got close enough, Harry reached out, and placed his hands on either sides of her hips, yanking her so she laid with her nipples brushing his calves, and her clit ribbing against his thighs. He groaned when she pressed back against the palm that rubbed on her ass cheek.

“Now, y/n” he squeezes her harshly, and lets go to rub over it, “tell me why I’m doing this.”

“Because... because I didn’t listen this morning,” she mewls, withering underneath his touch. She feels the inside of her walls growing warmer, slicker, and before she knows it she’s dripping down onto Harry’s pants. Her nails dig into Harry’s shins, bracing herself and also trying to ground herself because he hadn’t even started yet.

“That’s right, princess. I told you to behave yourself because, daddy had things to do, but you didn’t listen.” Harry leans forward to catch a glimpse of her face, his hands still kneading at her skin. He smirks when he sees that her eyes are screwed shut, and her mouth parts open when he dips his finger to collect her moisture. “Baby, you’re makin’ a mess of my trousers.”

Harry’s accent always intensifies when it drops to this sexy drawl he only ever uses in certain situations with y/n. This only riles her up more, and she shuts her thighs to stop him from teasing her even further.

“Sorry,” she mumbles, mouthing at the cloth covering his leg.

A sharp thwack fills the room when Harry’s hands meets y/n’s skin, his rings adding an extra bite to the sting of his palm, making her lurch forward with the hit. “Sorry, who? Who are you talking to, y/n?” He tuts his tongue, massaging over the pink hand print on y/n ass, his dick bloating at the sight of his mark. She shifts, the mound of her pussy pressing down into the head of his cock, and Harry has to clench his jaw to hold back a moan.

“Daddy,” y/n mewls, “I’m sorry, daddy. Didn’t mean to be a bad girl, daddy. Just wanted some attention. Please, please, daddy, I’m sorry,” She cries.

Usually, Harry wouldn’t think anything of it. Y/n can be a real brat sometimes and she’ll fake crying if it means she’ll get what she wants because she knows she has a mafia king’s heart at the palm of her fucking hand.

But this is different. Y/n had opened her mouth and her shoulders started shaking, her words cut off with sobs that rake through her entire body. She’s breathing in choppy blubbers, one syllable escaping before it’s cut off with tears.

And, he’s not going to lie, he’s scared. Scared, because he’s really not sure what he’s done, and whether or not her game has increased tenfold, or if she’s really upset or why she’s upset.

Nonetheless, he stops what he’s doing, and lifts her up, one hand at her bicep, and the other at her thigh, opening it so she’s straddling him. The sight of her face breaks his heart. She’s red, teary, and her eyes are swollen. And she yelps when the side of her butt with Harry’s palm print touches his thigh, whining when Harry’s hand comes in between her butt and his thigh.

“Baby girl, hey, hey, look at me,” Harry places his other palm on the side of her face, ad she leans into his touch, sniffling and gulping in breaths of air. “breath, puppy. Breath. It’s okay. ‘Not mad at you.”

“I’m sorry, d-didn’t wanna-” She starts, her chest flushed red and heaving. Harry shushes her, placing his thumb on her lips and rubbing across them. He wants to kiss her. So bad. But he thinks he should calm her down first.

“I said it’s okay,” His voice is gentle now, nearly cooing at her. A strand of hair falls to tickle his nose, and he tries to shake it off. Y/n’s trembling fingers comes it back for him, and he presses a quick kiss to her forearm before continuing, “thank you, baby. Not tell me what’s got you so upset. Want you to use, your words, okay? Breathe for me, y/n.”

She has a hard time keeping his stare, and she glances down at his chest instead, memorizing the buttons on his white button up. “I... I just...” is all she can get out before she’s crying again, her tears falling down onto her breasts like the cold water had.

Harry brings her to chest, slipping out the hand from underneath her bum to press her firmly against his burning chest. He’s hurting, he really is. Hates seeing his precious y/n cry. He would do anything to take her pain away. “Don’t cry anymore, pet. ‘S nothing to cry for.”

She’s inconsolable. Her mind going in circles to the point where she doesn’t know what she’s crying for. Something to do about Harry neglecting her. Calling her a bad girl.

And god her thoughts are so,

“Small, daddy. Feel so small. Please don’t yell at me.” Harry tenses all over again. A cold sheet of dread draping over his back like a thousand knifes cutting him open. It hits him then, that this morning,

she wasn’t being a brat.

She was still in subspace.

He guesses it was the fact that he’d gone so hard on her the night before. And he left so quick. Didn’t even kiss her goodbye, no. In fact, he laughed at her like a tool, and left her. Called her a brat.

All while she was in this delicate state.

He feels like shit then. A real dickhead. He’d went, instead, to worry about stupid drugs and money that he had plenty of. He could never, ever get enough of y/n, yet he had acted like he did.

His heart clenches, his chest tightens, and his throat ties itself in a knot. This only makes him feel more like an asshole because instead of telling y/n that everything is okay, he’s the one crying. Get your fucking shit together.

“Princess,” he whispered, a name he only used when she felt small, “Come back to me. Come back too daddy,” he pleaded, hiding his face in her hair.

“Are you still mad at me, daddy? Please don’t be angry, daddy,” She whines, nosing into his neck. Her voice is high-pitched and light, like a child’s.

“Daddy’s angry at himself. Not at you. Come back, yeah? Miss you, y/n.” He presses tiny kisses to the side of her face, making her giggle and scrunch her pink nose. She shivers a little, and Harry remembers she’s naked. He twists backwards and pats around the bed blindly for his suit jacket, placing it in y/n’s shoulders once he finds it.

“M’right here, Harry.” Y/n says. Her voice is hoarse, back to normal. Her eyes are droopy, and she wraps her hands around Harry’s neck.

He jumps to return her embrace, hiking her thigh over his hip to get her close, but she feels his erection through his pants.

“Harry you’re-”

“Don’t worry about it. Just wanna lay here with you for a minute. Need to do what I didn’t get to this morning,” he said.

They lay together in the edge of their silky sheets, nearly asleep when y/n’s stomach grumbled loudly, and she giggles when Harry rubs a hand over it.

“Let’s get you something to eat, baby. Deserve only the best.”

He sits up, pulling her up with him so she’s on his lap. Y/n smiles at him, chin digging into her neck bashfully.

“Now, don’t you go all blushy on me, baby. Know its true. Deserve the best, and I’m gonna give it to you.” He grins at her, his green eyes gleaming at her, “Gimme a kiss?”

“Who would’ve thought, Mr. Styles, feared by all of London, asking me for a kiss,” She teased, leaning in to her lips brushed against his with every syllable she spoke.

“I love you, y/n. You have my heart, know that right?” And he pushes his lips against hers, tonguing at her mouth innocently.

Y/n kisses him back, and she tell him she loves him, too.

[22drunkb]

Please tell me about the Tim Curry phenomenon?

