#treble stroke

[dragonerd8224]

TEAR YOU DOWN

soooo good

ashvee and the others did an amazing job

[meowmeowmessi]

"you people are so reactionary" hated xavi as coach since a long time ago and never forgot ter statue's crimes against goalkeeping during european nights. his turkish barber and purple patch ain't fooling me

[iamnotlookingidonotseeit]

tell me how I'm supposed to resist practicing until my fingers hurt when I'm deeply anxious and malagueña is in the back of my guitar book. i could hyperfixate all day

[screampied]

☆ cw. fem! reader, college au, bimbo-y reader, dumbification, praise, nerd nanami's a secret freak, fīngering, mdni.

nerd! nanami who eats you out while wearing his glasses. you told him this ‘method’ was far more efficient . . and, he could teach you more about the anatomy of the clit better.. oh, and the fact at how you said you always were a visual learner. you were always grateful for his tutoring sessions sure, but you couldn’t help but stare at him. not just at his eyes, but his noticeable bulge too that would always outline beneath his slacks. and yet now, here you were—laid flat on his wooden old desk as he’s buried right between your pretty thighs. “hm,” he’d grumble, sliding a swollen fat thumb down your glossy clit. nanami hears your cute breaths grow shallow along with the clanking dangles of your earrings and he huffs. “princess, pay attention,” and his eyes flicker down at your sopping needy entrance. “she’s important.”

“o- okay,” you wheeze out a tiny breath, and your eyes focus primarily on the head that’s buried between your legs. nanami pushes back the clear lenses of his glasses before giving your sloppy cunt a single tender kiss. a sweetened gasp rips away from your parted lips as you stare at him, watching intently as he closes his eyes shut, gradually sliding his tongue from top to bottom. “fuuck, ‘ken.”

nanami whistles softly against your dribbling folds while you’re wetly glazing his peachy, pink lips with your slick. “ah, the clit is such a mystery,” he’d purr, positioning his glasses. you’d then roll your eyes once he starts rambling all sorts of anatomy facts while eating you out at the same time. nanami’s pearly cold lenses repeatedly rub up against your thighs as he swiftly flicks his tongue, using his flat vast thumb to smear shapes down your slit. “sooo many nerves inside this pretty thing. thousands ‘n thousands of nerve fibers,” and you moan, feeling him cup his pursed dripping lips around your clit. nanami feels you claw a hand through his blond scalp, digging through his thin blond tresses before he hums.

“but – let’s start with my personal favorite shall we, princess? the dorsal nerve..”

he found it cute how you were so whiny, struggling to hold still as your back brushes up against the dozens of incorrectly marked papers behind you. they were scattered everywhere on the desk, an entire pile—and nanami thinks you were just starting to answer things wrong purposely. “let’s see,” he softly coos, feverish breath colliding right against your eagerly twitching sex. you’ve got a good tugging grip on his hair, peering at how his flaxen blond strings entangle ‘n intertwine between your fingers. “she’s important why?”

a mewling sobbing moan was your answer as his glasses continued to glide and tickle against your skin. nanami raises a single brow, and as his chiseled chin’s just streaming down with shimmery sheeny slick, he tsks.

“u- uhh,” you whimper, tightening your grip against his silky threads of hair. truth be told, your mind was entirely empty. you weren’t thinking about anything except for that fact that his tongue was ferociously gliding up and down the streaming slope of your pretty pussy. it makes you gnaw on your lip, growing even more dumb all from the salaciously narrow strokes of his tongue. “because it stimulates t.. the clit?”

“no, dummy,” he whispers, and even his playful insults made your pussy throb. nanami felt the exact pulse trigger against the flatness of his tongue and you whimper. you could feel his coy grin twisting against his lips before he starts to slurp harder.

it’s loud . . and your eyes were already starting to roll back the second he eases a slender middle finger inside.

“the dorsal nerve helps innervate this spot,” and a treble squeak of a whine snatches out your throat once he teasingly nibbles against your clit. it feels good, and you could feel your body heat gradually heating up more and more. “wonder what goes on in that pretty head of yours,” and with another moan following out from your lips, he gives your wet entrance a soft direct spank. “nothin’. bet it’s just empty, right silly girl?”

