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[pullhisteeth]

classified | eddie munson x reader

summary at your wits end, you put an ad in the classifieds for a special kind of tutor. Eddie finds it and takes you up on the offer. (nsfw) [13k]

contains smut (18+ minors dni!) – p in v sex, oral (f receiving), lots of praise, virgin!reader, fem!reader, hurt/comfort. eddie's a sweetheart, fluff, first time turned something more (?).

author's notes this one's a long one! the idea made me laugh and then it took on a life of its own. I want to say this is meant to be somewhat lighthearted and is not a suggestion that anyone should be having sex if they haven't already – your body's yours, baby, do whatever you want! no one should ever make you feel rushed into anything!!! anyway Eddie is an angel and I want one. bye!

-

Eddie's not sure why he's reading the newspaper. Boredom, perhaps; he's been waiting for Wayne to get home from his shift for over an hour. He's thought about calling the plant, but the walk from the couch to the phone seems to be the perfect amount of time to convince himself that he's probably on his way home already.

It's the Hawkins Post. It gets delivered by a snot-nose boy on a bike every week, thrown far too hard at their tin front door. Wayne reads it some weeks, others it gets used to wrap his lunch. Apparently this one he'd read it, flicked through the pages half-heartedly before leaving it open on a centrefold about the local elections. Trust Wayne to get bored of small-town politics, Eddie thinks.

So he picks up where Wayne left off, slowly pulling the pages apart, skimming stories about the endemic of teen pregnancy, or columns about the rejuvenation plans for downtown Hawkins. 

Finally, he reaches the only bit of the newspaper that Eddie has ever found interesting: the classifieds (and, on the back of the classifieds, the call-girl ads).

He skims them, eyes brushing past ads for cleaners, dog walkers, nannies. Finds the ones hidden at the bottom – the letters written in code, ads for attractive female friends and women seeking younger men. He's never actually interested in them, but they provide a glimpse into the underbelly of Hawkins, a small town that is, for all intents and purposes, entirely normal. But nowhere is ever truly normal, and Eddie likes to seize the opportunity to pry into the scandalous goings-on of his boring hometown.

He's reading one about swingers when the one beside it catches his eye. It's plain – whoever paid for it kept their costs to a minimum. All it says is:

WOMAN, 23, SEEKING FIRST TIME.

He stares at the bold ink, the statement in all caps that, despite being maybe the lowest cost ad in the whole paper – it's in a box about three inches tall in the very corner of the page – jumps out at him anyway. Underneath the title, it reads: young woman looking for judgement-free first time. Min. age 22, max. age 28. Must have experience. At the very bottom, in almost imperceptible print, is a phone number.

Eddie hadn't realised how close his face was to the page until he hears the familiar sound of Wayne's car pull up outside. He throws the paper down onto his lap and sighs before scrambling around to at least try to look casual, and not like all the blood has rushed to his face. In the few seconds he has between the sound of Wayne's car door closing and him coming up the stairs, Eddie tears the page out, folding it quickly and shoving it into the back pocket of his jeans as he stands.

The door opens just as he gets to his feet, and Wayne comes trudging in with his steel lunch pail and heavy boots.

"Hey, Wayne," Eddie says, breathless, trying his best to sound level. Wayne eyes him as he closes the door, before turning to dump his stuff on the table.

"C'mon, kid, you promised me a burger."

-

The piece of newspaper stays in Eddie's pocket for three more days.

Wayne had been late getting home – something came up, but Eddie wasn't listening too hard, brain on that stupid ad instead – so their weekly trip to Benny's had run until the early hours of Friday morning.

And then Friday was work and Hellfire, which Eddie still leads despite having graduated two years ago, and this time the kids kept him going for hours. By the time he got home he hadn't even thought about the page before crashing into bed.

And then Saturday is family day, as Nancy puts it. Eddie had woken up late, rolled out of bed into the freshest clothes he could find, and into his van to act as bus driver for the morning. His little gaggle of unruly teenagers crammed into the back of it one by one, laughing and teasing and shouting. Steve's home became louder and still, Eddie relished in that feeling of peace he gets once a week with all these misfits he calls friends.

By Sunday morning, the newspaper had been long forgotten in the pocket of his jeans that he'd left in a pile on his bedroom floor. He's laid on his back on his bed, head dangling off the edge, puffing mindlessly on a spliff he'd rolled for himself two days ago that had also been forgotten. The room's a little fuzzy round the edges, just the way he likes it, the sunlight creeping warm paws up his arms. It smells funny in here, he thinks, so he turns over, pushes himself off the bed, and reaches up to open his window. On his way back to his bed, he trips on something, landing with a huff as his ribs hit the corner of the mattress.

"Fuck," he hisses, reaching down to pull the culprit off the floor. It's just an old pair of jeans, so he throws them into the corner, out of the way, and resumes his position, splayed out across the bed.

From this angle, with his head hanging upside down, he spots something by the pile of denim he'd just discarded.

His brain's ticking over slowly under the haze of being stoned, but after a second he realises what it is, and clambers all too quickly off the bed and across the room.

Maybe it's that haze, coating his brain with thick fog; maybe it's the fact that, in the year since he graduated, he's had to settle for quick fucks behind the Hideout after a gig; or maybe, just maybe, it's dangerous curiosity.

Whatever it is, something motivates him to move through his room, down the narrow corridor into the kitchen. There's something hijacking his limbs, and it reaches up to the phone on the wall. With eyes on the page in his hand he spins the dial, listening to the tone as it rings, rings, rings.

The longer he stands there, the more convinced he becomes in his intoxicated miasma that this is some kind of prank; he's going to be met with a stupid kid on the other end, laughing at him for bothering to call at all. 

When he finally decides that this is just that, a practical joke, the line clicks. There's a low buzz on the other end, so low he thinks maybe the line just went dead, but then a voice.

"Hello?"

He's taken aback by the sound of it, but not so much that he doesn't notice the sleep coating it. Despite his stupor, he can't help but apologise.

"Shit, sorry, did I wake you?"

"Who is this?" You're sharper now, coming to, and he kicks himself for fucking this up already.

"Oh, shit, uh, sorry. I called about… I got this number, uh, in the paper."

"Fuck," he hears you whisper. He's not sure if he was supposed to hear it. He feels bad.

"Sorry, I'll go, this was-"

"Look, I put that age range in the ad for a reason. I'm sick of gettin' calls from middle aged men, I-"

"I'm twenty-three."

You're silent on the other end for a moment, but he can hear your breath hitch.

"Well, shit," you finally say. "Y'don't sound it."

He laughs an awkward, stilted laugh, unsure what to say.

"Sorry, I've had so many guys – men, old men – callin' me up, tryin' to flirt with me down the phone, I just… The ad was a mistake, clearly."

He likes the way you talk. You've got a pretty voice.

"Uh, thanks," you say.

Shit.

"Fuck, sorry, did I say that out loud?" Moron.

You laugh, the sound fizzing down the telephone line, and it eases some of his insecurity.

"I'm sorry," he says, starting fresh. "I'll leave you be, have a good-"

"Wait," you bite, and he can hear you shuffling around. "Wait just a sec, I- fuck, where the fuck is it? I… Sorry, can you just wait for a second?"

"Sure, sure," he murmurs, trailing off when he realises you've set the phone down. He listens to the faint sounds of you rummaging around and swearing under your breath. He must look like an idiot, stood in his kitchen, smiling at his phone, waiting for a stranger he found in the paper.

He hears you coming back, footsteps getting louder, before you pick the phone back up.

"Y'still there?"

"Yeah," he laughs. You speak to him like he's an old friend and it keeps catching him off guard.

"Okay," you say. "Here's the thing. I put that stupid ad in the paper because I was sad, and my life has been a misery since then, because literally every guy who's called me has been, like, at least forty, which some people are into I guess but I'm not, and- Sorry."

You're rambling, stumbling over your words even though he can tell you're trying to be professional or something. He stays quiet and hopes you'll keep going.

After a beat, you say, "I guess, 'cause you called, you'd be up for it?"

"Uh, well," he stammers. "That's kinda why I called. Care to explain what it is you want, exactly?"

He's not sure where the sudden confidence has come from; maybe the weed's wearing off.

"Okay, yeah," you breathe. "So, uh, my plan, I guess, was that I'd… You'd take, uh, my virginity."

You almost whisper the last part, like it's some kind of slur, and Eddie can't help but laugh on the other end.

You start to sound exasperated, frustrated, so he tries to claw you back.

"Sorry, sorry, it's just so… frank."

"Well, bein' all coy about it hasn't really worked out for me so far."

Can't argue with that logic.

"Okay," he says, trying to ignore the excitement bubbling inside him. You're a stranger, he's a stranger, and this whole thing is kind of weird. Shit, he thinks. Am I a perv?

"How do you want to do this?"

"Well," you start, sounding like you've got this part planned out. "First I need to know you're not gonna murder me or something, so I'll give you an address near my house but not at my house, and we can meet there whenever… and, uh, what year were you born?"

"What?"

"Just… So I feel a bit more sure you're actually twenty-three."

"Hah, okay. 1965."

"Okay, sweet. You got a pen?"

"Shit, yeah, one sec."

His eyes dart around the room. With the phone between his ear and his shoulder, he moves as far as the cord will let him, to a drawer by the front door. At the back there's an old pencil and some scraps of junk mail.

"Got it!" he declares, too enthusiastic but it makes you giggle so he laughs too.

"Okay," you start, and you tell him an address he vaguely recognises, closer to the nicer side of town, halfway between here and where Steve's house is.

"It's a park, kind of. It's pretty public anyways, so if you were, y'know, planning to kill me or whatever, don't bother."

"I'll take that off the to-do list," he tells you through a smirk.

"Very funny," you say, your sentence half-formed like you can't find the words to finish it. "Wait, what's your name?"

"Eddie. Munson."

"Okay, Eddie Munson," you say before telling him yours and deciding that you'll meet him later that day. You tell him it's easier that way, that you can't bear to have to wait all week, sitting on the nerves that might make you change your mind.

That's exactly what Eddie does all afternoon. You'd decided on six that evening, when it's still light but late enough that you both have time to back out, and so he sits, stoned out of his mind on both weed and the phone call, feeling something he's rarely felt before.

It's like cola in his gut, bubbling and frothing every time he tries to move. Is this what people feel when they say they have butterflies? Because it doesn't really feel like that; it feels instead like the madness inside him is floating upwards, fizzing around his heart, prodding and poking at it at uneven rhythms. His mind is reeling, too; he hadn't really thought this through at all. What if, even after that call, you're still planning on playing some kind of trick on him? What if this is an elaborate scheme to publicly humiliate him? Maybe you get a kick out of that kind of thing.

There's another thing, creeping around at the back of his mind, lurking. It's that horrid hopefulness, the what if that feels so far from likely that if he lends too much time to thinking about it, he feels stupid.

What if you're great?

He shakes himself out, standing up off his bed. He'd been lying there for the past two hours, sobering up, dwelling on every detail of the call, lingering in particular on your voice and your laugh and the way you say sweet so often.

He doesn't know who you are. He didn't recognise your name when you told him, even though you're his age. He didn't recognise your voice either, but he likes it, and he wasn't lying when he (accidentally) told you it's pretty.

He looks at the clock beside his bed. The red numbers flicker as they change to 16:52.

One hour.

-

He's early.

It's ten to six, and he's early.

The sun's low but not gone yet, and the park you sent him to is actually kind of nice. He's in his van, waiting until it's a socially acceptable time to get out and wait for you. What is the socially acceptable time to get out and wait for the girl you've got an agreement like this with?

Before he can decide, he sees someone. They're in jeans and a jacket, red Chucks and hair lifting up in the breeze.

Without thinking about it too hard, he opens the door and hops out, slamming it a little too hard. The person looks over, catches his mop of hair over the top of the van, and stops walking.

"Eddie?"

He hears you call his name over the sound of his boots crunching on the ground as he rounds the front of the van. He looks over to find you, the person he saw walking over, looking at him with your hand at your brow, blocking the sun.

You're pretty – really pretty. He still doesn't recognise you, but he has decided that's surely for the best.

You don't recognise him, either, but he's hot. He's not what you expected; truthfully, you really had expected someone older, lying about their age to get in your pants, someone you'd have to turn down in this very public space, going back to your apartment alone and unsatisfied. This is not what you had in mind at all, but you're not mad about it.

As he comes towards you, you watch the way he walks, chest-first like he's exactly where he should be. His hair's long and a bit wild but it matches his style – ringer tee, messy black jeans, obnoxious denim jacket. He's got his hands in his pockets but when he lifts one out to wave at you awkwardly, you see the rings and know you're a goner.

You wave back, laughing lightly as he nears you. He's taller than you so you really have to squint to see him against the setting sun.

"Hey," he says softly. His voice is even nicer in person; he does sound older than he is, and he has an air of maturity about him, like he's too sure in himself to be 23, but there's also a boyishness somewhere underneath that endears you.

"Hi," you reply. "You're Eddie, right?"

He looks around himself, head whipping back and forth.

"No, doll," he says, looking at you with a blank face. "I'm Keith."

"Oh," you say, trying to hide the flush in your cheeks and the way your face drops, but then he laughs and reaches out to hold your shoulder.

"Sorry, that was a bad joke." He squeezes. "Yeah, I'm Eddie."

You choose to ignore the overly familiar touch and the way it sends your knees all funny, and instead you laugh, a little awkwardly, and hold out a hand.

"Nice to meet ya," you say, firm.

He looks down at your hand as he drops his own from your shoulder. His eyes move between it and your face, but he shakes it anyway.

"Well?" he asks, and you watch as he smirks, staring you down, his hand still in yours.

"What?"

"Do I look like a serial killer? Scared I'm gonna murder you?"

With those final words he pulls on your hand, bringing you closer to himself. His confidence is only making that funny feeling in your knees worse, but what you don't know is that he's bluffing; before you stands a terrified boy struck dumb by a pretty girl.

"Hm," you hum, dialling up the dramatics to ponder his appearance. You take the chance to scan your eyes up and down his body, taking in the scuffs on his shoes and the pretty silver chain around his neck. From here you can smell weed and cigarette smoke, pretty aftershave and something deeper. "I don't think so."

"Damn," he quips, finally releasing your hand to run his own through his wild mass of hair. "I was really tryin' to look scary."

"You didn't do a very good job," you tell him, laughing softly, and he looks at you with a smile.

"Oh well," he says. "Maybe next time."

Ignoring the way that makes you feel, you take his hand again. It's your turn to pull him, dragging him behind you. The move startles him and he drags his feet for a moment before catching up, refusing to let go of your hand when you try. He swings them between your bodies theatrically as you walk him across the park, through a line of tall oak trees and onto the street on the other side.

"So," he says, drawing out the word. "We goin' to your parents' or somethin'?"

"No," you reply, shaking your head slightly with your eyes on the ground. You drop his hand and stuff yours back in your pocket. "I have an apartment, up by Main Street. This's just a shortcut."

