#Swimming at Forty Foot

[stairnaheireann]

#OTD in 1974 – A group of protesting women invade the Forty Foot, traditionally a male only swimming point in Sandycove, Dublin.

A group of about 10 women calling themselves the Dublin City Women’s Invasionary Force invade the Forty Foot, a traditional men only public bathing preserves in Sandycove, Dublin. The bathing place, made famous by James Joyce in Ulysses, had been exclusively male until then and the women were greeted with sexist abuse and male nudity, according to one of the participants. The character Buck…

[cactusisconfused]

I think one of my favorite scenarios when it comes to ghoap is the idea of meeting each other late at night.

-

Ghost of course isn’t new to a horrid sleep schedule, as memories of corpses, laughter and unwanted hands invade his unconscious mind. He’s lost track of the countless times where he’s woken up in a cold sweat, mind swimming and hands shaking.

He’s formed a routine at this point. Lay in the shitty cot for a just a moment, allow his breaths to mildly slow. To allow the images to fade into the darkness.

He’d get up once he feels his legs stop shaking enough to stand, though he still used whatever ledge he can to make sure he doesn’t fall. He’d make his way to the bathroom, keep the lights off and the mirror covered with a thin towel for safety.

His hand will grab the basin of the sink, attempting to not crack it. He’ll then the water on- as cold as he can get it- and will just let his hands soak. The shock of the water makes him take a breath, grounding him to remember where he is. When he is.

Then he will stand there, letting his hands go numb; once they do the faucet turns off. He grabs the navy blue towel that he always has folded on top of the toilet tank and dries his hand. He lets his hands sit in the towel for a moment, letting warmth come back to them.

He stands for a long moment. In the quiet. In the dark. It’s just him. For that one moment it’s just him.

That thought helps him somehow.

He folds the towel three times over and puts it back where he picked it up.

Picking up his balaclava, his slides it on- the faint pressure comforting on his face

Opening his door, he’s greeted with a blinding hallway; he’s yet to find a base that greets him otherwise.

Right foot first, he walks down the hall.

One step, two steps, three steps, four steps.

He counts until he gets to the mess hall. No food is being served at the hours when he will be stalking the halls, but there’s a kettle and a coffee maker and he makes do with that.

The kettle, he fills with water, just enough to fill his own mug and nothing more. He counts the seconds until the kettle whistles then puts his tea bag in. He pours the steaming water. Then, two scoops of sugar and honey if the base ever has it.

He’ll sit down at the table in the corner of the room- skewed to be invisible from the door, but the entrance is vivid to Ghost’d eyes.

He’ll drink his tea slowly, until he starts to hear muffled talking and footsteps. In the cabinet goes his mug, after a wash in the sink. He’ll make it out of the cafeteria before anyone else comes in and he’ll start his day.

That is how Ghost has dealt with his nightmares. With the repetition of that routine.

Today is no exception.

Ghost wakes with the feeling of his skin burning, screaming, skulls pleading for help- for mercy. He takes a moment.

He goes to the bathroom. Washed his hands, dried them off and walks out of the room.

He counts his steps.

One, two, three, four.

He makes it to forty two before he slows. The sound of liquid dripping with a slight electronically buzz fills his ears.

The coffee maker is on.

Ghost turns the corner and there, at the running coffee maker stands one John ‘Soap’ MacTavish. His hair and slightly ruffled and his shirt is wrinkled some.

Ghost debates on leaving.

Ghost stays.

He watches as Soap finishes his coffee, then nearly spills said coffee as his eyes land on Ghost.

“Hells fucking bells Ghost, could ye nae have said something?!” Soap attempts irritation but there’s a relived smile that sits on his lips.

“Keeping you on your toes sergeant.” Is Ghost’s reflexive answer. In truth, his brain is still catching up that his routine has changed. Like a gps that attempts to reroute despite being surrounded by only busy high ways.

“Aye, well ye’r doing a swell job at that.” The sergeant chuckles as he moves to the table in the corner with his mug. Ghost’s spot.

Ghost stands for a moment longer. He really could just leave, spend the rest on his quiet morning in his room. It would be better for his raging mind.

His legs still move to the kettle regardless.

Ghost reclaims a moment of his routine. He boils enough water to fill the mug. He puts the tea bag in, pours the water, puts in his sugar and moves to the table which Soap is sat in.

Soap gives a nod and a friendly smile as Ghost sits. Soap sips his coffee, closing his eyes as he does. The man looks tired, bags under his eyes, his shoulders hunched in a way they usually aren’t. There’s a slight tremor to his hand.

Ghost knows what he sees and Soap, putting his mug down, knows that too. Neither say a word.

A minute passed, then another, then another.

It’s Ghost that somehow breaks the silence.

“What do you call a zoo with only a dog?”

Soap slowly blinks, his eyes lifting from his coffee yo ghost.

“What?” The man’s deep voice is heightened slightly with curiosity.

“A Shizu.” Soap stares at ghost for a moment, the gears visibly turning in Soaps head. Ghost is a moment away from explaining the joke when Soap slowly smiles and gives a small, honest laugh.

“That was pure shite L.t.”

“Another.” Is Ghost’s reply.

“We doin’ this again, are we?” Again, Soap feigns annoyance, but that tired smile remains.

“What happened to the frog that parked illegally?”

Soap sighs, letting his head descend to rest on the table. “I’ll bite, what do you call a frog that parks illegally, Simon?”

A smile forms behind Ghosts balaclava. He ignores how it feels to hear his name come out of Johnny’s mouth.

“It got toad.” Ghost hopes his smile wasn’t too audible in his tone.

The rest of the morning quiet morning follows like that. Ghost finding himself the one to talk, filling the air, as Soap lets his head lay on the table, coffee long forgotten. It feels odd for Ghost, having there be silence around Soap but somehow he finds he doesn’t mind filling it.

An hour passed before Soap stops responding. His eyes are closed and his breathing even. Relaxed.

Asleep.

When Soap wakes up to a fresh mug of coffee next to him on the table as 6am alarms start ringing around base, Ghost denies any knowledge on how the coffee got there.

When the day ends, and another nightmare brings Ghost to consciousness at the crack of dawn, Soap denies any relativity to the perfectly made cup of tea sitting at Ghost’s spot at their table.

Simon thinks, as he sits down and watches as Johnny draws, maybe a change of routine isn’t so bad after all.

-

Hi! Sorry for not posting for a bit got really busy with some other stuffs. Also that soap drawing will be done eventually, just gotta get out of art block first.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed.

Byeeeee

[quinloki]

Can’t help falling in love with you by Elvis Presley with Marco and his s/o who dies of old age

It’s the song they got married to and the song they die to :)

-💧

You end this ask with a smile you villain! Demon!

T-T no that’s so sad 😭 oh man especially in an AU where Marco does t die he just bursts into flames and he’s twenty or ten or whatever but he’s reborn and gods and seas how does he get rid of this curse?

(I see it being a one-time effect of the fruit personally, not true immortality, but unsettlingly close.)

Ahhhhh gag! (I mean GAH! Not gag- stupid phone)

You know what, NO.

No, I’m not leaving it as that kind of sorrow today. TAKE THIS AND LIKE IT.

You’d been teased, at first, the difference in age between you and Marco, but you didn’t care. As months and years had passed, as your twenties and his forties had turned into your fifties and his seventies, it mattered not one whit.

He’s lived a hard life, and the phoenix fruit takes it toll on his stamina. He may be only 70, which is by no means young, but he’s honestly closer to 90 with how often he’d pushed beyond his means. The whole island mourns when he dies.

And is flabbergasted when his body catches fire on its own, bursting into the most beautiful flames you’ve ever seen. From under the pile of ash a young man stands up, Marco no more than 30.

He’s a bit confused himself, but trial and error finds you a young version of himself without a drop of Devil fruit power within him. He can swim, but no longer can he soar.

Marco is elated! You dance, make love, live a quiet life on the quiet island as you had been for years.

And you grow old. Together. Again.

Fifty becomes sixty, becomes seventy. You miss his flames from time to time, but your fifty year old husband has more pep in his step and draw hot baths for you, brings you tea. You’re nearly eighty, maybe a little older, when the end draws near for you.

He’s over sixty, by true rights over a century, and he sits with you with a warm smile, the edges drawn only a little in sorrow. You’ve had more decades of time together than you ever believed possible.

And you’ll die before him. As everyone else has.

He regretted not being able to outlive you, after carrying that burden for so many others, but that was, perhaps the last gift his Zoan fruit gave him. Being able to keep you comfortable, safe, and loved for all the days of your life.

Being able to protect you from the solitude that would have followed. His pretty bird, after all, should never have to sing such a sorrowful song.

He will bury you, but his broken heart, and his extra years, will not carry him much further. A year later the village buried him beside you, grave set at the foot of the great mountain.

The giant Phoenix carved into the rock, looking over the valley and to the sea beyond, that glints teal and gold in the right light, from rocks heavy with veins of pyrite and pale blue quartz - stones precious in a way, but not worth the effort to mine into the mountain - watches over the village ever after.

Sometimes the air and wind hit the shore and crags in a way that the sweet trill of music, some birds that are only heard and never seen, and dances along the valley. Old locals call it the guardian’s song, and younger villagers tell of a sweet romantic tale, how hearing the song with your sweetheart will ensure a long life together.

[maxverstappensflatbrim]

Show Me Yours | Matty Healy [42]

chapter forty-two, act five: the ballad of me and my brain

masterlist

November 3rd 2017

Tommie had woken up alone in Phoebe’s apartment, with many missed calls and texts of people asking if she was okay.

Her brows had furrowed and she’d hesitated to call Adam back first. He’d called her eleven times, and although they haven’t spoken since that day he came to the apartment she still worries something is wrong.

Her mind goes to her grandparents, but she spoke to her nan yesterday. They were on their way to a trip to Tenby in the caravan with the dog, they’re fine. Unless something happened on the trip. 

Nan can’t swim. Granch got sick. Or a heart attack, or an accident-

“Tom? Tom, thank god, are you still in LA-?”

It’s then she realises how late into the LA afternoon it is, her clock reads one o’clock and she realises she’d probably been up way longer than she should’ve been writing away until her heart's content (until she passed out from exhaustion).

“What’s going on?”

“Matty’s missing.”

This is the first time she’s heard his name in months, and her heart stops.

She sits up straighter, both Button and Max looking up at her in question. “What?”

“We tried to stage an intervention, shit-” She hears him sigh, can hear Ross and George arguing in the background with another voice that sounds a lot like Jamie, “He took off, a few days ago, he’s been doing it alot lately, he’s never been gone this long.”

“Where are you?”

“San Jose.”

She sighs and climbs out of bed, putting her phone on speaker and setting it on the bedside table. She grabs a pair of jeans from the chair she’d thrown them onto last night, getting a random t-shirt and throwing it on quickly, not even bothering with the effort of finding a bra. She does however, go to the effort of saying goodbye to the two dogs before shoving on her shoes, grabbing her bag that holds her essentials (keys, wallet, journal, lip balm, cigs, lighter and some other unnecessary shit.).

“I’ll come meet you, you in the place we stayed in last time?”

“No, we’re in the fancy one across the road you liked the look of.” She hears more arguing, and then a door slams, “It’s seven hours, Tommie, you- stay in LA, I just- has he tried calling you?”

“No, no he hasn’t. I haven’t talked to him since TRNSMT.”

Adam sighs, “He’s not himself, Tommie, I don’t know what’s going on with him. He’s in his own head, doing so many fucking drugs, Tom, I-” He sighs, she hears a sob-like sound get stuck in his throat, “We’re trying but he’s not listening, saying he needs to clear his head-”

Suddenly it dawns on Tommie and she pauses halfway down the steps outside of her building, “What has he said?” She asks quickly, fumbling to get the Uber app up as she walks down the street, “Tell me exactly what he said before he left, Ads.”

Adam sighs, stutters a few times as he tries to remember the conversation he had with Matty five days prior, “Um, something about the drugs helping him sleep, clearing his mind, helping him write and create, said that the drugs are his muse or some philosophical shit. I-I don’t know, Tommie.”

She watches her Uber pull up and puts the phone to ear, “Ads, I’ll call you back, don’t worry alright.”

“Tom, please don’t-”

“Don’t worry.”

⋆｡ ﾟ☁︎｡ ⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ

The studio is a mess, clothes thrown over floors, crumpled up pieces of paper, cans of beer, coke and all different kinds of things ruin her path to the booth.

There’s a drum beat on loop, it's so loud she can hear it through the headphones and it almost drowns sounds of snoring from the curly haired musician.

He’s half on the settee half off, wearing only a pair of boxers and a large hoodie of their own band.

Tommie pushes her way through the mess on the floor that her hands shake to clean, she satisfies the urge for her hands to move by moving her foot to kick at Matty's side.

When he doesn’t wake she hits him harder and he gasps, curling over on himself, “Ow.”

“Get up.”

His eyes snap open at the voice and he sits up, fumbling to pull the hoodie down to cover himself and she rolls her eyes, “What are you doing?”

“Making music.”

She looks around, “Looks like it.”

She walks over to the mixing board and pauses the drum beat playing then looks back at him, “What are you doing, Matty?”

“Why don’t you call me Roddy anymore?”

She sighs and clenches her jaw, “You’re not my Roddy,” She tells him quietly, “I don’t know where he went, but… he’s been gone a while. I miss him, If you see him- if you see him, will you let him know?”

Matty rolls his eyes and runs a hand through his hair, “What are you doing here?”

“The guys are worried, so worried that they actually mentioned your name to me, which, I’m gonna be honest, I haven't heard since Scotland.”

“Bet you loved that.”

“I did, actually.”

He scoffs, eyeing her up and down, she crosses her arms and leans back against the desk behind her.

“What are you doing here, Tommie?”

“I care about you, Ma-”

He scoffs again harsher this time and stands up, “Don’t make me laugh, you’re the one who walked out on us all, remember? Back in July, picked up your guitar and ran off to LA like it meant nothing.”

“I- what did you expect me to do, Matty?” She asks, keeping her voice on a lower level despite his shouting a few minutes prior. “Did you expect me to sit beside you and hold your hand as you killed yourself I-”

She shakes her head and looks away, “You left us. Not just me, you left-”

“Just because I left doesn’t mean I don’t still love you.”

He pauses, mouth open as he was preparing to shout something else. Tommie sighs, hands coming up to cover her face for a few seconds. Too many seconds, although he counts his head, he reaches twelve, he still thinks it's too long for her to hide away from him.

“I’ll always love you, Matt.” She promises, she avoids looking at him and he takes a few more steps forward to get closer to her, “I love you too much to sit by and watch you do this to yourself-”

“So you left me? Made it worse-”

“You won’t listen!” She moves her hands away from her face to shove his chest. He moves back to arms length then. Just watching her.

She shakes her head, finally raising her voice, “You won’t listen to any of us, to me, G, Ads, Ross, your own mother who’s gone through the same thing, we’re all worried about you.”

“I’m fine-”

“No you’re not.” She tells him, “Look at yourself,” Despite his better judgement he lets his eyes glace to his reflection in the dark tinted window behind her, “You’re a fucking mess, Matty, and quite frankly it’s fucking pathetic.”

He lifts his head, looking at her down his nose, “Half the time you can’t string a sentence together, you’re passing out on stage, lashing out at everyone, you’re a mess, Matthew.”

His jaw quivers as he tries to keep his composure, “You’re so- so god damn stubborn, and blind. Look around, Matt, you have so many people here trying to help you, trying to love you and you just won’t let them. Why, because you’re scared?”

“You don’t know anything about-”

“Quite the opposite, “She bites back, “I know you, Matty, I know everything about you. I know everything about my Matty.”

She steps to him this time, lifting one hand ready to hold him, “Are you scared, Matty?”

He looks to the small coffee table in the studio, one they'd spent many nights gathered around with pizza boxes listening to music and telling jokes. On the table sits a joint, beside it empty packets that she doesn’t even want to know are inside of it.

“I’m not-”

“Matt.”

‘You’re in love with her but you’re afraid a guy like you will ruin her. And you will.’

He nods quickly, letting the tears welling in his eyes linger a little longer, “I’m afraid, Tom.”

“Of what?”

He shakes his head, mumbling something under his breath; neither of them can understand, “Of what?”

She shakes her head and walks closer to him but he fights her off, not letting her touch him, “I-”

“Matt-”

She watches his eyes dart to the door as he licks his lips, “I’ve got a flight.”

“Matt-”

“Tomorrow, I need to pack all my stuff.”

“Matty, please, just slow-”

He nods to himself as he gathers the only thing he brought with him, a little tote bag, her little tote bag. One from the record shop she likes in London. He shoves inside his wallet, phone, charger and notebook then starts stumbling around until he finds his jeans and shoes.

“Matty, would you please-”

“I’ve got to go-”

“Matty,” She huffs, trying to follow him around but his longer legs are moving too fast, closing up his laptop, stopping the demo, throwing the stupid memory stick with the song he was working on into the mess around them, “Matt, please, just stop for a couple seconds- Let’s talk-”

“Nothing to talk about, I have to go, seven hours to San Jose-”

“Matt!”

