#this is very goofy don't mind me

[flibbertygigget]

i've come to the conclusion that vulcans would fuck with serialism. teen spock did a lyre interpretation of boulez for some fancy concert.

[bibliophilesince2003]

Transformers One Incorrect Quotes (3)

Because of the post I made right before this, I was inspired to write this. It's an incorrect quote, but also an "altered" scene that already exists.

Orion: Hey, Darkwing! My finger can transform... guess which one? D-16: Don't... Orion: I'M DEFENDING MY FUTURE WIFE, SHUT UP. D-16: *stunned* Darkwing: *also stunned* Elita: Elita: Marry me.

[flowerakatsuka]

indirect compliment

[asofterepilogue]

hermes really told odysseus to use his infamous brain cells to defeat every threat on his way home, and then odysseus... somehow... just brute forced his way to victory against a god. and you expect me to be fine with that jetpack??

[pama-saga]

I have to tell y'all, if you make fanart I will appreciate it forever, even if it's a damn scribble or if the character is 50 gazillion degrees different I will still enjoy it

[nocentis]

Black Arum ┆ Siegrain

Content warning: main character death, cannibalism, gore, toxic/unreliable narrator, highly canon divergent character portrayal. Read at your own risk. You will probably take psychic damage from this.

╳┆A lure was stuck in the soot between his lungs. Many times he'd felt the tug — enough that the wire fray had worn a rut where his ribs met — and many times he'd found her on the other end, reeling for remnants of him that no longer existed. She would aim to break him open, sift around in the cinders for those specks of him she wanted to confiscate, keep for herself, so that she could finally be rid of him. Once those flecks were washed and panned, the remains would reek like plough mud closure. For that reason he would come to her whole, every whit of ash accounted for.

A cherry little game they'd play. Her with flint and steel, eager to reignite that paltry spark of "good" that flickered freely for a lapse before he remembered himself. Him with tinder and kindling, letting it light only to call on the rain again. Her with just enough hope. Him with just enough time.

That resolve was so very compelling. More than her beauty, her candor, and even that glow he so loved to bask in — that luster he wanted to hold between his teeth and bury under his nails — more than that, her tenacity was a toothsome temptation, and he wasn't keen to deny himself anything.

So when he felt the pull, he caved to the beck and spooled the lisle. That day, the line seemed lighter, thinner, than it ever had. It should've been strong. Tensile. Instead it felt gossamer fine and just as frail, poised to tear at an ill touch, and he wasn’t exactly renowned for his gentle hands. Still, he gathered it with both palms and wrapped it proudly around himself like a ceremonial sash, grin scrawled across his face something devilish.

╳┆He found her lying in the shade beneath a long-lived magnolia, still and silent as she never was, with the color of her namesake spread around her head in halo streaks. Battle-torn, as she so often was, and yet uncannily... passive.

Anything he'd planned to say went out the airlock. Instead, he stood there with an anchor in his stomach, reaping the benefit of doubt.

Not a frown nor a sigh when he darkened her sanctum, only heavenward eyes tearless and unblinking and a resigned breath just short of peaceful. That worn tether waned phantom thin, light as helium, and the tension in his chest went slack.

There was no definite snap. No dramatic severing or ear-popping moment of clarity. Only the vague sense of loss so fresh a wound that denial was a numbing salve.

“Get up,” his voice a command, sandgrit against whetstone, thickened by an unnamed antigen.

The silence felt like mockery. A placid scene void of chittering fauna, clouds' drum, or even the most timid breeze. It wanted him to hear the absence of her breath and the stillness of her chest. It wanted him to hear the hollow. The empty. The nothing. Wanted it to resonate; to find the furthest reaches of his mind and clean them out until all that was left was this icy, clarifying silence.

He knew the end when he saw it. This was something much worse. It was robbery.

Her life wasn’t for the world to take. It was for him to hold in his hands.��

Something wet and pathetic slicked his tongue — some whiny, pleading thing — and it was stubborn as oil. The authority slid to the back of his throat and left him choking, “You are the indomitable Titania. You’ve laced fingers with Death time and again only to rise and slay and conquer, so get up.”

Her warmth was set to a slow drip, spilling from her in tired beads and seeping soundlessly into her chosen ground. Little whispers of her lost to greedy loam, sullied, never to be returned.

A waste of precious love. The sod won’t drink of her as he will. It will take of her and give back what? New “life” so fragile and fleeting? A feeble weed will take root, bloom its days few, and curl itself inside out? Pathetic. An insult to her legacy. An insult to the diamond-split sharp of her bladesoul.

His heart boiled over — popping, sticking, simmering sicksweet saccharine. It colored him cloying, flooded his mouth, and forced him to kneel at her altar.

"Please," he keened, hollow and morose, and his own pleading sickened him, “Say something.”

The sun trickled through the leaves like ichor, lighting up her black-blown eyes and the thin ring of honey surrounding them. Dim, distant, and dead as the moon.

His hand carved a path to her face, fingers featherlight against her fading flush. He brushed her bangs from her eyes and forced an unbroken breath through his quavering mouth. He traced each scar too faint to see and the parts of her skin their star kissed. Memorized the map of her face — each curve and crease, each fine hair, and every eyelash. He would carve out a space in his mind in her shape and fill it with the thousand sweet nothings he kept in his pockets.

He gathered her hand and threaded it with his own. When he opened his mouth, a rickety twine escaped from the deepest point of his chest, so he forced his jaws shut to keep the grief corked. He uncurled her fingers and pressed his cheek into her palm, trapping her there against his own scarred skin. His eyes fell shut as he breathed in this borrowed touch — this moment fated, stolen from him by this world's insatiable avarice.

He kissed her palm directly in the center; held it against his mouth and felt his own ruined breath echo back to him from the deepest grooves of her skin. Again, he begged, “Please, Erza.”

Of the armors innumerable now haunting this hallowed ground, this one least befit her. 

He revered Death. If there was a god, surely it was Death, he thought, for Death asks for nothing but life. The dead don’t know that they’re dead. They know a split second of euphoria and then a sharp, definite end. Isn’t that the work of a gracious god? One last stroke of color whether in peace or peril, and then eternal rest. Back to the dust you sprouted from.

But now he couldn’t see any of that beauty he often waxed poetic about. All he could see was change yet to come. All he could see was her, and he wanted her back.

He wanted her back, yet he knew better than anyone that there was no such thing as resurrection. While Death might be gracious, it was not generous, and it was not to be reasoned with.

The thought of her buried deep, bathed by the dark and abandoned to rot — it washed his mouth acid sour. It ate straight through his tongue and lingered in the roots of his teeth, burning, raging redhot in his jaws’ marrow.  A grave didn't suit her anymore than a pyre.

Soon she would be cold. Stiff. A feast for flies and their insatiable young. In the days to come, she would bubble and bloat and sallow. Her skin would loosen and slough off. The sun would bleach her bones. The meat of her would melt into oil and fat and bogspit. She would mix in with the soil, the groundwater, and this thankless magnolia would thrive.

It was tall, thick, with branches spread in all directions. The lowest of its limbs showed off the varied deep greens of its large waxy leaves, their undersides a chalky brown. A few white flowers bloomed, palm-shaped petals open in praise like they'd come to witness and worship. There was no question why she'd chosen to crawl here. It must've reminded her of home.

Despite its beauty, it was hardly worthy of her. Nothing in this ravenous world was. Her grave should be carved within his chest. There, he could keep her warm. He could host her in his veins. One day, they would wade the waters of woe together. Until then she could live under his skin.

He wouldn’t allow her to spoil. Wouldn’t place her gently into time’s whittlesome hands only to lose her peel by peel by rotting peel.

This world has taken much from you. Do not allow it to take her too.

A carnal ache etched itself into bone, a depth of passion he hadn't felt since he wrought for a false Heaven.

She is a fruit, ripe as a plum and twice the taste. Peel her open. There is a seed at her core. Plant it in your soot-field chest and watch her bloom anew.

What are these hands for if not this?

Flesh like sheets of silk. Muscle like rope. Blood like honey. Bone like an ivory trove. The splitting, the squelching, the straining, ripping, snapping; it burrowed marrow-deep and lingered there. Her chest peeled apart like jagged teeth, jaws croaking their rusted tune, and inside that redslick maw was the center of the universe.

The heart upon its throne, still as she, shielded by her precious lungs. It slid into his palm like it was always meant to be there. Raw, rich, and so very scarlet. Its sinews strained against his pull — those hollow vines that fed even the furthest parts of her — so he wrenched them free and draped himself in them like matchless finery.