"Oh."

You don't say much more after that. The walk is short; you were right, this is a shortcut to Main Street, one even he didn’t know about. It takes you past Steve's house, and Eddie prays he doesn't happen to be looking out the window at this precise moment.

You live above the pharmacy. You scramble with the lock for a moment, so he stands behind you, bouncing on the balls of his feet and looking around; it's quiet, the usual lull of a Sunday evening, the sun lower than before. He looks at the back of your hair and the way the light catches in it, hears the low curses under your breath as you struggle with the door. And then it's open, and you're inside in the dark, and he has to bring himself back down to Earth.

Your apartment is small. Behind the door there's a narrow staircase, and at the top another door. It brings him into your living space, which is cramped but clearly well-loved. You offer him a drink and step into the kitchen when he says yes.

He lets his eyes pass over the room. The ceiling is low, reminiscent of his own home, though the walls are more solid than the trailer. They're painted a muted, pale blue, a colour he's sure you didn't choose because you've covered as much of them as you can in things: paintings, framed photographs, postcards. The furniture is more to your taste, he assumes. It's all soft, rich greens and pinks.

You bring him a beer as he sits on the couch, sinks into the cushions, toes off his boots.

"Thanks," he says as you pass him the bottle and take a swig of your own. You take your own shoes off and leave them by the door, hanging your jacket on a hook there too.

"So," you begin, padding back over to him and sitting on the opposite end of the couch. "I don't know how this works."

"Well," he says, turning to you with one arm up on the back cushions, "I can talk you through it, but I need t'know where you're at."

"What d'you mean?"

"Well, how far have you gone before? How far do you want to go today?"

"Uh-" You shuffle, squirming into the couch, clearly looking for the right words. "I've never… This is as far as I've ever got."

He breathes a gasp though he's trying to hide it, trying to stick to the agreement of judgement-free. "You've never been kissed?"

You just shake your head and the way your face creases, brows turned down, makes him ache.

"Okay."

"And I want to go all the way," you say quickly, all in one breath, finding your words. "Not too far, no extra shit, like, kinky shit, but the standard."

"O-kay," he says again, smiling this time. "So you know it's not as easy as… As in and out, right?"

"Yes," you spit. He flinches. "Sorry, it's just… It's hard not to feel a bit, like, insecure about all of this. Makes me a bit defensive, I guess."

"It's okay," he soothes, and his tone really does make you feel better. "No judgement here. I'm not new to sex, but I'm just as new to this whole… situation as you are."

"Okay," you sigh.

"Why don't we just chat for a bit? I'm not in a rush if you're not."

"Yeah," you agree. Eddie is easy, you're finding; no dancing around the point, but you feel you're being handled gently. Exactly what you want.

"So did you grow up here?"

Okay, so maybe the 'chatting' suggestion was a bit of a façade for the fact that Eddie has found himself fascinated by you, even in the short time he's known you. Sure, it's only been ten minutes if you're not counting the phone call, but there's something about you that piques his interest. And, if he's honest, he's not sure why he wouldn't recognise someone his own age in Hawkins.

"No, no," you say, leaning over to put your beer on the table. You wipe your mouth quickly with the back of your hand. "I'm from Illinois."

"Why are you here then?" He takes your que and puts his own beer down too, deciding that being intoxicated probably isn't the best idea.

"I dunno," you say, sighing again. Your shoulders go lax as you let yourself sink backwards and look up at the ceiling. "I wanted to go somewhere new, but not somewhere big. And the middle school here was hiring a tech assistant, so I applied."

"And you got the job?"

"Uh-huh. I start in September, figured I'd just move here early, try to find my feet."

"How's that going?"

"Alright, mister questions." You laugh as you say this and sit up, looking at him again with a smile. "It's going okay so far. People are friendlier here, but I haven't exactly found my people yet."

He hums, nodding, and you say, "My turn."

He looks up at you. "Do your worst."

"Did you grow up here?"

"Kind of. Somewhere near here, til I was eleven."

"Why'd you move here?"

"Hah." He goes all rigid and awkward at your question, shrugging his jacket off with his eyes on the ground. You take note of the ink you can see crawling up to his neck under the collar of his shirt. There's something else there, too; something pale and stretched, like a scar.

"It's complicated." That's the answer he settles on, keeping his cards close to his chest. "But I moved in with my uncle when I was in middle school. Been here since then."

"Is that why you're still here? Your uncle?"

"Kind of, but that's also complicated."

"Wow, okay, is everything complicated with you?"

"It doesn't have to be," he says. It throws you for a loop, the way his voice has dropped, fried and kind of… sexy?

You find him looking at you, and suddenly he feels really close. You feel this urge to climb out of yourself, away from this situation that isn't for you; it's never for you. No one has ever wanted to get this close.

"You okay?" he asks, his friendly tone back.

You're grateful he seems to be able to read you so quickly.

"Yeah, sorry."

"It's okay. If you want to, y'know, stop this at any point, just let me know, okay?"

"We haven't even-"

"Will you?" he presses.

"Yes," you promise him. He looks back at you like he's waiting, yearning for something and you don't quite know what.

"Can I ask you something?" he says.

"Mm-hmm."

"Why are you so far away right now?"

He's gone soft, leaning forward toward you, his arm still up on the back of the couch. Your eyes flicker to his fingers and the rings on them, the way they're sparkling slightly in the dipping sun coming through the window.

It fills your mouth with glue. The combination of his proximity and the question leaves you breathless.

"I just…" he continues. "You're hiding from me over there."

He's got a sticky smirk on his face, like he knows the answer and knows you don't want to tell him. He shuffles forward ever so slightly, letting you breach into his space if you want to.

You do, you really, really do – he's a kind stranger, doing a kind thing for you, even if it is a bit odd. You want nothing more than to relinquish yourself to him, and yet you can't.

There's a momentary staring contest between the two of you. The couch feels miles long and yet he's closing in. You feel suffocated.

"I'm gonna come to you," he says after a minute. "Is that okay?"

All you can do is nod at him. It's like your body's on fire, affronted at the idea of being touched by him and yet harbouring some primal urge, deep under the surface, to let him do it anyway.

He pushes his jacket onto the floor with his elbow as he moves himself down the couch toward you. Your eyes follow his arms and the way they stretch, and then the way one of them lifts. He plants his hand firmly on your knee and it burns through the denim of your jeans. You can't tear your eyes from it, staring blankly at his fingers, the way the tendons flex when he squeezes.

"We don't have to do anythin' you don't wanna do, okay?" he tells you. He's watching you, how you're watching his hand, how your hair still lights up in the sun. You're sweet, and pretty, and most of all he longs to know more.

"I'm gonna talk you through it," he continues, "kinda like a teacher, if that's what you want."

When you don't reply, he calls your name softly, and says, "Is that what you want?"

You look up at him and nod again.

"I need to hear it, sweets."

You tell him yes, that is what I want, trying desperately to keep your voice as level as possible, not letting on that it kills you every time he uses a petname like that.

His fingers dance up your thigh and back down to your knee, a repeating pattern that sends you dizzier the closer he gets to you.

"Eddie?"

His hand stills and he looks at you.

"Yeah?"

When he responds, you feel his breath on your face. He's close enough, now; you can really look at him, at the crow's feet by his eyes, the freckles across his cheek, the bend in the bridge of his nose that looks like maybe he broke it once. His eyes are really pretty, browned sugar and syrup, flitting around as he tries to read you.

"I've never been this close to anyone before."

He's watching your eyes as they move over his face, admiring the slight sense of awe in them.

"That's okay."

There's a sudden absence on your leg where his hand leaves it and it aches, like the bone is realigning. You swallow a whine and close your eyes when his hand finds your cheek.

"I'm gonna kiss you now," he whispers. "That okay?"

You nod again and he lets the pads of his fingers smooth backwards into your hair where they take root, his thumb beside your eye. You feel him pull you in and his breath on your nose and then the strange sensation of his lips.

It's new but not unwelcome. He's soft with it, light as anything and quicker even, gone before you really know it's happened. Some kind of sudden urge takes over, though, because you don't like how quick it was, so you chase him. You plant your lips back on his, firmer than he had, your nose nudging his as you get the angle right. This one's longer and it startles him; you have to pull back when he starts laughing.

"Alright, alright, slow down," he says as you sit back, deflated. "You liked that, huh?"

You nod, giddy, desperate to feel it again.

"Can I show you somethin'?" His hand is on your neck now, burning its fires once more, and you can barely concentrate on him.

"Yeah," you breathe, a sigh of relief as he comes closer again. But as you close your eyes, expecting his mouth on yours, you can't help the whine that escapes when he misses, landing beside it. You feel him chuckle, a puff of air out of his nose, before he dots more kisses along your jaw. It feels nice, gentle and slow, like he's scared to break you if he goes too fast or comes on too strong.

The whine, lingering in your throat, moulds into something like a sigh – or even a moan – when he makes it onto the column of your throat. You swear you feel his teeth graze the skin there, lips following them over your pulse. His kisses turn hotter, heavier, and you can't help the way you keen into him. Without thinking about it, you paw at his shoulders and let your back arch as you breathe thick pants into the air of your living room.

When he pulls back again, you whine his name, gripping tighter where you've pulled his shirt into your fists. He laughs at you, head tipped back, as he smooths his hands up and down your arms; the gentle touch makes you relax and your hands unfurl.

"Good, huh?" His words are viscous, thick with want, but he daren't go too fast.

"Mm-hmm," you agree, nodding, breathing quick. Now that he's stopped, you have time to consider that, actually, you might be a bit overwhelmed; without thinking about it you sit back, returning to your comfortable distance by the arm of the couch, watching as his face falls.

"Sure you're okay?" he asks.

"Yeah, yeah, I just-"

"Yeah, take a second."

"Mm-hmm, just need a minute."

You watch him stiffen, awkward in the wake of the moment, and take the chance to admire him a bit more until you sense his eyes are back on you, and suddenly you feel very small.

"You alright?"

You nod, looking back at him, finding his face all soft and concerned, turned down so it makes you twinge.

"You're being so nice to me," you say. It comes out more as a breath, a string of words tied together with insecurity, all in the same exhale. You're not even sure you said it at all, but his face twists into something like shock.

"What do you mean?"

You sigh. "I dunno, I… You're just being very… kind. Are you always like this?"

He seems taken aback by the question. His hands are in his lap where his left fingers toy with the rings on his right. He looks away from you to stare instead at the beer on the table and the drop of condensation running a race down the neck of the bottle.

"You've really never done this before, huh?" he asks you, and now it's your turn to be taken aback.

"I'm not lying, if that's what you're getting at," you say with perhaps a bit too much venom.

"No," he responds, stern. "I'm just… Finding it hard to believe. I'm sure it's true," he says quickly when you open your mouth to fire something quick at him again, "like, I know you're not lying, but it's so surprising."

"How so?"

He sighs this time. He twists in his seat to face you, bringing one leg up under himself, the other dangling off the edge of your couch. "I'm gonna be honest with you right now, if that's okay."

"Okay."

"'Cause I feel like that's the best way to do this whole… thing, right? Nothin' in it for you, really, if we're not honest, or whatever…"

For the first time since you met him in the park, he's showing his nerves. It gets him all wound up, stumbling through sentences like the words are quicker than he can keep up with. It's endearing, really; nicer in some ways than confidence.

"When I saw that ad it obviously caught my eye, I mean, I called, but I just didn't know what to expect, obviously, and you're… Well, you're… normal? So far, anyway." He huffs the last three words out in a laugh, but you don't return it.

"What does that mean?"

"I just think I expected someone who puts an ad like that in the paper to be weirder, or something."

Your gut twists. Red flares of anger lick up your insides, popping and wheezing in your throat.

"What the fuck, dude?" 

You stand, backing away, feeling that familiar creeping isolation; distance, walls up, get away. His face has dropped to something wider, fear in his big stupid brown eyes and mouth agape.

"I didn't-"

"I'm not weird for being a virgin. And just because you think I'm 'normal' doesn't mean this-" you gesture between the two of you with both hands, "-should be surprising."

"No, shit, sorry," he pants, desperation oozing, "fuck."

"I think you should go," you finally say. Your arms are across your middle, hands gripping your forearms. You don't dare look at him, even when he says nothing.

You flinch when you feel him come nearer. He steps over the threadbare rug on your floor and over to the corner where you've parked yourself.

He calls your name and you despise the way you soften at the sound of it.

"I'm gonna touch you, 's'that okay?"

You scoff, turning away from him.

"Stop fucking patronising me, Eddie."

"I'm not patronising you. You wanted me to talk you through it."

"Yeah, that. Not this."

"This is part of that."

"No, it's not."

"Yes, it is."

"Well this isn't getting me very turned on," you spit, turning back to look at him, your arms still crossed over your chest and the rising fire of anger flares when you find that cocky smirk on his face.

"Will you come sit down with me? Please?"

His hands are hovering awkwardly between the two of you, forbidden to come any closer but refusing to give up completely. You offer him an olive branch, dropping your own arms and taking his hand in yours.

He walks you back to the couch and sits beside you, turning your hand over in his on his lap. You both watch it, the way his thumb grazes your palm, tracing the lines up and over.

"Sex isn't just sex, you know," he says frankly. "Even when it's like this."

"I know," you whisper, eyes transfixed.

"It's about all the emotional shit too, and I'm gettin' the feeling there's a lot of that to get through."

"Mm-hmm." It irks you, the way he seems to know you without really knowing you. "You sound very wise."

He laughs at that, and you find yourself grateful for the reprieve, for the way the tension seems to lift just a little.

"I'm just being honest," he admits through a laugh. And then he turns to look at you, dipping his head to meet your gaze because you won't look up. His gaze on you is oppressive, unfamiliar, but you don't dislike it.

"You're really pretty, you know."

You just look at him.

"Hm?" he tries, dipping even lower to catch your eye properly. "It's true."

"A boy's never called me pretty before," you admit, words too quick for you to call them back. This is dire, this hole you're digging; after all this time, being honest is still so difficult, though it seems to come so easily to him.

"That's a crime" he says. And then he does that thing, the one you've read about in books, daydreamed about, thought about late into the night. He brings his hand to your face and holds your chin between his thumb and forefinger, a light pressure but enough to move you to look up at him, sat upright, with your mouth dropped open in shock.

It's just as electric as you'd imagined; more so, even. Two points of contact. Who'd have thought it?

"I'm sorry I said something stupid," he tells you. "It was dumb."

You giggle as his fingers shift across your skin. Soon enough he's holding you in his hand again and you feel yourself leaning into it, again.

"Thank you for apologising," you say. "I think I can forgive it for now."

"Good," he says. And then, more coy, the act dropped for a moment, "Can I kiss you again?"

"Yes, but…"

Just like before, the words stall in your throat.

"You can tell me what you want, you know. It's why I'm here." Christ, his voice is like honey when he's this close to your face.