Hoist on my own petard! Okay.

So just in case what I said was unclear, when I said “Tim Curry as a phenomenon” I didn’t mean that there was some Thing That Happened, like [rummages in ancient tumblr lore] mishapocalypse or something. I just mean what Tim Curry has come to signify in popular culture for certain kinds and generations of people. I would not consider myself a Tim Curry expert, I don’t know a ton about his life and filmography, but I do experience him as that kind of icon or signifier, so all I’m going to be talking about is that (and for this reason I have determined I am not going to look anything up). (@tafadhali​ I’m going to need to you let me know how I did when this is all over.) So:

Tim Curry is an actor. He is probably best known for The Rocky Horror Picture Show, Clue, Muppet Treasure Island, Home Alone 2, the 90s miniseries of It, and maybe now that one clip of him that circulates online from time to time where he’s yelling about going to space and trying not to laugh. The key facts are:

Tim Curry has incredible presence and charisma. He is not an actor who “disappears into the role.” He is a very skilled performer--it’s not like he plays the same thing in every role, and if somebody else could do what he does, many more people would be doing it--but he’s the kind of actor who gets used as a shorthand to describe characters, or other actors. “A Tim Curry type.” He works in Muppet Treasure Island because he’s in no way naturalistic, and so he can play off puppets no problem. We could comparatively describe this as The Jack Black Factor.

Tim Curry has a very distinctive voice (speaking and singing) and way of delivering lines, such that his accent comes off as almost put-on or parodic without ever quite going over the top. (This is true when he’s actually putting on an accent and when he’s not.) His delivery has unusual emphases that make the lines stick with you. These qualities are equally suited to comedy and creepiness, and he reasonably often does both at the same time. So he easily becomes a kind of factory for references, a meme factory before we called things memes. We could comparatively describe this as The Christopher Walken Factor.

Tim Curry has been in a lot of movies. These movies’ quality ranges from “hilariously bad” to “not good by mainstream standards, but objectively incredible at being the kind of movie it is” to “beloved hit, but nobody would call it High Cinema.” (If Tim Curry has also been in prestige films recognized as such,* I do not disrespect them or him, but I don’t know about it! And that’s part of the Tim Curry phenomenon!) I have not come up with a comparison for this--it’s less a distinctive thing than something that becomes important in combination with the first two.

Tim Curry always does an incredible job in these movies, whatever their quality. And he always seems to be having a great time doing it. One of the top YouTube comments on that clip I linked reads, “A reviewer once said about Tim Curry: ‘For every 1-star movie he's been in, he's the reason that movie got that star.’” He delivers a specific feeling of intense talent being directed, with great pleasure, to a purpose that is, on some level, inexplicable. (No one else would say this line this way! Why is he doing that! Because he’s Tim Curry, and that’s good enough, dammit!) This creates a sensation that somehow combines “admiration” and “this is hilarious,” but in a different way than you might admire a great stand-up set. It’s on purpose without feeling deliberate. It’s cheese being executed at the level of high art. It’s ridiculous and it’s fantastic. IT’S CAMP, BABY. Put that together with the ability to walk a knife-edge between hilarious clown and scary villain (he played Pennywise, hello), in the context of what the film industry outside of Very Special Episode morality tales has been for most of his career, and you have a recipe for a queer culture icon. I give you Frank-N-Furter.

So Tim Curry at this point means a certain quality or texture of zaniness--but one that’s not maniacal or exactly cartoonish, just like, orthogonal to what’s expected or normal. You get Tim Curry for a role when you want things to feel a little too much but in the best way; when you want to sit right on the line between “this character is out of sync with reality” and “telling the audience this is a heightened reality.” This is assuming you’re a good filmmaker who knows what you’re doing. He is the best thing in some bad movies because he reliably creates this delightful sensation even when the movie doesn’t have a clear purpose for it; he can make objectively bad material fun to watch because the things that made the writing dumb or the costuming bad are campy and fun in his hands. This is kind of what I meant by an inexplicable purpose: it doesn’t need to make sense to work. This is also what I mean about being on the line between “is the character acting nuts or is this the kind of world the movie is setting up”--when it’s not what the movie is trying to do, but the movie is failing at what it is trying to do, Tim Curry suddenly makes that fun to watch because whatever he’s doing is both of quality and basically ineffable.

So this is why we live in a world where, say, Justin McElroy can build a whole bit on MBMaM around just repeatedly spitting out the words “CHEESE! PIZZA!” in a Tim Curry voice, or Tim Curry appears on The Simpsons. At this point Tim Curry is not just a man or an actor, he’s a mood. And because that mood is hard to describe, we mostly only invoke it by referring to him. But it’s a wonderful thing that has a lot of room in it to be enjoyed in different ways, whether it’s about queerness or comedy or surrealism or performance craft that isn’t smothered by the uptight standards of “naturalism” or “realism” or “subtlety.” And Clue is one of the best venues for it because it is a good movie made by people who did know what they were doing, and what they were doing was aimed exactly at creating the Tim Curry Experience: it’s clever and artful at being campy and cheesy, and its darkness and funniness are wrapped together in so many layers you can’t separate them.

BONUS:

Evidence of Tim Curry’s skill as a performer: look at him Not Being Tim Curry on SNL here with Eddie Murphy, maybe the one time I can think of that he’s in the “straight man” role. (An FYI more than a warning: The sketch is poking at racism--I think it holds up really well, but it’s deliberately pushing ~the line.)

__________________________________ *I know a lot of Film People etc. now consider Clue a genuine genius classic--for good reason! it’s incredible!--but it wasn’t received that way, and to the extent that it has gained this recognition it’s by that rubric of “succeeds at what it’s trying to do, which is more important than whether what it’s trying to do is be Citizen Kane Paddington 2.”

[mhaccunoval]

sorry it took me so long to get around to but thank you @jaybirdsdelight for the tag in the get to know me better tag game. as always, tagging the homies ( @spinecorset @breadboylovin @tiptapricot @denniswillfindhispride) if they wanna play along

1. What Is Your Favourite Food/Beverage?

current food is either hungarian cabbage rolls or menemen. beverage is [boston accent] coffee (or appley juice)

2. What is your favourite fandom [currently]?

i’m kinda between fandoms right now but the content of (non-weirdy) bill & ted enjoyers? [chef’s kiss] like michael is doing god’s work with their hc posts

3. What shows are you watching [currently]?

does it count as “watching” snl if i keep watching compilations of clips from it? i hope so, even though most people reuse the same clips. though i did just rewatch barry and i’m still emotional about it

4. What’s your strength?

i’m always open to listening, even if it’s something i don’t fully understand, and i enjoy making people happy by giving them that opportunity to have their excitement or troubles heard

5. What’s your weakness?

[john mulaney voice] i keep all my emotions right here and one day i’ll die

6. Pet peeves?

was ranting about this to one of my roommates yesterday and this morning but a major one is people speeding on campus; call me what you’d like about fairly liberally heeding speed limits but like. fuck you if you speed on a college campus, especially where people just wanna walk to/from their dorm— look at you, motorbike douchebag from earlier

7. What’s your ideal type?

apparently it’s tall people with dark curly hair, light eyes, and a good sense of humor

8. The last food you ate?

hot chippy...................

