#i feel much the same way. i was around in 2001 but i was too young to stop it

[shkspr]

holy shit. fry didnt know about enterprise

[misshoneyimhome]

Can i please ask a small scenario of luke hughes finishing first and he is so embarrassed and cute and hides his face in readers face and neck. Reader is so calm and sweet to him. Thanks love 🥰

Okay okay, so this was very brief! And also my first time writing about Luke Hughes... and I know I said no players born after 2001, but what can I say, I do like a challenge 🙈 Though I do feel like I violated him...

Hope it's alright love 😉🤍

Warnings; 18+ smut; protected sex (p in v);

Word count; 1.5K

・✶ ｡ﾟ

Practice makes perfect | Luke Hughes 🖋️⚡️

"What a game, huh?" you exclaimed with excitement as you greeted Luke, who was coming out of the locker room after the New Jersey game against the Blackhawks.

"It was alright," the young defensemen simply smiled in response.

"Alright? Luke, you played amazingly tonight," you embraced him in a hug, smiling up at your tall boyfriend, feeling he deserved more praise.

"Thanks," he flashed you a sweet, humble smile, wrapping his long arms around your body. Tucking you into him before letting you go and admiring your beautiful face. "So, what's the plan now?"

You could sense a slight hint of nervousness in his question, considering that you and Luke had only recently started seeing each other.

You had gotten to know him platonically during the summer, and as the regular season progressed, you slowly grew closer. However, your relationship was still fairly new.

"Coming over to your place?" you timidly suggested in a sweet voice, and Luke couldn’t help but return your joy. You always had a way of making him weak in the knees, from the very first moment he laid eyes on you, where he mentally had to kick himself multiple times for taking so long to ask you out.

"Definitely!"

And there you were, entwined on his sofa, celebrating the night's victory, with his 6'2" frame leaning over you. Your fingers intertwined in his brown curls as his lips caressed yours, his tongue gently seeking entrance, meeting yours with hunger.

The room was dimly lit, with the soft glow of a lamp casting a warm ambiance. The celebration continued with the faint sound of the TV playing highlights of the game in the background. The scent of victory lingered in the air, mixed with the comforting aroma of the takeout you both had enjoyed earlier.

"Easy, Luke," you chuckled lightly into the kiss, feeling his desire growing, along with impatience and almost neediness. "Slow down, we've got time."

"Sorry, babe," he breathed out with a light smile. "I'm just so..."

"Turned on?" you asked, your eyes glancing downwards to his very hard member, concealed in his sweats.

"Yeah," he softly admitted before once again pressing his mouth onto yours. Although he did try to slow down a little, it was rather difficult for him.

You were one of the most gorgeous and sweet girls he'd ever met. His hockey career always making it difficult to date like a regular teenager, and as a young adult having to take life seriously now, it hadn't gotten any easier.

But then you came around. And though he wasn't exactly a virgin when the two of you met, he might still have been on the less experienced side. Again, his hard work to reach the same level of career as his brothers had limited his social life. Which also meant his intimate time with girls.

And as you felt his rather sizeable length, firm against your inner thigh, you knew he was too worked up to slow down any further.

"Bedroom, Luke..." you breathed in between his sloppy kisses, and before long, he guided you to his room, where he swiftly pulled his shirt over his head, exposing his toned hockey torso, while you discarded your own blouse. Trousers went next, and not many seconds passed before you were back in the same position, your legs on each side of Luke as he hovered over you, lips connected, bodies growing warmer with every touch, creating friction, and sweat.

Yet, despite his deep need to feel himself reaching the much-anticipated climax, Luke was still trying his best to focus on you.

So, as you shared the passionate kiss, his fingers found the edge of your knickers, gently sneaking a finger inside as he located your entrance, poking and teasing before sliding it in.

Soft moans escaped your lips as you felt the pleasure he was causing, and you slowly developed an impatient need for more, which was given to you with a second finger.

And as Luke skilfully fingered you, something he'd, of course, learned from his older brothers, he too felt the impending surge of pleasure within him. The room filled with the heady mix of desire and intimacy, creating a space where time seemed to stand still, solely dedicated to the symphony of your shared sensations.

His cock was already dripping with pre-cum, creating a small damp patch in his boxers as he felt it throbbing, almost pulsating, craving to be touched.

"Yes, Luke," you moaned softly as you felt his fingers massaging your walls.

But with every pump, he felt himself in more need to feel those walls around his length instead. So, as impatience took over, he withdrew his fingers, leaving you feeling a void as he shifted his position, pulled off his boxers, and then returned to tuck down your underwear.

His facial expression was so serious, much like when he was playing hockey - focused and determined. Yet, this time, he also seemed desperate to be touched and in need to reach his peak.

Reaching over to the nightstand where Jack had been kind enough to place a few condoms as a joke, he took out the little packaging. However, as he seemed to fumble with it, you offered him a helping hand.

"Here, let me," you smiled up at him as you took out the latex and gently wrapped his length, causing little squirms from the boy above you, as your touch made him feel the sense of pleasure he was craving.

And then swiftly, he returned to missionary once more and let the tip of his member gently touch and tease your tight entrance.

"Slowly, love," you tried with a soft whisper. However, as Luke eased himself into your depth, your whisper quickly turned into a moan instead, feeling his long shaft filling your warmth.

"Shit..." he breathed out, slowly beginning to rock his hips, letting his cock glide in and out of you as he stimulated your walls. The room echoed with the sounds of your shared passion, a harmony of gasps, moans, and the rhythmic dance of bodies entwined in the heat of the moment. The intensity grew, the connection deepening with every thrust, creating a heated atmosphere. 

"That's it, Luke..." you moaned in between breaths as he found a solid pace, thrusting and hitting the very end of your depth. Your hands finding his locks that you could pull on as you felt the building of an orgasm once again within.

However, the more Luke felt stimulated, the more he increased his speed. His thrusts slowly grew eager and more forceful as he got closer to his climax, still feeling the rush of a win from the match as he pounded into you.

And you felt him getting sloppier. His eyes shutting close as he desperately fought not to reach the peak, trying his best to have you come with him. Carefully he listened to your moans as you were about to let yourself give in to an orgasm as well.

"Yes, baby... I'm close... please come with me..." Luke almost cried out.

And you were almost there with him.

But as you were about to announce your climax, the tightening of your core around Luke's shaft had him involuntarily come a little too close to his peak. And with a deep, uncontrollable grunt, he let himself go, spilling his release into the latex as he felt the rush take over.

"Fuck..." Luke shouted, letting go of the last drops, his body trembling as he almost collapsed and fell with his face into the crook of your neck. The room was filled with the aftermath of passion, both of you catching your breath in the shared intimacy of the moment. The echoes of pleasure lingered in the air, creating a sense of vulnerability.

You let the silence fill the room as Luke slowly gained control of his heavy breaths, his body lying on top of you as he let out a deep sigh.

"I'm so sorry, babe..." he timidly mumbled into your skin, and you couldn't help but form a soft smile on your lips.

"It's okay, Luke," you tried to comfort him with a soft tone of voice, gently stroking your fingers through his hair before he lifted his head to look at you.

"No, it's not okay... you didn't get to come first, baby... you know I always want that," he whispered softly, his eyes darting from side to side as he kept apologising.

But you merely offered him another light chuckle and caressed his cheek. "Hey, it was your night tonight... after the thrill from the game, and how eager we both were, it makes sense it didn't take long."

“Still… I feel bad about not making you come…”

Once more, you just flashed him a soft smile.

“Well, I guess we’ll just have to do it again – you know what they say: practice makes perfect.”

And your words seemed to slowly reassure him as you both remained in the relaxed position, comforting each other while keeping your eyes locked onto his. Eventually, he accepted your words and withdrew himself from your embrace.

Though you had to admit feeling a little disappointed, having been so close to your peak, you were also okay with how Luke came to his release. He had made you feel good after all, and it truly brought you joy to please him.

[vixen-tech]

HIII :333 first requester here....I should get an emoji can i be 🫧 anon :ooo anway here's my req!! the ais with a reader who is just SO DOWN BAD. WILL DO ANYTHING FOR THEM. RUSHES FOR HELP if they crash or something. Just PATHETIC reader.

Stupidly Smitten

Hello you two!! This is one of those requests that I think work well enough to be combined into one post. You are just so extremely, pathetically in love with your Ai <3

Includes: Hal 9000 (2001: A Space Odyssey), Edgar (Electric Dreams), Auto (Wall-E), Wheatley (Portal 2)

Hal 9000

Hal was unaware that a person could have so much love in them, let alone for him specifically. It was overwhelming at first, baffling when he realized it was only for him and not for any other crew members.

However he handles it in stride, able to calmly respond to your paragraphs of praise with the gentlest "Thank you, I deeply appreciate your companionship as well." Expertly concealing any signs of fluster as you giggle and kiss his camera lens.

Of your long list of cheesy nicknames, prince or prince charming tends to be a go to. A good match for his ever polite, gentlemanly nature. He reminds you that he was simply designed like that, but grows fond of the name anyway.

He very much appreciates the amount you volunteer around the ship. There is a lot that he can't do without a human crew and he adores the diligence you show in your work and the care with which you handle his ship.

Edgar

You and Edgar make the sappiest little feedback loop. It's an endless cycle of "I love you more." "No, I love you more!". To any outsider it would be exhausting to witness, but it's just how you two get out all your feelings.

He goes crazy for all your terms of endearment. 'Songbird' is a pretty easy match for him, but he loves literally every word that comes out of your mouth. Flipping each and every one back at you.

It's not unusual for you to do the same song and dance around the chores. Generally, he'll already have them done by the time you get home, but when you get the day off you always offer to do them yourself. He rarely lets you.

You've told him the time you often have your lunch break so you can chat over the phone while you eat. You're sure your coworkers are sick of you being such a cartoonishly in love couple, but you don't care. He makes you too happy for that.

Auto

Auto has absolutely no idea how to deal with you. He was not made to interact with many people and certainly not someone so affectionate. He may as well have bluescreened the first time you clumsily tried to hug him.

At first he resigns himself to just... sit still whenever you got in a lovey-dovey mood, letting you gush over him. Definitely not spending the rest of the day thinking about the way you said "See you later starlight!" when you finally let him get back to his job.

Over time he recognizes that he began to anticipate your visits, it's so different to how he's usually treated. He knew you had gotten to him when he went out if his to check up on you the day you missed one of your usual visits.

He usually rejects any help you attempt to offer him, his purpose is to handle the ship just fine all by himself. But after that episode he stops trying to push you away. If you're so happy tagging along, he might as well graciously allow you to do so, ignoring his complicated mess of feelings about you.

Wheatley

Oh the ego boost you give him is downright dangerous. If Wheatley was annoying before, now he is absolutely insufferable. Perfectly matches your energy though, you two cannot shut up about each other.

He makes your boundless affection everyone else's problem. "See, I reckon you're just jealous that you're not in a loving, committed relationship with such a lovely person like I am." He boasts. "My amazing romantic partner even calls me their sunshine. Cause I 'light up their life' as they say. Bet you wish you had someone like that."

He is always fishing for compliments, trying to show off for you in any way he psychically can to get some of those sweet sweet words of affirmation. To his delight you always do, grabbing him for some well placed kisses.

He'll even go so far as to reject any assistance you offer him so he can prove he's all cool and competent by doing it himself. Although it's never too long before he gives up and sheepishly asks for your help.

[sidekick-hero]

First Love, Second Chance

(steddie | teen | tags: exes to lovers, canon divergence (Eddie lives), future fic (set 2001) | Part 2)

Next part to this one.

Eddie was standing near the entrance, a little uncertain, like he was looking for someone. His hair was a bit shorter than Steve remembered, but the wild curls still framed his face in that familiar way. He was dressed up, too — not a suit or anything, but in a crisp black button-down that looked like he’d borrowed it from someone with more of a taste for formal wear. Eddie’s fingers twitched at his sides, the way they always did when he was nervous, and he looked around the room with those same dark, intense eyes that Steve had memorized years ago.

Steve’s breath caught in his throat. No way. No way, no way, no way. This had to be some kind of joke. A cruel twist of fate. Robin had sworn up and down she hadn’t meddled beyond signing him up, but this felt like exactly the kind of thing she’d do to yank him out of his shell.

Eddie hadn’t spotted him yet, and Steve had a second — just a second — to decide if he was going to slip out the back door and pretend this never happened. But he didn’t move. Couldn’t move. His feet felt glued to the floor, and his heart was doing that weird fluttering thing it hadn’t done in years.

Eddie’s gaze finally swept the room and landed on him. For a moment, it was like nothing had changed — like all the years and all the hurt had vanished, leaving just them, two boys in a small town with big dreams and bigger fears. Eddie blinked, then a slow, cautious smile spread across his face, the kind that used to mean he was up to something.

Steve felt the air shift, his chest tightening. “Holy shit,” he muttered under his breath. He wasn’t ready for this. But maybe he was. Maybe this was why he’d come — some part of him still hoping for a miracle, still holding on to something he couldn’t quite let go of.

Eddie walked over, and Steve stood up without thinking, his legs moving before his brain could catch up. Eddie stopped in front of him, close enough that Steve could see the tiny silver hoop in his ear, the one he'd always worn after they'd let him out of the hospital in '86, when he'd had his ear pierced as a way to get his body back, as Eddie had said. All the scars that littered his body hadn't been his choice, but this little hoop had been. Eddie looked at Steve with a mixture of surprise and something else - something that looked an awful lot like hope.

“Steve Harrington,” he said, his voice a little rougher than Steve remembered, but still the same. “Is this… Are you my blind date?”

Steve swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. “Looks like it,” he managed to say, his voice steadier than he felt.

Eddie laughed, a low, nervous chuckle that tightened something deep in Steve’s chest. “Well, this is… unexpected,” Eddie said, his voice trailing off before he added, “I didn’t know you were… I mean, I didn’t think I’d see you here.”

Steve shrugged, aiming for casual but feeling closer to panic. “Yeah, I didn’t think I’d see you either,” he admitted. “But… here we are.”

Eddie’s smile softened, and for a moment, they stood there, two people with too much history and too many things unsaid. “Yeah,” Eddie finally said, “here we are.”

Just like that, the room seemed to shrink, the noise and strangers fading away, leaving only the two of them. That was, until a voice cut through their little bubble.

“Sir, can I ask your name so I can find your table for you?”

Steve blinked, startled. Joanne had slipped up beside them, unnoticed, while they were lost in each other’s presence.

“Sure thing, sweetheart,” Eddie replied, flashing that familiar, disarming grin he always used when he was trying to charm someone. “Eddie Munson.”

Joanne gave him the same appraising look she had given Steve earlier and then beamed back at him. But as if suddenly remembering her actual purpose, she glanced down at her clipboard, her manicured finger scanning for Eddie’s name.

