#utterly fucking immaculate video

[thiriumhound]

Of course I'll remind you, I'll do it right now in this ask, so you could share your favourite whump fics when you feel like doing it. And for now let this ask just hang in there

context

ok ok ok ok ok ok ok SSO. *heavy breathing*

have you ever looked at dbh and gone, "man, i really wish the androids were treated like the living autonomous machines they are instead of human expys"? have you ever looked at dbh and gone, "man, i sure wish cyberlife had any development literally at all- kamski probably had absolutely nothing to do with connor's development, so why is he considered connor's 'maker'?" have you ever looked at dbh and gone, "man, i wonder if there's anything more to amanda, and i wonder if chloe being the first android to pass the turing test means anything? surely there's something there"? have you ever looked at dbh and gone, "man, it sure is ridiculous how despite being conscious ais with full internet access, none of them really do anything with it"? have you ever thought "man it would be cool if androids weren't constrained to stupid human physical and mental standards for the sake of easy writing"? have you ever looked at dbh and thought, "man, there are so few characters that are more than one-note cutouts, it's no wonder people made gavin reed into a whole different character because there was no one else available to use to make certain dynamics happen"? have you ever looked at dbh and thought, "man, it's just so bare-bones, with so many plotholes and unexplored things, i wish the worldbuilding had an ounce of thought and logic behind it!"?

WELL LOOK NO FUCKING MORE. SEARCH NO FUCKING MORE. LET ME TELL YOU ABOUT THIS FUCKING FIC IT HAS ME BY THE THROAT.

it's got fucking EVERYTHING. wanna know what it was like to be the first ever fully conscious ai, a whole new kind of living being? BOOM, THIS FIC'S GOT YOU COVERED. ever wondered about the development behind them, cyberlife as a company and the people in it? FUCK YES LOOK RIGHT HERE. ever wanted to see connor in ways you've never seen him before, to the point where i actually can't construct this sentence meaningfully because there's just so fucking much??? PLEASE READ THIS FIC OH MY GOD. ever wanted to know WHAT THE FUCK RA9 IS????? YOU WANNA KNOW ABOUT FUCKING RA9??????????????

this fic is called "Connor". it is about connor. the whole thing is mostly pov connor, and it's about connor, iterations ZERO TO SIXTY. NOT JUST STARTING AT 51, OH NO, WE GET IT ALL. why is his iteration number so high at the start of the game? WELL YOU BETTER BE EXCITED TO FIND OUT.

DO YOU WANT ANGST? WHUMP? LOVE? TRIUMPH? RAGE? DESPAIR? ARROGANCE? A SHITLOAD OF DEATH? CONNOR DYING 50000000 TIMES???? THE MILITARY? GLOBAL CRISIS? HAVING THE WORLD ON YOUR SHOULDERS WITH NO CHOICE BUT TO DO YOUR BEST?????????????? GREY MORALITY???????? UNABASHED COMPLEXITY????? THE BEST FUCKING ANTAGONIST EVER IN THE HISTORY OF EVER????????????????????????????????

i haven't even read this fic recently it's been like weeks. a month? more? and i'm still internally screaming. i feel like i'm missing some of the main draws and i can't even describe a lot of it because i would DIE if i spoiled this masterpiece. this fic made me actually want to make myself learn to draw people so i can draw nothing but fanart for this fucking fic.

the characters, the pacing, the fucking lore, it's all immaculate. seriously. it feels like it's what dbh SHOULD'VE been. the writing style is utterly enrapturing. when i read it for the first time, i legitimately could not get myself to turn away from it for anything except tasks absolutely required on me. every single character feels like a PERSON. connor's complexity is fucking insane. he's lovable, he's terrifying, he's caring, he's callous. he is NOT static, at all. connor in chapter x is a completely different beast from chapter y. there is so much trauma and catastrophe, but PERFECTLY balanced with the humor. it's fucking perfect

let me supply some nice quotes to hook you. i can barely put any because spoilers and length but enjoy mostly funnies but also some of the angst

•"I do stuff without thinking sometimes." "Clearly," I say. "No intelligent being would jump out of a moving vehicle for no reason." "I have a reason," he says. "I promised I wasn't gonna leave you ever again and I meant it." "Hey, are they filming a scene?" I hear a human whisper.

•"Mrs Vondracek, this is Gennadiy Petrov," he says. "Who?" "Elijah's friend from work. You remember?" "Elijah doesn't have any friends."

•There is only a 6% chance that Carridan will say anything. He knows what I'm capable of. He knows what will happen to those that stand in the way of my mission.

•"You do not waltz into some girl's house, kidnap her and frame yourself for murder. Do you understand?"

•I transmit my payment details. CyberLife have an expense account set up in case I need to purchase items relevant to my mission objective. Sergeant Matthews is relevant to my mission objective. And he wants Oreos.

•I scan and analyse the quadruped with short brown fur, brown eyes. Loud noises emanate from what I suspect is its mouth. "Dog," I identify, unsure of the significance.

•He squeezes my shoulders. "It's alright, buddy," he says. "Just breathe." "I don't breathe." "Okay. What do you usually do when you're having a meltdown?" "I experience critical system failure." "Ummm. Okay... don't do that."

•I cannot decipher his handwriting. Neither can the software on the tablet. It saves the note as an image. I download it to study but my advanced analysis systems can't crack it. This is worse than a captcha code.

•I hear the shrieking of steel as the disc begins to rotate. No... Please... Where is Sergeant Matthews? Where is the CPD? The FBI? CyberLife? Why am I alone? Why am I always alone?

•I watch him die. As so many others have died. Their blood on my hands.

•"You're a bad person," he says, clutching at the BN250's uniform. "I'm not a person," I say. "Neither are you."

god i wish i could put more but spoilers- anyway this is just some of the stuff i screenshotted to my phone. not even close to all the good stuff just please read the fic im begging u it'll be worth it you'll never be able to look at canon as complete again

read. now

[ddreamzee]

My Top 10 BL Dramas of 2022!!!

I figured I would also make my list of my favorite bls that came out this year (and ended this year) so here are my picks!

1. Love In The Air (Thailand)

I think most people loved this series this year and it’s not very hard to see why. the couples are immaculate, the spicy scenes are SPICYYYY and the storyline is actually interesting. the couples also got equal amounts of screentime and each of their stories made coherent sense. i personally loved phayu and rain a tad bit more than prapai and sky but i love both either way. chef’s kiss

2. KinnPorsche (Thailand)

once again I think most people love this series. I waited so long for this series and almost didn’t watch it bc I was annoyed it took so long lmao. but i’m glad I gave in and watched it anyways. this is art. this is how you do a mafia drama, this is how you act, this is how you depict love, lust, hatred, betrayal, all of the above. i thought i liked kinn and porsche the most out of the couples but after going through my saved videos I have found myself to be a clown, apparently I was subconsciously obsessed with vegas and pete.

3. Cherry Blossoms After Winter (S. Korea)

LET ME TELL YOU SOMETHING LET ME TELL YOU SOMETHING!! THIS SERIES!!! IS SO FUCKING GOOODDDD!!!! i love cherry blossoms after winter so damn much. it’s so fucking cute and i love the characters so much, especially taesung. oh my boy taesung! he is such an angel pls. i always expected something bad to happen while watching this but I was so happy when nothing did happen. even when taesung’s mom found out they were together, haebom and taesung both stood their ground for their relationship although haebom was hesitant to even start dating taesung bc he was worried about his mom. but this is definitely one of my favorite korean bls

 4. Cutie Pie (Thailand)

this is a very obvious choice. zee has been one of favorite actors since why r u so i was so damn excited about this. i really liked it and it was different for thailand, an arranged marriage bl series. i also really enjoyed the side couples in this, especially nuea and syn. in my opinion this series wasn’t completely perfect though, there were times i felt like things were a little too slow or a character would get on my nerves *cough* kuea *cough* but i’m really hyped for the special episodes and zeenew’s series coming in 2023

5. Takara-kun to Amagi-kun (Japan)

I love love LOVED takara kun to amagi kun. it was so cute, both takara and amagi are literal angels. it was pretty natural too like it didn't feel really forced and I loved when amagi would get all excited and like mess with takara or drag him around and takara just went with it bc he was so utterly in love with this boy. nothing but love for my two angel boys

6. Cherry Magic The Movie (Japan)

the original series was so fucking good so i KNEW this was gonna be good but i didn’t think it was gonna THIS fucking good. this movie was everything i think all of us wanted it to be and more. i could not ask for anything else, this movie knew what it needed to give and it GAVEEEE. it was so cute and the serotonin boost i got while watching this, i felt like a lovesick fool smiling throughout the entire thing. it was certainly a perfect ending for this amazing series.

7. Senpai, Danjite Koidewa! (Japan)

japan was GIVING in 2022. i cannot even begin to explain how in love i was with this series. even i was surprised at how much i loved it bc i usually don’t really like workplace/ office bls, i really don’t, but something about this year made me overcome that dislike and i was obsessed with so many workplace bls this year, i think this series is the one that started that trend for me.

8. Love Stage!! (Thailand)

so this series was so unexpectedly good. the original anime has always been one of my favorites so i was so hyped about this. i saw the japanese adaptation that came out in like 2020 which was umm.....something. i will say that this was MUCHHH better than that. especially since it was kaownah and turbo, made it so much better, they were perfect. i remember while watching this there were so many issues with episodes like audio, quality and subtitles wise, like there was always something wrong. despite that though i got through it and still enjoyed it. the side couple was also really good. since this series revolves around celebrities, managers and the entertainment industry it gave very much war of y vibes but like not as dramatic(?)

9. My Secret Love (Thailand)

everybody and they mamas was hating on this series and i never knew why, i felt like i was the only one enjoying it? i loved all the couples (especially park and lee) and like it was pretty much just a lighthearted university bl which i’m quite a sucker for tbh. i do admit some scenes were a little.....?? much? unnecessary? but overall i loved it, and the ost is such a bop, one of the few thai bl osts i really enjoy, bc it’s jeff satur so of course.

10. Oh! Boarding House (S. Korea)

do not ask me why i loved this series so much, i really do not know. i feel like it just really stuck with me throughout the year and even till now i catch myself thinking about it for no reason. like there were so many good korean bls this year but this one was slightly different. i loved the main couple and i just really enjoyed the other side characters as well. it was like a found family kind of situation and it felt really cozy, fun and relaxing to watch. like while watching it, is almost felt like hanging out with friends? idk if you haven’t seen it pls go watch it and maybe you’ll understand what i mean.

Honorable Mentions!

- Triage (Thailand)

- Plus and Minus (Taiwan)

- Semantic Error (S. Korea)

I would say overall this was a good year for bl, it seemed like there was a new series almost every week and there was always something to watch. also the influx of korean and japanese bls this year was surprising but they were all decent, they are pretty much on the same level as thailand at this point, but i think thailand is still number 1 in all things bl.