9. Favourite animes?

ohshc my all-time beloved....... do still love soul eater and devil is a part-timer though.... should rewatch blue exorcist

10. Regular pastimes/Hobbies?

listening to müsic, watchin’ youtube, doodling, you know how it be

11. Favourite characters?

hoohoohoo.... of the top of my head: robert fucking townsend, barry berkman, newt geiszler, charlie kelly, bill s preston esquire, ricky coogan, marko lostboys, don john...

12. All-time favourite show?

tie between broadchurch and turn... broadchurch hits EVERY time but like. turn has Robert....... runner-up is iasip because, well, it’s iasip

13. What are you doing right now?

procrastinating doing hw even though i desperately need to (the lying while eating hot chippy was telling myself i’d only take 15 minutes to eat)

14. How are you?

i’m.... OK......... tired (college does that to ya) and dreading doing hw because i just wanna sleep for a week straight.... also my tummy Might be angry later because i’m drinking choccy milk

15. Favourite rest-time activities? 

see pastimes

[softforcal]

25 : gang/snl!Harry

Summary: We all watched SNL and i am a whore and for some reason liked this greasy hoebag so here’s gang!Harry and his cute gf being cute in their apartment

Word Count: 1.4k

warnings: shower sex and blowies

note: i am so sorry this is so weirdly cringe and i laughed my ass off while writing it. also no braids

*****

You heard the door to the apartment open and your eyes drifted up from the dishes you were washing. You’d expected Harry back hours ago, but his job wasn’t exactly a 9 to 5 type gig so you weren’t upset. 

You carefully set down the dishes in the water, about to turn around and greet your boyfriend, but arms wrapped around your waist. Harry pressed himself up against your back, pressing a stubbly kiss to your neck that tickled you and made you smile. He smelt like cigarettes and mango, his favourite vape flavour. 

“Hey you.” you said, turning in his grasp so you could wrap your arms behind his neck, looking up at him.

He offered no explanation for being late and you didn’t ask for one. The less you knew about the gang activity the better.

“Going to shower.” Harry said after a moment of looking at you, “long day.”

You nodded, removing your arms from around him. Harry grabbed your hips, pulling you close to kiss you quickly before leaving the kitchen, taking off his beanie and throwing it on the couch as he went. 

You could hear the shower turn on and you looked towards the door to the bedroom. He seemed tired, but he always seemed tired these days. You didn’t know all of the details but you knew he’d backed the wrong guy in a gang related dispute and he hadn’t been the same since.

He’d even chopped off most of his hair, which you had to admit was an improvement. 

You left the dishes, figuring you could do them later, or ignore them, Harry wouldn’t really care. Following your boyfriends footsteps through the small apartment, you came to the bathroom. The shower curtain was closed and you could just see Harry’s outline. 

His clothes were in a pile on the floor, his gun haphazardly positioned on the bathroom sink. You’d stopped reminding him to not be so careless with it ages ago, realizing it’s one of the things that came with the territory of dating someone in a gang. 

You slipped off your clothes and they joined Harry’s in a pile on the floor. When you moved the shower curtain to the side, Harry ran a hand through his wet hair to move it away from his face so he could see you. 

His body was covered in tattoos. Your favourite was the teardrop on his cheek, even though you knew the nefarious connotations of it. He was a killer, but he was your killer. 

Harry’s eyes looked you up and down and his hands wrapped around you, pulling you flush against him greedily. 

He wasn’t the type to say much. 

He’d never admit it to you, but you knew he wasn’t a huge fan of his accent. You weren't sure why, you thought it sounded cute. He was a bit of a mess but you’d known that when you started dating him.

His lips attached to yours hungrily, teeth clashing, tongue exploring immediately. He liked things fast, liked things rough. One hand moved up from your waist to grab one of your tits harshly, before continuing up to your throat. His long fingers wrapped around your neck and squeezed, earning a gasp that made him smile.

He was hard, cock pressing against your tummy. You wrapped your fingers around his length, pumping him a few times. He moaned into your mouth, fingers tightening around your neck, “don’t play.” he warned, pulling away from your lips.

You looked up at him, eyes once more drawn to the black tear drop on his cheek, “you had a rough day baby.” you said, “let me take care of you.”

He was completely in love with you.

He’d never thought he’d find love, in fact, he’d always assumed he’d be dead by the age of twenty five. When he’d met you, all that had changed. 

He let go of your throat, watching you as you pressed a kiss to the tattoo on his face, then began your decent. The shower was small, but still large enough for you to get on your knees. You pumped him a few more times before wrapping your lips around the head of his cock. Harry’s arm darted out to touch the wall, supporting him while he looked down at you, watching you eagerly.

You swirled your tongue around the head before accepting more of him into your mouth. He was big, one of the biggest you’d ever had. You used your hand to pump what you couldn't take in your mouth, creating a medium paced rhythm. 

One of his hands went to your hair, pulling enough to hurt but not enough to direct you with your motions. He knew you enjoyed the pain that came with his hands, knew it excited you. It excited him too.

He was high strung and tired. The sight of you on your knees sucking him off, mixed with the heat and humidity of the shower, had him panting. The muscles in his abdomen clenched and he moaned loudly. You moved faster, chasing his high. 

Then he pulled you away roughly by your hair, easily hauling you back to your feet. He slammed you against the wall and lifted one of your legs, wrapping it around his waist so he could push into you. Blowing him always made you wet and he sunk into you easily, making both of you moan into each others open mouths. 

He kissed you hungrily, pinning you to the wall with his hands as he began a brutal pace. His lips moved to your neck, nipping at the skin where he’d always joked you should get a matching tattoo with him. He’d never really meant it, would kill any tattoo artist who did the job, because it would mark you the way he was marked. And he’d always secretly hoped that one day you’d figure out you were too good for him and leave, that way he could just die and you’d be out of the crossfire.

Harry’s fingers dug into your hips painfully and you moaned louder. The angle he was pounding into you was perfect. The way he was holding you up, just enough for your leg to wrap around his waist, had his biceps bulging under your fingers. 

“Oh my god Harry.” you moaned, tangling your fingers in his wet hair.

His teeth sank into your shoulder and you cried out in pain and pleasure, unable to do anything but take what he was giving you. 

You slipped a little from the wet floor and the tip of his cock slammed into your g-spot, making you scream a little, eyes clenching shut as your orgasm built even faster. His lips returned to yours and one of his hands wrapped around your throat.

The mixture of his grip around your neck and his cock ramming into you over and over, hitting your g-spot deliciously, had you seeing stars. His lips on yours were an added bonus and his soft moans were music in your ears.