He still doesn't listen so she pauses as he opens up the door, “I broke up with Caleb.”

⋆｡ ﾟ☁︎｡ ⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ

“Why’d you break up?”

Tommie watches him dip his fries into the red sauce and then shove them into his mouth as if he hasn't eaten for years.

She sighs and looks down at the table in the little diner they’re sitting at, she picks at the table cloth beneath them and leans back.

“Creative differences.”

He snorts and she finds her lips curling a little bit into a smile.

“Seriously?”

He shakes his head a little, “I always hated him, I mean, not just because of the whole you thing, but because he was a raging arsehole-twat-prick dude.”

She nods her head in thought, “I mean, he hated Deftones, you love Deftones, if I hated them- hell, if I uttered a single bad word about them you'd break my neck- literally! I can’t believe you didn’t break up with him over that. And one major thing you should’ve ran from was his love of country music, I mean, If I heard Jesus take the whe-”

“He got me pregnant.”

Matty pauses, fry mid air, mouth open ready to bite down on it, instead his gaze is settled right on her, missing the ketchup dripping down to stain the white table cloth on the table.

“What?” He looks down towards her stomach slowly and she shifts uncomfortably covering herself with her arms, “You’re pregnant?”

“I had an abortion, few weeks ago, that’s why I’m out here, Matt.”

“What did he-”

“He told me I had no right because it was his baby too, and threatened to tell the press.”

“Did he? I mean, I haven’t seen anything but-”

She shakes her head “I told him if he did that then I’d make sure his band never made it. Then I kicked him out of the apartment, cut my lease short and moved in with Phoebe.”

He hums in thought, picking at the table cloth.  

“I was so scared, Matt. I’m terrified of the thought of having children, of ruining my career, my life, not because I’m not as strong as other women or anything like that, or I won’t be able to do that. Because I just don’t want that-”

She breaths in slowly and tilts her head at him, “I wanted my Matty. Phoebe told me I asked for you, when I was out of it. Said I asked her to go get you for me.”

He looks down, staring at the heart shaped hole he’s ripped into the dining table cloth. “I was terrified of doing it without you. What were you scared of?”

He scoffs and shakes his head, “Matty, please-”

“Did you tell me that just to try and get me to open up?”

“Trade you.” She shrugs and leans over to steal a chip.

He sighs, “When Gemma broke up with me she told me some harsh truths, one’s that I needed to hear and I don’t know. I guess I just know deep down that she’s right. I don’t want to ruin you.”

She tilts her head, reaching across the table to set her hand on his, “You won’t ruin me, Matty.”

“I will. Cause you’re you, you’re a good person, Tommie. I don’t want to ruin you.’

“Matt-“

He shakes his head and stands, “I have to go. I’ll see you around, yeah?”

“Matt-“

⋆｡ ﾟ☁︎｡ ⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ

She looks around the mess in the studio. Now that he’s gone, that he’s back on his way to the rest of the band she can let herself go nuts and clean it.

She starts by cleaning up the takeaway boxes from the floor, then she folds the blankets and cleans the messy table.

Half way through cleaning up she finds the discarded memory stick he’d tossed aside. There’s a post it note wrapped around being held there with cellotape.

‘Baby, two.’

She lifts up the memory stick and then slowly puts it into the computer. 

There's a small sniffle and then a sighs as he strums a few chords. "Baby, two. Um..." He sighs again and shifts around, the leather chair creaks but is cut off as he clears his throat, "This is my deepest confession, I guess. This is for Tommie, I'm sorry. I'm sorry about a lot, that it took me so long to realise and that when I finally did I'd already pushed her out. But, I don't want to hurt her, I don't want to let her back in-" He sighs again, "Anyway, this is take one. Baby, I don't have a title yet."

I've been watching you walk I've been learning the way that you talk The back of your head is at the front of my mind Soon I'll crack it open just to see what's inside your mind … Inside your mind

Marry me, I will wait until you're fast asleep Dreaming things I have the right to see Lately you are dreaming you're in love with me The only option left, is look and see inside your mind

… Inside your mind I can show you the photographs Of you getting on with life I've had dreams where there's blood on you All of those dreams where you're my wife

Inside your mind Inside your mind Inside your mind Inside your mind

She raises her brow at the deep voice but sits there to take it for a few moments taking it in.

Every moment between her and Matty has ever shared floats through her head. From meeting to starting the band, to being on tour, to living together, to that night in LA, to watching him leave yesterday.

She thinks over every decision she’s ever made.

Being with Caleb, never telling Matty.

Maybe if she just told him, if she’d let him know how she really felt none of this would have happened. He wouldn’t have turned to drugs, he’d be safe.

Or maybe he still would have. And they’d be unhappy. Together but unhappy. And they’d hate each other.

They must be good. She wonders. The drugs, there must be something about them. Why else would he love them so much? More than her, more than the band.

Before she can stop herself she’s sitting on the floor, eyes not moving from the baggie on the table as her fingers drum right beside it.

She just wants one look. One look inside Matty Healy’s mind.

taglist

@thereisaplaceintheheart, @indierockgirrl, @sofaritsalrightt, @julezs-bl0g, @eaglestar31, @sophinthealpss, @noacfemcel, @if-my-heart-bleeds, @befrwime, @fallingforel, @sexorchocolateorpillowsorclouds, @3terna15unshin3, @1975sophie1975, @thesocraticjunkiewannabe, @littlesoldierelleora, @procrastinatinglikeapro, @beatr2x, @byyourside28

-let me know if you want to be added :)

[daimyosprincess]

PART III: DEDICATION

—PARING: Professor!Boba Fett x F!Librarian!Reader

—SERIES RATING: Explicit, 18+ only — MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

—SUMMARY: Professor Fett makes good on his promise to give you everything you deserve.

—WORD COUNT: 8.6k

—TAGS & WARNINGS: second person narration, no use of y/n, explicit sexual content, alternate universe, professor!Boba, age gap relationship between an older man and younger woman (reader is mid-twenties and Boba is late forties), reader described as having enough hair to grab, Dom/sub power dynamics (Dom!Boba and sub!reader), BDSM elements, oral sex (fem receiving), unprotected p in v sex (wrap it up irl) (also I’ve decided this AU includes safe, effective birth control since we’re fantasizing anyways), use of restraints (reader's hands are bound), dirty talk, lots of pet names, lots of praise, some more self-discovery

As always, let me know if I missed anything that needs to be tagged! Mando'a translations at the end.

—AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is 8.6k words of pure smut to make up for Part II's cliffhanger 😈 We’re seeing a softer side of both Boba and the reader in Parts II and III as they establish and build their trust in one another. But fret not, their regularly scheduled banter will be back in Part IV! A big thank you to @rexxdjarin and @agirlnamejacq for betaing, and thank you my beautiful readers for your all support and feedback 💖

Read on AO3 — Series Masterlist — Taglist

<Part II — Part IV>

“Are you ready, pretty girl? Can I make you feel good now, give you your reward?”

“Please, Boba, please. I want you, I want you more than anything.”

“You have me, princess, I’m all yours.”

Maybe heaven is a place on earth or maybe it’s a place spun in the stars, but either way, it’s got to be wherever he is. Wherever the warm passion of his lips kissing all of you that came into his reach as he slipped your dress from your shoulders. Wherever his large, battle-worn hands traced over your body from head to toe in reverential worship as he laid you out on his bed. Wherever the solid breadth of his shoulders stood between your thighs as he parted them with promises of anything and everything the universe has to offer. 

“Fuck, you’re so beautiful… so soft and perfect. I want you to keep your arms up, sweetheart. Can you do that for me? Keep your hands up over your head?”

“I can’t touch you? I want to touch you.”

“All in good time, little one. Now be a good girl and do as you’re told.”

“Yes, s-sir.”

Spread over his luxurious sheets that smelled of him with your legs open and arms above your head, bare except for the soaked lace covering your center, you’re sure wherever heaven is, Boba Fett is there. Because heaven is only heaven if there’s hell to heat it. After kissing his way down your body inch by tender inch, he’s settled between your trembling thighs, his expression devout as sin as his gaze scrapes up your nearly naked body to find your hungry eyes. His tongue slips out from between his kiss-swollen lips and your stomach constricts almost painfully in anticipation, only for him to run it over his lips and retract it. 

A small whine sounds in the back of your throat and he grins, planting wet kisses everywhere but your center. You’re swimming in rapids of your desire, unable to gain a footing in the torrid wash of it. 

Boba chuckles deep and warm and you can almost feel the vibrations in your cunt. “Use your words, little one, tell me what you want… let me hear it and I promise I'll lick up that pussy so good.” His syrupy words are so hot and surgery they’re going to make you melt right through the mattress straight to flames below. 

You huff, throwing your head back and bunching the sheets between your fingers. “I thought this was supposed to be my reward.” You want it, you want him, and you know he’s got to be painfully hard by the way he’s grinding into the mattress. You’re wound up and impatient with want, chafing at the constraints he’s set. Why won’t he just do it already? 

Boba sinks his fingers deeper into your thighs, massaging the tension held there. “It is, princess, but you’re still fighting it. Let go.”

You huff again, unable to pinpoint what you’re doing wrong. “I am,” you insist, desperate distress running through your words, “I’m keeping my arms up and being polite and-”

“Shhh shhh,” he soothes, “I know, and you’re being so good for me.” He peppers little kisses across your thigh that make you tingle and sparkle. “But that’s not what I mean. You have to get out of that pretty head of yours.”

You groan in frustration—you don’t know what that means or how to do it. Propping yourself up on your elbows, you look down at the man of your wildest fantasies inches away from where you want him most; it takes every atom in your body to resist putting his mouth right where you want it so you can just forget about everything instead. Rule number two, respect myself… that means asking questions when I’m confused. 

“Can you tell me how to… you know… do that?” you ask haltingly, biting down on your lip to stem the tide of uncomfortable insecurity rising up within you. You’re not used to feeling unsure and you don’t want to disappoint him by not being able to do something as simple as “letting go.”

The smile that beams from his face dissipates your fog of doubt. “That’s my smart girl, following the rules so well,” he praises in his deep timbre, and you glow in the shine of his praise. As if he can read your mind, he adds gently, “Never feel ashamed to ask questions, princess, there’s no shame here. I like that you trust me to show you all these new things, and asking questions lets me know you’re minding the rules and listening to your body.”

Your shoulders hunch, your gaze dropping to your chest. “But don’t they kind of… ruin the moment?”

“Little one, the moment’s not worth it if you aren't enjoying yourself,” he answers gently.

Your head jerks up, your eyes scrabbling to find his. He’s so patient and safe it makes your heart feel impossibly full, so full it might even burst into stardust. You don’t catch your hands before they’re reaching for him, pulling his face to come to yours. Chuckling, he obliges you, shifting himself up the mattress so his lips can meet yours. Mid-kiss you realize your mistake and drop your hands back behind you, ducking your head. “Sorry,” you mumble against his lips, “Forgot my hands.” 

He smiles, placing a last kiss on your lips before pulling back to look at you. His dark eyes flick over you briefly, then a satisfied look comes across his face as if he’s come to a decision that pleases him. “I think I know something that might help.” He pushes up from the bed and pads across the room to his closet, stepping in and rustling around for a bit. A minute later, he emerges with something folded in his hands.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he beckons you over and you curl into his lap, once again content with his heat against your skin, even if it’s through his clothes. Boba opens his palms, revealing a length of buttery smooth, black silky fabric about two inches wide. You run the tips of your fingers over the luxe material, noting the way it feels like cool water under your touch, and he lets it pool in your hands for your further examination.

Snaking an arm around your waist, Boba pulls you tight against him, his other hand coming to rest just above your knee. “We can talk normally right now, princess, since we’re taking a break.” You hum an affirmative and he continues, “I think you’re having trouble because you’re fighting the physical feeling of letting go even if mentally you’ve decided that’s what you want. That can feel a little scary, yeah?” You bob your head in agreement where it rests on his shoulder. “And I'm thinking you always had to make sure your pleasure was also taken care of before. Does that sound right?”

You nod. While you had enjoyed the sex you’d had in the past—you only gave if you got—there was always the lingering possibility that you would be left unsatisfied if you didn’t maintain enough control to chase your own release.

A knowing grumble sounds in his throat. “I thought so. Doesn’t help you’re a stubborn little thing who likes to raise hell every step of the way, either,” he pokes, giving you a playful squeeze.

You giggle, twisting to press kisses on his jaw. “You like it.”

You can feel him smile at your assertion, a sound of agreement rumbling in his chest. “I want to take my time with you, little one, and I want you to be able to enjoy it as much as I do. Usually I would wait to introduce something like this until a little later since this is all new to you, but I think this,” he pauses, tapping a finger on the black satin, “will help.” 

“To get you out of your head, you need something to fight against and ground you, something that makes you realize you're safe but that there’s no escaping… that the only option is to let whatever is going to happen, happen. That’s what letting go is. I’ll decide what you feel, when you feel it, how… all you have to do is let it happen because I’m going to take care of you and I’m going to make sure you feel amazing. How’s that sound, pretty girl?” 

The image he paints in your mind has you squirming in his lap. It sounds fantastic, if only your brain could get the memo and relax so Boba could whisk you off to pleasures unknown. You tell him so, asking about the black fabric in your hands. A molten heat creeps down your spine at the thought of that silky smooth material circling around your limbs, holding you fast to his will; if you’re honest with yourself, you’re surprised by how turned on the thought of being bound by the professor makes you. 

A few minutes later, Boba is doing just as he described: looping the binding around your wrists with expert knots to the hidden clip on the headboard, carefully explaining how the way he’s tying you makes sure the knots can’t get too tight around your arms and hurt you. You’re giddy with excitement and it makes you want to wiggle and tease him while he works; he’s so close and you can see how hard he is through his pants. Your desire for him to know you’re listening and that you appreciate the care he’s taking with your comfort keeps you in check, however.

The more you think about his plan while he works—to tie your hands up over your head and have you keep your eyes closed while he takes what he wants from you with his tongue—the wetter and more impatient you get. You won’t be able to stop him from devouring you all tied up, you wouldn’t be able to wriggle free from his strong grip or even anticipate his next move with your eyes screwed shut because he’d stop if you opened your eyes. You’re going to be prey at the mercy of a predator who has every intention of eating you alive… and you have every intention of letting him do it.

“Are you ready, little one?” Boba asks from the end of the bed where he’s admiring his handiwork, his gaze lingering on the black bindings, your eyes, your tits. You pout when you realize he isn't exposing any more of himself, keeping his body hidden from you. Noting your displeasure, he cocks his head at you. “What’s that look for?”

“I want your clothes off,” you whine, hoping the pitiful pitch of your voice will convince him to strip down. You’ve been dreaming of what he looks underneath all those expensive clothes, how the roll of his impossibly broad shoulders would flex every muscle down his back in salacious exertion, or how his thick thighs would tense and shiver when you scrape your nails up them while you took him down your throat. 

He huffs in amusement, shaking his head. “I make those decisions, sweetheart.”

“Can I at least have your shirt off so I can feel that it’s you?” 

That catches him by surprise, his confident swagger slacking for a heartbeat before returning. “Will that make it easier for you or are you just being impatient?” he asks, his tone deliberate. “Remember to tell me the truth, that’s a rule.”

“Easier for me,” you answer honestly, “You make me feel safe and I want to be reminded that it’s you.” His eyes soften to something you’ve never seen on him before, something hidden in the abyss of him that’s seeing the light for the first time. It’s only a flicker of a thing, then it’s gone, but it makes your heart twinge. Maybe he needs me to care for him too, maybe this is how I do it. 

He swallows and nods. “Alright then, princess.” He makes quick work of the shell buttons and folds the shirt over the back of the chair next to his dresser. What’s revealed to you makes your insides clench and the room feel hot: bronze skin painted with silver scars and geometric tattoos that cover the thick muscles of his chest and broad shoulders, his slightly softer belly and wraps over the trunk of his torso. 

Your eyes drink him in, your mouth watering at the sight of this beautiful man. Quenching yourself on the vision of him, your gaze roves over every centimeter of skin he’s allowed you, from the crown of his head to the dusting of dark hair trailing tantalizingly down into his gray pants. Your hips roll forward just a bit, seeking friction, and you suck your bottom lip between your teeth. Fuck he’s hot… I want to trace every tattoo on his body with my tongue until I have them committed to memory.

He flashes you a grin that’s all teeth, the easy confidence he feels in his own skin radiating off him like an ocean gale. “Like what you see, pretty girl?”

You bob your head up and down fervently, eager to demonstrate your awe for every piece of him he lets you have. “Yes, sir,” you add quickly, remembering your manners—you would be just as good to him as he is to you. 

Keeping the depths of his eyes locked on your face, he comes around the bed with the grace of a panther circling its next meal, and stops at your side. He tugs the restraint holding your hands up a final time, grunting his approval at its strength. “If you’re ready, close your eyes and tell me out loud, princess.”