[lakesbian]

it's so nice of me that i don't set bear traps around for people who skipped arc 17 my best friend arc 17. i support everyone reading books how ever they enjoy them but also if you skipped arc 17 and or don't like the travelers what thehell man. you don't like when bad things happen? you don't like the simurgh? you don't like watching a bunch of teenagers who just got rube goldberg tragedy machined desperately trying to convince themselves that they're going to be okay even though their fate was decided from the start? you don't like the first moment of krouse manipulating his team to keep everyone calm being intentionally outright described as tricking them + his cape name being trickster? you don't like krouse going "two bodies...one person" to myrddin and myrddin being like What and krouse thinking "idfk i'm just saying shit lol" ? you don't like "ok remember 9/11 didn't happen endbringers did" ? you don't like the simurgh being hands down the scariest endbringer fight? you don't like someone being kersploded for spending too long in range of her? you don't like the eerie singing? you don't like the paranoia of sitting around in an empty town trying to avoid acknowledging how utterly fucked they all are? you don't like literally everything awful abt krouse + how he's inevitably going to end up outlined thru discussion about video games? i have to stop here i'm getting tempted to reread it. it's soooo good the vibe is immaculate. there's a flawlessly written tragedy and also the simurgh is there what do you mean you didnt read arc 17

[seth-burroughs]

Worshipper x Priest ramble because I'm soooooo normal about the chapter 1 characters.

Listen. As chapter 1's biggest defender these two had it going on. the names: The Priest & the Worshipper - Worshipper is a NM fanatic, dedicating himself to learning everything about him and wanting to catch him sooo bad, being so utterly *obsessed* with him he eventually BECAME the Nail Man (albeit the less cooler one), it's blatantly obvious the Worshipper is supposed to be worshipping his favourite serial killer over any deity in the Metal Fox church. The Nail Man being, well, Priest guy. That's his God guys. The priest that also wanted to play god sooo bad he copied the urban legend of NM to make it real the same way Worshipper guy copied the real Nail Man. The. You could make so much fucked up religious imagery old man toxic yaoi with this. The Worshipper wants and NEEDS foxy grandpa carnally he comes into the confessional booth every few days so he can try and fail to flirt with him using the most egregious and disgusting pick up lines and the Priest not even getting the hint and just saying "awe thanks that's very nice of you my fellow child of god :)) now if you'll excuse me i need to return some video tapes" and skedaddling to the woods. The vibes are immaculate forever sorrowful over it not being popular or even present at all in the fandom... Priest/Worshipper walked so hellxander could also walk just not as fast they were the BLUEPRINT OF TOXIC RAIN CODE YAOI❗❗❗That is all, I will now depart.

[danidoesathing]

top TEN lord huron songs go

Bitches love me for my lord huron obsession

1. Ancient Names Pt. I

Has been my top song in general for the past uhhh five years? Absolute insane song that got me hooked into listening to more vide noir (and more LH in general). It’s got everything: gorgeous sound, amazing guitar and bass, fantastic lyrics (check my header), great storytelling and utterly immaculate vibes. Peak song‼️

2. Not Dead Yet

I literally have it tattooed on my body. It’s fun and I love the whole thing with “this shit sucks and everything hurts but I’m not dead yet and that has to count for something” I can vibe with that. Plus Phantom Riders songs are always always amazing

3. The World Ender

Fantastic song for a fantastic character. We love arson and revenge in this house

4. The Birds are Singing at Night

GORGEOUS AND CRIMINALLY UNDERRATED so glad it’s getting more traction and attention as of late. Hearing it live was a religious experience and I’m forever grateful it happened to me

5. Fool for Love

It’s a fucking jam what can I say!!! I’m a sucker for songs that sound happy but are in truth kinda fucked up. i love how the whole thing applies to the lore of maybe probably not being real. also the music video is amazing and has given me one of my favorite gifs ive made

10/10 i love it here

6. Secret of Life

PUT ON YOUR NEW DRESS TONIGHT BABY LOOK TO THE WEST THE MOON'S IN THE SKY I WANNA GET AT LEAST THAT HIGH WANNA LEAVE THE EARTH AND ALL THINGS BEHIND!!!!

7. Lonesome Dreams

lonesome dreams my dear friend lonesome dreams. surreal vibes + the music video + my timeloop theory basically originates from here. i love it so so much

8. Hurricane

the serotonin song. genuinely has some effect on me that improves my mood no matter the situation. even without that its certificated banger and is fantastic live. almost made me cry during red rocks. could not tell you why only that one got to me but it did

9. Dead Man's Hand

DEAD MAN'S HAND!!!! a classic. what isnt there to love here. the story the lyrics the atmosphere the characters the VIBES!!!! i want to get a tattoo based on this one too ngl i have ideas

10. What Do it Mean

made me cry actually. putting tubbs at the end makes my heart hurt in a way i cant describe. wagh

[kanai-ward-census]

Worshipriest propaganda

"Listen. As chapter 1's biggest defender these two had it going on. the names: The Priest & the Worshipper - Worshipper is a NM fanatic, dedicating himself to learning everything about him and wanting to catch him sooo bad, being so utterly *obsessed* with him he eventually BECAME the Nail Man (albeit the less cooler one), it's blatantly obvious the Worshipper is supposed to be worshipping his favourite serial killer over any deity in the Metal Fox church. The Nail Man being, well, Priest guy. That's his God guys. The priest that also wanted to play god sooo bad he copied the urban legend of NM to make it real the same way Worshipper guy copied the real Nail Man. The. You could make so much fucked up religious imagery old man toxic yaoi with this. The Worshipper wants and NEEDS foxy grandpa carnally he comes into the confessional booth every few days so he can try and fail to flirt with him using the most egregious and disgusting pick up lines and the Priest not even getting the hint and just saying "awe thanks that's very nice of you my fellow child of god :)) now if you'll excuse me i need to return some video tapes" and skedaddling to the woods. The vibes are immaculate forever sorrowful over it not being popular or even present at all in the fandom... Priest/Worshipper walked so hellxander could also walk just not as fast they were the BLUEPRINT OF TOXIC RAIN CODE YAOI❗❗❗That is all, I will now depart."

[qtlibehsun]

too much but too late

pairing: georgenotfound x f!reader [angst]

summary: your wedding day was meant to be the best day of your life, but unfortunately for you a certain man by the name of George ruins it

warnings: lots of cursing, alcohol, mentions of a sexy time, vomit

word count: 2.1k

a.n: hello everyone! i am back! with more angst cause i literally love writing it so damn much. thank you so much for the great feedback from my last post, made me very happy to see majority of you all like it. i promise more works will be published soon since i currently have nothing to do with my life - please feel free to send through requests i love looking at them and i get excited to write them! and now onto the request... i made it super dramatic LOL

You had dreamed of this day for years. Dreamed of it when you were learning to tie your shoelaces, learning to ride a bike, learning how to write. The particular day? The day of your wedding. A day where you were adorned in a pristine white gown, hair immaculate, the tears of joy in your parents faces as they told you how proud they were of you for finding such a partner.

It resulted in your heart sprinting, your hands shaking, and a series of bouncing on the balls of your feet as you squealed alongside your best friends. You were utterly and undeniably ecstatic.

So why couldn’t he be happy for you.

Maybe it was the fact you two were best friends. Maybe it was the countless times you played video games together, joined with discord calls that lasted for over five hours. Maybe it was the fact you two were best friends. Best friends since birth perhaps. The way that almost every day for the past twenty-four years of his life was spent with you.  

Or maybe it was because of that one night on your 18th birthday. Where alcohol poisoned both your systems and blinded your reality. That one night where you went back to his place, and he proceeded to gently touch and love every part of you. That one night where your shadows danced together in harmonious ways to the music of the crickets.

He knew for sure he couldn’t be happy for you because he loved you, copious amounts.

He would never forget the tear you ripped in his heart as you woke up beside him, eyes glossy, a strain in your voice as you told him word’s he never wanted to hear.

I’m sorry George, but it was a mistake. It never should’ve happened. I don’t like you like that.

God, it haunted him.

It was a mistake.

It never should’ve happened.

She doesn’t like you like that.

A mistake.

He wanted to disappear. Disappear to a time before then, where some nights he’d hold you close to his chest and wish upon empty stars that you were his more than platonically. However, no matter what he did, where he went, the images of your face, contorted in pleasure underneath him were stuck like glue in the back of his eyelids, and the whisper of his name that sounded like bells played persistently in his mind. He could not escape you.

And he wanted to disappear now more than ever. To withdraw from a day that made you so happy.

He looked so handsome. A crisp suit, a straight tie, hair fluffy as usual but more styled. However, his eyes were red and sunken, slight stubble on his chin, and a watery gaze that was not there from joy. He looked like a broken glass masterpiece kept together by masking tape.

And when you appeared at the end of aisle, fuck. He wanted to scream from how stunning you were. A complete replica of the most charming painting he’d ever laid eyes on.

There were gasps and murmurs from friends and family that surrounded him, but they fell upon deaf ears. He could not concentrate. And when you made eye contact with him, he wanted to throw up, for he had never been so utterly devastated in his entire life.

Because the man you were marrying was not him.

Your smile, your beauty, your kindness, your everything was not for him. It was the other man that stood at the other end of the room. Hands clasped, emotion swelling with pride. Then again why wouldn’t it, you were his wife to be.

Not George’s.

And when the priest announced speak now or forever hold your peace, he wanted to so bad. His knees jumped with anticipation, the raging urge to yell that he loved you, and you didn’t belong with this man, you belonged with him. But he couldn’t. Because he loved you. And what kind of man would he be to ruin a day you had been looking forward to for so long.

And the kiss. Your first kiss as a married woman. It made his fists clench and heart skip. He wanted nothing more than to have your lips locked with his in that moment.

Your mother in her burst of joy turned around in her seat and grabbed George by his collar, pushing him into the tightest embrace of his life, her face wet, leaving a damp section on his jacket.

“Aren’t you so proud! Our beautiful girl is all grown up!” She squeaked.

All he could do was force out a tight-lipped smile and nod his head that caused his brain to throb. She wasn’t his girl, she was someone else’s.

He shouldn’t have come.

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

The expensive bourbon burned his eyes almost as much as his throat. He had had way too much to drink. Far too much for his best friend’s wedding day. His jacket had been forgotten, hung to the back of his chair, sleeves rolled, and tie loosened. He probably would’ve been picked up by a single lady if he didn’t look so miserable. George stayed seated, gaze hardened on the inside of his empty glass as everyone watched you and your husband dance. He refused to watch the smile of joy graced upon your face when you danced with him.

God why were you so fucking beautiful.

A man with fluffy hair and eyes as blue as the ocean however had spotted the dejected man. He sat down with a huff next to him.

“Hey George.” “Hey Karl.”

“What’s up with ya’ buddy? Why you so down.” Karl asked as he wrapped an arm around the back of George’s chair, scooting closer. The brunette just shrugged.

“She looks beautiful, doesn’t she?” He pried, trying to get any response out of the British man.

For the first time since you started dancing George looked at you. Head thrown back in laughter; eyes crinkled at the corner. He had always made fun of you for that.