Eat. Eat ‘til you’re sick. There’s a hole the size of her in the pit of your stomach. Eat until you fill it. 

What are these teeth for if not this?

Tough as leather; smooth as rubber. His teeth slid right off the rind and clicked together with nothing but metallic sheen between them. He gnashed at that ink-dripping muscle until he found a spot weak enough to tear apart. It tasted of rare meat and iron; a heady gore thick enough to drown in. He swallowed, gasped, and that first new breath felt like a blade.

The child inside him saw her split-open ribs as his cradle. He wanted to crawl inside, curl up, and die. He wanted to paint himself her color.

He lost his vision to the hot, angry wash. His own sobs were a distant sound, muffled by meat and blood and his own desperate fingers. He was numb in the mouth and in the shake of his hands, but he forced himself to eat, eat despite the choking, the gagging, the wet, weeping remorse.

Don’t you dare throw her up. Be grateful. Swallow and say thank you and finish what you’ve started.

He bit into his own palm, indistinguishable from her core, and he cried out in sour relief. His hands spread raw grief over his face, through his hair, and down his neck.

You’re no better than this starving world.

He curled into himself, hands clutching his own aching chest, and despite the cloudless sky, he called upon the rain.

[vivitalks]

guys i genuinely don't know what to do. my quirky little destiel fic which was already far too long to begin with now has a second smaller fic nested inside of it and somehow the second smaller fic is the absolute crackfest of this supernatural/tazamnesty crossover where dean lowkey hooks up with barclay the bigfoot and i don't KNOW what to DO. do i cut the scene. do i post it separately. do i post it separately but ALSO leave it in the fic. do i just pretend like barclay is an OC i made up and all the references to the fictional town of kepler west virginia are incidental. WHAT IS THE MOVE HERE

[whysamwhy123]

Since I'm back after a little unplanned hiatus, time to blab about another dumb idea I had for an AU that I'll never write! So! For some reason, a while back, I decided I really wanted to come up with a trashy reality show AU for Max Squared, where MJF decides to exploit Caster's immediate, intense love for him by starting up a little showmance. Max wants to manipulate the editing of the show as well as the game itself to make sure that he wins and/or becomes the breakout star of the season. So when Caster falls head over heels for him on Day One, he's presented with the perfect opportunity.

Initially, I was thinking the show would be a Survivor type deal, a bunch of people on a desert island or something, voting each other off, so Max's game is stringing Caster along so that he won't ever vote against him and he always has an ally help him vote out whoever he considers his biggest competition. But then I started to think it might be funnier if it was an American Idol style singing competition. It kinda fits, right? Both MJF and Caster are musically inclined, after all. And it changes the logic behind Max's plan - he wants to manipulate the editing of the show, make himself seem like a nice, endearing guy so the public will vote to keep him in the show, and ensure he gets a lot more screen time than the the other contestants. And what better way to do than pretending to be falling in love with this weirdo who's obsessed with you? A heart-warming queer romance on a show where only one of them can win? That's some good trash TV there, right?

MJF insists to Caster that it's all an act on his part. He's only pretending to be in love with him for the show, to tug on the heartstrings of all the stupid fans out there who think this shit is anything close to real. A ploy to make himself seem like the perfect charming, irresistible hero he needs to be in order to win this damn thing. And Caster's just like ''Whatever you say, sweetie,'' because he knows before Max does.

Maybe after a certain point, Max figures, hey, there's no harm in sleeping with the guy. It doesn't mean anything - Caster's so willing, so he may as well get laid. Of course, Caster thinks this is a sign that he really does have feelings for him, no matter how many times MJF tells him that it's not because he's actually attracted to him. No, it's just a ''power thing''.

He's only pretending, right? Caster's a fucking loser, a pawn in Max's grand master plan to emerge victorious. There's no way he could end up actually developing feelings for him over the course of the show, right? It's all for the show, it's fake, it's not real! There's simply no way he could...

Also, I'd want there to be a point where one night, Caster straight-up begs Max to let him eat his ass. And MJF's like ''Ugh, no way! That's disgusting! You're insane! You're a fucking weirdo! You're gross! You're...you'd do that for me?'' and of course, Caster tells him he'd do anything for him. And Max finds he can't resist anymore. So he lets Caster do it and he makes sure he doesn't regret it. Max's probably so loud during it that it pisses off the other contestants and the crew members who can hear it through the walls because Max simply cannot keep quiet like he usually can.

[the-casbah-way]

do you realise how painful it was for me, basil rathbone sherlock holmes enjoyer number one, when bbc sherlock, the worst adaptation of sherlock holmes that has literally ever existed, was somehow able to garner a massive fanbase and be treated like a masterpiece for the best part of ten years. do you realise how much this show fucking butchered not only every character including holmes himself, but also completely misunderstood the entire crux of what made the original stories and characters so groundbreaking and compelling. do you realise how utterly appalling the writing is. do you realise it might as well be its own separate entity rather than a sherlock holmes adaptation because that's how utterly unrecognisable it is when compared with the original source material. you want a good sherlock holmes adaptation? watch this one

[aroyalpaininthecass]

I'm so sad, what am I gonna do when my mom moves and takes this little prince away?

[causalitylinked]

WHICH RAGE LANGUAGE ARE YOU?

open the floodgates.

your frustration turns into tears quickly. the strength of your fury is so potent that it sets off the waterworks out of pure rage. you hate it, because whoever's pissed you off thinks it's funny, like you're not tough and you can't defend yourself. you can, you just need to get through the haze of emotions first.

TAGGED BY: @ofliminalities​ ( thank you for the mention! <3333 perhaps one day, i’ll try to be more active. )

TAGGING: @heraid / @hembralfa / @spiritpyro ( hayate and rokuro! ) / @lastgenesis​ / @fractalle / @aaternum / @crimsontroupe ( equinox ) and whoever else would like to do this!

[miisfits-toys]

A morsel of world building ft. my Beloved Edin

[silvreflamess]

you can pretend that you don't miss me . — u already know :)

Typically,    she  sets  the  apartment  to  a  very  brisk  19  degrees  because  if  Rhys  wants  to  keep  her  locked  up  in  this  minimalist  cage,    then  she  wants  to  make  it  an  expensive  pain  in  the  ass  to  him.    With  air  blowing  that  cold  from  the  vents,    she’s  usually  bundled  up  when  she’s  alone.    Who  does  she  need  to  impress  if  it’s  just  her  and  her  smutty  books  curled  up  cozy  on  the  couch?    Who  does  she  need  to  keep  around  if  there  is  no  one  that  visits  in  the  first  place?

A  moment  of  weakness.    She  shouldn’t  have  asked  him  to  come.    She  knew  it  as  soon  as  she  sent  him  the  text,    she  knew  it  as  soon  as  she  buzzed  him  up,    and  he  only  confirms  her  instincts  when  he  opens  his  mouth.    And  he’s  got  the  fucking  cat  at  his  place,    so  there’s  no  buffer  or  excuse. Now he's here and she wishes violently that he wasn't. There are dishes in the sink from days ago and she's very obviously been sleeping on the couch and she doesn't even want to know the state of her bathroom right now. She shouldn't have asked him to come.

❝  Fuck  you.    ❞  She’s  dressed  down  in  nothing  but  a  shirt  she  stole  from  him,    something  lacy  that  would  peek  if  she  stretched  on  her  toes  for  him  like  she’d  considered  because  she  had  in  fact  been  missing  him,    and  gooseflesh  rises  across  her  chilled  skin.    She  doesn’t  care  that  he’s  already  closed  the  door  behind  him;    he’s  close  enough  to  it  still  that  it’d  be  a  quick  and  painless  exit.    For him, anyway. She  gestures  toward  him,    but  means  it  as  a  dismissal  and  knows  he  won’t  waste  his  time  if  she’s  just  pissed  him  off,    too.    ❝  Are  you  here  to  fuck  me  or  are  you  here  to  piss  me  off,    Hyunwoo?    Because  I’ve  already  had  enough  of  the  second  today  from  everyone  else.    Make  me  forget  or  get  the  fuck  out.    ❞

— @fatedriven as HYUNWOO. // DON'T SMILE AT ME.

