#thank you now i will scream about those absurdly tight pants

[kindahoping4forever]

AshtonIrwin: It’s gotta give you that “spin around in your studio chair energy” … 🤣🤘🪽

[ghoultramp]

study buddies [sukuna x reader] {req}

▷       jjk

↳ pairing: sukuna x f!reader

↳ content: { request fic } - dom!sukuna, subby!reader, curvy&soft!reader, college!au, dubcon, choking, spitting, marking (biting, scratching), dacryphilia, degradation (?), breath play (?),  a sprinkle of praise (as a treat), nicknames for reader (princess, babygirl)

↳ words: 4.7k

⇢ summary: sukuna’s a little fed up of yuji having you all the fun with you, so when yuji suggests you should take a break from studying, sukuna decides it’s the perfect opportunity to have a taste of yuji’s little princess.

also available on ao3

⇢ note: request for nemi; i’m so sorry it took so long to get around to this but i hope this makes up for the wait! a huge thank you for being my partner in crime on this and for some of the fantastic ideas you shared.

Yuji had been grumbling at his textbook for the better part of ten minutes before you peered over the top of yours. While he lay chest down on the floor, your legs were lazily propped over the small of his back. Your own back was supported by a pillow against your bed frame, comfortable enough, but you were starting to ache. Yuji wittered beneath his breath, he looked sweet when he tried to concentrate; his eyebrows furrowed and his nose wrinkled, but it was the way his tongue poked over his top lip that made you giggle.

“Stop,” he groaned, “this is hard.”

You cleared your throat as you closed your book, placing it on your lap.

“Which question is it now?” you asked, lifting your legs off him.

He grumbled incoherently, flipping the same page back and forth. You shook your head and shuffled next to him, straightening out your skirt as you brought your knees together to retain some modicum of decency. You leaned your weight against your left hand and softly patted Yuji’s head with the other.

“Uhm,” he mumbled, “still on the first one…?”

“Yuji-Kun,” you sighed, “have you been listening to a word I’ve said?”

He looked at you through his peripheral vision while his mouth fought against a nervous smirk. You playfully tapped him against the side of the head. Yuji feigned injury, holding his head and rolling onto his back; you were trying so hard not to laugh as he rolled about, wailing dramatically.

“You’re such a baby,” you told him, throwing the textbook to the side.

You watched as he stopped and spread his limbs out like a starfish, he turned his head in your direction.

“Says the little Princess,” he retorted, he flashed a grin when your cheeks flushed a pretty shade of pink.

He loved rendering your speechless with the utterance of a single word. To everyone on the outside, you and Yuji were this cute, Hallmark-movie, high-school sweetheart-type couple, barely even kissed, blushing at the sweet whispers you exchanged; how wrong they were.

Those sweet whispers that made you blush wildly were due to Yuji sharing with you his demands for you that evening—because you would always be his good Babygirl, his good little Princess. They would never see him grope you beneath the lecture hall desks, purposefully dragging you to the back. He’d ignore you as you cried into the sleeve of your sweater while his fingers fiddled with your sensitive little bud behind your underwear.

He rolled onto his side to prop his head up with his hand, you brought your hands up to cover your flushed cheeks.

“Hey,” he was trying not to laugh, finding your bashfulness absurdly loveable, “why don’t we take a break?”

A squeak escaped through the fingers of the hand that covered your mouth. Yuji awkwardly shifted onto his hands and knees, crawling toward you. When he sat up next to you, he swung his legs around to place them on either side of you; trapping you between him and the bed frame.

“Now who’s the baby?” he cooed, teasing you more by poking your hands playfully.

He laughed at your attempt to look annoyed, it was wasted. You resigned, watching as he began to lean into you, his hand pressed against the back of your head and his lips brushed against your ear.

“Or should I say,” his whisper was a low growl, “Babygirl?”

 “Yuuuuuji,” you were whining as you squirmed between his legs, “you’re doing this on purpose.”

The warm breath expelled by his chuckle brushed against your neck. You felt the grip he held on the back of your head fall to your wrists, you didn’t fight him as he pulled your hands from your face. You knew he got off on how bashful you always were, and maybe you played into that a little, he felt the hot flush of your cheeks radiate against him.

He could devour you so easily.

You felt a thumb press hard against your chin, pushing your head right back. A pitiful laboured noise escaped your mouth, now pushing his palm against your throat. It wasn’t quite enough pressure to stop you from breathing, but enough to cause you discomfort. Enough to satisfy him. For the moment, at least.

“…ji,” you were fortunate enough to be able to squeeze the last syllable of his name.

Using his free hand, he kneaded at the delicious pudge of skin that poked out above your slightly-too-tight thigh-high socks. They were just a part of one of your many little uniforms reserved only for Yuji, and today was one of his favourites; a just-tight-enough shirt opened enough for your delicate, frilly lingerie—of his choosing, of course—to peek out, paired with a simple, pleated skirt.

You were ever so grateful when he lightened the pressure on your larynx, allowing you to urgently drag in a deep breath. But it was mere seconds before you were gasping and panting, succumbing to his will as his fingers pressed gently against the damp cotton of your panties.

“Finally,” you heard him say, the lowered tone of his voice triggered your flight response.

“Yu-Yuji?” you whimpered.

“Yuji’s not home right now, Princess,” he declared, “it’s not fair that he gets to have all the fun anyway.”

“Su-Sukuna, please,” you whined, tilting your pelvis back in an attempt to escape his roaming fingers, he only pressed against you harder.

“Why don’t you let me take you for a ride, babygirl,” as he said it, he dragged his finger downward, following your sweet, little slit beneath your underwear.

“You p-promised you wouldn’t,” if it wasn’t for the fact that Sukuna was so close to you, he never would have heard your feeble pleas.

“We all promise things we don’t really mean,” he groaned, removing his hand on your throat.

Sukuna smirked all the while you gasped for air—once again—and then whimpered, the focus in your sight made everything soft, your head felt full of cotton wool. Sukuna sniggered, the dumb, heavy-lidded look on your pretty, little face was nothing less than perfection. He pressed his fingers a slightly bit harder against your clit, inhaling sharply when he pulled strangled little mewls from behind your slightly parted lips.

Sukuna was more than a little fond of Yuji’s choice of mate, he’d been waiting far too long for this opportunity and he wasn’t going to squander it.

He was going to savour every moment.

“Let’s see,” Sukuna contemplated, relieving your clit of his fingers. He’d want you to beg for it, prove just how much of a needy little whore you really were; he’d have you screaming his name soon enough.

You whined at him as his hands crept along the outsides of your thighs, under your skirt, grabbing hold of your shapely hips. He ignored your cries while he pulled you toward him, your skirt now ruched above your waist.

“C’mere,” he grunted, jostling you with some force when you didn’t move quick enough for him.

From your position—your head now propped where your back had been, Sukuna suspending your arse with his large hands—you could almost pretend that it was still Yuji. It was still his body after all, right? Your eyes passed over the dark lines that only Sukuna had—you always thought they looked like tattoos—and the closed, second set of eyes. Those eyes unnerved you, scared you. You dropped your gaze.

You didn’t ever think you’d have to face this situation, Yuji had reassured you time and time again that he had control of Sukuna, that he wouldn’t be able to take over when things got hot and heavy between the both of you. Now, you supposed Sukuna had lied about being compliant the entire time.

Sukuna continued, “I demand a taste of this—“ he yanked your underwear down your thighs, pulling a little too hard on the waistband, “—sweet fucking cunny.”

Dumbfounded, you were only able to watch him with curious, wide eyes as he moved your legs to benefit him while he struggled to remove your underwear. He was clearly getting impatient, throwing your soaked underwear over his head and across the other side of the room.

Sukuna let out a long, deep moan, as he shuffled himself back. He brought your legs down, pressing his muscular upper-arms against the back of your thighs; this was his way of stabilising you while having both of his hands free.

With his biceps pushing into your thighs, you yelped as your neck was forced into an uncomfortable position. The top of your head pressed against the base of the bed while your ear squashed into your shoulder; you scrambled to hoist yourself up, pushing your palms against the floor.

“Ah-ah,” he growled, yanking you down by the hips.

Sukuna mumbled something, you may not have been able to hear it, but your widely spread cunt certainly felt him say something. He brought the index finger of his right hand up to hover just out of reach of your presenting hole; raising his gaze to catch you looking at him--your chest heaving with your gulping breaths, your eyes almost entirely closed, with your tongue gently lolled out over your bottom lip--he certainly hadn’t expected you to submit to him like this so easily.

“I can see why Yuji likes you,” Sukuna mused, you gasped loudly when his thick finger penetrated you for the first time, “a needy little bitch in heat, like you?”

He let out a satisfied groan as you convulsed against him, nowhere for you to go as he twisted his finger, left to right and back again, fucking you with little care as his thrusts became almost violent. You cried out when he began to hit his palm quite forcefully against your clit with each thrust of his finger; Sukuna’s dark eyes glared up at you, his thick brows pulling together in the middle of his brow while he snarled at you.

You really were trapped.

“I happen to know you like it rough,” he was smirking, the loud, wet sound that came from between your legs as he removed his finger with a yank make you shrink beneath him.

“But, let’s get one thing straight,” he continued, moaning while he sucked at your sweet juices that soaked his finger, “your little Yuji-Kun won’t ever compare to a demon,” Sukuna watched the panic set in your eyes, felt your thighs shaking against his arms as he angled you up.

“It’ll be so delightful and easy, making you teeter on that edge,” he snarled, “between pain and pleasure until I see fit.”

You yelped uncomfortably when the pad of his heavy thumb pressed into your clit; you heard him chuckle above your cries, pressing against it harder. Sukuna pursed his lips against your inner thigh. You felt his smirk against your skin when his thumb quickly shifted from your clit to your hole; it was without warning, your slick allowing him to pull in and out with ease. But the intrusion made you shudder, followed closely by an uncontainable wail.

“Oh, Princess,” he cooed, talking into your thigh, “you’re going to make over-stimming you so much fucking fun.”

“Wh-what do you mean?” it was a pitiful attempt at finding your voice.

Sukuna either couldn’t hear you or at the very least, he didn’t want to hear you. He dragged his tongue along your delicate skin, playfully nipping at you every few inches.

Oh, how it amused him when you squirmed, afraid of his real bite, perhaps? The thought excited him.

You continued to whimper while Sukuna roamed your thighs, but when he flicked the tip of his tongue across your clit—fucking you with his thumb, his fingernails digging into the flesh of your arsecheeks—you brought your hand to your face, biting down on the flesh of your wrist.

Sukuna ignored you, giving attention to your throbbing clit, using his free hand to spread your lips just a bit more, enough for him to sink his lips down and around you. He loved when you made those whiny, little bleats—so pathetic, so fucking easy.

But, no, this wasn’t enough for Sukuna. He jerked his thumb out—your walls quivered around the empty space—and replaced it with his tongue; he groaned loudly as he sloppily lapped at your dripping, wet cunt.

Crying into your hand, still biting down on your already raw flesh, you felt the pull of your hips, ready to spasm with the release that was building up within your core. Sukuna masterfully worked his way around your insides, tensing the tip of his tongue to satisfy that sweet spot within you.

“Cum for me, Princess,” his deep voice was cast even lower as he growled as he spoke those words, commanding you; you felt a pressure within your pelvis vibrate and coil.

A pretty, choked sob found its way behind your lips as you relaxed your head to the side. The arm you had been using to silence yourself came down on Sukuna’s head so hard he scratched at your outer thigh; that would surely leave a mark. Whether you were willing to admit it or not, the thought excited you, you wanted him to hurt you.

Sukuna seemed frustrated when you didn’t obey his demand.

“I said fucking cum for me, Princess,” he snarled, firmly placing his hands on either side of your arse. You gasped, feeling the sting of him driving the points of his nails into your flesh. “I won’t hesitate to hurt you, y’know,” he continued in between tending to your soft, little cunt, “but I get the feeling you’d—“ he huffed, driving his nails into you, eliciting a strangled, wailing moan from your lips, “—like it.”

A whimpering, twitching mess was all you were beneath Sukuna’s grip. You heard the sloppy, wet noises combining with his hungry moans, tasting as much of you as he possibly could. Leaning back onto his knees, Sukuna noticed the bright flush in your cheeks.

“Sweet, little thing,” he laughed, “look, she’s embarrassed.”

Sukuna delighted in having you as his play-thing, but he wasn’t quite done with you yet. While he stared at you with his impossibly dark eyes, you heard the distinct jostling of a belt being undone; you heard it land with a thud when he discarded it to the side, triggering your body to shudder once more.

He wasn’t impressed with you when you lowered your gaze away.

“No, no, no,” he chuckled, “you will return the favour, Babygirl.”

Your heart beat wildly against your chest, your breathing was nothing but desperate, clamouring gasps as he hoisted you by your hair. Your protesting cries meant nothing to him as he effortlessly pulled you to your knees and the sight of your eyes brimming with tears amused him all the more.

“You’d do it for him, wouldn’t you?” he gave an inflection to his voice, trying to mimic Yuji’s, “It’s still his body, right?”

Sukuna’s grip on your hair tightened while he fiddled with the zip of his trousers, you felt helpless, watching as he relieved his thick, hard cock from its clothed prison. It was Yuji’s body, but like this—when Sukuna felt the need to barge his way in—it was his, not Yuji’s.

“Isn’t it?” he spat, pushing you down toward his crotch, cock in hand.

You may have been too shocked to form words, disjoined syllables tumbling from your lips, but not shocked enough to resist him. You didn’t recoil when your lips pressed against the swollen, wet head of his cock, as he brushed his pre-cum across your lips. In fact, you were eager, Sukuna laughed when you parted your lips, ready to receive him.

“See, it’s not that bad, is it?” he mused as he tugged your head back to look up at him.

You heard him stifle a low growl, looking up at him with your pretty, glassy eyes and your puffy, pink lips.