You pull a long breath in through your nose and close your eyes.

"I have this… fantasy," you begin, and you hear (and feel) him chuckle.

"Go on."

"I guess it's not really a fantasy, just something I've always wanted to try…"

"That's the definition of a fantasy."

"Hey," you scold, opening your eyes and swatting him on the arm softly. "You wanna hear it or not?"

"Sorry, sorry," he says, laughing again. "Continue."

"Can I sit on your lap?"

"Is that it?" he asks, laugh lingering, threatening to fire up the heat in your cheeks.

"Yes," you say pointedly. "I wanna try it."

"Go for it, baby."

He doesn't miss the way you gasp at the nickname; in fact, he smiles, grins almost. He moves his hands down, leaving your face for now so he can hold your waist as you move onto your knees and lift one over him.

It's funny, you think, how hard all of this feels; really, this is a very normal thing for two 23-year-olds to be doing, and yet something within you makes it feel mechanical, intentional. Perhaps you just need practise.

"Okay," he says as you settle, your hips halfway down his thighs. "You gonna get any closer, or am I gonna have to lean over an' break my back?"

"Am I okay to get closer?" you ask, not taking much notice of how your fingers are dancing around his chest, toying lightly with the chain around his neck. Maybe it does come naturally after all.

"'Course you are, here-"

His big hands pull you in by the waist so that you're seated on him, hips to hips. Your faces are closer now, too, so you can admire those lovely crows feet again and the bend of his nose.

"Gonna kiss me, Munson?"

"O-kay," he says, smirking again. "I like the attitude."

"Oh, for fu-"

He shuts you up with a kiss, takes your breath away like they all say in the magazines; this kiss brings the fire up to the hilt, pulls on the smoke and the kindling and sets everything ablaze. His lips move against yours like molten gold, hot and rich and bright, quick but tender all the same. You feel the heat of his stuttering breaths on your cheek and lean inwards, arching your back slightly, until you feel him moan.

It's a sensation you could get used to, for sure. It's fizzy vibrations on your lips, makes them tingle, all electric. And then, before you can really know it's happening, you feel his tongue on yours.

You're not even sure when you opened your mouth for him. But it's there, the new feeling. It feels wetter, less familiar, but it pulls an involuntary moan out of you and you arch your back even more without thinking.

You get into it, into the rhythm, and let your mind wander to the friction between your hips and the pressure of his fingers under your ribs. They're skirting the hem of your top, his ring finger dipping beneath it onto the skin of your waist. And then you think about it too much, take notice of it too acutely, and you're pulling back and panting, looking down at where his hands are.

"All good?" he asks in a voice that's new to you; it's lazy, his words fuzzy, like he's just woken up. You look up at him and his eyes are hooded, lids low, and he's wearing a dopey half-smile.

"Yeah, just… Feeling lots of things," you say; it's all you can think of to explain this.

"That's kinda the point," he reminds you, and then he's doing that thing he showed you earlier, kissing slowly across your jaw and down onto your neck. It feels just as nice the second time; nicer, even, because you're letting him do it and you're letting yourself enjoy it.

His fingers venture upwards, more of them sliding under your top, until he pulls back and says the fateful words you knew would come soon: "Can I take this off?"

His lips are still on your throat, so he doesn't see the way you wince. When you don't reply he comes back up to look at you. You turn away.

"Hey," he coos, one hand leaving its treacherous territory to hold your head again. "What's up?"

You huff. "No one's ever seen me… naked before."

He smiles, which vexes you. "I'm here 'cause I wanna, baby."

The fucking nicknames.

"I know, I just… Can you just-"

You hold his hand in yours and move it away from your skin, hold it in both of yours to keep it away from you. He breathes an apology but you continue.

"This whole thing, me never doing this before or whatever, I think it's probably got a lot to do with me not really liking this-" you look down at yourself as you speak, "-very much."

You see him take this in, how it melts his features and widens his eyes.

"Okay," he finally says. "We can take this slow, yeah? You wearing a bra?"

"Yes, Eddie, I'm wearing a bra."

"So let's start there. Top off first, and you can see how you feel."

"Okay."

You let go of his hand and he takes your shirt in both. You close your eyes as you feel him lift the fabric, bunch it around your breasts, your que to lift your arms. You do it for him and he pulls up, tugs it messily over your head and throws it somewhere across the room.

"Shit," he hisses.

"What?" you say in a panic, worried something somewhere has gone horribly wrong.

"Look at you," he croons. "So pretty."

The insecurity evaporates, coming off you like a heavy mist, as he dips his head to kiss your collar bones and across the swell of flesh beneath. He takes his time, sometimes pulling the skin between his teeth but never for long enough to leave a mark. At some point he nudges you back and reaches over his head to pull his own shirt off; before he commits, he looks at you. You nod.

This is the most flesh-on-flesh you've ever felt before. It's nice; you're both warm, and he hasn't once mentioned the eighteen thousand different flaws you know are on your upper body.

His is covered in ink – pretty, often in swirling patterns and on his arm there are bats. But between them, there's confirmation of your earlier suspicions: he's got scars everywhere.

You trace them with gentle fingers.

"Don't ask," he says, laughing awkwardly.

"Okay."

You lean back in to kiss him. You’re a lot less confident than he is at initiating, but soon enough you get the hang of it, and he lets you. He doesn't take the reins; instead, he gives himself to you, lets you find your feet by yourself.

You attempt to copy him, kissing his jaw and then his neck, and you enjoy the way he sighs and relaxes under your lips.

As you move further down, teeth grazing his collarbone, he says, "you wanna move? Couch isn't exactly ideal."

You finish your work with a peck to the bump of his shoulder and say, "Sure."

There's some awkward shuffling, and standing in your bra and jeans is somehow more vulnerable than sitting on him, but nevertheless you take his hand and lead him through the door to your bedroom.

He doesn't have as much time to take this room in as the last one, because he wants you on the bed more than he cares to admit. When you flick on the bedside lamp, finally acknowledging how dark it's become now the sun's started going down, all he really notices is how warm the room is.

"Here," he says, manoeuvring you as he pleases. "Lay back, yeah?"

You do as he says, sitting facing him and pushing yourself back so you can lay down with your knees up. 

And then it happens: one of the many cataclysmic revelations of the evening.

"Good girl."

Again, you gasp, looking up at the ceiling.

"Good?" he asks.

"Really good," you tell him. You haven't really noticed that your hands have laid themselves across your chest, but he can't stop staring.

"That's it, see? Love when you tell me what you like."

One of his hands joins one of yours where it's fidgeting with your bra, and the other smooths down one of your legs, urging you to straighten them. You do, and again he says those fateful words: "Good girl. Gonna take these off, yeah?"

"Wait," you snap, sitting up and letting his hand fall so you can lean back with your weight on yours. "Can we do it together?"

"'Course."

"And can I… Can I undo yours?"

"Shit, sure you can."

You sit up and he takes your hands in his bigger ones, moulding them so you're tracing your fingers down the plain of his chest and stomach. You follow the dips and creases, the taught skin of his scars, and finally reach his belt.

He's mumbling nonsense at you, too caught up in everything to keep up the teacher façade, pinching your fingers between his so you can pull the leather through the buckle and get to his zipper.

When you unzip and brush something hard, he drops his hands and tips his head back in a sigh. It's an unfamiliar feeling under your tentative hands but it's not unknown.

"Wow," you breathe, not really meaning to say it out loud.

"Shit, gotta get these off-" He pulls back from your wanting grasp to shuffle out of his jeans, leaving his boxers in place for now. One step at a time.

"Your turn," he declares, smiling, jeans and socks gone. He reaches over to you again to return the favour, undoing buttons and the zip and his wide hand on your hip urges you to lift off the bed so he can pull the denim down your legs.

There's no turning back now; you can never again wonder what will happen the first time someone sees you (nearly) naked.

You've thought about this before, turned an infinity of possibilities over in your mind, but this was never one of them. Not one of them included a pretty boy, standing before you, just as exposed as you are, pawing at flesh and telling you you're beautiful.

His lips ghost over you, beginning at your shoulder and creeping lower. When he reaches the middle of your chest he looks up at you, the angle a little awkward. You nod.

"What're you doing?" you ask him, moving backwards again as he crowds you.

"I'm gonna take this off," he says, tugging lightly at the band of your bra, bringing himself level with you so he's breathing the words into your ear. "And then I'm gonna eat you out."

He may as well be a fire-breathing dragon. His words claw at your scalp like flames and fill your lungs with heat, pulling a sigh from within. You lean back, lying flat on the sheets, and let him have his way with you.

But he doesn't move, first admiring the way you respond and then waiting, lingering above you, too far away.

"What?" you hiccup, looking at him, confused.

"Need you to tell me this is what you want," he tells you.

"This is what I want," you repeat back to him. And then, taking the plunge, you add, "I want you to eat me out, Eddie."

You relish in his response, the way you can almost see him shiver, bare shoulders twitching and chest deflating with a shuddery exhale.

"Christ, yes, okay."

His fingers inch around your back so you arch it, letting him toy with the clasp of your bra. He gets it undone quicker than you expected, and you can't bring yourself to focus on where it goes once it's off because he's got his mouth back on your skin and now he's biting marks in places that would make your past self blush.

You feel his teeth on the swell of your boobs, first the left and then the right, and the rough pads of his fingers over your nipples.

"Shit," you hiss, and then, "no, shit, don't stop," when he halts for a second.

"Feel good?" he asks, muffled with his teeth grazing the stretch of skin across your ribs.

"Yes, yeah."

Gripping the sheets, you arch again, keening into him, chasing the buzz of his lips and the goosebumps they leave.

His fingers leave them, too, especially when they dance over your sides, that bit that makes you feel hollow if you drift over it the right way.

"Can I take these off?" he asks, lifting his head to look up at you from where he's sunk to his knees. You're staring at the ceiling, too preoccupied to meet his eye, and the sight makes him huff a laugh.

"Yes," you respond too quickly.

As you feel his fingers curl around the elastic, he says, "Okay, you're gonna have to give me a hand, alright? Tell me if it feels okay or if you want me to move. Or if you want me to stop, obviously."

"Yes, yeah, fuck, please Eddie-"

"Alright, alright," he laughs, pulling the material down over your knees and feet. At this rate, your bedroom floor must look like an explosion at the laundromat; dirty laundry everywhere, clothes all over the floor.

You're not sure why you're thinking about the logistics of tidying right now, though it doesn't last long, because the cool air on your core is a shock that jolts every limb.

Although he's wedged between them, you seem to have an instinctual reaction to the sensation of being exposed, your legs trying to close around him. His firm hands pull them apart, his fingers grasping the fat of your thighs, and then his lips.

They're on the softness between your legs first of all, nipping and pulling the skin between his teeth as he moves upwards. And then you feel them, the strange, wet contact. There's a feeling, something you think must be his tongue, licking upwards, before it makes contact with your clit.

The pressure is a thunderbolt to the centre, a shock that sends you arching off the bed with a gasp. Your grasp on the sheets tightens for a moment until you feel the roughness of his hair instead; without thinking, you've moved both hands to claw and pet at the crown of his head, earning a muffled moan when you tug ever so lightly.

He calls your name, pulling back, his words heard through cotton wool ears. "You're sure you haven't done this before?"

"Fuck, yes, Eddie I'm sure," you pant in response, desperate for the sensation of his mouth on you again. He obliges your unspoken craving, licking upwards again before settling comfortably at your clit. His firm hands dig deeper into the flesh of your thighs until one of them doesn’t, and before you can think too hard about it, you feel it just beneath his mouth.

The new feeling of his rough fingers on your cunt sends your eyes rolling back; you can't help but squirm and it's driving him wild, the way you're listening to him, the way you can't help but move, the way you're tugging at him without realising.

The gnawing tightness in your core nosedives when he slips, warm breaths replacing his mouth and fingers. You whine like a petulant child, making a noise you didn't know you could.

"I'm gonna use my fingers," he tells you, the distance between him and your cunt not enough to save you from the maddening huffs of breath as he talks. "Have you ever had anything inside before?"

It's funny, how nervous he sounds despite the fact he's knelt the way he is between your knees. His mouth was just all over you, and yet he's still a boy, turned stuttering by sex talk.

"No," you pant, "no, never."

"Okay, it might hurt, alright? You just gotta tell me to stop and I will."

"Okay," you agree.

He settles back into position, his weight rested on his elbows and his face and hand inching closer. You feel it, the stiffness of a finger, but the feeling is unusual and a little uncomfortable.

"You gotta relax," he tells you. "You overthinkin' it?"

"No," you bite defensively.

"It's okay."

You huff and lie back, dropping your shoulders.

"Do you ever…"

Another sigh.

"Do you ever touch yourself?"

There's a momentary flush of embarrassment, a conditioned response to being asked about this kind of thing, but you're here, in this position, naked, so you may as well be honest.

"Yes."

"Okay, what do you think about? When you do?"

"I, uh…"

"It's okay," he says quickly, "don't tell me. Just- just think about it now, right? Somethin' that turns you on."

Something that turns you on? What's turning you on right now is the handsome guy between your legs. His pretty inked skin, the stretch across his shoulders and the ripples in his back. His wide, firm hands, those obnoxious rings, the way he keeps telling you you're a good girl.

It swims in your mind, the vision of him cooing sweet praises, the fizzling memory of those words in his voice.

"That's it, you got it," you hear him tut, as though he can see inside your mind, read your thoughts. It pulls apart the tension in your core and across your shoulders, and then it's back, that feeling, the warmth and the fire, and you sink deeper into the pool of euphoria.

With one finger already half-way inside, he adds a second, his eyes trained on your face in case it's too much. But it's not; of course it's not. He knows he's good, but he doesn't think he's made a girl this happy in his whole life.

You feel it soon enough: there's a fizzing current that licks up from your cunt and into your gut where it lights your nervous system on fire. It runs laps around your body, pinpricks in your fingertips and behind your ears. You grasp at the sheets again, pulling, pulling, pulling, reaching for whatever you can to keep your body from floating away, because it really feels like that's about to happen; either that or you're going to implode, pulling the room and everything else with you like a black hole, hungry for more.

You barely notice the pants, your whiny moans and the repeated prayers of Eddie, Eddie, Eddie, before you're coming apart. He's still going, riding you through it, basking in the sound of his name as it crawls from your mouth. So far he's kept his composure, ignored the searing pain under his boxers, but he doesn't think he'll hold out much longer.

"That's it," he coos, slowing down, rubbing soothing circles into your hip. You're panting, your breath hot and skin even hotter, and you can barely hear him when he speaks. The words carry, though, somehow; his praises of you did so good, and you're driving me wild, and, worst of all with the way it slaps you silly when it comes, I need to be inside you.

You sit up at that, holding yourself up on wobbling elbows to look at him. He's still knelt between your knees, hands resting on them, looking back at you with eyes turned dark and glistening skin. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and it takes you a minute to understand that he's waiting for your answer.