He could feel you tensing, knew you were close, knew you were struggling to stay upright because of the slippery floor. He was alarmingly steady, so he simply removed his hand from your throat and lifted up your other leg, pressing you against the wall harder as he rammed into you. Now he had complete control and each thrust shoved you up against the wall deliciously.

He moved his lips to your neck, he’d always loved to hear you moan when you came. One more powerful thrust had you cumming, your whimpers in his ear threw him over the edge and the two of you rode out your orgasms to a powerful and faltering pace that had you tearing at his back with your nails.

He stopped moving, panting against your neck, holding you against the wall. You played with his hair, running your fingers through the medium-length curls.

“Love you.” he whispered, pulling out of you and setting you down. He held onto you, making sure you could stand on your own. Then he pulled you to his chest, wrapping his arms around you so you could both be under the stream of hot water.

You both stood like that for the remainder of the shower, trying to catch your breath. You could feel his heart pounding loudly in his chest and you traced some of his tattoos with a finger. Sure, the whole thing wasn’t perfect, he wasn’t perfect, but it was something. And you loved it all the same.

[billhaderismycriterioncollection]

10. New York Underground

"In this parody of British true-life TV docs, Bill Hader perfectly masters the mannerisms of sensationalist British hosts and the odd things these shows tend to focus on. Fred Armisen, who has blessed SNL with some of its most iconic characters, has the sensitive-yet-strange-artist act down pat in this sketch.

Considering that Hader and Armisen already have a track record with a fake-documentary series in Documentary Now, it would truly be a pleasure to watch a full series of this parody. Hader's perfect accent would carry each episode, and Armisen could act out the seemingly endless archetypes that appear in the types of shows the series would parody"

[mindctrlaltdel]

Random Reviews: Mulholland Drive

This movie is BASIC INSTINCT, written and directed by Salvador Dali.

***

Recently, I watched MULHOLLAND DRIVE for the first time for my friend Shawn Eastridge's podcast, MISSING FRAMES (www.thenerdparty.com/missingframes/episode-103-mulholland-drive).

As I watched this odd, funny, disturbing, interesting flick, I took the following notes. Is it, as some critics say, the BEST FILM OF THE 21ST CENTURY? Here's an inside look at my viewing experience as I mulled over MULHOLLAND DRIVE...

[PRESS PLAY]

I love how the first five minutes is basically a bad late 90's Gap commercial, all swing dancing, no point...

The Mulholland Drive sign is calling to us. The street, Mulholland Drive, is Bali Hai for perverts.

Justin Theroux gets top billing over Naomi Watts??

I gotta admit, I saw one of the movie's original posters and thought "Naomi Watts AND the lady from the first MEN IN BLACK is in this? It's the triumphant return of Linda Fiorentino." When I DIDN'T see her name in the opening credits, I was disappointed. She's NO Linda Fiorentino... for this role, she's even better. AND she's a countess (seriously, look it up). Oh, and Robert Forster shows up for 10 minutes.

Not-Linda Fiorentino has some hustle in her for someone who just survived a horrible head on collision.

I like how the street signs kind of tell us where we are and what kind of world we're in. It's like a surreal, dramatic version of that Californians SNL sketch.

You mean to tell me that the red-headed older woman didn't see not-Linda Fiorentino under her kitchen table? UnbeLIEVable.

Holy crap, the wide-eyed guy in Winky's - he plays Jimmy Barrett, the comedian in MAD MEN... and MAD MEN is an interesting connection here, because everyone talks in this measured, paced deliberate way throughout that series, kind of similar to how the characters usually speak in the David Lynch productions I've seen... When I started watching MAD MEN, I thought the actors were purposely directed to speak that way, so everything to seem more "real" as opposed to that fast-talking, old-Hollywood style that you'd expect to see from outspoken, big idea-types. I imagined that Matt Weiner wanted people to seem - at least to modern audiences - the way people actually were - particularly, the inhabitants of the intelligent and cerebral world of ad men, working behind the scenes, on the fringes of show business. But then Jimmy Barrett, an old-timey comedian ALSO spoke that way. And it just didn't seem authentic to me. Anyway, back to THIS movie...

OH and that dingy woman behind the dumpster! She's like if Captain Howdy moved out West and got all LA on us. Is that Cloris Leachman covered in mud? And the music... for some reason, there's nothing scarier than the sound of an HVAC vent on full blast. (According to this article, www.vulture.com/2014/10/mulholland-drives-evil-hobo-breaks-her-silencio.html,the actress who played Evil Hobo #1 said of her audition process: "I don’t mean to brag, but David Lynch said he was looking for the most incredible face he could find. I actually met him at a Twin Peaks party, and he was like, 'Look at that face!'")

I love the X-Files-style synth strings that play over Naomi Watts (Betty) and gram-gram (Irene) as they walk through the hotel, I mean the airport... Aw, these two old people love Betty. What a different life she's living than that countess who's not Linda Fiorentino who's squatting in that redhead's apartment that Betty's about to move into.

Even then, Naomi had a good American accent. (Although I learned she's technically British but split her time between England and Australia), those Australians are great at spitting out neutral American sounds. But once I learned that Betty is supposed to be Canadian, I was very disappointed. It's not THAT authentic. Where are her "Aboots"? And she didn't put maple syrup on anything in this whole movie.

Oh my God, are Irene and her husband, riding in this towncar, ALSO going to get held up, like not-Linda Fiorentino at the beginning of the movie? Oh okay, they're not. We just followed them for no reason other than to see that they look happier than an old couple in a Cialis commercial. I guess meeting Betty really improved their sex life or something.

Coco - of course she's a fading hollywood starlet... AHHH, Coco is played by Ann Miller - good for her. She's basically that kooky old landlady from SEINFELD, the one who worked with the Three Stooges that Kramer met when he went to LA. Look at all these connections!

"Prize-fighting kangaroo who shits all over the courtyard" - do you think Naomi Watts is going to come out and say, "as an Australian, I was actually offended by this line, but I was scared into silence by that power-hungry monster, David Lynch."

The countess - who now goes by "Rita" - does kind of look like Rita Hayworth. I like the connections to old Hollywood and to noirs and how it's all wrapped together. Rita Hayworth is also a redhead, like Betty's aunt. She's of Spanish descent as well... and the actress playing Rita in this movie is of Mexican descent... Connections, connections.

I love that this casting session is basically run by a deep state shadow organization with a weird waiter in a red blazer... This is how Disney cast WandaVision.

HAHAHAH "That is one of the finest espressos in the world sir!" - this is DEFINITELY how Disney casts their movies. And Justin Theroux is the only man with integrity in this room! Does anyone have any class in this town!? They don't even validate his parking.

This is my favorite movie about making movies since BOWFINGER. And I may not be lying. And somehow less weird than THE ARTIST.