You sigh in contentment: you’re finally getting what you want. You want to be good for him, you’d put up your fight and now you were ready for your reward. Your eyes slide shut and you tug just barely at your silky restraint; feeling the tightness of your bonds makes your thighs press together in anticipation. “I’m ready, sir.”

The bed dips as Boba moves to settle back in front of you and your thighs fall open in an offering of submission, eliciting a low groan from the professor. “This what you needed, princess?” he drawls, dragging kisses up the insides of your calves as his hands massage up your legs. “Someone to make you just lie there and take it?” He nips at the softer skin above your knee and a moan slips from your lips before you can stifle it, the raw dominance and masculinity of him dredging up something pliant and latent from the depths of your desire. 

A warm, hazy feeling begins to bloom in your belly, the heavy ambrosia of it spreading outwards into your limbs and weighing you into the downy mattress. As the sensation licks up your ribs and into your chest, Boba moves farther up your legs, planting flushed kisses up your thighs while his hands continue to rub away the tension lingering in your body. The golden wave fills your lungs and throat, but it doesn’t feel like drowning; rather, it’s like you’ve learned to breathe underwater in the sunny shallows of a peaceful reef, protected and safe. Exhaling the last hooked resistance from your chest, you allow yourself to slip under the dappled surface.

“That’s it, there you go, I’ve got you,” Boba praises softly into your skin when all your muscles go slack and loose under him. He begins surveying a map of your pleasure, dragging his lips over your heated skin to find your most tender points, testing and teasing your increasing sensitivity to his touch. He continues to avoid where you want him most, however.

Sucking in a deep breath, you squeeze your closed eyes tighter. “P-please,” you stutter, your appeal dripping from your lips with a whimper, “please.”

A rumble of gratitude sounds from the man below, his hands stroking your thighs reassuringly. “That’s my good girl, using her manners,” he coos, his warm breath fanning over the slick skin inches from his face. Nuzzling into the crease of your hip, he sucks his mark into the sensitive flesh before sanctifying his work with a graze of his lips as you whimper from his ministrations. “You’ve done so good for me, been so patient. Now open those beautiful eyes, princess,” he coaxes, pressing your hips flat with his open palms, “I want you to see how pretty your soaked pussy looks with my tongue in it.”

His words go straight to your clit and a moan filters through your chest—you can actually feel the fresh arousal coating your folds. Prying your eyes open, you blink his broad form into focus below you. Visually confirming he has your attention, Boba leans into your center just as promised and licks the most delicious, wet stripe up your sopping panties, his tongue flicking over your clit at the very end. Boba groans and mumbles curses into the tender skin of your thigh. “Fuck, you taste better than I ever could have imagined, sweetheart. Sweetest thing I’ve ever had.”

“You… you thought about me?” you gasp around your pleasure, your nerves sparking as his rough fingertips come up to trace your nipples. The thought of him aching for you the same way you had for him makes your pulse throb in your core. His tweaks your nipples and you let out a rather undignified squeak that earns you a chuckle from the man below you. 

Looping his thumbs under the waistband of your lingerie, Boba pulls the fabric taunt, stretching it thin and guiding it slowly over your desperate clit to generate a tormenting amount of friction. “Every single day since you first opened that mouth of yours, pretty girl. Couldn’t get you out of my karking head. Wanted to taste you, smell you, feel you—it was torture.”

You moan, bucking your hips against the garment and pulling against your restraints to seek out more of him.

Seeing your enthusiastic reaction to his admission, Boba continues, his deep voice vibrating all the way down to your bones. “Didn’t help when you started laying in my office every day in all those little sundresses. Wanted to throw your legs over my shoulders and make you come all over my face every single time. But that's what you wanted, isn’t it? That’s why you wore them, hoping I’d ask for a taste, dirty girl.”

Fuck. You’re gushing like a goddamn waterfall and Boba hasn’t even really touched you yet. It’s so much and not enough, and you know his tongue in your pussy would be the answer to all your problems. “Please,” you try again, high and desperate, “I want your tongue.”

“Oh, I know you do, sweetheart,” he smolders, mocking and sympathy twisting together, “lift your hips.” You immediately obey and he slides your panties off, tossing them over his shoulder. He wastes no time settling back between your legs, wrapping his muscled arms around your thighs to hold them open. A jagged curse hisses from his lips when your glistening folds are finally fully revealed. “Prettiest little pussy I’ve ever seen,” he breathes out, almost to himself, “been dreaming about this pussy and now it’s all karking mine.” 

Before his words even finish forming, he’s on you, groaning like a man starved as he licks into you with a branding tongue that has your eyes rolling back. It’s hot and wet and urgent, and primal need cries out from the innate, subconscious part of yourself: you want to please him to the core of your being. When the heavenly heat of his mouth breaks from your core, you choke on a sob of disappointment, tilting your face down at him. He looks almost as wrecked as you feel, and you clench around nothing at the prospect of you holding as much power over him as he does you.

“Look at me, princess,” he pants raggedly, his words charred over with desire, “I want you to look at me while I'm eating out your sweet little pussy.”

“Yes, sir!” You’re way past pride at this point; you’d hop on foot while turning in circles if it meant he’d put his tongue back on you.

He smirks and dives back in, licking up all the slick from your folds before kissing his way up to your clit. He groans as you shiver at the contact on your most sensitive part, his tongue coming back out to flutter over it… and then he sucks. Bright stars explode at the edges of your vision, and your back arches off the bed. The sound bursts forth from your lungs is one of pure, unbridled pleasure: nothing compares to this, nothing, not when it’s him, finally him. You’ve never felt this fucking good before and you never want to feel anything else again. Now that he’s got you on the tip of his tongue, you want to feel him everywhere. Kissing your lips, sucking on your breasts, throbbing inside you, everywhere.

You cry out in half-broken curses when he sucks your clit into his mouth again and shakes his head back and forth, the combination of sensations flooding your nerves with crackling snaps of pleasure. Your knees try to close around his head but the iron grip on your thighs doesn’t let you move an inch; you really are just going to have to lie there and take it. You yank against the ties holding your hands and a moan scrapes up your throat at the realization that you really won’t be able to get free, that his man is going to lick and slurp up your pussy and there’s nothing you can do about it. It’s a freedom unlike any you’ve ever known—and you’re going to revel in the glory of it.  

Boba must be able to feel your revelation somehow because he detaches from your pussy with a wet pop that smacks against your nerves. “That’s it, that’s my girl,” he coos, rubbing his palms up and down your thighs, “It’s so much better this way isn’t it? So much better when you let go and let me give you what you need. Now, I’m going to let go of this leg and you’re going to keep it open for me. I need to get you ready, little princess, stretch you out on my fingers so you’re nice and ready for my cock. Let me hear that you understand.”   

Fuck, if his dick’s like the rest of him I’m going to need it. You manage to voice your understanding with a shudder at the thought of just how full he could fill you.

Bringing his right hand up to your face, he traces the rough pad of his trigger finger across the seam of your lips. “Open,” he commands simply, “Get these nice and wet for me.” You obey and he slides his middle two fingers into your waiting mouth with a groan; you delight in the task, sucking and licking at the thick fingers crowding your mouth, much to Boba’s relish. “So eager, I like that, princess. That why you run that brat mouth all the time? You want me to stick something in it?”

You just grin around his fingers in response, then sink your mouth all the way down to their base as you blink big blowjob eyes down at him. Boba hisses, his hips jerking into the bed beneath him but he recovers quickly, popping his appendages from your lips. “Watch it, don’t get in trouble.”

“I told you, sir, I like trouble,” you giggle, biting your lip as you smirk down at him. Holding your gaze, he sticks out his tongue and rests the flat of it against your swollen clit, and the rest of your thoughts fizzle out into sparkling dots of pleasure with a gasp.

“Mmm, yeah, that’s what I thought,” he hums against you, tracing his slicked middle finger along your entrance, “If you want to talk so much, sweetheart, why don’t you tell me why I should let you fuck my fingers.” He notches his digit at your dripping opening, setting you aflame with fresh desire. “Go ahead then, let me hear it.”

Now that your earlier unease has subsided, you can't help but seize the opportunity to snark back at him. “Because if you don’t, you can’t put your dick in me,” you answer smugly, shimmying your hips in front of his face. 

Boba’s eyes darken with a dangerous tint, his brow arching at your bold response. “Better try again or you’ll get nothing, brat.”

His patience is stretched as thin as yours now and you want nothing more than to make him snap first. You snort, cocking your head to the side. “Oh, I think you want this pussy too bad to give me nothing, sir.”

Retracting from your core, Boba lifts himself off of you to sit up on his haunches. “Well,” he sighs dramatically, puffing out his cheeks and wiping the slick off his chin with the back of his hand, “since you don’t want to listen, you won’t get your reward. It’s a real shame too, princess, you were being so good earlier. Guess I’ll have to send you home with nothing but a sore ass to show for it.” 

He shifts like he's about to get off the bed and you snap against your restraints in sudden panic: shitshitshit. If you don’t have him guts-deep tonight you’re not going to survive. “Wait, no, please! I’ll be good, I swear, I didn’t mean it before, please! Let me try again!” you plead, instant regret sending pangs of dread up your spine. 

Tutting, he shakes his head. “I already let you try a second time and you only acted worse. What’s there to make me think a third time will be any better, hmm?” 

The way his dark eyes are glittering with everything but mercy only turns you on more, dread coiling alongside the desire in your belly. “Third time’s the charm?” you squeak out, flashing him your most sincere smile and batting your lashes. You can do this, you tell yourself, you can flirt your way out of just about anything… right?

Boba barks out a sharp laugh, tossing his head back in amusement. “Alright then, little brat, let’s hear it.” He folds his thick arms over his chest expectantly, and you have force your brain to actually think instead of admiring the way his biceps looked pressed firm or the way his tattoos gleam in the low light.

Pressing your lips together, swallow against the rising tide of heat flooding up from your core. Rather than risk playing your cards wrong, you offer him the unadulterated truth. “I just want you so kriffing bad it makes me forget myself, I’m sorry,” you simper, blinking up at him, “Please fuck me open with your fingers, my pussy needs you, I need you, please don’t leave me like this. I’ll be so so good and take everything you give me. I want to be good for you, I… I just can’t help it sometimes.” Your eyes drop and your teeth worry at your lip; you wish you could reach out and touch him, to trace your intentions into his skin and over his scars with tender care.

“Aw, little princess, you can be so sweet when you want to, can’t you?”

You peek up at him through your lashes. He’s smiling, smug and satisfied, but his brown eyes betray the genuine warmth to his sentiment. You nod quickly, sticking out your bottom lip. Boba dips down, kissing you and nipping at it, while his fingers ghost down your ribs to slip over your stomach. Your breath hitches as he drags them through the mess of slick between your thighs, coating his fingers in your arousal, and you arch up into him as far as you can with the silky bindings around your wrists. 

Dragging his fingers lazily over your clit with slow friction, Boba licks his way back down your body to retake his place between your thighs where he tosses one of your legs over his strong shoulder in a move that has you clenching around nothing. You’re already trembling from the tight tension winding up in your lower half and the dark look in his eye as he presses his thumb against your apex and begins to rub at a delicious pace. The sensuous waves of your long awaited pleasure roll up your body, flooding your nerves with rosy heat and pulling a high whine from your throat. 

Boba grunts approvingly, throwing a heavy arm over your hips to keep you from bucking out of his grasp. “Feel good, sweetheart? Yeah, I know it does. Look at you, making a mess of my sheets. I bet I could make you come just like this, just by rubbing that cute little clit of yours for a little longer. Mmm, maybe some other time, because now I gotta get that tight cunt ready for me.”

“Please,” you gasp, your brain already muddled with hazy pleasure, “please, I want to feel you… feel all of you.” The better you feel, the greater your ache for him grows; you need him inside you, you need your body to give him the revelry you knew it could bring him. You thirst, crave, hunger to be the source of his joy and gratification, to be the reason he lets go and comes apart, to be his blinding peace in a dark universe.

“Mmm such good manners. Don’t worry, I’m going to take care of you, little one, gonna give you just what you need.” His thumb is replaced by his warm tongue flicking over that bundle of nerves with maddening precision, its rough texture making the bubbling heat in your core spike. The babble of pleasure that streams from your lips chokes off when two of his thick fingers slide effortlessly into you with a lewd squelch. “Oh, princess,” he groans into you, his hips thrusting into the mattress, “you’re-fuck-you’re perfect here, too.”

He’s struck a seam of desire so deep in your stratum you almost crack open from the feeling of his calloused fingers and voice alone. “Fuuuuck, please, please, I want your cock inside of me,” you beg, shameless and searing, your hips rolling down to take more of him. Boba doesn’t respond, he just begins pumping his fingers, curling and scissoring them inside you while he laps at your clit with moans of delight. Pent up and overwhelmingly turned on, you’re not far from your release when he brushes against that spot tucked away in your core.

Eruptions of light score the backs of your eyes and pure energy arches your spine. “Fuck, yes! Right there, right fucking there,” you cry out, grinding your shaking hips down onto him. Your muscles burn with exertion as you fight against the satin material snaked around your arms, the feeling fueling the explosion of pleasure building inside you at a frightening pace. This man is going to be your marvelous undoing.

“Right here?” he grunts against you, the wrecked bass of his voice vibrating though your burning core, “This gonna make you come, princess? This gonna make you soak my fingers and slick up my face?” He’s hooked himself against that devastating spot inside your cunt and it’s driving nearly insane as you try and wring your next words out.

The words are choked and strained as all your muscles twist dizzyingly tight around the intensity of your impending release. “Yes, fuck yes, yes!” Your head is thrown back between your shoulders and you’re shamelessly riding his tongue, taking every ounce of pleasure he gives you. Streaks of stars singe the backs of your eyelids as you shoot higher and higher into the atmosphere of your ecstasy—much closer and you’ll be consumed by the heat of his white-hot sun. “I’m gonna, I’m gonna-”

“Fuck, come for me, ner cyare, come for me and let me hear how beautiful you fucking sound when coming on my tongue,” he moans in a dripping, heady voice. He draws your clit back between his lips and flicks his tongue over it through the heavenly suction.

Everything shatters and you scream as the now unbearable heat of your orgasm pours down your throat, shorting out your nerves, and liquefying your consciousness into a pool of Boba Fett’s making. You’re beautifully ruined and you’re finally his, divine and free. 

He rides you through your high, coaxing every last particle of pleasure from your molten heat, curses and praises swirling together in his arousal-roughened timbre. In the gossamer aftermath of your climax, you hazily watch him suck your shining release from his fingers like it's a rare nectar to be savored. The hum of his words might be telling you so but they’re so far away from your understanding, you’ll never know, especially when he begins hurriedly stripping off the remainder of his clothes. 

His gray slacks reveal muscular thighs and powerful hips, and you long to drag your tongue down the “V” line of his abdomen and nip at his hip bones. When his hand strokes over the hard bulge hidden by his underwear, you moan and weakly pull against your ties—you want to be doing that for him.

“Something the matter, princess?” he asks, his voice just barely wavering with his restraint as he continues to lazily palm himself to the sight of your open thighs coated in your glistening orgasm.

“Let me-let me taste you, sir, please,” you plead, your voice wrought with desire, “Let me show just how grateful and sweet I can be.” Your mouth waters and you crave the weight of him on your tongue, the pressure on your throat, his taste lingering on your lips.  

“As much as I want to let you choke on my cock, pretty girl, the first thing I want to feel is that tight pussy swallowing me. Can’t wait anymore,” he rasps, a hint of unfamiliar desperation darkening his words. “You wanna be untied or you want to stay up, sweetheart? Talk to me.”

He’s standing next to the bed looking like sin itself and you don’t hesitate to give him your answer. “Untied, wanna touch you, wanna hold you, please Boba.”

The sweet strain of your voice saying his name has him sucking in a sharp breath as he bends over your bound body. “Whatever you want, princess, I’ll give you whatever you want,” he promises with a moan into the sweat-slicked skin of your throat as his fingers deftly untie the silk binding your wrists without the need for his eyes. 

As soon as you're free, you jump to wrap your arms around his neck and pull him close but he catches your elbows above your head. You whine, struggling weakly in his firm grasp to feel the sweet relief of his skin on yours. You need him on you more than you need to breathe.

“Easy, little one, you’re going to hurt yourself like that. Be easy, I’m not going anywhere,” his stormful voice soothes. He sets his mouth over yours, kissing you deep as the ocean and just as powerful, his strong hands rubbing the stiffness from your joints gently. You sigh at his touch, dissolving like sparkling sea foam on his sheltered shores. “That’s it, there you go. I’m so sorry, babygirl, I should’ve told you that you have be slow coming out of restraints. You okay?”

“‘m okay, ‘s alright,” you slur, still dazed and happy from the balm of his touch. His resulting frown is like a cloud blocking the sun of him from shining down on you, and you blink his face into focus to see what’s depriving you.

“No, it’s not, it’s my job to take care of you, make sure you're only hurt in the ways you want to be.” He eases your arms down to lay across your chest and places a light kiss on the tip of your nose. “The rules apply to me, too, little one.”