"Right," you breathe. "Yeah, okay." You scramble to sit up and twist yourself so you're lying the right way but he laughs and it makes you go cold.

"Chill out, take a minute, yeah?"

His hand hasn't left you; it's on your ankle now, rubbing those same circles over the bone.

All you can say is, "That was insane."

He laughs again, a softer noise this time, and says, "It was, huh?"

"Yeah." You flop back, head in the pillows and eyes on the ceiling above you, your own fingers tracing up and down your stomach.

He watches you from the floor. You're all flushed, glowing something rosy and sprinkled with dewy sweat. And then he watches your fingers, their absentminded journey up from your belly to the dip between your boobs, and back down. You repeat it over and over, and though it's an innocent, repetitive stroke, it's not helping the pressure between his legs.

"I'm gonna take these off," he tells you, giving your ankle a comforting squeeze and tugging his waistband with his free hand. "That okay?"

It dawns on you, as you look at him, that not only are you lying naked in front of a stranger, but that you are about to see that stranger's dick. A stranger who responded to your stupid ad in the paper, who's agreed to this for some stupid reason, and who is stupid handsome and stupid nice.

"Uh, yeah, okay."

He says your name again and it sounds so pretty when he does, and then he says, "We can stop if you want, you know. You don't have to do anythin' you don't want to."

"No, I want to," you say. "I just… This is a lot."

"Yeah," he says with a smile, that one that drips with charm and tugs at your gut. "But you're all good. Done so well so far."

Your body keens at the praise, your back lifting off the bed and it's then that you notice the feeling of want biting ugly marks into the pit of your stomach. You look at him, and he looks back at you, and all you can feel is a gnawing emptiness, a need to be full.

"Let's do this," you declare, sitting back up on your elbows and watching him with needy eyes. He sees it, the darkness that has settled in your irises, the itchy fidgeting of your hands on your sheets.

"Yes, ma'am."

Slowly, he stands and tugs his underwear down his legs and onto the floor. It all feels very real, now that he's stood before you like this.

He laughs at your wide eyes, trained on the straining erection he just let loose. You've never seen a dick in person before, and to be truthful you're not sure you've ever really seen one in a photograph or a video – the adult section at the rental store isn't exactly somewhere you often find yourself – so you have nothing to compare this to, but objectively it looks quite big.

"Will it fit?" you say before you can stop yourself. It comes out a squeak and makes him laugh yet again.

"Yes," he tells you, "it'll fit. But thanks for the ego boost."

He's on his knees on the bed beside you now, moving towards you until he can use his hands to move your legs apart. He settles himself between them and sits back on his heels, leaving one hand on your left leg and using the other to take one of yours. He intertwines your fingers, squeezes, and pulls you to sit up.

"Here," he says, bringing your hand to sit flat on his ribs. He's controlling his voice as best he can, hoping it doesn't sound as desperate as he feels right now. He can't help but stare at you, at how you're looking at him. 

"I'm gonna show you how to touch me, okay?"

"Yeah," you breathe. His hand moves yours down until it reaches patchy hair and then he curls your hand around his dick, his own hand still holding yours.

It's a new feeling, sure, but you're mostly enjoying the short hisses of breath he's letting out. When you move upwards without his help he almost moans, and you decide you'd like to do whatever it takes to make him do it again, and louder.

"Shit, okay, wait. Here-" He brings your hand away and lays it flat, palm up. "Spit."

You look up at him and find his wide brown eyes looking down at you, waiting.

So you spit into your palm, and he brings it back to himself, and moving is easier now.

"Fuck, okay… Yeah, just like that, that's it, shit-"

He drops his hand from yours and leaves you to find your own way, so you copy his pattern of up and down, slowly, twisting your hand as you go.

"Here, move your thumb over the- Fuck-"

You do as he says, perhaps too eager to please, and watch in awe as the muscles in his abdomen tense and he leans forward, resting his weight on one hand planted right beside your hip.

"Okay, okay, that's enough," he says, taking your wrist and pulling you away, ignoring the way you whine.

When he says, "We can worry about me another time," you try to ignore the brief fluttering it elicits deep within your chest somewhere. Dwelling on things said in the heat of this moment isn't fair, you decide; he surely doesn't mean it.

With warm, now familiar hands, he helps you lay back down.

"You got condoms?"

"Oh." You don't, and the truth you're about to tell him is mortifying. "No. They all expired a few months ago."

"That's fine," is all he says, and the fluttery feeling returns when he doesn't ask any follow up questions. No judgement, as promised. "Just wait here."

His hand leaves you at the last possible moment. As he moves off the bed it runs smooth down your leg and over your foot, like he's scared that if he lets go you'll disappear. You watch him hop awkwardly across the room and into your living room, the sight a refreshing injection of humour, helping you relax into the mattress again. He comes back with his jacket in one hand, which he drops on the floor after rummaging in the inside pocket and pulling out a red foil square. 

He pulls it open with fingers that you realise are shaking slightly, and you wonder if he's really nervous, and if so, if he's as nervous as you are.

It takes a few seconds but soon enough he's rolled it on, breath stuttering and dry, and then he climbs back to you and his hands return to your body almost as quickly as they left.

He's hovering over you now, his long hair tickling the sides of your face and the tops of your shoulders, all the places the sun hits on hot days. You're too caught up in watching his every move, too keen to really realise what you're saying before you ask: "Will you kiss me again?"

He smiles and dips down wordlessly, letting his lips slip against yours. It brings back the fluttering and the fizzy feeling, the craving for him. As your tongues move as one, you feel his hand by your thigh, and when he pulls back he says, "You ready?"

You nod, and then, remembering what he said earlier, cement it in words: "I'm ready."

"Alright, I'm gonna go slow, okay? It's gonna stretch more than earlier, but you just keep me clued in, yeah?"

"Yeah."

There's a new sensation at your core, of wetness and something rigid. He's moving against your folds, finding no purchase in the remnants of earlier on, but then he nudges your clit and you jolt upwards and that's when he finds what he was searching for.

He nudges in quickly at first, enough to make you whine a pained sound. He matches it with a low grumble, a vibration right by your ear.

"You okay?" he's quick to ask, head rising to look at you.

"Yeah, yeah, just- slow, please."

"I've got you."

He doesn't move for a beat, eyes trained on the scrunch of your nose. He kisses it and feels you relax, so he keeps kissing, quick flashes over your forehead, your temple, your cheek. Each one brings new relief and as your back hits the bed again, he eases himself in a little more.

The stretch is definitely different; more. There's a burn, but it doesn't completely hide the wave of pleasure you get in the fullness.

"Gonna go a bit more," he tells you, and he does just that, going half an inch further, still watching for any sign of discomfort.

When you bring your knees up by his hips, he knows you're past the worst of it. He chants praise, telling you that you're doing so well, taking me so well as he keeps going, all the way until he's seated inside you, up to the hilt. You breathe in a gasp, filling your lungs, realising you'd been holding your breath for too long. And as you open your eyes, you find him staring down at you with concern and something else.

"You good?" he whispers with his face so close you feel the words as they settle on your cheek.

"Yeah."

"Good girl."

He punctuates this with a kiss, and then another, over the hill of your jaw and onto your throat. Your hands claw up his back, pulling him in until you're sure that if he were any closer, you'd fuse into one.

"Okay," he finally says, lips against the peak of your shoulder. "I'm gonna move. I'll go slow at first."

"Okay."

The feeling of him pulling out is new and nice, but it's nothing compared to the opposite. The combination of the two, the repetitive motion he picks up, is something you want to chase forever.

As he moves, he quickens, trying his best to keep his eyes open and attentive; it's difficult, though, when you feel this good.

"Christ, you're so fuckin' tight, shit-"

"Eddie, this feels amazing, uh-"

Your stomach twists into a coil again, quicker this time, and tightens as he picks up the pace. Above you he's all guttural moans and pretty groans, his lips grazing your cheek each time he moves, and soon his thrusts become too much. You're panting his name and he's panting yours, and along with the sound of skin on skin, that's all you can hear until he speaks gravel-churned words into your ear.

"Shit, 'm so close, fuck- Gotta get you there, baby, huh? C'mon, need you to come for me."

His words are joined by sloppy fingers between your bodies. They fumble in the dark, prodding your belly before finding slippery purchase on your clit. Sparks light up your body and all you can do in response is let it arch into him with a yelp of his name.

"You close?" he asks.

"Yes, yeah, shit, yes," you splutter back. It's like a chase, and you're catching up, quickly, quickly, quickly.

All of a sudden there's a white-hot flash that burns every inch of your insides. You tense, your body yawning open for him, wide and wanting; he doesn't relent, thrusts harder than ever, chases you in return as he feels you tighten around him. You release, the coil snapping, and he brings the pace down to see you through to the end.

There's cotton wool in your ears again but you make out his praises: "That's it, that's it, atta girl… C'mon, I've got you, you did so well."

When your breathing turns regular and your eyes ease open, you feel a warm knuckle on your cheek. He's still going slow, rutting in and out of you with ease now, and when you finally look at him he asks, "Gonna keep goin', that okay?"

You nod, throat closed for the time being so you make it as certain a nod as you can muster. His thrusts become quicker again, and the more he speeds up the sloppier he becomes. You feel sensitive, too warm but also too desperate to see, hear, feel him come undone inside you. It's not long until your wish is granted; soon his groans turn to whimpers and whines, and he calls your name as he shudders to a violent halt. It's intoxicating, experiencing this from underneath him; if this is what everyone's been talking about all these years, you understand why.

The room sways and whistles as he rests his weight on you. His breath, right beside your ear, is like a hot, damp rag, pulling at your sticky skin and the thrum of rushing blood. You hear him groan and then the uncomfortable feeling of him pulling out. The bed bounces gently as he huffs and flops down beside you, and, god, you wish so badly that you could keep those flutters under control because his clammy hand finds yours between your bodies and it's nice to feel the affection he's so devoted to giving you.

Sighing, he says, "Shit."

You laugh, scrunching your face.

"Yeah," you agree, "shit."

He squeezes your hand.

"Did you like it?"

"Yeah. Really liked it."

"Okay for your first time?"

"Yeah." You turn onto your side to face him, looking up at his face. There are a few curls stuck to his pretty pink face, and you admire the bob of his throat as he swallows and the squeeze of his hand in yours.

"You're really pretty," you tell him. You're not sure if this is the post-O haze the magazines talk about, or if it's some kind of clarity, or if it's just that you have this boy in the palm of your hand and you suddenly can't bear the thought of letting him go. Instead you want to plant anchors, heavy lines that will keep him right where he is.

He turns his head to look at you and you see him flush even more.

"So are you," he whispers, with another squeeze and a kiss to your forehead.

There are a few minutes of quiet after that. The light outside is gone for good, so he's glowing a low golden in the light of your bedside lamp. He kisses you again with a fondness that surely shouldn't come with this exchange, which you had rationalised as just that: a transaction, a mutual agreement to get something done.

You see him open his mouth, as if to speak, but close it again, so you reach a tentative hand up and brush some hair from his eyes and trace your knuckle down his temple, urging him.

"My friends," he begins, hesitant, "they're having a party, next weekend. Steve, he only lives round the corner, we passed his house on the way here... You wouldn't wanna come, would you?"

"With you?" you whisper into the fizzy darkness.

"Yeah." He smiles, eyes fluttering shut under your sweeping fingers. "With me."

"Is it a date?"

"It can be, if you want. Or we can just, y'know, go as friends, or whatever."

"No one's ever asked me on a date before."

He smiles, and it's soft and curled with an affectionate pity; one that says I'm sorry, that's not fair, it's nothing to do with you.

"Well, wanna come?"

"I'd love to."

He pulls your hand up and brings it to his mouth, where he kisses your knuckles. Goosebumps raise across your thighs and arms, and you realise you're cold.

He seems to sense your discomfort because you feel him shift beside you. He pulls you up with him and helps you climb off the bed on wobbly legs.

"I should pee," you tell him, heeding the warnings of girlfriends past.

"You should," he says, a little deflated.

You don't move, though. To move would be to acknowledge the end – the end of the transaction, of the favour. It's not something you want.

"I, uh," you begin, stumbling, "Don't- Do you want-"

"I can go now, if you want-"

"No, no, it's okay, I mean, you can go if you want, that's fine, I just-"

Your eyes are darting all over the carpet, skimming discarded clothes, so you don't notice him reach up until he's touching your face, holding it in his palm.

"I'll stay, if you want me to."

"Yes, please."

He smiles at you, sticky with fondness and you can't help but smile back.

"I'm gonna shower," you tell him, leaning further into his grasp.

"I'll be here."

-

"Munson! You made it!"

In the middle of the busy room, there's a tall guy, broad and burly, like all the jocks you went to high school with. He's startlingly pretty, with golden hair and honeyed skin, a wide, bright smile plastered across his face.

He steps on unsure feet over to Eddie, who is stood partially in front of you; you're cowering behind him, willing the courage to lift you and push you into the arms of strangers. For now, holding his hand will do just fine.

"Hey, Harrington," Eddie greets, meeting him in one of those boyish embraces. You look around, taking in the faces; it's not the level of the high-school parties you used to go to, and definitely not the circus of the frat ones you've sometimes found yourself at, but it's busy enough. Where the guy – Harrington – came from, in the living room, there's a circle of people who are all smiling in your direction.

"Who's this?" The guy is looking at you over Eddie's shoulder.

Eddie tells Steve your name, and then turns to you. "This is Steve."

"Hi," you say to him, smiling, trying your best to hide the cruel nerves.

"Nice t'meet you!" he beams back. It's infectious; your smile turns firm and genuine in return. "Here, come meet the gang."

"C'mon," Eddie whispers to you with a kiss to the crown of your head. He pulls you through the entryway, into the large living room, following Steve. He drops your hand to give and return hugs, saying hello to each person. You stand and watch, unsure of what to do, until one of the girls – the first one Eddie greeted – appears by your side.

"Hey," she says, perhaps a little too close.

"Hi."

"I'm Robin." She sticks her hand out and you shake it clumsily.

Eddie's back, with his hand in yours again, on your other side. He calls her Rob and tells her your name, and then does the same for each person – Nancy, Jonathan, Will, Mike, Max, Lucas, Dustin, El – too many for you to remember tonight, but you have a feeling you'll see them again.

"Hi, guys," you return with a wave.

Everything settles after that. You take a seat next to Eddie on the couch, legs up and over his own, making conversation with Robin who you like a lot. Nancy comes over and introduces herself again and you find you like her, too.

And then Steve appears, having disappeared twenty minutes before. He's a little drunker, and he hands you and Eddie a can each. You take it gratefully and open it, taking a swig.

"So," he begins, sitting on the opposite side of the circle to yourself and Eddie. "You from Hawkins?"

"No," you tell him, and repeat the story you told Eddie.

"Sweet! So how'd you meet?"