Whining at him as you placed your hands on either side of his muscular thighs, you were a desperate little pet eager for master’s attention. You didn’t care that he held your weight by your hair, it didn’t matter that it hurt. You didn’t care how aggressive he was; it didn’t matter when it felt this good.

“That’s it,” his smile was devilish, allowing you to lower your head into his lap on your own terms.

When you moved Sukuna’s hand away from his cock, he let out a chortle that made your heart flutter. He was gentle while you teased the aching head of his cock. You were ever so pleased with yourself when you pulled guttural, feral moans from his lips; it was your turn to tease Sukuna. For however long he might allow it, that was.

Which wasn’t long at all, it would seem.

Sukuna was impatient and you were taking far too long, he wanted his dick rammed as far down your throat as he could, and he would. He wasn’t being gentle now, not when he pushed your head down onto him. When you let out a surprised yelp, he took the opportunity to take advantage.

“Fuck,” he hissed while you gagged on the intrusion of his length.

Your throat felt raw, there was no niceness about him now as he held you down. You were sure he would be smirking as you convulsed within his grip, feebly attempting to push against his tensed thighs with very little effect. Yuji might be rough with you, but Sukuna was on a different level, and you quickly understood just how utterly useless any and all attempts to save yourself would be.

It’s all fun and games until someone gets hurt, and you knew—for certain—that someone was going to be you.

You closed your eyes and held onto his thighs so tight your knuckles turned white; it was the only thing you could do to distract yourself at that moment. The tears he’d forced from your eyes dripped onto your chest with your clumsy movements. You let out a wail of relief when he pulled you away, even just for a moment, it was welcomed.

"There's a good girl," he grunted, admiring the spit that dribbled down your chin, "there's my good little Princess."

Your moan at his words was cut off by a cruel shove of his hand; you gagged under the duress of him ramming into the back of your throat. He didn't care that you choked and spluttered beneath him, in fact, you knew it excited him; the way his cock twitched with each uncomfortable noise you made told you everything.

Every bone in your body screamed at you to submit to him, you would hope it would be less humiliating than this. Sukuna was surprised when you fell limp within his grasp and jerked you back once more.

“I wasn’t sure I’d break you so easily,” he chuckled, raising his free hand to your tear-stricken face.

You shuddered when his thumb stroked away at your wet cheek. You kept your eyes closed as his hand snaked its way across your face and down to your mouth. He tightened his grip on your hair as he held down hard with his other hand.

Your eyes darted open, Sukuna was a God looking down upon a mere mortal.

He hissed, you felt a heavy pressure against your lips as he used his hand to push you back against the pillow still propped against the bed. He was quick, untangling his hand from your hair to rest it on your inner thigh. He was laughing as his fingers tightened around your thigh, claws pinching at your flesh.

“Open wide, Babygirl,” baring his teeth at you, he looked maniacal, his hulking shape looming over you.

You sobbed helplessly as the mouth on his palm opened up, summoning a tongue that successfully infiltrated your mouth with very little effort. He laughed as your pretty, flushed face twisted, breathing frantically through your nose.

You were unable to make out the words he growled while he dragged his claws along the tender flesh of your inner thigh. The games he’d played with your throat, and consequently your oxygen, had dulled your senses—all except the ones that mattered, of course.

The bottom of his palm hit hard against your abused clit and your eyes widened with realisation. Sukuna smirked, both hands pressing so impossibly hard against both sets of your lips as he leaned into you.

“Just a little more,” he growled, “and then you’ll be ready for me.”

There was no time to think before the hand at your mouth pushed your head back, the finger and thumb on either side of your nostrils were dangerously close to completely restricting your airflow. Another tongue infiltrated your aching hole, he laughed at you as you convulsed beneath him. He allowed you to shake your head from side to side but nothing more, he found your efforts at yet another struggle tempting.

Your hips bucked defiantly beneath his hand as he bore against you. You whimpered against the tongue at your mouth as the one inside your twitching hole tickled against your most sensitive spot. Sukuna brought his face down impossibly close to yours, now gently grinding his palm against your clit; the only thing you felt were tight shocks that battered away within your core.

Sukuna gripped your face with his fingers, careless as his claws almost scratched at your face. When your head was brought up to meet him, your noses touched. It was unnerving.

You felt Sukuna’s tongues retreat. You were conflicted when you felt the gnawing ache of emptiness that was left behind. Formulating thoughts seemed impossible, coherency was nowhere to be found. With heavy-lidded eyes, you lazily watched as Sukuna knelt back.

It was cute, the way you opened your legs even wider for him. It wasn’t enough for Sukuna, nothing ever seemed enough for Sukuna. You felt his clawed hands grip the underside of your tender thighs; your breath shuddered, feeling the wet head of his cock bump against your widened hole.

“Good girl,” he breathed, “open wide.”

There was no other warning than his words as he shunted his hips forward, you moaned low in your throat—a strangled, feral noise—as your dripping wet cunt enveloped his throbbing length with very little ease.

“See,” he grunted, tightening his grip on your thighs, “I can be kind—“ he pulled his entire length, your hole quivered at the empty space, “—when I want to be.”

You wailed as he bottomed out against you, digging his claws into your flesh hard enough to draw blood as he frantically thrust. He’d been patient long enough but, while you’d been a good girl and indulged him, playtime was over.

Your head whirled and your limbs were numb. The only nerves that you felt any connection to were the ones in your pussy, the ones that made it possible to feel every protruding vein of his achingly hard cock The nerves that made it possible to feel every twitch it made as Sukuna put all his weight into you. He grunted, pushing back on your thighs, you yelped when he folded them against your stomach.

Sukuna delighted in hearing the moan you gave him after yet another deep, unrelenting thrust, his pelvis grinding roughly against your clit. You found yourself unraveling beneath him, you no longer felt within your own body.

“Yuji,” you mewled.

It was an easy mistake to make, a mistake that Sukuna did not appreciate. He laughed down at you as he picked up his pace. An unrelenting pace that shunted your body with each and every thrust. A pace that made you see stars.

“Silly little bitch,” he growled, spitting on your cheek, he was surprised when you let out a gasp of arousal, “say my name.”

He watched you convulse beneath him, felt you writhe and twist in his arms. It was delicious. The way your cunt clamped on his cock, tighter and tighter, and harder and harder until your cervix felt bruised.

“You’re mine right now, Princess,” he told you breathlessly, “Say it.”

You felt his spit hit your face again and your pelvis tightened. Things like that were supposed to feel this good, and for a brief moment, an internal struggle between arousal and embarrassment took place. Your arousal when Sukuna spoke.

“Say my fucking name,” was his final demand, but you could only cry out nonsense, “Say it!”

“Su-Sukuna!” you cried, obliged to obey him.

You were rewarded with the relief of Sukuna removing one of his hands from your thighs, too fucked-out to move—or care—your leg still rested against your stomach. He bared his teeth and brought his hand back; you were astonished that he never lost his momentum. 

He grunted as he breathed.

“That’s right,” his voice began to waver, close to his own climax, “good girl.”

You could almost believe you weren’t just a piece of meat to him, the way his tongue wrapped around the words he used could make anyone feel special. But you were rudely reminded this was Sukuna, not Yuji, when his swung-back hand collided with your thigh.

The Earth itself could have shattered at that very moment, and all you’d feel would be him; you thought yourself lucky enough to remember your name.

“Good—“ he grunted against your arching hips, begging for more you couldn’t possibly take, “—girl.”

Sukuna juddered on top of you, within you, while his claws made their final assault on your skin, while he buried himself as deep within you as possible. You writhed and mewled beneath him, your hands grasped at the carpet, desperate to hold onto something while the pressure of his hot cum filling your battered cunt overwhelmed you.

There was a faint sting that broke through the pleasure as he continued to roll his hips against you, gently for the time being, now that he was spent.

It astonished you how quickly his breathing returned to normal while you struggled to draw any breaths that felt satisfying, still recoiling and twitching. You could speak only broken gibberish.

Sukuna lowered your legs, you wished he’d more gentle; you winced as your hip joints creaked having been forced into such an uncompromising position. You felt the weight of his chest press against yours and his nose nuzzled gently against the crook of your neck.

There was a tense moment as you lay under him as your senses regained consciousness.

“Yu-Yuji?” you whimpered, tears threatened the edges of your eyes.

The pretty pink man who lay on top of you let out an angered growl, the hands that tightened around your wrists no longer had claws; there was care in the grip.

“I’ll kill him,” you heard him growl, his grip tightening.

“Yuji I’m—“ he didn’t leave you room to finish as he lifted his head, gazing down at you with furrowed eyebrows and bold, dark eyes.

“But first,” he told you, looking down at the mess between where your bodies connected, “it looks like I have to punish you first.”

He looked back to you—was he enjoying this?—and cast a dirty smirk at you.

“Because despite what Sukuna may think or say,” he continued, looming closer to you, his cock twitching with every word, “you haven’t been a good girl, have you, Princess?”

Your lips may have been moving but your voice was inaudible.

“You can thank Sukuna for one thing though, Princess,” he growled, nipping at your neck.

His voice broke when he deliberately moaned in your ear, a sound that made you squirm with delight.

“There’s no more holding back,” was the last thing he said before raising your arms above your head and locking his teeth to your neck.

[beenwaytoolongatsea]

🕺💃💕🎶🤘😎🎶💕

Wise words from Dave Grohl of Nirvana and Foo Fighters:

"Where were you planning to be on the Fourth of July this year? Backyard barbecue with your crankiest relatives, fighting over who gets to light the illegal fireworks that your derelict cousin smuggled in from South Carolina? Or maybe out on the Chesapeake Bay, arguing about the amount of mayonnaise in the crab cakes while drinking warm National Bohemian beer? Better yet, tubing down the Shenandoah with a soggy hot dog while blasting Grand Funk Railroad’s “We’re an American Band”?

I know exactly where I was supposed to be: FedExField, outside Washington, D.C., with my band Foo Fighters and roughly 80,000 of our closest friends. We were going to be celebrating the 25th anniversary of our debut album. A red, white, and blue keg party for the ages, it was primed to be an explosive affair shared by throngs of my sunburned hometown brothers and sisters, singing along to more than a quarter century of Foo.

Well, things have changed.

Unfortunately, the coronavirus pandemic has reduced today’s live music to unflattering little windows that look like doorbell security footage and sound like Neil Armstrong’s distorted transmissions from the moon, so stuttered and compressed. It’s enough to make Max Headroom seem lifelike. Don’t get me wrong, I can deal with the monotony and limited cuisine of quarantine (my lasagna game is on point!), and I know that those of us who don’t have to work in hospitals or deliver packages are the lucky ones, but still, I’m hungry for a big old plate of sweaty, ear-shredding, live rock and roll, ASAP. The kind that makes your heart race, your body move, and your soul stir with passion.

There is nothing like the energy and atmosphere of live music. It is the most life-affirming experience, to see your favorite performer onstage, in the flesh, rather than as a one-dimensional image glowing in your lap as you spiral down a midnight YouTube wormhole. Even our most beloved superheroes become human in person. Imagine being at Wembley Stadium in 1985 as Freddie Mercury walked onstage for the Live Aid benefit concert. Forever regarded as one of the most triumphant live performances of all time (clocking in at a mere 22 minutes) Freddie and Queen somehow managed to remind us that behind every rock god is someone who puts on their studded arm bracelet, absurdly tight white tank, and stonewashed jeans one pant leg at a time just like the rest of us. But, it wasn’t necessarily Queen’s musical magic that made history that day. It was Freddie's connection with the audience that transformed that dilapidated soccer stadium into a sonic cathedral. In broad daylight, he majestically made 72,000 people his instrument, joining them in harmonious unison.

As a lifelong concertgoer, I know this feeling well. I myself have been pressed against the cold front rail of an arena rock show. I have air-drummed along to my favorite songs in the rafters, and been crushed in the crowd, dancing to dangerous decibel levels while lost in the rhythm. I’ve been lifted and carried to the stage by total strangers for a glorious swan dive back into their sweaty embrace. Arm in arm, I have sung at the top of my lungs with people I may never see again. All to celebrate and share the tangible, communal power of music.

When you take away the pyrotechnics and confetti of an arena rock concert, what are you left with? Just … people? I will never forget the night I witnessed U2 perform at what used to be called the MCI Center in D.C. This was their 2001 Elevation Tour, a massive production. I waited for the lights to go out so that I could lose myself in a magnificent, state-of-the-art rock show. To my surprise, the band walked onstage without any introduction, house lights fully illuminated, and kicked into the first song beneath their harsh, fluorescent glow, without the usual barrage of lasers and LED screens we’ve all become accustomed to. The brilliant move stunned the audience and began an unforgettable concert on a very raw, personal note. This was no accident, mind you. It was a lesson in intimacy. Without all the strobes and lasers, the room shrank to the size of a dirty nightclub at last call, every blemish in plain view. And with that simple gesture, we were reminded that we are all indeed just people. People that need to connect with one another.

One night, before a Foo Fighters show in Vancouver, my tour manager alerted me that the “Boss” himself, Bruce Springsteen, was in attendance (cue paralyzing nerves). Frozen with fear, I wondered how I could possibly perform in front of this legendary showman, famous for his epic concerts that span four hours. I surely could never live up to his lofty expectations! It turns out he was there to see the opening band (cue devastating humiliation), so I was off the hook. But we chatted briefly before the gig, and I was again reminded of not only the human being behind every superhero, but also the reason millions of people identify with him: He is real. Three hours later, as I sat on a locker-room bench recovering from the show, drenched in my own sweat, there was a knock at the door. Bruce wanted to say hello. Having actually stayed for our set (cue jaw crashing to the floor), he very generously thanked us and commented on our performance, specifically the rapport we seem to have with our audience. Something he obviously understood very well. When asked where he watched the show from, he said that he’d stood in the crowd, just like everyone else. Of course he did. He was searching for that connection too.