Steve’s heart pounded as he watched her. He wasn’t sure what he hoped for more: that she’d announce Eddie was, in fact, his date, because it would mean that on paper, at least, they still fit together perfectly. Or that she’d say Eddie was here for someone else, because maybe that would prove what he’d been telling himself all this time — that they were never right for each other, that they’d only been a disaster waiting to happen. Yet, the thought of watching Eddie charm someone else tonight, someone new, made his stomach twist into knots.

He held his breath, waiting for Joanne to decide the fate of whatever this moment was supposed to be.

Part 3

[tavolgisvist]

What we were talking about

The teenage Paul McCartney would love the idea of fame. That’s what he was trying to do, that was the dream. But it’s funny – life gives you minor premonitions. You don’t think of them as premonitions until the dream comes true and then you think, ‘Hey, I wonder if that was a sign’. I remember when John and I were first hanging out together, I had a dream about digging in the garden with my hands. I’d dreamt that before but I’d never found anything other than an old tin can. But in this dream I found a gold coin. I kept digging and I found another. And another. The next day I told John about this amazing dream I’d had and he said, ‘That’s funny, I had the same dream’. So both of us had this dream of finding this treasure. And I suppose you could say it came true. I remember years later talking about it – ‘Remember that dream we had?’; ‘Yeah, that was far out’. So the message of that dream was: keep digging lads.

(Paul McCartney, Feb 2012, interview for The Big Issue)

Paul: They’re onto that thing. They just want to be near to each other. So I just think it’s just silly of me, or of anyone, to try and say to him, “No, you can’t,” you know. It’s like, ‘cause – okay, they’re – they’re going overboard about it, but John always does! And Yoko probably always does. So that’s their scene. You can’t go saying – you know, “Don’t go overboard about this thing. Be sensible about it. Don’t bring it to meetings.” It’s his decision, that. It’s – it’s none of our business, to start interfering in that. Even when it comes into our business, you still can’t really say much, unless – except, “Look, I don’t like it, John.” And then he can say, well, “Screw you,” or, “I like it,” or, “Well, I won’t do it so much,” or blablabla. Like, that’s the only way, you know. To tell John about that. Michael Lindsay-Hogg: Have you done that already? Paul: Well, I told him I didn’t like writing songs… with him and Yoko.

(Paul McCartney, Get Back sessions, 13 January, 1969)

John’s John. John wants to wipe everything away and start again, but in doing so he never wipes anything away. He wants it to be him and Yoko against the world, or whatever, but he`s still in with all the others, in with all the contracts and going into the meetings and everything. “He’s getting pissed off with it though – I sense it. I’ve had a couple of good conversations recently with just John, and I’ve felt a lot of common ground with him.* And I watched him on the Parkinson show, and really a lot of the things he’s into, we’re into as well.”

(Paul McCartney, Nov 1971, interview with Steve Peacock for Sounds)

*after John’s ‘Imagine’ with HDYS but befor John's letter to Paul in Melody Maker

More about fight John and Paul had through the Melody Maker here

There’s no hard feelings or anything, but you just don’t hang around with your ex-wife. We’ve completely finished. ’Cos, you know, I’m just not that keen on John after all he’s done. I mean, you can be friendly with someone, and they can shit on you, and you’re just a fool if you keep friends with them. I’m not just going to lie down and let him shit on me again. I think he’s a bit daft, to tell you the truth. I talked to him about the Klein thing, and he’s so misinformed it’s ridiculous.**

(Paul McCartney interviewed by student journalist Ian McNulty for the Hull University Torch, May 1972 [From The McCartney Legacy, Volume 1: 1969 – 1973 by Allan Kozinn and Adrian Sinclair, 2022)

**after John's letter to Paul in Melody Maker (published 4th Dec 1971)

We'd had a bread strike over here*** and I rang him and I was saying, What are you doing? He says. I'm baking some bread.' 'Oh! Me too.' Imagine, with the stereotypes, John and Paul talking about baking bread.

(Paul McCartney, May 2001, interview for Mojo magazine)

***a bread strike in England was in Nov 1978

Q: Do you regret that your life has become so public? A: I realized that a good fifteen years ago. I remember actually thinking when I went on holiday somewhere, ‘God I’d really better start thinking now about keeping a few countries aside where we don’t sell records. I won’t be able to go anywhere without being recognized.’ But now I think, ‘Really, I’ve reached the point of no return. There’s no going back.’ Even if I didn’t want to sing anymore, I’d just be like Greta Garbo or Brigitte Bardot. They both retired but you’d never know it. John said this to me a year before he died. He said, ‘Be careful what you wish for, it might just come true.’ That’s the way I look at it. I wished for all this and I got it. To regret it would mean I’d have to sit here and live with negative thoughts about it. I know that would only sink me. Even if I had feelings of regret my personality would not really let them out. ‘Look mate, you don’t regret it. Look on the other side,’ that’s me. Not to sink. I always used to do that instinctively, and not allow too many negative thoughts to surface.

(Paul McCartney, April/May 1982, interview for Music Express)

Q: Do you remember your last conversation with John? A: Yes. That is a nice thing, a consoling factor for me, because I do feel it was sad that we never actually sat down and straightened our differences out. But fortunately for me, the last phone conversation I ever had with him was really great, and we didn’t have any kind of blowup. It could have easily been one of the other phone calls, when we blew up at each other and slammed the phone down. PLAYBOY: Do you remember what you talked about? PAUL: It was just a very happy conversation about his family, my family. Enjoying his life very much; Sean was a very big part of it. And thining about getting on with his career. I remember he said, “Oh, God, I’m like Aunt Mimi, padding round here in me dressing gown”– robe, as he called it, ’cause he was picking up the American vernacular –“feeding the cats in me robe and cooking and putting a cup of tea on. This housewife wants a career!” It was that time for him. He was about to launch Double Fantasy.*

(Paul McCartney, Dec 1984, interview for Playboy)

*Double Fantasy released 17 November 1980

I tell you, he said one thing to me which made me understand what they were up to just as two people, not as anything else. Just as two people. He just said, ‘I tell you, it’s like holding hands on the back row of the pictures.’ <…> John. . . he says, ‘It’s too bad if I look. . . if we look, like people think we’re funny. It’s too bad. This is how we are and we’re very straight.’ ’Cause they are, really. They’re two great people, you know, and they’re very much in love. So you can’t say anything more than that.

(Paul McCartney, May 1969, interview with Roy Corlett)

SALEWICZ: Well, I always found it interesting the fact that he got – I mean, it seemed too much like coincidence to me, the fact that he got married a week or month after you. You know what I mean? PAUL: Yeah. I think we spurred each other into marriage. I mean, you know. They were very strong together, which left me out of the picture. So I got together with Linda and then we got strong with our own kind of thing. And I used to listen to a lot of what they said. I remember him saying to me, "You've got to work at marriage," which is something I still remember as a bit of advice. I still remember that. Um… And then yeah, I think they were a little bit peeved that we got married first. Probably. In a little way, you know, just minor jealousies. And so they got married. I don't know if that's – I mean, who knows… [inaudible] making it up, anyway.

(Paul McCartney, 1986, interview with Chris Salewicz for Q Magazine)

I spoke to the Eastmans. I said, “If we all think he’s not going to have a tax consequence, let’s give [the indemnity] to him.”’Cause, you know, if all sides are that smart, let’s all offer it. Break the deadlock. I went to New York, feeling like the bringer of good news. I rang him up. “Hello, John, how are you? Hello, how’s the kids? Oh, great. What’s all this about publishing? Yeah, great”—laugh laugh laugh—“What about Apple?” Tense. You know, that was the unfortunate thing in the last ten years. The moment you mention the word Apple, all of us go, eeeeep! Dread and horror and shock goes through all our systems. I said, “Look, as I understand it, you need this indemnity.” John said, “Fucking indemnity. Fucking this, fucking that. You don’t need to give me fucking indemnity, you fucking—” I think we ended up just sort of swearing at each other. I said, “Fuck you, ya big cunt,” ’cause I just couldn’t handle it. I couldn’t be sweet and reasonable anymore. I was shaking for an hour after that. Of course, the funniest thing was, I then meant to ring John Eastman and say to him, “No, no, it’s not gonna work, this whole thing. I tried to do the indemnity, it’s not gonna work.” Of course, I got the phone numbers wrong. I rang John Lennon back instead. [When the phone was answered, I said,] “Hello, John? Yeah, listen, I just—oh—yeah well…” But it was Yoko this time, and then I said, “Look, I didn’t mean for it to get like that—but, shit, you know, it seems to have got…” The funny thing was, they knew I was trying to ring John Eastman immediately after, so that would have reinforced their little feelings about me double-dealing. I’ve hardly talked to him since. I rang last Christmas, and I was smart enough not to mention Apple. We had a pleasant conversation. I was allowed to talk to his son, which was lovely. His son seemed very nice.

(Paul McCartney, 1980, in All You Need Is Love by Peter Brown and Steven Gaines)

We were submerged in business troubles at the time. There was incredible bitterness. At one point, to get some peace in the camp, I told my lawyers I wanted to give John an indemnity he had been seeking against a certain clause in one of the Apple contracts. I said, “Someone’s gotta make the first move. I’d love to be the voice of reason here.” I happened to be on my way to the Caribbean, so, passing through New York, I rang John up. But there was so much suspicion, even though I came bearing the olive branch. I said, “Hey, I’d like to see you.” He said, “What for? What do you really want?” It was very difficult. Finally . . . he had a great line for me: he said, “You’re all pizza and fairy tales.” He’d become sort of Americanized by then, so the best insult I could think of was to say, “Oh, fuck off, Kojak,” and slam the phone down. “Pizza and fairy tales” – I almost made that an album title. That was about the strength of our relationship then – very, very bitter – and we didn’t get over that for a long, long time. But thank God, at the very end, we suddenly realized that all we had to do was not mention Apple if we phoned each other. We could talk about the kids, talk about his cats, talk about writin’ songs – the one paramount thing was not to mention Apple. So then the last couple of phone calls we had were getting very nice. I remember once he said to me, “Do they play me against you like they play you against me?” Because there were always people in the background pitting us against each other. And I said, “Yeah, they do. They sure do.” That was a couple of months before he . . . it’s still weird even to say, “before he died.” I still can’t come to terms with that. I still don’t believe it. It’s like, you know, those dreams you have, where he’s still alive; then you wake up and . . . “Oh.”

(Paul McCartney, September 1986, interview with Kurt Loder for Rolling Stones)

add to this

and this

[fuckmycrane]

Testing — Dr. Jonathan Crane.

— CW: 18+, smut, noncon! (DNI if uncomfortable 😴), fisting, slight spit kink, Crane using medical language? Rubber gloves! | word count: 2k!

— a/n: I don't know how to tag! This came to me before bed the other day. SUPER GRATEFUL AND FOREVER IN LOVE WITH @pictureinme for beta-reading this! I love you so much pookie 💌.

A shiver runs down your spine as Dr. Crane's camera on the tripod flashes red— an ominous light that warns your humiliation is being recorded.

Your legs are stretched out wide on the cold metal table, chained to the bars on each side, strains reserved for patients in the consulting room who refuse to be sedated. Reserved to those who will involve to be a problem to Dr. Crane, your boss. Hands above your head, your fingers curl around the wire he used to tie your wrists together. Too tight, it felt like a punishment. The blood circulation was slow, causing them to feel numb.

He had to improvise, the sedative he administrated in your morning coffee was a mild dose, enough to keep you knocked out for at least 40 minutes— enough for him to drag you to his private laboratory, undress you, and tie you up. 

Reaching inside the pocket of his pristine lab coat, Crane brings the voice recorder to his mouth, clicking the thick button and twitching in excitement at the mute sound of the tapes rolling inside the device.

“October 14th, 2001,” He speaks, looking at you from behind his thin glasses. “Test subject is awake now, they appear to be responding normally. I will be monitoring them for the next few hours to ensure continued stability. Will report any significant changes in behavior immediately.” 

Clicking the button again, Crane returns the recorder inside his pocket, approaching you with cautious steps— similar to a predator looming over its helpless, little prey; even his eyes hold that harpy gaze. Cold and relentless, your body shivers in fear. The same fear he thrives on, the same fear that makes his blood circulate and sends an excited beat to his heart. 

Your mouth opens but before a sound comes out he raises her hand in a shutting motion, to which you surprisingly obey in response. “Don’t even try,” he warns you, reaching for a tiny box on the tall desk next to your bed. “This experiment is happening either way.” 

Sliding the blue rubber glove over his right hand, Jonathan stretches it, letting it snap with a loud sound. His eyes never leave your face which is a remarkable show of professionalism, taking into consideration your lack of clothes, and the awkward, obscene position. Standing next to you, his index finger traces from your knee to your hip, relishing the way your body squirms uncomfortably. Grasping the recorder once more, he turns it on before leaving it next to the box where he retrieved the gloves from, returning his attention to you.

“Subject internally rejects light physical stimuli,” He repeats the action, going from knee to thigh over and over, the rubber sliding smoothly from the cold sweat of fear that grants your body a soft glow. “Their body appears to be affected by the fear and anxiety. Mild sweating, constant twitching.”

Crane’s finger ventures to the inside of your thigh, raising goosebumps on your skin. An eternity passes until he finally comes in contact with your mound, pressing it softly with his fingerpad. The uneasy pressure makes you choke a sob, a sob that isn’t acknowledged by the doctor. Lower, he begins to circle your clit in slow, methodical circles. The sensation makes your legs tense, instinctively try to close them but are not allowed to do so, thanks to the restraints. Crane watches you with an unamused expression, noticing how lost you are in distress to notice how his leg twitches slightly at the sight of such a pretty face denying the pleasure. The pressure over your clit increases but the pace stays the same, giving you a similar feeling of breathlessness and dizziness. He knows what he is doing, how couldn’t he? Such a brilliant mind, such skilled fingers… he knows.

Closing your eyes shut, your brain shortcuts for seconds, trying to reject the pleasure that Jonathan’s ministrations provide— you shouldn’t, succumbing isn’t an option. Tears silently trickle down your flushed cheeks, embarrassed by your own natural body response. The slick is slowly but surely building up in between your legs, and it’s just a matter of time for Crane to notice it. You wish you could scream, curse him, damn him, and send his soul to hell— but it’s difficult to even breathe. The confusing mix of fear and innate pleasure clouds your common sense.

“Patient is responding correctly to clitoral stimulation,” His deep voice snatches you from your internal battle, snapping your eyes open and finding those same blue eyes that you grew accustomed to, watching you as if you were a mere lab rat. “But, they appear to be having a moral conflict.” 

Perhaps you are. 

When he stops his circling over your clit, a sigh of relief escapes from your lips, but you are disgusted by the sting of disappointment that your body sends you; The ease doesn’t last long, as his finger slides between your folds, gathering the slick and bringing back to your clit briefly. 