You turn your head to look at Eddie and find him having done the same thing. His eyes are wide, just as wide as you're sure yours are.

"Uh," you begin, drawing out the sound to buy yourself time. 

"I did her a favour," he says, to your surprise, turning back to look at Steve with a sickly smile. "Just somethin' she'd put in the paper."

"That's so cute," Nancy says from behind you, her words chased by Robin adding a sarcastic, "Adorable."

The conversation moves on after that, and you turn around to Eddie again. He's looking back at you, his face pink and a smile tugging at his mouth. Before you can stop yourselves you're laughing, bursting into happy noises, bent double giggling.

He gives you another kiss, on the cheek this time, and quickly you settle back into conversations. The night is long and for the first time in a long time, it isn't lonely.

-

Hello! This is SO long - it really did take on a life of its own. I considered splitting it but couldn't find somewhere to do it, so I hope you enjoy this absolute beast nonetheless. I love you!

[specialagentartemis]

I just started trying out stained glass, which I know you also do...any hot tips for beginners or things you wish you'd known when you were first learning?

YOOO STAINED GLASS. Fave. I would love to see what you come up with!

Are you primarily using foil+solder or lead came? I've never actually used came so I have very little advice in that department, though I do want to at some point...

Some things to keep in mind, some imparted to me by my craft center teachers and some discovered by trial and error:

Get a designated box to cut glass over, because the more ambitious the shapes you want to cut, the more shards WILL go everywhere and you want to keep them contained.

If you're cutting glass by hand, you cannot make sharply concave shapes. You will think you can. You will think it can't be that hard. You WILL push your luck. You will end up frustrated. Avoid concave shapes.

If you want to cut concave curves, make them very gently and generously sloped.

If you want to incorporate concave shapes in your design, use multiple pieces of glass to make the curve.

Design with glass in mind from the get-go, rather than trying to adapt a complicated image. If you're designing your own work, try to build it around larger, geometric shapes, without a lot of small fiddly curves. Small fiddly curves DO make fun images, but they will also drive you crazy when they inevitably don't quite fit together right. Make sure you build in enough larger, geometric shapes into your design to anchor your piece and save your sanity.

That said. NGL incorporating things like fossils and marbles and weird shaped natural things is Fun. You can wrap anything you want in copper tape.

Draw or print out your pattern on paper and number each piece on both the pattern and the glass itself. Sharpie wipes off glass pretty easily.

When grinding glass, make sure each piece is ever so slightly smaller than it is on your pattern. The thickness of copper tape seems negligable but adds up when you want pieces to fit precisely.

There are non-lead solders, and they're basically fine, if a little more annoying to use. Lead melts more easily, but I usually use zinc because it's not lead lol. Though if you're not eating off of your stained glass, using lead proooobably isn't a huge deal. Always wash your hands after glasswork regardless.

Tip tinner is your friend! Tin the tip of your soldering iron before and after use, it makes it so much easier.

When you're soldering pieces together, I find laying down a base of thick cardboard, laying out your design on the cardboard, and then using thumbtacks around the edges to anchor the glass pieces in place and prevent them from sliding around helps a lot.

If you want to hang up your stained glass creation like a suncatcher, add loops or hooks, and try to put them at junctures/seams of different pieces of glass to distribute the weight and pressure. My go-to method to make loops for hanging the pieces is to take a metal paperclip, and then loop it around needlenose pliers to make a circle with the wire sticking straight out on either side. Lay the flat wire ends along the outside and solder it down. It makes good secure loops that you can tie a ribbon or attach a chain to, while distributing the pressure along the outside of the piece. And it’s metal so solder sticks to it.

I hope that's not too much! I love working in glass, it's fun and it's so pretty.

[mask131]

So you want to know about Oz! (1)

Then congratulations! Welcome to this quick crash course to know everything about the world of Oz! The movies, the adaptations, the musicals, the books! Yes, books, with an S, because "The Wizard of Oz" everybody knows and love was just the first book of an entire BOOK SERIES that became the enormous franchise we know today! You thought there was just ONE Wizard of Oz movie? Think again! You thought "Wicked" was the only work that gave a backstory to the Witches? Get ready for some discoveries!

And so we begin our journey to the wonderful land of Oz...

The story of Oz begins with one novel. No, not one movie - but the novel that caused the movie... L. Frank Baum's "The Wonderful Wizard of Oz"

Published in 1900, this children novel is still to this day one of the most famous works of American youth literature, as well as the master-piece of Baum, THE book everybody knows he wrote. Baum intended, with this book, to create a purely American fairy tale: he wanted to rival the European tales of Charles Perrault, the brothers Grimm or Hans Christian Andersen - and he succeeded! The novel was a best-seller as soon as it was released, and is still considered as "America's greatest fairy-tale".

Most people know of "The Wizard of Oz" through its famous adaptation, the 1939 musical movie. While these two works do share a same set of main characters and a similar plot, the novel contains many, many details that were not adapted into the movie ; and, in return, the movie brought a lot of elements that were absent from the novel. Both, however, are still the story of a little girl by the name of Dorothy (she wasn't yet named "Gale") and her dog Toto, who are swept up into a tornado and taken to the magical Land of Oz. There she meets three comical companions (the Scarecrow, the Tin Man, the Cowardly Lion), and together they go seek the Wizard of Oz in hope he can grant their wishes, only to have to escape from the clutches of the Wicked Witch of the West...

If you want to read the original novel, it will be very easy! Not only is it still regularly printed today, with various anniversary editions ; but it is in public domain since the 1950s! So you can go read it for free right now, without any problems!

Most people tend to stop at just this book... Not wondering if there was any sequel, treating it as if this was just a one-shot. Except, we told you, this book was a best-seller! An ENORMOUS success! Never before had a children's book brought so much money in the United-States! As such, Baum was not going to just stop there...

While he did intent "The Wonderful Wizard of Oz" to be a self-contained novel existing as its own thing, in 1904 he published a sequel "The Marvelous Land of Oz":

This novel does not follow Dorothy however, but rather a very different character... A little boy who lives in the Land of Oz post-Dorothy: Tip (short for Tippetarius), an orphan boy who escapes the clutches of his wicked witch of a caretaker alongside a pumpkin-headed scarecrow he just brought to life. And the two undergo a journey to the Emerald City ruled by the Scarecrow-king, only to get swept into a revolution...

This novel was conceived in a similar way to the first one, as a "self-contained" story. While it does take place after the events of "The Wonderful Wizard of Oz", reuses several of the same characters (The Scarecrow and the Tin Man are part of the main party, Glinda plays a key part in the final act) and briefly recaps the events of the first novel, it can still be read on its own. This novel especially get a lot of attention today (after decades and decades of falling into pur oblivion) due to its fantasy-dissection of the topics of genders - differences between men and women, boys and girls, unfairness and injustice among sexes (the revolution in question is a "girl revolution" seeking to destroy what is perceived as a misogynistic patriarchy)... All culminating with what is still to this day one of the most famous accidental depictions of a trans character in fantasy!

But I'll return to this all in a later post, possibly...

This novel was ALSO a best-seller and a huge success. And as such... you know what that means. Yes, Baum wrote a THIRD book taking place in Oz! Well, almost... The novel actually mostly takes place in lands neighbors to those of Oz, the land of Ev and the realm of the Nome King... But all the Oz characters return - including Dorothy, who is again swept away into fairy-lands, this time not with her dog Toto, but with a pet chicken Billina.

This story is the novel "Ozma of Oz", published in 1907:

And with these three books, you have the original Oz trilogy!

"But wait, there were other Oz books, weren't there?" you ask. Oh yes, there were more books, indeed! However, I want to stop at this point because these three books do form a specific trilogy for various reasons. The trilogy of the "good" Oz books before everything went... let's say downhill (but more about that next post). But more importantly, the trilogy of Oz books most people know about!

Indeed, even if you have never read "The Marvelous Land of Oz" or "Ozma of Oz", you probably came across various elements of these books, that are regularly scattered throughout Oz adaptations and novels. For example the famous Disney movie "Return to Oz" is mostly an adaptation of "Ozma of Oz", but with numerous elements of "The Marvelous Land of Oz" added to the plot

More recently, the trilogy also formed the basis of the new plot offered by the short-lived TV series "Emerald City"!

Langwidere the princess with a hundred heads, Mombi the witch, Ozma the princess of Oz, the Nome king, Tik-Tok the automaton, Jack Pumpkinhead, general Jinjur, the land of Ev, the Powder of Life and many other names and concepts you might be familiar with come from these two direct sequels to "The Wonderful Wizard of Oz". Sequels which unfortunately never knew the lasting popularity of their predecessor, despite being just as famous, if not more, in their time...

Next post: Baum's downfall...

[lostinhistory]

Heritage News of the Week

Discoveries!

The discovery of an unusual "vampire" burial in Croatia shows the endurance of such beliefs in eastern medieval Europe, according to researchers.

Ancient British coins found in Dutch field likely to be spoils of Roman conquest

A hoard of British coins bearing the inscription of King Cunobelin and found in a Dutch field have been identified as very likely to be the spoils of war of a Roman soldier from the conquest of Britain.

A Roman sanctuary with inscriptions discovered in Cova de les Dones, one of the largest rock art sites in the Iberian Peninsula

Researchers have discovered a remarkable Roman sanctuary in the Cova de les Dones, located in Millares, Valencia, Spain.

Bronze Age footprints preserved during Vesuvius eruption are found in Italy

The footprints found near the Casarzano stream in Salerno, roughly 20 miles away from Pompeii, contained rock fragments from the eruption of Mount Vesuvius. Experts believe the people who left behind these prints were trying to escape the eruption.

1,200-year-old remains of dismembered pregnant woman in Ecuador hint at 'enigmatic' sacrifice to thwart El Niño

The unusual burial of a woman and fetus in prehistoric Ecuador may reflect the community's fear of her power.

A telltale toilet reveals “lost” site shown in Bayeux Tapestry

A house in England is most likely the site of a lost residence of Harold II, the last Anglo-Saxon King of England.

DNA and radiocarbon analysis provide new insights into prehistoric mammoth bone complex

Dr. Alba Rey-Iglesia and her colleagues conducted a biomolecular analysis of the mammoth bone remains at Kostenki 11-Ia, providing fascinating insights into the enigmatic mammoth bone complexes built during the Ice Age.

The oldest evidence for lead pollution comes from ancient Greece

Researchers studying sediment cores recovered from mainland Greece and the Aegean Sea have found the oldest known evidence of lead pollution in the environment dating to around 5,200 years ago.

The longest Greek papyrus from the Judean desert sheds light on a pivotal Roman court case

New research by a group of Austrian and Israeli scholars has finally deciphered a 1,900-year-old scroll describing a tense court case during the Roman occupation of Israel.

A huge chunk of prized Egyptian blue pigment Is uncovered in Nero’s palace

Recent excavations at Domus Aurea, the former imperial residence of Roman emperor Nero, have yielded remnants of a rare blue pigment that hint at the palace’s former glory.

Archaeologists uncover traces of the Abbey of St. Savino

In a new research project to uncover the Abbey’s origins, archaeologists have identified earlier phases of the site’s expansion and construction.

1.5 million-year-old hand axes and seven Paleolithic sites discovered in Iraq’s western desert

Archaeologists from the Free University of Brussels uncovered hand axes dating back 1.5 million years and discovered seven Paleolithic sites in an area of 10 by 20 km in Iraq’s Western Desert.

1,600-year-old Roman padlock with spring mechanism discovered in Germany — and it's tiny

A miniature gold lock dated to the third to fourth centuries was found by a metal detectorist in Germany.

Military personnel and veterans uncover Iron Age treasures

Archaeologists from the Defence Infrastructure Organisation, working in collaboration with veterans and military personnel from Operation Nightingale, have uncovered a collection of Iron Age objects declared as national treasure by the Senior Coroner for North Wales.

One of the oldest tin-bronze artifacts in the Eurasian Steppe discovered in a unique Bronze Age cemetery in Uygur ­Autonomous Region

Chinese archaeologists have recently uncovered a large and uniquely structured cemetery dating back to 2800-2600 BC.

Here’s how ancient Amazonians became master maize farmers

Water engineers in ancient South America turned seasonally flooded Amazonian savannas into hotbeds of year-round maize farming.

Lidar survey maps Zapotec city in Mexico

Pedro Guillermo Ramón Celis of McGill University and his colleagues spotted the remains of more than 1,000 structures built by the Zapotec in southern Mexico between 500 and 600 years ago during an aerial survey employing lidar equipment.

Archaeologists find 4,500-year-old warrior burials in Saxony-Anhalt

Archaeologists have identified at least ten graves at a depth of approximately two metres, three of which were once covered by a burial mound.

Pyramidal structure discovered in Chupacigarro

Archaeologists excavating the Chupacigarro archaeological site have discovered a previously unknown pyramidal structure.

Denmark’s first Roman helmet found in weapons sacrifice

Two iron plates found in the massive Iron Age weapons sacrifice found near Hedensted, Denmark, have been revealed to be parts of a Roman helmet from the 4th century. It is the oldest iron helmet ever found in Denmark, and the only Roman helmet ever found within the country’s borders.

Roman pottery and human remains found in Exeter

Roman pottery and human remains have been unearthed during the installation of an underground substation in Exeter city centre.

Museums

The museum, named the Haveli, features five galleries showcasing different kinds of embroidery Askari has collected from some of the remotest corners of Pakistan, ranging from ceremonial cloths traditionally sent from a groom to a bride before a wedding, to dowry purses and vibrant animal adornments worn by camels.

Mona Lisa will be moved to its own exhibition space at Louvre

French president Emmanuel Macron announced Tuesday that the Mona Lisa, Leonardo Da Vinci’s masterpiece and one of the most iconic artworks in the world, would soon be moved to a new exhibition space.

Louvre’s decision to move Mona Lisa is a misguided act of snobbery

Crowds give life to the Paris museum and the painting is a silent, compelling mystery at the heart of the hubbub

This is a silly take. The room where the Mona Lisa is housed sees at least 20,000 people per day. It does not have the capacity to handle that many people. Have you seen what that room looks like on an average day?

It's like the top of Everest in there. Trying to visit has been described as "exhausting" and "a physical ordeal". It's not snobbery to update a 17th century building for the 21st century.

Smithsonian Institution will close its diversity offices

Just days after the National Gallery of Art in Washington D.C. said it would cancel its diversity, equity and inclusion programs, the Smithsonian Institution, a consortium that includes 21 national museums, announced its diversity office will also close. According to the New York Times, the Smithsonian will also freeze hiring for all federal positions and employees will have to return to in-person work full-time.

‘African art is not a fleeting trend’: Moroccan museum to celebrate rich creativity of continent’s artists

Reopening after renovation, the Museum of African Contemporary Art Al Maaden will provide a permanent home for the extensive Lazraq family collection

WW2 bomber group museum appeals for repair funds

Urgent repairs are needed to conserve and repair a military museum that was created to commemorate the US servicemen who were based there during World War Two.