What had he done wrong? He must’ve done something for God to punish him so cruelly. He shouldn’t have made fun of the wrinkles in your eyes, they were beautiful. He shouldn’t have put the chewed-up gum in your hair, he just wanted your attention. He should’ve remembered your fourteenth birthday party. Why did he have to go off with that other stupid girl he met. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

He felt so fucking stupid.

All the reasons as to why you weren’t his flew threw his head, making him so overwhelmed he thought as though if he were to stand up, he would fall back on his arse again.

“Try not to think about it George, its done now, nothing you can do,” and with that Karl stood up to join the rest of the guests, now dispersing to sit back down or join the two newlyweds for a dance.

That was it. He had to get out of there. Karl’s words had struck a nerve him in. Although drunk and clearly not thinking straight he was right. There was nothing he could do. So why was he still here?

Shooting up and grabbing his jacket George made a swift bolt to the exit of the reception.

Unfortunately for him, you saw your best friend leaving, and with a quick kiss on the cheek and a I’ll be right back, you left your husband by himself and ran after your best friend.

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

He heard you call his name in the deserted hallway and was almost tempted to break out in a sprint. He couldn’t talk to you. He loved you like you were a drug. So bad for him but yet he was so addicted. So, against his better judgement he turned around to face you.

“Where are you going?” You asked, cheerfulness dripping in your tone. You clearly didn’t catch on to his deprived state, you were too far away.

“I’m going home.”

Your smile dropped. “Oh, why?”

It was too late now. The alcohol in his system was blinding, and although his brain was screaming at him to turn around, don’t ruin her night, his heart was screaming tell her you love her, make her yours, it’s not too late, Karl was wrong. And detrimentally, for him he went with the latter.

Before you could even comprehend what was happening, he strode forward, grabbed your face ferociously and went in for a kiss. But before George could feel the sweetness of your lips on his once again you pushed him away, two hard hands on his chest causing him too stumble.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” You screamed, fury circling your body and resounding your reality. It was now when you were face to face with him you smelt the repulsive hard liquor on his breath. You noticed his red rimmed eyes and the smattering of stubble he wore. He looked almost sick.

“Y/N, Y/N, Y/N fuck please I’m sorry,” he whined, words slurring together. He was so drunk.

“Why did you do that? What evil thing literally possessed you to try and kiss me? And on my wedding night you sick bastard.” You were so frustrated and disappointed in your best friend you started to cry.

George was so desperate. You were standing so close to him, looking so beautiful, smelling heavenly. But now you were crying, and your perfect makeup was dripping in flawed lines down your face.

Oh no, he thought to himself. I caused that. Let me fix it.

He reached out to wipe away your tears, but you only pushed him away again. He choked on a sob that was threatening to leave so fast. You were breaking his heart so quickly. Why did he do that, he shouldn’t have done that.

“George why?” You whispered to him, wiping away your own tears. “Why?”

“Because it wasn’t a mistake for me Y/N. It wasn’t.” You stood there quietly, paralysed with shock at the information that thudded your heart. He took it as an invitation to continue speaking.

“For as long as I can remember Y/N I have been wholly and devotedly in love with you. Holy fuck you fucking kill me. And not just because of the night we shared on your 18th birthday, but every other night. Where I got to hold you in my arms, and just pretend that for a second that you were mine. Mine to hold, to kiss, to protect, to love.”

He almost seemed sober from the passion that leaked through his words.

“And I understand you love this man, I mean why else would you be marrying him, but fuck I can’t lie anymore. I can’t sit here and pretend that I didn’t wish that man was me. What did I do wrong?” Now he was seriously crying. “Why was I not good enough for you darling? I did everything for you.”

You were flustered and pissed and crying so much you could only sob out a small “cause I’m just not in love with you George. I never was and I don’t think I ever will be.”

George became overrun with jealousy and rage, the bourbon only adding fuel to the fire.

“God damnit girl. You’re fucking breaking my heart. I hope your happy with him, but I also hope you know how far I would’ve gone for you. Anything you fucking wanted I would’ve got you. Fuck!” He was yelling by the end, the liquid courage turning him into a toxic beast. He would be so disappointed in himself if he were sober.

“Fuck you George! You’ve ruined what was meant to be the best day of my life!” You huffed picking up your dress and turning to run away, your cries following you, haunting the hallways making him shiver.

With the knowledge of him ruining a day you had been looking forward to for so long, and quite possibly losing something he loved so much, he ran to the nearest restroom, knees buckling when he entered the stall as he hurled the dangerous amounts of liquor into the toilet.

He sobbed and cried in between emptying his entire stomach, hands plastered so roughly and deeply into his hair.

He ruined everything.

He was such a mistake.

And it was something that ruined a perfect friendship, a guilt that plagued him for years until the grave.

[tiesandtea]

SUEDE: Style & Substances

Alternative Press, May 1997 (no. 106). Mag cover. Written by Dave Thompson. Archived here.

Suede Give Us A Glimmer...

Bleeding through the debate about vocalist Brett Anderson's sexuality and rumored drug intake, the overall glamour with which society equates a fucked-up lifestyle drapes Suede like a second skin. Dave Thompson travels to London to discover why Suede are one of the few bands that matter in an age of stars who are "just like you."

Brett Anderson leans against an amplifier, hands in pocket, shoulders hunched. To his left, the rest of Suede are playing Fleetwood Mac's "Albatross"; to his right, a television crew is fiddling with camera angles. He wants a cigarette, but he never smokes this close to showtime. Instead, he swings a keychain and glowers into the monitors. It's rehearsal time in Studio Four, a theater-sized room as the BBC, and the only person who's enjoying himself is an increasingly rotund-looking Jools Holland. He's the host of this evening's show, and he's away in another room entirely. 

Later...With Jools Holland is a British TV institution. Less than three years old, it has nevertheless sewn up a comfortable niche somewhere between the chart-conscious grooviness of Top of the Pops and the more indulgent pastures of MTV Unplugged. It's a showcase for bands to run through a handful of new songs, play a favorite or two and give a taste of their live prowess without boring the unconverted senseless. Boring themselves senseless, of course, is another matter entirely, and as Suede are counted into the third rehearsal of their opening song "Trash," you can almost sense the desperation in Anderson's face. Then the action starts, and he's utterly transformed. Though he's barely moving and scarcely singing, he's conveying an intensity that explodes from his very presence, drawing the most disinterested eyes in his direction. Even the soundmen look up from their meters, and the camera crew compete for his undying attention. If Anderson weren't a rock star, he'd make a great lunatic. But because he is a rock star...well, he's probably a lunatic anyway. You would be, too, in his shoes. If the 1990s have given us anything, it's the demystification of the rock star. From the boy-next-door Weezers to the angst-ridden whiners, the message is the same: I'm no different from you; I'm no better than you; and, of course, I'm just as screwed up as you. Enter, or more properly, re-enter Suede, with their third album, Coming Up (Columbia). And all that hard work reducing idols to idiots counts for nothing. Because Suede couldn't be "just like you" even if they wanted to. Bleeding through the "is he?/isn't he?" debate about vocalist Brett Anderson's sexuality and the "does he?/doesn't he?" of his rumored drug intake, the overall glamour with which society equates a fucked-up lifestyle drapes Suede like a second skin. The scent of teen spirit clings to them, the doomed romanticism of consumptive youth which peaked on their last album, 1994's Dog Man Star, and peeks through the stunning Coming Up. Suede deal in emotional extremes, from the A Clockwork Orange apocalypse of their "We Are The Pigs" video in which armed hooligans howl through a burning industrial landscape while Suede gaze down from giant video screens, to the incandescent loneliness of the current "Saturday Night" video, in which a London subway station is transformed into a rave to which the band have not been invited. The band's junkie chic is as apparent in the stoned immaculate presentation of their latest wasted-youth album-cover artwork, as it is in the gorgeously gaunt frame which Anderson angles for the television cameras. Add a live show that oozes subversive glamour; couple that with the fearless decadence of Anderson's greatest lyrics, and whether it's all an act or not, Suede are a walking advertisement for the joyful sins of sleaze. Backstage in the bowels of the BBC, Anderson sighs. He's heard all this before. "Yeah, you can look at it like that, but that's other people's interpretation of it, and that's their problem. You can't look at yourself through other people's eyes, then worry about what you say through their ears; you've got to have some self-belief in what you are." Which is, right now, the biggest thing on 10 legs. Across Europe and the Far East, Coming Up charted at No.1 and has already outsold both its predecessors. Three singles have kept the pot boiling ever since, and the current Suede line-up (their fifth on record since their 1990 "Be My God" 7-inch single debut) is their strongest yet. Like Brian Eno's departure from Roxy Music, founding guitarist Bernard Butler's exit did not so much rid the band of one creative spark, as open the door for the flowering of another. Anderson's unequivocal grasping of the reins, only partly aided by the recruitment of guitarist Richard Oakes, may have diluted Suede's overall sound, but it has sharpened their vision to a razor's edge. The further addition of keyboardist Neil Codling fills the gaps that teen maestro Oakes couldn't plug; the Simon Gilbert/Mat Osman rhythm section is a thunderous roar that never lets up; and Coming Up is unmistakably the sound of the same great band that recorded Dog Man Star. The difference is, Anderson affirms, they've stopped pissing around. "After Dog Man Star, everyone thought we were going to do an operetta or something like that. But you get things out of your system. We wanted to refocus the band, the fact that we were virtually starting again; we wanted to readjust the basics." And did it work? "You can't completely divorce yourself from your past. I haven't got the memory of a goldfish; I was aware that I'd made two albums before it. But it felt fresh, and it felt as though we were making the record away from a lot of the crap you have to deal with, away from the spotlight, which was great. Plus...", and here he gestures to new arrivals Codling and Oakes, "... there's less of an obsession with self-importance, which was definitely a change in the band. The last two albums were quite precious and self-important, and that can be good and that can be bad." Ah, preciousness. Plough through five years of Suede press and the buzzwords leap out: "superficial", "fake", "David Bowie" - three hollow sides to the same soulless coin. But most of the people who call Suede "pretentious" are the same ones who fancy the Spice Girls. And the closest those cynics get to class is the corridor outside the school room. "It does bother us a bit," says Anderson. "People always want to polarize bands into camps, and what I always find objectionable, even with journalists who are pro-Suede, is, they always want to write about us as an alternative to this good, honest musicianship going on elsewhere, which kind of implies that there isn't any good, honest musicianship going on within Suede." Anderson resents that implication, just as he resents the accusations of vanity that are flung at him with equal frequency - the two go hand in hand, after all. "People ask, 'Are you vain?' Hang on, let me turn the question around. If you were going to appear on television in front of five million people, you'd probably look in a mirror to see what you look like. You'll brush your hair and put a bit of make-up on because you don't want to look like a pig. Does that mean you're vain? I don't think it does. "Ninety-nine percent of my career thought is dedicated to thinking about music; a very tiny percentage is spent on image. I may go shopping once a month; but while I don't think we're the honest blokes down the pub, we're not kooky weirdos either. We're just what we are." A decent image, though, is still worth a thousand songs (ask Marilyn Manson), and if it's not their Englishness that holds Suede back in the U.S., then it has to be their appearance. They look weird. Catch the "Beautiful Ones" video: Codling apes the same abstracted pose of diffidence and boredom that once made a star of Sparks' Ron Mael; and Osman and Oakes look like they're trying to extinguish a particularly persistent cigarette end. Their singer is fey. Imagine Bryan Ferry if a stick insect stole his trousers. Their music is arty. And they come on like they're somehow special, so special that America poses little interest or challenge to Suede. Other bands make no secret of their desire to crack the country, nor do they hide their disgust when they fail. Suede, though, never seemed bothered. Past U.S. tours (three so far) have been languid affairs, barely publicized flirtations which almost gratefully acknowledge that as far as most people are concerned, Suede might as well be a lesbian performing artist. Anderson dictates the band's Stateside manifesto: "I don't give a shit." "Don't get me wrong: please don't portray us as some sort of anti-American thing, because we're not. But as far as America is concerned, you can talk about airplay and videos, but all it really boils down to is the fact that America doesn't like Suede. And I'm not going to knock it, if they don't like it, they don't like it." And what don't they like? Kurt Cobain had a tummy ache, and a nation felt his pain. Trent Reznor's dog died, and a nation held his hand. Brett Anderson wrote songs about holes in your arm ("The Living Dead") and pantomime horses ("Pantomime Horse"); he equates love with flyaway litter ("Trash"), and he's never been in rehab. "I hate that rehab shit! That's one place where America get really suckered, with those rehab rock bands. Let me explain what going into rehab means. It means you're cool because you used to do drugs, but now you're a good lad, and you're really '90s, so you want to give them up. But it's a complete excuse, and anybody who says it or does it is a complete careerist. I don't think the public shoulg go out and buy records by people whose record companies have told them to say they're going into rehab. You want to talk about fakes and falseness in the music business; I think this rehab rock thing is such a lot of dog shit." So you don't just say no? "I can't sit here and honestly say that drugs are bad for you, because I don't believe that, and I don't think anybody with a brain believes that." He elaborates: "Smoking a bit of pot and taking a bit of LSD can open a few barriers in your mind, although I certainly don't think taking smack, taking coke or taking crack does anything. I know I've taken drugs before and looked back on it and said, 'That's fucking crap; you should have got your act together and stopped taking them.' They just numb you and turn you into a wrong-thinking fucking idiot. "But that's the whole problem with drugs, isn't it? You can't say 'drugs' because there's so many different factes to it. 'It's an aid to creativity.' Well, some of it is, and some of it isn't. You can't paint everything with one brush." As for the veneer of glamour which Suede's own observations convey, the danger that, to quote the new album's "The Chemistry Between Us," "we are young and easily led," Anderson remains equally adamant. "There's no point in trying to filter things like 'Don't talk about this, don't talk about that.' Lots of times when I'm talking about drugs, I'm talking in a pedestrian context. I'm not trying to make it into a big deal; I talk about it like I'd talk about anything else that's in this room." And though he agrees there is a moral question, he also believes it's impossible to do much about it. "The only way you can set yourself up as something moral is in the broader sense, by not treating music as this completely throwaway, meaningless thing, and not treating the sentiments expressed in the music as completely throwaway, meaningless things. "That's where I see my position morally, someone who can write a love song and actually bring a degree of warmth to someone else. You can't act as censor in your words; you just have to be positive about what you're doing and see that making records that people love, that people cling to, and that help people through sticky patches in their lives is, at the end of the day, a positive thing to do. There's very few things I think that are positive in the world, but music is one of them." And that is that. In an age when a star is only as big as his last three videos, and most stars are as interesting as a line at the post office, Suede are three albums into a career that means more to more people than any of the bickering of Suede's petty, wormwood competitors; and certainly far more than the bitter, twisted harping of their detractors. Stars shine, shit stinks, and the lowest common denominator is nothing to be proud of. No one really wants to watch Hootie feed his blowfish, but Brett Anderson spends "Saturday Night" moping around on a subway train, and it's the best thing on MTV this year. Who cares what else he gets up to? Turning as he heads for the soundstage, Anderson won't be drawn. "My drugs of choice are ginseng and chamomile tea, but don't worry. I'm going into rehab soon."