[megamindsecretlair]

I Need Your Lips On Mine

Pairing: Dom!Terry Richmond x Sub!Black!Fem!/ Plus Size reader

Warnings: 18+, Minors DNI, You are in charge of your own reading experience. Intentional use of AAVE. SMUT. Cursing, teasing (fem receiving), PIV, oral (male receiving), Use of pet names, (Big Daddy and baby), use of sex toy, bratty and yandere reader. All consensual. Sorry if I missed some.

Summary: While Terry’s away on a special teaching assignment, you decide to be a little gremlin and not listen to him. You wear your sexiest dress out with your girlfriends to a rooftop bar. But Terry comes home early to ring in the New Year’s with you in a very special way.

Word Count: 7,111k

AO3 Link

A/N: WHEW. Ya'll don't ask about this man no more!! I cannot control myself around this man, I just can't. I'm not strong enough! Request from @prettyisasprettydoes1306. Happy 2025, my loves. Thank you so much for all your continued support! Toss a coin to your blogger by leaving a comment, gif, or unhinged ask.

Big Daddy 🤪 Calling…

Your music dimmed as Terry’s incoming call flashed across your screen. You put the finishing touches on your makeup and hurried to swipe to answer. 

“Hey Big Daddy,” you sing. 

“Hey baby,” Terry said with a sigh. 

“What’s wrong?” You asked, immediately picking up on his tone. 

“Miss you,” he said. 

You couldn’t help pinching your lips together, trying so hard not to cheese out. You looked at yourself in the mirror, at the goofy lovesick smile on your face. You drove your friends wild, but you were down bad for your man. 

Just for the silly, little things he did. And moments when he seemed able to read your mind. “Miss you. When you coming home? It’s New Year’s,” you pouted. 

“I know. I’m still trying. Don’t give up on me,” he said.

“Never,” you said with a giggle. “I know you’re busy.”

“You almost done getting ready for the party with your girls?” He asked. 

You spread a bold pink gloss across your lips and then used your finger to clean up the excess or areas you went too heavy on. You leaned away from the vanity, turning one way and then the other. 

Your long fitted cami dress looked painted on your body. It had a swirl of pink, purple, red, and brown like an abstract painting that stopped just above your ankles. But the top barely covered your girls. Just how you liked it.

You had paired it with a necklace Terry bought you for your birthday, the pendant dipping between your boobs to draw eyes there. The spaghetti straps fit snug on your shoulders but not tight. It was a dress almost literally made for you. 

“All done. Wanna see?” You said, lowering your voice. 

Terry shuffled on the other side of the phone. He sniffed as he moved before he settled down. “Show me,” he said.

You swiped to put him on video. His face took up the screen before he pulled back with a smirk. God, that man was fucking beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. He was your favorite painting, your sweetest song, and your most comforting book. He oozed comfort and made you want to sink into his big arms whenever he was around.

You turned from side to side so that he could see the dress in its entirety and how it fit on you. “You like?” 

Terry tilted his head. “Isn’t that the dress I got you for your birthday one year?” He asked.

“Yes! Looks good, huh?” You asked. You posed as you turned, modeling for him. When he didn’t say anything, you stopped and stepped closer to the phone. 

“Baby,” he said. Uh oh. When he hit you with that tone, he was about to be a big ole meanie. 

“Yes, Big Daddy?” You asked. 

“You know I don’t like you wearing that dress unless I’m around,” he said. His eyes dipped further and further lower and you followed his eyesight. 

With the phone on the vanity and you leaning over, he had a perfect view down your dress. Your pendant swung freely and you giggled, pressing it back against your heated skin. 

“You so nasty,” you said and giggled. “And I know. But we’re going out and I wanted to feel sexy. I like wearing things you give me.”

“That makes me happy to hear, baby. But you look too good in that dress. And I’m not there to make sure no one messes with you,” he said.

You sucked your teeth. “I’d never leave the house if that was the case, Terry,” you said. You closed your eyes and sighed. 

“What you call me?” Terry asked. 

You peeked just as you saw Terry stand up. You didn’t know what top secret villain lair he was currently in, having been called away to teach a special MCMAP class at a different base, but he was good and agitated now. 

He ducked his head as he walked off somewhere, nothing but empty night sky behind him. You wished you were with him, on a blanket somewhere, looking up at the sky while he ate you out. 

Terry’s soft grunts pulled you from your nasty thoughts as he finally stopped. Low, fluorescent light fell across his face. His eyebrows were arched and his eyes were narrowed. 

“You wanna run that again?” He asked, his accent getting thicker with his tone. 

“I love you, Big Daddy,” you said sweetly, grinning from ear to ear. “You’re the kindest, most wonderful, most amazing Big Daddy a girl could ask for.”

Terry shook his head. “Try again.”

You pouted and prepared yourself to apologize. But then the gremlin on your shoulder made an appearance. You absolutely, positively did not need to mess with your boyfriend. You absolutely did not want to make him mad. But ugh, you missed him.

This was one of the longest times he’d been away and you did not sign up for a long distance relationship. He wasn’t here at the moment….and being on the phone made you a little bolder. 

You smiled. “What ya gonna do if I don’t?” You asked, tone as sweet as tea on a hot day.

Terry’s expression changed fraction by fraction. His frown disappeared as a self-pleased smirk took over. “Think very carefully about your next words,” he said quietly. 

That probably should’ve been your first clue to stop playing with that man. But when your inner gremlin took over, there was just no stopping her. Consequences be damned. He must secretly like when you got this way, because he delivered on the goods tenfold whenever he finally got his hands on you. Your pussy throbbed thinking of the last time.

At the moment, he wasn’t set to come back until later in the week. By then, your gremlin would have gone on vacation and you would be back to your sweet self. But when you were in a party mood? And Big Daddy wasn’t around? You tended to show your entire ass. 

You stared at Terry’s gorgeous face, at the tempest in his eyes promising you won’t sit right for a week. His right eyebrow curved upward in a challenge. Make that two weeks. You grinned. Terry’s head tilted forward slightly. 

You should’ve listened, you know you should have, but instead you shrugged your shoulders. “Seeing how you’re way over there and I’m finna go out, there’s not a damn thing you can do right now,” you said. You blew him a kiss. 

Terry’s smirk was vicious. He looked away from the camera and nodded slowly like he was confirming something in his mind. That probably should’ve been your second clue to stop egging him on. But that damn gremlin…

The doorbell rang and Terry turned his head back to the camera. “That’s probably Miranda and Tenni,” you said and smirked at Terry. “If you’re good, maybe we can video chat later and I’ll show you a little something.”

“A little something?” He asked. But that smirk was still on his face. He was playing with you and you weren’t sure how. Partying was too heavy on your brain at the moment to suss out his expressions so you blew him a kiss and promised to take lots and lots of pictures.

“Have a good night, baby,” he said, his voice saccharine and sugary.

You narrowed your eyes at him but he only grinned and hung up. Putting his gorgeous smile and whatever punishment he was planning from your mind, you grabbed your heels and headed to the front door of your apartment. 

The doorbell rang again just as you opened the door to find Miranda and Tenni on the other side. They grinned and wolf-whistled at you and your outfit. You were lucky enough to find the perfect friend group in high school. One summer class before freshman year and you three were inseparable. 

Tenni cocked her hip and jerked her thumb. “Is you ready or naw?” She asked. She wore a striped mini dress that stopped mid thigh. With a colorful mix of blues and purples, the dress made her body look amazing. She wore low heels and had her locs in a cute bun on top of her head. 

Miranda wore an olive green short dress that ruffled at the bottom but had a cut out underneath the cups, showing off her tiny ankh tattoo there. Her big hoop earrings swung as she turned her head to Tenni.

“Ten bucks says she was talking to Terry,” Miranda said.

“That ain’t no damn bet. Of course she was,” Tenni said.

“Just because you hatin’ hos ain’t got a man, don’t mean you need to dim my light,” you said and grinned, hugging them. 

You quickly put on your heels adding to your height. Though no matter how high the shoe, you weren’t close to Terry’s full 6’3 stature. Which suited you just fine. You liked hopping on that man like a spider monkey.

“Whatever. I’m such a why choose girlie, anyway,” Tenni sighed wistfully. 

“Why choose a good man?” Miranda asked. You howled with laughter and hi-fived Miranda as Tenni’s face dropped. She flipped both of you the bird but ended up laughing with you. 

All done, you didn’t bother grabbing a sweater. Yes, it was freezing, but after a few drinks and some dancing in a cramped space, you would be warm enough. 

As a trio, you all headed to West Hollywood. The lights grew brighter the closer you got with billboards and ads all vying for your attention. The streets grew cleaner and the restaurants grew more expensive.