Museum dash sees speedy Londoner set new record

A man has sped his way across London using a kick scooter to set a Guinness World Records title for the most museums visited in 24 hours.

Crabs 'poo from their chests', museum says

An unusual museum in a Kent seaside town which aims to engage the public in the natural world has plans for expansion. Crab Museum in Margate claims to be Europe's first and only exhibition space dedicated to the world of the decapod highlighting the "weirdness" of crabs.

National museum shuts for maintenance work

Wales' leading museum has been temporarily closed due to maintenance work and safety concerns. A sign outside the National Museum in Cathays Park, Cardiff, on Sunday, said it will be closed to the public until further notice.

California Historical Society shutters, transfers collection to Stanford University

Financial stability became a challenge over the last decade as attendance declined and donations dwindled, with the problems only further exacerbated by the Covid-19 pandemic. As such, CHS’s board voted to dissolve the organization last summer.

Museums scramble to grasp impact of Trump’s DEI mandate

Widespread uncertainty pervades as institutions either roll back initiatives or try to determine whether their programs are in compliance.

17 employees helped save the Getty Villa from the fires. They're telling other museums how it was done

On Tuesday, Jan. 7, at about 7 a.m., the Getty’s Emergency Planning Specialist Les Borsay arrived at the Getty Villa in Malibu. “This was not normally a day I would have necessarily been out there." Then came the message from the Getty in Brentwood: a small brush fire up started up at the Highlands, sparked by embers of the Palisades Fire. For the next 28 hours, Borsay and 16 other staffers organized themselves to supplement fire department efforts and along the way contributed to helping keep the Getty Villa and its priceless art collections from going up in flames.

House next to Auschwitz opens to public amid alarming international survey results on Holocaust

Through the efforts of the American non-profit Counter Extremism Project, in coordination with the Auschwitz-Birkenau State Museum, the Polish foreign ministry and UNESCO, the villa will become the home of the ‘Auschwitz Research Centre on Hate, Extremism and Radicalisation’.

It boggles my mind that people were actually living in this house until last year, when they were convinced to sell it. You know how you go some places and you're like, "wow, the vibes here are bad"? The vibes in that house must be rancid.

Anyway, Dan Snow got to do a tour of the house, and on the one hand, it's just a house, but on the other, it's absolutely the most cursed house ever.

Heritage at risk

Dutch police have arrested three men in connection with the robbery of ancient Romanian artefacts from a museum in the north-east of the Netherlands, after an intensive four-day hunt.

Anger in Romania over theft of national treasures in heist at Dutch museum

News of the heist had set off an “uproar” across Romania, she said, as mourning over the potential loss of the objects gave way to fury among the art world, politicians and media.

US Air Force will still teach about black pilots

The US Air Force will continue to teach about its first black pilots, known as the Tuskegee Airmen, in its basic training, following a review about what to prohibit under President Donald Trump's ban on diversity, equity and inclusion (DEI) programmes in the federal government.

From Bluesky:

Australia tried to influence other countries and Unesco to keep Great Barrier Reef off in-danger list

While this story is specifically about the Great Barrier Reef, this bit:

In 2021 the Great Barrier Reef became the first site globally to be recommended for the danger list primarily because of the impacts of climate change. But after extensive lobbying from the Morrison government, the recommendation from Unesco and its advisers, the International Union for Conservation of Nature (IUCN), was ignored by the world heritage committee. That decision raised concerns among world heritage experts that the committee was becoming increasingly politicised and too often was ignoring scientific and technical advice.

should be a cause for concern regarding all UNESCO and potential UNESCO sites.

Odds and ends

The team building the replica of a famous Anglo-Saxon burial ship have told of their aspirations to eventually sail it down the River Thames and across the English Channel.

Butrint: The ancient site helping Albania reclaim its identity

Once known as "the North Korea of Europe", Albania is turning to its millennia-old sites and rich cultural heritage to recast its image.

Since when is neoclassical architecture “populist”?

Donald Trump’s move to revive “traditional” architecture in federal buildings betrays his ignorance of its elitist roots.

Long-lost anti-fascist mural from 1930s restored and back on show in Mexico

A long-neglected 1930s mural in Mexico that warns about the rise of fascism has been revealed and restored – just as some historians say the world faces that threat once more.

'The truth is she did the right thing': The mystery of why Jane Austen's letters were destroyed – by her own sister

Austen is one of the greatest writers in the English language – but relatively little is known about her. And that's in part because of an act that infuriates many to this day.

Ancient forest uncovered by melting ice in the Rocky Mountains

A nearly 6,000-year-old forest is once again seeing daylight after millennia hidden under ice in the Rocky Mountains.

‘An unusual find’: 66m-year-old animal vomit discovered in Denmark

Experts say vomit, probably from a fish, is made up of sea lilies and is an important contribution to reconstructing past ecosystems

Blergh

[blackbridy-station]

Honestly, this is a weird question for the Sherlock Holmes/Jonnlock fans: Have you heard about The Adventure of the Doctor and the Duellist by Elinor Gray?

The synopsis of the book is as it is on the Goodreads page.

“Shortly after Sherlock Holmes’s unexpected return from the dead, Dr Evangeline Persano brings a case before the great detective. Her husband, Isadora Persano, a well-known journalist and incorrigible duellist, has gone mad: the only clue was the matchbox in his hand which contained a remarkable worm unknown to science. But Holmes suspects there is more to the journalist than meets the eye, an affair rather queer which ultimately renders the case something for which the world is not yet prepared. Now, with the vaults of Cox and Co. unlocked and the tin dispatch box opened, The Adventure of the Doctor and the Duellist illuminates a critical turning point in the nature of the intimate friendship of Watson and Holmes."

While the book is currently out of print, there was a digital version on the John H Watson Society page. However, when I tried using the website's original link, it came up as unavailable. When searching on the John H Watson Society website, the book was part of their Spring 2016 Publication of the Watsonian, which is also unavailable on their website.

The author, Elinor Gray, also has another out-of-print book called Compound a Felony: A Queer Affair of Sherlock Holmes, which I also can't find any online PDF for.

I am honestly curious if anyone here has heard of these works before, and if so, know any PDFs or physical copies I can get a hold of, or are they just considered fandom lost media at this point.

[darklydeliciousdesires]

London Will Burn - A Sean Wallace/OFC Story.

I couldn't wait to share this with you, besties. Here, have the first chapter! I know that Sean is pretty niche as he doesn't seem to have all too huge a fandom, but if I can garner a few readers, and you guys could help me out by reblogging this, I would be very appreciative. Commentary is very welcome, as usual, so yes, dive on in and hopefully enjoy! If you like it enough, you can have chapter two sooner rather than later, too :)

The story begins seven years in the past, but will then run semi-canon to the Gangs of London plot and timeframe.

Tag list - In the comments, please DM to be added/removed

Words - 3,826

Warnings - 18+ content throughout. Minors DNI.

May 24th, 2016. 

Coffee, the financial times and resounding quiet. These were the defining components needed for Finn Wallace to begin each day within the spatial surroundings of his corner office, the floor to ceiling windows offering the widest view of the city he ruled over with an iron fist.  

“Mr Wallace, please. Sir...”  

The words of Minnie, his secretary, delivered outside of his office with mildly pleading desperation tore his attention from fastidiously studying the FTSE 100, Finn looking out from above the pink sheets of paper. He witnessed her scurrying along, her eyes pleading while trying to match the long strides of his son as he approached. “You know your father doesn’t like to be bothered...” 

...between the hours of eight and nine. He needed a full hour with nothing but a newspaper and a good supply of anything that came from Whittard of Chelsea prior to starting his day. His son had other ideas that morning, though.  

Placing his coffee down, he lifted his chin as Sean strode through the doors, a heap of paperwork within his grasp.  

“One print off of the e-contract signed late last night by Kevin Cavanagh, and one verbal assurance that the vessels may port within his dock space for the original agreed amount.” The paperwork hit the desk so hard, it was almost splashed in coffee, Sean looking thoroughly pleased with himself. As he should, his father thought. Kevin had been extremely tricky in this, his son’s first solo deal for the company. 

Reaching for the contract, Finn could scarcely believe it, but there it was. K. Cavanagh. Signed, sealed and delivered. “How the fuck did you swing that, boyo?” 

Kevin Cavanagh had shown himself to be a rather large thorn in the side of the Wallace empire for weeks, the investor digging his heels in over their proposed deal, an influx of two hundred million sterling into the company’s legitimate holdings to fund the proposed apartment complex they wished to build, and a grant of passage for boats containing large shipments of heroin porting from Pakistan to enter his docks.  

The terms and conditions set by Sean had been made clear, but having the upper hand in it all, Kevin had gone back on their proposed arrangement out of sheer greed. It had not gone down well at all. Especially since Finn considered Kevin to be a long-standing friend as well as a business associate. He wasn’t about to involve himself, though. It was Sean’s deal, and he had to learn in going it alone, friend or not. 

In their world, though, alliance and friendship were subject to change at any given moment. Friendships aside, Sean had been advised by his father to do whatever it took to secure the deal by the required deadline, which had passed at midnight the night before. 

Looking upon his son expectantly, Finn was under no illusion over Sean’s self-satisfied pride in his achievement. His poise did not slip, though. Not even for a second. “I have my ways, all of them effective.” 

He raised an eyebrow. “How?”  

His son smirked, the same bloody smirk he’d had since he was three, back when he’d usually hoodwinked his mother into the offering of a second reach into the biscuit tin. “If you knew that, then you’d know as much as me.” 

Finn felt himself losing patience at his allusivity, but couldn’t quite keep the grin from spreading across his face. “Wiley little shit.”  

He chuckled, checking his watch. “I have a meeting to get to. Lunch at The Strand, 1pm? I have a table booked. See you then.” 

“If I’m late, order my usual.” Looking over the contract once again, Finn rested his chin upon the pinch of his thumb and forefinger. If he’d gotten a result without them having to yield to Kevin, it surely didn’t matter how Sean had procured the deal.  

As time would tell, though, it would.  

Striding from the building, Sean climbed into the waiting car, ready to be whisked across London for a viewing on another apartment complex currently under construction. It would take up most of his morning, but such was the nature of his role within the company. Build big, reap big, remain on top. 

Leaning back against the plush leather upholstery within the black Mercedes, Sean winced, feeling the soreness that remained from his weekend of sexual hedonism. Clawed scratches marking the freckled alabaster of his back from his shoulders right to the rounded muscles of his arse had certainly felt good at the time, but now the scabbed wounds stung and itched.  

That itching sting was experienced internally, too, a rolling wave of cold discomfort washing over his insides once again. Guilt. Maybe even a little remorse. Who’d have thought it? Certainly not him. He had previously considered those emotions to be completely superfluous, with a nature such as his, and most definitely not when his actions had reaped such rewards.  

Sean was, if nothing else, completely ruthless in the pursuit of attainment.  

His go to in attaining a desired result didn’t always equal the exertion of moral turpitude, but in this instance it very much had. There was no going back on it either. He had struck out, used his bargaining chip of blackmail and garnered the desired results. At twenty-five years old, he’d thought himself perhaps above the actions he’d resorted to, considering his bartering and negotiation skills to be proficient enough.  

They hadn’t been.  

However, Sean knew that blackmailing Kevin Cavanagh into agreement by threatening to upload a video to the internet of himself fucking his eighteen-year-old daughter would work like a charm in securing a signature, and it had.  

He’d understandably been beyond livid with him, after receiving an edited version of the hour-long filming, showing just enough for Kevin to know that Catherine would be subjected to great personal embarrassment and emotional anguish if he didn’t comply.  

With his arm figuratively bent up his back, he had agreed, the money immediately transferred, and the contract signed the evening before, once he and his wife had returned from their weekend away. Kevin had also struck a permanent black mark against the son of his old friend, knowing that Finn likely had no part in the blackmail. As chillingly cutthroat as he could be, it wasn’t his style. Words would be had, though, and Sean knew he likely had that coming to him sooner or later.  

Just as he would when Catherine caught up with him. He highly doubted Kevin wouldn’t tell her. 

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his phone, placing his earbuds in and locating the video he had promised to delete. He’d been hesitant there, not because he intended to nefariously make good on his threat and upload it anyway, he had no cause to. The reason behind his stalling was much more complex, and not one he was in a hurry to admit. Not even to himself.  

Hearing her sweet moans as he watched himself on the screen, face buried between her legs, a jolt ran right through him. He could almost still taste the sweet honey of her cunt on his tongue, feel her skin against his, and with a shift in his seat, experience her nails clawing at his back.  

It was only ever meant to happen once. Once had led to an entire weekend, and there it was again, the unpleasant sting rolling through his guts as he closed his eyes and remembered it. Remembered her.  

Her... her. 

It was only ever meant to happen once... 

St Augustine’s Grammar School for Girls was one of the most exclusive private Catholic schools in the entirety of London. For an eye watering yearly fee, it boasted unsurpassed examination results, a sterling OFSTED record, and much to the fury of the young ladies within its prestigious halls, a strict code for uniform. A black skirt to the knee, high black socks, a white shirt and a navy blazer and tie.  

Even the students attending the adjoining sixth form college had to still adhere, much to their loathing. For Catherine Cavanagh, as soon as she was out of the front gates with her friends, adjustments were made.  

Her neatly pleated skirt was rolled over a few times to hitch it up, her folded over socks pulled up until they came over the knee, her blazer and tie stuffed into her bag and her shirt undone to reveal a little of the black lace bra she wore beneath, as well as being knotted at the waist. She liked to show off some of what she had. 

Lashings of smoky black eyeliner were applied, her lips liberally glossed and her shoulder length blonde waves all shook free of their ponytail prison before she sauntered away, ready for a coffee with her friends, of whom also made similar adjustments to their own uniforms. They were young women at eighteen, all mildly incensed that they still had to stick to the rules of their frigidly stalwart school.  

Catherine, or Rin as she preferred to be called, was far from frigid.  

“Oi darlin’! Fancy gettin’ in the back of me van and lettin’ me give ya one, eh?” 

Ugh. Builders. The worst of the worst for shouting pervy obscenities from the open window of a slowed down Ford Transit. She immediately rolled her eyes. “No thanks, but I fancy giving you this.” Raising her middle finger, her confident smirk grew, her friends cheering on her usual chutzpah.   

“Fuck you, then! Little slag!” 

Rin snorted. “You wish, mate.”  

“I don’t get it,” Rashida, her bestie mused, fiddling with her necklace as she cocked her head. “He wanted to shag you five seconds ago, and now you’re a slag because you didn’t take him up on his offer?” Her face was a picture of bemused disgust as she barked a laugh. “Wanker.” 

“Yeah, sums him up. Right, let’s hit the coffee house. I’m fucking gasping for something strong, hot and foamy.” 