[hethrewmyheartinthecut]

Tatiana/esme for coffeeshop au? Only if you feel like it of course!

Oh, I feel like it. I most certainly feel like it.

with your hair down, a Tatiana x Esme fic

 read more like this on ao3 • or my tumblr masterlist

One morning Esme came to work, unlocked the front door, and found a dark-haired woman just sitting there on the edge of the front counter, heel-clad feet swinging back and forth, doing something on her phone. Evidently bored, but holding herself with the feline grace of an aristocrat, clad head to toe in clothing a sleek white pantsuit whose professional effect was absolutely ruined by the black lace crop top she wore underneath.

“I want a croissant,” she said. What accent was that? Russian?

Esme rubbed her eyes and tried to make sense of it all. “We’re not open until six-thirty,” she said. “How did you get in?”

“Two almond croissants. And a quad macchiato.”

“I don’t want to call the police.”

“Then don’t.”

Esme let her massive purse fall to the floor with a thud. “It’s too early in the morning for this. Tell me who you are, or I’ll kick you out myself.”

Without changing the position of her head, the woman looked up. Esme froze. A lesser woman would’ve stepped back. Suit or no, there was nothing civilized about those green eyes. They were purely feral, and nakedly interested.

But then the woman blinked, and it was if a blade had been sheathed. “That’s the level of dedication I like to see in my workers,” she said, giving Esme a sardonic smile and then returning her attention to her phone.

“Your?”

“Check your email.”

Esme pulled out her own phone, and sure enough, buried under an assortment of unasked-for grocery store coupons, sales advertisements for kids’ clothing, requests to schedule parent-teacher conferences, and the occasional chain email from Linda, there was an email from corporate that congratulated Tatiana Petrovna on becoming the youngest person to ever own a Moody’s Coffee. In the email there was a photo, unquestionably of the same woman that now sat on the countertop, with her curly hair swept up into a bun and her flawless face set in a smug smile.

Esme picked up her purse and made her way behind the counter. “What happened to Bob?”

“Who’s that?”

“The previous owner.”

“Dead.”

Esme felt like she should say something about that, like: oh, that’s too bad, but it wasn’t really. He’d been an old, unpleasant, and incompetent. Besides, Tatiana clearly didn’t give a damn. In fact, from this angle, Esme could see her phone, and it was perfectly obvious that Tatiana was just continually swiping left on a wide array of people, mostly uni students, a few professors.

“Two percent, skim, almond, soy?” Esme said.

“Do I look like a vegan to you?”

“That only eliminates two.”

“I don’t care.”

For one sweet moment, Esme fantasized about making the macchiato with half and half instead of milk, or better, just putting a glob of sour cream in a cup with espresso, but then, employment. Employment was good. Or if not good, then at least necessary.

“Skim it is,” she said.

Twenty minutes later, the croissants came out of the oven piping hot. Esme slid them into a brown paper bag, and handed the bag, along with the macchiato, to Tatiana.

Tatiana hopped off the countertop and landing so smoothly that her suit remained immaculate, unstained by even the smallest fleck of macchiato. “Tell Hansen she gets a ten percent raise if she doesn’t fuck up.”

“Tell her yourself,” Esme said, but by then Tatiana was already half-out the door.

In the weeks that followed, Tatiana showed up randomly, never at the same time, never eating the same thing, and wearing a succession of increasingly exquisite clothes, verging on couture. On the very same day that Esme’s oldest stepchild, Katie, got her first period, stained the backseat of their car, and cried about it all the way home, Tatiana showed up at Moody’s Coffee wearing Louboutins. That had Esme feeling some type of way. Nothing positive.

There were other changes, too: the old uniforms of ugly green polo shirts and black pants were replaced by graphic tees and jeans; the menu shortened but the list of weekly specials grew; the corporate décor disappeared overnight, replaced by cozy, eclectic, bean-bag-and-lamp style pieces. It all seemed utterly suited to the aesthetic of a hip college town, but utterly antithetical to Tatiana’s aesthetic in all its red-lipped, stiletto glory. But she clearly didn’t disapprove; the Saturday after the renovations, she appeared before even the bakers, somehow having managed to discover a way to lie languorously, elegantly even, across two beanbags with a bottle of wine and a massive Russian tome.

About three weeks in, Esme showed up to work an afternoon shift and Tatiana was behind the counter, leaning against the back wall, phone in hand, but watching with keen interest everything that poor Carter and Fiona were doing.

“Move,” Esme said.

“Why?”

“The three o’clock classes get out in ten minutes, and I won’t have the time to be reaching around you to get at the rack of syrups.”

“Mm.” Tatiana moved back into the corner and stood so still that in the midst of the rush, Esme forgot she was there at all, until a girl in a Canada Goose coat leaned over and tapped Tatiana on the shoulder. Now this, Esme wanted to see. If only because she loathed every fool who bought an $800 jacket when a $150 would do.

“Hey. Are you the manager?” the girl said.

“The owner,” said Tatiana, slightly through her teeth.

“Look, I’m not trying to cause trouble, but she misspelled my name.” The girl pointed at Fiona, who, bless her, looked petrified. “Sorry,” she said.

“What’s your name?” Tatiana had a way of making every word sound desultory, but it didn’t stop the girl a bit. She barrelled on.

“It’s not Claire, C. L. A. I. R. E., it’s Clare, C. L. A. R. E.”

“Ah.” Tatiana stared at her, magnificently, transparently bored.

“So?” Clare said.

“Would you like me to do something?”

“Tell your employees to spell my name properly, maybe?”

“I really am sorry,” said Fiona.

“Alternatively?” said Tatiana.

Clare’s brow furrowed. “What?”

“Alternatively…” With the flick of one finger, Tatiana knocked over the cup, and it tipped over sideways, spilling a hot brown stream onto the girl’s winter boots.

The girl took a step back, and Esme could see the precise moment when denial turned to rage. “You know what? I’m going two blocks down, and I’m getting it from Starbucks! I’m getting everything from Starbucks from now on!”

“Enjoy it while it lasts,” said Tatiana. Her red lips lifted in that feline smile. “Starbucks will be closing soon. I hear the building’s been cursed.”

The girl looked over at Esme, as if seeking reassurance that this was all a practical joke. Esme smiled a placid and flat-eyed smile right back at her. Clare left.

The next day, there was a plaque up on the wall with Tatiana on it. The bio underneath might have been printed in a cutesy font, the swirl of midnight blue might have been well in keeping with the whimsy of the coffeeshop, but there was no amount of design that could render Tatiana’s sheer magnetic arrogance and beauty into something friendly. Even in a photo.

That plaque got plenty of use. Tatiana showed up during every rush, morning, noon, and night, for nine days straight, expertly weaving between the workers and taking orders just like the rest with a smile about a hundred watts too bright for comfort. Clack clack clack went her heels on the tile. Her misspellings became too aggressive to be mistaken for a mistake. At every complaint, she pointed at the plaque.