A few days later, I received a letter from Bruce, handwritten on hotel stationery, that explained this very clearly. “When you look out at the audience,” he wrote, “you should see yourself in them, just as they should see themselves in you.”

Not to brag, but I think I’ve had the best seat in the house for 25 years. Because I do see you. I see you pressed against the cold front rails. I see you air-drumming along to your favorite songs in the distant rafters. I see you lifted above the crowd and carried to the stage for a glorious swan dive back into its sweaty embrace. I see your homemade signs and your vintage T-shirts. I hear your laughter and your screams and I see your tears. I have seen you yawn (yeah, you), and I’ve watched you pass out drunk in your seat. I've seen you in hurricane-force winds, in 100-degree heat, in subzero temperatures. I have even seen some of you grow older and become parents, now with your children's Day-Glo protective headphones bouncing on your shoulders. And each night when I tell our lighting engineer to “Light ’em up!,” I do so because I need that room to shrink, and to join with you as one under the harsh, fluorescent glow.

In today’s world of fear and unease and social distancing, it's hard to imagine sharing experiences like these ever again. I don’t know when it will be safe to return to singing arm in arm at the top of our lungs, hearts racing, bodies moving, souls bursting with life. But I do know that we will do it again, because we have to. It’s not a choice. We’re human. We need moments that reassure us that we are not alone. That we are understood. That we are imperfect. And, most important, that we need each other. I have shared my music, my words, my life with the people who come to our shows. And they have shared their voices with me. Without that audience—that screaming, sweating audience—my songs would only be sound. But together, we are instruments in a sonic cathedral, one that we build together night after night. And one that we will surely build again."

[frangipanidownunder]

Could you write a story where Mulder comforts Scully after a panic attack or nightmare?

Same Old: fic

Angsty, longish, with a trigger warning for panic attacks/mentions of depression. This is also for @kega-umi and @baronessblixen who both requested “Don’t you dare touch her!” from the angst dialogue prompt list. Thank you, guys.

It’s the biggest irony that she put her all into trying to improve Mulder’s mental health, yet she failed to see her own emotional wellbeing withering away. From the gentle exercise program they did together (“I’m only doing this because you’ll be wearing yoga pants, Scully”), the soft therapies he didn’t outright dismiss (“I used to like colouring in when I was seven, and I still can’t keep my pencils between the lines.”), the midnight conversations on the deck as silver moths flitted under the lights (“I don’t think either of us has ever truly gotten over William, Mulder.” “We shouldn’t, Scully. If we do, all hope is lost.”), to the medication (“Please, Mulder, there’s no shame in taking anti-depressants; you wouldn’t think twice if I prescribed you Ventolin for asthma, would you?”), she pushed him uphill towards wellness, never considering the damage to own her physical and mental shape.

After all, she left him.

But he’s still the same old Mulder. Believing in anything except the truth in front of his very eyes.

Now, as sweat trickles down the back of her neck, she is paralysed with fear. Her heart bursts against her ribcage, temples throb with bruising pain, skin prickles with gooseflesh. This is the third night in a row where a nightmare has ripped her from the numb comfort of sleep. Her fingers scratch at her throat, as though to open up her airways.

All she wants is to breathe. To simply breathe.

She turns her neck and it creaks slowly. Her vision hasn’t quite adjusted in the dim of her bedroom. Red numbers drip from her alarm clock, an absurdly chilling reminder of her waiting responsibilities. Surgeries, ward rounds, paperwork, Mulder. These are the compass points of her days. There have been times when she’s forgotten to eat, where she’s woken in bed with the dull ache of dehydration tugging at her limbs, where she’s driven through an intersection on autopilot.

Physician, heal thyself, Mulder regularly teased her with the saying during their tougher cases, ones where he might have received a blow to the head (that man has the skull of an ox) and she tended to him or other victims or did a string of autopsies or chased alleged mutants into foggy forests and would end up on the verge of physical or mental exhaustion. To allay her exhaustion, he might draw her a bath, order the pepperoni pizza special, plump up a pillow and pat the mattress next to him while finding a black and white Hollywood classic to fall asleep to. Physician, and Mulder, often healed themselves that way.

But that was before she left him.

She’s still the same old Scully. Denying everything except the truth in front of her very eyes.

Getting out of bed is Herculean. Every cell is screaming at her to retreat back to the safe, anaesthetic nest of covers. She feels as fragile and hollow as bird’s bones. Her feet plant on the carpet but she is graceless and uncoordinated as she moves to the bathroom. A shower will provide temporary respite, the stinging water will open her pores, and close her mind.

There’s a missed call from Mulder when she gets out. He never leaves messages, instead she is left to run through the gamut of possibilities as she dials his number – has he forgotten his house keys and can he drop by to borrow hers, has he got himself arrested for stalking a supposed shapeshifter who’s haunting children, or is he on the verge of a breakdown? She doesn’t even try to guess any more.

“I need you to witness some papers, Scully.” His voice is distant, cagey. Years ago, he might have created a slideshow to support his evasive baiting. Teased her with the promise of a nice little trip somewhere. Asked her point blank why she doesn’t believe him when he’s right most of the time.

Now he just expects her to be where he wants her to be with little warning.

Still the same old Mulder.

On the drive to the café he’s chosen for their meeting, she tries to think what papers they could be, what has necessitated the sudden need for her assistance. She doesn’t see him for weeks. He goes for days without returning her calls, spends hours away from the house on ‘expeditions’ or ‘assignments’, and she’s found him, more than once, in bed at 2 o’clock in the afternoon, wearing stubble bordering on a beard, and smelling like a laundry basket.

There was a time when they couldn’t afford secrets. It was a matter of life and death. Those days on the run, every shadow under the motel door, every lingering look from a cashier, every click on the phone line had them hastily stuffing their holdalls into the trunk of whatever rusty sedan they’d picked up along the way, and finding a back road to a new town.

As she waits in the traffic lane to turn into the car park, with a headache binding itself over the middle of her head like a steel band, she couldn’t care less if she were to sign him up to a dodgy pyramid scheme or help him cash in his father’s stocks. She sits, indicating to pull into a spot being vacated by an overly large SUV driven by an old man wearing a wide-brimmed hat. Without warning, his car lurches backwards at speed. She braces both hands on the steering wheel as metal crunches against metal and her car jolts back. Her head whips forward, then rights itself, tendons groaning at the sudden movement. She’s stunned. Unable to think, let alone move. The old man is out of the car, looking at the back of his vehicle, then up at her, fear written across his face.

There’s a cold blast across her body as her door opens. “Scully? Scully, are you all right? Don’t move. I’ll call the paramedics.” From the corner of her vision, she sees Mulder tapping at his phone with his thumbs before barking something into the mouthpiece.

“I’m fine. Don’t…” she says, but there’s no energy in her voice and he doesn’t hear her.

The old man is holding the brim of his hat, mouthing something about the gas pedal, and Mulder swings round to confront him. She recognises the dark glint in his eye and tries to get his attention but she calls out too late and he’s already lashing out at the man.

The buckle of her seatbelt is jammed into the slot and it won’t release. Her finger presses the orange button over and over but nothing happens. The old man is cowering under Mulder’s interrogation and in the distance, a siren wails. A gaggle of people have gathered around the vehicles. The blink of her indicator is percussive background pollution. Rain begins to batter the windscreen. The pressure in her skull builds. Her fingers crawl up the sides of her head to cover her ears.

“You didn’t even look!” She can hear Mulder’s accusations even through her hands. The same tone he employed every time he burned her about giving up William or about her trust in him or about the value of her weekend conferences.

Not the same old Mulder, but the cruellest version of him.

Finally free, and stumbling from the car, she slides along its side. In the frigid air, steam rises like fog from the hood. Her shoulders are tight, her legs heavy. She takes a breath in but the air is sharp, and it tastes metallic. She pads at her mouth with trembling fingers. Did she bite her lip, her tongue in the impact? She can’t remember. Perhaps the seatbelt caused an injury. Looking down at herself, she sees only her feet, enclosed in black pointed boots, her charcoal wool pants, her sleek belted jacket, all designer wear, all for show. Vanity. Fulfilling a need in her to prove her worth since she left him. Not just to the new people in her new life, but to the old ones too. Her mother. To Mulder.

Mulder is still ranting at the old man. Arguing over semantics instead of trying to get his details. The siren is louder. Her chest aches and with every inhalation, it burns, as though her lungs are on fire. She can’t find her voice. It’s stuck in her throat along with the breath she desperately needs. Her knees soften but she locks them, stubbornly clinging to the mirror of the car. Rain soaks her hair, sticking it to her face, her shoulders. Stupidly, she thinks about cutting it off, clipping it so that it swings about her chin, freely.

So she could be the same old Scully.

A thousand images rush through her mind. Blood. Albert Hosteen. Ice. Lightning. Her distended stomach. Lasers drilling. Cassandra Spender. William’s downy head. The scars on Mulder’s face. His coffin. Emily’s sweaty forehead. The brooding ocean. Melissa. Mulder’s scratchy beard. His wild eyes. His bitter silence at her goodbye.

She hears herself cry out. Pitiful.

Each breath stabs at her. Her heart sprints then slows. Sprints then slows. She clutches at her chest as though it might even the keel. Sweat mingles with rain on her face. The pavement is cold, wet, unforgiving. Mulder kneels at her side, taking her arm into his hand. Fear knits his brows together. The old man appears next to him and goes to bend over her.

“Don't you dare touch her!” Mulder’s voice cuts through the fog in her mind and the old man startles back. His hat falls and she’s struck by how absurd it looks, floating on a puddle that’s formed. Mulder’s hands are everywhere, her brow, her arm, her cheek, her chest, her thigh. He is panicking, yelling for paramedics. Bellowing her name. But she keeps watching the hat listing as it's pelted by rain.

Same old Mulder.

She can’t calm him because she can’t summon her voice. Her chest rises and falls rapidly, nausea pools in her stomach, bitter, churning. Her neck stiffens as she turns her face away from the staring eyes, then she vomits. This sends Mulder into overdrive and he tugs at her chin, twisting her face painfully around, eliciting a moan from her that shocks him into pulling his hand away.

“Scully? What’s going on? Are you hurt?”

She is. She’s hurting. Everywhere. But how can she tell him it’s not from the collision. “I’m fine,” she says in the end. Closes her eyes to his dismissive headshake. “I’m fine, Mulder.”

Same old Scully.

The paramedics arrive and check her over. They declare her unresponsive in their radio missives and load her onto a stretcher, despite her weak protests. Mulder is effusive in his thanks and squeezes her hand, promising to follow. Inside the ambulance, she closes her eyes against the hazy faces, concentrates on her breathing, lets other people carry the burden.

When she wakes, Mulder is on a chair pulled up so close to her that his legs are slotted under her bed, his head pressed into his crossed arms, at her ribcage. She can see a few greys and she strokes his hair, tenderly. Turning his face, he grins at her.

Same old Mulder.

“You scared me, Scully.”

She nods, still not sure if she can speak.

“They said you had an elevated heart rate. High blood pressure. We thought you were having a stroke.” Her hand finds his. “But then the doc said it could be a panic attack.” He waits a beat, for confirmation. “Scully?”

He shakes his head at her silence, stretches, scratches at his chin. She tries to move but it’s such an effort, she slumps back against the pillow. Her hair feels tangled and she rakes her fingers through it. He takes her hand, crushes it in his.

“Scully? What’s going on? Talk to me.”

This is the man who spent days holed up in his office, poring over the same ridiculous, paranoid conspiracies, who left the house without telling her, disappearing for days on the flimsy pretext that she ‘didn’t need to know for her own safety’, who would spend more time nursing a glass of whisky than their relationship.

“It’s nothing,” she manages to say. “Nothing for you to be concerned about.”

His eyes roll to the heavens. There’s nothing up there that she hasn’t already beseeched, yelled at and dismissed out of hand, she thinks to herself.

“Scully, you drove into a car. You collapsed. You haven’t…” His hand withdraws from hers and he grabs a fist of the thin woollen blanket.

“He backed into me. I’ve…I’ve been…I haven’t slept well. I’m just tired, Mulder. That’s all.” Speaking is exhausting. Her words sound pathetic. He knows it, she knows it.

Same old Mulder.

Same old Scully.

A nurse enters, eyes Mulder to move his chair. He stands, loiters in the shadowy corner as she goes about her business. When she’s gone, the air in the room is dry. Mulder scrapes the chair back to her bedside and plays with the plastic band on her wrist. Laying his forehead on her arm, she feels more than the weight of him as he begins to sob quietly. His shoulders move, his chest rocks the bed. She twists and caresses his hair with her free hand. Her tears drip down her face, gathering at her chin, falling as one onto his head. His tears flow around her wrist, burning his sadness at her pulse point.

“I’m sorry,” she says gently.

He half-chuckles, a strangled sound. “For what?”

“For scaring you.”

His watery eyes find hers. “You being sick is the thing that scares me the most, Scully.”

“I know,” she says.

He sits up, brings his arm around her shoulder to pull her into a fierce embrace, squeezing the breath out of her lungs. “Don’t do that again. Don’t…please.”

She can’t promise. She won’t promise. 

“What were the papers?” she asks.

“What?”

“You wanted me to witness something. What was it?”

“Oh,” he says, his body reverberating as tears turn to laughter. “I needed a new passport. I was going to ask if you wanted to go on vacation.” He chuckles, still clinging to her.

“On vacation?” 

“It was going to be a surprise.”

“I’ll say,” she murmurs, letting out a small laugh too, and burrows her chin into the dip between his neck and shoulder.  

She lets him soften into her and pats the plane between his shoulder blades. His heart pumps next to hers. In perfect synchrony.

Same old Mulder.

Same old Scully.

[imakemyownworld]

Sugar daddy Grayson

somebody somewhere requested this and i took the liberty to write about it. (:

warnings: smut. a lot of dirty things so if youre not into it scroll

“Babe, what do you think about this on that leather skirt for our dinner tomorrow?” I was showing Grayson Gucci sweater while he was sitting on a sofa in the middle of a store drinking Pellegrino water.