If he’s not careful, he really is going to make my heart burst. Wiggling your eyebrows up at him from where you’re sprawled on his bed, you give him a sly grin. “You want me to punish you for breaking the rules?”

He snorts, a smirk cracking through the downturn of his mouth. “Do you want to?”

You scrunch up your lips and roll your eyes up in exaggerated consideration before proclaiming, “For you penance, professor, you must bring me some water and then fuck me silly.”

The most divine laugh spills from his lips, wide and resonant. “As you wish, princess.” He disappears towards the bathroom and you push yourself up the mattress to prop yourself up on his plush pillows. He returns a minute later with a glass of cool water and some ibuprofen. “Go ahead and take these so you’re not as sore later,” he offers, wrapping your waiting fingers around the cup. 

You offer him a grateful smile and tip back the pills with the water in a few greedy gulps. Thirst slaked and immediate needs met, your eyes wander back over to the man next to you, scouring every inch of him in open hunger. The topography of his scars and the patterns of his tattoos tell a story that is so uniquely him, and you’re dying to learn every word of it, commit it to memory with your hands and mouth. The notion that you even get to be a mere sentence in his tale is as baffling as it is exhilarating. 

“Boba…” His name falls from your lips that still taste of him, of relentless strength and innate power. You want him, all of him. You want to hear his groans and feel the drag of him in your most sensitive spots, you want to be his pleasure and his solace.

He’s on you in an instant, finally allowing the fates to bring you together fully and completely. He takes and you let him, you arch into his touch and pant his name, tasting and kissing him like he’s something to be worshiped, like that thing isn’t already you. It’s hopeless exuberance and fervent longing, it’s things hoped for and the universe’s rare grace. It’s everything, it’s history, it’s life’s meaning. It’s him.

You want him like a fire needs fuel or the ocean needs the moon, terribly and crucially. He’s the immovable object that grounds your unstoppable force. You crave the balance he brings to your scales, you need him. He’s hot and heavy over you, melding himself into you with rolling hips and possessive hands, molding you to the shape of him. “Boba.” You utter his name like the prayer it is. “Please.”

“I know, sweet girl, I know.” He cups your jaw in the hollow of his hand, running his other down your thigh to hook it over his hip. “I’m going to give it all to you, princess, I’m going to give you everything.” He lines himself up with your dripping, yearning heat and finally sinks into the space he was always meant to fill.

A curse is just a blessing sent to the devil, and the way Boba makes you feel like the very essence of divine femininity has you singing hell’s praises. The way the thickness of him stretches you out has to be a sin for the way it makes you feel so unbelievably full and warm and his. The first thrust of his hips has your eyes rolling back and your nails scratching down his back in pure ecstasy.

“Kark, princess, shit. Knew you would feel amazing,” Boba grits out through bared teeth, his fingers pressing their mark into your skin, “Osik, so tight and wet, so perfect just for me. Shoulda bent you over your desk that very first day, I know you would’ve let me, my dirty little girl. Should’ve never left without filling up that sweet cunt.” Boba apparently can’t shut up now that he’s got you and it’s going straight to your throbbing clit. His hips snap against your own and you both moan into each other’s open mouth when he’s fully seated in your velvet heat. 

“Please, more,” you plead, “please give me more, sir. I’m all yours.” You want to feel him for weeks.

Shuddering, Boba grinds himself impossibly deeper into you. “Keep looking at me like that, sweetheart, and I’ll-fuck-I’ll give you anything you fucking want.”

A tremor of blistering heat rakes over you, and you surge forward and take his lips, biting down on the plush of his lower lip. “Do it, give it to me, give me everything, I want you, please, sir.”

Boba groans and sets a driving, urgent pace that you just know neither of you are going to last with. “I’ve waited so long for this, dreamed about making you come apart on my cock. Kark, I want to take my time with you, princess, but the way your tight little pussy is squeezing me I don’t think I’m going to last long. You feel so good, taste like heaven, and sound so sweet, y-you’re perfect. You’re worth every goddamn minute I spent waiting to find you,” he pants, his breath haphazard as his thrusts snap harder and deeper as if he could drill his words into your cunt, “shit-I’m going to fuck you just like you deserve, princess, fuck you so good you can never forget how much you mean to me, my sweet, precious girl.”

You can see the nebula of your release in the deep space of his eyes, each drag of his cock against your pulsing walls ratcheting you further into the desire-dark galaxy of him. His hand brushes over the swell of your belly to find your clit and he rubs sloppy circles that have you making sounds you’ve never made before. "Oh princess, sweetheart, pretty baby… fuck, do you know how good you feel? Even better than all the heavens… you're so fucking perfect and your sweet little cunt is strangling me. I'm gonna fuck you so good, gonna fuck you so you feel me for kriffing days, fuck, gonna…"

You throw an arm around his neck and crash his lips into yours. His sweat drips from his collarbone to trickle down the valley of your breasts, the feather light sensation so erotic that you almost come again from that alone. "Shit, Boba, you’re so fucking good-so fucking good to me, best I’ve ever had, all I ever want. Please, please don’t stop, I want all of you inside of me, make me yours, fuck, I love you, d-don’t stop!”

“Osik, ner cyare, it’s all yours, you’re all mine, only, all…” Boba breaks off with a snarl, lacing his fingers in yours with one hand and slamming it above you while his other slides under your neck to yank your head back by your hair. You contort in primal pleasure and the new angle has him pounding against that universe-shattering spot. “Come on, come on, one more time for me sweetheart, I know you have it in you, let me feel that perfect pussy come on my cock o-one more time and I swear I’ll fill you up so full,” he growls into your exposed throat before latching onto your pulse point and sinking in his teeth to mark you as his alone. 

You cry out into the white light exploding around you, a million stars imploding into a sparkling dust that filters through your lungs and into your blood. Cataclysmic heat fills your insides a moment later and you’re suddenly whole for the first time in your entire existence, the laws of your universe finally coming together into one unified equation. You were, you are, you became, you will, all at once and all forever.  

You’re softly curled on top of Boba with one arm behind his neck and the other folded across his broad chest, your fingers stroking patterns on his shoulder with your leg slung over his thigh. It’s utter bliss, you never want to move again. Just lie on his perfect, warm chest and be in faultless paradise forever, be painted into one of those masterpieces that hang in a museum—sublime and beautiful for all time, admired and envied by those who have to carry on living. If only.

You hear your name rumbling in the ribs underneath you and you hum an acknowledgement.

“You with me, babygirl?” His gorgeous voice sounds like it’s far away even though it’s impossibly close. You don’t know what that means so shake your head and bury your face deeper into him. You’re safe here so that’s where you’ll stay, locked in golden amber, thick and precious.

Eventually, however, the time passes and you become flesh and blood again, alive and mortal. You find it’s not so bad though, not when Boba is there waiting for you. You turn your face to press your lips into the marred skin of his sternum, planting kisses over each divot and mark there before shifting so you can blink up at him happily. “Hey,” you mumble lazily, a smile unfurling on your lips. Surely, it doesn’t get better than this.

“Hey,” he murmurs with a smile like the golden sun, the corners of his eyes turning up. “How’re you, my pretty girl?”

There’s a dull, pleasant ache between your thighs. “Mmm… good, ‘s happy,” you sigh contentedly, pressing deeper into his warmth. “You?”

Boba shifts up the bed so he’s propped up on the pillows, adjusting you back over him with his hand splayed across your lower back. He presses a kiss to the top of your head. “Never been better, princess.”  

Peeking up, you trace a finger tip over the deep crease between his eyebrows. “What’s worrying you then?”

He takes your hand in his own and lowers it to give a light kiss. “Nothing, little one.”

You prop up on your elbow and fix him with a stern look. “I thought we only gave and took honesty when we’re like this.”

He lets out a groan, rubbing a hand over his face. “You’re too smart for your own good, you know that?” He falls silent and you can tell he’s thinking, so you leave him be, patiently resting your head on his shoulder to wait. After a quiet couple of minutes, he adjusts his position slightly and you tell he’s ready. Taking your hand in his, Boba brushes his thumb over the thin skin of the inside of your wrist and begins in a tone less confident than his usual. “I… I’ve never been much good at this part of things, the talking. Always been easier to just do rather than to figure out the words to say.”

You make a warm sound of encouragement and settle deeper into him to assure him that you’re not going anywhere, that you’re listening. With your ear pressed against him, you can hear the heavy beat of his heart and deep breath he takes in before continuing. “Did you mean what you said?”

You frown, not catching his meaning. “When I said what?”

“It’s fine if you didn't… if it was just in the heat of the moment.”

You sit up so you can look him in the eye, anxiety prickling in your stomach. “Said what, Boba?” Cold dread slides down the nape of your neck. Please don’t let this be ruined, please don’t take him away from me.

He goes silent, his eyes searching for something in your own. “Never mind, it’s not important,” he finally mutters. “Forget I said anything.”

Sitting all the way up, you cross your arms over your breasts. “Absolutely kriffing not. You better tell me or I’ll never let you see me naked ever again,” you threaten, setting your jaw.

“Come on, princess,” he tries, ducking his head for a kiss; you turn your chin up so his lips can’t reach yours. A heavy sigh rattles from his chest and his brown eyes look up to the ceiling as if the answer to his problem would be scrawled across it. Finding nothing, he drops his gaze, not meeting your eyes. “Did you mean it when you said that you… love me?” 

Frayed electricity floods your brain, your blood running horribly cold. Had you said that? When? Is he upset? Have you ruined everything? The memory of babbled words swells up in a sudden, terrifying wave: “I want you to make me all yours, fuck, I love you, don’t stop!”

You can never keep your big mouth shut can you? you scold yourself, Now you’ve gone and told his perfect man that you love him after one month of knowing him. Kark you’re stupid. There’s no use in denying that you said it, he clearly knows you did. Least he’s gentleman enough to not toss you out of his house immediately, allowing you to get your wits back about you after getting the best dick of your entire life. And, you guess, the last time in your entire life.

The earlier stubborn set to your shoulders droops to a sullen slope. You clear your throat, your eyes trying to find anywhere to look but at him. “I, um, I…” you trail off. Now you’re the one who has to be honest—you don’t think you could lie to him, not like this. “I did mean it… I do mean it. I shouldn’t have said it, though, I know it’s weird and I understand if you want me to leave and we go our separate ways after this.” You finally settle on a point on the other side of the room to stare at while you wait for his inevitable rejection. When it begins to bounce around in your vision, you notice that Boba is shaking underneath you. Your eyes fly to his face.

“Oh, little princess, what am I going to do with you?” he laughs, the sound not sharp or mean as you expected, but sunny and joyful, his expression elated. Cupping your face in his large hands, he brings his lips to yours, and you can feel his smile.

Is he… does he? 

Pulling you back just enough to see your face, Boba brushes his thumbs across your cheekbones affectionately, his brown eyes the softest they’ve ever been. “You really are something else. Where have you been all my life?”

“Wondering when the hell you’re going to tell me what’s going on,” you huff, staving off the fretful waver in your voice. Your heart is pounding so hard in your ribs you think they might bruise, and you can scarcely breathe with the hope that your feelings are reciprocated. 

He says your name in that thalassic voice of his, chucking up your chin with two fingers. “Say it again first so I know I’m not dreaming.”

Fortune favors the bold, and so does he. Looking him dead in the eye, you let go one more time for him. “I love you, Boba Fett, I really do. Four karking weeks in or not.”

He lays his warm palm on the back of your neck, guiding you forward so he can rest his forehead against yours. “I’m glad you said it, cyar’ika, because I… I love you, too.”

If he wanted to say anything else, it’s lost to the ages because you’re kissing him and you don’t intend to stop any time soon.

MANDO'A TRANSLATIONS

(ner) cyare - (my) beloved, love

cyar’ika - sweetheart, darling, (a diminutive of cyare)

osik - Mando'a curse akin to "shit"

<Part II — Part IV>

[wildshona]

Collecting the Dress

The Sunday after the Samhain party I had been helping my friend move more stuff into her flat in the morning. How can she own so much stuff? I got back home needing a shower which was so hot and relaxing and then Chris relaxed me even more by bringing me off with his hands.

Somehow the afternoon disappeared and then Chris is insisting i have another shower and get dressed in the clothes he has laid out for me. Now that really got the juices goin cos in the last few Sundays dressing nice has meant Toni. Do you realise how difficult it is not to spoil a dress when you’ve got your juices oozing. Maybe that’s why he put knickers out – not that there was much fabric to them. The dress was another little black number that was quite floaty, not tight. And this time he didn’t put out a bra which meant my nipples went hard as soon as i had put the dress on. As with the recent Sundays i was in stockings with suspenders and thr dress was short enough that the suspenders and stocking tops were below the hem. I looked like a slut.

He drove me around to Toni’s place and rang the doorbell then he turned, got in the car and drove away. The door was opened by the Housekeeper and she took me through to the garden, where the marquee was still up from Samhain, and then through to a building at the end of the garden. Sweet fuck a swimming pool. Not a big one but a swimming pool nevertheless. Swimming lengths was a naked Toni.

Hang your clothes on a hook and come in.

I haven’t got a costume

Neither have i

So i stripped off and got into the pool. The water was warm but my nipples still hardened as Toni came up to me and kissed me on the lips. We swam for a while then got out.

We lay on some loungers talking and sipping wine which the housekeeper brought in. There were heaters above us and we gradually dried. Toni stood and put out her hand to me, pulling me up and into her. Toni is about 5 foot 8 i guess so is 6 inches taller than me. She has long thick black hair which she normally wears down unless she is at the surgery. Deep broen eyes and a full lips.

She is slim and that just shows up her tits even more. 38 probably D cup? I don’t know i’ve never had to think too much about tits that size cos i’m never going to get any. Shaved between the legs. Age? Late thirties, maybe early forties.

Anyway, she told me i didn’t really need to get dressed. “Just the stockings, suspenders and shoes.” OK, then.

We walked through to the lounge where she left me for a full half hour. The housekeeper brought me more wine and made sure i was warm enough. When Toni finally got back her hair was dried and she was wearing a red dress and heels which immediately made me self conscious given that i was only wearing stockings suspenders and shoes with my tits and naked cunt just out there.

Come on, dinner is ready.

Lamb cooked in a Moroccan sauce, followed by vanilla ice cream and a fabulous red wine.

Then back to the lounge. She sat on a sofa pulling her skirt as she sat so that her knickerless cunt was exposed.

Why don’t you have some more dessert? she purred.

It was obvious what she meant so i went down between her parted thighs and set my tongue to work on her clit and cunt. I pride myself im good at licking cunt. And Toni certainly wasn’t complaining as i pushed my tongue into her. We had been going for about ten minutes when she leant towards me and pulled my head in tight to her cunt. You know how that feels mouth pressed jaw almost cracking, and then she shuddered again and again and the sweetest juice flowed in to my mouth and down my chin.

When she had finished she gently pushed me back and looked at me.

You are such an exquisite little thing, she said, and Chris says I can have you whenever I want. She paused. If you would like.

My fingers had been between my fingers all the time I had been down on her and my body chose just this moment to rock me and put an earthquake in me so hard i fell backwards.

When i had finished and saw herm smiling one eyebrow raised.

“Yes please.”

Good, follow me.

She took me through the dining room, through a door – the one she had used to exit the night of the Samhain party and into the kitchen where the housekeeper was sipping a glass of wine.

She introduced me to her. Even I was getting self conscious now being introduced to this very efficient lady in a service dress almost out of the 1930s and I’m wearing just stockings and suspenders and heels with noticeably wet inner thighs.

I was apparently to have my own room where I would stay when necessary. Then it was back to the lounge for a brandy.

A little later the door bell rang. Chris was ushered in and he kissed Toni on the cheeks and me on the lips and we left. Ah ha you say but she is not wearing anything. I wasn’t. At the door the House keeper had my Samhain dress and the dress I had arrived in that evening wrapped in plastic like u would get at a dry cleaners.

“I’m keeping these.” Toni said picking up my knickers from a small table. Then naked me was out in the cold air running to the car which Chris had heated to the max.

As we drove home he asked me if i had enjoyed myself. I told him all about it and then there was another naked run from the garage to the lift to our flat.

I asked him about what Toni had said, that he had agreed that she could have me whenever she wanted.

“That a problem?”

“No.”

“Alright then.”

He pushed me down on to the rug , unzipped his trousers, let his cock out and fucked my almost naked body with his fully dressed one until I came and he filled my dripping cunt with cum.

[fvckingwolfstar]

The Reason Comes

pairing: fem!john lennon x fem!george harrison

summary: paul and george switch rooms, they make it work.

genre: smut!

wc: 2,093

cw: theyre women, this is lesbian smut. scissoring, oral sex, bickering.

author’s note: i just. i love them so much. and they need to fuck.

masterlist

smut under the cut

It was freezing in the Alps, and Brian had gotten two one-room cabins for the girls to stay in, each had two twin beds. Joan and Paul had argued earlier, leading to the younger girl packing a small bag and wrapping herself in her snow gear. “Paulie, you’re being ridiculous.”

“I’m done talking to you right now,” she huffed out, pulling a hat down over her head, the curls of her bob smushed against it. Joan stood in the center of the cabin, having watched Pauline rush around, picking up items and shoving them in her bag. 