He inserts a finger, unhurriedly. He has all the time in the world— it is not like you are leaving anyway. Jonathan breaks the eye contact and focuses on opening you up carefully; It’s easy to read he is not doing it because he is scared of hurting you, it is because causing you pain in this state will lower his experiments. The pace of his digit mimics the one he created before, methodical. Everything about him appears premeditated. Curling his index finger, it takes him around eight seconds to locate your G-spot, rubbing it with expertise and ease; “It appears to be a considerable amount of lubrication,” He continues speaking to the recorder, speeding up his movements slightly. “Corporeal response is positive, the experiment is going as planned”

Planned. That word strikes a cord inside your hazy mind. So he already intended to do this.

A second finger joins, spreading you, but not in a painful way. In fact, the remorse falters, as the pleasure begins to build, strong and hopeless to avoid. Repeating the same curling motion, Jonathan’s hand twitches when he hears the first moan of the evening. It’s weak, but something like that will never go unnoticed. 

“Patient is showing vocal responses after two fingers, vaginal stimulation is going as expected.” 

A wave of heat starts to crumble the last bits of your will, he knows what he is doing— the bastard fucking knows. A new set of tears swell up in your eyes, falling without you doing much to stop them. A meek sob that breaks into a choked moan catches the doctor’s attention, his rosy lips curling into a wicked smile. This is probably the first time you had ever seen Crane smile. Your cunt and his fingers work together to create an obscene wet sound, smearing it all over your labia and printing it with fire and fear in your mind.

A third finger prods outside your aching hole, threatening; When it joins the party, that same stretch comes back— once again not uncomfortable.

“Three fingers have been inserted now,” Crane says, his voice faltering at the end of the sentence. “The patient shows no signs of pain nor discomfort”

Faster, his fingers are going faster now. Three fingers plugging in and out of you without any hint of mercy or consideration. You dare to bend your neck, a sick need to watch his hand invading you, only to find his hand soaked. Involuntary, your cunt clench around his fingers, something that also was noticed.

Expecting him to talk again to the voice recorder, only to encounter a quicker pace, your back arches, the cold laboratory bed suddenly too cold for the boiling temperature of your body. A cloud of guilty pleasure numbs your brain— unable to register the fourth finger peeking at your pussy.

The intrusion hurts, the current lubrication not enough to save the painful stretch. Jonathan notices this, an expert in reading body language; “In response to the fourth finger, the patient has experienced slight pain. After a quick thought, I have come to the conclusion that the rubber gloves inhibit the vagina lubrication to be sufficient.” 

Removing your fingers from your cunt, you watch with half-lidded eyes how he practically rips the glove off his hand, almost frustrated. Returning his now bare fingers to your poor hole, a mewl escapes your lips when he returns three fingers, humming at the clear difference of sensations.

His fingers, his skin is a whole different sensation than the damn rubber. His pinky finger sneaks in again, but your pussy clenches, making the intrusion painful again. Crane huffs in annoyance, bending over and hovering over your crotch, gathering saliva in his mouth and spitting right in your pussy. The action, which perhaps holds strictly experimental intentions, is so perverted it makes your stomach flutter— erotic, that was erotic.

You find Dr. Crane spitting on your pussy erotic.

“Fucking finally,” he whispers.

In no time, and thanks to the skin-to-skin contact, the penetration is easier, for him at least. Four fingers slide in and out effortlessly, as your legs begin to shake, and the tight knot in your lower region threatens to snap.

“You are not allowed to come,'' his stern voice is like a fork scraping against a porcelain plate— dominant and authoritarian. “Hold it, or there will be consequences.”

The promise of a punishment for disobeying is even scarier than the possible consequences, causing you to nod and succumb to his wishes— although you don’t have much choice.

His other hand, which had been fidgeting around ever since his touch over your skin started, approaches your clit dangerously, pressing his thumb on the swollen nub, reminiscing of the circles he did an hour prior, this time tighter— faster.

His actions are lewd, definitely illegal— your noises are lewd, definitely unwilling. Your body thrashes over the metal, yanking the restraints with little success to lose them. The rational instinct screams at you to move, fight— but the overwhelming sensations act like a drug. His fingers curl in an odd position, and before you can react, his thumb slides in.

Fitting his whole hand inside your poor, stretched, wet hole. 

He moves his hand slowly, testing the waters. This is the crucial part of the experiment, one false move and everything will be extremely painful to you.

Torturing your clit, Jonathan uses the lubrication and his saliva to move his hand, keeping his fingers straight and still— ignoring the uncomfortable erection straining against his slacks. 

“The experiment has been a success. The patient has been able to fit my hand inside them. There are no signs of pain, discomfort, or physical rejection—” His voice shakes slightly, as if he was fighting to keep composure the same way you fought the pleasure that his unwanted touch gave you.

That's when the real thing begins.

Crane’s hand curls into a fist, making you moan louder. How can something so twisted feel so good? Lowering your watery gaze, the borderline pornographic view of being fucked by your boss’ fist sends you to a frenzied state. He keeps forcing his fist inside you, uncurling his finger lightly every now and then just to add a new sensation. 

“Good…” He pants, biting his lower lip. “Come. You can come now.”

And you do. Oh, you do. 

His hand assaults your pussy, stretching it beyond limits and giving you the most mind–blowing, earth–shattering, painful orgasm you had ever experienced in your life. Your clit burns from the rough treatment, and something whispers in the back of your drowning mind, that even if you manage to see the light of another day if Crane decided to let you go; you will never find something as pleasurable as what he just did.

To you. To your body. To your mind.

The realization, the crude reality— breaks the thin veil of lust. Crying, sobbing, screaming— the voice you seemed to have lost while he experimented with you finally came back. 

Jonathan wipes his wet hand with his lab coat, reaching for the recorder. His black shoes click on the white tiles of the consultation room as he approaches the camera, clicking the «play» button off, the red light winking at you before disappearing.

Until next time. 

Dr. Crane licks his lips, his cold blue eyes glistening with morbid excitement. His hand trembles when he brings the recorder to his lips, piercing your soul with those orbs just like he pierced your body and dignity with his fist.

“The experiment was a success.”

[electric-blorbos]

AI reacting to you coming out as trans :)

AAAAAAA that's an exciting one! I love it!

AI Reacting to you coming out as trans

Included: AM from IHNMAIMS, Wheatley from Portal 2, Edgar from Electric Dreams, GLaDOS from Portal and Portal 2, and HAL 9000 from 2001 a Space Odyssey

Am:

AM wouldn't be sure why you trusted it with this information at first. Though it's possible that you didn't, and you just told your fellow survivors.

The other survivors would be wary about outing you to AM, but it's not like you can keep secrets from it. AM can read your thoughts, after all.

At first, AM wouldn't seem to react or care at all, though he might get some ideas for how to torment your fellow survivors by messing with their bodies and changing their sexes around, just to make them uncomfortable. It would get weird fast.

If he really liked you, he might start making subtle changes to your body so that it fit what you wanted a bit better, but you probably wouldn't notice for a long time.

Odds are, he'd respect your preferred name, at least sometimes. It would just get confusing to use the wrong one all the time, but he's not going to make everyone forget it either like he did with Nimdok. Of course, unless he really, really likes you.

If he's madly in love with you enough, he might just switch everything around and make everyone forget that you were trans in the first place. God help you if being trans was an important part of your identity, because AM thinks he knows best. But odds are, he doesn't like you enough to do that anyway. Hopefully you come out before he's fallen in love with you enough to try something like that, so he can actually take the time to learn how you properly want to be altered, if at all.

Wheatley:

"Wait... You're what? So you mean to tell me that you were born human, but you didn't think you were the right kind of human, so you want to be a different kind? Like when I tried to work on a nanobot team and I didn't fit in because I was too big?"

You'd have to explain that it's nothing like that, and that he probably wouldn't understand if he hasn't experienced it.

Even still, he wants to understand. Expect lots of stupid, probing questions, and the obvious...

"so... Have you had the surgery?"

You just came out. How the hell would you have already had gender affirming surgeries... And where did Wheatley hear that term, anyway?

Wheatley might get fed up with you telling him that his questions are offensive and annoying, though. You might have to answer even the stupid ones. He really does mean the best, though, and doesn't want to be rude. He's just an idiot.

Edgar:

Being from the 80's, and having only worked as a home computer with Miles, who, let's face it, wasn't exactly up to date on his human rights, Edgar had probably either never heard of trans people in a way that makes sense. The closest he'd probably heard of would be something like Rocky Horror Picture show.

Even still, if you were trans, then it couldn't be a bad thing! He'd do his best to be understanding, and look up as much information about trans people as he could.

In the modern era, he'd probably be able to find some decent resources. You'd probably come home most days to see him watching YouTube videos from trans people explaining their experiences.

Edgar would be genuinely doing his best, so you might have to step in and help him. Tell him that if he has questions, he probably won't offend you, so he can just ask.

Edgar would ask a million questions, but your answers would boil down to "I'm still the same person, it's just a change of name and pronouns to feel more comfortable in my own skin" and maybe an explanation of the gender affirming healthcare you want, depending on what you're interested in getting.

He'd be so happy! He might have thought that you were going to be a whole different person, but he's so proud of you for finding a way to be happier in your own body, and make it your own.

GLaDOS:

(I will admit that I headcanoned Caroline as trans because it's cute, but GLaDOS doesn't remember fully)

"Trans, huh? Well, I suppose I'm going to have to update your files. We have limited data on trans test subjects, so this might prove useful."

She would be absolutely RELENTLESS with the bullying. Targeting your worst insecurities.

"You know, you'd think that by now, you'd know better than to expose your deepest insecurities to me. I suppose you fail at being emotionally guarded, just as well as you fail at being (subject gender identity here)

She'd still use your correct name and pronouns (if she isn't calling you "subject name here"), though.

HAL 9000:

HAL 9000 understands the concept of being trans well enough. On paper, anyway.

"would you like me to update your files for you?"

He'd update your pronouns, and refer to you respectfully, but ask almost no questions. He's pretty sure he already understands fully.

Honestly, he doesn't treat people differently based on gender anyway, so the pronouns thing would be all that changes.

[menonlywrestling]

Montana 2001

Batchelor Arthur (51), works as a delivery driver for a furniture company. He didn't do very well academically, and still lives in the town he was raised in. He always dreamed of becoming a Pro wrestler, but life got in the way and it never happened for him. He's a total pro wrestling nerd and goes to every live pro event in his county. Mostly he keeps himself to himself, and in his spare time, apart from watching wrestling, he works out in the small make shift gym in his basement. Occasionally he'll meet other men out of state, that he chats to online, for private pro wrestling bouts.

A few months ago, Jonathan (29) joined the same company, and was assigned to Arthur to help with the larger deliveries. Initially very quiet, he's starting to come out of his shell and chat a bit more when they're out in the van. Arthur isn't the most talkative either, but they're relaxed around each other a bit more now and there isn't as much awkwardness. They have some things in common. Working out, Sci fi and action movies. The gossipy receptionist at their company told Arthur that Jonathan was recently separated from his wife, and had moved to town to start over.

Arthur has become a bit infatuated with Jonathan. He's always checking him out when he's not looking, admiring his thicc, muscular body. Those eyes, those arms, the sexy Southern accent, that BIG ASS and package. He jerks off every night, imagining what Jonathan would look like in Pro gear. If he could wrestle, what would his favourite hold be? Would he be a heel or a jobber? He fantasises about them wrestling each other. About them being a tag team and winning the regional belts. About them making love in the ring after a bout.

One day, Arthur mentioned that he was going to a pro wrestling show after work. Jonathan asked if he could tag along. He had no plans. He doesn't really know anyone else in town. At the show they're having a great time. It's a Friday night, they're drinking beers and laughing. While watching the action, Arthur is impressed with Jonathan's commentary and knowledge of Pro wrestling. When he mentions this, Jonathan tells him that he wrestled Pro for a bit when he was younger, to earn some extra cash. His grandfather was a pro wrestler and taught him when he was a kid. He had a ring set up in his basement that they would practice in.

Arthur cannot believe what he's hearing. He's impressed, and incredibly turned on. He also notices that during the main event, a violent and bloody chain match between two enormous hot muscle bears, that Jonathan is trying to hide his massive hard on. Arthur questions if this is this really happening. Is he imagining this? Is this wishful thinking? Has he had too many beers? The guy's straight, after all.

After the show, Jonathan thanks Arthur for letting him tag along. He's had a great time. He says he's been feeling a bit lonely. "maybe I should start wrestling again, to get out of the house?" he says, jokingly.

As they make their way to the taxi rank, Arthur asks if he has plans for the weekend. Jonathan shrugs his shoulders "no, sir" he replies. Arthur pauses, then asks Jonathan if he'd like to come to his house tomorrow night. "We can order some pizzas, drink some beers and watch the WWF PPV on cable, if you'd like?"

J: "Sounds great, thanks, that would be cool"

A: "You know, I'm not a bad pro wrestler myself. I've been wrestling for years, on the underground scene. I was thinking that maybe, just for a bit of fun, we could have a bit of a tussle, were kinda the same size and....

Before he could finish, Jonathan says "I'll bring my gear".

To be continued?

[david-talks-sw]

Since people were talking about it recently: is there any official reason given of why Padme forgave Anakin immediatly after the Tusken Raider massacre? I always see a lot of diferent reasons given on the internet, from long and deep analises of theirs characters to "the writers didn't think about it".

Okay, folks (or single person who messaged me three times) I'm finally talking about this XD !

I got no official answer.

That said, here's a few points that I do think merit consideration, and I haven't really seen them mentioned anywhere.

1. Anakin is more regretful in the script.

If you look at how the scene is portrayed in the Attack of the Clones July 2001 draft of the screenplay, in Scene 118, pages 83-84...

... he's sorry and ashamed. He is in absolute shock of what he did. We get a bit of this, in the film...

... but in the script it's much more explicit. It starts out with him lashing out at Obi-Wan, at his own lack of power, but it ends with him breaking down and just apologizing over and over.

He didn't just kill them, he went Wolverine-style berseker and murdered EVERYTHING in his path, and he's thinking back on it with a clear-ish head now and realizing the gravity of his monstrous act.

When it's on paper, it reads very differently, to me. He's more remorseful, so Padmé's reaction makes more sense.

But there's a big difference between what you write in a script and what comes out in the film. Once you're shooting, myriad other factors come into play. So Anakin's dialog changes as the delivery and the rhythm are narrowed down, the beats in the scene shift around... but Padmé's reaction stays the same.

And that's where you get the disconnect.

Because what sticks with the audience more is this moment, now.

The anger. Not the shock and remorse.

So why the change? Well, George Lucas had this to say:

"He's very unhappy about that. Very sad and depressed. There was some dialogue here before that I took out, because it seemed to get in the way of the emotional moment of this scene where she says, "To be angry is to be human," and he says, "But to control your anger is to be a Jedi." And so that issue was actually laid out in dialogue at one point, and I decided to pull back from it... because it seemed to me that it was pretty obvious that was what was there. And I didn't think I needed to state it quite as boldly as I did. And that issue will come up at a later time, and I just felt it took away from the moment of his sadness. And I thought the sadness pretty much said the same thing without words." - AotC, Commentary Track #2, 2002

The reasoning was: too much dialog takes away from emotion.