“Pretty” he took a sip.

“Gray!” I sighed “Youre not taking this seriously”

“Babe.” Grayson got up and stood in front of me “Babe. I seriously doubt my mom will care if you’re wearing 1000$ Gucci sweater or a 10$ H&M one. You look pretty in your Pjs.”

I rolled my eyes and regretted it immediately.

“Bell.” he cupped my chin and directed it to his face. “You know I hate when you do that.”

“I know. But you’re not getting the point.” I shrugged his hand off of me. “Im meeting your mom and sister for the first time. I want to leave a good impression and feel nice okay?”

Grayson was mommas boy and I knew what that meant. Nobody is ever good enough for him. So, naturally, I felt nervous to meet them.

“Okay. You’re right, Im sorry. How about you go pick some red wine for mom and we meet outside in a few?” he took the sweater out of my hand.

“No, Ill pay for this, you pick the wine.” I tried to take it away from him but he didn’t let me.

“You know that’s not in question. Go.” he said in his serious voice and I knew better but to argue. I went to a liqueur store and spent too much time deciding which wine to get so I bought three hoping at least one would be alright.

“Im waiting in the car. x” Grayson texted me and I hurried back to the car.

I knew he was waiting for me for a while because he was scrolling through his instagram with music blasting when I came back. He just smiled at me when I sat down and turned in the engine.

“Sorry. Didn’t know what to pick.”

“Thats okay. Im sure you picked something nice, you’re the wine expert at last.”

“Thats true,” I giggled “I am the wine expert.”

I was already in the house when Grayson came back from the car with three Gucci bags in his hands and casually left them in the middle of the room.

“Did you buy something for yourself too?” I asked pulling out a box.

“I did actually.” he came back to the living room and sat on a couch. “I also got you some stuff too.”

I opened the box and there was pink Gucci sweatshirt that I was eyeing for a while.

“Gray! What the fuck?” I looked at him and he was smirking at me leaned back to the sofa. I would notice how majestic he is at the most random moments.

“Go on.” he sad almost demandingly.

I open the other box and delicately remove the paper. I look at the white lace material and immediately know what it is.

“No. Gray, no. This dress is literally 6000$ why did you do this?” I don’t even want to pull it out of the box. He know how much I wanted this dress.

“Because I love you and I love seeing you happy and I also love when you wear these absurdly silly dresses that literally no one else would wear” he smiles.

“Stop it. Its a beautiful dress. But you know I hate when you do this. I could’ve bought the dress but it’s unreasonably expensive and I just couldn’t justify it.” I was sitting on a floor still next to unopened dress.

“I justify it by making you happy”

I look at him in silence for a moment and get up to kiss him.

“You’re stupid but thank you.” I kiss him on the lips.

In that moment we hear keys in a lock and realize Ethan is probably returning home.

“HI ETHAN” we both yell across the room.

“HI GUYS” he yells back at us entering in a living room. “Woah, you guys did some shopping?” he looks at the bags on the floor. “Anything for me?”

“Yeah I actually bought you that belt you’ve been wanting” Grayson says

“For real?” Ethan makes an exciting step towards the bags

“No you weirdo” Gray laughs

“I don’t know why I fell for that.” Ethan takes a bottle of water from the fridge and goes into his room.

I go and sit next to Grayson on a sofa.

“Thank you, but you didn’t have to do that.” I give him a kiss.

“Please get used to it. I want to give you everything and don’t ever want you to thank me. Im happy to do it” he cups my chin again and looks me in the eyes before kissing me again. I smile and put my hand on his jawline, slowly following its bones with my fingers. His jawline turns me on and he knows it which is why it turns him on too. He moves his hand from my cheek to my throat and gently squeezes it. We kiss faster and more passionately. He know how much I love that. If I let him go further this will lead to something more.

“Gray” I somehow separate our lips but quickly come back to them. Resting my lips on his, breathing heavily with him. He kisses me slowly once again and then we go back to faster pace from few seconds ago. His hands are on my ribs and waist, squeezing me and my hands are on his back. We are making out heavily for at least five minutes and I know hes already turned on.

“We should stop” I whisper  when he starts kissing my neck

“Why?” his deep voice vibrates on my neck and it makes me shiver.

“Ethan. And the rest of these boxes?” I try and make an excuse

“Its your sweater and another sweatshirt but I got myself a matching one. There. We dont need to open them now” he continues to kiss my neck and then stops “but we should change rooms.” he gets up and caughts me off guard when he picks me up.

“Gray!” I yell but whisper at the same time

“Shut up” he cuts me off. We are almost halfway in his room. He shuts the door with his leg and puts me on his bed, takes off my shirt leaving me in my bralette and sweatpants. He stop for a second and smiles at me.

“I love you like this. In sweatpants and lace.”

He puts himself beneath me, supporting himself with his muscular hands. I trace those muscles with my fingertips and pull him closer to kiss him. His lips are warm and soft. My hand is in his hair, my legs around him. Hes slowly grinding on me while we kiss eagerlessly. I pull my hand down his shirt feeling his torso and slowly graze his boxer lining. Gray stops kissing me and sights, his eyes closed. I love seeing him loose control so I continue to put my hand in his pants feeling him and slowly stroking. Grayson lowers himself and starts breathing to my neck which drives me insane so I let out a low moan, now putting my hand in his boxers and feeling the warmth and hardness in my palm.

His breathing becomes heavy as I stroke him. He starts letting out moans.

“Shh” I shush him and he immediately bites my throat and starts sucking.

I dont give up and start playing with his tip which I know makes him crazy. He sucks even harder.

“Gray, stop” I starts hurting and he stops

“Sorry, you’re torturing me”

I smile and he finally opens his eyes looking at me. He takes my hand out of his pants and puts it on my boob and then does the same with my other hand. Hes going down on me while having his hands on my hands, playing with my boobs.

I feel his breath down there and I am already out of it. He slowly starts rotating his tongue on my clit, sucking it and playing with it. I am now moaning and breathing very heavy. I put the sheets in my mouth.

“Say when to stop, I dont want you to come” he demands.

I nod slightly and let him continue but do t last much longer

“Stop” I whimper and he stops. He meets my eyes again and I suck his lips, tasting myself.

“You dirty girl” he looks at me devilishly and I smile removing his pants. He snaps my bralette open and suck on my nipple.

“I need you” I say

“What did you say?” he looks up at me

“I need you” I repeat

Grayson takes his p and teases my clit with it.

“You are so wet.”

Since its already so sensitive I lose control, bend my back and whimper loudly.

“Repeat it again please?” Grayson whispers in my ear still with his penis sliding down my entrance. I bite his ear.

“I. Fucking. Need. You.” I say through my teeth, my body lovering itself onto him. He loves it. He loves teasing me.

“You need to be good” he squeezes my neck and slides himself in me slowly, torturing me as much as he can. I put my head in his shoulders trying not to cry out. He is so big, I never get used to it. He lets go of my neck and gently removes hair from my face. My eyes are closed but I can feel him looking at me so I smile. He thirst himself deeper and covers my mouth. We both let out a small moan.

“Fuck” he says

I realize his hands must be tired my now so I pull him down and I put my legs around him, straddling him, again, slowly lowering myself onto him. He puts his hands on my boobs and we are looking at each other as I ride him slowly. We are starting ti sweat as we smile to each other. I close my eyes and let it take over me.  He is playing with my nipples and its driving me crazy. Im going faster and he joins me thrusting into me as I lower my self. Its almost painful, but too good to stop it. Our breathing is so quick and loud and I think Grayson thinks the same because he puts the sheet over us. Its now ten times hotter than it was.

“Fuck I wish I could scream” he says grabbing me and turning me to the side. I wimp as he suddenly pulls himself out of me. My body literally longing for him.

He lays behind be and hugs me tightly, pushing himself in. I spread my legs so I could take him.

“Fuck how are you so tight right now” he growls into my shoulder. I force myself down in him and whimper.

“Are you okay?” he asks

“Yes” I answer shortly and we start moving our bodies. I literally cant last any longer when he starts massaging my clit with his finger.

“Gray, gray” I whimper

“Shh” he shuts me up but it doesnt help so I pit the sheet in my mouth again. “Dont come yet”

I cant believe what hes saying because I am on the edge. I try to last as long as I can but my body is betraying me and I start shaking and moaning into the sheet. Gray does the same one second after, burying his face in my back. We stay still for a while, just taking breaths hastily. Gray covers us up with another blanket and we cuddle up even closer.

“Fuck” he whispers in my ear but I am still unable to respond so I just run my fingers through his hair and turn around to face him. Eyes closed. I kiss him barely.

[irlaimsaaralath]

Prompt time! How about one for Cullen? He almost caves and is inches away from taking a draught of lyrium, but his LI steps in just in time to stop him, resulting in an emotional moment?

Jeebus.  So.  This went all kinds of places. 

My Cullen tends to be a little darker than your average Cullen, especially in regards to his lyrium addiction, and it definitely shows in this.  There’s some violence, but no blood, nothing remarkably graphic.  Nobody dies! 

It didn’t really end as I planned.  I said earlier I was on ending 4 because none of the others had made me happy, and this one doesn’t exactly do it either, but I decided rather than trying to make it go where I wanted it to go, it should just go where it’s GOING to go, and ta da.  There could have been more, but it’s so long already, I’ll likely follow up with a part 2.

Anyhoo.  Thanks for the ask!

Screams tore at the air, left it in shreds, echoing off the stone walls long after the voice that bore it had grown silent.  The smell, the smell – burning flesh, spilled entrails, blood and smoke.  It choked him, so thick he could taste it.  He could barely keep from retching.  And, at the boundaries of the ephemeral shield that sheltered him, demons drug claws across the magic, sparks hissing, accents to the sibilant whispers of the creatures themselves.  They caressed the barrier with their hands, and with their voices, his ears, his skin, the fraying edges of his mind. Always calling, always beckoning.  So sweet.  His prayers couldn’t drown out the allure of their promises, and he looked up.  Around him, the shield began to disintegrate from the top down, fracturing and falling away like so many pieces of broken glass.  Panic flooded him as he surged to his feet, ready, ready to fight…but as the demon closed in on him, each curve of her body – breast and hip – was more seductive than the last, and for a moment, just a moment, he faltered.  His eyes strayed, her hunger was his, and he ached for her…wanted to taste her.  Instead, the taste that rose on his tongue was that of his own blood and the ache in his belly was now a tearing as her hand twisted in his guts.  Then, he screamed…

Cullen woke to the sound of his own voice, a violent herald to the day dawning pale on the horizon in shades of pink and violet.  His arm was cradled protectively over his midsection, and he could still feel it, the demons fingers clawing.  He was tangled in the mess of his bedding, sheets wet with sweat and wrapped around his legs.  Struggling with them, it was a panic to free himself, to tear himself out of the unfamiliar grip that held him.  And once free, he realized he couldn’t catch his breath, couldn’t breathe, and he staggered out of bed, half delirious and terrified.  He didn’t know where he was going, but his feet stumbled toward the ladder to his office.  Before he made half the journey, he toppled to his knees.  The first few spasms were dry heaves, and the last contained the dregs of the whiskey that had been his lullabye the night before.  With one hand braced on the worn wooden floor, he panted, ragged and shaking as he shut his eyes tight and prayed, prayed, for strength, for mercy, for deliverance.

“Maker!  Are you expecting the Venatori to just lay down and die?” Cullen admonished the soldier at his side, who immediately scuttled out of the way when the Commander snatched his shield from his hand and drew his own sword.  “Your shield is for cover, but you’re not supposed to cower behind the damned thing!” he seethed as he brandished the shield at the soldier across from him, circling the younger man until he found and opening and brought his sword to bear.  The first clatter of metal on metal rang through the courtyard as all of the recruits took a healthy step or two back to make room for the sparring. 

How many times do I have to tell them?  The enemy is not going to be gentle.   

Cullen inscribed a broad backhand swipe with his sword, catching the recruit off-guard and nearly ripping the sword from his grasp.  

The enemy is not going to be kind.

In his frantic backpedaling under Cullen’s assault, the soldier lost his footing and nearly fell backward.  He was set off-balance enough that a rounding swish of the Commander’s sword disarmed him.   

The enemy is not going to have mercy.  

The recruit braced the shield with both hands to fend off the onslaught of blows that drove him back as far as he could go, trapped by the empty weapon rack behind him and the Commander in front of him.  Cullen brought down his sword again and again…

They have to be prepared.  

It wasn’t until an iron hand clamped down on his wrist, catching it at the apex of a downward swing, arresting his strike in mid-air, that Cullen finally stopped swinging.  He snarled, “Take your damned hand off of me,” as he turned, only to find Bull staring down at him with flint in his eyes and his upper lip curled back.  “I said enough, Commander,” the Qunari uttered with a measured tone, obviously exercising an impressive amount of restraint as he spoke.  It was the sharp edge of Bull’s voice that shook him free of his stupor, and the anger in him snapped back into his core as he turned to look at the recruit he’d been sparring with.  Cullen had driven the man to one knee in the dirt, and he was still lingering behind his shield, uncertain whether or not the danger had passed.  The former Templar blanched as his eyes flitted across the faces surrounding him, stung by the amount of fear he saw, pierced by the pity.  As the tension in his sword arm drained out of him, Bull released him, and he abruptly sheathed his sword before throwing down the shield he’d pilfered.  Flushed with exertion and shame, he scrubbed his hand through his hair, offered brief apologies to all, and was gone before Bull could get the soldier back on his feet properly.