“kentoooo, fuck—” you’d moan, maintaining a good grip on his hair. fuck, it was just the way you perfectly dragged out the two syllables of his name – and, oh was the prettiest melody he’s ever heard.

panting heavily, nanami starts to run the pointed tip of his tongue farther inside of your pussy. it’s like he’s a natural—and to be honest, you didn’t think he’d be the type to have such a skillful tongue. for the hours and hours he spends talking, but you were starting to connect the dots. maybe nerds could be just as filthy. . especially with their mouths. his tongue resumes to delve in and out rapidly, barely giving you any time to catch your irregular unsteady breaths. glancing down, you see him with fogged up glasses and a sleazy growing grin.

he’s smug.

your taste – it makes nanami salivate, and he’s even starting to drool past the corners of his lips. you had a treacly flavor to you, and it continues to please his tastebuds the more he swirls his tongue inside. he’s right between your thighs and it’s a pretty sight… you’re a pretty sight, and you can’t help but start to frantically grind your hips against his slack jaw. “forget the l- lesson. don’t stop.”

nanami gives the inner sweltering flaps of your cunt another loving kiss before warm fawn eyes fixate back toward you. “ohh, but princess,” and he could hear your soft gasps once he starts to massage his palm around your sopping heat. he’s maneuvering tender circles against your wet pussy before giving it a soft smack, hearing you whimper for more. you were soaked. . geysering pools of your slick coat his hand and it makes him hum in amusement. “if i do that, then you won’t learn anything,” and you could feel every sharp axon electrocute alongside each nerve of your body. your thighs were this close to snapping back shut, and he’s gotta pry them apart with two big hands. “wonder if my tongue’s jus’ makin’ you dumber,” and that’s riiight when nanami smears the bridge of nose against your cunt.

“nghh, kento,” your eyes widen, and each time his lips smack from pulling away to breathe—you could feel both of your ears ring. he’s filthy, and nanami was so hard that he even reached beneath the desk, slipping a hand inside of his unbuckled pants. you continued to drag your cunt against his face, covering the lower part of his dripping chin with every drop of your lewd polished essence before mewling. “fuck, fuuuuck, ‘m gonna cum.”

“the woman orgasm,” he whispers in husky awe, his tone as smooth as silky silk. nanami lowly grunts, wrapping a hand around his veiny base before giving it a few solid pumps. oh, you turned him on. it was so bad that he couldn’t help but imagine being inside of you. fucking you on his desk, pushing your head into your red-marked papers in hopes that that could feed you some sorts of knowledge – all while showering you with a plethora of compliments of course.

you were pretty, but between your legs you were even prettier. as nanami continues to prattle endlessly, talking your ear off about whatever, his glasses end up falling and you grab them.

sepia hooded eyes narrow at you before he scoffs, taking a second to spit on your weeping cunt. “tell me, sweet thing,” and you’re whimpering, the arch in your back growing as your lips part awkwardly. nanami’s still fisting his cock with a single hand, slowly twirling his tongue inside between your glistening folds before applying faster and faster pressure. it’s repetitive, and you clench down on your jaw the second you feel him pop in his lanky ring finger. “how many nerves does it take to orgasm? quickly.”

as your lashes continuously flutter – you let off a sweet whimper. “around e- eight thousand?”

“smart girl,” he coos, and you felt a stir of butterflies rummage through the lower pits of your stomach at the praise. nanami’s practically french kissing your cunt, using allllll types of tongue. effortlessly, he’s thrusting his tongue in and out, locating every pivotal part inside before he abruptly stops stroking himself. he groans, feeling a vein run down his shaft before he gives your cunt it’s final departing kiss. “c’monnn, let go for me. cum on my tongue, princess.”

as your lips cutely stretch out further, curling ‘n contorting into a shocked oval shape—you tightly grip onto his blonde strands. “fuuuuck,” was all you could reply with, and you could still hear nanami grumbling out nonsense under his breath. even a nerd with his mouth full.

sloppily, his tongue wanders everywhere, reaching near every crevice and swirls its way around your clit before dipping itself right back out. there was not a single thought programmed in your brain—except for the fact that if his tongue was like this, you only wondered what his dick felt like. the thought alone makes you let off a crooning whimper as a lightning wave of pulses throb between your jittery legs. you were so close that the taste of your inevitable orgasm was simply sweet.

it’s as sweet as vanilla frosted icing, and the second you started to uncurl your toes, you felt it.