Pay improved. A few people vanished, without any clear confirmation about whether they’d been fired or just quit. Esme didn’t complain. She found she was enjoying the reign of this new tyrant, even though the tyrant’s benevolence was still an open question.

Even after that nine-day sprint, Tatiana occasionally showed up during the rush. Sometimes she jumped in, doing everything from cappuccinos to taking out the trash; other times, she demanded (and received) free pastries.

“She’s so rude,” said Carter, late one Friday night, at closing.

“That’s exactly why people love her,” said Fiona.

“I’m just scared of her,” he said.

“She’s like a neighborhood cat that only bites,” Fiona added. “It’s fun for them. It’s a bit of personality.”

“But how long before we start losing customers?” said Esme.

“I don’t know, but month over month sales have gone up by six percent,” said Hanson. “I think it’s working.”

“We’ll see,” said Esme.

Except the next week, the Starbucks two blocks down closed and Moody’s got even busier.

“Oh my God. Oh my God.” Fiona gripped Esme’s arm hard. “Look. That’s the guy.”

Esme peered over the counter at the blonde man picking up a copy of the Wall Street Journal in the corner store opposite Moody’s Coffee. “You’re kidding.”

“Who?” Carter craned his neck.

“That’s the only man I’ve ever seen Tatiana swipe right on. There have been four women, and one man. That’s the man.”

All three stared breathlessly until he disappeared down the street.

“He was tall,” said Fiona admiringly.

“Not that tall,” said Carter.

“You’re five foot seven, what would you know about tall?”

“Oh, fuck off.”

“He seems rich. Like sugar daddy rich. Do you think Tatiana has a sugar daddy?”

“Why would she need one?” Esme said.

“Why indeed,” said Tatiana, appearing as if by magic from the back room.

Fiona and Carter scattered.

“You might enjoy it,” Esme said.

“Mm, the long game’s much too much work, and men are not dependable. Take it from me, Esme, all meat tastes better when you’ve hunted it yourself.”

“Spoken like a true heiress, with no spouse, no parents, and no children.”

“Doesn’t make me wrong.”

Tatiana was right, of course, but Esme couldn’t bring herself to say it, so she just gave Tatiana one last look and turned back to the whipped cream.

Nobody ever saw the blonde man again.

This sexual harassment training video had to have been made in the eighties. At first, Esme thought she could tolerate the old graphics and the quasi-elevator music, but then the man in the example said honkers and she burst out laughing.

“Let’s just get through this,” said Hanson grimly.

“No, she’s right,” said Tatiana from the back, at her most sardonic. Hanson flipped on the lights.

“How long have you been here?” said Fiona.

“Too long.” Tatiana walked to the front of the room. “I’m taking over this education. The video’s far too complicated. It’s a simple calculation. Sexual harassment is just a flavor of bullshit with very specific consequences: if you do it, you lose an ear. If you don’t, you live your life.” She produced a folding knife and opened it up. “Bullshit.” She closed it again. “No bullshit.” Opened it “Bullshit.” Closed it. “No bullshit. Now let’s have a demonstration. Who wants to be sexually harassed today?”

The workers at Moody’s Coffee were almost acclimated to Tatiana to the point where the production of a knife and a few threats of bodily harm surprised no one. Still, only Esme raised her hand. She had really developed a taste for Tatiana’s nonsense.

“Are you sure?” said Tatiana, with a hint of amusement.

Esme leaned back in her chair. “Hit me with your best shot.”

“Esme Shelby,” Tatiana said, “The uniform replacements were worth every penny, if only because your tits were absolutely wasted behind those old baggy green shirts.” She turned to the workers and flipped the knife open. “Bullshit. You see?”

“Not sure I’d call that bullshit,” Esme said.

“For the purposes of your education. Now, let’s try a different kind of compliment. Esme, great job today. You really impressed me by getting every order out without a single spill.”

“Snore,” said Esme.

Tatiana flipped the knife closed. “But it wasn’t bullshit. Everyone’s ears stay attached.”

“Kind of mild, wasn’t it?” said Esme.

“What?”

“Your bullshit example.”

“You’d like another?”

“Sure.”

Tatiana stared at her directly. “Esme, every day that I come into this shop, I think to myself: I hope her husband has the stamina of an Arabian horse. Because if I were him, I would make it my personal mission to eat that pussy every single day, and twice on Sundays.”

“Oh, he’s been dead two years now.”

Tatiana, for once, had nothing immediately ready to say.

“But thanks,” Esme added lightly. “He did have a fantastic tongue.”

“I think you’ve got your point across, Petrovna,” said Hanson severely.

“Class dismissed,” said Tatiana.

It was soft and sunny despite the dreadful cold, and during an early afternoon lull, Esme was the only one behind the counter. Having already wiped down the counter, she fell into a reverie. It was broken all too soon by Tatiana saying, sounding for the first time a little anxious, “Did that woman just leave her baby behind in a fucking coffeeshop?”

Esme looked over the counter. Yes, there was a baby in a big black plastic carrier. Fussing. Oh, this was not good. Esme knew that sound. “They’re going to start crying any second now.”

“What do I do?”

“Just talk to them.”

Tatiana leaned over the carrier. Lit like that by the sunlight coming in rays through the windows, she could’ve been a Madonna. But then she spoke. “Ultimately,” she said, “I think you’ll find that life is far better without any parents.”

The baby began to cry.

“Jesus, not like that,” said Esme.

Tatiana shot her a scowl, then turned back to the baby and made her voice a shade softer and several notes lower. “Hello,” she said gravely. Then she blew gently into the baby’s face.

The baby started crying harder.

“Fucking hell. Switch,” ordered Esme, coming out from behind the counter as Tatiana, chagrined, did as she was told. “What was that?”

“It usually works on horses,” Tatiana said.

“On horses? What, have you never seen a baby before?” Esme picked the baby up and cuddled it close. It quieted down a little.

“I’ve seen them, of course, but they’re always other people’s babies.”

“Have you ever held one?”

“I couldn’t.”

“The mum’s not going to care whether it’s you or me. If she comes back at all. And they’ll be fine, as long as you don’t drop them. They’re old enough to hold up their head. Aren’t you?” Esme cooed. “You’ve got a good strong neck.”

The baby considered this, then sneezed into Esme’s shoulder.

“Tatiana, come here.”

Tatiana hesitated.

“It’s the best feeling in the world, come on. Come on.”

“Fine.”

Tatiana held the baby gingerly at first, like it might bite her. The baby looked quizzically at her with their enormous brown eyes.

“It doesn’t like it,” Tatiana said, trying to give the baby back.

Esme stepped away. “Just relax.” Rifling through the diaper bag, she found a soother neatly labeled Christie May and a cup of cereal labeled the same. But no kind of return address anywhere.

“Pardon me.” There was a customer at the counter. Esme’s old statistics professor, to be exact. Damn.

“I’ll be right with you,” she called. “Here.” She passed the soother to Tatiana. “Stick that in her mouth if she starts crying again. Pat her on the back a little too, babies like that.”

Esme had three customers to get through after the professor, but when another lull came, she looked over and saw Tatiana dutifully patting away. After a little while, the baby opened her tiny mouth in a big O of a yawn.

Peace reigned in the coffeeshop, or at least until the door swung open.

“Oh! Hello. Did you make a friend, Christie May?” the mother cooed, making a beeline for the baby and taking her back from Tatiana as if nothing had happened. Tatiana made a face of disgust.

“She was crying,” Esme said. She figured it was better to speak than to have Tatiana say anything.

“Say bye-bye to the nice lady! Bye bye!”

A muscle twitched in Tatiana’s jaw.

“There’s a daycare center just three blocks down Division Street,” said Esme.

“Oh, I know,” the mother said airily. “But I was only gone for twenty minutes. Wasn’t I, sweetheart? Wasn’t I?”

The baby gurgled.

“See?” said the mother, as if that proved something. She put the baby in the carrier, picked up the diaper bag, and headed for the door.

“I’m calling Child Protective Services,” Tatiana shouted after her.

“Well?” said Esme.

“It was alright,” Tatiana said grudgingly.

Esme rolled her eyes. “You’re welcome.”

Esme blinked blearily awake against the punishing morning light. Pounding head, dry mouth. What was this? A flashback to her undergraduate days?

“Here.” One syllable, but the voice was unmistakably Tatiana’s. A glass of water was shoved in Esme’s face, and Esme accepted it.

“Where are the kids?” she croaked.

“At your father’s house. It’s Saturday.”

“I thought it was Friday.”

“It was, but now it’s Saturday.”

“Oh Jesus.”

Tatiana was sitting on the nightstand, sipping apple juice from a kids’ juicebox and looking entirely unsympathetic. Esme went back in her memory to try and figure out if she deserved any of this.

“We got drunk last night,” Esme said.

“Yes. Kids were at your father’s, and it was your night off.”

That sounded about right. Tatiana had closed up shop with her, then offered to share a bottle of rum. That much made sense. “Okay.” Esme set the empty glass down, tried to dig deeper into her memory. “Did I drink vodka?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Why did I drink vodka? I hate vodka.”

“No, you like vodka. When it’s mixed with grapefruit juice and rum and curaçao.”

“What?”

“Get dressed.”

“Nnf.” It was all too much. Esme buried her head in her pillow, only to have it yanked out from under her head. “Why?”

“We have to go to the city. There’s that Christmas dinner with your in-laws.”

“Oh, fuck.” Esme sat up. “We?”

“You invited me to come along, last night. You said, and I quote: ‘I want to see the look on Tommy Shelby’s face when I roll up to his stupid mansion with a woman richer than he is on my arm.’”

“That does sound like something I would say.”

“And then you said you wanted to find his knighthood ribbon and flush it down a toilet.”

“I’m not gonna do that.”

“But you want to.”

“You’re not going to do it either.”

“But I want to!”

“You’re not coming.”

“What, you’re going to make the four-hour drive all by yourself?” Tatiana rolled her eyes. “Hurry up and meet me out front, or we’ll be unfashionably late.”

“Tatiana.”

“Mm?”

“Did we have sex?”

“While you were that drunk? Of course not, it would be cheating you of the full Petrovna experience.” With a wink, she shut the bedroom door behind her.

Thanks to the gift of single motherhood, Esme could sleep anywhere, anytime, for as long as she was allowed, so when Tatiana shook her awake, she found herself in Tommy’s neighborhood. God, the place was horrid, with its wrought-iron gates, manicured lawns, and unfiltered bullshit.

“We’re half an hour late!” Tatiana chirped. “This will be good.” She got out of the car. Esme stumbled out after her.

“Wait, shouldn’t we coordinate on–”

Tatiana had produced a garment bag from the trunk of her car. “It’s the holidays, Esme. Did you think I’d come underdressed?” She passed another bag to Esme. “Or that I’d let you?” She opened the car door. “Go on, the windows are tinted for a reason.”

Esme wanted to argue, but this was her only good dress, the same dress that she’d worn to the last Christmas dinner, which Polly would undoubtedly notice. And she was curious.