He slammed the tower door behind him so hard that dust lifted into the air, and shafts of golden sunlight sifted through it as they fell to the stone floor beneath his feet.  His hair was mussed and wet with sweat, the moisture freeing it to curl as he drug his gloved hands roughly through it.  The leather tugged and pulled on the strands, and he growled as he snatched the gloves from his hands and threw them to the floor.  Next was his armor, carelessly discarded in a way he would never normally condone, his mantle flung across the rungs of the ladder.  He stalked to the far wall, his steps heavy and with a martial pace, and a quick turn on his heel allowed him to retrace his path to the door.  In his skull, his eyes burned as if fevered, and the sting both distracted and incited his already short temper.  He couldn’t stand the sight of his violently trembling hands and balled both into fists as his thoughts ran wild.  

What’s wrong with you?  Get a hold on yourself.  

He forced himself to take a few deep breaths, though it did nothing to slow the pace of his pounding heart.  It only seemed to make the erratic beat more obvious.  Which, in turn, piqued his anger.

Get it together, Rutherford.  

He brought his clenched fists to his temples, pressing, grinding his knuckles in until his vision swam.  On his final trek across his office, he stood flush against the end of the bookcase and rested his forehead on the wood.  

If Bull hadn’t stopped you, you might have killed that man.  

“No.”  

His blood pounded through his head, rushed in his ears, and he could feel the sweat rolling between his shoulder blades and down his spine.  He was no longer certain if the voice he heard was simply his own in his head, or if he was speaking aloud in conversation with himself.

He was already in the dirt.  

“I wouldn’t have killed him.”  

Cullen closed his eyes, the colors around him suddenly becoming too bright, too sharp, causing the backs of his eyes to ache.  He tapped his forehead against the bookcase once, twice.

Are you sure?  And the way he was looking at you?  Maker, he was terrified.  

“Be quiet.”  

He banged his head against the wood again, harder this time, hard enough to send a shard of pain across his scalp and ripples of black across his vision.

How are they supposed to trust you when you can’t control yourself?  What kind of commander are you without the trust of your men?  

Weak.  

“Shut up.”  

Pathetic.  

“Stop.”  

Useless.

“JUST STOP!”  He roared before slamming both fists against the bookcase with every bit of strength he could summon.  The wood squalled against the stone floor as it slid, books on the shelves toppled, fell over and off, and a small box with a brass latch clattered to the floor as well.  He froze, staring at the diminutive reliquary, eyes possessed with both the anger of accusation and the heat of neglected desire.  It appeared plain enough, that small box:  unassuming wood varnished and set with brass hinges and a latch.  It didn’t look dangerous.  But it was.  Cullen was numb when his arms fell, loose fists thumping against his thighs as he stared at it.

This pain is unnecessary.

His jaw set as he became acutely aware of the beads of sweat tickling along his scalp.

The shakes and the irrational anger.

He ground his teeth so tightly together that they squeaked.

The hallucinations and the nightmares.

Though he heard the shuffle of his boots on the stone floor, he didn’t distinctly remember having taken a step.

Just one draught.  Just one, and things would be better.

He closed his eyes but for a moment, and when he opened them again, the box was in his hands.  His trembling, sweaty hands.  Under those hands, the delicate, tenuous thread of his resolve frayed and unraveled, and as it did, he was lost to the craving.  With an excess of care, he deposited the reliquary on his desk, and it took him several clumsy attempts to work the absurdly small latch open.  Instead of the vial of lyrium dust that should be there, he found a loose coil of parchment.   Retrieving it and uncurling it proved to be quite the task, but when he finally held it open, stretched out flat between two fingers of each hand, he was able to read it.  “I love you.  Come talk to me.  ~ Caitlin.”  A rational mind might have realized this as a loving attempt to help.  Or an effort to provide clear-headed council before an irreversible decision was made.  But, his mind wasn’t his own right now, much less rational.

She doesn’t trust you.

She left that note because she expected you to fail.  She only placates you, preys on your emotions to take from you what she wants.  

You’re just a burden to be managed.   Nothing more.  

Cullen crushed the tiny slip of parchment in his hand, grinding it with his fingers as if he could turn it to dust.  The darkness that whorled at the edges of his mind coalesced in the center of his chest, the withdrawal and shame sparking fury in him.  When he glanced away from his desk, his chin dropped and his eyes narrowed, turning the golden amber to a hard bronze as his pupils flared.  Dropping the crunched paper onto his desk with the rest of the useless kit, he turned and strode single-mindedly out of the tower.  He didn’t even bother to close the door behind him.  

He made no effort to conceal himself when he stepped from Solas’s rotunda into the main hall, only kept to the edges of the room in order to avoid conversation.  It was easy enough as most had gathered closer to the middle, nearer the warmth of the braziers.  He made eye contact with no one and kept his head down, his fists clenching and unclenching against his thighs as he made his way.  Bent solely to his purpose, he didn’t even spare a look around as he opened the door to the Inquisitor’s chambers and stepped through.

She was cornered.  A small audience of nobles fanned in front of her in a half-moon just outside of Josephine’s office.  She had been trying to gracefully bow out of the conversation for a good half an hour, but her subtle hints were apparently too subtle.  Just as she was beginning to reevaluate her tactics, the door opening immediately across the hall captured her attention.  Cullen stepped out, his features pinched and angry, his hair mussed, sweat glistening on his skin.  He was in his shirt sleeves, with no armor, no mantle, and he was rarely seen outside of his office without those things.  

Worry pulled her brow lower as she watched him stalk along the edge of the room; normally, his eyes would be up and out, scanning the hall for any hint of a threat.  Instead, they were singularly focused on his path, which led behind her throne and into her quarters.  Perhaps the situation was more dire than Bull had suggested to her.  “Your worship?”  One of the nobles purposefully put himself in her line of sight to catch her attention, and she tried to suppress the sneer that threatened to rise on her lips.  Instead, she transformed it into a graceful smile as she made her apologies, then excused herself in no uncertain terms, leaving no room for subtlety as she strode toward the rear of the hall.

Methodically, he started with the side table nearest the entrance and had worked his way across the room.  Drawers and their contents were scattered across the floor, the bookshelf was mostly swept bare, all of its volumes discarded, and he sat now at her desk, having rifled through stack after stack of paper before starting in on the drawers.  “Is there something I can help you find?” Caitlin’s voice suddenly rang across the room.  He hadn’t heard her come in or walk up the stairs or see her out of his peripheral vision as she neared him, and the sound of her voice raised only the barest acknowledgement from him.  “The lyrium dust vial,” he said abruptly, pulling the entire middle draw free of the desk and shaking the remainder of its contents into the floor between his feet.  Bending, he dusted a hand through the scattering of things, but didn’t find what he was looking for.  

For a moment, he rested his elbows on his knees, and the line of his back bowed with his quickened breaths as he roughed his hands through his hair to clasp at the back of his neck.  He felt as if his blood were boiling him from the inside out, both in temperature and temper.  “Where is it, Cait?” he asked from between his arms, his voice scathing, hard with more than a little bitter accusation.  One arm fell to drape from his knee as he turned his head to gaze at her.  His fist stiffly opened and closed.  “I need it.  I-,” he paused, bit down on his words as he shook his head and stood.  “Did something else happen?  I heard about the sparring ring,” she said quietly, and when his eyes turned up to her, she raised one shoulder.  “Bull told me.  He’s concerned about you.  I am concerned about you.”  

He barked out a weak peal of laughter as he stepped wide across the mess he’d left on the floor.  “I don’t need his concern…or yours.  I need lyrium.”  Sweat had soaked through his cotton shirt, making a darker vee visible on his chest as he stalked over to her and tilted his glazed eyes down to her.  There was no masking the quick wash of hurt that passed over her features, but she tucked it away as she reached out to lay a hand on his arm.  “I can help you through this.  You’re stronger than the lyrium.”  With a growl, he swatted her hand away and took a menacing step forward, shoving his body flush against hers.  “Is that really what you want to see?  How strong I am?”   His hand snapped out, clamping down on her upper arm as he leaned to put his face closer to hers.  The muscles around her mouth tightened, pulling her lips into a taut line as she gazed unwaveringly at him.  

“I’m not afraid of you, Cullen.  I never have been.  I never will be.”  He chuckled under his breath, his hand growing tighter on her, tight enough that there would be bruises later.  Other than a subtle stiffening, she seemed unphased by his grip or his desperate threats.  “You realize I almost killed a man today…without even blinking.  You realize that, right?” he questioned, the volume of his voice rising as he gripped her other shoulder.  “I beat him into the dirt, he was on his knees,” he didn’t bother with the effort to speak in a somewhat even tone, the quickened pace of his breathing clipping his words into short bursts of sound.  As he spoke, he leaned into her, and she was forced to take a step back, then another.  “I might have killed him…I would have killed him, if it hadn’t been for Bull,” he gave her a small shake as if trying to rattle some sense into her, “I’d have run him through right there in the courtyard.”  

Every moment he spoke was another step back until he shoved her and she was pinned against the edge of the fireplace.  The impact knocked her head back against the stone, and she grunted, but only stared unfailingly into his eyes.  “You wouldn’t have.  You’d have stopped,” she said, her voice as calm and confident as ever it was, and her surety made his anger flare hotter.  His lips pulled back from his teeth in a snarl as his hands rose to her shoulders.  “You can’t know that, and you’re playing with fire.  Give me the lyrium,” he ordered, the gravel in his voice raking over the words and making a threat of them as his hands rose to her neck.  “I don’t have it, and I wouldn’t give it to you if I did.  You told me you didn’t want this,” she pleaded with him, a reasoned appeal to the man she knew lay beneath the rage.  

“The situation,” he began as his hands tightened on her throat, “has changed.”  Defiant still and stubborn, she raised her chin and uttered a few hoarse words, “I’m not…afraid of you.”  The last word was clipped as his thumbs pressed into her windpipe, and she wheezed until that was silenced as well.  Staring at her over the knot of his hands around her neck, he couldn’t understand why she didn’t just accept that he was a danger, a menace, not to be trusted.  Not without the lyrium. 

Her little note made it obvious she had no faith in him.  Why did she continue this charade? 

The tension in his muscles had worsened the shaking of his arms, and he twisted his head to the side to try to unclench the twisted muscles in his neck.  

Tighter.  Make her understand.

His face was blood red, veins livid against his skin as he leaned down to put his face into hers.  “Are you scared yet?”  In as much as was possible, her head twitched back and forth, and she offered a single word in the bare squeak of a breath, “No.”  

Tighter.

Pain throbbed sharply in his head, flashing bright against the backs of his eyes, dragging them into narrow slits.  There was a different quality to this pain, different than the headache that had plagued him all day, different than the rhythmic pulse of his heartbeat in his head.  It curled threads of weakness through his body, made his breath catch with the pressure that pounded behind his eyes.  He felt like his skull was about to cave in.  The weight of it was almost crippling, and he groaned as his head began to swim.

“Please,” he begged, but to whom or for what, he wasn’t sure.  His fingers had begun to ache with their clench, and though Caitlin had brought her hands to rest on his forearms, she wasn’t fighting.  Her cheeks were burning crimson, lips becoming edged in blue as they fell open soundlessly.  But, her eyes never left his, and there was no anger there, no fear, only love, concern…for him, not for herself.  It tore at him, at his heart, at his mind.  He choked as he stared back at her, into her eyes.  He…wanted to let go.

Not until she relents.

His eyes dropped from her face to his hands, and he was willing them to let go, to release her, but he couldn’t seem to make the muscles work.  He hadn’t realized it, but he was holding his own breath, and it left him in a rush as he began to pant with the effort to make his body respond.  The tears that had begun to collect in his eyes fell onto his cheeks as he whispered over and over and over again:  Please.  Please.  Please.  Panic, raw and pure, shot through him, and his eyes shot back to hers.  Shakily, she lifted one hand from his arm and reached toward his face.  Her fingertips just brushed the tears that trickled down his cheek as her eyes fluttered, tried to focus, then drifted closed.  As if in response, the mark flared violently against his arm before her hand slipped limply away.  “No, no, nonono…”

His breath left him as a tortured cry, and the muscles in his neck stood out as he poured everything he had left into prying his hands from her throat.  Slowly at first, then all at once, his fingers unlocked, and like a rock, she fell.  He caught her in one arm, just barely, and let the weakness in his legs and her added weight pull them to the floor.  In desperation, he gathered her into his lap, and like a ragdoll, her head fell back over his arm.  He scooped his hand beneath her head, deep into her hair as he lifted her.  “Caitlin, no…Cait…Maker help me,” he hoarsely begged as his body shook with sobs, each shudder of his breath tearing out in desperation.  He clutched at her face, patting her cheek as he wept over her name.  In his arms, her body lurched and her eyelids fluttered.  

“Please, please, Cait,” he begged, hand whispering over her face, helpless and unable to do anything but watch.  After what seemed like an age, she abruptly hauled in a deep, ragged breath, coughing violently as she clung to his shirt with both hands.  Joy renewed the sobs that had formerly been grief, and his entire body was a trembling mess as he clutched at her.  “Maker’s Grace, Cait…I’m so sorry.  Forgive me, please forgive me,” he stammered over and over the words, incapable of keeping his hands or his lips off of her face.  The thought occurred to him, as she struggled to catch her wheezing breaths, that he no longer deserved to touch her.  Couldn’t be trusted with her.  Was wholly unworthy.  The notion branded him as sure as any fire-red iron would, leaving the truth of it to echo pain through his chest long after the immediate thought had passed.  He felt…abruptly empty.  

“You could have stopped me.  Why didn’t you stop me?” he asked, resigned to her condemnation; whatever it was, he deserved it, and it would likely not be enough to deliver the punishment truly owed him.  As her breathing began to even out, she hooked a hand behind his neck and pulled him down so that she could kiss his cheeks and his lips.  He didn’t resist, but he didn’t understand how or why she would…why she wasn’t already summoning the guard to have him removed to the cells.  “Just…proving a point,” she said hoarsely as she leaned up to press her forehead to his.  The incredulity in his voice was apparent as he scoffed, leaning away from her as he brushed the hair from her face with a trembling hand.  “What point could have possibly been worth that?”  She caught the hand in her hair and brought it to her cheek, rested the weight of her head in his palm, and closed her eyes, smiling faintly.  “I knew you would stop.  I needed you to know it, too.”