Their friend Carly couldn’t help but pipe up, laughing at her own joke before she’d even spoken it aloud. “What, you want the big fella from Game of Thrones in a bubble bath? What’s his name?” 

“Tormund,” Rin confirmed, her eyes dreamy. “You know I’m weak as fuck for a redhead!”  

While the prospect of Kristofer Hivju, the actor who played the aforementioned character awaiting her in a bubble bath was preferred, it was a double shot cappuccino she needed most at that moment. After a day of hard studying for her ongoing A Levels, Rin needed the coffee like air. For no other reason than to stay awake for the duration of her journey home.  

She wouldn’t be driving, though. Yet to pass her test, she would simply call for a driver in the employment of her father to collect her when she was ready. Being rich certainly had its perks. Entering the coffee shop a ten-minute walk from the school gates, she paid for her order and stood back to wait, sensing someone behind her before a familiar voice spoke into her ear. 

“I am unsure whether your mother would approve of that skirt, young lady.”  

Turning, her eyes widened. “Bloody hell! Hello!” It had been at least five years since she’d seen Sean Wallace other than fleeting moments in passing, the last proper time being when he was home from university in his final year. The occasion had been when her parents had thrown a garden party for her father’s friends and closest business associates, plus their families.  

“How are you, darling?” He drawled smoothly, kissing her cheek as they exchanged a brief hug. “It’s been a bloody age.” Looking down upon her, his gaze was nothing but clearly appreciative, thinking just what a beautiful young woman she’d become. In fact, beautiful was an understatement; she was an absolute knock out.  

In any other circumstance, Catherine Cavanagh would be his perfect match. She came from a similar family, steeped in criminality and staggeringly wealthy, with the best education money could buy, just as he himself had received. They were cut from the exact same cloth, she and Sean. This was not an exercise in procuring the perfect match long-term, though. Far from it.  

“It has, I was just thinking that myself,” she confirmed as they parted, feeling a little flustered. Oh, how she’d always fancied the arse off Sean. She might have been extremely confident for an elder teen, much more woman than girl in that respect, but still. Sean was the bloody holy grail as far as she was concerned. “As for me, up to my eyes in all things A Levels, only two more exams left and then its fingers crossed I do well enough to take the provisional place I’ve been offered at LSE.” 

He remembered that the London School of Economics had been her long-term goal from the last time he’d spoken to her at length, back when she was just a kid of thirteen. “I remember you telling me, yes. Forgive me, but I forget just what it is you were aiming for?” 

A flutter delighted her insides at that, how he hadn’t forgotten her desires to attend LSE when it had been so long since they’d last talked in depth. She’d thought he’d merely been entertaining her thirteen-year-old self and her long-winded plans for her future, but no. He’d actually listened. Then again, he was always very attentive when engaging with someone, no matter who they were. “BSc in mathematics, statistics and business.”  

“I bet your father is very proud,” he commented, Rin turning to pick up her coffee.  

“Well, I suppose he will be if I actually pull it off and attain the necessary grades. It’ll stand me in good stead for taking over the family business too, when he eventually retires.” They were birds of a feather in that respect, both primed to one day sit at the helm of their respective family empires. “Speaking of which, how are things with you? You’re doing very well at the Wallace Corporation, according to dad.” 

“Your father is correct, I am.” He was still very sure of himself. Anyone else would call it arrogance, but Sean was merely infectiously confident. He knew what he wanted, and he went right after it, Rin completely oblivious to the fact that his cool blue eyes were directly focused upon his present target. “Long hours and probably less pay than I should be garnering, but I must confess to be doing rather well for myself. Especially considering I have only been there just over four years.” 

They eventually became so lost in their catch-up chatter that Rin completely failed to realise that her friends had moved to a table, turning to see them wave at her. The looks on their faces spoke volumes. 

“I’ll be there in a sec,” she assured them, praying Carly didn’t open her mouth. No such luck. 

“No, no,” the girl herself chirped right on cue, waving her hands gently in Rin’s direction. “You stay there with your fancy man; we’ll be over here when you’re ready!” 

“Oh, shit off!” she chided, feeling her cheeks burn. Turning to Sean, she shook her head. “They’re embarrassing as fuck.” 

“I can’t say I’m embarrassed, being labelled as your fancy man.” Pulling out a seat, he gestured to it with a flirtatious smile, ensuring her heart virtually catapulted against her ribcage. She definitely blushed furiously at that. Ahh, it was almost too easy, but then again Sean’s charm was legendarily flawless. Being well spoken, powerful, and as dangerous as he was gorgeous didn’t hurt either.  

A red-haired bad boy in a Balmain suit. If Rin had a type at all in this world, it was Sean Wallace. And boy, how the man himself saw that loud and clear.  

“So, I hear your parents are away in France right now?” 

“Yes,” Rin confirmed, the smidgen of envy in her voice clear. How she would have loved a long weekend in the French Alps skiing, too. “They’ll be hurtling down a mountain right now, while I’m stuck here in dreary London, slogging my guts out all in the name of revision.” 

He smirked, picking up his espresso and sipping it. Sean liked his coffee one way; strong and black. “Ah, but you do get Mulford Hall all to yourself for the weekend. Quite the party palace, one would assume.” 

She crinkled her nose, shaking her head. “The staff will grass me up if I even so much as open a can of cider with more than four friends in attendance. Mother dearest likes to keep her fucking tabs on me.” Rin didn’t dislike her mother, but it was no secret that she was daddy’s girl through and through. If he had his way, he’d have arranged for the antiques to be removed from banquet hall and allowed she and her friends run wild. Diane was not quite so lenient.  

Yes. A banquet hall. The Cavanagh’s were truly that wealthy, to have such in their fifteen-bedroom, eighteen-bathroom, sprawling abode located in Westminster, just around the corner from Hyde Park. Half of their sprawling gardens backed onto the park itself, in fact.  

Mostly, Mulford Hall was used as a successful wedding and events venue, half of the house sectioned off as a private family residence and inaccessible to the public, also being a historical location of interest for tourists. It had been in her family for centuries, gifted to one of her ancestors, the very first Lord Mulford by King Charles I. Now with no elder male heir and her grandparents having passed on, it remained in the family by the residing Lady Mulford, her mother. 

“I suppose the little ones would have plenty to say, even if the staff did keep schtum.” Oh yes, Sean was correct there. Her younger brother and sisters would likely relish in telling on her to their parents. Keeping secrets that did not directly benefit them was not in the interests of your average twelve, ten and nine year old children. “I mean, if they could even hear the sounds of partying. Does your mother not keep them in a turret or similar?” 

She snorted laughing into her coffee, spraying a fine mist of foam from the large cup, “Shut up, you shit. You know we’re not that grand.” Suddenly, she felt the cold wave of discomfort when he frowned, wondering if she’d pushed it a little in calling him a shit, even in tease. After all, they did not know each other beyond the boundaries of acquaintance. It was their parents who were friends, not them.  

He then reached, wiping a fleck of foam from her cheek, the corners of his mouth upturning as he watched her blush, leaning across the table. “It takes a brave person to refer to me as a shit.” 

Regaining her confidence, she licked her top lip, shrugging lightly. “Or a gobby little twat such as myself.” 

She was a pistol. He enjoyed that perhaps more than he should have. He laughed softly through his nose, sipping his coffee again as she continued. “I actually have the place to myself, staff aside. The nanny has taken the little terrors to Legoland for the weekend, and there aren’t any weddings on, so I’m enjoying pottering around the old pile in my pants.” 

He raised an eyebrow. “Just your pants?” 

“I like to give the gardeners something nice to look at.” 

God, and how nice her body was, he wagered, his eyes sweeping her momentarily. “I bet you do.”  

Lust. Lust delivered from behind full, long auburn lashes tinged with gold, eyes that burned like cool fire as he stared her dead in the eye, Rin feeling as if she was caught in a searchlight she could not avoid. Not that she’d want to. Being illuminated by the desire of Sean Wallace was something she’d only ever fantasised about as a girl. As a young woman, acting upon it now seemed within her grasp. 

And grasp for it she would. “You’re thinking about me in nothing but my pants, aren’t you?”  

Playful, yet direct. He liked that, liked that she was so easily wandering right into the jaws of his trap with such little effort. “I am.”  

She leaned closer, watching him retrieve a packet of mints from his pocket, placing one into his mouth. The way he so effortlessly pressed the white disc onto his tongue made her shiver, imagining the skill a mouth that clever and effortlessly cool might possess. He offered the packet, but she shook her head, the strongness of Trebor’s finest too much for her delicate tastebuds. “What else are you thinking?” 

He mirrored her, leaning near, eyes fixed unblinkingly as he ran his fingertip in a circle over the back of her hand. It was an action that made every single hair upon her arm stand on end. “I’m thinking that the next thing I want on my tongue is you.”  

Fireworks exploded in her chest and gut, a fizz of excitement glittering. Unexpected afternoon sex; it was a proposal most definitely to her liking. “Where’s closer, mine or yours?” 

“Mine,” he confirmed, rising from his seat as he pulled out his phone. “Westminster is a fucking ball ache of a drive at this time in the day.”  

He wasn’t wrong. While Sean called his driver, giving him the name of the coffee shop, Rin made a phone motion to her friends while mouthing ‘I’ll call later’, Rashida and Carly looking as alert as two meerkats keeping the watch at seeing their friend leave with the handsome young mystery man.  

Rashida couldn’t help the joke she made. It was too uncanny. “Little slag.” 

“Love you too, you knob.” Leaving to the sound of her friend's laughter, Rin joined Sean at the side of the curb, only waiting a few moments for the sleek, black Mercedes to pull up before them. He opened the door for her, Rin sliding in and moving across so he didn’t have to walk around, Sean climbing in and shutting the door with a soft clunk.  

“Home please, Tony.” he spoke to the driver, his eyes remaining ahead. She turned slightly to view him, feeling somewhat uneasy when he didn’t return her glance. Dropping her gaze, her thoughts began to race a little, jumping slightly when after a few moments, she felt his hand press to her thigh.  

It was a plan of effortless execution, Sean tracking her movements from afar for a few days prior, learning her daily routine. It truly had been as simple as turning up at her regular coffee shop prior to her usual time of arrival, turning on the charm and reaping the rewards. Leaning close, his beard tickled her earlobe, sending a thrill right through her. “I can’t wait to put my mouth between these fantastic legs of yours.”  

Neither could she.

[pwlanier]

This is an antique decorative biscuit tin. An English, printed shop retail container for Gray Dunn and Co, dating to the Edwardian period, circa 1910.

London Fine Antiques

[glistendecor]

Buy printed tin containers online in India at Glisten Decor. They offer stylish, colorful tins for storing tea, snacks, and more. Perfect for home or gifting, their quality and designs stand out. Shop now for easy and fun options!

[obitez]

Iris, Chapter 3

Next segment in my Mpreg Tommy fic! featuring Buck's depression baking!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Buck looked up from the mixing bowl as the sound of loud knocking reverberated against the door to his loft. 

“I know you’re in there Buck!” he heard the muffled sound of a familiar voice call out to him from the other side. Eddie. 

“It’s unlocked!” Buck called back to him as he started to pour the contents of the bowl into the empty bread pan. Pumpkin spice and walnut bread. This is the third time he had made it, the previous two times hadn’t been exactly right. The first was too dry, the second had an overpowered walnut taste so bad he could barely taste the pumpkin. But third times the charm, right? 

Behind him, Buck heard as Eddie opened the door and walked inside. He started taking off the jacket he was wearing and hung it up on the coat rack Buck had right alongside the door. 

“Really?” Eddie asked as he saw what Buck was doing. “Another cake?” 

“Well, technically this is called pumpkin spice and walnut bread,” Buck said as he pointed at the recipe printed out and held to the fridge by a magnet. “But it can be sweet enough to be considered cake, so I guess you have a point.” 

Eddie sighed at Buck’s explanation. “How many cakes exactly is this one?” he asked. 

Buck hummed, thinking it over. “This is the third one of this type I’ve made. How many bread loaves and cakes in total? I have no idea,” As he opened the pre-heated oven to set the loaf tin inside, Buck pointed at a tupperware container to the right. “If you want a cookie, help yourself. Made them with Jee on Saturday. There’s a mic of chocolate chip and snickerdoodle.” 

Eddie let out a long sigh as he walked around the kitchen island and set his hands on Buck’s shoulders, giving them a small shake. 

“Okay man,” he started. “I think you’ve done more baking in the last two weeks than most people do in two years. How about we go out today, do something else to distract you for the afternoon?”

“Are you saying that I have a baking problem?” Buck asked, growing slightly defensive.

Despite what everyone seemed to be saying, Buck did not have a problem. Baking a slew of cakes, pastries, bread loaves, you name it was a completely normal thing some people do when they get unexpectedly dumped by someone they thought would be the love of their life. 

Eddie didn’t seem to agree. 

“Yes,” he said as he looked point blank into Buck’s eyes. “Just ask the guys on B or C shift, everything you’ve been leaving at the station even has them concerned. And half of them didn’t even know you were in a relationship.”

Buck floundered slightly, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. “Fine,” he huffed. “I guess you might have a small point.” 

“Good,” Eddie said as he gave Buck’s shoulders a small pat before he removed them. “Then let's go, The guys are playing basketball, but there's no way I’m bringing you back there. I figured we could go to the trivia night at that bar down the street. You liked those right?” 

Yeah, Buck liked those. He liked doing those with Tommy. They went at least once a week. Since then however, Buck hadn’t gone to any trivia nights. 

Before Buck was able to say anything however, Eddie continued. “Tommy isn’t going to be there,” Eddie said. “His crew is on shift, don’t give me that look, I was talking to Cory who works over at Harbor yesterday, he’s on the same crew Tommy is. And the trivia topic is sci-fi movies, you went through a huge binge on sci-fi movies last summer.”

Buck hummed in thought. He supposed it wouldn’t hurt to get out of his loft for the evening. He had been spending a little too much time here lately. Between work and home and the grocery store to pick up more baking supplies, Buck couldn’t name any other locations he had been to in the last week. 

“Wait, I just put the bread in the oven,” Buck said. “I can’t just- I can’t just leave it. It will burn, and could start a fire. I’m the only firefighter that lives in this building, I can not be the one that starts a fire here!” 

Eddie let out a breath.”How long does it need to be in the oven?” he asked. 

Buck looked over at the timer. “Another half hour?” 

Eddie shook his head. “Fine then, get changed while we wait,” Eddie said as he pushed Buck in the direction of his stairs and bedroom. “Trivia starts in forty five minutes and it’s a ten minute walk away. We’ll have to leave as soon as you pull the cake out of the oven.”

“Bread,” Buck corrected as he walked up the steps. 

“Whatever,” Eddie waved him off. 

About half an hour later, Buck walked down the stairs, changed out of his sweats and hoodie into a pair of jeans and a clean button down. The kitchen timer went off as soon as he took his last step down. 