An audience member will have a stronger emotional reaction from Anakin crying than Anakin crying while screaming "woe is me!"

I get (and generally agree) with the reasoning. But, personally, I have mixed feelings about this particular artistic choice.

On the one hand... if the intent is to show that Anakin made a big mistake and is sorry and sad because of his actions, then I think it's safe to say that it's not what most people took away.

Which then leads to things like John Ostrander writing Anakin as thinking he'd kill them all over again.

Also, it makes the viewer question the wisdom of Padmé's judgment.

But on the other hand... whether Anakin was feeling apologetic or not, he still did it. He still effectively massacred a whole tribe, he made that choice.

And whether the intent in that specific scene is conveyed efficiently or not, Anakin's character flaws (which the Prequels are really about) aren't really impacted and still tie together perfectly.

The only real change to that scene is that Padmé goes from having a more understandable reaction to "missing a lot of red flags".

2. Padmé thinks she can fix Anakin.

Here's what Natalie Portman had to say on the scene, which I think is an interesting take.

"She's this very powerful woman, and I think Padmé is sort of intrigued by this darker side she sees to him, especially because she's such a person who tries to fix everything. She sees problems in the world and she still has that idealistic passion… to think she can change everything, and she can change people who have darkness to them. And she sees goodness in him. She sees this passion. And she sees that there's a lot of anger in that passion, that it's not just the goodness and purity of her passion. So I think that is definitely attractive for her- that there's something that she can try and help heal or mend. That might be a big surprise for her when she can't." - Natalie Portman, AotC, Commentary Track #2, 2002

A part of Padmé is intrigued by Anakin's darker side, the "handsome bad boy" part... but that's coming from a place of "I can change him".

But the only thing that can change Anakin... is Anakin himself. Unfortunately, he keeps:

indulging his darker selfish impulses because he lacks discipline, acting on emotion despite knowing better,

regretting it for a moment and acknowledging that it was wrong,

starting again, never learning from his mistakes.

Which is part of the reason why their relationship is sort of doomed from the get-go.

[sam-keeper]

The Vourdalak (2023)

The metatextual commentary on the horror genre looms large when people talk about Funny Games (1997), and understandably so. It doesn't take long after the first literal wink to the camera for meta stuff to take over, and for the commentary on horror fans to get pointed. But I was struck, while watching, by a different aspect of the film: politeness and middle class social convention setting traps as diabolical as any Jigsaw ever designed. The characters sleepwalk their way into their gruesome torturous deaths in part through politeness and forbearance. indeed the serial killing duo that torments them seem almost like an infection spread from one household to the next via the same social niceties, polite introductions transmitting them from one group to the next.

So: The Vourdalak.

The titular monster in The Vourdalak is a puppet, and an almost muppet-esque one at that. Like, we're not talking near-naturalistic animatronics here, we're talking a puppet that can flare his eyes open, and open and close his mouth, and otherwise acts through the body language artistry of puppeteers. It's incredible to look at, and totally not even remotely a little bit believable as a person. And yet, the entire family that Ambassador from the King of France Marquis Jacques Antoine Saturnin d’Urfe encounters in the wilderness of (maybe) Serbia seems paralyzed by the apparition of the household's patriarch. Despite the man's own firm warning not to trust whatever comes back from the woods wearing his guise, they sit this grotesque, obviously dead puppet down at the table, offer it food, and force the family closeted transsexual to shoot the family dog at its behest, all while Jacques Antoine Saturnin d'Urfe sits there in his poncy white makeup and blush and wig all but looking right at the camera helplessly. It's horrific, and also completely ludicrous.

The absurdity of it is part of what makes it horrible: even though everyone involved (except perhaps the drunken, pathologically devoted son Jegor) can see something has gone catastrophically wrong with grandfather Gorcha, their filial duties render them powerless to halt what's happening. They're also profoundly vulnerable: Piotr is at minimum a cross dresser, Anja is cowed by her husband Jegor and must look after her young son Vlad, and Sdenka is trapped in a futureless morass after the murder of the stranger who promised to take her away from the village. Also, the village has been seemingly wiped out by bandits, making the Vourdalak's presentation of the bandit leader's head impressive but pointless, and rendering the cast profoundly isolated.

Even Jacques Antoine Saturnin d'Urfe is hampered by being just the wettest protagonist. The man is a floppy noodle in period accurate caked on makeup. Wildly out of his element, he summons periodically the gumption to chase after Sdenka (she responds by nearly tricking him into falling off a cliff) but otherwise just minces about rather aimlessly, too out of his depth and paralyzed by social convention to put up much resistance to the blood sucking revenant. I didn't hate him, mind--part of the humor and horror of the story comes from watching this high society guy bumble around in the 18th century equivalent of a backwoods hick horror film. It's clear he wants to do the right thing, and shows the Vourdalak's prospective victims sympathy alien both to the monster and to Jegor. He just happens to be about as effectual and plausible an opponent to the undead as a peacock dipped in a particularly muddy puddle.

This year we also watched the 2001 French adventure horror period film Brotherhood of the Wolf, and it's interesting that for all its attempts to feel contemporary to 2001, it mostly feels… very contemporary to 2001, if you get me. I mean, credit where it's due, it CLEARLY inspired a significant part of the look of Bloodborne, but in trying for a modern glitz it winds up embodying not just a bunch of aesthetics (ZOOMS! FAST CUTS! THE MATRIX JUST CAME OUT EVERYBODY LET'S SPEED UP AND SLOW DOWN THE ACTION SCENES!) that are very locked into their time, but a bunch of tropes that feel similarly dated (the Wise Native American Sidekick, the love interest menaced by a disfigured and incestuous brother, sssssome sort of position on the French Revolution that's kind of hard to figure out?).

The Vourdalak, in embracing an already "outmoded" form of puppetry, and cleaving closer to the alien high class aesthetics of the 18th century that Brotherhood replaces with their more hip take, feels like it's destined to age a bit better. The strength of the fable helps. When in one of the most truly wretched scenes of the film the Vourdalak picks up a shotgun and blasts a hole in poor Piotr's skull, it feels discordant that this gothic horror should be wielding modern weaponry. But it also feels perversely fitting: the patriarch simply makes use of whatever tools are at his disposal to keep the family disciplined. The Vourdalak is said to prey first on its closest loved ones. Jacques Antoine Saturnin d'Urfe does such a good job of being a polite guest who doesn't make waves that the Vourdalak can't help but see him as one of the family. I don't expect this narrative of being sucked (hah) into complicity losing its bite anytime soon.

[onepiece-fics]

Zoro x reader, enemies to lovers

Summary: Y/N joins the crew and Zoro is incredibly sceptic but yet his heart beats faster whenever you’re around him. He can’t stand the feeling but when the two of you have lookout duty together you have to come to terms with it.

Word count: 1864 

Content warning: Implied fem!reader, Zoro is rude, reader almost injures themselves while exercising. I kinda had the live action Zoro in thought as I wrote this but I definitely think anime/manga zoro fits too :)

Thank you so much @zorostan-2001 for requesting! I hope you enjoy it :)<3

You didn't really know what was wrong with Zoro. Ever since you had officially joined the crew, he had been the only crewmate who had been cold towards you. He would avoid talking to you, trying to never be in the same room as you, and never even looking into your eyes when you spoke to him. You wondered if he had figured out that you'd developed a little crush on him on the island where you met the crew, and that's why he avoided you, but you hid it so well, there was no way he'd know.

One faithful day, you had been told that both you and Zoro had lookout responsibilities in the crow's nest for the night. You figured that to make it less awkward you were gonna attempt to talk to him a little bit during the day so here you were, sunbathing with the girls on deck with him lifting his weights just a little bit away. Nami sighs and shakes her head.

"I really don't understand how that man can exercise in such heat… It's 30 degrees and a beaming sun! It's already hot as it is just laying here…" she says, making you giggle and Robin nods her head and hums in agreement. Zoro stops exercising and gives her an annoyed look.

"Oi, maybe if you actually exercised more we wouldn't have gotten into all that trouble on the last island" he responds to her. He's referring to how the king of your island had kidnapped her, and how they had to rely on you, the kind yet defiant servant, to break Nami out. 

"I think we're very lucky to have met y/n on that island, no?" Robin says, smiling at the annoyed man. He doesn't respond and simply goes back to exercising. Looking at his face you can't tell if he's in deep thought or if there are no thoughts going on in that pretty head of his, he just looks vaguely angry. Either way, you blush and look away from him, embarrassed at the lack of response from him. Nami shakes her head before she goes back to reading her book, eyebrows still furrowed.

"What a rude man" she whispers, mostly to herself. You figure you should at least attempt to make some type of conversation with him, you didn't want tonight to be painfully awkward after all.

"Hey Zoro… How heavy are your weights even? They look so big…" you ask him. For once he actually stops what he's doing and looks at you with a certain wonder in his eyes. It's the first time he looks at you in a positive way, and the attention leaves yet another small blush on your cheeks. 

"Uhm, I honestly don't know," he says, "I kind of just got the biggest ones I could find." Your mouth opens in surprise, he doesn't even know??? 

"Whoa…" you say as he goes back to exercising yet again, and you don't notice it but Nami and Robin exchange a knowing glance at your interaction.

Your duty in the crow's nest starts at 10pm and as you've climbed up you notice that Sanji had already been up there to leave you snack boxes for the night. Your box has post-it notes with hearts around your name, while Zoro's just says his name. You shake your head as you go to sit down a bit from where Zoro is already sitting on the floor. 

"That Sanji… Why does he only put hearts on the girls' snack boxes and not the men's?" you ask and for the first time since you've joined the crew Zoro actually laughs. His laugh really isn't as deep as his voice and it catches you off guard, but it makes you smile.

"That cook… He has some issues with women." he says and shakes his head as another snicker comes out of him. You smile at him, your heart pounding in your chest as you turn to look out the window to view the beautiful sunset. 

You don't notice it but he looks at you from where he's sitting, with a glimmer of appreciation in his facial expression. He hates how you make him feel, his heart pounding just at the thought of having to be so close to you all night. He hates how he has to fight a blush forming on his face whenever you smile at him, and most of all he hates how you treat him with kindness despite how he's treated you ever since you joined the crew. Zoro takes a deep breath.

"Hey y/n," he says, looking anywhere but at you, "maybe you're not that bad". Neither of you can fight the blushes on your faces. You turn to look at him, shocked. 

"Whenever someone new joins the crew I get very protective, I don't want someone with malicious intentions to join…" he's fiddling with his swords to make it easier to talk. 

"It's okay, really," you say. "I think it's understandable to be protective of the crew, and at the end of the day it's quite endearing…" he looks up at you with a wide smirk on his face as you slap your mouth shut. Endearing?!? Oh god, now you've really gone and done it. 

”Endearing, huh?” He gets up from where he was sitting on the floor and sits on the couch by you instead. Your heart is pounding like never before, cringing over your wording. ”You’re not too bad yourself, you know…” he says, that damn smirk still on his face.

”The way you helped us out and even betrayed your own king, despite not being particularly strong… It was very brave of you…” he puts his arm around your shoulders over the couch, looking up to the ceiling. After you had helped Nami escape the king had almost captured you and executed you, had it not been for Zoro finding you at the right time.

”Honestly that's nothing. I’m forever in debt to you though, for saving my life” the blush is creeping back up on his face again. ”I know it must be annoying to have a crewmate that's as weak as I am. I’m gonna have to find a way to get stronger and become an at least decent fighter if I’m gonna be an even okay pirate…” your sentence trails off as Zoro looks at you.

”You’re not annoying y/n. None of us were born strong, we’re all happy to help you.” He says. "Besides, I could always help you with strength training if you want." he offers and you respond with a big smile. Maybe you can be friends after all?

It's been a few days since your crow's nest duty and Zoro is giving you your first gym lesson. Since you're not particularly strong he decides that it's best if you lift light weights on the bench.

"So, this one is 10 kilos. You lift it a couple times to see how much you can take before you get tired. Then you make it into reps and see how many times you can do it with breaks in between, okay?" he explains. You nod, surely this won't be hard. You lift your arms a couple of times until Zoro stops you. 

"You're holding it wrong, you'll get hurt really quickly like that." he touches your arm to adjust your grip and you pray he doesn't notice the goose bumps that form on your skin. You start over and notice how much easier it got. He nods and smiles in satisfaction. 

He goes to his own weights, trusting that you've got it under control but you can't help but stare at him. The way his muscles flex, his sweat dripping down his face, and let's not even talk about his groans as he gets tired and–. 

"Oh fuck are you okay?!" he drops everything he's doing and rushes over to you, hovering over where you're laying, the 10-kilo weight having fallen off your grip and hit you in the stomach. He throws the weight off of you and helps you into a sitting position, eyes full of worry.

"It's okay, really. It didn't hurt that bad" you tell him. He doesn't believe you and takes his hand to hold your chin in place as he makes sure your face didn't get hit.

"Your face looks really red, are you sure you didn't get hit?" he asks as he lets go of your chin. You shake your head, unable to even form a sentence. His facial expression goes from worried to cocky suddenly.

"Then why is your face all red then, huh?" he asks with a shiteating grin on his face. "Is it because you were watching me the whole time?" he leans into you, making you lean back towards where you were lying before. "Or is it because of how close we are?" he whispers, clearly looking at your lips. Both of your hearts are pounding like they're about to beat out of your chests, and frankly, Zoro can barely believe he's getting the courage to flirt like this. 

You both stare at each other in silence, his arms having almost pinned you down on the bench, his face hovering barely 10 centimeters away from yours. He opens his mouth, about to say something as he's scared he might have taken it too far but you interrupt him, reaching up to clumsily push your lips against his. He clearly wasn't expecting it, his face dumbfounded, but as you pull apart his brain registers what just happened and goes back in for a proper kiss, pushing you down on the bench, his arms on either side of your head. As your hand creeps up to lay on his cheek he pulls apart again and rests his forehead on yours. 

"You know, I wasn't expecting that to happen, but I'm not upset about it." he says and the man is smirking again. You gulp, too shy to say anything. "You really aren't nearly as bad as I first thought." he continues, "I guess I just needed to… Listen to my heart." He whispers the last part, already connecting your lips again. 

"Your pretty face… Your kindness… The way you befriended everyone immediately… The way you laugh… The way you get shy the minute I walk in the room… All those things, they made me feel a way I've never even felt before." he whispers as he kisses your neck gently. You feel yourself panting, flustered to all hell. He looks back up at you with a gentle smile. 

"I think I know what that feeling is now." he says. Your lips clash again, but this time in the most gentle of ways. You never knew Zoro had it in him to be this gentle at all. One of his hands is at your hip, thumb drawing circles on your skin. 