The apartment you shared with your boyfriend was by no means considered the hood. But the startling contradictions about LA were what kept you there. On one corner, there was a man dressed in a feather pink boa and leopard print undies dancing to some invisible beat. On the other side of the street, there was a group of women with three shopping bags a piece. 

LA was weird in the best way but it was home and it was yours. You giggled and laughed with your friends in the Uber, chatting up the sweet older gentleman who insisted on opening the doors for all of you. 

After arriving and showing the bouncer your IDs, you all headed to the elevator. The space was surprisingly big, with a 50s style black and white flooring and wood paneled walls. There was an advertisement for the rooftop movies they sometimes showed. You checked over the movies, wondering if there was something Terry would be down for. 

Before long, the elevators opened on the other side out onto the rooftop. The place was already packed, with people crowding the bar like it was running out of alcohol. The DJ played annoying club mix pop songs that grated because it made these people think they could dance. When all they did was jump up and down in place.

The hostess smiled at your group as you stepped forward. To the left, there was a door covered in faux grass and a sign with something you couldn’t read. But, it was half-cracked open revealing a skating rink on the other side.

“Oh my god! Look!” Tenni screamed. Behind you, there was a life sized Barbie box. Tenni hopped in with a deranged giggle, handing Miranda her phone. 

You directed her to look a certain way or pose a certain way while Miranda played photographer. You each took turns in the box, taking a thousand and one pictures. As soon as you were done, there was a mini line forming of people wanting to do the same thing. When you got your phone back, you selected the best pictures and sent them to Terry.

You added in saucy comments, teasing him, telling him all the filthy ways you were going to pleasure yourself tonight since he wasn’t around. He sent cryptic messages back and promised his retribution when he saw you.

“Are you going to talk to him all night?” Miranda asked.

“No, you hater. I came to hang with ya’ll and ring in the New Year. Now, where them drinks at?” You asked.

Tenni grabbed Miranda’s hand and led all of you to the other side of the rooftop bar. Against the railing, there was a line of white tables and plushy seats filled with people nervously glancing around and bobbing their heads. 

There were other standing room only tables, with people leaning against it and holding onto their significant others with a vice grip. It was like everyone was too afraid to loosen up and have fun. 

Behind you, the dance floor was tucked into the corner with strobe lights going wild and a machine projecting a neon dancer on the wall. The further you walked from the main area, the quieter it became. 

There were more tables and chairs here, but you already knew that those were reserved. Why these places thought you wanted to pay for a ticket, a seat, and a drink was beyond you. If you paid to get in somewhere, you should be able to sit wherever you damn well pleased. 

There was a second bar at the end of the rooftop with less people fighting over each other for watered down drinks. Your eyes roamed over the few people there. There were plenty of Black folk and you took a deep, restful sigh. You were around your people and you were safe. 

You each ended up grabbing a signature drink, passing it amongst yourselves to try the other’s drink. The sweet hit of alcohol hit your system and soon, you were dancing to even the cheesiest of songs. 

You three were probably the only ones dancing in the back area but that was fine. You were an entire vibe amongst yourselves and you all danced in time with the horrible remixes. 

The more you danced, the more others seemed to loosen up and go on and turn it into a party. You ended up linking with a group of guy friends who checked your friends out. 

True to form, Tenni stood between two guys, dancing and teasing them. When one got too handsy, Tenni would giggle and lean on the other for help and support. “Working them like a damn fiddle,” Miranda said and shook her head. 

“Think they’ll fight or want her at the same time?” You asked. 

Miranda assessed the two men playing with Tenni like a ping-pong ball. “Same time,” she said with a deadpan delivery that nearly made you snort your favorite drink. 

The night passed in a dizzying mix of alcohol, laughs, and the night sky overhead. Sweat rolled down your back as you shook your booty to every song that came on. Sometimes the DJ played songs you could actually dance to.

During those songs, you and your girls showed out. You twerked and sang, trying to one up each other in good fun. Tenni took a break from luring her next conquests in to snap pictures and videos and post it. 

“Shot! Shot! Shot!” You yelled, giggling, holding three shot glasses in your hand. You were more than a little tipsy, everything turning sideways a bit. But you trucked on, too turnt up for self-preservation. 

You clinked your glasses together. “Another year to the best friends I could have ever asked for,” Miranda said. 

“Another year of being badasses,” Tenni said.

“Another year of holding each other down,” you said. At once, you drank the shot and braced yourself for the swift burn down your throat. 

The DJ turned on the unedited version of ‘Big Energy’ by Latto. “Oh shit!” You screamed. 

You stomped your feet and shook your ass to the beat. You sang along and threw your hands in the air. “Pretty face, no waist, and a big ol’ ass!” 

You wilded out and let the alcohol direct your body for the night. You felt so loose, so alive, so free. It was a Tuesday night but you partied like it was a Saturday night and your bills were due. 

Tenni waved to you and you waved back, grinning at her. She continued to wave with one arm slung over one of the men she was thinking of taking home. You waved again, not understanding what she was trying to signal. 

Tenni looked over to Miranda who waved you down as well. You continued to twerk, getting into the song. “Ain’t too many niggas that can handle me!” You sang, sticking out your tongue and doing the most. 

“That right?” A deep, smooth voice said behind you. You straightened up immediately and turned around.

Terry stood behind you in a knit black see-through polo and dark pants. The collar was left open, revealing a short gold chain against his tanned skin. His gold watch flashed on his wrist as he looked down at you.

“Big Daddy!” You screamed, launching yourself into his arms. He caught you with ease and chuckled against your cheek. He absorbed the shock of your attack and hugged you around the waist. 

Your lips sought out his, pouring all of your love into it. His lips were so warm and juicy. Your body melted while in his arms, all the tension from the last week and a half leaving your body now that he was back.

“What are you doing here? When did you get in?” You asked once you leaned back. 

“I was planning a surprise for you when you got home,” he said.

“A surprise for me?” You asked. You remained in Terry’s arms, talking to him face to face. He smelled so damn good. Your eyes drifted taking in the subtle differences and comparing it to the last time he was with you.

His goatee framed his perfect face but he was letting it grow a bit. His hair filled out and it looked so good that you ran your fingers through it. His naturally dark eyelashes fanned his cheeks whenever he blinked. 

“Was a surprise,” he repeated. 

You pouted. “Why not anymore? It’s almost midnight,” you sang and waggled your eyebrows. 

Terry chuckled. He nuzzled your cheek with his nose and gave you a small kiss. “How much have you had to drink?” He asked.

You leaned back and pinched your thumb and forefinger. “A little. Barely a drop,” you said but your following giggle gave you away. 

Terry pressed his lips together in a frown. “Let’s go,” he said.

“But–” You looked behind you at your friends who waved you off. They already knew the business. Once Terry was home, you were off grid for at least two days. That ‘I missed you sex’ hit too fucking hard for you not to be in a sex coma afterwards. 

Terry waved to your friends before turning around with you still in his arms. You wiggled, but Terry held firm. You giggled and finally stopped. “I missed you too, Big Daddy. You got something for me in them pants?” You asked against his neck, rubbing yourself on his body, unashamed at who may be watching.

Your man was home, that was all you were concerned about. 

Terry held you in his arms as he opted for the stairs rather than the elevator. “They have rooftop movies here, babe. Would you be down to go?” You asked. 

Terry didn’t answer, taking the steps quickly. You shrugged. Maybe he was too focused on not dropping you. And with the dress you wore, you couldn’t wrap your legs around him like you wanted. 

Outside, the frigid night air was worse than when you were on the rooftop surrounded by bodies. The unforgiving cold air highlighted just how sweaty you were, making your bones shiver deep down.

Terry’s truck was parked illegally beside the curb. He tucked you inside and closed the door, walked to the other side and climbed in. He blasted the heater for you and put one arm around your headrest to back up safely into the street.

You watched, mesmerized, as his big hands turned the wheel one way and then another, adjusted the gear shift, and then pulled on down the street. This man could read the dictionary or draw stick figures and you’d sit and be attentive as hell. Everything he did turned you on. Absolutely everything.

And this outfit was doing things to you. Awful, terrible things to your body. Making you flush with heat. Making your pussy throb and your panties grow damp. You loved when he wore short sleeves so that he could show off his tattoos. He had a tiny scrawl across his right bicep with your name in cursive. You wanted to lick it.

At a red light, you leaned over the console and did just that. Terry gave you a side eye, his eyelashes so long and thick. 