Is everyone gonna start killing each other over Ed's famous black book? This is oddly funny.

"Something bit me bad!" This incredibly long fight scene between the blond guy and secretary... it reminds me of the Uma Thurman/Daryl Hannah trailer fight in KILL BILL VOL. 2 but with less snakes.

These closeups of lingering looks on Rita's cash-filled purse are great... She's pulling wads of cash out of that purse one at a time, like Leslie Nielsen pulling eggs out of that blond lady in AIRPLANE!

I want to know what direction David Lynch gave that braless woman who's following the blond assassin around. It's like she's doing an acting exercise... like you know, when you're told to fill the space... "walk around the room, and clear your head. And now you're walking really fast. And now you're slow. NOW, imagine what it would be like to walk with your nose as the furthest point in front of you. Lead with your nose..." And David Lynch did that and told the braless woman to lead with her chest.

Justin Theroux is basically Robert Downey Jr.'s character from BOWFINGER, except NOW, he's the protagonist.

Betty is loving Rita's amnesia a bit too much. If this were my life, Rita would be the most interesting thing to happen to me too. Hell, if I was from Ontario, getting off at LAX would rock my world.

When Justin Theroux enters his glass-walled home to find his wife with another man, well... Justin Theroux may never star in something like HOBO WITH A SHOTGUN, but I can definitely picture him in YUPPIE WITH A GOLF CLUB.

That slinky theme song playing in Justin Theroux's/Laraine's house is a song that I actually listen to in my tiki, lounge playlist - to give you a hint of my music tastes. What I listen to for fun, Billy Ray Cyrus puts on to drown out his love-making.

By the way, BILLY RAY CYRUS!!! WHAT? Is this how Miley was conceived??? I think yes.

Pink paint in a jewelry box! This is much better than the usual throwing-all-his-belongings-out-a-second-story-apartment-window-scene that happens in every other movie.

I wouldn't be THAT excited if I learned MY name was Diane Selwin. BUT the sexxxual tension with the waitress Diane at the diner is palpable!

So, not-Linda Fiorentino has amnesia. How does she know that answering machine is NOT her voice!?

Justin Theroux/Adam Kesher's wife is very aggressive with the large man who's so dedicated to finding Adam Kesher that he keeps calling Adam's name in vain like the secretary in my doctor's office.

I watched this movie in pieces, the first half late at night. The second half the next morning. In between, while sleeping, I had a dream where Betty and Rita were looking over a map and any time one of their hands brushed over another, their hands would turn gold. As if this was a stylistic choice made by the filmmaker directing my dream to show that there's some kind of deeper relationship between these two women. So I've started dreaming in Lynch.

I like how this film is so utterly connected to not only Lynch's subconscious, but the audience's as well. Lynch is TAPPED IN. I don't always love when a film goes all in with a surreal style, because sometimes that's just a cover for something lacking in the storytelling department. But I do feel there's more to it here, in MULHOLLAND DRIVE.

The hooded woman, Louise... I feel like I've run into her on the streets of New York. A Louise will ALWAYS find a way to give you a portent of doom that ruins your day. Friggin’ Louise.

This movie is so moody, you really have to be in the mood to watch it.

There's something magical and prophetic about the cowboy, like he's the seer that the old general sees on the eve of battle... Also, I love how the lead female role in Justin Theroux's movie is his sword of destiny. There's a glitz and gleam and nostalgia to Old Hollywood that naturally gives this movie, set in "modern" Hollywood," a total fantasy vibe.

Hahaha that "You're still here?" scene rehearsal between Betty and Rita is an excellent transition.

James Karen - the real estate guy from POLTERGEIST - is handling casting! "He moved the headshots but he didn't cast the bodies!!"

The casting direction: "Don't play it for real until it gets real." It's interesting how the characters, who work in the "business," seem to control their reality. Betty seems unsure of where the scene is going, then she gets into it. And it really speaks to her conversion from a bright-eyed new arrival to someone who surrenders to the darker impulses of the city.

HEAVY BREATHING.

Ugh friggin' Bob...

I love how Lynnie, the casting director, pulls the rug out from under that scene. There's always a jaded casting person who totally wrecks any good feelings about every audition. It's a thing.

David Lynch uses nostalgia and a latent love for Hollywood to draw the characters (and us) into his world and then subverts our expectations. A lot.

Why is the screen test just a lip-synching contest? ...I think it feeds into the nostalgia element for the movie at large but it seems like a waste of studio resources here. Early-aughties Hollywood spending, amirite?

Rita's reaction to finding the body is played very much like the reaction a character would have in an older film... The horror! The fear! The silent gaping terror while possessed with the inability to scream. I was watching the original KING KONG before this (which is may be a sign from the universe that I had to watch this Naomi Watts vehicle, as she starred in the remake), and specifically remember the scene where the director Carl Denham is coaching Ann Darrow/Fay Wray on how to act in a horror film - "now look up, and you see it, you see it in all its horror. And your jaw drops and you try to scream but you're so frozen in terror that you can't!" - I imagine that's what Lynch is doing to not-Linda Fiorentino off-camera as they filmed this scene.

Uh-oh, Rita is single-white femal'ing Betty now... She doesn't have a personality of her own, so she's going to take Betty's.... And now we're just getting NUDE with each other. This erotic thriller immediately turned from skintillating to Skinemax.

"I'm in love with you" - is Betty just saying that to convince herself? It feels more lusty than real. Betty's so bright-eyed and bushy tailed. Rita is gonna chew her up and spit her out!

I like the shot when they're sleeping together and, as they rest, their faces overlap thanks to the perspective of the framing. How much of the same person are they becoming? Where does one personality start and the other end?

The weird 2am theater. How'd Rita and Betty find this place? I love how this pop-up slam-poetry reading in this opera house is as terrifying to Rita and Betty as finding the dead body.

So Betty starts convulsing in her seat and then the poet disappears in a kind of old-style, cinematic I'm disappearing effect. I dig it.

Wait... is this a mysterious, magical show that just appears in LA, like Hamunaptra, the City of the Dead, that town in THE MUMMY that only shows up at sunrise on the third day or something like that? Or is this just a poorly attended Spanish-language talent show that could only afford to book this theater at 2am on a Thursday?

I love that Betty and Rita are tearing up over Rebekah Del Rio's performance (Rebekah Del Rio is a real person, by the way). Then, Rebekah faints as her voice keeps singing - is NOTHING real? Has Betty totally given into this weird world to the point that she doesn't really know what's authentic and what's fake anymore OR was Betty fake before she got to LA so it was easy for her to get acclimated.

This movie is like THE MATRIX, from the perspective of characters who only took the blue pill and didn't look back.

OOOH, Betty has the box and Rita has the key! But the box is empty except maybe its the Gom Jabbar pain-box from DUNE. Is David Lynch using MULHOLLAND DRIVE as an excuse to make good on his promise to produce a good version of DUNE.