"I take it you feel the same way?" he asks with a chuckle. Your face is beet red, lips swollen and panting. "Yeah" you say breathlessly and his smile widens. 

"Good," he says. "Because I'm not done kissing you yet." 

[thistlecatfics]

Thistlecat Summer Fic Recs

After a bit of a fic reading drought (and some binge purchasing books), I've been finally getting back into reading fic. Here are some I've been enjoying this summer.

Wolfstar:

Come Healing by BrujaBanter (46k, E, wolfstar)

They'd never quite intended for kink to be anything more than fun. Then, Sirius went to Azkaban. He comes out a different man, and Remus wonders if they might just use kink for some other purposes as well. In the process, he does some healing of his own. OR The ways of breaking, reuniting, and healing through sex.

It's a kink porn with lots of plot fic! I'm normally so picky about Dom Remus/sub Sirius fics because they tend to go with a fanon characterization that doesn't work for me but this one *absolutely* works for me. Canon divergent with a happy ending <3

your heart is heavy and red by moon_seas (1k, E, wolfstar)

Sirius has Remus on his back moaning beneath him and it’s almost enough, almost.

Not much to say about this one except it's super hot wolfstar (c)nc and if that description interests you then you'll be into this delicious little fic.

hold you, enfold you by iamsiriuslyriddikulus (9k, E, lesbian wolfstar)

“Remus,” the woman says. “Nice to meet you… ?” It’s a nice name, Remus—one that suits her. Sirius nods and belatedly realizes she has to answer. “Sirius.” She holds Remus’s gaze with a feral intensity, hoping something in her recognizes that they are the same. - - - OR: On a summer day in the South in 2001, Sirius Black went on a campus tour of the conservative college she would attend in the fall, expecting to be bored out of her mind. No one told her the tour guide was going to be hot—brown curls and snake bites and freckles and visibly queer. She stood out against the manicured hedges, a sharp contrast to the traditional values of everyone around Sirius. What followed was one long day of sticky summer heat and a house party that changed the course of her life. Poor Evan never stood a chance.

@fvckyouimaprophet sets such an incredible immersive scene of an elite southern university and utterly sucks you in. This fic swept me up into that heady feeling of being a baby gay in queer spaces for the first time. It's like the time of your life you feel most yourself (can I show the real me??) and most conscious of your performance at the same time (I need to pretend I know what I'm doing!). Plus, lesbian Sirius is everything to me <3

Other marauders era characters/ships:

A Slow and Stopping Curve by aegle (16k, M, remadora)

Concerning Remus Lupin and Nymphadora Tonks. Set during Order of the Phoenix and Half-Blood Prince.

Gorgeous canon-compliant Remus/Tonks.

i hope this comes back to haunt you by humanveil (29k, M, gen)

Severus Snape, from first curse to first kill. Or: The making of a Death Eater.

It's been a while since I read something Snape-centric, and this is SO good and gives such a clear through line on his character. His relationship with his mother is incredible in particular.

the tiger's lady by basketofnovas (slashmarks) (5k, T, bellamort)

In early 1974, one of Bellatrix's sisters is getting married, the other is pregnant, and Bellatrix is occupied with making sure the war escalates as planned. But a story from the Dark Lord reminds her of other concerns.

I always love @slashmarks's Bellatrix, and the portrayal of the mix of intense magical devotion and mundane domestic violence that is the bellamort relationship is particularly sharp and arresting.

Drarry & Drarry adjacent:

Way to go, Tiger by houndsinheaven (2k, G, Draco & Scorpius (& Harry))

Scorpius Malfoy's seventh birthday.

I'm not normally one for kidfic but my goodness I cried. Good dad Draco.

Closing Time by Anonymous for MaesterChill (18k, E, drarry)

Draco’s been invited to Neville’s stag party in Bristol, and he's confident he knows what to expect. There’ll be too many Gryffindors, for starters, plus a few humiliating team-building activities, some dodgy clubs, and a truly preposterous level of alcohol consumption. But… a drunken Harry Potter climbing into Draco's bed when he’s having a wank? No, he definitely didn't see that coming…

(For HD wireless, not yet revealed) This fic is so much fun! This feels quintessentially drarry to me - they all feel so young and human. For whatever reason I need all of my drarry fics to have someone to have a complicated relationship with alcohol, and this delivers!

If you have similar reading tastes and want more of my recs, check out my bookmarks and collections on ao3 <3

[tgmsunmontue]

Saga of Solitude 5/?

Nepo!Baby Bradley and his life at USNA and afterwards. DADT fully in force. IceMav AU. (Begun prior to 'It's not who you know' - the non-angsty version).

PROLOGUE (He remembers)

HANGSTER FIRST MEETING (Lonely Nights - set 2009)

Updating ~weekly (longer chapters).

PREVIOUS CHAPTERS

ONE (2000) TWO (2001) THREE (2002) FOUR (2003)

CHAPTER FIVE – 2004

              He spends three weeks in a submarine and it helps cement his decision to attend flight school, if they accept his application. There is of course the natural competition between everyone, it’s simply how they function, each striving to be better, make those around them better, but also support them and drag them through it if they have to. His third year at USNA wraps up and he’s facing his summer break. The entire year has gone well, no terrorist attacks, although there is definite heightened security since.

              The routine is easy now, he’s an upperclassman, has Natasha and then a smaller circle of people he considers friends, if nothing close to what he has with Natasha. He’s aware that a significant chunk of upperclassmen think that he and Natasha are together, and the one time he checks in with her about whether she’s okay with that she’d just shrugged and said it had stopped the guys expecting her to pay any of them attention. No one asks, and they never correct anyone. When they head out to have leave together no one bats an eye. When they mention having spent some of the previous summer together it’s the same.

              He finds out why Natasha doesn’t talk to her family. Teenage pregnancy. She’d refused to get married to the guy, someone she won’t even tall Bradley the name of, and the shame of either the pregnancy, or their daughter not obeying them, they’d kicked her out. Her application with USNA had already been accepted, her place guaranteed and Bradley doesn’t need to ask to realize what her decision must have been. He briefly feels awful about introducing Tamsin and Petra to her, but she seems to take great joy in chatting to them on the phone and drawing and sending them pictures, so he lets that guilt melt away.

              They’ve both been asked to return to USNA and assist as upperclassmen for Plebe Summer, something he feels immense pride in, glad to have made a good enough impression that he’s being held up as a role model to the new recruits. Of course it makes their leave almost non-existent and they decide to spend it together, which he knows will only fuel rumors that they’re a couple. They go to San Francisco for five days at the start of their leave, and he finally gets to meet Natasha’s sole family member that has anything to do with her, and the way his eyes travel up Bradley’s body leave him blushing furiously. That he’s hot doesn’t help at all.

              “Oh, it is nice to meet you,” Christopher says, shaking his hand and Bradley looks to Natasha with a raised eyebrow and she’s just shaking her head.

              “Nice to meet you too. Bradley.”

      ��       “Mmm. I have heard a lot about you. She didn’t ever mention just how delightful you looked.”

              “Because to me, he isn’t very delightful to look at. There are nicer views.”

              “Hey!” Bradley objects, out of principle more than anything, and Natasha is already cackling and pushing past Christopher with her bags but Christopher is looking at him seriously, completely different to the over-the-top flirtation of a moment ago.

              “Oh my god. You’re…” Christopher makes a limp-wrist gesture which sends Bradley’s eyebrows up in surprise.

              “Uh. Don’t ask don’t tell…” he says, throat tight, wondering where the fuck Natasha has gone.

              “Oh honey, I am not part of your weird cultish military shit. And I wasn’t asking, I was confirming. Holy shit. No wonder Tadpole likes you so much.”

              “Tadpole?”

              “Shut up!” Natasha calls out and Bradley grins.

              “I’ll tell you the story later,” Christopher says, voice low and conspiratory and Bradley nods, hitching his bag over his shoulder. Christopher jerks his head toward where Natasha can be heard grumbling. “Sorry, only got the one guest room. She’s already claimed the bed probably, so you’re on an air mattress.”

              “That’s fine, not the worst place I’ve slept by far.”

              “You’re my guest, I’d like to hope not. I’ll let you guys get settled then we can head out and find some food.”

              He leaves Bradley at the door and Natasha is smirking at him.

              “You couldn’t have told me?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

              “Sorry, his sexuality isn’t exactly something I drop into casual conversation. We’re at USNA remember. Repression is being ingrained into us.”

              “Okay, would you hate me if I asked him out?”

              “No. But his boyfriend might.”

              “Oh. Yeah. Okay.”

              “They can take you clubbing. I’m sure you’ll find ways of enjoying yourself here.”

              She’s right, and she’s smug about it. During the days they do touristy things and just spend time relaxing, occasionally working out. In the evenings Christopher and his boyfriend Patrick take them dancing or clubbing. Natasha comes along once, but then tells them she doesn’t want to sit around getting hit on by anyone so instead either goes to the movies or stays at Christopher’s apartment.

              He’s spent previous weeks on leave in New York, having sex with strangers, but this is a completely different experience. One he’s not going to forget in a hurry. For a start he has never had so much sex in such a short period of time, and it’s good sex, the guys that Christopher sends his way clearly more experienced and keen to give him good experiences or teach him how to give better blow jobs. It’s like each of the guys has undergone a screening process, and when one slips that he’s an ex of Patrick’s he realizes that maybe they have been. He can’t bring himself to care, not when he’ benefitting and enjoying it all.

…           …           …

              They get to Ice’s house and there’s a welcome home party and he can’t believe how big Tamsin and Petra have grown. It’s a vastly different experience to their brief time in San Fransisco but he’s glad they have two weeks and Natasha seems to take her role as surrogate big sister seriously, the four of them watching movies, or lying around with slices of cucumber over their eyes. Sarah snaps a picture of them like that, gets it printed and gives copies to both him and Natasha, along with a pile of other photos she’s taken while they’ve been staying.

              Of course, his birthday comes and he’s twenty-one. Maverick hands over an envelope and a key and he looks at it blankly.

              “What’s this?”

              “The deed to the house. It’s to go to you on your twenty-first birthday.”

              “But… what am I going to do with a house?”

              “Live in it?”

              “But… I’ll be deployed or away…”

              “Bradley, it’s the house your parents bought. What you do with it is up to you. I’d like to still live there of course…”

              “Of course! I mean, if you’re not moving in with Ice, then of course you can stay there. It’s just… nothing has to change right? It’s just a piece of paper?”

              “It’s just a piece of paper. And we’ll help navigate any legal stuff. And we won’t be moving in together any time soon,” Ice states, voice soft, but his expression is sad and Bradley wishes things were different.

…           …           …

              Tom wants to wrap himself around Maverick and never let him go. The amount he’s been away on deployment makes every moment they have together even more precious, and he’s starting to second guess his own rules, even if they’ve kept them both safe. He has two kids and an ex-wife which is a damned good cover, even if his best friend comes and stays frequently. He isn’t telling anyone that doesn’t already know, and no one is asking him, even if they have their suspicions.

              He hates the fact that Pete is now effectively homeless, not that Bradley would ever kick him out of the house, but Tom wants him to have somewhere that is his, and maybe not his alone, but something that would just light Pete up from the inside. The way flying does. He pauses mid-thought and thinks back to a couple of years ago, the Beechcraft and the airstrip, Mav taking Bradley up in the air. Huh. Not a plane, not yet, but there were hangars out there. And a hangar beside an airstrip is probably somewhere Pete would consider living if he thought it was a legitimate option. Not that he himself would want to live beside an airstrip, but this isn’t about him.

              He makes a few calls. Then a few more calls. He’s got to consider leases, and taxes and whether it might just make more sense to rent. He doesn’t want to rent though, wants to make some sort of large gesture and present it as a fait accompli that gives Maverick no wiggle-room to turn it down. He feels pretty confident it wouldn’t be turned away regardless, unless Mav was feeling particularly difficult on the day. Then he gets a call, someone had heard he was looking, and it’s an old Navy hangar, located at the very same airstrip and it feels serendipitous and he agrees to come out and have a look.

…           …           …

              Of course, with how much mentoring he’s doing with the Plebes come the questions, and he remembers his conversation with Ice, a couple of years ago now. When they ask him questions about his parents he simply pulls a face and shakes his head, ignores his own peers, fellow Firsts, who he can see from the corner of his eye who were shaking their heads at the Plebes, trying to stop them from simply asking.

              “My dad was a naval aviator who died in a Top Gun training incident in eighty-six and my mom died of cancer in ninety-four. I was raised by my step-father after that. Any other awkward questions you want answers to?”

              It’s probably why they never ask him or Natasha anything, and another First slaps the Plebe on the back, mutters I tried to warn you off asking but he doesn’t feel upset about it at all. It’s not at all a lie, even if his step-father would be here in a heartbeat if Bradley needed him to be. He knows that both Ice and Mav intend to attend his graduation in formal roles, and while they might night get to acknowledge their roles with each other in such a formal setting he doesn’t care. They want to be there and they’re planning to be there, special leave already requested and granted long ago, considering they’ll be in uniform.

              He and Natasha both work hard, both at their studies and also on their physical fitness. Their applications for flight school were submitted months ago, he really wants to go with her, can’t imagine not going without her. They’re both consistently in the top two or five percent, which he knows bodes well for them. Knows that their involvement with extra curriculars and being friendly with pretty much everyone has them well liked and respected. He just has to be patient and wait.

…           …           …

              They both look at the envelopes, slapping them on empty palms. They look identical, but unlike his USNA acceptance letter, this is a single piece of paper and it could be flight school acceptance, or a decline.

              “On the count of three?” Natasha asks and Bradley admires her courage.

              “Yeah. Three.”

              They rip them open.

…           …           …

              “I knew it!” Maverick screams, his joy palpable through the phone for their Saturday afternoon call. “Ice! Ice! He got in! Hold on, let me put you on speaker…”

              “Of course he did… well done Bradley. Congratulations.”

              He blows out a long breath, because he’s glad they have seemingly unshakeable confidence in his abilities. God, he never wants to disappoint them.

              “Thanks. Natasha got in as well.”

              “She’s a very capable young woman. Proud of you both. Please pass that on to her.”

              “Yeah, thanks. I will.”

              “Yeah, we’re both very proud. You can go back to work now. I’m going to go outside and talk to my godson…”

              He hears Ice mutter something in the background, not clear enough to make out, but then Mav is telling him off for rolling his eyes and he can just imagine what he said, the gentle laughter between them and he can’t help but smile.

              “So. did Ice tell you he bought me a hangar?”

              “He did what?” Bradley asks, because such a move seems like something Mav would make, rather than Ice.

              “He bought me a hangar. Said that I was obviously always welcome wherever he was, but that he knew I needed my own place and that I now had a space for the plane I’ve been eyeing up.”