The ride home was quiet but your tipsy, horny ass was too impatient to notice. You carried the conversation, telling him about things he missed while he was gone teaching. You touched him as you talked. You traced the veins in his arms and the tattoos painted there. You played with his neck and his big ears. And squeezed his thick thigh. Terry endured all of it with barely a sound. 

“Play with me,” you whined.

Terry silently pulled into the underground parking at your apartment building and then turned the car off. Without a word, he hopped out and then held the door open for you and helped you out as well. 

Terry grabbed your hand and yanked you towards the elevators. You giggled at his little caveman routine. Inside the elevator, Terry pulled until your back was against his chest. He gripped onto your waist possessively, alternately squeezing and letting go. 

Your body responded, melting against him while also tensing up from how amazing you felt in his arms. He was here. He was back. You couldn’t help rubbing his arms and hands as he held on. You leaned forward so that you could turn but he tightened his grip on you, holding you in place.

You looked over your shoulder at him but his eyes were trained on the numbers as they climbed higher. The elevator dinged and the doors slid open on your floor. Terry pushed you forward, with a quick smack to your booty.

Your hands shot out to cover your ass as you looked back with a giggle. Terry’s eyes were narrowed as a slight smirk played on his lips. 

“Love you,” you said, an edge of nervousness creeping into your tone. He was too quiet. Too focused. 

“You know you fucked up, right?” Terry asked, breaking his silence.

Your mouth dropped open in a cute ‘O’ as you walked with him down the hall. You pointed to yourself and Terry nodded. He kept a firm grip on your waist as he approached your apartment door, taking out his keys to enter. He let you go first and you skipped further away from him.

“Okay, I said some things earlier that I did not mean at all,” you said. You nodded your head but Terry only followed you into the apartment.

You held up your hand as Terry locked up and took off his shoes. You took off yours as well, needing the advantage. After all the dancing you did, your feet hurt something serious. But Terry was not in the mood for a foot rub. 

No, he was deceptively calm as he took off his watch and placed it on a table beside the front door. He emptied his pockets as well and you started to back away, mentally calculating where you could escape to until he calmed down.

That damn gremlin. Always writing checks your ass couldn’t cash. While not sitting right for two weeks sounded good in theory, you wanted a good dickin’ tonight. Not punishment. 

“We can talk about this, right?” You asked. Nervous giggles bubbled from your gut as you took in the stiff slope of his shoulders and the fluid way he moved. 

Terry turned to you and then folded his hands in front of him, one hand clutching the other wrist. 

Your hands turned clammy as you noticed his posture, his tilt, and his electric eyes. His chest rose and fell and your own heartbeat began to rise. Oh, shit. 

You turned and ran, heading towards your closet. “Where you going, baby?” Terry asked after you with a playful lilt in his accent.

You ran, full speed, heading up the stairs. You hit the top of the stairs and nearly toppled over, too excited at reaching the top without getting snatched. You took off down the hall and the bedroom door was cracked, calling to you. 

You reached out your hand to push it open and Terry’s big arms circled your waist and yanked. “Ahh!” You screamed as you were lifted clean off the ground. 

“What happened to all that big girl shit you were talkin’ earlier?” Terry asked, low and deep in your ear. Your pussy throbbed, getting wetter by the second. 

On second thought…

“Time to back up that shit you was talkin’ about,” Terry growled in your ear. 

Terry placed you on your feet but didn’t let you escape. He walked with you into the bedroom, turning on the lamps in the room. The warm lighting was dim enough to remain intimate but bright enough to see everything. 

Your bedroom was tastefully decorated in copper and navy. The walls were dark and so was the furniture, with a deep navy comforter and a copper throw blanket. Terry tossed you onto the bed and you hopped right back up.

“Wait, wait,” you said, the world spinning from your run and the alcohol still coursing through your blood. 

“You gon’ talk like a big girl, you need to take it like a big girl,” Terry said. He pushed you back down onto the bed and you bounced, biting your lip, as you looked up at him. 

You never felt more girly and small than when faced with just how tall Terry was. You were level with his waist as he undid his belt and watched you with a smirk. You mushed your thighs together at the devious look in his eyes. 

“But Big Daddy,” you said, pouting, trying to give him doe eyes so that he would take mercy on you. You reached out to run your hands under his shirt, to lay flat against his stomach. He had a light dusting of hair that tickled your palms.

No such luck. Terry moved away, removing your hands from his stomach. He looped the belt around your wrists and pulled tight, ensuring that you couldn’t move. You tested the bind, twisting your wrists but there was no give.

“I wanna touch you,” you whined. 

“I know,” he said. He pulled you by the belt to stand. Then, he placed a finger under your chin and tilted your head up to look at him. “Just remember I love you.”

“Shit,” you sighed.

Terry grinned as he spun you around and then moved your hair to the side. He positioned you to face the floor length mirror tucked into the corner for just this occasion. You watched the feral look on his face as he kissed and licked on the T tattoo you put on your shoulder for him. 

Your body shivered and you moaned as Terry’s hands trailed along your body. His hands relearned all of your curves, your ass, your waist, and tugged on your nipples through the fabric of your dress. 

You hissed as he pinched harder and harder, rubbing your nipples between his fingers. “Oh, Daddy,” you moaned. 

Terry kissed your shoulder and your neck, randomly licking in areas. You never knew when it was going to happen, but when it did, your clit throbbed with need. 

Terry pulled on the spaghetti straps until it slipped down your shoulders and your arms. You wore no bra underneath and Terry sucked in a gasp when you were fully exposed. He licked his lips and his eyes grew more narrow as he looked and grabbed his fill.

He continued grabbing and twisting your nipples until you were a squirming mess. “Please, baby, I’m sorry. I’ll behave,” you moaned. 

“I don’t believe you, baby,” he said. 

Terry pushed the dress down your body inch by inch. With each new section he uncovered, he kissed and licked and nibbled on your skin. You giggled and squirmed, trying to escape from him but he was too large. Too big. 

He peeled the dress off of your ass revealing your lacy pink panties beneath. Terry hummed and knelt on the floor, twisting your body around. He buried his face in your pussy and inhaled, groaning at the heightened smell of your arousal. 

Your body was on fire, throbbing with need. “Please, baby, please, baby. I’m sorry,” you whispered. 

“I still don’t believe you,” he murmured against your pussy. He peeled the dress down your thighs, his thumbs digging into your skin. He nibbled on your thigh and licked away the sting. 

You moaned as he continued dropping your dress to pool at your feet. He helped you step out of it and then he was back to planting his face in between your legs. You giggled. “I need you,” you moaned.

“I need you to behave,” he said.

“You like it when I misbehave though,” you said and poked your bottom lip out. Maybe if you got him talking, he’d abandon this silly plan and fuck your brains out. 

“Alright then, back up that shit you was tellin’ me,” he said. He looked up at you and you sighed at the raw need in his stormy eyes. 

You sank to your knees and pushed at him to stand. Once he did, you had just enough room to get his zipper down. You mirrored what he did earlier, planting your face against his thickening bulge and inhaled his deeply masculine scent. 

You moaned, fighting with his briefs to free that long, girthy dick begging for your attention. Once out of his briefs, his dick bounced against your face. He held the base and slapped your lips with it a few times.

You giggled and then opened your mouth, sucking him down. He groaned and threw his head back. “Shit, like that?” He asked. He slipped from your lips while he went to sit on the bed. You scooted in between his legs and then began licking his shaft.

He groaned and jerked his hips. You sucked his tip back into your mouth, sucking hard and watched as his eyes rolled back. He gripped the back of your head and pushed you down on the full length of him.

You couldn’t fit all of him inside, but damn if you didn’t try. Each slide down, you tried to take more and more of him. His dick tickled the back of your throat but you breathed through the gag reflex, relaxed your throat, and sucked him down how he wanted.

“Good fucking girl,” he groaned. “Missed this nasty mouth.”

He reached out with his free hand to grab and yank at your panties, pulling the thin fabric between your pussy lips. You yelped and squeezed your thighs together. 

You moaned around his dick. He throbbed in your mouth, dick pulsing. You flicked your tongue along the veins on his dick, wishing more than anything that you could do more. Grip him at the base, grip onto his thighs, something. You wanted to touch him so badly, your fingers tingled with it. 

Terry continued to push you onto his dick. He leaned partially back so that he could thrust up from his sitting position. You gagged anyway and spit on his dick. “Fuck, just like that,” he moaned. 