WAIT A SECOND, the cowboy knows the dead girl? Does this even matter?

Now, wait ANOTHER second. Is Betty performing or DREAMING when she's Diane or is something else going one??

What's the BLUE KEY doing there?

"Two Detectives"??? Is she talking about Betty and Rita OR Robert Forster and the pudgy guy? OR someone else entirely - the two guy's from Winky's???

The movie became more interesting the moment the perspective shifted to "Diane" and "Camilla." When that happened, Naomi Watts really amped up her performance... reaching a level of intensity we hadn't seen since Betty's audition... it does take 2 hours to reach that point.... But then, when Betty and Rita are topless on the couch, I couldn't tell who they were supposed to be until Rita/Camilla called her "Diane."

Wait, now Rita's acting?? OH, so Rita was an actress? And Diane wasn't? Or Betty looks exactly like Diane?

The weird shifts in focus. The sad masturbating. This is the most depressing soft-core ever made!

Did Betty get killed and have amnesia too?

They take a shortcut to Eddie's house which looks EXACTLY like where Rita/Camilla was taken at the beginning of the movie by the hitmen in the towncar before that wild accident with those teenagers made her life weirder... OR less weird. You be the judge.

IS this a flashback or the future. Eddie and Camilla are having an affair?

MY MOTHER? COCO - what's real and what isn't????

The jitterbug competition.... Diane/Naomi wanted the lead so bad, Camilla got the part but in Mulholland Drive, Naomi is the star.

Then, Camilla is kissing that other blond actress who Betty watched screen test...

MULHOLLAND DRIVE is just David Lynch telling us that LA is a place for lust and jealousy and no matter what, purity gets ruined.

WHAT, the blond waitress is BETTY? And Diane hires the blond guy, who's officially labeled as a hitman.

Diane is also from Canada...

Are Diane and Betty just different versions of the same people in nearby parallel universes? I certainly HOPE so. This is too much insanity for ONE universe to handle.

The blue key will be found where the blond guy told Diane. Okay, that makes sense. But if this were to mirror real life, the key was in her hand the WHOLE time!

OH, and hobo-Cloris Leachman comes back... AND she's holding the blue box/Gom Jabbar... WHY the hell did those two old people wander out of that paper bag??? Do they represent longstanding guilt? Seems like it. Because they've just crept into Diane's apartment.

MULHOLLAND DRIVE is almost silly to the point of pretentiousness at points - at least with the last word to be uttered on screen - "silencio." That said, it does evoke the HAMLET line: "And the rest is silence," so THAT's poetic.

Sadly, Robert Forster was barely in this movie...

Oh, and Lee Grant played Louise - the old-Hollywood connections keep coming!

I can't believe this movie was intended to be a pilot?

***

Now, some final notes:

On the swapping of characters and relationships in the last 30 minutes -- my first thought was that Betty/Diane and Rita/Camilla look similar and/or they're connected by a parallel universe, and the diner is like the central hub between worlds, and hobo-Cloris Leachman is the gatekeeper between the two worlds... I buy the "dream world" explanation that some critics espouse, that's something I considered myself as I watched. But I'm not sure I believed Betty is Diane's dream version of herself. Also, I think David Lynch has a feeling about how everything fits together, yet I don't know if he's even settled on an explanation for everything. He just trusted his subconscious and he's so confident in his latent abilities, that we trust him to show us everything we need to see and take us everywhere we need to go.

I enjoy how it's a surrealist answer to SUNSET BOULEVARD. I hope in 2050, someone makes "The 405" really tying all these movies and Los Angeles roads together.

MULHOLLAND DRIVE is weird but good. Still, I don't know if, to me, it's more weird than good. It's also funny. But is it funny because it's weird or because it's actually, genuinely funny? Are these questions David Lynch actually wants me to ask or does he make it weird on impulse to cover for the fact that the film is simply just weird and based entirely on impulse? MULHOLLAND DRIVE is almost like a parody of a film noir, made by an inter-dimensional alien life-form who studied a bunch of movies from the 40's through the 90's but doesn't have a full grasp on human behavior, and DESPITE THAT, it's more of an emotional experience than a logical one. It's somewhere in between. It's self-indulgent in a way but also very giving. It's a paradox wrapped in an oxymoron wrapped in an enigma wrapped in a coffee-stained napkin covered in cigarette ash locked in a small, blue box.

***

Summing it up: I don't think there's a world where this movie would get a perfect score from me. Because ultimately, for all it's interesting and exciting moments, it's more of a passion project for David Lynch than a piece of entertainment for the audience, no matter how entertaining it may be. To me, it's a vision board more than it is a complete film. And yet, it IS a complete EXPERIENCE. And there's nothing wrong with that.

All of that said, I know David Lynch doesn't really like to give viewers a clear cut, traditional narrative. So, I had a feeling the mystery was just that, a mystery. Or even moreso, the FEELING of a mystery. It's not about where we're going, it's about the journey to the destination. And while the general atmosphere is moody and evocative and often powerful, MULHOLLAND DRIVE plays more like a 2.5 hour piece of music than a cohesive narrative. Maybe that's the best thing about it.

In the distant future, when our way of speaking has become as archaic as the words of Shakespeare are to us, it's the feeling and emotions and images of movies like MULHOLLAND DRIVE that will still have a timeless impact on the future audiences who view them.

[r3b3lgrrrrrrrl]

A LunaTic and her Gunn (Part 59)

"Of All the Gin Joints"

@creatureofthen1ght-v3

@lovemythsworld

@kellysimagines

@southsidequeenie

@crystalbaby12

Once settled in the B&B, Luna FaceTimes Colson. Casie's already in bed. They talk about her flight and the upcoming tour. He tells her about dinner before asking what she's doing tonight. Unsure, Luna tells him she doesn't know, that she may hit up Mackenzie. He tells her to be safe before they exchange goodbyes and I love yous.

**********************************************

"He's so fucking weird sometimes. What the fuck do I need to be safe from?" She wonders, having a different perspective of The City.

**********************************************

Colson stares at his black phone. "I wish she wasn't always leaving...." He thinks, not used to wanting someone who's not available.

**********************************************

Luna texts Mackenzie asking if she wants to grab drinks and food. Mackenzie hits her back immediately with a Yes. Happy that Luna's in town.

They meet up at The Swell. A dive they both know and love.

Luna going straight for their barbacoa tacos and a Modelo. Mackenzie grabbing the same but fish tacos. The two girls catch up. Luna asking about James, Mackenzie asking about her and Colson. Luna tells her why she's in town. They eat and drink, stepping out to smoke.

Closing out at midnight, they grab a 6pack. Keeping the Modelo train rolling as they walk the streets of Brooklyn. Luna hasn't even been out of NY for 3mnths but she can feel the gentrification of her neighborhood. Complaining to Mackenzie about it, she about loses her shit when they walk passed her favorite record store that had been bought out by Walgreens while she's been gone.