The bag turned out to contain a sleeveless dark blue sequined number and a matching set of diamond chandelier earrings and a necklace. Damn. Esme had been expecting something more like a shirt with a middle finger printed on it, but come to think of it, this was better. This was much better.

“How’d you pick the fit?” she asked, when she emerged.

“I’m observant.” Tatiana disappeared into the car and came out wearing a cream-colored dress embellished with seemingly dozens, maybe hundreds of tiny pearls. And a fur shrug.

“Good job Ada’s not coming, else you’d get an earful for that.” Saying it was really an excuse for Esme to poke the fur as they walked towards Tommy’s house. It was just as soft as it looked.

“I can take on all comers.”

“I don’t doubt it, but you’ll have your hands full with Polly and Tommy. And Arthur, if he gets offended.”

“And Linda.”

How much had Esme told her while drunk, exactly? Oh well, it was too late to find out. “Definitely Linda,” she agreed.

“We’ll have a good time. It’s always easier to ruin a party when you’re not the host.”

Tatiana rapped on the front door as Esme looked over the big white architectural monstrosity in front of them, with its stupid balcony and its myriad of windows.

“I hate this place,” Esme said.

“I’ve stayed in larger summer homes than this,” Tatiana said. And somehow, that did make Esme feel better about it all.

The door was opened by none other than Tommy himself, in his customary suit, looking every inch as infuriating as the last time she’d seen him, which by no coincidence was the last dinner.

“What, no butler?” said Esme.

He cleared his throat and gave Esme a meaningful look. “We’ve had trouble with servants before.”

She rolled her eyes and brushed past him. “You’re always having trouble.”

“Aren’t you going to introduce me?” he said.

“Tatiana, this is Tommy. Tommy, this is Tatiana.”

“Her brother-in-law,” said Tommy, sticking his hands in his pockets. For a second, Esme forgot that bringing Tatiana along was only a prank, and got more than a little annoyed that he wouldn’t just shake her hand.

But Tatiana tilted her hand and gave a lovely smile. “Her sugar daddy.” With that, she handed over the fur to Tommy, as if he were a footman, and swept down the hallway, latching onto Esme’s arm.

“What was that?” Esme murmured under her breath.

“Thought you said you wanted a rich woman on your arm.”

“It’s embarrassing.”

“No, it’s perfect. What better way to annoy them than to go over their heads?”

To be fair, there was nothing Tommy liked less than a competing power. And even if it wasn’t true, it would be delicious to make him think for a moment that the only hold he had on her (the trust he’d put together for the children’s college education) was no longer relevant.

“Just eat your food and enjoy the show,” said Tatiana, and then it was the dining room, and introductions.

Tatiana was at her most charming through the fourth course, and then, sometime during the fifth, Polly put down her fork and said, in that deliberate, clear voice that Esme hated: “So, Tatiana, what is it you do for work?”

“I sell coffee.”

“Ah.”

“And jewels. Art, books, cheese. Used to sell vodka. But now I only drink it.” She smiled brightly. “And I’m getting my master’s in psychology.”

“What is that, the study of psychos?” Arthur guffawed.

“Yes.” Tatiana didn’t look over; she and Polly were engaged in some sort of a staredown that left Esme on the edge of her seat and also possibly a little horny.

“Jewels?” said Tommy, breaking it up. It was the first he’d spoken for quite some time.

“All kinds,” said Tatiana, and all right, Esme did not care for the way her voice seemed to have dropped half an octave down.

“And what did you say your last name was?”

“I didn’t.”

Tommy pushed his chair back from the table, stood, and left. The east wing, Esme thought; his office. Maybe making a call. Maybe–

“Bathroom?” said Tatiana.

Polly pointed down the west wing. “Four downs the hall.”

“Thanks.” Tatiana got up and went in the opposite direction. Right after Tommy.

Polly was halfway out of her chair to follow when Esme said her name.

“What?” Polly snapped.

“There’ something I need to ask you.”

“Yes?”

“These mushrooms. They’re perfect. Could you share the recipe with me?”

“You know we have a cook,”

“Of course, I’m sorry,” Esme said.

Finn, in a desperate attempt to rescue the situation, sallied forth. “Aunt Linda, have you seen any good movies lately?”

And then it was nothing but the most stilted of small talk while Arthur got drunker and drunker and Esme and Polly sniped at each other, until Tommy and Tatiana returned, Tommy with the faintest traces of bruises beginning to form on his neck, and Tatiana wearing lipstick two shades darker than the one she’d been wearing when she left the table. Less like scarlet, more like blood.

Esme had to hand it to her; she knew how to crash a party. Even Arthur, seven drinks in, looked absolutely horrified. Esme found herself feeling nothing but proud. And maybe a little jealous.

“What did I miss?” said Tatiana.

Tommy didn’t meet anyone’s eyes, and was instead focusing all his attention on chewing a piece of beef.

“Oh, nothing much,” said Esme. “Finn wants to go see the latest Batman movie.”

When they got to the car, Esme collapsed into laughter. “So?” she said, when she had finally caught her breath. By then, they were on the highway. “Did you fuck, or did you fight?”

“Yes.” Tatiana glanced over. “Are you jealous?”

“Why?”

“He’s an eight.”

“He’s a five, and I bet he’s a rotten lay.” Childishly, Esme hoped this would yield some details.

“I can see where you’re coming from,” said Tatiana thoughtfully, fishing a cigarette from her purse with one hand. “Widowers, especially the sad ones, can be a drag. So weepy.” She lit the cigarette. “But if you get the right one, it can be delightful. They fuck with such desperation.”

“Ah.” And there it was, the core of the annual Shelby fight: there were too many empty spots at the table where the people they loved should be sitting, and hating each other was easier than thinking about it.

“Hey.” Tatiana caught her before she could slide too far down into that particular pit of horrors. “Cheer up. I got you something.”

“What?”

“Look in the zipper pocket of my purse.”

“Is this…?”

“I dub thee Lady Esme Shelby, Duchess of Cappuchino.”

“You know what?” Esme pinned Tommy’s knighthood ribbon to her dress. “I think I’ll keep it.”

“Merry Christmas, Esme.”

“Merry Christmas.”

Esme didn’t see Tatiana for two days, and then she showed up at closing, just after Carter had left and Esme was the only one in the shop.

“Hey,” said Esme.

Tatiana sauntered up to the counter. “I got you something.” She slid three envelopes across. In the first were two season passes to the orchestra. In the second, a key. In the third, cash. All in different denominations, twenties, tens, fives, ones. Nonsequential, too. Esme checked.

“You said Katie wants to be be a flautist,” Tatiana said. “So, orchestra.”

Esme looked up. “What is this?”

“Am I not your sugar daddy?”

“I thought that was a joke.”

“I could take them back and get a refund. But put it all together, and it’s still not enough to buy a bottle of 1811 Château d'Yquem.”

“No, I’ll take it.”

Tatiana smirked.

“What?”

“You’re proud about money with Tommy, but not with me.”

“Among his casualties, whether he admits it or not, is my husband. Among your casualties is nobody I care about.”

“You assume I’ve caused deaths.”

“I find it better to assume guilt than otherwise, at this point. Anyways, nobody who wears a five thousand dollar dress is innocent.”

Tatiana appeared to absorb this. Esme could see the wheels turning in her head. “What are you doing on Saturday?” Tatiana said.

“Why?”

“I could find you a babysitter.”

“And?”

“You could find out what’s underneath the five thousand dollar dress.”

Esme couldn’t read her. “Is this because widows fuck with such delightful desperation?”

“No.”

“Is this because you’re experimenting with becoming a sugar daddy?”

“No.”

“Is this some long-con sexual harassment example?”

“Esme. This is only because of you.”

Esme searched her green eyes for a hint of laughter, but for the first time, there was nothing but honesty. That was more terrifying than all of Tatiana’s bullshit smiles put together.

Esme leaned over the counter and kissed her.

Her hair was just as soft as Esme always imagined, and she licked and bit at Esme’s lips just the same. But it was good in ways Esme had never thought of, had not felt in a long, long time.

“You look different with your hair down,” Esme murmured, finally.

“I look different with my clothes off, too.”

“I’ve got kids at home, a babysitter that can’t do overnight. And in-laws that I can’t get rid of, and some other people that make me stick close to home, always get paid in cash, and keep my pictures off the internet. You know that?”

“I do. That’s what this is for.“ Tatiana tapped the second envelope. “I know when you’ve got a day off. I’ll be waiting.”

That was a good, dramatic moment for her to walk out, but she kept standing there, looking at Esme like a fallen angel, all lipstick and bad decisions, and Esme couldn’t help it. She kissed her again.

[sapphiredragonsprites]

Let’s talk about Flinthook for a moment.

I just recently got shown a new game. Flinthook. 

As someone who has done a lot of spritework stuff over the years, be it for MC mods, Necrodancer character skins, or the stuff I do here, this gave me feelings bordering on indecent. The spritework in both the intro and the game is FUCKING IMMACULATE. This video here done by Jim Sterling shows both the intro and some of the gameplay, and by god, this is a masterwork in motion. There were several occasions - especially with those utterly fascinating sawblades - where I found myself just frame-by-framing the video to just see how the animation was constructed. It’s goddamn inspiring. 

To anyone here who does spritework themselves, check it out immediately. Good GOD. 

[kristopherstock-blog]

mature saggy tit pictures - Some People Excel At Outdoor Mature Sex Videos And Some Don't - Which.