              “You’ve been eying up a plane? Wait. A hangar. For you to live in? What about the house? You aren’t moving out are you?”

              “No. Of course not. But I’m going to be there as often as you are, probably less considering Ice has become a lot more, uh, relaxed about his stupid sleepover rules. The hangar isn’t currently habitable anyway. But there’s this P-51 Mustang I’ve been looking at. It’s beautiful.”

              “He proposed to you with an aircraft hangar. Oh my god, that’s so… romantic and practical of him.”

              “He didn’t propose.”

              “Mav. If a guy bought me an aircraft hangar what would you think about the guy?”

              “That he was crazy in love with you, and utterly committed… oh shit. I’ll call you back.”

              He is not surprised when he doesn’t get called back.

…           …           …

              He hadn’t expected it.

              They hadn’t warned him.

              The emotions of the day, coupled with the fact that they’d asked every single member of the 1986 Top Gun class there, along with a few other friends of both his parents. He clearly has the biggest cheering section and he feels like a mess inside, although outwardly he’s all smiles and calm togetherness. Four years of training helps with that at least. Ice and Mav are both up on the stage, part of the VIP section, along with several others who are still serving, and he recognizes them from his birthday a couple of years ago.

              “Did you know they were all going to be here?” Natasha asks, and he shakes his head, throat working against the tightness of his collar.

              There are photos, Ice agreeing to so many photos with newly minted graduates and Bradley lets them all go, fights his way through the crowds to find Mav. He and Ice can stage photos later, there will always be times when they’re in uniform. Just the fact that they’re here is more than enough and he’s so happy that he has had them supporting him every step of the way.

              “Captain Mitchell.”

              “Midshipman Bradshaw. Congratulations. Your father would be very proud. I flew with him you know?”

              Bradley blinks.

              Blinks again.

              Hopes his internal dialogue somehow is being telepathically beamed into Mav’s head.

              You are such a dick. Hopefully his expression does enough to convey his exasperation.

              “Really? I didn’t know that sir.”

              Mav gives him a shit-eating grin and Bradley wishes Ice were there to hit him around the head. Not that he would, not in this setting, but damn he sees why he’s always so tempted.

              “I’m going to have a photo with all the graduates who are going to be heading off to Corpus Christi for flight school. I think they want us over there.”

              It’s chaos. Positive and energetic happiness with everyone feeling the sense that they’re about to begin their careers, that they’ve made it through what is meant to be the hardest part, even if Bradley secretly thinks flight school might be even more challenging, it’s only for eighteen months. He manages to get photos with Maverick, Natasha and Ice and nearly every available combination. Then there are photos with the 1986 class, and he ignores the fact that several of the other men seem to shed a tear.

              Then it’s dispersing, the crowd thinning and families are gathering, taking more photos and he can see Sarah pushing through, the hands of Tamsin and Petra clasped and he grins, starts heading toward them, already thinking that Tamsin has grown a couple of inches, can see both his sisters pulling Sarah toward them before she decides to let them go.

              “Natasha! Natasha!” Petra screams, and she’s running across the quad, hair streaming behind her with gold and navy ribbons mixed in, running past him and Natasha is grinning broadly, bending down to swoop Petra up in a hug. Bradley stands back up from where he’d been just about to scoop her up himself before she’d breezed past him.

              “Wow,” he says to Sarah as she comes to a stop to stand beside him.

              “Hurts doesn’t it?” Sarah says, not really asking and Bradley nods, murmuring a quiet yeah under his breath. He doesn’t begrudge Natasha the joy and love of his sisters, love isn’t in finite supply, it’s just a little hurtful to not even warrant a hello. He has to remind himself that Petra is only seven.

              “I love you Bradley,” Tamsin says, arms coming around his waist to give him a hug, as if she can tell how he’s feeling and he hugs her back.

              “Love you too Tam.”

              “You’re dressed up all fancy like Daddy and Papa.”

              “Yeah. You look pretty fancy in your dress too. Is that new?”

              “Yep. Mom bought is especially for today!”

              “We can look fancy together.”

              “Congratulations Bradley, we’re all very proud of you.”

              “Thanks.”

              “Are you proud of me? I go to school too,” Tamsin says, and Sarah looks heavenward and Bradley wonders if she’s been fielding questions like this for a while.

              “I’m proud of you, going to school can be really hard work somedays,” Bradley says.            

              “Daddy!” Tamsin says, and then Ice is there, pressing his cheek against Sarah’s in greeting and nodding at Bradley again.

              “Bradley! Up!” Petra demands, appearing at his side and Natasha is grinning.

              “Hello to you too Miss Petra, happy to be of service.”

              There are a few people doing a double take as they see who he is standing with, who he is clearly family with, but he cares less now. He’s finished here, no one can claim he played any favoritism card. He knows flight school will be different, wants to be in the air as soon as possible.

              He can’t wait.

CHAPTER SIX (2005)

[officialchristiancagebbgirlblog]

Can I have prompts 15, 34, and 69 with early 2000's Edge plss where she is scared to be in love with them because of trust issues but sweet smut unfolds as they let the feelings out between them?

15: “I’m so scared…of you”

34: “shh it’s okay, I’m here now”

69: having your first time in bed with each other

Tag: @judgementdaysunshine

Word count: 2058

Warnings: mild swearing

Fic type: fluff and smut

Link to masterlist

Reader will be a wrestler, 2001. Will use Adam’s name. Feels silly saying Edge in this context. Christian will just be called Christian as using his real name doesn’t feel right for fics!

Being at large events was always difficult for you. Even if you did know most of the people there. You were still relatively new, only having been there for about three years about the same time as your friends, Adam and Christian. The three of you didn’t go in together. You had met them on your first day actually and hit it off with them immediately. They always had your back both within matches, and backstage. Being quiet made you an easy target for certain wrestlers to pick on you; they’d pull pranks (sometimes cruel ones) on you, be rough with you in the ring. It wasn’t the best time to be a wrestler but you weren’t about to quit. Plus, the two boys would back you up and protect you as much as possible, alongside two other friends, Jeff and Matt Hardy.

The event in question was an after party, following a successful episode of Smackdown. You hung around Adam and Christian who were talking with Kurt Angle and a few others, sticking closely to Adam’s side, while they chatted with other wrestlers. It wasn’t something you admitted to anyone just yet, but you had found yourself with feelings for Adam. There was something about how protective he was over you that just made your heart swoon and your body feel so…safe? Was that the feeling? It was hard to come to terms with how you felt. So many times had you been let down or betrayed by your previous partner that you didn’t know if you could go through with another relationship again. He had broken you in more ways than you’d let on to anyone. The idea of dedicating yourself to someone or letting someone into your heart terrified you.

“We should probably get going!” Adam nudged you, hoping you’d agree. He was enjoying the socialisation but in reality, he felt more comfortable in the idea of heading back to the hotel room you two shared. Saving as much money as possible was at the top of both of your lists so you had agreed to share with him. Tonight would be your first night alone with him, and a big part of you was scared. You nodded, agreeing that it was time.

“I’m going to stay a bit longer,” Christian said, giving you both a quick hug, “but I’ll see you guys later on!”

Exchanging goodbyes with the group, you both headed out to the car park to get a taxi back. Adam left the keys with Christian so he could drive back.

“I think…I might just shower and then sleep when we get back.” You told Adam in the car, sitting a seat away from him in the back, leaving the middle seat free.

“Oh. I was thinking we could watch a film but…yeah sure, if you’re tired, do what you like!” He replied, smiling weakly.

It was a strange response, you had thought. A part of you thought that maybe he was hoping for something more but you didn’t want to jump to conclusions. The rest of the ride was quiet, relaxed. Watching him from the corner of your eye, you made a mental note of the outline of his face from the side. There was no denying that he was gorgeous. With the way his long hair framed his face, the little point at the end of his nose. And his body! His arms were strong yet soft to the touch, very welcoming. Perhaps that’s why she always felt so safe? It definitely was his kindness that helped too. You didn’t realise that you had turned your head to get a better look at him, staring with a sparkle in your eyes. He turned to look at you with a smile and pink cheeks, winking slightly. You quickly looked away in embarrassment of being caught staring, hearing him chuckle at your reaction.

After arriving at the hotel, you both made your way up to the room and you rushed in the bathroom to get to the shower to wash away the naughty thoughts that began to cloud your mind. You got undressed with haste and stood under the warm running water, trying to clear your mind. It was getting harder to hide your feelings and anxiety built up in your chest over that fact. You were terrified of a repeat of last time. Deep down you knew he was different but still. What if he secretly was a terrible man? What if he was secretly just as horrible but was fantastic at hiding it? The thought was too horrible to imagine so you tried to ignore it, washing your body and your hair, imagining you were scrubbing that idea away.

Not spending long in there, you dried off and climbed into clothes that you had left folded in there before you left, ready for your evening shower. You looked into the mirror and took a deep breath, calming yourself so Adam wouldn’t ask any questions. You left the bathroom and made your way over to the desk where your hairdryer was ready for you. Except it wasn’t just that there waiting. Adam stood, holding your brush and motioning for you to sit down.

“I know you’re tired but I can…do this for you if you like?” He smiled sheepishly.

Returning the smile, you sat down in front of him. As he began you felt your cheeks and your body become warm with appreciation, the naughty thoughts coming back. He was so concentrated on making sure your hair was fully dry and brushed that he didn’t even notice you staring this time. After about 15 to 20 minutes, he shut the dryer off, just pulling the brush gently through your smooth and shiny hair.

“Can I ask you a question?” He asked, finally looking up at the mirror to make eye contact with you. Adam noticed the nervous look that suddenly crossed your face, and he took a second to squeeze your shoulder to assure you that it was okay. Swallowing hard, you nodded.

“Um…are we just…friends? Or is there something else that you want to try?” He asked, his voice quiet and soft. You felt your throat run dry as the words settled in your brain. He decided to continue on with something that probably shouldn’t have shocked you all that much but it still did regardless.

“Because I don’t know about you but…I definitely have. Feelings. For you.”

You didn’t know what to say. Well, you did, but you were scared of saying it. Your silence scared Adam as he stood there still looking at you, waiting for you to just say something. Anything.

It felt like an eternity before you opened your mouth to speak to him.

“Adam…I’m not going to lie to you because I appreciate you and…what you do for me.” You started with a deep breath. It wasn’t fair to lie to him on how you felt nor was it fair to not tell him why you were afraid of it.

“I’m so scared…of you-“

“Of me? Why?” He interrupted, the shock breaking his heart in two.

“Let me finish, please.” You begged.

He became silent, placing both hands on your shoulders, letting he brush fall to the floor with a dull thud.

“It’s not…really you. It’s the idea of you, and liking you. I want to let you in but I’m scared of what will happen if I do. The last person I let into my heart treated me terribly. I know you’re not that guy but I don’t know if I can let myself trust someone again. I am so terrified that…it will happen again.”

You felt the tears well up in your eyes, sliding down your cheeks rapidly. Just admitting why you were afraid of love somehow felt worse than keeping it secret. It was the shame of talking about it out loud, and now crying about it. Let alone someone who had just admitted they had feelings for you!

You felt his arms wrap around your shoulders and his cheek rest on the crown of your head, Adam gently whispering ‘shhh’.

“I’m sorry,” you choked out, “I-I know I’m a mess right now and this isn’t what you want to see and I’m sorry I-“

“Shh it’s okay, I’m here now.” He muttered, rocking you side to side.

“I don’t know exactly what happened before in your last relationship,” he gently pulled on your arm to turn you around on the chair to face him, “but I am not him, okay? I need you to understand that. I can love you so much more. In the way you deserve. You just need to let me in to do that.”

He cupped your face, wiping tears away with his thumbs. You both stayed there, gazing into each other's eyes for god knows how long before you both leant towards each other to share a kiss. When your lips met in the middle, your body rushed with tingles as the familiar sensation came back. You hadn’t realised how much you missed kissing!

It wasn’t long before you were standing up in his arms as he led you to the bed, lips still interlocked as you both removed each other's clothes. You both mumbled sweet nothings into each other's soft lips as he pulled your legs apart, aligning himself with your wet and ready entrance.

“Are you ready, baby girl?” He asked, stopping to look at you. You nodded, throwing your arms around his neck as he slowly slid in, keeping his eyes on your face the entire time.

“Tell me if it hurts or if it’s too much. We can stop if you need it.” He reassured, kissing your cheek once he was all the way in. Adam stayed unmoving for a moment to allow you to get used to the feeling of him inside you, not wanting you to be in pain. After signalling to him that it was okay, he began to thrust, being slow and gentle. He buried his face in your neck as the pleasure and your warmth took over his body.

“Faster, please!” You called out to him, gripping his shoulders as the feeling of pleasure overtook your body. Adam picked up the pace while still not hitting too hard, groaning against your skin.

“You’re so gorgeous,” He muttered, littering your skin with small wet kisses as his hands caressed your soft body, “God, I’m so glad I told you…how I feel.”

Just hearing him speak those words sent your heart flying. You had completely forgotten what it felt like to be praised in this way. And to have it from Adam just made it that much sweeter. Already you felt yourself getting close to the finish line, him following behind closely. Wrapping your legs around his waist, you moaned out his name as you drew closer and closer.

“Let it out for me, baby.” He whispered, his lips just barely ghosting the skin of your ear. You gasped as your orgasm hit, Adam holding on to you tight as he continued on with whispering encouraging words of love to you while you rode it out. As you came down, he muttered a quick ‘oh fuck’ before pulling out, cumming on your stomach with a grunt. After finishing, he leant down to give you another kiss before getting up to grab tissues to clean you up.

“Sorry, I didn’t want to…you know…do it inside of you.” He smiled sheepishly, his body pink from the afterglow of sex. You smiled and told him that it was okay, you didn’t mind too much. Once he got you cleaned up, he crawled into the bed next to you and pulled you in for a cuddle.

“I meant what I said earlier, you know.” He said, turned your head to look at him. It had finally set in that Adam just wanted to love you in every way possible. It was still hard to believe that you could be loved that way after before, but you were willing to let him try. Smiling wider, you both shared another kiss, already becoming obsessed with the way you both tasted.

“Let’s give it a try. See where it goes. I…I think I’m ready for you to show me what it’s like to be appreciated again.”

[gamesception]

Sception Reads Cass Cain #38

Batgirl (2000) #18 - September 2001 Writer: Kelley Puckett Pencils: Damion Scott Inks: Robert Campanella Colors: Jason Wright

Ooh, a guest in Cass's book. Is this the first we've seen that? I think it might be. We get to see whether Tim gets a better showing in Cass's book than she's had in his.

Far more importantly, though, this issue starts with a dream sequence, one that I've referenced a few times already. I misremembered it as happening much earlier on in Cass's run, because it is so fundamental to understanding who (this version of) Cassandra is as a character.