“Go on,” Eddie waved Buck over to the oven as he pulled his shoes back on. “Get it out and turn the oven off so we can go.” 

“I’m moving, I’m moving,” Buck said, running over. “Relax.” Buck pulled the pan out of the oven and set it on the cooling rack, then turned the knob to turn the oven off. He then turned around, and spotted a loaf of bagged sourdough bread on the island counter. 

“Wait, before we go, do you want any sourdough?” Buck asked. 

When Eddie gave him a confused look as he pulled his arms through the sleeves of his jacket, Buck held up the loaf of bread. “I have too many, and Maddie and Chimney declined it, I don’t want it to go bad. We can just drop it off in your truck on the way out. The suns already gone down, it won’t go bad.”

Eddie shook his head, forced Buck to drop the bread, and dragged him by the hand out of the apartment. “We’re late, forget the bread. I don’t like sourdough anyway.”

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2

[finalghost]

— 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 , 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 . ⁽ ᵗᵃˢᵏ ⁰⁰² ⁾

DUFFLE BAG : vintage coach , black leather . the bag belongs to her father , who kindly loaned it to her with no questions asked . after all , asking questions would require talking to her for more than five minutes — & he simply does not have the time ( or care ) .

DIARY : clearly , she didn't learn from the last time . despite losing her old diary somewhere in the underbelly of monte cristo , eliza still packed her current one . it is filled with a year's worth of juicy content ( gossip , venting , polaroids & photobooth strips ) , & almost out of pages . however , unlike her past diary , this one has a small lock protecting her secrets .

MACE : she wasn't sure where to buy bear mace on such short notice , so her normal spray will have to do the trick !

PILLOW PET : a new addition to her collection of things , courtesy of milo . she won't admit it out loud , but the eliza is quite fond of her new plush — appropriately named 'pony' .

HER CLOSET : literally . it's shocking how many clothes she packed ( & carried ) for what was anticipated to be a week's venture . now , though , between shelling out extra's to kody or isla & the unknown of how much longer they're stuck there , she's feeling pretty proud of herself for over preparing .

TAMAGOTCHI : a little known fact is how dedicated eliza is to her tamagotchi pets . forbidden from keeping real pets when she was growing up , young eliza took to collecting these digital toy-pets — a quirk that has followed her into adulthood .

LOCKET : one of her most beloved items , she's rarely seen not wearing it . however , after almost losing it during the cabin-chaos , she's tucked it into her bag for safe keeping . gifted to her by thomas , she keeps a picture of him & cam on either side . ( behind thomas's picture is a small rip of paper with ' i <3 you ' scrawled in his messy print )

WALLET : vintage dior , obvi .

TOUCH-UP TIN : a repurposed altoid container that holds her emergency makeup must-haves — lipgloss , eyeliner , powder . it seems almost scientifically impossible how many things she has managed to cram inside .

AID POUCH : it's nothing fancy . eliza's no doctor , nor did she volunteer to gather first-aid supplies . this is a simply a pouch of her own personal necessities from day-to-day life . INCLUDING :

TIN TWO : another ex-altoid container . this one , however , hosts ONLY the most important things . . . cigarettes + a lighter , a few small polaroids of her & camille , and a carnelian crystal .

PAIN MEDS : she figured it would be smart to have some sort of painkiller out in the wilderness ( not entirely trusting of whatever milo had offered to provide ) but couldn't be bothered to go grab a new bottle of ibuprofen or tylenol from the store . she found a box of midol squished at the bottom of her school bag with four tabs left , & crossed her fingers that they wouldn't need more .

EPIPEN : eliza is deathly allergic  to bees . at least , she thinks so . her mother certainly is & , considering the woman’s overbearing belief that they are one in the same , eliza was made to believe that she is , too . she's never cared to test against the theory .

EXTRAS : hello kitty band-aids , eos vanilla cashmere hand cream , tweezers , tide pen , hand sanitizer .

[hermidetta]

THE BOX IS DELICATELY PLACED on the doorstep of her room, careful as to not jostle the delicately placed items within. Hubert has been methodical in the items he's chosen this year, carefully imported to the monastery with funds that MAY have mysteriously disappeared from the personal coffers of Count Varley, purely hypothetical of course.

The items inside the thrice wrapped box are symbolic in a way, pressed flowers from Fearghus, designed to be hung above a bed, wool from the border of Leicester and Almyra, carefully wrapped, and from Adrestia, Cocoa, the latest import from Brigid that gave little hint to who had purchased it.

On top of the box lays a card, careful penmanship reading as such:

Lady Bernadetta

All the best on your birthday

Yours

-H.V.V

p.s. The Black Eagles storeroom contains more of the cocoa, two spoons to freshly warmed milk is the recommended usage.

He knocks before carefully retreating from sight, intent on remaining anonymous except for the card.

⠀ ⚘ birthdaydetta 2k24 ♡ ⠀

sometimes bernadetta wonders what she has done to deserve the care she receives, when she can realize it is care, when all of the signs can only point to care no matter how self-persecuting and paranoid and wildly creative her mindset. after all, she had quite literally bitten her princess's sinister (but well-meaning) (but still sinister) retainer.

she doesn't think she's been called lady bernadetta in years, if that. the title has her blinking, then squinting at the card's fine print.

"h.v.v.," she sounds out the letters, rolls them around on her tongue as she flops back onto her unmade bed. at the foot of it, her legion of stuffed animals listens, bernadetta's only audience as usual. "does bernie know any h.v.v.? on a scale of one to yuri, how assassin-y are they? what do you think, mr. bearkley?"

mr. bearkley does not answer.

"duke roll? baron beef bowl?" the hedgehog and cow meet her stare in silence. some council of stuffies they were. for all of the obscene horrors and nightmares and things-that-go-bump-in-the-night he very much embodied, hubert would never show up empty-handed before lady edelgard. surely he would have sniffed out this mysterious h.v.v. long before the question and gift could have slipped anywhere near his liege's orbit. h.v.v., h.v.v....

whoever they were, bernadetta wanted to believe they were nice. a gentle soul, with gentle hands that had handled such thoughtful gifts. the tin of cocoa sits on her desk beside an emptied vulnerary, wool folded in a neat square right underneath it, and bernadetta considers the level of foot traffic at this time of day before settling on an hour she might sneak away for the storeroom and a spot of hot milk. the storeroom, the storeroom... and she cannot make sense of the déjà vu that passes by then.

it must be nothing, she decides, smiling fondly at the pressed flowers that dangled above her head. nothing she wants to process just yet, but knows she will have to later. eventually. and perhaps the next time she sees hubert von vestra, she will have enough of a grip on herself to apologize before fleeing. maybe even slip in a thank you. who knows?

[sustainabilitytravel]

Green Packing Tips: How to Travel Light and Eco-Conscious

Packing for a trip can be exciting yet overwhelming, especially when you’re trying to balance convenience with sustainability. The good news? Green packing doesn’t mean sacrificing comfort or style. By making thoughtful choices, you can reduce your environmental footprint and travel more mindfully. Here's how to pack light and eco-friendly for your next adventure.

1. Start with a Sustainable Suitcase

Your packing journey begins with the right luggage. Opt for durable suitcases or backpacks made from recycled or sustainable materials. Brands like Samsonite and Patagonia offer eco-friendly options designed to last for years. Choosing quality luggage means less waste and fewer replacements over time.

2. Pack Reusable Travel Essentials

Single-use items create unnecessary waste. Replace them with reusable alternatives like a stainless-steel water bottle, collapsible coffee cup, bamboo cutlery, and silicone food bags. Not only do these items save space, but they also help reduce plastic waste while you’re on the go.

3. Prioritize Multipurpose Clothing

Pack versatile, lightweight clothing that you can mix and match. Opt for neutral tones and items that can be layered. Clothes made from sustainable fabrics like organic cotton, bamboo, or recycled polyester are ideal. Multipurpose clothing reduces the amount you pack and keeps your wardrobe eco-conscious.

4. Go Digital with Travel Documents

Say goodbye to printed tickets, itineraries, and maps. Use your smartphone or tablet to store all travel-related documents. Most airlines and hotels now accept digital check-ins, making it easier to go paperless and reduce waste.

5. Minimize Toiletry Waste

Replace travel-sized plastic toiletries with solid options like shampoo bars, conditioner bars, and toothpaste tablets. Store them in reusable tins or silicone containers. These products are compact, last longer, and eliminate the need for plastic packaging.

6. Pack a Travel Laundry Kit

Carrying a small travel laundry kit can help you pack less. A biodegradable laundry soap and a portable clothesline make it easy to wash and reuse clothes during your trip. This is especially helpful for longer journeys.

7. Use Packing Cubes Made from Recycled Materials

Packing cubes help you stay organized while maximizing space. Look for options made from recycled materials. They’re lightweight, durable, and make packing and unpacking a breeze.

8. Avoid Overpacking

It’s tempting to pack for every possible scenario, but overpacking leads to heavier luggage and increased fuel emissions for flights. Stick to the essentials and remember that you can usually buy or borrow items if needed.

9. Choose Eco-Friendly Accessories

Don’t forget accessories like a reusable shopping bag, travel towel, and solar-powered charger. These items are practical, lightweight, and contribute to sustainable travel practices.

10. Leave No Trace

Finally, aim to leave your destination better than you found it. Pack a small reusable bag for trash and be mindful of the environment wherever you go. Follow the principles of "leave no trace" to ensure your travels have a minimal impact on nature and local communities.

Why Green Packing Matters

Green packing is about more than just reducing waste—it’s a mindset that aligns with sustainable travel. By carefully choosing what to bring, you not only lighten your luggage but also minimize your environmental footprint. Small changes like packing reusable items or opting for sustainable fabrics make a significant difference.

[rabbitcruiser]

National Doughnut Appreciation Day

November 5 is one of two National Doughnut Days observed by doughnut lovers across the nation. The first Friday in June is the other day doughnuts steal the bakery case spotlight ready to tease their way into white bakery box home!

The history of the doughnut is disputed:

One theory suggests Dutch settlers brought doughnuts to North America much like they brought other traditional American desserts including cookies, apple pie, cream pie and cobbler.

An American, Hanson Gregory, claimed to have invented the ring-shaped doughnut in 1847 while on board a lime-trading ship at the age of 16.  According to Gregory, he punched a hole in the center of dough with the ship’s tin pepper box and later taught the technique to his mother.

Anthropologist Paul R Mullins states the first cookbook mentioning doughnuts was an 1803 English volume which included doughnuts in an appendix of American recipes.

An 1808 short story describing a spread of “fire-cakes and dough-nuts” is the earliest known recorded usage of the term doughnut.

A more commonly cited first written recording of the word is Washington Irving’s reference to doughnuts in 1809 in his History of New York.  He described balls of sweetened dough, fried in hog’s fat and called doughnuts.  Today, these nuts of fried dough are called doughnut holes.

Donut versus Doughnut

Print ads for cake and glazed donuts and doughnuts existed from at least 1896 in the United States.

Peck’s Bad Boy and his Pa, written by George W. Peck and published in 1900, contained the first known printed use of donut. In it, a character is quoted as saying, “Pa said he guessed he hadn’t got much appetite and he would just drink a cup of coffee and eat a donut.”

In 1919, the Square Donut Company of America was founded, offering an easier to package product.

The more traditional spelling is doughnut. However, both doughnut and donut are pervasive in American English.

While doughnuts come in a large variety of recipes, flavors and toppings, just like many pastries, we are only limited by imagination and ingredients at hand.  From syrups and jellies to sprinkles and custards, top them, fill them, bake them or fry them, doughnuts have a mouth-watering way of glazing and dusting their way into our shopping carts and finding their way to the break room at work to share.  

Source

[bloodyscarab]

since ao3 is down rn (respect and pray for the volunteers working very hard to bring it back people!), i wanted to post my newest candide and joan here so people can still read!

it's not the same

rating: teen and up audiences

category: gen

relationship: joan of arc & candide sampson

characters: joan of arc, candide sampson

tags: no dialogue, parenthood, introspection, candide writes, joan is snooping around

afternoon wind rustled the curtains covering the windows at the door. candide wasn't home yet, and the sun had already begun to dip behind the mountain outside of the city. joan's feet pattered up the stairs and she turned on her heels to walk to candide's room instead of her own.

she walked in to face a snake, curled tightly in its container. it watched her silently through the glass as she paced across the room. her feet moved uncertainly, unsure of why she had entered the room in the first place. her eyes finally landed on the corner of the room, on an assorted stack of things underneath candide's hanging clothes in her open closet.

a leather-bound journal seemed to push itself out from the shadows into joan's probing hands. the snake hissed when joan's fingers pulled aside the rubber string. maybe it was a threat, maybe an invitation.

the pages flipped open, filled with small and neat paragraphs of handwritten cursive text. prose.

joan's fingers traced the pen ink curving across the lines of the random open page. she closed her eyes to try to imagine the scenario in which candide had written the paragraph her finger had chosen for her.

i want to hold your hand so tightly that your fingers fall off at my feet. even now, i can imagine the sound of them popping at the joint and tumbling to the ground. they sound like hollow sticks against linoleum tile. i want to pick them up and reattach them so that i can pop them off again.

it didn't seem as if the paragraph was ever finished. joan wondered what candide could have imagined coming after what she had already put down. the cursive was wide and deliberate, without a single hesitation or mistake. it was like she had never doubted herself. joan squinted to read the date at the top of the page. november 2003. joan thought about where she had been in november 2003, how candide was alive then, too, far from the small town she found herself in now.

outside of exclamation felt like a universe away.

another page, july 2005.

someone who claims to be perfect is a slave to vanity. i am not a slave; perhaps only a messenger.

february 2006.

i find the world so far from my body. there are a multitude of existences that precede and succeed my own. in what way have i contributed to those existences? in what way am i only a burden to them?

her words were heavy, burdened with something hidden beneath the dark blue ink in which they were printed. joan closed the journal, wondering if she had seen too much of someone that she hardly knew. the rubber string snapped back to the leather, the snake hissed again. maybe it was a groan, maybe a congratulations.

joan walked down the hall to her room. she closed the door as she heard the sound of a revving car engine slow at the front of the home. a car door shut as joan's hands dug around in one of her drawers. it was a drawer she hardly touched, mostly because of the multitude of things from what felt like a previous life, prior to being frozen. she was looking for something specific.

candide's keys rattled against the front door. joan's fingernails rattled against a tin container.

the door opened and the sound of candide's heels crossed the threshold of the home. joan pulled the rounded container out, scanned the scribbled and unfocused writing on the masking tape acting as a title label.

candide's keys dropped on the dinner table. joan opened her door to lay the tin in front of the doorway. she heard candide's shoes at the base of the stairs and closed her door. the heels reached the top of the stairs, and paused.

joan sat back on her bed as candide stopped in front of the tin. her slender fingers traced the scribbled title.

joan considered what candide could have been thinking as she picked up the film. would she be able to read that the offering was dripping in guilt?