Completely aghast, he eased his shaking hand from her face and scrubbed at his chin.  Why?  Why was she smiling?  Why would she ever trust him that much?  Why had she not already driven him from her chambers?  Cursed him?  Called the guard to restrain him?  Why?  “You…shouldn’t have so much faith in me, not when your life hangs in the balance,” he said, face and eyes falling aside in shame as he gently eased her from his lap.  Confusion was clear on her features as she leaned back from him, and he got to one knee, then stood.  She reached up, clutched at his hand, and he turned pained, sullen eyes to her.  “But, that’s when I have the most faith in you, Cullen,” and she squeezed his fingers.  He had never felt so simultaneously numb and lost and in utter agony in all his life as when he looked down at her just then.  She had seen him in the throes of withdrawal before, the shakes, the sweats, the fevers, and the ill tempers.  But never like this.  How could she have known what he would do?  She didn’t.  She played a dangerous game, and it was only by chance that she won.  He couldn’t put her in that kind of danger again.  The only answer was to go.  He would speak with Cassandra in the morning.

Mutely, he shook his head at her, stiffly pulled his fingers from hers, and said, “I’m sorry, Inquisitor,” as he turned.  She made a sound, something small and pained, and he could hear her scrabbling to stand as he continued to walk.  He was halfway down the first set of steps before he felt her hand on his shoulder.  “We can do this, Cullen,” she pleaded, her voice harried.  “You are so much stronger than you give yourself credit for.”  It was the touch that stopped him, but it was her words that made him turn.  His expression was forlorn, though his skin was flushed, and tears hadn’t stopped gathering in his eyes since he’d come back to himself with his hands around her throat.  Where he stood on the stairs made her slightly taller on the landing above him, and he tilted his eyes up to her.  “I’m not, Cait.  If I was, I wouldn’t have stopped just now.  I’d have walked right out that door.  I’d-,” his voice broke, but he was too far in his hurt now to stop.  “I’d never have kissed you.  Never wondered at what it would feel like.  Never even allowed myself to entertain the thought of you.”  His jaw stiffened as he forced himself to stare into her violet eyes, to not look away, to not cower.  At his sides, his fists were clenched so hard, his short nails had begun to bite into his palm.  “I’d have swallowed my feelings…just to keep you safe,” he confessed, his voice low, almost a whisper.  “But I am not that strong, and yet the thought of hurting you destroys me.”

Her fingers were trembling when they fell light on his jaw, and he felt both damned and blessed by her touch, both wanting to run from it and dissolve into it.  She came down a step, and her fingers slipped into his hair at the nape of his neck.  He just…couldn’t look at her anymore, and his chin dropped.  When her other arm slipped in over and around his shoulder, he shuddered out a breath, and she tugged him against her until his forehead rested against her clavicle.  In the circle of her arms, with her cheek nestled in his hair, she began to whisper, “I have never known anyone like you, Cullen.  You endure…have endured…so much, and you care so deeply.”  Her hand combed through his hair, and each rake sent shivers down his spine.  “You have done so much good,” and he struggled against those words, tried to pull away, but she held him, fist twisted in his shirt on the back of his shoulder, her hand holding the crown of his head.  “So much good, yet you forgive yourself nothing,” she admonished softly, her voice warm in his hair.  He couldn’t help his tears or his shaking or his arms as they gingerly rose to encircle her waist.  “You deserve so much more than you allow yourself,” she said, pressing the words and her lips against the curve of his cheek.

The shaky breath he drew pulled her into his lungs, the scent that was distinctly hers, and he buried his face into the hollow between her shoulder and her neck.  Her elbows rested on his shoulders as her hands rose to the back of his head, gently holding, petting, lavishing him with a tenderness he did not deserve.  When she spoke again, her voice was soft, her breath right against his ear.  “I have…never known the kind of love I have for you.  The sight of you stirs warmth in my heart and in my belly.  When you’re within arm’s reach,” she paused, nuzzling against his ear, “all I want is to touch you.”  Unbidden, his voice parted his lips against the skin of her neck, and his arms tightened around her of their own accord.  “I could understand if you…didn’t feel the same.  You’ve seen…done…so much more than I have,” she said, the confidence in her voice faltering slightly.  It lifted his head and pulled his eyes to hers, and he stared up at her for the first time since she’d begun to speak.  A deep blush rode high on her cheeks, and her violet eyes were glistening with tears that had yet to gather.  And still, she smiled at him, cradled his jaw in one hand.  “…but if you do, even in the slightest, please,” she beseeched as she pressed a kiss to his forehead, then another to his cheeks, then the last to his lips, all interspersed with pleases of their own.  “Please stay, now, tomorrow, for as long as you will…and let me help you through this.  Let me try to be what you deserve.”  

He stared at her, eyes roaming over her face, taking her in.  And, he didn’t know what to make of her.  With every word she spoke, he became less numb, lighter, and now his skin hummed with a vibration that made him feel almost weightless.  He would never understand how she did such things.  Or why she would say these things…to him.  But, there was no mistaking the sincerity in her eyes, the desire in her asking, or in the reaction it provoked in him.  More than lust, more than even love, her willingness…her insistence…on taking him as she found him, loving him in spite of it, did something to him.  Wrapped him up, spinned him ‘round, and left him bewildered and seeking sanctuary.  Sanctuary he always found in her arms.  He pulled her body flush against his, holding her easily as he climbed the two steps to the landing, her toes dangling above as he wordlessly lowered his lips to hers.  He knew he shouldn’t, even as he did it, he knew she would be safer if he resisted, but she had pierced the heart of him, and he was left helpless and at her mercy.

To be continued…

[arplis]

Arplis - News: The Day the Live Concert Returns

Editor’s Note: This article is part of Uncharted, a series about the world we’re leaving behind, and the one being remade by the pandemic. Where were you planning to be on the Fourth of July this year? Backyard barbecue with your crankiest relatives, fighting over who gets to light the illegal fireworks that your derelict cousin smuggled in from South Carolina? Or maybe out on the Chesapeake Bay, arguing about the amount of mayonnaise in the crab cakes while drinking warm National Bohemian beer? Better yet, tubing down the Shenandoah with a soggy hot dog while blasting Grand Funk Railroad’s “We’re an American Band”? I know exactly where I was supposed to be: FedExField, outside Washington, D.C., with my band Foo Fighters and roughly 80,000 of our closest friends. We were going to be celebrating the 25th anniversary of our debut album. A red, white, and blue keg party for the ages, it was primed to be an explosive affair shared by throngs of my sunburned hometown brothers and sisters, singing along to more than a quarter century of Foo. Well, things have changed. [Read: Dave Grohl’s pandemic playlist] Unfortunately, the coronavirus pandemic has reduced today’s live music to unflattering little windows that look like doorbell security footage and sound like Neil Armstrong’s distorted transmissions from the moon, so stuttered and compressed. It’s enough to make Max Headroom seem lifelike. Don’t get me wrong, I can deal with the monotony and limited cuisine of quarantine (my lasagna game is on point!), and I know that those of us who don’t have to work in hospitals or deliver packages are the lucky ones, but still, I’m hungry for a big old plate of sweaty, ear-shredding, live rock and roll, ASAP. The kind that makes your heart race, your body move, and your soul stir with passion.   There is nothing like the energy and atmosphere of live music. It is the most life-affirming experience, to see your favorite performer onstage, in the flesh, rather than as a one-dimensional image glowing in your lap as you spiral down a midnight YouTube wormhole. Even our most beloved superheroes become human in person. Imagine being at Wembley Stadium in 1985 as Freddie Mercury walked onstage for the Live Aid benefit concert. Forever regarded as one of the most triumphant live performances of all time (clocking in at a mere 22 minutes) Freddie and Queen somehow managed to remind us that behind every rock god is someone who puts on their studded arm bracelet, absurdly tight white tank, and stonewashed jeans one pant leg at a time just like the rest of us. But, it wasn’t necessarily Queen’s musical magic that made history that day. It was Freddie's connection with the audience that transformed that dilapidated soccer stadium into a sonic cathedral. In broad daylight, he majestically made 72,000 people his instrument, joining them in harmonious unison. Left: Rolling Stones fans get excited during a concert on the group's 1975 Tour of the Americas. (Christopher Simon Sykes/Hulton Archive/Getty); Right: Freddie Mercury performing at the Live Aid concert at Wembley Stadium. Duncan Raban / Popperfoto via Getty) As a lifelong concertgoer, I know this feeling well. I myself have been pressed against the cold front rail of an arena rock show. I have air-drummed along to my favorite songs in the rafters, and been crushed in the crowd, dancing to dangerous decibel levels while lost in the rhythm. I’ve been lifted and carried to the stage by total strangers for a glorious swan dive back into their sweaty embrace. Arm in arm, I have sung at the top of my lungs with people I may never see again. All to celebrate and share the tangible, communal power of music.   When you take away the pyrotechnics and confetti of an arena rock concert, what are you left with? Just … people? I will never forget the night I witnessed U2 perform at what used to be called the MCI Center in D.C. This was their 2001 Elevation Tour, a massive production. I waited for the lights to go out so that I could lose myself in a magnificent, state-of-the-art rock show. To my surprise, the band walked onstage without any introduction, house lights fully illuminated, and kicked into the first song beneath their harsh, fluorescent glow, without the usual barrage of lasers and LED screens we’ve all become accustomed to. The brilliant move stunned the audience and began an unforgettable concert on a very raw, personal note. This was no accident, mind you. It was a lesson in intimacy. Without all the strobes and lasers, the room shrank to the size of a dirty nightclub at last call, every blemish in plain view. And with that simple gesture, we were reminded that we are all indeed just people. People that need to connect with one another. One night, before a Foo Fighters show in Vancouver, my tour manager alerted me that the “Boss” himself, Bruce Springsteen, was in attendance (cue paralyzing nerves). Frozen with fear, I wondered how I could possibly perform in front of this legendary showman, famous for his epic concerts that span four hours. I surely could never live up to his lofty expectations! It turns out he was there to see the opening band (cue devastating humiliation), so I was off the hook. But we chatted briefly before the gig, and I was again reminded of not only the human being behind every superhero, but also the reason millions of people identify with him: He is real. Three hours later, as I sat on a locker-room bench recovering from the show, drenched in my own sweat, there was a knock at the door. Bruce wanted to say hello. Having actually stayed for our set (cue jaw crashing to the floor), he very generously thanked us and commented on our performance, specifically the rapport we seem to have with our audience. Something he obviously understood very well. When asked where he watched the show from, he said that he’d stood in the crowd, just like everyone else. Of course he did. He was searching for that connection too. A few days later, I received a letter from Bruce, handwritten on hotel stationery, that explained this very clearly. “When you look out at the audience,” he wrote, “you should see yourself in them, just as they should see themselves in you.” Not to brag, but I think I’ve had the best seat in the house for 25 years. Because I do see you. I see you pressed against the cold front rails. I see you air-drumming along to your favorite songs in the distant rafters. I see you lifted above the crowd and carried to the stage for a glorious swan dive back into its sweaty embrace. I see your homemade signs and your vintage T-shirts. I hear your laughter and your screams and I see your tears. I have seen you yawn (yeah, you), and I’ve watched you pass out drunk in your seat. I've seen you in hurricane-force winds, in 100-degree heat, in subzero temperatures. I have even seen some of you grow older and become parents, now with your children's Day-Glo protective headphones bouncing on your shoulders. And each night when I tell our lighting engineer to “Light ’em up!,” I do so because I need that room to shrink, and to join with you as one under the harsh, fluorescent glow. In today’s world of fear and unease and social distancing, it's hard to imagine sharing experiences like these ever again. I don’t know when it will be safe to return to singing arm in arm at the top of our lungs, hearts racing, bodies moving, souls bursting with life. But I do know that we will do it again, because we have to. It’s not a choice. We’re human. We need moments that reassure us that we are not alone. That we are understood. That we are imperfect. And, most important, that we need each other. I have shared my music, my words, my life with the people who come to our shows. And they have shared their voices with me. Without that audience—that screaming, sweating audience—my songs would only be sound. But together, we are instruments in a sonic cathedral, one that we build together night after night. And one that we will surely build again. Metallica fans screaming in the audience at the heavy metal Sonisphere Festival in 2009 in Nijmegen, Netherlands. (Paul Bergen / Redferns)

Arplis - News source https://arplis.com/blogs/news/the-day-the-live-concert-returns

[naughty-teddy-innit]

What Goes Up… A Mile High Club Ed Sheeran Oneshot  {MATURE}

Title:      What Goes Up {A Mile-High Club Oneshot}

Author: @naughty-teddy-innit

Rating:  NC-17 / MATURE (Much Airplane SexyTimes!)

Author’s Note: My first ever attempt at writing Ed fic, and what got me addicted! A tad rough around the edges, but the...um...subject matter is something that’s KILLED me ever since he let slip that he has in fact joined the MHC. Oh halp....

Enjoy!

Another airport.  Never being big on flying meant that having a boyfriend whose main mode of transportation was, in fact, airplanes, was sometimes a difficult thing to deal with. Airports, with their hustle and bustle, crowds of people, loud overhead announcements and let’s face it, never ending wait times, were one of your least favourite places.  You were currently camped out in the world’s most uncomfortable chairs, after yet another flight delay, waiting for your phone to charge enough actually provide some desperately needed entertainment. You stretched your arms up, your legs out and your neck sideways, when from your left you heard what might be one of your favourite sounds in the entire world; your boyfriend’s giggle.

“Have you seen this video??” Ed asked.  “This bloke must have crashed off that bike 3 times!”