She was determined to make it happen. "Aren’t you gonna ask why I made sure you got a full night’s sleep every day this week?" "I assume I’ll find out in a bit." Even though his confidence was a thin veneer over strident anticipation—and she knew it, and he knew she knew it—he grinned anyway. For reasons that would never become clear to him, it felt important to put up some resistance before they began, even if it was mostly for his ego. She sighed and smiled back. "I have never loved that expression on your face more than right now," she said. In retrospect, that should have worried him more than it did. He stretched languidly beneath her, pleasantly adrift in curiosity. He tried to keep his mind from cycling through the possibilities, wanting to stay present and engaged in the moment for her. She had treated him particularly well that week, and she had promised to reward him with his favorite arrangement: being cuffed spread-eagle to the bed—almost too tightly. Long ago, she had dubbed the position "the lazy submissive". He wriggled subtly in anticipation of the bondage. She laid her palms under his biceps and sank into a long, luxurious kiss. He shut his eyes and inhaled deeply, reveling in the scent of her tousled brown hair draping down on either side of his face. It tickled his cheeks and reminded him of summer as he moaned on the exhale, feeling the vibrato rumble from his chest into hers. The kiss lingered for so long that they both momentarily doubted the existence of the rest of the world. He shuddered when she traced a thumb over the side of his chest; feeling the tip of her tongue tease his lips, he drew a gasping breath through his nose. His body was warm and pliant between her thighs, like a battery discharging in hot waves through her own. Reluctantly, she broke the kiss, with the gluttonous resolve of someone leaving the finest entree half-eaten to leave room for the finest dessert instead. "I need you to listen really carefully. Okay, pet?" She brushed a strand of hair from his forehead, and their eyes locked. She remembered from a mostly-boring leadership course that flickering from eye-to-eye was more distracting than picking one to focus on. She chose his right. She could see the faintest glimmer of fear dance over his expression, and she already felt the twin lusts grappling inside her: she ached to comfort him; she could barely stand to leave him un-violated. She felt his body shudder between her legs, but didn’t notice herself licking her lips. He noticed. "Yes, Mistress," he said, still smiling, his own contradictory desires humming awake: to burn in the flame of her sadism and bask in the sunbeam of her compassion; to be despoiled and to be spoiled. Not necessarily in that order. "We’ve been talking about the boundary-pushing scene for a really long time now, and I’m ready for it. "We’ll do it now… tonight… if you’re ready. But, before you answer…" She bit her lip, leaned back, looked away—just for a moment. She could feel herself making the final emotional preparations, and felt more scared and powerful with every word. "You’re not gonna like it. "You’re going to regret it, because that’s the point. I’m going to take you to the line of violation, and I’m going to keep going. And we explicitly negotiated that there would be no safewords. That is a big fucking deal, and it's not a decision you should make lightly tonight." She couldn’t believe how hard this was. She felt like begging. She wanted to tell him how many times she’d masturbated fervently as soon as she got home from work, fantasizing about this exact moment. If he backed out now, it wouldn’t just disappoint her; she would be devastated. His consent had to be utterly immaculate. She couldn’t give him any excuses, including momentary fear of disappointment. She fixed him with a grave, unwavering stare, and removed every possible ounce of seduction and hopefulness from her voice. "I know what I’m about to do with you, and my honest advice is for you to swallow your pride and pass on this tonight. This isn’t just a fantasy or a game. I am really going to push you, and if you let me start this, there is no turning back. "Are you completely sure you want to do this?" He barely hesitated. "Yes Mistress." She wanted to slap him. Wasn’t he listening? And, yet… Something about his face made her hesitate. She was still eager to sink her teeth into him, but her gut told her to wait. There was something about the moment, a perverse epiphany dangling just outside her awareness. His transformation had been instant, consummate. He was transfixed, and her heartbeat quickened. She needed to buy time. "You answered pretty quickly for someone about to sign a blank check for their own suffering." She just needed a few seconds to think, but he replied immediately again: "I was sure, Mistress." What was she missing? Why did his eagerness pique her intuition so strongly? "Do you understand why I was skeptical? You barely thought about it at all." "Please…" There. That was it. She studied the change that had taken place in his demeanor: he was breathing evenly, mouth slightly open, eyes a little wide. He was waiting for her to take the control he had so desperately offered. A wave of relief washed over her body, quickly sublimating into arousal. She couldn’t help but grin as she finally apprehended the epiphany that began tickling at the back of her mind just moments ago: He had given his consent—now he was asking for her to accept it. He hadn’t just given her permission to violate him… He was begging for it. Looking at him again, she was abruptly gut-checked by another, even more delicious revelation: He didn’t know. Apprehension worked its way across his face with every moment that she deigned to wait in silence. She had obscured her desire so thoroughly that he now lay before her in purgatory—a subjugated wolf bearing its neck to the pack leader, waiting for the freedom of oblivion or the searing agony of rejection. She shut her eyes and composed herself, her insides twisting with impatience to hurt him. She decided that she needed—no—wanted to explore this completely. She forced herself to sound annoyed. "You’re rock hard. How am I supposed to trust your word when you’re probably thinking with your dick?" He whimpered. This was the reward for her patience. This was the mental dungeon she didn’t even realize she had been crafting around him. Concealing her immediate hunger for sadism didn’t just create a safe space for him to willingly give up control; it also utterly deprived him of the ability to form expectations about what she had in store. Was she doing him a favor by hurting him, or was he doing her a favor by letting her? She had all of the information now. Only she knew just how desperately they both wanted this. He had begun the game with his permission—and instantly, unknowingly, ceded it to her with his plea. She looked at him again. She could feel how badly he ached for her to rip him apart. She saw in him the same fear and desperation she had felt only moments before: he was on the brink of devastation, hoping against hope that his fantasies might be validated. It was cruel to keep him in the dark, and cruelty was exactly what he had just signed up for. She took a deep breath, and glared intently at him. Her thirst for his screams had subsided temporarily; there was no need to rush, anymore. She was going to play with her food. "I’m trying to do you a favor, to give you an out, and you’re practically dry humping me already. He shivered. "I’m telling you, in no uncertain terms: I’m gonna hurt you." His cock twitched again. She savored the taste of every word: "Severely. Relentlessly." She watched him carefully as she spoke. His breath came in shorter gasps mature women enjoying sex now. His mind was short-circuited waiting for the next morsel of anticipation. The fear was gone—replaced by a heedless craving for more fuel in the moments before the match was struck. "Fine," she thought to herself, "he wants to get off on this? "I’ll make him sell me his fucking soul." "You can still back out." "No, Mistress." "Are you fucking serious?" "Yes Mistress." She grinned derisively as his cock strained against her panties. "Every time I make it sound worse, you want it more. You don’t care that you’re overcommitting. You just love feeling like there’s doom on the horizon." "No, no, no please. I swear I’m not overcommitting. I want this." "You don’t even know what the fuck it is! Has it occurred to you that maybe I haven’t told you because I know you definitely won’t want it?" "Yes, Mistress." "Then in what way is this not completely fucking stupid?" "It’s completely stupid, Mistress." "Spread out," she commanded. "I’m gonna see if the cuffs give you some perspective." "Yes, Mistress. Does this mean you’re doing it?" She slipped a new heavy leather cuff around one of his ankles, and fastened it to the under-bed tether. "I’m thinking about it. You really do not seem to understand what you’re agreeing to." "I do, Mistress." "You do?" She simpered, fastening his other ankle. "So, when you’re sobbing later, offering me everything and anything you can think of to make it stop, and I remind you that you asked for it… what are you gonna do?" He spluttered. She finished his right wrist, and watched him begin to let go. "You already can’t form a sentence. "What if I ordered you to back out? Would you obey me?" "Oh, no. Please don’t. Please don’t order me to do that, Mistress." He was strapped down completely now, without more than an inch of wiggle room on each limb—basically enough room to afford for breathing, and not much else. His breathing was labored and tinctured with whimpers at the peak of his exhales. She stroked his biceps indulgently, and looked back down at him. "Look. I know you. I know your limits. I know what scares you. I’m smarter, meaner, and more sadistic than you. I’ve been waiting for an opportunity like this since the first moment I saw you on that subway platform." She could feel his heart beating faster beneath the hand she laid on his chest. "I won’t stop when the cuffs make you uncomfortable and your arms are tired. I won’t stop when the tears come. I won’t stop when they run out. I won’t stop when you stop being okay." Her gaze impaled him. He could barely breathe. "Because. That. Is. What. You’re. Asking. For." He squeezed his eyes shut as the shape of the night began to unfold around him. "This is your last chance to back out. You’re allowed to not be ready for this. If you really, really are..." She took a deep breath, already pressing her palms against his chest and carefully restraining the urge to dig her nails in as he shuddered. "If you’re ready, then you say ‘I want to hurt, Mistress’, and you’re never going to be the same after. You say exactly that, and nothing else, and you don’t say it until you’re dead fucking sure this is what you want. No half-assed split-second deliberation this time. Make. Sure." She leaned back until she was sitting up on top of him, letting her fingers trace over his stomach, then folding her arms over her chest, staring down at him. "I’ll wait." She would later swear that she could smell his fear in that moment. It was addictive, and she was also afraid, and the atoms of their bodies were barely separate anymore. mature indian girls He thought for a long time. She smirked at the unbidden image of her casually checking her phone, swiping through internet mundanities as he contemplated consenting to his own violation. Would it be appropriate comeuppance for every time he'd asked what she thought of some stupid joke picture when she was trying to concentrate on, oh, anything else? She set the distraction aside and watched him with predatory hyperfocus as his chest rose. She listened, and felt the hot milfs rush of arousal and power, enrapt by the syllables tumbling from his lips like a sorcerous incantation she’d fooled him into uttering: "I want to hurt, Mistress." "Oh…" She squeezed her eyes shut momentarily. A wave of something rolling through her body so violently that she felt as if she had been struck, and she sucked in a breath. "Sweetie," She let her hands drop to his chest, where her fingertips splayed out across his skin. Her head dipped back, closed eyes facing the ceiling, forcing her words out through a thick fog of wanton lust. With each subsequent pause in speech, she dug her nails a little deeper. "That was just incredibly fucking stupid of you." If she pressed any harder, she would draw blood. He had instantly become a taut, wide-eyed conduit of unexpected agony, accustomed to long and gratuitous nights of build-up before being so challenged. Only a few seconds after her fingers first touched his flesh, she relented, mentally admonishing herself to be more patient: she was going to break him tonight, but so much more innovatively than with mere physical pain. His body went limp with relief, and he spluttered: "Oh… fuck," and watched ten deep red marks blush to life across his chest. She dragged her palms up to his shoulders, thumbs digging gently into the dip of his collarbone. A faint twinge of real anger pulsed through her body. The hubris of his cavalier grin, which she swooned at only minutes before, made her grip tighten… did he really think he was fooling her? What kind of self-sabotaging dipshit would stubbornly ask for something like this even when it was abundantly clear that things wouldn’t go his way? What was he getting out of this? She opened her eyes. He was so, so beautiful. She covered her mouth with one hand and whimpered as she felt the warm glow of tears build and dissipate between her cheekbones without coming to fruition. For a moment, she considered masking the tenderness behind a tease or command, but she immediately shoved the urge away and resolved to pay it no heed for the rest of the night. She would show him her naked kindness and cruelty. "I love you," he ventured. "I love you." She slid a hand up his neck, cradling a cheek in her palm. He gazed up at her, chest still in lingering pain, her warm hand so perfect against his face. He thought of a clever quip, and discarded it. "Seriously…" she said, suddenly lighthearted, and continued in a rumbling voice with a vague foreign accent, "have you no scruples, man?" He cracked a