a cute whimper ripples out of your hoarse vocal chords as you remain to cling onto his glasses. nanami subtlety squints up at you with the most cunt-drunken grin before he lies his tongue all the way flat. “mmph,” and with a sloppy squelching slosh, you hear a finger of his loudly ‘pop’ out of your soddened slit. nanami was moving his head back and forth, the fabric of his tie tickling against your skin whilst you’re coming undone. your harmonious-sounding orgasm lasts for a good nine seconds, echoing through the thin walls of his dorm before he sighs. nanami’s starting to see why you preferred this more than his lectures—

“thaaaat’s it,” he smears his sheeny-slick lips against the opening of your pussy. you’re drooling wet, jaw dropped with your eyes bulged out of their sockets as you realized you came on his tongue.

nanami’s tongue completely wiped out any sorts of review that was supposed to be jotted inside your brain. instead – you’re just dumbfounded with cartoony heart eyes forming in your dilated pupils the more you stare at him. you wanted more, you wanted him. nanami gently caresses down your tender pulsating entrance before giving it a soft pat. it’s a pat that then turns into a sloppy ‘mwah’ with his lips, and it makes your heart race. with droopy eyes, you watch as he runs a hand through his neatly parted hair. unkempt, but still handsome.

“silly girl,” he scoffs to himself with a scolding head shake, and within seconds later he leans in, giving you a chaste kiss. you moan, wrapping your arms around him. nanami grunts, swiping his tongue around the sugary sweet lip gloss that glues against your lips before he slowly spins you around.

“is this part of the lesson too?” you sheepishly hum, still feeling hot ‘n heavy from his lips being on yours just a moment ago. with a tiny gasp, you feel nanami gingerly press up against you, gently grabbing your waist. you ached for more, and you didn’t care about the private session anymore.

“partially,” nanami rasps, and you feel him lean further in, resting his chin against your shoulder. nanami stares at your body and he puts his glasses back on before sighing. with a hand gently pushing you forward – making you arch fully, the blonde grunts. “we forgot the other important part of the lesson though, ‘m afraid.”

with a cutesy shake of your ass against his grey crooked slacks that barely clung onto his hips, you bite the inside of your cheek. you feel something brick hard behind you that doesn’t exactly feel like a book. “a- and what’s that, ‘ken?”

nanami slowly licks the left side of your neck and you moan once he lifts up your leg, bringing his lips up to your ear. “penetration, princess.”

[angelltheninth]

Things Tokyo Rev Men Enjoy

Pairing: Takemichi Hanagaki, Manjiro Sano, Ken Ryuuguuji, Takashi Mitsuya, Kazutora Hanemiya, Baji Keisuke, Shinichirou Sano, Chifuyu Matsuno, Rindou Haitani, Tetta Kisaki x Fem!Reader

Tags: nsfw, smut, established relationship, creampie, praise, angry sex, cock riding, risk of getting caught, marking, fucking in front of others, mirror sex, overstimulation

Ko-Fi | Rules | Fandoms and Characters

A/N: I got a friend to watch this so I've been rewatching along with him.

Takemichi trebled as you clung onto him, your breath shaky and warm next to his ear. "Only a little bit more Take, you can do it can't you? You've been waiting for a while." You pressed your body against his, felt his thighs flex under yours.

"Anything for you babe- a-anything you want, just... fuck... please tell me how good it feels for you." His lips trailed across your shoulder, fruitlessly trying to put a stop to the whimpers he's making as your pussy keeps trying to drain the cum from his dick. "I'm doing good for you aren't I? You're feeling good cause of me..."

You smiled against his pinkish cheeks and made your inner walls flutter around him, "What do you think? Are you making me feel good? The best I've ever felt? Making me want nothing but your cock?"

"Yes! Yes, yes, ugh, I'll make sure you feel even better soon!" Takemichi kissed and lightly bit at your lips as he finally let himself come, trembling against his bed more than you were against him, almost dizzy from the pleasure he knows he's giving you.

Mikey pulled you against his body, his balls pressed under your ass. "You're not going anywhere yet. I still gotta empty these in your pussy." He rolled his hips upwards even though his cock had nowhere left to go. The friction was enough to stimulate your inner walls, eliciting a small moan from you.

When you tried to pull away from him he tightened his hold. He was enjoying it a little, being able to keep you all to himself however long he wanted.

"Of course you want me here. Who else is gonna keep your cock warm and your balls empty. Am I right, Mikey?" You pressed your body against his, your pussy pulsing around his cock.