A light ring of gloss encircled his dick and you licked it all up, getting his dick nice and clean. The delicious salt of his cum mixed with the flavored gloss and you moaned at the taste. You watched his heavy balls rest against his thighs. You ached to touch them, play with them, bury your face, and suckle one into your mouth. 

“Gonna bust in this pretty mouth and you’re going to swallow it,” Terry moaned.

You locked eyes with him and nodded. He closed his eyes and thrust a few more times before he jerked and his dick twitched. Hot, pulsing cum filled your mouth and slid down your throat and you sucked it all down, swallowed just like he wanted. 

Terry panted as he slowly withdrew his dick past your lips. He grinned and massaged your jaw and throat. “Okay, baby?” He asked.

You nodded and blinked at him. “Words, beautiful,” he commanded.

“Yes, Big Daddy,” you said. His fingers worked out the kinks from taking his dick and you moaned as he found each one. 

“Am I forgiven?” You asked.

Terry chuckled and shook his head. “Not yet, I need a better apology,” he said. 

You whined. He tapped your face with his dick and you giggled with him, but kept your mouth shut. He rewarded you with a sultry, hot, deep kiss that made your toes curl. He licked your lips and you moaned, trying to get him to do it again.

Instead, he pulled away and then stood up. His dick was still hard, hot, and jutted away from his body. It bounced with each movement that he made. He helped you stand and then he helped you get on the bed.

He positioned you on your stomach and made you face the mirror. You watched him as he worked. The gleam in his eyes. His tongue slightly poked out from the corner of his mouth. 

“Knees,” he ordered.

You got to your knees on the bed, ass up, face down. He grabbed your hips and moved you until you were in the perfect position to offer your pussy on a silver platter. Terry took off his clothes and your pussy throbbed as his broad chest was revealed.

His body was beautiful. From head to foot. He sculpted his body with care and precision until he was a walking sex god and he was all fucking yours. 

You licked your lips as you watched him. Fully naked, he stepped forward and then rubbed his hands on your ass. 

He tested a few smacks, watching your ass recoil. He analyzed it like the soldier that he was, but each smack grew harder and more erratic. You couldn’t predict where he was going to smack and that fact turned you on more.

From time to time, he’d look up from his handiwork and wink at you in the mirror. He stopped his assault to head to your drawer. Inside, he dug out your favorite vibrator. “This is a punishment. So you are not allowed to cum, understand?” He gripped your chin and forced you to look him in the eye.

“Yes, Daddy,” you said with a nod.

Terry coated the bullet vibrator in lube, turned it on, and then plunged it inside. You moaned, stretching out like a cat. “Repeat after me, baby. I will be a good girl and listen to Daddy,” he said.

“I will be–” He delivered a swift, decisive smack that stung long after the initial hit. You gasped and bowed off of the bed but Terry pushed your lower back down. 

“I don’t hear any talking,” he said. 

You looked at him in the mirror and he grinned like a demon. “How long this lasts depends entirely on you,” he said, his voice low and deep. 

“But–” Another smack stole your breath away and you gasped, trying to fight the pain. The vibrator was no help, throbbing in time with your pussy in response to the spanking. 

“I will be a – unf,” you moaned. Terry rubbed your ass, fresh waves of fire licking down your spine. He gripped the vibrator and fucked you with it. You moaned and you rose up to meet the thrusts. 

Terry pulled the vibrator out and you cried out. “Talk,” he growled. 

Tears gathered in your eyes but you nodded. “I will be a good girl–” you stopped because Terry pushed the vibrator inside. When you stopped, he pulled it back out.

“I will be a good girl and listen to Daddy!” You yelled, not wanting him to stop again. Terry chuckled and kissed both of your ass cheeks, then plunged the vibrator back in. 

“I’m sorry, Daddy,” Terry said.

“I’m sorr-” you began but another smack turned your brain to jelly. You moaned and collapsed on to the bed, the sensations too much for you to bear. 

Terry roughly readjusted you. “If I have to move you again, you won’t cum at all,” he said. 

You sniffled as tears fell freely down your cheeks. You wanted to cum so badly, you were ready to beg. Until your knees were raw, your voice hoarse, and snot ran down your face. Your belly tightened with the urge but Terry was right there to pull the vibrator out. 

“Baby, please!” You begged. 

Terry answered with a smack to your ass, loud enough to echo in the room. Your body threatened to collapse but you wanted to cum more than anything at the moment. You tucked your knees further together and then wiped your eyes on your arm.

“I’m sorry, Daddy!” You yelled. 

“I won’t play when you’re gone. I’ll behave,” Terry said.

“I won’t play when you’re gone. I’ll behave,” you repeated, even as he delivered smacks. Your ass was on fire and your pussy leaked with your essence. Your nails dug into the comforter, gripping it as if it was the sole thing keeping your sanity intact. 

You shivered with the overwhelming need to cum. “Please, please, please,” you begged, nearly at your limit. 

“When Daddy tells me not to wear something, I’ll listen,” Terry said.

“When Daddy–” you said and cried out when Terry started fucking you with the vibrator. Your thighs twitched and jerked. 

Terry kissed your sweaty skin, nibbled on your ass. “Please, baby, I can’t no more. I can’t do it no more, baby, I can’t! Let me cum, please, let me cum.” You didn’t even know what the hell you were saying anymore. 

Terry removed the vibrator and you sighed, rubbing your forehead on the comforter. Cold air caressed your skin as Terry stepped away. You closed your eyes briefly, loving the reprieve. 

Terry entered you from behind in one rough thrust. You cried out with a moan, trying to escape. Terry grabbed your hips and slammed you back down on his dick. He grabbed your neck and pushed your face into the mattress. You were barely able to keep an eye on him in the mirror.

You gasped and panted, the delicious stretch of him competing with the slight burn of the unexpected rough thrust. “When. Daddy. Tells. Me. Not. To. Wear. Something. I’ll. Listen,” Terry punctuated every word with a sharp thrust that made you see stars. 

You fought, hard, with your body to not cum unless he said so. With his fingers wrapped around your neck, he had full control in this position. He moved your neck so that you could look at him in the mirror better. 

“When Daddy tells me not to wear something, I’ll listen,” you sniffled. Fuck, you weren’t going to last. Not at all. It was a miracle you lasted this long. 

He was so thick, pushing up and into you. He dug you out, nearly touching your guts as he delivered long, deep strokes. His hips rolled into you, making you feel every inch of him. 

“I won’t tease Daddy when he’s away on an assignment,” Terry said, his voice rumbling in his chest. Sweat poured off of him and dripped onto your back. His moans were low, eyes crinkled in the corner. His jaw was slightly slack, juicy bottom lip caught between his teeth. 

“I won’t te-te-,” you stuttered, your body giving in to the pleasure. Terry stopped stroking until you calmed down, the orgasm retreating from the edge. 

“Start over,” he said, his voice soft for once. 

“I won’t tease D-D,” you stuttered again. You were ready to combust. 

“I won’t go until you do,” he said. “You might wanna hurry up though, it’s almost midnight,” he said. 

You whined and groaned in frustration. This was such bullshit! But fuck, your brain was pleasantly numb. You were Terry’s plaything at the moment and this was the only place you belonged. Naked and at his mercy.

“I won’t tease Daddy when he’s away on assignment,” you whispered. Took you a few tries, but you did so without stuttering or stopping. 

“I won’t use Daddy’s real name unless it’s necessary,” he said.

“I won’t use Daddy’s real name unless it’s necessary,” you whispered. You could only hold on for so long. Your orgasm twisted your belly painfully, rising closer to the surface with each deep stroke of Terry’s dick. 

“I’m so sorry, Daddy,” he said. He moaned as he seemed to sink deeper. Hit a new depth inside that unleashed an entire galaxy behind your eyelids. 

“I’m so sorry, Daddy,” you moaned. 

“I won’t do it again,” Terry said.

“I won’t do it again,” you said. 

“Ten, nine, eight…”

Terry counted for you because you were too far gone to say anything else. When he got to one, the clock struck twelve and Terry moved his fingers between your legs and rubbed your aching clit. 

Your orgasm split you open, atom by atom until you were able to take a peek at your soul. Written in the seams was Terry’s full government name and military rank. In every lifetime, every reincarnation, it was just the two of you. Forever and ever as long as there was life in the universe and all of creation.

Fireworks boomed and whistled outside your apartment as the world went crazy for the near year. Light flashed behind your closed eyelids. Terry’s grunts and moans faded to the background as your orgasm seemed endless. Boundless. You were beyond this room, this block, this city, this country. You were beyond. 