“Paul,”

“Shut the fuck up, Joan.”

“You forgot a pair of socks for tomorrow,” she remarked, a smirk appearing on her lips.

Paul looked at her pointedly, her lips pursed, before marching to the drawer and shoving a pair of socks into her bag. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she huffed, swinging the door open. A cold rush of air swept the room, making Joan shiver. Paul stomped into the deep snow, leaving dark prints as she walked to the neighboring cabin.

Paul walked as quickly as she could to George and Ringo’s cabin, knocking quickly when she reached the door. After a moment, Ringo opened the door and looked at Paul’s shivering body and pink face, “What’s wrong?” she asked, letting Paul into the cabin.

Paul sniffles, “Joan, just being a bitch.” There was a collective sigh. 

Forty-five minutes later, there’s a fast knocking on what was Joan and Paul’s cabin. Joan answers it and lets the freezing, grumpy George inside. “The council’s decided, then?”

George rolls her eyes, kicking her boots off and setting her bag in the corner, “Stop pissing her off when it’s cold outside.” She inelegantly yanks her scarf and coat off, her gloves coming off when she pulls her hands through the sleeves. She pulled off her hat and looked in a mirror to fix her hair, “I said Ringo should’ve come over here instead of me, I can’t keep meself warm,”

Joan chuckles, goes to the small rolling bar, and pours them both a drink, “Here, this should raise your temperature,” she says, handing George the drink once she’s just down to her sweater and pajama pants. 

A few hours into the night, George and Joan were both thoroughly wasted, giggling loudly. Joan sat on the head of Paul’s bed while George sat on the foot of it, playing cards. 

“Geo,” Joan hummed, her head swimming. 

“Yah, Joanie?”

“This is the longest I’ve gone without sex,”

George hesitates as she lays her card down, thinking to herself, “Me too… I think,” she says, looking up at her. 

Joan nods, “Can’t go out while filmin’ here, and my husband’s at home. And Paulie’s, just… being Paulie,” she says. 

George nods and scoots closer to her, “Yeah, I haven’t seen that Pattie bird in a minute, either.” 

Joan threw a knowing glance at George, her returning it with a small smile. Joan sat her cards on the comforter, forgotten as she leaned in and kissed George, her fingers carding through the younger woman’s short hair. They’ve done this before, on tours and a few times before Hamburg. It was mostly Joan and Paul, but the other girls joined in at times, and Joan enjoyed when she could get alone time with one of the other girls, it had been a while for all of them. 

George kissed back, pulling away with a smile. She looked down at the mess of cards on the duvet, “Look what you did,” she scolded lightly, going to pick the cards up. 

Joan grabs her wrists before they can pick up the cards scattered on the bed, pulling her in to kiss her again. She sits up on her knees, crawling into George’s space, cards bending under the weight of her shuffling on top of them. Joan hums softly against her lips, deepening the kiss. 

George gripped Joan’s waist with one hand, the other behind her on the bed to stabilize herself. George looked up at Joan when she pulled away, “Lay down.”

“Pick up the cards first,” George countered, staring up at her with a smug look on her face. 

Joan scoffed and pressed her tongue to the top of her mouth before shuffling away from her to clean the cards up, deciding not to be too difficult. She still had  a chance to get her way. She turned to the bedside table and tapped the sides of the deck against the hard surface, straightening them. She sat them down and looked back to George, “Now?” she asked, holding back the desperation in her tone.

George bit her lip and looked around the room for anything else to nitpick, almost laying down before she saw that Joan had left the cap off the bottle. She sat up more, her hand carding through Joan’s wavy auburn hair, making the older girl’s eyes fall shut briefly. George leaned down and pressed a wet kiss to her neck, making her way up to her jaw, nibbling at it slightly. The little pants from the girl in front of George almost made her forget about the ways she wanted to tease her tonight. 

George pulled away and gazed up at Joan, smiling softly when Joan met her gaze, “Why’d you stop?”

“On the bar,” George whispers lowly beside Joan’s ear, “There’s a cap missing from the bottle of Brandy, and you were the last one over there.”

Joan huffs in annoyance, “Georgie –” 

“The bottle,” George interrupts, smiling as she watches Joan shift off the bed and screw the bottle cap on tightly. She turned and lunged towards George, tackling her to her back. They roughhouse for a while, partially pulling off each other's clothes as they push each other back and forth. 

George eventually overpowers Joan, which Joan wants to believe she let her do. The girl on top is left in her pants and sports bra, her shirt torn off in the tussle. Joan is also similarly undressed in her bra and underwear; she knew her shorts were too loose. George leans over Joan, her arms braced by either side of her head. She was still panting from the fighting, but Joan got a view of her full tits held up by her bra and it sent a vulnerable shiver through her. 

George smirked as she watched pink flood from Joan’s face to her chest. She let her hand trace the contours of Joan’s body, admiring every part she could see. She massaged one of Joan’s small tits over the bra in the palm of her hand, going back in to kiss her neck. Joan moaned softly in appreciation, her back arching for more of the touch. George took the opportunity to slide her hands beneath her, unclasping the plain bra. 

She pulled back as she dragged the bra off of Joan’s arms, loving the way Joan stared up at her with her pleading brown eyes.  George knew that Joan would let her do whatever she wanted to her, even though she would never say it. The younger girl’s hand traced up the contours of her body again, this time paying more attention to her small chest.

Her fingers lingered over her perked nipples, teasing lightly until Joan had to beg her to get on with it. George hummed and moved to shove Joan’s underwear off, smiling as she lifted her hips instinctively. She slotted her thigh between Joan’s legs easily, the older girl grinding down on it.

Joan gazed up at George again, fully realizing how undressed she was compared to her. “Well, this is hardly fair, is it?” She ran a finger up under the strap of her bra, pulling it and letting it snap back against her skin.

George scoffed, sitting back to pull it off. Joan took a handful of her tits in her hands, squeezing greedily, a grin plastered on her face. George giggled, her drunken state making her not care about the groping. She pushed her knee up, watching Joan moan in surprise.

Joan wrapped an arm around George’s neck, grinding down harder on her knee, whimpering quietly. George ducked her head down, biting her neck softly.

“Ack!” George felt hands swatting at her head, and looked up, “Nowhere visible, you vampire,” Joan scolded, poking her cheek, pressing against her teeth.

George nodded lazily and kissed down her torso, leaving small love bites on her chest and stomach. She hoped they wouldn’t be put in anything too low-cut in the next few days. She slid off the bed to her knees, spreading Joan’s legs around her head.

Joan pushed herself up to her elbows, admiring George as she moved. She pushed a hand through her thick hair, moving it out of her face. George shot a small glance at her, kissing her thighs lightly. Joan bit her lip, “I’m horny enough, skip foreplay.”

George giggled softly before quickly kissing a quick trail up her thigh, stopping at her clit. She flattened her tongue at the bottom of her cunt, dragging it up slowly; the salty taste flooded her mouth, making her moan softly.

Joan whimpered softly, throwing her head back. Her whines became drawn out moans as George repeated the action, progressively using more pressure as she went along.

The grip on her hair tightened when George wrapped her lips around Joan’s clit, sucking on it lightly. The older girl arched her back, letting out a guttural moan. She quickly clamped a hand over her mouth, embarrassed at the sound George was able go pull from her.

George reached up and tugged on Joan’s arm, pulling her hand off of her mouth. George continued working between her legs, holding them open over her shoulders.

Joan’s legs tensed, her body beginning to shake, “Geo, Georgie—“

George held her down, licking her cunt broadly as she came on her tongue. Joan ground down onto her face, reeling from the after shocks.

George leaned back when Joan’s grip on her hair loosened. She panted softly, looking up at the sweaty girl lying in front of her.

She stood up, stretching her arms up in the air. Joan opened her eyes right as George brought her arms down, “Did I miss you stretching? And you had your tits out? Christ, I’m an idiot!” She scolded herself, balling her fists on her forehead dramatically.

George giggled, crawling up next to her on the bed. Joan looked up at her, wrapping her arms around her neck again and pulling her in for a kiss.

George hummed into her lips, moving to pull her pants down. She straddled one of Joan’s thighs as she kicked the tangled wet fabric off her legs. Joan let out a small yelp when George pushed her leg up over her shoulder, not knowing she was that flexible.

Joan gazed up at her, watching George’s focused face as she shifted her pussy against her thigh, turning her head to kiss Joan’s ankle. She moved forward gradually, pressing her cunt against Joan’s.

Joan gasped softly at the feeling, the pressure and the radiating heat flowing through her. George is in a much similar semi-surprised state, face pressed against Joan’s calf as her hips stuttered against Joan’s.

“Can I— can I move?” George asked, her voice hoarse, trying not to focus on the friction she so desperately needed. She didn’t need to wait long, because Joan frantically nodded underneath her, rambling about how hot she was.

George thrusts her hips experimentally, letting out a moan as their clits rubbed lightly together. The wetness between them made their movements easy and fluid.

George sped her hips up, holding onto Joan’s leg tightly for stability. “Fuck, Haz— fuck, fuck!” Joan moaned, her back arching into George’s thrusts.

George planted her free hand on the mattress, pushing their slick skin together faster. The room was filled with the sounds of their moans and wet skin-on-skin. Joan’s hands wrap on George’s waist, meeting her thrusts. With the way Joan was moaning underneath her and the feeling of their cunts pressed together, it was becoming too much for George. She seized as she squirted over Joan’s torso, her mouth hanging open as she let out a low moan.

Joan fought to keep her eyes open as she watched George come undone on top of her. She pushed herself up from where she’d been lying to kiss George softly. George sighed contentedly into the kiss and planted herself on Joan’s thigh. She snuck her hand between Joan’s thighs to finish her off again.

[camisoledadparis]

THIS DAY IN GAY HISTORY

based on: The White Crane Institute's 'Gay Wisdom', Gay Birthdays, Gay For Today, Famous GLBT, glbt-Gay Encylopedia, Today in Gay History, Wikipedia, and more … November 16

42 BC – Tiberius, Roman emperor, born (d.37 AD); second Roman Emperor, from the death of Augustus in CE 14 until his own death in 37 AD. Tiberius was by birth a Claudian, son of Tiberius Claudius Nero and Livia Drusilla. His mother divorced his father and was remarried to Octavian Augustus in 39 BC. Tiberius would later marry Augustus' daughter Julia the Elder (from an earlier marriage) and even later be adopted by Augustus and by this act he became a Julian. The subsequent emperors after Tiberius would continue this blended dynasty of both families for the next forty years; historians have named it the Julio-Claudian dynasty.

Tiberius was the predecessor to Caligula and he was certainly the appropriate curtain-raiser. His sexual excesses were widely known, especially when he "retired" to Capri, governing Rome via correspondence, and becoming the patron saint of that future gay mecca. Suetonius reported that Tiberius trained young boys, whom he called his "minnows," to stay between his legs while he was swimming so they could lick and nibble him until he came. Suetonius reports that Tiberius can be credited with the "daisy chain" or spintriae - a conga line of people joined front and back in sexual congress.

1502 – Sandro Botticelli (c.1445- 1510) is accused of sodomy but the charges were dropped. The summary of the charge reads: "Botticelli keeps a boy." Botticelli was an Italian painter of the Early Renaissance. He belonged to the Florentine School under the patronage of Lorenzo de Medici. Botticelli’s posthumous reputation suffered until the late 19th century; since then, his work has been seen to represent the linear grace of Early Renaissance painting.

1942 – Barton Lidice Beneš, born in Hackensack, New Jersey (d.2012), was an artist who lived and worked in New York City. He studied at Pratt Institute, Brooklyn, New York and Beaux-Arts, Avignon, France.

His father, the son of Czech immigrants gave him his middle name in memory of Lidice, the Czech town destroyed by the Nazis that year. He grew up in Queens with Czech-born grandparents, who instilled in him a dedication to the Roman Catholic traditions of reliquaries and memorials to the dead.

Barton Beneš' art incorporated shadow boxes filled with bits and pieces that revealed the myths and ironies of life. The fragments in Beneš' work often involved famous people and events, from a piece of Elizabeth Taylor's shoe to a crumb from the wedding cake of the Prince of Wales. His travelling exhibition series about AIDS, "Lethal Weapons," was the focus of an independent documentary film released in 1997. "Lethal Weapons" consisted of 30 vessels such as a water pistol, an atomizer, and hollow darts, all filled with the artist's or other people's HIV-infected blood.

Another work, "Brenda," was a wall relief carpeted with red AIDS-awareness ribbons and slathered with a coat of gray paste made from the cremated remains of a woman who had died of AIDS. "I absolutely hate those [AIDS] ribbons," he said, contending that wearing them did nothing more than assuage people's consciences.

Although galleries and museums refused to show this work, they were displayed without incident at the North Dakota Museum of Art in 1993. Beneš did not forget the courage and commitment to art of this prairie institution. When he died he left instructions to be cremated and have his remains placed in a pillowcase on his bed. The bed was the central part Beneš last completed and most personal work, his 850-square-foot home in Greenwich Village containing thousands of objects including masks and religious relics and the mementoes and remains of his loved ones. This enormous piece with its thousands of contents will be moved to Grand Forks, North Dakota, where they will be exhibited in a replica of the apartment

Among the museums that have acquired his works are the Chicago Art Institute, the National Museum of American Art, the National Gallery of Australia, and most importantly the North Dakota Museum of Art.

Scott Wittman (L) with Marc Shaiman

1955 – Born: Lyricist and director Scott Wittman, who, with composer Marc Shaiman, his partner in life and collaborator in theater, film, and television projects, has a long list of credits in the entertainment industry. Their work on the musical version of John Waters' Hairspray earned Tony and Grammy awards in 2003.

Both Shaiman and Wittman grew up in the vicinity of New York City, the former in Scotch Plains, New Jersey, and the latter in Nyack, New York. Both were fascinated with musical theater from an early age and dreamed of careers on Broadway. Shaiman played piano with local community theater groups from the time that he was twelve, and Wittman apprenticed in summer stock in his hometown. Such was their love for the stage that they both cut high school classes to travel into New York for matinees.

Wittman attended Emerson College in Boston but left after two years to pursue a career as a writer and director in musical theater in New York. In the city's East Village he crossed paths with Shaiman, who had quit high school at sixteen to join the New York musical scene. Wittman was directing a show at a club in Greenwich Village when Shaiman came in and started playing the piano. Wittman promptly hired him. They subsequently fell in love and have been a couple since 1979.

The two soon began collaborating professionally, writing songs that Shaiman describes as "full of anarchy and joy."

Since 1997 Shaiman and Wittman have contributed and directed music for the Academy Awards presentation show. At the same time Wittman, who humorously calls himself "a great diva wrangler," has directed concerts. In addition to working with Bette Midler, he has had a long association with Patti LuPone and has worked with Christine Ebersole, Raquel Welch, Dame Edna Everage (Barry Humphries), and Lypsinka among many others.

Shaiman and Wittman's greatest triumph thus far is Hairspray, an adaptation of the 1988 John Waters movie for the musical stage. Shaiman and Wittman wrote the music, and Mark O'Donnell and Thomas Meehan the book for the play.

The show dominated the 2003 Tony Awards, winning eight, including best musical and best score. At the end of their acceptance speeches Shaiman declared to Wittman, "I love you, and I'd like to spend the rest of my life with you." The couple then embraced and shared a long and tender kiss. News outlets around the world took note of this affecting moment.

1964 – Waheed Alli, Baron Alli is a British multimillionaire media entrepreneur and politician. He was co-founder and managing director of Planet 24, a TV production company, and managing director at Carlton Television Productions. He was, until November 2012, chairman of ASOS.com. He is the chairman of Silvergate Media, which purchased two of the media rights previously held by Chorion Ltd, where Alli was former chairman. He is a Labour life peer and is described as one of only a few openly gay Muslim politicians in the world.

In British political terms he is considered Asian, though both of his parents are from the Caribbean. His mother, a nurse, is from Trinidad, and his estranged father, a mechanic, is from British Guiana (now Guyana). His mother was Hindu and his father Muslim; he has two brothers, one of each faith. He was named one of the 20 most important Asians in British media in 2005. At the same time, he maintains ties with his Caribbean roots, both with other British-Guyanese politicians such as Valerie Amos and Trevor Phillips, and with President Bharrat Jagdeo.

Alli joined the Labour Party at the persuasion of his neighbour Emily Thornberry, to whom he remains close. He is also close to Anji Hunter, Director of Government Relations in Tony Blair's first government. Prime Minister Blair used him for years as a means to help him reach out to a younger generation (aka "yoof culture"), and as such he is considered one of "Tony's Cronies". He was made a life peer as Baron Alli, of Norbury in the London Borough of Croydon, on 18 July 1998 at the age of 34, becoming the youngest and the first openly gay peer in Parliament. He sits on the Labour benches in the House of Lords. The BBC summarised his appointment as "the antithesis of the stereotypical 'establishment' peer – young, Asian and from the world of media and entertainment".