"This is fucking bullshit. Why didn't anyone tell me. Where's Ben? When did this happen??" Luna fires off a thousand questions. Mackenzie can only answer so many. Telling Luna she'll have to hit Ben up herself of she wants details.

Cracking their last beer, hugging and kissing each other goodbye, they split up at Irving Ave. They're both a block the opposite direction.

Luna walks down the street, drinking her beer. She lights a cigarette as she strolls. It's passed 2A but The City is still alive. Nostalgia lingers in the air as she closes the front door of the rented brownstone.

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Colson drops Casie off at school before he heads DownTown. He's going to check out the progress of his upcoming coffee lounge, The 27 Club.

Pulling in, Colson Snaps Luna before putting out his joint and going inside.

"Holy SHIT!! THIS IS NICE A FUCK!!" He exclaims once he's entered.

Ashleigh and Johnny, their business partner walk over to him.

"It turned out great, hunh?" Ashleigh agrees excitedly as he hugs her.

"Yeah, Man. This shit is dope. Exactly what we envisioned!" Colson responds as he let's her go. Running his hand over the countertops, he continues "Let's get to tasting some coffee." Laughing, he heads towards the back.

Ashleigh and Johnny in tow.

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Sitting on the stoop, smoking her last cigarette, Luna checks her phone. There's a Snap from Colson.

Luna tries to call him but it rings straight through. She Snaps him back before finishing her cigarette and heading inside to get dressed.

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Luna pops two 30s for her shoulder and smokes a joint as she gets dressed. Throwing her hair up and pulling on a white tank over jeans and her Docs. Luna then throws a T shirt, flannel and her jean jacket in her bag. Grabbing her sunglasses, she heads for the door.

Down the block, she stops at a bodega for cigarettes and coffee. Waiting in line, she looks over at the cooler. Grabbing a water, she sees a flyer for a show tonight. Shoving it into her back pocket, she gets back into line without looking at it.

Luna pays and is out on the street again. It's a bright May afternoon. Strolling for a good bit, she sips her coffee and smokes a cigarette. Field stripping it, she catches a cab to MidTown.

It's a short ride to her lable, Riot Records. She pulls the Tshirt on before walking in. Tanya, the receptionist greets her with a warm "Hey girl!!"

Luna laughs as she leans against the counter. "What's up? How you been?" She asks.

"Girl, you know. Same shit, different day." Luna laughs. "I heard you gotta maaaaan though...." She goes on to tease Luna.

"Yeeeeah..... I locked some shit down." Luna says with a cocky smile and a shrug.

"Girl, you ba..." Tanya's cut off by an opening door. It's Charles.

"Oh! You're here! Come on in." He says to Luna, gesturing towards the door.

Looking at Tanya, she rolls her eyes as she sips one her coffee. "Bye, Girl..." She says heading towards Charles and the Room of Doom.

"Byyyeee..." Tanya says lightly.

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The Room of Doom is Peter's office. He stands to greet Luna with a hug as she enters. Sitting down, Peter dives right into it.

"What's it going to take to renew your contact?" He asks Luna directly.

"Nothing. I already told Chuckie over there, I'm walking. I don't wanna be on a lable. And I sure as hell don't want to work with him any longer." She jerks her thumb at Charles.

"But you're just about to explode Luna, Nightmare's #1, you're playing SNL this week, THAT Type is..."

"See, that's where you're off on so many levels about me, Peter." Luna cuts him off, becoming frustrated. "I'm not your cash cow. I don't want to be fucking famous. I want to do what I've always done. Put out what I want, when I want."

"We don't give you that here?" Peter questions her.

"No!" She exclaims, whipping her head over to glare at Charles. She looks back. "Do you know how and why Nightmare happened?" She leans up asking Peter. He fumbles so she continues. "That asshat extorted it from me for my rights to Bad Things." Talking with her hands, she turns to Charles. "What was it exactly? I couldn't have my Top 40 unless I gave you one of your own?" Luna's pissed, she continues raging on, turning back to Peter. Hands still going. "And he didn't even fucking promote it. He has NOTHING to do with any of that song. That song climbed because of the way Ashley and I dropped and the people WE involved. Same as THAT Type. I dropped that motherfucker on my own too. So, who's to say IF I wanted to be famous, I even need your fucking help." Luna pushes back in her seat, scowl on her face.

Peter's glaring at Charles, he didn't know about this Top 40 bullshit. Taking a breath as he turns back to Luna. "You know your grandmother wants you on a lable."

That's it. Luna explodes.

"Are you fucking drunk!??" She asks Peter in wild disbielf. "I don't give a FUCK what my grandmother wants. I love and respect her but this is MY fucking career." She looks him in the eyes with disgust. "You must have lost your fucking mind, Peter. I would think that you would know me well enough for some stupid shit like that to never fall out of your mouth."

Luna pulls her pen out and hits it.

"You can smoke..." Charles finally speaks.

"Shut the fuck up, Chuckie." She barks. She knows he hates being called that and is using it purposefully. She hits it again to be a fucking cunt.

"Luna, I get that you're pissed." Peter sighs, trying to calm her down. He's going to rip Charles dick off when this meeting is over. "But can't we..."

"No, Peter. I'm sorry, but no. I already gave up the three albums I owed you. Consider Bad Things and THAT Type a severance bonus. I'll have Monica contact you to go over any final details." She's shaking her head as she stands up. "And don't even think about fucking calling my grandmother, either." She says sternly as Peter stands with her and comes around the desk.

Giving Luna a hug, he promises he won't, along with his regrets of her leaving. She hugs him back, telli g him no hard feelings.

As she walks out of the room, she stops at the door. "Word of advice. Fire this fuckwad." She declares, jerking her thumb towards Charles before walking out the door.

"I might as well start my own lable....." The wheels start turning so quickly in Luna's head, she doesn't even hear Tanya tell her goodbye.

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Colson is busy at The 27 Club all day. As he walks to the car to get Casie from school, he checks his phone. There's a missed call and Snap from Luna.

He calls Luna as he gets in the car. She's irritated on the other line. They talk about her snapping on Peter over Charles, how it's final that's she's gonna be an unsigned artist. She mentions the idea of starting a lable to which he excitedly supports. They kick around ideas until Colson gets to the pick up line.

Once Casie's in the car, he hands her the phone. Casie and Luna chat about Casie's day. Luna asking her the three dinner questions to Casie's excitement. They exchange I love yous before she hands the phone back to her dad.

Luna tells Colson she's on her way to meet Pete at 30Rock. He says they're going to grab ice cream before going home to pack and chill for the night. They're all excited to be reunited tomorrow night. Colson and Luna exchange I love yous before hanging up.

"You pumped for this weekend?" He asks Casie as he looks through the rearview.

"SUPER PUMPED!!" She exclaims happily. "I already know what I wanna draw." She states proudly.

"What is it?" Her dad asks.