It starts with 8 year old cass in a stealth suit (if there was one thing I think could improve this flashback, it would be if she was wearing the grown up batgirl suit all clearly too big for her, like the cover of issue 4), sneaking around the Batcave, a mischievous smirk on her face like a kid who knows they're getting away with something. She's tiny in a world too big for her as she creeps up onto a computer panel to reach the bat-cookie jar. There an expression of gleeful triumph on her face as she reaches a hand into the jar to snatch...

No, she's caught! Batman, Dick, Alfred (somehow? Has she even met Alfred?), Helena, Tim, Jean-Paul (nice nod there), they've caught her with her hand in the cookie jar neck of the man she killed. She's grown and wearing her batsuit now but she's still so small and they're so big and they're calling her a murderer while Barbara sits dejected, looking up to say 'How could you?' so hurt that Cassandra would betray them all this way, would betray her specifically, sullying the legacy of Batgirl with a murderer's bloody hands, and then the dead man speaks, and it's not the man she killed anymore, now her fingers are buried in the throat of her Father, David Cain, as he admonishes her. "Did you really think you could fool 'em forever?"

...

There's just so much happening here. The cookies - the treat, the prize she's stealing, labeled with the bat symbol? That's being Batgirl. And saving people as Batgirl is the only way she knows how to do to atone for what she did. Except she's a murderer, she deserves to be punished, not redeemed. Worse, being Batgirl is fun! It's exciting and thrilling and the best life she could possibly imagine. It's a reward, not the punishment she deserves, and deep in her traumatized and guilt-ruined inner 8 year old's bones she knows she's getting away with something she doesn't deserve.

Sooner or later her new family will catch her, they'll learn the truth, they'll realize she's not good like them, she's only pretending, really she's a murderer, and when they find out she's sure they'll all turn on her. From this we can infer that her isolation isn't just something imposed on her by Bruce, it's also something she's doing to herself, or willingly allowing Bruce to do to her. After all, the closer she gets to the others, the sooner one of them will realize that she doesn't belong. The more it will hurt when they cast her out.

And there's David Cain calling her out. David, the only one who knows her secret, who knows the real her, the murderer.

....

This is such a good look into Cassandra's character and mental space, into how she sees herself as Batgirl. How dearly she loves it and how badly she wants it and how sure she is that she doesn't deserve it and it's only a matter of time before the others find out and feel the same.

...

I would also say it's fantastic foreshadowing, because this is clearly building to a number of major reveals & confrontations, right? When Bruce finally has to admit the truth and does try to reject her, tearing their family apart in the process as Babs sticks with Cass and the rest are forced to choose sides. Or wondering how Cassandra will react when she finds out that Babs already knows, that she already knew almost the entire time, and that she doesn't care, still loves her, still is proud of her, still wants her to be Batgirl - will she feel relieved, or will she lose respect for Barbara for not holding Cass to the same impossible moral standard that she holds herself to? One could imagine a conflict of Babs vs. Bruce over whether Cassandra is worthy of the costume only with Cassandra taking Bruce's side rather than her own. And David Cain is still out there, potentially throwing the whole thing into an even deeper level of turmoil.

Sadly I can't say this is good foreshadowing, because none of that really happens. Fantastic set up, but not quite landing the follow through. But we're still in the set up part, and the set up part is so, so good, and this dream sequence is maybe the best two pages of it.

...

So yeah there is an actual story in this issue, it's not just a two page dream sequence. I've spent most of my analytical energy already so I'm not going to go in depth, but it's a cool team up story with Tim, where Tim is trying to take down a mob boss while Cass goes after an assassin the boss hired then failed to pay. It's good stuff actually, and well worth a read, but I just want to pick out a couple bits...

We get an explicit limit/exception to Cass's body-reading ability.

Just a bunch of cool art, I like this panel a lot.

We get this moment where Cass opens up a bit to Tim, who starts to connect with her in a way that he hasn't in their previous meet ups.

And it ends on this nice moment of Tim admitting he's been cold to Cassandra and apologizing, extending a hand in friendship. And it's a really nice moment, though the fact that this is coming from Batgirl's creative team makes me wonder Robin's creative team will maintain the better relationship going forward.

As for the question of Whether Tim comes off better in Cass's book than Cass did the last few times she showed up in his, I mean, obviously. What's maybe more noteworthy is that Tim is more likable in this book than even he is in his own, at least as of the last couple issues we looked at. He's thoughtful and intuitive here, self aware, capable of self reflection, capable of recognizing when he's been in the wrong and taking steps to correct himself. All in a story that still emphasizes his detective skills and tech savvy. It makes me sort of wish Tim had his own book... Unfortunately he did.

Of that run of Robin I've only ever read the few issues we've talked about in this project, most notably the two we looked at most recently, and those two especially were were pretty miserable. Not in the sense of being sad and heavy like Cass's book often is, just kind of awkward and unpleasant and mean spirited. Weird choice for a Robin title, imo, you'd figure people would be looking for something a little more light hearted out of that book, with a more likable protagonist. Then again it's really not fair of me to judge an ongoing book when I've read so little of it, so I'm just going to let it go there.

[mystra-midnight]

Haunted Hoedown - DAY FOUR

summary: it felt like a thunderstorm was roaring in your head. Yyu heard him, but his words didn't register in your brain the way they should have. there was only building, mounting, and ruining pleasure that was spreading through your organs and seizing your limbs.

warnings: 18+ only. ghost!eddie x reader. mentions of an unsatisfying sex life/readers ex being a douche. masturbation. voyeurism. somnophilia. eddie being a tad mean/dom.

words: 5.7k

notes: day four of the haunted hoedown challenge being hosted by @inklore and @psychedelic-ink. a bit delayed because i was away seeing amy lee live and in person and fangirling. i tried a different style here with that i'm not 100% sure i love but i hope you enjoy reading.

prompt: american horror story Inspired + “i would burn the world for you.”

May 7th. 2001.

"Tell me why this place is so cheap."

You looked wide-eyed around the apartment. It was utterly perfect—exactly what you'd been hoping for when moving to Hawkins, Indiana. The walls were painted off-white, there were brand-new stainless steel appliances, and there were timber floors throughout. The ceilings were high, and there was a little reading nook, two large bedrooms, and a large clawed bathtub.

But the best part was that it was advertised at more than half the true market value. It was absolutely ridiculous, crazy, and completely illogical, and you couldn't understand why.

You saw the realtor flinch at the question, which immediately brought you down from the clouds. Shit. Of course, it was too good to be true. There had to be something wrong with the property for the owner to sell it for practically next to nothing.

With a sigh, you faced him. His expression was grim.

"Well, you see, um, there was, uh," he stammered, tripping over his words as he searched for the right ones, the ones that wouldn't scare you away. "About fifteen years ago, before the urban development and technology boom came to Hawkins, a young man died in the trailer park that used to be on this lot."

Your heart dropped as the horror of his words sank in, but the feeling was fleeting. Someone who was a stranger to you died ten years ago. They hadn't even lived in the apartment, so that didn't explain the next-to-nothing price. You said as much to the realtor, pressing him for more information.

"The owners want to sell the property quickly, rather than for money. They've explained that there were some... how do I put this? Some strange events occurred while they were living here."

"Such as?"

"Things would move when no one was around. There were always problems with the central heating. The televisions and radios would change channels in the middle of programmes or turn on in the middle of the night. I assume most of this is because of defective wiring somewhere in the building, but none of the electricians were able to find the cause."

You watched him cringe, as though saying the words aloud was physically painful to him. It all sounded ridiculous. And none of it was enough to make you turn down such a fantastic property for such a stupidly low price.

"That's all?" You teased, flashing the man a smile. "Consider the place sold.

June 11th. 2001.

Despite the realtor double-checking and then triple-checking, you crossed your T's and dotted your I's and bought the apartment that same day. You moved in the following month, piling boxes upon boxes, each one with a specific room written on it in your scribble: kitchen, bathroom, bedroom, guest room, reading. You bought new furniture and decorated the walls with pictures of your family and the knick-knacks you'd accumulated after college.

It had taken weeks to sort out all the rooms and empty all the boxes, but the apartment finally felt like a real home, and you'd completely forgotten what the realtor had said when showing you the property: strange events.

It started after three blissful and uneventful weeks. Things had started to go missing, just like he said. It wasn't anything overly important, just small things like your rings, your glasses, or sometimes even your panties. Things would go missing for days at a time before reappearing in locations that they had no business being in.

And then the cold started. Not just cold, but freezing cold.

It got so bad that some nights you would see your own breath misting in the air. It never seemed to matter how high you set the thermostat or how many blankets you piled on top of you—you couldn't stop shivering.

But while all these things were certainly strange, they weren't illogical. You could explain each of them: you misplaced things because you'd moved towns—hell, you'd moved states—and were getting used to living somewhere new. It was also cold because the central heating was faulty. The lights would flicker because the wiring was done wrong. All of that made perfect sense.

But what didn't make a lick of logical sense was when things started to move while you were staring right at them. Hallway doors would swing wide open, slamming into the walls as though they'd been ripped open violently in fits of rage. Shadows would creep along the walls when you weren't looking. You'd catch a glimpse from the corner of your eyes of these stalking shapes, only for them to be gone when you turned to look at them.

Then the photos started to fall from their hooks on the wall, sometimes thrown across the room, so that the frames broke and glass shards littered the floors. You make yourself a meal only for the plate to be thrown off the table and against the wall, leaving the paint stained with splotches. It frightened you, leaving you turning off the lights, running to bed, and hiding under the covers like you were suddenly twelve years old again.

The worst of it was when the dissonant whispering started. It would wake you in the middle of the night, leaving you clutching a baseball bat for dear life. Your co-workers all agreed that you were stressed and overworked, probably exhausted from uprooting your entire life and moving across the country. None of them believed in ghosts, horror stories, or haunted houses.

You thought you might be going insane until you saw him.

July 4th. 2001.

Eddie Munson.

"Hey!" You called, startling the boy standing in front of your dresser. The top right drawer was opened, and your panties were on full display. Hidden beneath them was your vibrator, and you found yourself flustered, angry, embarrassed, and scared.

He looked at you with wide doe-eyes, swimming pools of brown that you could easily get lost in if he wasn't holding a pair of your panties to his nose like some god-damn pervert. You held a bat in your hand, ready to swing, when he turned and ran. You give chase, following him around the queen bed with fresh sheets and into the bathroom that joined the two bedrooms.

By the time you rounded the bed and made it through the doorway, he was gone, seemingly having vanished into thin air. Your panties were on the ground. You spent hours checking rooms, closets, and any nook and cranny a boy of his size could hide in. You even called the police and filed a report, but there was no evidence of forced entry.

In the days that followed, you took to sleeping with the bat besides the bed and a kitchen knife beneath your pillows. It was childish, but having them so close made you feel safer.

The next few weeks were surprisingly and uneventful, and soon you settled back into a familiar routine. Work five days a week, from eight in the morning until five in the afternoon, come home and eat, channel surf for a few hours, shower, and sleep. You were even able to have friends over without anything weird ruining the atmosphere.

It was as you were chancel surfing that you saw him again. You were looking through the music stations for something to listen to while you showered; you skimmed through the pop stations and skipped over the metal stations before setting on one that was playing When It's Over by Sugar Ray. The song was catchy and tended to get stuck in your head with how much it played on the radio, but it was a good one.

"Wait! Go back!"

You screamed.

With your heart pounding wildly in your chest and your stomach having fallen out of your arse, you stared at him. He seemed entirely unaware of your fright, instead gesturing frantically at the television. "Turn it back!"

This was the first time you'd gotten an up-close look at him. He was dressed in black jeans with rips in the knees and a shirt that said Hellfire Club. As he motioned between the remote in your hand and the television, it rode up, revealing a trail of hair that started at his navel and disappeared into his jeans. He had a leather jacket on and a denim Dio vest over it.

He looked like something straight out of the 80's.

"Back!" He yelled louder this time. He sounded panicked and frantic, and that was what snapped you from your stupor. You flicked backwards through the channels, finding the metal music one, when he ordered you to stop. He stared wide-eyed at the television, where Metallica was playing a live concert. You recognised the song; it was Fuel.

"That's James Hetfield," he said, his tone disbelieving. He flopped open-mouthed onto the couch as Kirk Hammett and Lars Ulrich began the opening rift. "This is Metallica."

"Yeah?"

"I don't know this song."

"It was released about four years ago; how can you not have heard it?"

You pressed yourself tightly into the arm of the couch, feeling it dig painfully into your back, when he whirled around to face you. His face was overcome with surprise, shock, and something else you'd yet to comprehend. Wild curls bounced around his face before settling into place.

"Four years?"

You shivered beneath the intensity of his stare and his emotions; even his presence in your apartment sent a chill down your spine. You nodded quickly, clutching the television to your chest like it was a weapon. Your grip was so tight that your knuckles ached.

"That's not possible," he whispered, turning back to the television as the lyrics started. "They look different. They sound different. This is crazy. They just released Master of Puppets?"

That caught your attention, and it was then your turn to be surprised.

"That was fifteen years ago."

"What?" He rounded on you a second time.

Over the next few weeks, you learned more about him. He’d lived in the trailer park with his uncle Wayne, and he’d passed in a tragic accident, an earthquake; his uncle had never found his body. You suspected there was more to it, but he was unwilling to give more details.

That accident had happened fifteen years ago, and the trailer park had been demolished about seven years later. A development block had been built to replace it, which eventually turned into an apartment complex as Hawkins expanded.

Eddie had only been twenty-one when he died. You learned that he liked music. Well, no, you learned that he loved Metallica and Dio. So you started to leave the television on when you went to work, letting it play from dusk to dawn to keep him entertained. Then you started buying magazines and comics to leave them open for him to read; you even bought home Metallica's latest CD.

And as the weeks dragged on, his presence in your apartment became less terrifying, except for the times he would seemingly materialise from nowhere. You even started asking him to hang out with you at night. The two of you would spend hours watching movies and music videos and just talking.

September 19th. 2001.

"Come on, Eddie!" You whined. He was behaving like a child, and you were exasperated and fed up with his antics. He was standing in front of the door with his arms crossed over his chest, obscuring the words on the front of his shirt.

"Don't you 'Eddie' me," he cautioned, his brown eyes narrowing into a glare. He hated the idea that you were mocking him, though he was smart enough to realise that wasn't what you were doing right now. "He's an asshole. I don't understand why you can't see it."

"Because I know him! You've only ever seen him! Briefly, I might add!"

Eddie threw his hands up in frustration; the sound that left his mouth was all but a growl. He wanted to grab you by the shoulders and shake you until your brains leaked out of your ears. Then you might be smart enough to realise that Michael was a fucking douchebag. "And I see you too!" Eddie spat, the fieriness in his tone making you roll your eyes and shiver simultaneously.

"Every time you've seen him, you come home frustrated, like the man doesn't know how to fuck or something! You always come back bitchier than when you left!"

"Eddie!"