Alli has used his political position to argue for gay rights. He spearheaded the campaign to repeal Section 28. He advocated lowering the age of consent for homosexuals from 18 to 16, equal to heterosexuals; this eventually became law as the Sexual Offences (Amendment) Act 2000. It was during a heated exchange with conservative opponents, led by Baroness Young, that he informed his fellow peers that he was gay. In April 1999, he said in a speech, "I have never been confused about my sexuality. I have been confused about the way I am treated as a result of it. The only confusion lies in the prejudice shown, some of it tonight [i.e. in the House], and much of it enshrined in the law."

In 2009, he spearheaded an effort to repeal clauses in the Civil Partnership Act 2004 which prohibited religious institutions from conducting the ceremonies on their premises. This campaign culminated in a bipartisan amendment, which became part of the Equality Act 2010.

2007 – Breakfast With Scot - In 2006, straight Canadian actor Tom Cavanagh began filming Breakfast with Scot, in which he plays a gay retired hockey player who becomes an adoptive father to a young boy. The film, released on this day in 2007, drew attention as the first gay-themed film ever to win approval from a major league sports franchise to use its real name and logo; Cavanagh's character formerly played for the Toronto Maple Leafs.

[torchwood-99]

Eomer: Do you know what I just did? I just walked out that door, saw a couple of Riders and I was about to start bad-mouthing you behind your back. But I stopped myself because my uncle taught me that a man who talks behind somebody's back is a coward.

Faramir: I really appreciate that.

Eomer: Good, 'cause I'm gonna tell you directly to your face. No, I don't like you. I think you're a fake soldier. The sound of your piss hitting the ground, it sounds feminine. If you were in the wild, I would attack you, even if you weren't in my food chain. I would go out of my way to attack you. If I were a lion and you were a tuna, I would swim out in the middle of the ocean and freakin' eat you and then I'd bang your tuna sister.

Faramir: OK, first off: a lion, swimming in the ocean? Lions don't like water. If you'd placed it near a river or some sort of fresh water source, that'd make sense. But you find yourself in the ocean, 20 foot wave, I'm assuming it's off the coast of South Harad, coming up against a full grown 800 pound tuna with his 20 or 30 friends, you lose that battle. You lose that battle 9 times out of 10. And guess what, you've wandered into our school of tuna and we now have a taste of lion. We've talked to ourselves. We've communicated and said, 'You know what, lion tastes good. Let's go get some more lion'. We've developed a system to establish a beach-head and aggressively hunt you and your family and we will corner your - your pride, your children, your offspring...

Eomer: How are you going to do that?

Faramir: We will construct a series of breathing apparatus with kelp. We will be able to trap certain amounts of oxygen. It's not gonna be days at a time. An hour? Hour forty-five? No problem. That will give us enough time to figure out where you live, go back to the sea, get more oxygen, and then stalk you. You just lost at your own game. You're out-gunned and out-manned. Did that go the way you thought it was gonna go? Nope.

[xxx-inhibitionless-xxx]

What A Week.. Chapter 01 : Day 1

You know those funky security gates that stores in the mall use to close-up shop ? Have you ever found yourself zip-tied to one naked ? How about zip-tied naked to one with two of your best friends just before the mall is about to open ?  

 Well, that’s exactly what has happened to my friends Aaron, Matt and I. My name is Brian, typical high school senior, no car, part-time job, five foot nine, blonde hair, blue eyes, hundred and forty pounds, swim team, all in all fairly average.

 Aaron was the tall, dark and handsome of our group, your stereo-typical Italian. Six foot, dark hair, green eyes, hundred sixty, rugby team, but hung with Matt and I and not his jock team-mates.  Then you’ve got Matt, five eight, one-forty, brown hair and eyes, no sports, pretty average but a good guy none-the-less.

 It all started last night. We all work at the mall in three different stores. Whoever finishes their shift first usually hangs out until the others are done with theirs. On those nights where one of us works until closing time, the others will come to that store and hang out and we will all three leave together.

 Last night was one of those times. Unbeknownst to us, though, was that some members of a local fraternity were having a hazing night. One of the fraternity members worked security at the mall and had made arrangements to allow the other fraternity members and pledges to come in after the mall closed and perform their hazing ritual.

 I was the lucky one of us three musketeers, as we were called by our other friends, to have to close. Aaron and Matt were helping me out with some of the closing duties. I had closed the gate but not locked it yet since the mall was already closed but since it was a busy night, I had not finished re-stocking for the morning so we three were getting things done.

 Just before we finished, a group of six naked fraternity pledges come screaming past the entrance. Not knowing what was going on, we called security to report a break-in and six guys were running the mall naked. Shortly thereafter, Jason Wetherby, the security guard who was the frat member, shows up to get our statement.

 He informs us of exactly what was going on and that we could have caused him and his fraternity a lot of trouble if it had not been for him having taken our call. We apologized and informed him that we had no idea and that we would not say anything to anyone.

 Unfortunately for all of us, Jason failed to take into consideration the fact that the security camera to our store was not affected by his preparations for his fraternity stunt because of the fact that I had not completed my store’s closing process.

 The next morning, Jason was wrapping up his shift when he discovered his mistake when he found the security camera footage of his interaction with the three of us and footage of his fraternity brother streakers running past the store. He was able to correct his mistake but vowed that we would pay the price for nearly ruining everything.

 He put his plan into effect the very next night as he was able to determine that once again all three of us were working late and I was the closing associate at my store. It was unusually busy again, and as we would later learn, it was because all of the last minute shoppers were the frat brother streakers from last night.

 My manager’s philosophy has always been that if you still have shoppers right at closing time then you keep the store open a reasonable amount of time after closing to capture those last minute sales. Ten minutes past closing time, I had finished everything I had to do to close up and Aaron and Matt were hanging out at the register with me talking softly about how we all hate those people who obviously know the store is closed or closing but continue to shop away thinking that they are entitled to a private shopping event.

 After another five minutes I decided that they had been given a reasonable amount of time and approached them to inform them of the fact that they would need to leave so that I could close up the store. They apologized and left without incident so Aaron and Matt waited just outside the gate while I grabbed my stuff, turned off the lights, closed the gate and locked it.

 We headed for the mall exit when those same last minute shoppers approached us being led by none other than Jason. Where do you three dweebsters think you’re going ?

 Uh, going home now Jason, no thanks to your pals here it seems, said Aaron recognizing Jason’s gang as the guys that kept us late.

 Well, you guys nearly caused us a lot of trouble last night, so we figured we would repay the favor.

 What trouble ? Nothing happened. We said we wouldn’t say anything, just leave us alone Jason, I implored, trying to just get away from them and get out of there.

 No can do Brian my friend, I nearly got hung out to dry so now it’s your turn.

 We’re not friends Jason, just what do you plan to do ? You do realize that if you do anything you guys will really get in trouble this time, right, I said, trying once more to get us out of there.

 Wrong dweeb, I made sure not to miss anything this time. Get them ! Just then, we found ourselves being pounced upon by six rather large fraternity pledges who had us tackled to the floor without effort. Jason took our packs and jackets and had his brothers pick us up off the floor, one brother holding each of our arms out to the side.

 Being a few years older and quite larger they easily marched us over to the store with the largest security gate. We struggled, but to no avail, in no time they had our arms stretched out above us and fastened to the gate with zip-ties. Not just any zip-ties, either, the heavy-duty ones used by the security guards.

 Get us down Jason, this isn’t funny, Matt yelled at Jason.

 What do you plan on doing, I asked. You can’t let anyone find us, they’ll know it was you since you were the guard on duty.  I thought I had outsmarted Jason and he’d get us down and we’d get out of there. In hindsight, I wish I had not instigated him as we quickly found ourselves in more trouble.

 You think you’re so smart Brian, said Jason, well you’re right, obviously we can’t have anyone find you but we can have some fun and guarantee your silence while we’re at it. Before Matt could finish asking Jason how he planned on doing that, Jason simply said, do it.  The six of them stepped forward and pulled out some pocket knives and started cutting at our clothes !

 Wait Jason ! Stop, what are you doing, we all three were screaming.

 Like I said, you guys nearly caused us to be hung out to dry, especially my brothers who would have been literally hanging out in very revealing fashion, therefore, it seems only fitting. In no time at all, there we were, clothes cut to shreds, naked, and zip-tied to a security gate.

 Get us down Jason, give us our clothes, yelled Matt.

 Give us our coats, yelled Aaron.

 Please Jason, why are you doing this, nothing happened to you guys, I said, almost in tears.

 Because Brian, we don’t get mad, we get even, said Jason taking out his cell phone. Now, you guys promise to not say anything and these pictures won’t make the rounds at the high school, said Jason, as we realized all seven of them were taking pictures of us with their phones ! You do know my sister goes to school with you guys and can easily get these spread all over school, so keep your mouths shut and we’ll get you down and you can be on your way.

 Are you crazy Jason, Matt was screaming, get us down !

 Promise to keep your mouths shut.

 Ok, ok, I said, we’ll be quiet !

 So get us down, said Aaron, give us some clothes and let us go !

 See, that wasn’t so hard, said Jason.

 Well, I wouldn’t say that, said one of his frat brothers speaking for the first time, as he motioned toward Aaron’s groin. Looks like someone seems to be enjoying this, said Jason as he and his brothers started laughing hysterically. Aaron blushed and started shouting, just get us down Jason !

 Matt and I couldn’t help but look, we had all seen each other naked in the locker room, and we’ve all changed in front of each other at each other’s houses, we’d even had the usual circle jerks and mutual masturbation sessions, but had never really explored anything with each other. Just seeing Aaron aroused started to get my own loins stirring, and apparently Matt as well, as Jason soon pointed out.

 Looks like you’re all having a hard time hanging out with us ! Watch where you’re pointing those things, said another frat brother in between laughs. After another round of pictures, Jason told the frat brothers to get us our packs and coats while he went to check on the security systems. Just wait here while we get your stuff, then we’ll cut you loose and you guys can go, I think we’ve got more than we need. And bargained for, interjected another frat brother.

 Jason headed off to the security office leaving his brothers to taunt us a bit more before they started to leave.

 Wait, where are you going, yelled Aaron !

 You said you’d get our stuff, said Matt.

 Yeah, we’ll get your stuff, Jason put it outside while we were busy with you guys, just hang loose, we’ll be right back. They all took off laughing their heads off.

 Aaron was pulling at his ties, if those pictures get out we’re doomed.

 We’ll be the laughing stock of the whole school for the rest of time, said Matt.

 As long as we just don’t say anything we shouldn’t have anything to worry about, I said. 

 Well I for one will never speak of this again, said Matt.

 After a long moment of silence, Aaron spoke up, I just want to get off.

 No shit, I said, like any of us just want to hang here, of course we want down.

 No, not down, off, I really want to get off right now.

 Matt and I looked at each other realizing what Aaron was saying. This didn’t help our own situations any as my dick got even harder, and I could tell Matt was having the same problem.

 Where the hell are they, asked Matt, shaking his hands. Surely they wouldn’t leave us, they couldn’t, they’d get in serious trouble.

 Something must have happened, said Aaron, they should be back by now.

 Jason ! Jason ! We all started yelling, trying to get Jason or any of his brother’s attention. Of course, this is where we came in, Aaron, Matt and I are zip-tied stark naked to a security fence in front of the largest store in the mall and it’s only hours until the cleaning crew comes in to get the mall ready to open.

 Our tormentors are nowhere to be seen, our clothes were cut to shreds, our packs and coats are apparently outside where Jason’s frat brothers are supposed to be getting them from so that we at least have some means of covering ourselves to get home once they get us down. Jason has disappeared, and to top it all off, we are all sporting raging boners and dying to get off.

 Finally, we hear the sounds of laughter coming our way and see Jason and the others come around the corner with our packs and coats. I see you guys are still enjoying yourselves.

 Shut up Jason, just get us down and give us our stuff.

 Fine, just remember, keep quiet and your photo session stays on our phones.  We get it, now get us down, I said, as Jason’s brothers used the same pocket knives to cut us down as they used to cut our clothes off. Rubbing our wrists, we grabbed our packs and coats and ran to the exit, Jason and his brother’s laughing at us as we went. We made it to the exit, wrapped our jackets around us trying to cover as much as possible, using our packs for cover as well, and left the building heading into the parking lot toward Aaron’s car to finally end our ordeal and get the hell away from Jason and his minions.

[thekristen999]

✨2023 writing round-up✨

I enjoyed seeing @exhuastedpigeon 's write-up and thought I'd post mine :)

I wrote 97k words in 2023. Which is more than I thought! I struggled with finding time to be creative this year. My RL has been such a chaotic ball of stress. But things are getting better, and I think my Muse will be more exited to come out and play this year!

February

bro·ken 32k

This was my favorite story I wrote this year. It’s dark, gritty, and a deep exploration of what would have happened if Eddie and Buck hadn’t meet until the S3 timeline. With both guys at rock-bottom and how they find each other to heal.

.

bro·ken

adjective 1. having been fractured or damaged and no longer in one piece or in working order. 2. having given up all hope; despairing.

Forced to take shady side jobs to pay his bills, Evan Buckley doesn’t think he’s ever seen such rock bottom. Until he meets Eddie Diaz, a man even more desperate and alone. Season 3 AU.

March

Not Today 2k

A coda to the lightning strike that uses those events to explore Eddie’s encounters and emotional understanding of death.

.

Eddie propelled himself up the ladder, shutting off those parts of brain he refused to listen to, only focusing on how fast he could climb, how hard he tried pulling on Buck’s safety line, until finally, he gave in to the only logic he was willing to consider.

What Buck needed; Eddie couldn't provide.

(Eddie and his battles with death and dying)

We’ve Got Fun & Games  7k

I wrote humor? :) It was a great fun to have the 118-taking part in a mini version of the Amazing Race and all the shenanigans that follow during a contest across the city.

.

"Um. You trained for this?” Ravi asked.

Eddie released a long-suffering sigh. "We trained. Every day. For a month.”

Buck could not believe his ears. Did they not grasp the glory of the great adventure before them? He cleared his throat and lowered his voice. “Running across the scorching plains of Africa, bolting down the steep steps of Shanghai, diving straight into synchronized swimming routines with Olympic athletes in Moscow. These are only a few obstacles we might encounter during…The Amazing Race."

Bobby frowned. "This is for charity.”

Buck spread out his arms to encompass the couple hundred people mingling around the park. "And it’s against all the other firehouses in the city. We do have a reputation to uphold."

April

Tick...Tick...Boom 3.6k

A very intense story on the dangers first responders face during a call gone wrong.

.

“Eddie,” Buck warned.

He started to say something else when the door cracked open.

A woman poked her head out, her voice shaking. “Yes?”

“Are you alright ma’am?” Eddie asked.

The question was rhetorical. Blood dripped down her chin from a busted lip, her puffy face framed by the beginnings of two black eyes.

“I’m fine. Is there, um…,” A shadow loomed. Her trembling hand gripped the door frame harder. “How can I help you, officers?”

“We’re with the L.A. Fire Department,” Eddie said, his voice calm. “We really need to come in. It’ll just take a moment.”

The woman glanced behind her, whispering, “I can’t…. I’m trying….”

The shadow retreated.

Eddie stuck his foot under the door, slowly pushing it open as he eased his way inside. “It’s okay. We’re here to help.”

May

We All Fall Down  3.5 k

I wanted more from the finale. Like the skeleton was there, but I needed more details and bit more logic.

.

He’d done this before. Inside the well. Trapped forty feet underground instead of in a tin can, rising water the constant threat.

Eddie stared at the radio, knowing this time there’d be someone on the other end to hear him if he needed to say something. If his time his second chances had finally run out.

He wouldn’t die alone. Not really. His team would be there. Just inches away. He could tell them, tell Buck….

(A nuanced re-working of the events of the episode to satisfy certain wants and needs)

August

Cutting The Ties That Bind 34.K M

I wrote something that wasn’t a hurt/comfort or an angst fest! It had lots of sexual tension, drama, and meaty plot. I love world-building.

.

Evan Buckley was a businessman, he had meetings and deadlines like everyone else. Sometimes he used intimation. While using the very same tactics he was trying to end while converting his family business into legitimate operations was a little hypocritical, it was the results that mattered.

Occasionally, he got threatened, but it was usually all hot air and ego. That all changed the day his breaks were tampered with. Enter Eddie Diaz, security specialist, who was not easily impressed by Buck’s expensive suits or financial conquests. That was okay. Buck enjoyed a challenge.

(The Mafia AU)

November

Follow You Into The Dark  14k

I had a need. I wanted to put both Eddie and Buck in the worst possible situation where they literally had to depend on the other in ways they had never before.

.

Buck kept a firm grip around Eddie’s arm as he was guided down hallways. They’d both experienced something like this before during the Academy: cadet’s exercises where both teammates were blindfolded and forced to depend on the other to escape burning buildings. This wasn’t unlike that experience, except of course this was real and Buck’s freaking eyes were swollen shut and Eddie was concussed and deaf.

(Or a serial arsonist terrorizes the city, plunging Buck and Eddie into a dangerous game of cat and mouse.)