Terry stroked once more before he exploded inside of you, filling you to the brim with his cum. “Fuckin’ love you, baby. You’re so good for me. You did so well. I’m so proud of you,” he moaned. He kissed your neck, your back, your shoulder, and your tattoo as his dick throbbed and throbbed.

“Happy New Year’s, Big Daddy.”

“Happy New Year’s, baby,” he said and kissed your forehead.

Happy 2025!!!! The Secret Terry Richmond Files

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[jonnywaistcoat]

What’s your opinion on the contrast between “silly” and “serious” spaces? Do you think people can have very serious interpretations about a genuine piece of media and also be goofy about it? I’m asking this particularly because I’ve seen people in the Magnus podcast fandoms fight about people “misinterpreting” characters you, Alex, and the many other authors have written. Are you okay with the blorbofication or do you really wish the media you’ve written would be “taken seriously” 100% of the time?

And follow up question, what do you think about the whole “it’s up to the reader (or in some cases, listener) to make their own conclusions and interpretations and that does not make them wrong”, versus the “it was written this way because the author intended it this way, and we should respect that” argument?

This is a question I've given a lot of thought over the years, to the point where I don't know how much I can respond without it becoming a literal essay. But I'll try.

My main principle for this stuff boils roughly down to: "The only incorrect way to respond to art is to try and police the responses of others." Art is an intensely subjective, personal thing, and I think a lot of online spaces that engage with media are somewhat antithetical to what is, to me, a key part of it, which is sitting alone with your response to a story, a character, a scene or an image and allowing yourself to explore it's effect on you. To feel your feelings and think about them in relation to the text.

Now, this is not to say that jokes and goofiness about a piece of art aren't fucking great. I love to watch The Thing and drink in the vibes or arctic desolation and paranoia, or think about the picture it paints of masculinity as a sublimely lonely thing where the most terrible threat is that of an imposed, alien intimacy. And that actually makes me laugh even more the jokey shitpost "Do you think the guys in The Thing ever explored each other's bodies? Yeah but watch out". Silly and serious don't have to be in opposition, and I often find the best jokes about a piece of media come from those who have really engaged with it.

And in terms of interpreting characters? Interpreting and responding to fictional characters is one of the key functions of stories. They're not real people, there is no objective truth to who they are or what they do or why they do it. They are artificial constructs and the life they are given is given by you, the reader/listener/viewer, etc. Your interpetation of them can't be wrong, because your interpretation of them is all that there is, they have no existence outside of that.

And obviously your interpretation will be different to other people's, because your brain, your life, your associations - the building blocks from which the voices you hear on a podcast become realised people in your mind - are entirely your own. Thus you cannot say anyone else's is wrong. You can say "That's not how it came across to me" or "I have a very different reading of that character", but that's it. I suppose if someone is fundamentally missing something (like saying "x character would never use violence" when x character strangles a man to death in chapter 4) you could say "I think that's a significant misreading of the text", but that's only to be reserved for if you have the evidence to back it up and are feeling really savage.

I think this is one of the things that saddens me a bit about some aspects of fandom culture - it has a tendency to police or standardise responses or interpretations, turning them from personal experiences to be explored into public takes to be argued over. It also has the occasional moralistic strain, and if there's one thing I wish I could carve in stone on every fan space it's that Your Responses to a Piece of Art Carry No Intrinsic Moral Weight.

As for authorial intention, that's a simpler one: who gives a shit? Even the author doesn't know their own intentions half the time. There is intentionality there, of course, but often it's a chaotic and shifting mix of theme and story and character which rarely sticks in the mind in the exact form it had during writing. If you ask me what my intention was in a scene from five years ago, I'll give you an answer, but it will be my own current interpretation of a half-remembered thing, altered and warped by my own changing relationship to the work and five years of consideration and change within myself. Or I might not remember at all and just have a guess. And I'm a best case scenario because I'm still alive. Thinking about a writers possible or stated intentions is interesting and can often lead to some compelling discussion or examination, but to try and hold it up as any sort of "truth" is, to my mind, deeply misguided.

Authorial statements can provide interesting context to a work, or suggest possible readings, but they have no actual transformative effect on the text. If an author says of a book that they always imagined y character being black, despite it never being mentioned in the text, that's interesting - what happens if we read that character as black? How does it change our responses to the that character actions and position? How does it affect the wider themes and story? It doesn't, however, actually make y character black because in the text itself their race remains nonspecific. The author lost the ability to make that change the moment it was published. It's not solely theirs anymore.

So yeah, that was a fuckin essay. In conclusion, serious and silly are both good, but serious does not mean yelling at other people about "misinterpretations", it means sitting with your personal explorations of a piece of art. All interpretations are valid unless they've legitimately missed a major part of the text (and even then they're still valid interpretations of whatever incomplete or odd version of the text exists inside that person's brain). Authorial intent is interesting to think about but ultimately unknowable, untrustworthy and certainly not a source of truth. Phew.

Oh, and blorbofication is fine, though it does to my mind sometimes pair with a certain shallowness to one's exploration of the work in question.

[obae-me]

Would He Peel The Orange?

(I hope this hasn't been done too much already, but I really wanted to do it) So, if you've been in the same internet circle as I've been in, you probably know about this trend that's going around right now where people ask their partner to peel an orange for them. It's supposed to kind of signify your partner's willingness to do something important to you, even if it seems mundane or even inconvenient for them. So of course, I wanted to imagine what our favorite boys would do in this scenario.

Note: This is just for silly goofy times. A little ha-ha funny jape, if you will. Meaning not serious. If I think a character would not peel an orange, I don't think they're suddenly toxic or would not love the MC or anything.

"Could you peel an orange for me?"

Lucifer

To those of you who say he is too prideful to peel an orange for you, do I need to point out that he is the eldest sibling? Not only that, but he's practically a single mom. He has Sloth as the baby brother of the family. Do you think Belphie peels his own oranges? No! Lucifer probably cuts the crusts off of his brother's sandwiches for heaven sakes.

Is it heaven sakes or heaven's sake?... I actually don't know

However, I do think he would get suspicious, especially if you're trying to film his reaction. He would raise an eyebrow and know that there's something more to you just wanting an orange. Is this orange cursed? Is this a prank? You'll have to convince him it's perfectly normal before he straight up refuses.

Is he going to get up from his desk or move away from work to go grab you an orange? Probably not. But if you bring it to him, he will peel it for you, giving you a weird- and maybe slightly judging- look the entire time.

He will peel it very nicely, but you would have to take the peel back to toss yourself all while demanding to know why you have such a smirk on your face.

If you explain it to him, he'll definitely get a bit smug. "Who knew all it would take to prove my love to you was peeling an orange? If you needed some assurance, I would've gladly provided more for you."

He wins this one. He peeled the orange.

But...he might be asking his own favor from you later. So, minus one point for that, but they do say the devil dances in dealings, so...

7/10

Mammon

"Huh? Why do you need me to peel it for you, your hands broken or somethin'? I'm not your damn maid."

He is already peeling the orange. He is somehow managing to grumble and act like he's not doing it while he is in the process of doing it.

And if you don't have oranges on hand? Just give him any excuse to go shopping and he will take it. And not only will he peel those oranges, he'll buy them for you too.

And sure maybe he's a little ditsy and might not know what the difference between an orange, a tangerine, and a clementine is (they're all orange, dammit), but he will be buying you ALL of them just in case.

Listen, he's a man with impulse problems and an intense desire to be your number one demon.

Did he probably spend the next few hours in the store getting himself stuff as well? Probably, yeah. He see shiny, he get shiny.

But don't worry. He will peel you that orange.

And you will be eating an assortment of orange colored fruits for the next few days.

Is...this a peach?

9/10

Levi

If he's gaming, probably not. Some games can't be paused. And it's not even that he doesn't want to, he'll probably be glad to do so, but he'll do it once this round is over.

And then he'll probably forget. Which, fair, I do it too. You get into the zone and then six hours have passed. Sometimes the measure of love can't always be held behind an orange.

However!

If a controller is not in his hand and his mind is not occupied by several random colorful flashes, he might peel the orange.

BUT

If too many other people are around, he might get anxiety.

You know when you somehow manage to fumble peeling an orange? You can't manage to break the peel properly or you end up dropping it and looking like a fool?