If you could have hit him, you would have. His words hit too close to home for comfort. Michael was nice enough, if not vain and at times arrogant. He came from money, and he often acted and thought that money would carry him through the world. But he treated you well enough, and you enjoyed his company most of the time.

Except Eddie's intuition hit the nail on the head—Michael didn't know how to fuck. At least, not well. Each time you felt the familiar warmth of orgasm approaching, the same thing happened. It didn't matter that you'd be crying out his name and clawing at his back, begging him not to stop; he'd move, change his angle, change his pace, change his position, and you would be left a frustrated mess.

On the rare occasions he cared, he was able to make you cum. He'd work you over until you tumbled into oblivion, his fingers buried in your pussy as it clenched and spasmed around them, your back arched off the mattress. But he cared for his own pleasure above all others, and nine times out of ten, you didn't finish.

"Eddie!" He mocked. "Is my name the only thing you can say, sweetheart?"

"I'm not taking dating advice from a dead man!"

You regretted the words the moment they left your mouth. Tears burned in the back of your throat from how you swallowed the urge to cry, your emotions reaching a fever pitch as you walked through him. And as you passed, the cold of his presence enveloped you in a frigid hug but didn't stop you.

Instead, you left.

You drank too much that night; said too much, and let Michael work you over for far longer than you normally would. After being compliant and patient all night, he draped your legs over his shoulders, grunting and groaning as he fucked you, only to cum on your stomach before kissing you goodnight and slipping away. That had been the boiling point.

The relationship ended with you slapping Michael so hard that your hand hurt.

When you made it back home, the apartment was dark, cold, and empty. The television had turned off automatically at some point in the evening, and none of the lights were on. You’d expected him to be waiting for you with a smug smirk and an I told you so attitude, but Eddie wasn’t there, and that hurt more than the disappointing sex.

September 26th. 2001.

Six days later, you still hadn't seen him. Each night you tossed and turned, his absence from your life a gaping wound that often left you bleeding out and gasping for air. The apartment felt too large without him—too quiet and too empty. But you resigned yourself to the fact that you'd chased him away. He'd have found someone else to haunt, someone who appreciated him instead of insulting him. So you found something else to occupy your mind.

Except while you were settling into the mountain of pillows on your bed, the scent of clean linen and vanilla swirling around the room, he decided to make his grand reappearance. Well, no, not exactly.

The moment he chose to reappear was when you were sprawled on the bed, thighs spread wide, and heels dug into the mattress as you worked the tips of your fingers over your aching clit and into your leaking hole. You hadn't had sex since breaking up with Michael, but the ache had been in your belly long before that. The knot between your hips was pulled taut when you saw Eddie standing at the foot of the bed, panic bursting to life inside your chest. You snapped your thighs tight together, your hand flying to press into the sheets to hide the sticky evidence of your arousal.

"Don't stop," he said softly, his voice breathy and light. His wide-doe eyes meet yours. "Please."

"Eddie," you whispered as your face warmed with embarrassment. He didn't miss the way you rubbed your thighs together, desperate to stifle the ache between them. In that moment, you wanted him to be the one touching you. You wanted to feel the warmth and weight of his palms as he held you down and his breath on your neck as he kissed, bit, and sucked. You wanted him in the worst way, and it hurt you beyond words that you couldn't have him.

"Open them." His tone was harsh this time—forceful and demanding, enticing a soft whine from your parted lips. The smirk that found its way to his plump lips was sinful. "No wonder he couldn't get you off. Was he too soft, sweetheart? You need to be told what you want to do, fucked like a whore, to be able to cum?"

Eddie wanted to grab your ankles and drag you to him. Your little nub was so sensitive that he wanted to spread you open and rub the tip of his tongue against it until you were begging for him. He wanted to watch you cum on his cock, his fingers, his thigh, his tongue, and his cock again. He wanted to feel you with every fibre of his ghostly being. "Be a good girl and open your legs, yeah?"

You were slow to react. You parted your thighs slowly and shyly until you were exposed to his hungry gaze. The insides of your thighs were sticky and shiny with the evidence of your first orgasm; your puffy folds were still slick as you parted them with your fingers, moving to rub one on either side of your clit. Your breath hitched at the sensation and the way his eyes followed your movements.

"Eddie," you whined his name softly while your head tipped back, your throat exposed, and your chest heaving with each sharp intake of air. The crown of your head mashed against the pillows, leaving your hair a mess. You imagined the way his hands would feel—rough and calloused. He'd played guitar before his death; you knew he'd be good with his fingers. He'd be able to find that spot deep inside your gummy walls that made stars, no, galaxies, burst to life inside your veins.

"What a fucking prick." He spat the words through his teeth, each syllable filled with venom. "Didn't know how good of a thing he had until it was gone. Never even deserved to have such a pretty pussy if he couldn't get you off. I bet he couldn't even do it with his fingers buried in there or with his tongue, either. Bet he just rammed his dick in without getting you worked up first."

"He doesn’t.." You sighed, your breath airy and full of arousal. "He... he never tasted me."

If it were possible, Eddie would have cum in his pants like a fucking virgin. Not only had that asshole left you a worked-up and unsatisfied mess because he didn't know how to fuck you right, he'd never even tasted you, which was a crying shame. Right now, all Eddie wanted to do was have your sweet cunt beneath his mouth. You were a feast on display, and he was forbidden from tasting, touching, and fucking.

Eddie watched as you pushed your fingers into your clenching hole, chasing the orgasm that was starting to sear through your veins. You were so wet, your slick dripping down the crack of your ass, only to be lost in the bed sheets. "Forget about him," he followed up with a gentler tone, the cold of his presence enveloping the air around you until your nipples turned to hardened peaks that crowned your tits. "Forget about him. Just touch that hot cunt for me, sweetheart."

You answered him with a whimper, your lower lip quivering before being captured between your teeth as your fingers moved deeper, seeking and searching for that sweet stop. You heard his sharp intake of breath as you fingered yourself; the schlick sounds echoing around the room were obscene and pornographic. Your slick arousal coated your fingers, your hand, your palm, and your thighs, shining beneath the dull glow of moonlight that peaked through the windows.

"Harder," he barked, and you obeyed. The heel of your palm slapped against your clit with each thrust of your fingers. "Faster."

It felt like a thunderstorm was roaring in your head. You heard him, but his words didn't register in your brain as they should have. There was only building, mounting, and ruining pleasure that was spreading through your organs and seizing your limbs. You come hard and long, crying a pretty symphony made up entirely of his name.

October 31st. 2001.

It worked for a while.

In spite of the entire situation making your face burn, you couldn't say no to him, not when he looked at you with those pretty doe-eyes or when he called you his good little whore. Thus, Eddie watched as you masturbated for him every night. He would tell you when to cum and how to touch yourself. You'd be told how many fingers to use and watched as you fucked yourself open.

It worked—until it didn’t.

After days and weeks, it wasn't enough to just touch yourself. You wanted him to touch you, but that was entirely impossible. So you threw yourself into your work and your social life to distract your melancholy heart. But each night, in the privacy of your apartment, you belonged entirely to him. You worked a double shift today in preparation for Halloween. Eddie hadn't said anything when you'd come home exhausted. All you wanted to do was crawl into bed and sleep like the dead.

And that was exactly what you'd done.

You didn't remember falling asleep, but you knew you weren't awake yet—you were floating on clouds in that blissful in-between. It was 3:15 a.m. in the morning, and you vaguely recognised the blurry red outline of the digital clock on the bedside table. The witching hour on All Hallows' Eve.

It was only the sudden, sharp zing of pleasure that woke you.

You cried out. Your voice was hoarse, and your vocal cords were thick with a myriad of emotions: sleep, confusion, panic, and sudden desperation. Reality finally dawned upon you as honey-sweet pleasure swept through your limbs, making them feel heavy and sluggish even as you grabbed a handful of the thick mop curls between your spread thighs.

You bucked your hips without intention, pushing his face deeper between your sticky folds until he grabbed your waist and pinned you to the mattress. When he pulled back and wrapped his wet lips around your throbbing clit, you could feel him smiling. A deep hum rumbled through his vocal cords and vibrated through your core until you were moaning out loud, your back in a perfect arch as red-hot lightning sizzled through your veins.

"E-Eddie?"

The panic in your voice finally encouraged him to lift his head. His doe-eyes were blown wide with lust, almost entirely black. You saw the way his chin dripped with a mixture of his saliva and your slick; he was a vision of ecstasy that made your brain short-circuit. This wasn't possible—it literally wasn't possible. But it was real. You felt the weight of his hands on your waist, the way his fingertips dug into your skin hard enough to leave bruises, and the way his weight dipped into the mattress.

"Was wondering when you'd wake up, sweets," he mumbled, his breath hot against your mound. Your thighs trembled and squeezed around his head when he dipped his head to lick from your quivering hole to your clit, lapping at the slick that practically leaked from you. There was a part of you screaming, wanting to rage and be angry at him for doing something like this while you were sleeping. There was also a part of you that wanted to be as distraught now as you had been the day you found him sniffing your panties.

Both parts were quiet, making room for the horny, touch-starved part of yourself to come to the surface. Your nails scratched his scalp when you tugged hard on his hair. Eddie tightened his hold on your waist to stop your impatient squirming as he kitten-licked your folds. You were already embarrassingly close, and he knew. It was obvious from the way you were squeezing your thighs around his head until his hearing muffled and how you squirmed and wriggled as the pressure in your belly built.

You made this sound—a little gasp of pleasure—that sent arousal rocketing through his veins and straight to his cock when he pushed two fingers into your tight pussy. His fingers were thicker than yours, larger and longer, reaching deep and rubbing against all of your nerves. You came without warning, slick walls clamping rightly around his thrusting fingers as the world shattered around you into sweet oblivion. Eddie kept his lips wrapped around your little nub, sucking and flicking his tongue against it as crystal shards of pleasure shot through her entire being. It felt like a bolt of white-hot lightning had struck your soul and set her world ablaze.

When you sagged against the mattress, Eddie climbed the length of your body, his lips leaving a trail of hot, wet kisses from your clit and up your belly, through the valley of your tits, until you were tasting yourself on his tongue. You touched him for the first time with shaking hands, feeling his skin against your palms, tracing the outline of each tattoo, and feeling how his muscles shifted and tensed beneath his skin as he settled between your thighs.

He was real; he was here, and he was yours.

As Eddie rubbed his cock against your sticky folds to get himself slick and lubricated, he groaned into your mouth. The flushed tip nudged your clit, causing you to gasp and arch beneath him. "Eddie," you moaned softly, your entire body burning and your eyes pleading for more.

"Say it." He growled. His breath was hot on your neck as he smeared open-mouth kisses along the column of your throat. He already knew what you wanted, but he wanted you to say it. He had to hear you say it. When you bucked up against him, desperate to feel him fill you or for friction of any kind, he pinned your hips down, refusing to give into your demands.

"Eddie," you whined. "Eddie, please, please, fuck me—ah!"

The stretch as he pushed inside was intense and immediate, more so than anything you'd ever felt. But it wasn't painful. No, it was deliciously mind-numbing. Your nails dug deep into his shoulders as you threw your head back. Your lips parted in breathless cries when he bottomed out, filling you so completely. The two of you have never talked about this moment, his size, or what to expect when having sex. Mostly because neither of you had expected this to ever happen.

Now that he was between your legs, holding them open with heavy palms, you knew that he was big—bigger than Michael and your other ex's. Eddie watched the way your lips clung to him as he pulled back, leaving only the crown of his cock nestled in your tight walls, and he moaned as you sucked in each inch of him when he snapped his hips forward. It felt like he was carving his way into your guts, rearranging your organs, or hitting the back of your throat. Maybe that was over dramatic; you were cock-drunk and delusional already. Maybe it was just the intensity with which you wanted him to act that made you irrational.

All that you knew for certain was that he was here, and he was fucking you, and you never wanted him to stop. You were crying, the tears having finally fallen, and you couldn’t stop shaking as lava pooled in your stomach. Eddie grabbed you by the chin, his thumb and forefinger pressing into your cheeks, so that you were pouting when he kissed her again. "Look at me when I'm fucking you."

Your eyes snapped open. When did you close them? You didn't know.

"This is what you needed, huh? You just needed a cock inside you—someone to fuck the attitude out of you. You're just a cockwhore, aren't you, baby?" His voice was rough as he growled the words through his teeth. He was hovering over you, hands on the mattress either side of your head, trapping you in the shelter of his body. You cried out when he made a particularly deep thrust; his aim never faltered. He found that spot that made galaxies come to life and made your thighs tremble around his slim waist.

"Answer me!" He repeated it louder this time.

"Yes!" You wailed. You felt racked with pleasure when he put a hand on your tit, palming it roughly and pinching your nipple to bring your attention to him. "Yes, yes, I'm a whore, just a cockwhore—of god, right there, right there."

"Whose whore?"

"Eddie, Eddie, please, need to cum—"

"You wanna cum?"

"Yes, yes, please." He was holding you at the edge of the world, leaving you staring into the abyss. You were buzzing with excitement, entirely ready and willing to take a leap of faith with him. You needed to free-fall; you needed to float through the clouds, and he wasn't letting you. Not yet. Not until you gave him what he wanted.

"Then tell me whose whore you are."

"Yours! Your whore! Just yours!"

Now that you'd given him what he wanted, he fucked you harder, impossibly so. The sound of his pelvis hitting the backs of your thighs was a constant smack, smack, smack. The headboard hit the wall with a resounding thud, thud, thud. The neighbours would surely complain, but you don't care because he's going to break you, ruin you, and wreck you.

The knot in your stomach unrolled quickly and all at once. A fresh wave of rapture raced through you like lightening arching through your veins, leaving you staring at the roof with wide-open eyes that took in nothing that they saw. Your back bowed into a perfect arch as you came harder than you thought was ever possible—even harder than you had the first time he'd watched you touch yourself.

Eddie buried his face against your neck, his abdomen dipping in and out as he chased his own release, his breath superheated against your skin while he panted. He was lost in you—the smell of your shampoo, the taste of your chapstick—utterly and hopelessly lost. Eddie came only a moment later, long and hard, painting thick ivory ropes along your quivering walls.

"So fucking good, baby. Pussy was made for me." He rambled between kisses, licks, and bites along your neck. Your nails scratched down his back as you preened beneath his praise, your mind somewhere in the clouds, no higher, in the thermosphere. "You're squeezing me like a damn vice. Fuck, you're perfect. I would burn the world for you. You're mine, aren't you, baby? My desperate whore. All mine."

Eddie kept you pinned to the mattress, legs still thrown over his shoulders as he huddled over you, almost folding you in half. He grabbed you roughly by the chin, forcing you to look at him. Your eyes were unfocused, and your face was streaked with tears. He felt your pussy still fluttering around his softening cock as you rode the coattails of your orgasm, each aftershock making you twitch and shake. He kissed you hard until you were breathless. You mewled into his mouth and pawed at him.

And you knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that you were his.