[sajirah]

The Prison Chapter One

The Prison

In honor of me being newly unemployed and House of Flame and Shadow dropping in less than 2 weeks I wrote a thing. You can read it here or on AO3. Enjoy.

-o0o-

Feyre was a murderer.

That was why she was here after all, staring out at the island that was soon to be her prison. She probably deserved it. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t absolutely petrified to be here.

“Any advice?” She asked the marine unlocking her shackles.

He glanced up at her, considering, and then said, “Pretty thing like you? Find the meanest, nastiest fucker on that island and convince him to protect you.”

Feyre didn’t need the soldier to explain how exactly she was expected to ‘convince’ said man. She’d already had plenty of nightmares of exactly that scenario after her sentencing. The worst part was his advice was probably one of her better options.

“Thanks,” she replied quietly. I think.

He didn’t reply, only pulled off her shackles and then took a strong hold of her arm. She didn’t know why he bothered. It’s not like she could hijack this boat and sail it back home all by herself. She didn’t even know how to drive a car, let alone a boat. She supposed she’d never learn now.

The captain stepped in front of her then, weary and clearly wishing he was anywhere else.

The feeling is mutual pal.

“Feyre Archeron, you have been sentenced to life on The Prison. Do you have anything to say before your sentence is carried out?”

The woman in question stared at him blankly. What was even the point? He was going to throw her onto an island of rapists and murderers no matter what she said. She’d already screamed and cried and swore at her trial. What more could she possibly say?

The captain had the gall to look annoyed. As if she were the one ruining his day.

“Right,” He turned to the marine holding her arm. “Toss her and let’s leave this fucking place.”

Toss her?! “Wait, what?!-” But it was already too late and before she could react the marine was hoisting her up and shoving her overboard.

Icy seawater hit her like a ton of bricks. The shock froze her limbs for precious seconds as her mind tried to reorientate itself. Kick! She thought frantically. After a few terrifying moments her body obeyed.

Salt stung her eyes as she broke the surface and sucked in oxygen but she still managed to see the blurry shape of the boat as it passed her and glided off towards the horizon.

“Fuck you!” She shouted after it. It was petty, but who was going to care about her behavior now? Her dead mother? Her absent father? Her sisters she hadn’t seen since she’d been hauled off by the police?

The island loomed large a quarter mile behind her. She supposed it didn’t matter to the courts if their prisoners actually made it onto the island. Just that they’d been dumped within its vicinity so there was no hope of them ever escaping.

How far even was the mainland from here? Thirty miles? Forty? Fifty? It had taken at least a few hours to get here. They’d left at 9 am sharp and if the sun was anything to go by it was barely noon. Not that any of this mattered. She was never going home.

No one escaped The Prison.

For a few indulgent moments Feyre considered letting herself drown. As terrible as it seemed, it certainly had its appeal compared to eking out a miserable existence on an island full of dangerous criminals. After all, they didn’t send just anyone to The Prison. Only the worst of the worst for this place. Murderers. Serial killers. Violent rapists. Enemies of the rich and powerful.

It was dizzying to think she was considered one of them now.

She let the moment of self pity linger and then let it go. Right. She’d never been a quitter. She wasn’t about to start now.

Resigned, she pointed herself towards the island and started swimming.

-o0o-

Feyre arrived upon her new home’s doorstep looking, for all intents and purposes, like a drowned cat.

It had taken her at least an hour to swim to shore, fighting six foot waves and avoiding what she desperately hoped were not sharks. She couldn’t be sure but she swore something had bumped up against her in the water at some point and hadn’t she read somewhere that sharks bumped into their prey before they circled around to take a bite out of them?

Shivering, she glanced down the beach, hoping against hope none of her fellow prisoners had seen her, but almost immediately she spied two men melting out of the tree line.

Well fuck.

Adrenaline flooded her veins and she scrambled to her feet as one of the men crept closer, holding his hands up as if she were a spooked horse. He was older, hair grayed and skin weathered by the sun. Clothes barely more than rags. Was this what awaited her if she managed to survive as long as him? Rotted teeth and preying upon new arrivals like scavengers?

“Easy there doll. We’re not gonna hurt ya…”

Either he thought she was a moron or he was one himself because Feyre knew exactly what that man had planned for her and quite a lot of hurt was involved.

“Bet you’re real hungry after that swim,” the other man said. He was younger than his companion, but in many ways he looked worse off. Starved and mean looking. “We’ve got some food over at our camp. We’ll share it…”

Even if she were desperate enough to take him up on his offer, his hollow cheekbones and bony wrists led her to believe that statement was a load of bullshit.

She waited, muscles coiled and tense as the men drew ever closer. Suddenly the skinny one reached out, attempting to make a grab for her but Feyre was ready for him. She kicked the sand and it arced up and sprayed straight into his eyes. He howled, clutching at his face, and stumbled forward but she was already bolting out of reach and into the forest.

“Wait, come back!” The older man shouted.

“I can’t see!” The other roared. “I’ll fucking kill her!”

But Feyre was already putting as much distance between her and her would-be captors as possible, not knowing which direction she was going except that it was ‘anywhere but here’. She heard the older man crashing in the underbrush just behind her, shouting at her like she were an unruly dog set loose.

She didn’t even realize his shouts had stopped until she was halfway up the hill. She dared a glance over her shoulder and saw nothing but trees and ferns.

Good.

She kept climbing.

-o0o-

It’s getting dark.

That was all Feyre could think as she wandered the woods in search of food and shelter. So far she’d found a tiny stream of questionable quality and a crooked stick. She supposed she could poke someone’s eye out with it if she was very lucky and her attacker were very still but she wasn’t holding out much hope in that department. Unfortunately the other items on her survival list had yet to be discovered.

Though with the way the sun was going down she was starting to worry. The temperature was dropping rapidly and though her clothes had long since dried they weren’t exactly made to keep one warm in near freezing weather. When she’d first realized they intended to send her off to her final destination in only her prison uniform she’d nearly fought them.

“You can’t be serious!” She’d raged at the officers escorting her onto the boat. “How am I supposed to survive without a coat? A knife? A lighter?”

The officers had been silent but their message was loud and clear: You don’t.

They expected her to die out here. They expected them all to die out here. Well clearly they hadn’t met Feyre. If there was one thing she was good at it was survival. And spite.

Especially that last one.

Still, if she didn’t find shelter soon even sheer undiluted spite was going to have trouble keeping her warm.

It took another hour before she found what she was looking for.

In the dying light, she spotted a little burrow under a rocky outcrop. It would be a tight squeeze, but it was better than her current options which were…nothing. It wasn’t exactly the Four Seasons, but it would mostly protect her from the elements and, more importantly, keep her out of sight. The last thing she needed was another of her fellow prisoners happening upon her while she slept.

As she wormed her way into the muddy crevice, she wistfully reminisced upon her bed back home.

To think, just a year ago she had been sitting in an upscale dining hall, celebrating her sister’s marriage. If someone had told her then what her future held she never would’ve believed them.

And still, she couldn’t fully regret the actions that had led her here.

Perhaps if she hadn’t seen the bruises littering Nesta’s arms things would’ve been different, but she had. And once she had seen them she couldn’t unsee them, no matter how many long sleeved dresses and cardigans her sister wore afterwards. Feyre still had the image of purple fingerprints dotting her sister’s wrist branded into the backs of her eyelids. Nesta never said a word about them. No matter how many times Feyre and Elain begged her to. She had been the very picture of the quiet, demure wife.

And Feyre had hated it.

Perhaps it would’ve gone on indefinitely like that, Nesta’s stoic silence and her sisters’ outspoken concern, but then it had happened.

It had been over something innocuous, his breakfast not being done on time, his coffee being too hot, or his newspaper not being laid out on the table the way he liked. Whatever it was, all Feyre remembered was the way her sister had reacted to her husband’s ire, braced and waiting for a blow. She’d seen it in her eyes. The hatred. The fear. The self loathing of having her sisters here to witness her humiliation. And then he’d grabbed her by the chin, fingers pressed deep enough to leave marks and Feyre had seen red.

Perhaps she truly deserved to be here for what had happened next. For the sheer satisfaction she had felt as she’d watched him bleed out around the butter knife in his eye socket. All she had known then was that this man would never touch her sister again.

She had never lost a moment’s sleep after doing what she did. When she had closed her eyes in her cell after her arrest the only thing she had regretted was the looks of horror and disbelief on her sisters’ faces. She hated that her final memories of her family were those.

But she still couldn’t regret it. No amount of wealth was worth broken bones. Nesta may have been willing to live in gilded luxury for the price of her battered body, but that wasn’t a trade Feyre agreed with. Better her sister live a rich widow who hated her. Better she was thrown to the rapists and murderers.

And I’d do it again. Every time. Feyre thought as she curled into the mud and let her exhaustion lull her to sleep.

Elsewhere, in the gathering dark, something stirred. The other prisoners retreated to the shoreline. They knew better than to enter the forest at night.

There you are. A voice whispered into Feyre’s dreams. I’ve been waiting for you.

[stargazer-sims]

2. The Project

"Hey kid, what's up?"

Caroline shifts her gaze away from her laptop when she hears Victor's voice. He's hopping off the last step just as she turns to look, and once he realizes he's gotten her attention, he gives her an exaggerated wave. He can be such a goofball sometimes, and if he's this energetic at forty-seven, she can't help wondering what he must've been like at her age. She smiles. Nanna Grace must've had an interesting time of it while he was growing up. She probably had to figure out ways to keep him from literally bouncing off the walls.

Victor crosses the short distance from the foot of the stairs to where Caroline is sitting at the kitchen island and settles himself on the stool next to hers. Now that he's close enough, she notices how tousled he is. His silver hair is sticking out in every direction, and it's obvious he'd been sleeping in the rumpled t-shirt and sweatpants he's wearing.

Evidently, he just woke up and couldn't wait to greet her. She loves that about him. He's always happy to see her, even if they've only been apart for a handful of hours.

She has to confess she's happy to see him too. She loves both her parents, but Victor has always been her favourite. They bonded on the very first day they'd met, and Caroline can't imagine a life without him now.

"I'm making some notes," she tells him. "For my Media Studies project. How was work last night?"

"It was good. Surprisingly uneventful, but I'm definitely not complaining about a quiet night shift. How was school? And swim practice?"

"School was... school." She shrugs slightly. "Swim practice was awesome. Jack wants me to be on the relay team this season. He says I'm the fastest, so he wants me to be the last swimmer in the relay, but we still have to figure out the logistics 'cause I can't see when my teammate touches the wall."

"Maybe she can just yell 'go' or something as soon as she touches it," Victor suggests. "That's allowed, right?"

"I don't know," Caroline admits. "Jack and Matilda should know, though. I mean, knowing the rules is part of the coaches' job. I can ask tomorrow."

"Good idea. Did Grandpa Julian pick you up from practice?"

"Yup, and he told me to tell you that Nanna's still waiting for you to let her know when you can paint their kitchen."

"Oh crap!" Victor smacks his palm lightly against his forehead. "I was supposed to get back to her on that weeks ago. I was gonna see if I could recruit your uncle Leo to help me with it, but I totally forgot. I should've written it down."

Caroline laughs. "You know, you should probably write most things down."

"What can I say? Sometimes I'm easily distracted."

"Just sometimes?"

"Have I ever mentioned your sense of humour is just like Yuri's? Anyway, I remember the really important stuff without having to write it down. That should count for something, shouldn't it?"

"Do you remember it'll be Yuri's birthday in a couple weeks?"

It's Victor's turn to laugh. "I've been remembering Yuri's birthday since long before you came along. It's a super important day, and I'd be in big trouble if I forgot that."

"Isn't everybody's birthday a super important day?"

"Well, yeah," Victor agrees. "But when Yuri was born, the doctors all said he probably wouldn't live to see his first one, so it's not just a birthday to him. It's a celebration of being alive."

"Really?" Caroline is intrigued. She hadn't known that about Yuri. "Why would the doctors say that?"

"Because he came way too early and he was really sick. Babies who are born as early as he was don't always make it, even with the medical technology we have. Back then, their chances were even lower than they are these days."

"But he survived."

"He did, and that's absolutely worth celebrating," Victor says. "Incidentally, while we're on the subject of Yuri, have we heard from him since this morning?"

"Actually, he texted me just before you came downstairs. He's coming home early, and he wanted to know if we wanted him to pick up food on the way."

"And you said yes?"

"Yup. I said pizza. Is that okay?"

"Sounds great," Victor says. "Want to help me make a salad and some protein drinks to go with it? And while we're doing that, you can tell me all about your project. Didn't you mention something yesterday about a podcast?"

"Forest and Camellia are doing a podcast. I'm making a documentary."

"That sounds ambitious. What's your documentary going to be about?"

"About my life," she says. "I'm calling it Caroline and Company."

She slides off her stool at almost the same moment Victor gets down from his. While he goes to the fridge to take out some vegetables for their salad, she moves her laptop to the coffee table in the living room. It's not that there's any shortage of counter space, but she doesn't like leaving her computer unattended on something as tall as the kitchen island.

By the time she returns, Victor has lettuce, spinach, tomatoes, a yellow bell pepper, a cucumber and a red onion lined up on the counter. There's a small brick of cheese as well, and some eggs they'd boiled the day before. To Victor, salad isn't a sad bowl of lettuce; it's a culinary work of art, and she's certain he considers himself one of the masters of the fine art of the salad.

Caroline loves cooking with Victor, regardless of what they happen to be making. For as long as she can remember, he's encouraged her to help him in the kitchen. She recalls baking cake and cookies during her first Christmas with him and Yuri, when she had to stand on a step-stool to reach the counter and accidentally spilled milk everywhere. Victor hadn't scolded her for that. He hadn't even seemed particularly bothered. He'd just cleaned up the mess, and when their baking session was done, he'd hugged her tight and praised her for being "the best little baker ever."

Victor assigns her the tasks of shredding the lettuce and grating the cheese. He chops the other vegetables with a speed and precision that scares her a little. She considers herself to be fairly confident with knives, but she has to take her time and make sure she can see what she's cutting. If she did it the way Victor does, she thinks there's a real possibility she might lose the end of a finger.

While they work, she describes the details of her project to him, how she and her classmates have the whole school year to complete their big assignment, and how they're building a website to showcase their work.

"So, you're going to tell your life story in a series of videos," Victor says when she stops talking. "Here... pass me those eggs. Do you want to get started on the smoothies?"

"Sure." She slides the bowl of boiled eggs across the countertop toward him before wandering over to the fridge. "What kind of smoothies do we want? We've got bananas and peaches, and there are some strawberries left."

"You can pick," he says.

She chooses strawberries and a banana and takes them out of the fridge along with a container of yogurt. "It's going to be more than just me in the videos."

"Oh?"

"I want to interview Obā-chan in Kyoto and record our video chat," she elaborates. "I'd like to interview you and Yuri too, and maybe Jack and some of my friends. Also Laila and Dr. Reid-Mayfield, 'cause I feel like we wouldn't even be a family if it wasn't for them."

"I can't speak for anybody else, but you can definitely interview me," Victor says. "I'm sure Yuri will let you interview him too, and I'd be really surprised if Laila said no. Getting Dr. Reid-Mayfield into it might be a hard sell, but it never hurts to ask."

"Cool," Caroline says. "Another idea I had was to let people have the camera and make a video by themselves. You know, 'cause it might be too awkward for some people to talk about me right in front of me. Like, I don't think Forest would enjoy being interviewed on camera, but he might record something if he could just be alone in his room."

Victor pauses in the middle of peeling the shell off an egg and nods. "Yeah, it's definitely easier to get your thoughts out when you're in a room by yourself. I always found it better to make journal entries when there was nobody else around."

"Writing in a journal is different, though. You're not saying your thoughts aloud."

"I didn't say I was writing."

Caroline frowns, but quickly tries to smooth her expression when she remembers that it'll probably lead to her having a pronounced crease between her eyebrows some day, just like Obā-chan. Expression notwithstanding, she's still confused. She glances up from her half-peeled banana to meet her father's eyes. "But, you said you were journalling?"

"Yeah," Victor affirms. "We were. A long time ago, Yuri and I kept a video journal for over a year."

"Really? Did you do it for any special reason?"

"It was supposed to be a travel journal and it was only meant to be my journal originally," he says. "I had this wild plan to go on some big world adventure, and I wanted to capture all my experiences."

"But I guess you didn't actually have a world adventure?"

"I sort of had one. I was already living in Japan with Yuri, so there was that, and then I took a trip to Sulani on my own, but it didn't exactly turn out the way I expected."

"What happened?"

"Aside from nearly drowning during a thunderstorm, you mean?" He finishes shelling the third egg, and then deftly slices each one in half. "I found out how expensive recreational travel is. Plus, I missed Yuri so bad that I vowed I'd never go anywhere without him again. Oh, and while I was away, our landlord evicted us and we had less than a month to move."

"That's... a lot."

"It was overwhelming for both of us. Yuri started using my account around that time to record his own feelings about everything, and our journal kind of evolved from there."