If you've never had performance anxiety over peeling an orange, you... well that's actually really good, you must have a much more peaceful mind-- but it exists for us anxious people, okay?! It's too much pressure!

In the end, he's very situational! But that doesn't mean he refuses to peel you an orange! It would actually make him very happy to do that for you...

5/10

Satan

Very confused. Will ask too many questions before he does anything.

Are you hurt? Is the peel too tough for human fingers? If you're having a hard time using your fingers, why not get a knife or a tool to assist you? Why are you in his room rather than the kitchen? Is that not a waste of energy? What if he'd not been here, would you have wandered around?

He doesn't get it. He means well though.

He might get a little irritated, not so much at you as at himself. He feels like he's missing something.

Is this some form of human bonding? Are you afraid of the orange? What secrets does it hold?

He will peel it for you. He'll even put his book down to do so.

But please answer his questions, he can't find the logic in seeking him out just to peel a fruit for you. He can list off several other more efficient methods.

If you explain it to him, you'll see him visibly relax. So there was some deeper meaning.

Although now he might think that this form of act is some sort of love declaration. Prepare to have him peel and/or cut all your fruits from now on. Which... is actually kind of sweet. What a gentleman.

8/10

Asmo

No... with his nails?! Please. I've only worn fake nails like twice in my entire life, and doing anything like that with those little suckers hurts like hell. Why?? Tried to open a can once and thought my real nail would peel right off.

And even if he's not wearing fake nails, getting that pulpy orange peel underneath your fingernails?! Having the juice make your fingers all sticky? No. Awful. Bad texture. I've always headcanoned Asmo with texture issues, and if his are even close to being like mine, it's gonna be a no.

BUT

If you want an orange so badly, I can guarantee he knows all these cute little places around town that make delicious fruit selections! He'd probably go out and get you one of those beautiful and decorative edible fruit arrangements and make sure they somehow include lots of orange.

Or, if you don't want that and you just want a normal orange right NOW, he'll charm someone else to peel it for you, hon. Don't even worry.

And once it's peeled, to make up for not doing it himself, he'll be all to happy to feed it to you if you want him to. ~

Never underestimate the lengths he'll go to provide for you and himself at the same time.

6.5/10 I appreciate the hustle.

Beel

I... I mean... he's gonna eat it.

Love the man to death, but if you hand him an orange before you fully preface that it's yours and you just want it peeled, it's gone. He probably didn't even peel it before he ate it too. Probably just eats it like an apple.

But, but, but, he'll get you a new one. So please don't look so sad...

It might be best if you accompany him just in case, but he'll absolutely get you another one. Besides, he wants more himself now, that first one was delicious.

He'll gather a whole basket of oranges and you can share them together.

One slice for you...five for him. Another slice for you...

It make take a minute to get a full orange's worth, but it's about the attempt and the time spent. And he's technically actually peeling SO many oranges for you.

I'd also like to point out that I have actually written out a scene in one of my stories where Beel actually EXACTLY peels an orange FOR MC. WAY before this trend was a thing.

--Eventually he came across an orange, peeling off the wax shell meant to serve as extra preservation. Citrus flooded your nose. Your mouth actually watered at the scent, watching Beel strip the fruit before peeling it apart. A sniff, and then it was actually handed to you.

So he would! 100 times over! Even in my silly little side story where everyone is nearly on the brink of death and in a freezing wasteland, he would still peel an orange for you!

10/10 Minus one point for eating your orange first, plus one point for peeling you an orange in another universe.

Belphie

Y...yeah, no. No, he won't.

Or there's at least a very slim chance he will. He does get in weird moods sometimes where he wants to pamper you, but that's on his own terms and his own time.

He doesn't even peel his own oranges, as I previously stated in Lucifer's section.

If you just waltz up to him and ask him to peel it for you...there's a 95% chance he will not. Most of it being due to him being asleep. You would probably have a better chance trying to train him to peel an orange while sleepwalking. That might work. Would also probably make a good party trick.

But, he's weird at remembering details like this. Even if he doesn't act on it right now, it will be logged in his memory. You could mention something briefly once seven months ago and he'll bring it up to you and remember the conversation completely like it happened yesterday.

So, even if he doesn't peel the orange now, when he's in the mood, maybe after his nap, maybe the next day, maybe two weeks after in which you had forgotten it, he will bring you a peeled orange.

Either that or he'll do what Asmo does and make someone else peel it for you.

3/10

Diavolo

You want him to peel your orange for you? You mean... he gets to treat someone like that for once?! ABSOLUTELY.

He is all too happy to peel you an orange! This is like, groundbreaking for him. He gets to provide! Gets to hand you a tiny fruit, broken and prepared with his own two hands! Is this how Barbatos feels when he cooks?

How does one exactly peel an orange, though?... He's seen them whole like this before, but they're typically already in strips when he gets around to eating them.

Break the skin? What, like an egg?

Well...there goes your orange.

On the bright side, it seems he's very good at making orange juice.

But fear not! He'll have Barbatos bring another one!

Wait...look, see, they come pre-peeled. Oh...you mean Barbatos has been peeling all his fruits for him this entire time? He's never known the joyful luxury of unveiling and working for the literal fruits of his labor?! This will change today.

Get another orange, unpeeled, and he will do it himself this time!

It might take some personal discovery and some patience before he peels you an orange, but it will get done, he swears it!

11/10 Plus one point for wholesome life lessons and sheer determination.

Barbatos

An orange? Just a plain orange? If you wait just a moment, he could have an orange chiffon cake, or would you perhaps prefer some orange panna cotta? Orange Merengue pie? Pound cake? Made into a buttercream? A pudding? A sorbet? A sherbet? Served as a juice? Main flavor or just as a zest? Would you like a meal before dessert? Or he could always find healthier options for oranges? Would you like him to list of those options as well?

Okay, so... he overcorrects a little bit.

Bottom line is, he'd peel you an orange. He'd make an entire seven course meal based around oranges. Make it all the color orange if you'd prefer.

Like I said though, he tends to overdo it.

He falls into his royal butlery habits and misses the fact that this is supposed to be so important to you because it's so simple. Although it's cute the way an ever powerful ever perfect being can miss such a detail.

You might have to put your foot down a bit and not let yourself get carried away in the splendor. You just want this orange. This one orange, and if he could just peel it for you, that's all you want.

So he'll take his gloves off and peel it for you. He'll make sure all the extra little white strands are plucked off as well. And he double checks it for seeds.

Are you sure this is all you want? "I guess something so simple can often be taken for granted. I forget that sometimes."

12/10 He'll probably still end up making you several other orange treats and he learned a valuable lesson today. It's a win for everyone.

Simeon

Are you kidding me?

This man probably brought the orange with him. You probably didn't even need to bring it up! He's single dad with two one kid and a sorcerer. He's like that sweet mom who always has certain things on hand. Medicine? Bandages? Spare cash? Candy? Gum? He's got it. He puts the Guardian in guardian angel.

You want that orange? He'll peel that orange, you just hold on. Let's make sure your hands are clean. Use this hand sanitizer he brought with him. Here, have a granola bar while you're at it. Are you hungry? You didn't skip lunch, did you? Here, take this water bottle, you look a bit dehydrated.

Oh dear, and your hands feel so dry! Here, he brought some lotion.

This angel is 100% fully here for you. You are about to be so taken care of.

Not even oranges. You want your apples fully peeled and sliced? Got it. Want something pitted? He can do that too. He'd be willing to stain his fingers and clothes on a pomegranate for you. How is he doing this even outside of the house? Magic or something probably.

He'd pack you an orange in a cute little bag with a hand written note and a short poem.

This man is a real one.

100/10 He definitely thinks that LOL means lots of love.

Solomon

Are...you sure you know what you're doing? He will absolutely peel you an orange, but at what cost?

If you're not careful, not only will he peel you an orange, but he'll add some of his Special Solomon Spices to make your experience all the more... thrilling.

Quite like how thrilling bungee jumping in the dark could be...

Also, he might just try to peel it with magic, which, while nice of him, defeats the purpose of the entire test.

You'll have to specify he's to do it by hand, and keep an unblinking, ever-careful eye on him to make sure he doesn't 'enhance' the flavor.

But, all in all, he does it. Quite happily too, one might add.

Are you sure you just want an orange? He'd be glad to whip something up for you if you're feeling peckish!

You kind of... tempt fate with this one.

2/10 One point for wanting to peel the orange, one point for trying to go the extra mile. But... well... Will you survive is the thing? You might want to try to measure his love for you using different non-edible methods.