As you shook your head no, you couldn’t help but laugh at his enthusiasm.  His penchant for random YouTube videos knew no end most of the time, especially when long waits and travel were involved.  He looked back down at his MacBook, and you took that opportunity to enjoy the view (a frequent occurrence, now that you think about it).  Sometimes you didn’t know where to look first. His clear blue eyes that you had a tendency of losing yourself in?  The smile that lit up his whole face? The precious dusting of freckles that were sprinkled across his cheeks (why he was so self-conscious about them you would never know)? Or his sweet, soft, perfectly pink lips?   Then there was his hair.  That fluffy, soft mop of beautiful Gingerness that if you had a choice?  You’d never keep your hands out of.  It was currently sticking out in all directions with his favourite Beats headphones squashing it down, but the way the light was hitting it…so pretty. So sexy.

Of course, you knew you were for sure NOT the only one who had developed a healthy appreciation for the beauty of the Ginger Boy sitting next to you, not by a very long shot. Millions of girls, both young AND old would kill for the chance to experience just a teaspoon of what you two shared.  You had known Edward Christopher Sheeran since you were grade schoolers, long before his voice and his lyrics became famous the world over.  Platinum records, world records, sold out stadiums, and now even a Grammy winner, his face and his voice were known and adored by millions of people. More than a little selfishly, though, you enjoyed being able to say he was yours.  It may have taken a long time, but the day you both suddenly realized that maybe what you shared was more than just best-friendship…it was the best day of your life so far.  Everything had changed, and you wouldn’t go back for a single second.

One of the things that you loved the most about him, even before that love was, well, “in-love”, was how big his heart his.  He never thought twice about making time for other people, and finding the one thing that would make someone smile or brighten someone’s day.  He was the least selfish, most positive person you knew, and the fact that none of that had changed in the slightest despite his mind-staggering fame, was one of the things that made him such a catch.   The screaming crowds, millions of fans, and never-ending media was something you weren’t sure you would ever be accustomed to, but in spite of all of that, he was just Teddy. Your Teddy.  

He was sitting crookedly in his chair, one leg tucked under him, and wearing one of your favourite sweaters, a soft gray one that he had currently pushed the sleeves of up his forearms.  His glasses were sitting low on his nose, and as he absent mindedly shoved them back up his face, you couldn’t help but think how absurdly sexy the damn things were.  He hated them, would probably burn them if given the chance, but the poor boy was blind as a bat without them, and so they stayed.  You could never keep track of which pair of sneakers would find their way to his feet on any given day, he literally must have HUNDREDS of pairs, but the red ones he was wearing today were definitely your favourites.  Add in those tight black jeans, and the colorful ink on his arms that was peeking out from his pushed up sweater sleeves…Damn. If you weren’t sitting in airport right now…

“SHIT” you yelped, as you felt two fingers very suddenly run down your bare arm.  Having been lost in your thoughts, you hadn’t noticed Ed put his laptop away and focus his attention on you.  His head fell backwards as he laughed at your reaction, obviously enjoying the fact that it took next to nothing to scare the living bejesus out of you. 

“EVERY time, Love?”  He smiled widely, a twinkle in his eyes.  As you were a mature woman and older than Ed, you figured it was best to take the higher road.  By sticking your tongue out in his direction. 

“Not my fault my boyfriend is nothing but a Hobbit Man-child!”

“Hobbits have big feet, you know.” He laughed.  “I thought you liked men with big feet!”

Your mind immediately went to the size of his sneakers, and you giggled, thinking about the continuous online buzz that seemed to constantly surround Ed and what he was presumably hiding in those tight black jeans. Little did they know, it was more than just rumours, and the enjoyable fact that you had full access?  Yes MATE, as Teddy would say.  You had cackled out loud a few times at the obsession with “The Bulge”, as had Ed, but really, they were spot-on. It was…well.  There were times the “impression” he left had you walking bowlegged the next day.  If they only knew….

“Should I ask what’s going through that mind right now…?” Ed asked, seeing the evil grin tugging at your lips.  

Being that your train of thought had derailed into the gutter a LONG fucking time ago, thanks in no small part to the Ginger Boy, you didn’t see any need to let Ed in on your dirty thoughts.  You smiled innocently and he rolled his eyes, knowing you far better than that.  His talent in turning the smallest thing into an innuendo or cracking an inappropriate joke was NOT a secret, much to the delight of his fans, never mind the media that got to jump on the juiciest tidbits.  As long as you had known him, there had never been ANY kind of filter, really.  He had done a television interview over the summer, ahead of an intimate gig he was doing, where he had happily admitted to breaking wind on stage all the time and then threw it out there to the world that he’d shit his pants on stage.

You had nearly died.

Ed had just laughed it off, but REALLY.  Who admits to that in an international interview? Ed Sheeran does.  Thinking back to that interview though…there was something else he mentioned.  Something that had DEFINITELY piqued your interest.  You flick through your phone, opening YouTube and scrolling till you find that interview.  Ed notices you searching and raises an invisible eyebrow.

“Haven’t you laughed at me enough for that one, darlin’?” He asks laughing.  “Think I’ve debunked the sexy myth now, haven’t I?”

“Actually…I was more interested in the question about the airplanes…?” you ask him, with a sly smile.  

You can see his brow furrow as he tries to remember what you’re teasing him about this time, and it’s so unbearably cute you find yourself leaning over and kissing that sweet spot beside his eye, the birthmark you love so much.  

“I believe he asked you if you’d ever joined the Mile High Club, sir,”  you said sweetly, all at once curious about how a man who’s flown as much as he has, has never managed to stamp THAT membership card. 

“Can’t say I’ve ever had the opportunity to take my cock out on an airplane, no” he said drily. “How the fuck does anyone manage to have a shag in one of those tiny airplane loo’s anyway??”  

“Dunno…” you say innocently.  “Could be fun to get you off whilst trying to keep you quiet though….”

“Much more fun when we can be loud, innit…?” he says softly and more than a bit cheekily, “I like it when you scream my name.”  

Suddenly, your body is VERY much wishing you were NOT in an airport, and where his fingertips were absent-mindedly tracing shapes on your wrist before, they were suddenly very gently, but very purposefully stroking the inside of your thigh.  A shudder involuntarily moves through you, and while neither of you are normally comfortable with PDA’s, you suddenly feel the softest, butterfly kiss brush your shoulder, your cheek, then your hair, and there was that buzzing, tingly feeling and your eyes involuntarily slide shut and you turn your head to catch his lips and-

“FLIGHT 264.  FLIGHT 264 NOW BOARDING AT TERMINAL B!”    

Both of your heads snap back and you suddenly remember where you are, surrounded by many people with many smartphones with many cameras, and manage to pull yourselves together.  FINALLY your flight’s been called, and you are MORE than ready to leave this airport in your dust.  You pull yourself together and scramble to throw your charge cord in your bag, and to make sure you have your boarding pass, not wanting to leave anything behind.  You jump up, and turn to see Ed pull his hat down over that gorgeous flaming red hair, and his hood over that.  He catches your bemused expression and boops your nose.

“Whatchu lookin’ at woman??” he says as he wrinkles his nose up.

“Your silly attempt to hide that trademark Ginge! You hide your head, but that sexy beard just gives it all away!”  You grin and tug the scruff on his chin, the scruff that tickled deliciously when it rubbed against the flesh of certain sensitive areas…..DAMN IT.  For all the times you’ve teased the boy about his dirty thoughts, yours certainly weren’t much better most of the time.  He chuckles, and the smirk he’s got on his face tells you he can see the blush on your cheeks. You stick your tongue out again and he leans in quickly and breathes in your ear, “Not unless you’ve got the guts to use it, babe…” and this time the blush is REAL.  He smiles innocently and grabs his rucksack and headphones and waits for you to finish gathering up your bags.  As you begin to make your way around the corner to the boarding line, you hear an all-too familiar shriek and gasp.  You look knowingly at Ed, and tell him you’ll meet him in line after he takes a quick selfie with the fans currently hyperventilating to his right.  You hurry off not particularly wanting to be recognized.  You pull your ticket out of your bag, and smile softly, watching Ed give hugs to 2 crazy excited fans across the way, and pose for a couple of pictures before waving goodbye.  You knew he was exhausted with all the travelling and shows this week, but he never lets that get in the way of putting a smile on someone’s face.  He rushes over, pulls his ticket out, and rests his head on your shoulder with a sigh as you wait for your turn to board.   You breathe in deeply, loving the freshly washed Sheeran Scent, and let your fingers rest at his waist.  He just always smells so fucking GOOD.  You can feel his fingertips lightly tracing shapes on your back, and without his even meaning to, your body is responding (in ways that are not conducive to being in a public place, dammit).  

You reach the front of the line, your passes are scanned, and you both hurry down the walkway to the plane.  You enter the cabin, and check your passes for your seat numbers.  Mr. World Famous Pop Star was never one to fly private, so you were perfectly happy to snuggle up in the luxury that was coach, also known as no-room-for-your-legs.  You discover that your seats are right in back by the restrooms, almost the last ones in the row.  The flight isn’t full today, thankfully, so it’s quiet. You pull your phone and earbuds out of your bag, and your book, and see Ed pull his headphones out too.  Bags stowed, Ed offers you the window seat, but knowing you’ll end up with more leg room if you take the aisle, you generously offer HIM the window seat, and you both settle in.  Once the plane is loaded up, you notice with delight that the third seat is empty and you have the row to yourselves.  

“Yes MATE!” Ed says happily, “No neighbours this time!”  He asks the passing flight attendant for a pillow and a blanket, and she happily brings him one, plus extras.  The blush on her cheeks would seem to indicate she recognized his face right away, why he seems surprised by this you will never understand.  You wait until you’re in the air to kick off your shoes, undo your seatbelt, and lay sideways across the empty seat and bury your head into the softness of his chest and belly.  You feel his fingertips brush the hair out of your face, and he pulls one of the blankets over you, and you sigh and snuggle into him as tightly as you can. You love how the 2 of you fit together, and have you mentioned how good he smells?  It’s a thing.  Anyway. You hear him make a soft noise, and can hear his smile before you see it.  

“Comfy, love?” he whispers while the pad of his thumb skates across your cheek. “I much prefer flying like this.  Stu’s not so amenable to cuddles whilst flying, sadly.”

“Well I’m happy to provide the skills he lacks, babe” you said straight-faced. “My tits might not be as cuddly however…”

You feel a soft hand slip slowly under your breast, in a move that’s not like him in this sort of situation.  Just as quickly it’s gone and as fast as you think how much you want him to very much to put it BACK, he quickly flicks the top two buttons of your shirt open, and your thoughts tumble again.  Your breath catches, not sure of what he’s doing, and suddenly those beautiful long fingers, those fingers that are somehow soft and calloused and sexy rough all the same time from so many guitar strings, are stealthily sliding into your bra, and gently tugging at the nipple therein. He stops then, and gently cups your breast, a gentle squeeze and then his fingers find your nipple again.  With so many flights, so many time zones, so many shows this past week, you’ve both been too exhausted to initiate much of anything.  Well he’s “initiating” something now and it’s nearing the point of no return. Jesus...

“They feel pretty fucking cuddly to me, love…” he whispers nonchalantly, as if he didn’t know what he was doing to you, the reaction it was inciting.  

He’s softly (and expertly) playing with your nipple, alternating between tugging softly, and tracing gentle circles, and suddenly he stops, leaving you breathless, but really he’s just switching to your other breast, tugging and tracing and stroking, and seeming to quite enjoy himself. Every movement, every touch, feels like there’s an electric wire pulling on the deepest parts of you, and its exquisite torture.  Laying sideways in the position you’re in, you’re at the just right angle to exact your revenge. You pull the blanket over you both, and it’s when he shifts his weight to alleviate his discomfort, that you see exactly what you were hoping for. You very softly run your fingers up his thighs, back and forth, up and down, and this time it’s his breath that catches

“You started this, Teddy….”  You whispered with a grin.

You can just reach where his jeans are beginning to tent, and you gently cup his balls and feel him shiver in response.  You can feel his dick, not all the way hard yet, but enough to make its presence known, and you just want to feel every inch. You stroke him from top to bottom, feeling every inch, slowly, but purposefully.  You are never, ever this daring in a public setting, but suddenly…you want this.  Him. Badly.  Slowly, you find the button of his jeans and carefully undo it, you slowly ease the zipper down, and thank god boxers have that access flap in the front.  You adjust your position, and the blanket, slightly, and lick your lips.

“Fucking hell….” He barely gets out before you finally have him in hand.  You check the blanket again, and you’re good, no one around, and oh GOD you love his cock. Like steel encased in the softest silk, and so hot to the touch.  It’s thick, though definitely not all the way hard yet, and his foreskin is beginning to pull back on its own.  It’s fucking gorgeous. You haven’t got complete access because his pants and boxers are still on, but one of your favourite things is to comb your fingers through the copper patch of hair that surrounds his beautiful penis.  

You can’t fully do it the way you normally would, you’ve got to be somewhat careful, since you are on an airplane, but you lower your mouth and lick him, from root to tip, and swirl your tongue around the beautiful head that is just begging to be swallowed whole.  You can feel his whole body tense and his fingers tangle in your hair. You want to get on your knees and make his world fall to pieces, but as that’s not an option right at the moment, you stick to keeping your hands moving, pumping him slowly from root to tip, and occasionally adding a twist and adding extra speed at the head, just the way he likes it.  You love how hot and silky smooth he feels in your hand. He just feels so good and it turns you on even more. You give his balls a gentle tug, and his hands are suddenly gone from your breasts, your nipples still aching, and then OH he’s pulling you up, pushing his tongue into your mouth and kissing you again and again and again like you’re the oxygen he breathes.  His lips, so soft, desperately trying to taste every square inch of your mouth, you can never get enough of them, so tender and so desire driven at the same time.  His kisses were never a second thought, never wasted, every single one a message.

You know the chances that you’ll have the nerve for this again are non-existent, so you decide to jump off the cliff, right into the deep end.  You want him. NOW. That membership card is about to get stamped.

You take a deep breath, wind your hands into those fiery curls and whisper in his ear, “I want you to fuck me.  I want you make me come, 30,000 feet in the air, and I want you NOW.”