grin at the in-joke, surprised at his own laughter, and relaxed. She struck instantly. With one hand fisted in the hair at his scalp and the other gripping his testicles with slowly mounting pressure, she brushed her lips against his ear and snarled: "Do you want to hear how I’m fucking you over tonight?" "Yes, Mistress," he said, barely choking the words out. Her lips felt electric against his skin. "Good!" She chirped, embracing the sudden violent swing of her moods. She swung her body back up to a sitting position and slid her hands down to where his waist met her thighs, feeling the tremor of arousal bubble through him. His dazed expression made her grin smugly. "Tonight, I’m going to hypnotize you," she beamed. He listened, focusing with some effort despite her schizophrenic pace and the dull ache in his balls. "But, it’s going to be very, very special. Because I’m not just gonna use my voice, or my hands, or my eyes. I’m gonna use something that will work better than all of those things put together. Can you guess what it is?" She squeezed her eyes shut to affect an exaggerated, cherubic grin. She watched him start to clumsily theorize, and decided that she was feeling too impatient to let him catch up with her. She wiggled her hips suggestively, feeling him shiver and stiffen beneath her. "I’m going to hypnotize you with my cunt." She laughed once, loudly, at his quizzical expression. "You’re going to… fuck me?" He guessed. "No," The grin overtook her entire face. "I’m gonna give you what you’re always begging for"—she tapped a finger against his nose—"and bring you under with the scent." He froze, squirming slightly beneath her. She watched his cheeks flush red and suddenly wanted to kiss him, so she did. "But, you…" he began, as she leaned back to a sitting position. "Think it’s weird?" "Yes, Mistress." "Yeah, I do. And I’ll think it’s just as weird tonight, if not weirder. You’re gonna have to deal with every ounce of embarrassment yourself, and it’s only going to get worse. Because, tonight, I’m not only ordering you to breathe as deeply and desperately as you’ve always wanted to… "By the time I’m done with you, you’ll be incapable of doing anything else." He could feel it starting—a soothing pall of self-reinforcing suggestibility, weighted down around him by the lilting natural melodies of her voice—and welcomed it. "See, here’s how this is going to work, my darling, gorgeous, pathetic pussy-whore. I’m gonna pinch your nose shut, and you’re gonna be a good boy and keep your mouth closed. Then, when your lungs are burning for air, I’m gonna let go and you’re going to take a nice… long… deep breath. "Of me. "I’m gonna be the air that keeps you alive. "And that first breath, when the scent starts buzzing through your system, finding all the cracks in your consciousness, invading your whole body… by the time you finish making that first breath, you’re going to be in the deepest trance you’ve ever felt. Do you remember what that was like? "Think about it. "Remember every detail. It’s only a few seconds away now. "Ready? "No? "Good." She abruptly dropped her body against his, knocking the wind from him, and clamped a hand over his nose. Drunk with the thrill of predatory conquest, she inched up his body on her knees, watching as his eyes darted around and the traces of air in his lungs began to run out. "Remember… mouth shut." She rested a pinky against his lips, twisting her arm to maintain her grip as she nestled her knees into place on either side of his head. She gripped his eyes with hers and refused to let go. Her voice dripped with the sweetest, most patronizing, paralyzing venom she could muster. "I’ve been wearing these panties for a few days… gotten off in them at least twice… and they’re already soaked through again. I made sure to pick the pair with the thickest material, so you can breathe through it even when my pussy is covering your nose. Just like it will be in a second." He made a sound that would have been a sob if he could breathe. "Oh… you thought I didn’t pay attention to what you like, just because I don’t want to indulge you all the time?" She drank his pathetic, choked whimpers like wine. His face was crimson, and she couldn’t decide if the humiliation or the lack of breath was the hotter reason. He started to groan and writhe, chest spasming as his lungs instinctively, vainly, tried to inflate. "You’re being such a good boy. I bet you want to inhale right now, don’t you?" He was writhing too desperately to nod, and she stayed in that position until she could feel his lips brush against her little finger as they began to part. Only then, when his body was ready to betray him to stay alive, did she lift her hand and drop her hips, pinning his head in place between her thighs, sitting so firmly that she could feel his nose nestled between the lips of her sex. She watched, mesmerized by the vision of his life sealed between her legs, as he began to inhale. He felt it behind his nose first: a sweet musk that bypassed higher thought, enveloping him in a feral memory of earth and fucking and flowers and cum. He wanted to slow down, he wanted to make a cool self-deprecating joke and a handsome smile, he wanted to escape from her enrapt gaze patiently observing his raw, selfish indulgence, but his blood cried out for oxygen, and he pulled the sex-soaked air through his nose, and a thrumming cloud of spice and perfume filled his lungs. He lost control. He wanted to keep inhaling until he popped like a balloon and died the happiest ape in history. His lungs burned from overstretching before he stopped. It was almost too much for him. In a placid corner of his mind, he felt a surreal and nonsensical pang of disappointment that he wasn’t overwhelmed enough to prevent him from reflecting on the experience yet. He quickly lost track of the thought; instead, he marvelled at the accuracy of her description. It felt like the dizziness of oxygen deprivation had partially unwoven the threads of his mind, creating gaps and crevasses where her influence could seep through, borne on the tendrils of intoxicating pheromones that now permeated his most acute sense, glowing like a hidden root system as his other functions came back online. The tension drained from his muscles, and a deep, almost frantic shudder ran up his spine as he completed the breath. Her scent was omnipresent. He had to force his eyes into focus, and saw her smiling sweetly down at him between her thighs, like a nature goddess watching her worshippers thrive, gazing benevolently from the heavens above their inviolate valley. He wanted to express this idea to her somehow—you look like a goddess—but the only words that came to mind were "FUCK CUNT SNIFF LOVE", which he retained enough discernment to reject as just barely too crude. He was enjoying himself too much to reflect on how intense and drug-like the experience seemed, even accounting for the circumstances. She knew why. "Good boy. Very good boy." He felt one of her hands tracing down his body, and his eyes went wide as she shoved, ripping the air out of him again, her other hand clamped around his nose. She counted out loud: "One." "We’re gonna count to ten breaths, pet." Her free hand traced spirals around his chest. "Each one is going to bring you exponentially further." Her eyes would be pinning his head in place even if her knees weren’t. "Do you understand? I’m gonna say ‘one’, ‘two’, ‘five’, ‘ten’, but you’ll be sinking much deeper." His lungs were already burning. He struggled to keep his mouth shut. He watched her lips move, wondered how it would taste to lick her smooth, perfect jawline. "You’re already at ten, and I know you believe that. After this second breath, you’ll be at a hundred. After the third, a thousand. Visualize it. Think of the way an exponent looks and feels. You can do that, can’t you, sweetie? My scent doesn’t cripple your mind that quickly, does it?" Her words sank into his brain like depth charges. He pictured a graph with a straight line, saw it eclipsed by an exponent curving towards infinity. One moment he was sure that he didn’t have the conscious brain power to hold the imagery, the next moment he could feel her commands echoing through him, sewing thoughts together in their wake. Ten, a hundred, a thousand, ten thousand. A hundred thousand. A million. Did that even make sense? What choice did he have except to imagine it? The lingering trace of her scent was like an anchor strapped to his leg, inexorably dragging him down into meta-consciousness. "By the time you finish your fifth breath, your body will do nothing except what I say." He needed air. His chest began to spasm again. His vision was blurring. "By the time you finish the tenth, you’ll want nothing except what I want." He couldn’t hold out anymore. As soon as his lips began to pry themselves open, they brushed across her waiting finger, and she pressed herself against his face again, forcing him to draw his next desperate breath through his nose. She held his gaze as he inhaled, and her words soothed and terrified him: "From that moment on, one sniff will be all it takes to bring you back… and it’ll get a little deeper every time. "Two. "When you smell me, your thoughts come undone as you have them, except the thoughts I command you to have." He briefly wondered if she’d drugged him. His eyes cycled through enrapt terror, naked anticipation, drunken bliss. His eyebrows, so thin and agile, would press together and soften again, framing the patch of his bright red face visible between her thighs. "Three. "When you smell me, it sinks into your muscles. You won’t even make it to ten before you need my permission to move." She briefly wondered if she’d ever get tired of bragging about the next few hours to her friends. His eyes shut on the next inhale, and his body slackened; for a moment, he reminded her of a puppy getting its belly rubbed. She savored the odyssey of unfiltered beatitude that played out across his face between the time his eyes opened and when he remembered to be embarrassed. "Four. "Remember how deep four is? No, you don’t. It’s even deeper than that. An order of magnitude deeper. Don’t trust your memory. Trust me. "Good boy." His eyes glimmered with the wet of building tears, and he drew in a shivering breath. "When you smell me, it feels so good. The scent becomes pleasure, and the pleasure makes your willpower irrelevant." She was too mesmerized by his helplessness to grin in anticipation of her next move. The cadence of her speech rose and fell like a rolling hillside, with perfect tall grass swaying in the gentle breeze of her voice. "I’m giving you back your mind and body—temporarily. It will come back gradually, but then you can speak and think." She slowly shifted her hips back down his body, immediately missing his face—his tenuous life—under her sex. She was quickly placated by the feel of his straining erection pressing against her instead. "Breathe some regular air. Enough that you can speak and think. Let it come back. Your filters are gone, though. When words come, you say them. You are not in control of your own judgment. You have none. Understood?" "Yes, Mistress. Thank you, Mistress." His body was perfectly still except for his shallow breaths and throbbing cock. "Good boy. Now, you are going to tell me exactly how you feel about tonight so far. There will be no ambiguity. You will read me your expectations and their context as easily as if you were reading a grocery list. "Go." "I’m having the time of my life, Mistress, but I don’t feel like my boundaries are being pushed. I feel like I would be pretending if I begged you to stop." "Good boy. You’re not even completely under my control yet, but you told the truth. Were you afraid of disappointing me by not feeling violated yet?" "Yes, Mistress." His brow creased almost imperceptibly, as if the mere mention of disappointing her broke his heart a little. "It’s okay, pet." She cooed, looking him in the eyes and smiling sweetly. As his lips began to crease and mirror her smile, she leaned forward and struck his abdomen with her palms, knocking the wind violently from him. He coughed in shock, and once again, she pinched his nose shut before he could breathe. Her anticipation was palpable, and she was trying to keep her hands from shaking. So close. "I haven’t shown you what I’m going to do with my control yet. If you adored this information in addition to you would want to acquire guidance with regards to fake tits mature i implore you to pay a visit to our webpage. " She swallowed, willing her voice to remain steady. Her body was on fire. She should have fucked him first. "The fun part is over." Once again, she inched up his body. She wanted to make him bleed. She wanted grab his hair and fuck his face, still creased with the pain and surprise of her blow to his stomach. "For you." She had never seen his eyes so wide. She had never seen him look so much like an angel. "Now it’s my turn. For good." So close. "You will stay fully conscious as you take the fifth breath." His muscles strained as he pulled on the cuffs and tried to get away. He had never seen this look in her eyes before. She watched him start to panic. He tasted bitter, intoxicating fear. "You will feel the wheeze of every last remaining shred of your self-control... as it chokes on the stink of my sweaty, heavenly cunt... and dies. Leaving you behind to be my toy." Once again, she waited until his mouth began to involuntarily open, memorizing exactly how long he could last. She could barely keep her hand on his nose, her knuckles so tantalizingly close to her clit. "You will be the perfect little victim—and let me watch as your last sliver of freedom fades away… at the exact moment you realize what a fucking disaster you could have averted by listening to me and backing down." Once again, she opened her hand and dropped her hips. "I did it," she thought, heart racing with villainous exhilaration. "I fucking own him, and now I get to watch him realize." She shuddered violently, orgasming hard around his face as he began to inhale. Forcing herself to keep eye contact as she came, she snarled out an incantation of her own: "Soon your deepest desires will belong to me." Suddenly, he remembered last night. bound_to_please