"Do you still have it?" Caroline inquires. The fact that her parents kept a video journal once upon a time is a revelation to her. She never could've guessed they'd done that, and now she's beyond curious to know what they'd been through and how they'd felt and what they'd said.

Victor seems to think about it for a second, but finally says, "The account probably still exists, but even if it doesn't, I'm positive Yuri downloaded the whole thing onto a USB drive at some point."

"Could I... would it be okay if I watched it?"

This time, Victor's silence is longer before he responds. "Let me talk to Yuri about that, all right? You know we never hide anything from you, but that was a really dramatic year in our lives and we talked about some heavy stuff in those videos. I think you can handle it, but we're not going to show it to you unless we're both okay with the idea. Does that make sense?"

"Yeah, it does," she says. "I suppose it's kind of like asking somebody if you can read their diary."

"It's exactly like that," Victor says. "It's very personal. We recorded it like there was an audience, I guess because there was originally supposed to be one, but once we started posting about something deeper than mermaid lore and sailing lessons, we made it private. The only people who ever saw it after that were Yuri and me, and Yuri might not be comfortable with you seeing it now."

"I understand."

"I'll talk to him about it tonight, and I'll get back to you once we make a decision."

"Okay," Caroline agrees.

"There's something I want you to do in the meantime," he adds, and the tone of his voice has suddenly gone serious.

"What is it?"

"I need you to think carefully about whether you really, truly want to watch our video journal, if we do agree to let you."

"What do you mean?"

"It's like I said. I believe you're mature enough to grasp most of what happened, and I think you're responsible enough to come to us and talk about anything that upsets you or that you maybe don't quite get, but..." He lets the sentence fade, as if he's trying to work out how to say what he wants to say next. "If you watch it, you might learn some stuff about Yuri and me that you'll end up wishing you didn't know, or that you'll wish you'd waited longer to find out. It can be strange, discovering things about your parents. Confusing and unsettling and... weird."

She wants to ask him what she might find out that'd be so strange and upsetting, but she suddenly thinks better of it and closes her mouth around the barely-formed question. If she could learn it from the video journal and he was reluctant about giving her access to that, it's highly unlikely he's just going to tell her. And maybe he's right anyway, she thinks. Maybe she would be better off not knowing.

The older she gets, the more she accepts that her parents aren't superheroes. They're amazing, smart, strong and kind, and they're unquestionably her heroes, but they mess up sometimes and they're just as human as she is. As Grandpa Julian likes to say, 'they put their trousers on one leg at a time'.

But, even with that comprehension, she can't say she's one hundred percent ready to let her childhood perception of them go completely. Her curiosity is burning a hole through her willpower, but she knows she has to temper her curiosity and impulsiveness with reason. Victor taught her that, and his admonition to think before rushing into a situation has saved her from trouble loads of times. Advice that's always proved to be so good can't suddenly have gone bad.

"I'm sorry," she says. "I shouldn't have asked."

"Come here," Victor says. He moves toward her with his arms open, and she doesn't even hesitate for a heartbeat before stepping into his waiting embrace. She wraps her own arms around him and leans her head against his chest.

Inside Victor's hug is the safest place in the world, and it's consoling enough on its own, but that doesn't prevent him from offering her words of reassurance anyway. "It's all right, sweet Caroline. It's okay that you asked. I don't want you to feel bad for wanting to know. It's just... I also don't want you to jump into something you're not ready for."

"I know," she says. "I'll think about it, I promise."

"Good," he says. "You should give some thought to your school project too. I think it's awesome that you want to tell your story, but the process of learning about yourself isn't always easy either."

"Do you think I shouldn't do it? I could probably come up with a new project idea. Mr. Blanchet already has my proposal, but the real deadline isn't till this Friday. I could—"

"No," Victor stops her gently, mid-sentence. "I think you should. In fact, I'm super proud of you for tackling a project like this. It takes a lot of courage."

"But you said it wouldn't be easy."

"Yes, and that's why you're brave for wanting to," he says. "You already know, just because something isn't easy, that doesn't mean you shouldn't do it or that it won't be worth it. It just means you should be careful and you should be prepared."

"To... to find out stuff about myself that I might not like?" she asks cautiously

"Maybe."

"When you and Yuri were keeping your journal, did you learn things about yourself that you didn't like?"

He tightens his arms around her for a second or two, and she gets the sense that he's doing it involuntarily. "I did," he answers quietly, "And it was really hard. I was scared and angry and sad, sometimes all at once, and sometimes I felt like a total failure at... life, basically. It was a struggle to wrap my head around it and even more of a struggle to change, and I cried a lot."

"You still cry a lot, Victor."

Unexpectedly, he bursts out laughing, and this time when he squeezes her it's clearly deliberate. She feels the tension leave his body, and suddenly she relaxes too. She hadn't even been aware of how rigid she was.

Victor kisses the top of her head. "No such thing as a serious moment with you around, is there?"

"Sorry," she says, but she isn't. She hadn't intended to make him laugh, but the sound of his laughter is so much better than what she likes to call his 'grown-up voice', and she's relieved that he's not upset.

"Cheeky little mermaid," he says in fake exasperation, and she feels warm inside at hearing the childhood nickname her grandfather Kenji — her adorable old Ojī-chan — had given her. It's mostly only Yuri and Ojī-chan who call her that, so it somehow feels special when Victor uses it.

"I can be serious," she tells him. "And I really will consider everything you said."

"I know you will. You're smart and I trust you to make good choices," he says. "If you're ever unsure about anything, though, you can talk to me or Yuri about it."

"Thanks," she says.

After one more affectionate squeeze, he lowers his arms and steps back. They slip into a companionable silence after that, finishing up their dinner preparations before Yuri arrives home from his office.

Caroline has no clue what might be going on in Victor's mind, but hers is tangled with the threads of their conversation. Part of her is anxious over the possibility of uncovering some not-so-pleasant truth about herself, but another part is eager to reveal the pieces of her past that are still a mystery to her. It's exciting and terrifying at the same time, and she has the feeling that no matter what might happen. this project is going to mark a defining point in her life. Once she begins, she'll never be able to un-know all the things she'll discover, and she'll never be able to go back to being an innocent, ignorant child again.

But, it's okay, she tells herself. It's like Victor says; growing up is a journey. And if I don't step forward, how will I ever get there?

[panoramicireland]

What Links Swimming at Dublin's Forty Foot and Electric Picnic's Comedy Arena Line-Up 2024?

What on earth could link swimming at the Forty Foot in Dublin and Electric Picnic's Comedy Arena 2024? That would be Ardal O'Hanlon, one of Ireland's best known and surely most loved comedians.

Ireland's largest and most loved festival, Electric Picnic is back again August 16th - 18th 2024 and starring on stage is the incomparable Ardal O'Hanlon. 

Now, what links him to the iconic swimming spot in Dublin Bay, the Forty Foot you ask?

Well, a few years ago the very man set off to find out why the Irish have such a propensity for cursing and made a TV show about it called Holy F***. In one of the segments O'Hanlon investigates how cursing can help with such things as exposure to cold water - like when you jump into the seas around Ireland.

And the show, produced by Loosehorse, used some of my imagery, see credits below.

[ominouspositivity-or-else]

midwestern gothic

It's snowing again. It snowed yesterday. It snowed the day before. It's supposed to snow tomorrow. The weather man's hair is gray. He says that it has always been February. You must have counted the days wrong. Your calendar says it's June.

The basement of the Catholic church has a Stephen King book on the lending shelf. It's a beaten up copy, and some old church lady has gone through and blacked out parts in thick sharpie. There are pages with only one word visible. The pages are yellow. The name in the cover is accompanied with a funeral card. "Rest in peace" it reads. You do not think that someone who took Stephen King's most offensive scenes to the grave with her will be able to rest peacefully.

The basement of the Lutheran church smells like coffee. "It smells like coffee," your uncle says, "Church basement coffee." "I know," you say, because you're in the church basement. "It smells like death." He smiles at you, and raises his styrofoam cup towards you. The coffee smells stronger on his breath.

Jerry's is never open past ten on the weekends. One time, driving past at midnight on Saturday, the windows were full of light. There were no cars in the parking lot. You are struck with the memory of all the taxidermied animals on the walls.

"That's how we made it in the great depression," you say, when your friend asks why you made such a brown looking food. "We're not in the great depression now," they answer, as though they can't see the eyes of your dead great grandmother in the window, looking at you with a friendly and menacing look, "Why do you make it like that?"

The sun is hot. The sun is burning. Your skin is cooking, your flesh is sizzling. You were not made for these temperatures. The world took too long in training you to survive the cold. It never taught you how to brave the heat. You set foot on the sand. You feel your skin begin to melt. You run.

The last berry is sitting in the bowl. No one will touch it. No one will look at it. It is invisible to every eye. Your littlest sister reaches for it. You slap her hand like she's reaching for a hot coal. That berry does not exist. No one will touch it. No one will look at it. It is invisible.

You're sitting on the boat in the sunshine. The water laps lazily against the side. You look down into the water, and you see a shark. You pull back, staring up at the clear blue sky. You look down towards the water again. There are no teeth. The shark is gone. It's a freshwater lake.

There are twinkies in the glove box of your car. There is a shovel in the trunk. There is an ice scraper in the pocket of the door. There is a pair of thick, warm mittens in your bag. They have been there since winter. It's October.

Your grandfather is telling you about the fish he caught in his ice house. No one was around to see it, and he threw it back. It sounds like the shark you saw last summer. Everyone laughs. You do too.

You go out to visit the ice house. The sun is starting to set. You'll have to drive back in your grandfather's truck. It's been on the ice all day. You open the door, and the black and white fish-camera screen shows you the relics of frozen plants, and a northern swims right by the camera. It's tail swooshes. It has an almost human look in its eye. You think it knows who you are. It probably wants to eat you.

Hockey is on in the background. Your grandmother is drinking a beer. She's talking about her parents. They have been dead for 20 years. She's cursing about them. She shouldn't speak ill of the dead. No one tells her to stop. You don't want to listen. You sit there. The only alternative is to watch the hockey game.

There are forty-five dear in your front yard. They see you. Their glowing eyes blink in the darkness. They stare. You shake your fist at them through the glass of your window. Their eyes glow red. Something horrifying lives within them. You don't want to know what it is. There are forty five deer. They continue to eat your flower garden.

You do not smile for three days. You make seven people cry uncontrollably in front of you. The other three you interact with call you names behind your back. Your parents give you a talking to about your attitude. The lady at church tells you, "Some of us have been thinking about how we need to maintain a really welcoming and upbeat attitude for newcomers to our parish! Being rude and impolite really won't attract anyone to our parish, and I have seen some people just be generally downhearted when they come to church. It's an issue. I think I'll go bring it up with the pastor. He'll get it out to everyone." You plaster a smile on your face. No one says anything. You're supposed to be polite.

It takes you seven hours to get to your grandma's house. There are no hills for the entire drive. In the winter, the stretch of highway is the only thing that keeps you sane. People went mad on prairies like this, your mom says, to a car full of quiet people. Nothing but the sky and the grass and the wind and their one-room houses. You believe her. You can see the images of buildings on the horizon, always the same distance away.

There is a cemetery in the center of a farmer's field. A church used to be there, someone once said to you. They tore it down, but kept the cemetery. You wonder why they have respect for creation but not the creator. You wonder what made them tear the church down. You wonder if anyone visits. You drive past that lonely cemetery at night. You think you see someone staring at you from behind the chicken-wire fence. You look away.

There is a sign on the side of the highway, written in ominous letters. It comes into focus as you drive by. Best place to buy knitting supplies in the whole state! You don't believe them. You see the sign five more times. Then they get worse. Come to our store. We need you at our store. We know who you are. We have yarn for you. We know where you live. Each one gets more threatening. Stop at our store. The last one reads, and so you pull over at the correct intersection. You buy five bags of yarn. The lady behind the desk is smiling. You smile back. You cannot feel your lips.

All the kids at school hate you. You'll never tell them. They cannot know.

The Kwik Trip has a nasty bathroom. Theirs are usually so clean. You feel sick. You walk out and tell your mom you need to go to the identical gas station across the street. Her eyes flash. She buys her soda, and you drive across the road. The gas station is identical in every way. The displays are the same. The candy is in the exact same spots. They have the same magazines. The man working at the desk is the exact same one. This bathroom is clean, though. You buy another soda and leave. The bell rings to announce your departure.

The city is different now. The lights are too bright. The smell hangs low. The crime is higher. You don't feel safe walking outside at night. You think about the wolves that used to live here. You hope they haunt the streets. They deserve to.

Someone shot up the big city Walmart yesterday. They're closing down. You hear a disappointed church lady tell her friend that she doesn't know where to get her radium, anymore. All the good places are going out of business. "It's those stupid kids," she says, "And all the theft. I wish I lived in Kewaunee." You are too caught up on the "radium" thing to question the name of that town.

Your boss is angry. You can feel it in the air. It vibrates around you like a jelly, stifling and crushing you, pushing your lungs into your chest. She smiles at you as you clock out. "You're fired" she says, her eyes trying to commit a crime. Her lips do not move as she speaks. They are frozen in her "customer service" smile.

You dump things into a pot. You do not read the labels. Everything sounds the same. Everything tastes the same. You have not touched your spice rack in three years. You have not ever smelled cardamom in your life. You do not know what chili is supposed to taste like. It's all the same. Everything is the same. It all tastes like hotdish. You eat it like it's the last food on earth and you're starving.

[fromvoidlight]

"The Queen from the Sky" incident of 2062.

(<Beginning record now/———>)

(<Selecting incident "The queen from the sky">)

(<———>)

(<——>)

(<—>)

(<>)

May the 25th, 2062, University of Warwick, Coventry, United Kingdom.

After the controversial deployment of a new grading program implemented by the University's administration the year prior resulted in catastrophic mismanagement of the grading system, the University was forced to shut the program down; the consequence of this was now having to manually fix a Year's worth of errors within the grading system.

This announcement did not leave students attending the university with peace, even before the shutdown; the decision to implement this grading system back in 2061 had already earned the ire of many students and professors alike. Between the misallocation of and, in many cases, the outright dumping of their grades, paired with the constant dismissal of their complaints by the administration, had already taken its toll on their mental health and now with the realization that they would be forced to likely spend the entire summer anxiously waiting to see whether or not they failed became the straw to break the camel's back finally.

Come May 25th, the student-faculty marched to the front of the administration building, demanding they pass everyone rather than forcing them to further suffer the consequences of the administration's attempt to save money by implementing the program.

Of course, like many of the stories throughout history, I've come to catalog; if this day were normal, I wouldn't be writing.

As they protested, they were oblivious to what was above them, and many probably looked up for a second only to dismiss it as some tarp that came loose in the wind. But the further it flowed down to earth, the less it could be ignored by those below.

And one after another, they looked up to the sky, their shouts of anger ceasing as they saw almost forty feet from the ground a person wearing a long flowing dress that flowed with the wind as an entity descended from the sky through the power levitation like the tendrils of jellyfish swimming through the ocean the hemline of the dress extended outward being carried by the arms of hovering drones giving the visage of a Chinese dragon costume on parade that decided to take flight after coming to life.

All watched the anomaly set foot on the campus grounds, their body obscured by a sleek greenish cyan exoskeleton, their face obscured by a featureless helmet, the shape of which and the two horns that spouted the top of it, being the only clue they had to what was underneath, as it turned it's head to look upon the awestruck crowd around before proceeded to walk amongst them with the regal grace only befitting of a queen, as she embraced the outstretched hands like passing through a field of reeds. As she reached the front of the crowd, she turned to gaze upon her flock; the drones carrying her dress pulled it aside as if it was the tail of some great and mighty serpent. In silence, the once angry mob stood there, entranced by simply being in her presence, failing to realize the intention of this display.

The Queen from the sky lifted her hand into the sky, and in an instant, a flash of red and gold light enveloped the Alien and her crowd; some realized what was about to happen and tried to escape, but it was too late the jaw of the angler fish had already slammed shut, as all who the light enveloped disappeared with its recession, never to be seen again.

No one knows where they went; people only knew why they disappeared because of those live streaming of what happened from their cell phones.

People the world over watched as an alien descended from the sky, set foot on Earth, and walked through a crowd of people like some religious savior only to vanish with her newly found flock, between the fact that every live stream was recording the same thing at the same time removed any doubt to its authenticity.

The aftermath of this event sent the United Kingdom into an uproar, the existential dread that came from the realization that at any moment, something could descend from the sky and make a crowd of people disappear without a trace; how could people trust their government let alone their average bobby to keep them safe. that type of fear is the greatest way to destabilize a country.

Some part of society's collective unconsciousness desperately searched for control in this situation. That control came when the families of the abducted started demanding the heads of the University Administration, whose actions inadvertently led up to their families being present at the time of the abduction. The resulting lawsuits pummelled the university, the incident ironically giving the problem the attention it needed. However, in the end, these lawsuits did nothing to bring their loved ones back and ultimately did nothing but further the entity's goal. It wanted this world to witness the arrival of its new rulers—the A'lysium.

  

(<incident report by archivist Urulul>)

(<incident report edited by Daeva>)

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