His pupils are blown and as you’re saying these things, you can feel how wet you are, and you want HIM to feel how wet you are. You can feel it soaking through your underwear, and you’re still stroking, tugging, and pumping his cock, wanting him to feel how badly you want him.  

He looks around, seeing one older lady sound asleep in the last row, no flight attendants in sight, and quickly manages to stuff his erection back in his jeans.

“Promise not to scream when I fuck you against that door?” He breathes in my ear. “Because I WILL make you come, Love.  So Hard.”

You’re practically panting as he tells you to go first, and then he’ll count to 60 and follow you in.  You quickly run your hands through your hair, take a deep breath, and walk quickly to the bathroom.  

Jesus, you keep forgetting just how tiny these little tin can bathrooms are. Creativity will be needed here, but right now you just wanted…just him.  All of him.  You quickly peel your shorts and panties off, yank your shirt over your head, and sit back on the closed toilet.  There, a soft knock at the door and you’re panting again, dying to feel him, any part of him, against you.  He squeezes himself into the tight space, and quickly shoves the door shut behind him, testing the lock.  The sight of you sitting back in nothing but a bra, waiting for him, is everything he wants, and everything he needs, and the low sound that escapes his lips…Fuck.   You wait for him to undo his belt buckle, but he doesn’t not yet, and then OH GOD, somehow, in this impossibly tight space, he finds a way to drop to his fucking knees.

“Oh Jesus Christ, Ed, please…..” you whisper, knowing EXACTLY what that gorgeous mouth and tongue are capable of.  

“All week I’ve not had a taste…I’m fucking STARVING.” He mutters under his breath, and he looks up at you, with…reverence? Adoration? All you can see on his face is the look of a man who cannot get enough of you.  His perfect hands, those sexy hands, they gently stroke your thighs, and then very determinedly push your legs apart.  

He does that thing, that thing he doesn’t even realize he does where he licks his lips and then bites down on the bottom one and you practically unravel on the spot.  It’s like he’s preparing for the most delicious of feasts…You.  Your eyes involuntarily flutter shut and then… Oh God. You can feel the softness of his lips as they kiss their way up the insides of your thighs, and the scruff of his beard leaves a scratchy tickle on your already sensitive skin as his mouth moves toward where you NEED it and you’re squirming already because you NEED his mouth, his tongue and god there’s no room to stretch your leg but you’re literally coming apart at the anticipation and then YES.

He’s a tease that Ginger boy, usually, but today there’s no time.  Usually he kisses every inch of you, every crease, every fold, and every soft bit of flesh, nibbles the soft skin around your centre, gently tugs the soft strands that surround your most intimate area…the buildup is the sweetest of torture. Not now.  He quickly pushes your lips apart and with his teeth gives them a little tug, before licking slowly from the bottom all the way to the top, all while watching for your reaction.  It’s like fucking jolts of electricity, bolts of lightning under your skin and Fuck, breath just leaves your body as he buries his face in your centre, eagerly and quickly licking and sucking and flicking with his tongue, that fucking perfect pink cupid’s bow mouth all out fucking devouring your flesh. Your eyes are slammed shut and somehow you’ve managed to lift your leg up over his shoulder, trying to open yourself up to him so he can have every single inch of you.  That delicious knot in your belly, the one that grows tighter with lick, every stroke, every touch, it’s rapidly becoming tighter and you know that edge is coming closer.  By now, Ed knows your reactions, your breathing, he knows you’re about to come apart in his mouth, and you feel him grin as he pushes you to the point of no return.  His fingers, OH FUCK you feel those long fucking incredibly talented fingers, they’re suddenly sliding into you, so quick, so hard, he’s wasting no time, SHIT, not one finger, but 3 of them and you look at down the this fucking sexy view of his tousled flaming orange hair nestled between your legs as his head moves quickly trying to keep the pace up, and he notices you trying to watch and you can see those blue eyes are heated and watching you intently. desperate for you to come for him, and you can see his fingers disappear inside you over and over and over and over and his tongue fuck HIS TONGUE, he’s got the folds of your skin pushed back as far he can and he’s thrashing his tongue over that perfect pink bud over and over, switching back and forth between circling it and flicking it with his tongue, and sucking it RIGHT into that perfect mouth, and his other hand is still sliding his fingers into you at lightning speed, and you know it’s there, you’re THERE, and you want to fucking scream for the whole world to hear, but you can’t and while one hand is tangled in his soft ginger hair, keeping him firmly pressed against you, the other arm you throw across your face and press your teeth against the flesh of your arm, determined to muffle your orgasm.

“You are so fucking delicious, love” he growls, “You’re so wet, I know you’re right ready to come, fuck you taste so good…..”.  

Hearing those words fall from those perfect pink lips, they’re all you need.  He feels your whole body tensing, hears the whine that escapes your lips as you bite down, and thrusts his fingers as far in as he can get them, and draws that perfect pink bit of flesh between his lips, that perfect pink button where NOTHING ELSE fucking exists right now, and he’s sucking it, tugging it, like his own favourite bit of candy and suddenly it’s like jumping off the tallest cliff, into the hottest, burning fire,  and IT’S SO GOOD and it’s like your body is trying to split into pieces and OH FUCK you never EVER want this stop, you’re coming SO hard, your teeth are CLAMPED onto your arm trying to control the noises that are desperately trying to escape your mouth.  You’re literally grinding your pelvis against his face, trying to draw out every last bit of this fucking amazing orgasm, and he’s doing his best to take every last bit of it in.  It finally begins to recede, and your body sags as every bone in it goes limp, and he rocks back on his heels with a rather self-satisfied grin on his face. You notice his beard is wet with, well, YOU, and holy fuck. THAT’S HOT.

“Teddy…Jesus…That was….” You gasp, as quietly as you can manage, “I want you. Now. I don’t care how, but fuck me.  Please…”  

There’s clearly no room for creativity or gymnastics or this ridiculously tiny metal space, but your mind is driven by one thing and one thing only.  You bring yourself to a standing position and manage to lift yourself enough to prop your bum on the edge of the sink, and winding your fingers into the sweaty curls that frame his flushed face, you kiss him, desperately, urgently, feeling his pent up energy flowing into you.  Your tongue slides into his mouth, desperate to taste yourself on him, and his kisses oh his kisses they’re carnal, like he wants to inhale you, his teeth biting your lower lip and his breath coming in uneven bursts.  You back yourself up against the sink as much as you can (which isn’t much) and push your leg up against the wall.  Ed seems as though he almost can’t believe what’s about to happen, he’s frantically unbuckling and unzipping his pants, while frantically trying to keep his lips connected to yours, his breathing so heavy you’re practically ready to come apart all over again.  

“Fucking hell, ‘bout to have my girl in the loo….” He’s breathing heavily, and you suddenly notice, looking down, that the boy has got himself in hand, he’s stroking himself quickly, quick tugs and long strokes, clearly readying himself for what was to come.  SHIT.  Anywhere else and he’d be continuing THAT show for some time.  You’ve thought it before, and every time you get this lovely close up view, you appreciate it again, his cock is beautiful.  That gorgeous plush head, and HONEY.  That time he thought it appropriate to mention girth on national radio?  He knows what he’s talking about.  His foreskin is stretched all the way back, and you can see how ready he is for you.

Suddenly you feel a hand slide under your ass cheek, and he’s tilting your hips towards him, opening you up, trying to position you as close to his body as possible.   You can feel how wet you are, the moisture slipping down your legs, and you are SO ready, so desperate to feel him inside you, and he’s still got himself in hand, and you are just about growling as you wrap your leg around his waist and push your toes into the wall and oh God NOW, and he buries his face in your neck, and OH. Oh YES.  

This is not slow, not tender, not hours of enjoying each other’s bodies….this was NOW.  He’s pushing his hot, lush cockhead pushed past your delicate, soaked flesh and oh GOD, again and again and again, he’s fucking you with long, hard strokes, and you’re pushing your hips up to meet him, trying to absorb every thrust, every touch, every slap of your skin, and oh GOD it feels so good, his hands have not LEFT your ass, Teddy has ALWAYS been an ass man and right now is no different, his hands feel so warm, so smooth, and with every thrust and every bump his hands are squeezing your cheeks so hard you’re quite sure they’re gonna leave a mark but do you care right now? NO.   His hair, oh those sweat-soaked ginger curls, they’re stuck to his forehead, his eyes are screwed shut, just as they are when he’s lost in a song.  His shoulders so broad, are hunched as he holds himself over you. His sexy narrow hips, pale and smooth and soft are lined up with yours. He’s biting his lip HARD, trying to not let a single noise escape.  

It occurs to you that his shirt is still buttoned up, his pants are still almost all the way up, but despite looking like he was still fully dressed, he was so deep inside you in such a carnal, primal way…..It’s like your bodies were designed to fuck and that’s all you wanna do for the rest of time because JESUS he knows what he’s doing and every time that achingly perfect cock slides into you, your walls just grip it so tight, and it’s like flames licking at you from the inside out and you can hear the soft slap of his balls every time his beautiful penis slides into you, faster, faster, the perfect crown hitting that magic spot, bumping into that wall on every thrust. Suddenly one hand leaves your ass and you feel it gently caress your belly and OH his fingers, they’ve found that sweet spot, that tiny bit of pink flesh that he knows how to love SO GOOD, your clit might as well be the centre of the universe right fucking now.  The plane could crash and you couldn’t give a fuck, and he’s rubbing and stroking in that circular motion that he KNOWS will set you off.  You struggle to keep your eyes open as he fills you up, again and again, over and over and over, growling into your shoulder, and you for a split second you take in the sweet roundness of his bum, pressed against the door of the cubicle, lifting and flexing with every thrust and JESUS you love his ass it’s so fucking PERFECT, and you reach around with your hands and grasp those lovely cheeks (surprisingly the LEAST fuzzy part of his body…) and squeeze trying to feel every warm inch of him against every sweaty inch of you.

“Harder…” you whimper, trying to angle your hips to get him as deep as possible in such a small space.  “God Teddy, you always fuck me so good….”

He tilts you back as far as you can go, nudging you to wrap your legs around him as tight as you can, and it’s a race to the finish line. God, he feels so good, the thump, thump, thump as he gives you his all, slamming his pelvis against your ass, burying his cock as deep in you as he can, your fingernails leaving marks across his ass as your body begins to tighten, your faced flushed, that burning building heat down low, spreading to all the corners of your body in a race you were dying to win.  Concentrating on keeping your voices quiet, you both are oblivious to the hot slaps of your bodies coming together, echoing hard and fast in the tiny, enclosed space.

“…So close… Love, Jesus Christ…” He growls. “You’re so tight…you feel so fucking good…AH…”

His thrusts are becoming shallower, faster, chasing a climax that’s feeling like it could end the both of you.  You push one foot against the door, and the sudden sensation of Ed’s TEETH sinking into your shoulder, that’s it Oh GOD, it’s like stars exploding, you’re GONE, white spots behind your eyes, you’re off that cliff and his fingers are still stroking, rubbing, and SHIT DON’T STOP.  Your wrist is at your mouth as you try to stifle your scream and his dick is still filling you up over and over and over….

His hips stutter, and his thrusts become quicker, shorter, shallower, and his body pins you to the sink ledge, and you hear the lowest, breathiest, and raspiest “Ah AH….Jesus…FUCK…….AH….” And you can feel a sudden jerk, and a warmth between your legs, and his mouth is pressed to your shoulder, his head against your neck, and his hips are jammed into yours and your legs still wrapped around him, your head back against the wall, both of you spent, both trying to catch your breath, and as the real world filters back in and you remember your surroundings, you both let out a giggle.  He kisses your shoulder and cracks that little boy smile that says “Just got laid, innit!”  

“Add that to your list, Teddy….” You smile wickedly and kiss his sweaty curls.  “Never thought I’d come at 35,000 feet next to an airplane toilet…”

He drops quick butterfly kisses all across your shoulder, your neck and kisses your lips softly, tenderly, almost as though he was making a promise with that one kiss.  “Never thought I’d have my cock out at 35,000 feet either.  What have you done to me, woman?” He giggles suddenly, “Christ, how long have we been in here d’you think??”  He kisses your head and you feel him pull back, and suddenly you feel empty, and you watch him tuck himself back in and fix his pants and shirt. You both quickly try to smooth your hair, and you quickly tug your clothes back on.  

You look at each other, thinking “Now what…?” and you both laugh.  Ed, being the gallant gentleman that he is, offers to peek out and leave first, and quietly turns the lock and cracks the door.  

“All clear, love” he mutters.  “Give it a minute and follow me back”

You pulled the door shut, and take the opportunity to pee quickly now that you’re gone, and after washing your hands, you turn the lock and make your escape.  As you turn the corner, Ed’s fluffy ginger mane comes into view as you spot him in his seat, doing something with his headphones.  As you walk past the row of seats in the front of the bathroom, you suddenly notice the sleepy older lady, isn’t so sleepy anymore.  A pair of bright green eyes, wide awake and full of mischief and mirth are staring right back at you.  You are QUITE certain that every last drop of blood in your body are currently residing in your cheeks as you lock eyes, and you realize, SHE KNOWS.

“Wrap your legs round his waist, dear, right up against the door.  Best use of the space, I found.”  She winked, and laid her head back against the window and closed her eyes, smile still dancing on her face.

You couldn’t force words out if you tried, so you scurry back to your seat, grab the blanket and bury your face in Ed’s arm. He raises an eyebrow and laughs at your red face and mortified expression, and you manage to repeat what the older woman had said.  

“Have to remember that tip for the next flight??” He smirks. “Never thought I’d join that club. You’re a bad influence, babe!”  He pulls the blanket over you both, and you smile, contented and sleepy, and curl up into his side, thinking maybe the older woman’s suggestion should be filed away after all…..

“Love you, Teddy…” you said sleepily.  “Love you more” he said softly, watching you as you drift off.    

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