"It's a secret I can only tell Luna." She replies with sass.

Laughing, Colson says "I see how it is we got secretes now..." He teases Casie as they pull in for ice cream.

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Luna's puffing on her pen as she walks through MidTown. Knowing she got what she wanted, she's still REALLY irritated with them getting Nightmare.

"They don't own any of your rights...." She reminds herself as she pulls the huge door open.

She finds Pete on the 9th floor. "What's going on, Loons?" He greets her with a giant hug.

"Hey!" Luna turns out of Pete's hug to see Ashley.

"HEY!!" She shouts back as the two friends excitedly hug. "What are you doing here?" Luna asks.

"Rehearsing a few skits." She says with a proud smile.

Luna grins back. "That's FUCKING awesome!" She tells Ashley. Looking at Pete, she asks if she can sit in.

"Absolutely!!" He replies, as they both follow Ashley back to set. Pete grabbing Luna a chair.

They run through for another hour. Ashley's naturally funny, pulling out her NJ accent. Watching her, Luna can't help but laugh.

Once Pete and Ashley wrap up, they head to the Dream Hotel. There's a roof top bar Ashley wants to check out. Luna doesn't care. She hasn't eaten all day and wants a drink.

PDH Terrace is beautiful. The three friends crack jokes, laugh, drink and eat as music flows through the air.

Luna digs that she can smoke but it's a little boujie for her taste. Teasing Ashley, she asks how she heard about this place. Ashley tells her because she's staying at the hotel to Luna's laughter.

It's around 7ish when they decide to seperate. Ashley having a Skype date with Dom, Pete a real one with Kate. Luna sticks her tongue out at them, telling them fuck you with a laugh.

Hopping in the elevator, Ashley's gone first with hugs and promises to see each other tomorrow.

Pete and Luna ride it to the ground. Pete asks her what she's gonna do now. Feeling tipsy, Luna pulls the flyer out of her back pocket. There's a punk band playing in Queens she's probably gonna go see, she tells him.

Once on the pavement, they hug also. Going seperate their ways down the street. Luna pulls on her jean jacket and calls Colson as she heads to the subway. She needs a little dirt. The rooftop was too clean for her. The call rings right through as she heads underground.

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Colson and Casie are playing Fortnite when Luna calls. He misses it over their competitiveness. Calling her back a bit later, it goes straight to voicemail. This confuses him, not knowing she's in the subway.

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Luna leans next to the door of the C train.

Thinking about her day, she sips her soda. Luna closes her eyes, enjoying the rock of the train.

She hops off in Bed-Stuy, heading to the brownstone. It's a short couple blocks. Luna smokes a cigarette as she walks.

"I smoke a lot more in The City...." She notices.

Inside, she showers, gets stoned and dresses for the show. She throws skinnies with a fishnet black top. She's stoked to find her leather stashed in her bag. Paired with a deep red lip, blonde hair flowing.

Hopping into her Uber, she doesn't know Colson called. Her phone never picked it up in the subway.

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Sitting at bar at Gussy's, Luna's sipping on an old fashioned waiting for the show to start.

"Of all the gin joints....." A deep voice says as it moves her hair to kiss her neck.

Luna's breath catches as her body flushes. She recognizes his smell, voice and touch instantly. Her stomach drops as she swallows hard. "OH FUCK!!!!" Her brain screams as she turns around.

Taking a breath, she meets his deep, blue eyes and light smirk.

"Hi Tommy." She says to the handsome man standing dangerously close her.

Luna's never been more fucking terrified.

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To be continued.....

[hotrod2007]

🍒 thanks slut.

Oh murryn, my murryn! (thats a reference to that movie i havent seen) how do i compliment you. I simply do not know. There are so many points to cover: your kindness, your humor, and miscellaneous. In this essay i will cover all three. So sit down, buckle up, and hold on. Let the ride begin.

Your kindness is something so pure and raw and really it feels like you’re peeling back a bit of yourself when you show it. Like when you message me and air a concern you have about how youre perceived or in discord when you tell people you love them. It’s like you’re allowing people to see past the physical person you are, if that makes sense. I dont think you would list being kind as one of your traits, but to me it’s so important. You dont want people upset and you’re empathetic to them and it makes my heart warm to see. And if you’re worried you came off a certain way, i know that .5 seconds later I’ll get a text screaming about it. And the fact that you care so much says so much about the person you are, even if you dont think that you’re a good person all the time. At your core, through and through, you’re a good person. I know me saying it won’t remove what anxieties you have, but you know me well enough to know that i wouldnt say it unless i meant it. 

Onto your humor. With this im gonna cover a lot of stuff, so be warned. On the floor level of this, we can simply discuss your humor. How you roasting me never feels like you’ve crossed a line. How no matter how much i kick and scream that i hate the baby yoda comparison, we both know im smiling on my end. I love how your humor is buildable. If that makes sense. Like i can build off of it and you let me and I end up coming up with weird bits. I also love that we have similar senses of humor. Like if you go back through our dms, we often type the same thing and send it at the same time or we have the same idea of where we want a bit to go. And youre funny! Like I know i said your humor is buildable, but you’re funny on your own! And you KNOW i dont take calling people funny lightly. I know that when we talk I am guaranteed a laugh. And i also love that when we watch movies together, you have commentary. And you deal with my commentary. Or we end up coming away from the movie with more jokes (“i wish you looked like jack frost” “why”). And I like that you deal with my annoying accents and voices and trivia abt SNL and Hot Rod. Like I feel comfortable telling you that random shit because I know you care because, looping back to point one, you’re a kind person. Also you have good comedy taste. 

With this last bit here, I wanna talk about how wonderful it is to know that you believe in me. You really think i can win awards and get on SNL and DO things and i cant put into words how meaningful that is to me. To not only be believed in, but be believed in by you. Whatever is in charge of making hearts must’ve taken a bit of mine and scattered it across the country to you because i feel like i belong with you. Like when i picture award shows, i picture you with me. I picture us sitting at the golden globes and laughing and making piss jokes. Its weird how in august i didnt know you existed and now i cant go a day without talking to you. Like you’re so ingrained in my day to day life now that when we dont talk i get sad. And hearing your voice as i sit in california traffic really helps calm my nerves down. Even if most of it is me screaming at people who cut me off and doing my weird voices at max volume. You pick up when i call. You mean so much to me. Each freckle u have counts for one whole galaxy filled with my love for you. We were meant to meet at this point in time, and while i wish we had met sooner, maybe there was a reason we met at this point. Or maybe we met by chance and everything that happens from here on out is purposeful. Either way, im being very careful with my words and tone when i say i love you. I love you a thousand times over. Thank you for letting me be so close to your life. Thank you for letting me in as much as you have and will continue to. I know i’m weird with emotions, but murryn, i truly cant think of a way to describe you other than to compare you to stardust. Beautiful and part of me. Simply. Thank u. U can go to bed now.