"I like having you close." He mumbled against your neck before he pulled you off his cock and then slammed you back down to receive his hot cum.

Draken hates it when you try to hide your pretty face when you have sex. Him seeing your face while he fucks you stupid is his favorite part of it. Well one of his favorite parts. So when you have sex he makes sure that there are no pillows you can use to hide.

Besides a much better use for the pillows is under you so he has a better angle to thrust his cock into you. "Remember what we agreed on babe, no hiding from me. I want to see all of you." Draken teased as he pulled your hands towards him, effectively impaling you on his hard cock.

"But it's embarrassing! The face I'm making right now-" He interrupted you with yet another deep thrust, the angle perfect for fucking you just right.

"Is beautiful. You're beautiful when you make that face. You're making it because I'm making you feel good, I love to see it. Makes me so hard." He insisted , one handmaking from yours and stroking your cheek, "You're beautiful like this, coming on my dick."

Mitsuya never gets tired of you riding his cock. It doesn't matter if you're constantly going up and down on it or if your body is pressed so closely against his that he can feel your tits moving as well. There's no better feeling than your weight on top him while you moan.

"You want me on top again?" You asked with a chuckle as Mistuya moved his hands along your hips and sighed when you took his cock and lined it up with your wet pussy.

"What man wouldn't want you riding and draining him dry? I got all pent up for you." His smug smile turned into a grin when he pushed you down enough to take the tip in. "Can you get is all in one go?"

You quirked your eyebrow at the question. Leaning down you pressed your breasts against his chest, your ass in the air for a few moments and then fully sat on his cock, taking the entire length at once. His cock filled and stretched your pussy, eliciting a deep moan from the both of you.

Kazutora usually let his anger out on opposing gang members, which would then get him and his friends into even more trouble. In turn this would mean he got injured all over again so you suggested he used his energy in a more pleasurable manner.

You weren't ready for how passionate and horny he would get when he had all his anger pent up and the only way for him to let go of it was to fuck it out. "Look at you, getting off on me hurting you." Kazutora brushed his hand along the bruise on your hip left there by his grip.

"I wanted to take your mind off things." You wrapped your legs around him and arched your back into him, your pussy clenching around his cock.

"Those guys deserved it for flirting with you. And you... dressed like that, you were provoking me weren't you? You like me when I'm angry, rough." The bruises he left on you were the kind you would gladly show off.

Baji has no problem with fucking you in front of his gang to make a point. What is that point? That you're off limits to anyone but him. You might make their cocks hard but they're not allowed to touch you, even think about it.

"I had no idea it'd turn you on so much, being on display like this, like a little fucktoy." He whispers close, only for you to hear, so that only he knows how hard your pussy tightens and loosens around his dick. You pull him close to try and hide your flustered face, protecting yourself from the truth of his words.

His hands grab your thighs and push them further apart, letting the other guys see how wet his cock is from pounding your pussy. You hear curses, laughs, snickers around you, but no one even dares to ask to join, valuing their life over pleasure.

You kiss his neck and wrap your legs around him, even though they're shaking. "You should do more than that Baji." You egg him on as your inner walls tighten around him. With a groan he understands what you mean, pulling back and then balls deep back in right as he finishes, shooting thick ropes of cum in you.

Shinichiro spreads your legs open in front of a mirror but doesn't put his dick in before he sees you're wet enough. He enjoys the show of you touching yourself for him, getting ready, touching your clit the exact same way he would. The whole while you feel his hard cock against your back.

"Don't you want to put it in? I can feel you dripping." You look back at him but he only looks at the mirror. More specifically the way your fingers pump in and out of your pussy.

"Babe, you know I want to." He breaths against your ear before kissing behind it. "Look at me as you take my cock." The dark eyes in the mirror never leave yours as you're lifted up by the hips and then pushed down on his throbbing cock.

He uses one hand to guide you, the other one gently on the back of your head to make sure you don't look away. The grip doesn't let up until you feel the soft, full balls pressing against you, then away and then back against you harder.

Chifuyu can't help but het hard when he sees the tiniest evidence of his love on you. He's always covered in various bruises and marks from his fights, he wants you to be covered in marks from his love for you. But you also can't help but want the same for him.

Every time you spot a new bruise your lips latch onto the spot and suck. "Mine." You whisper against his skin while you ride his cock. "I hate that you get so many of these." You run your hands across his back. "I want to be the only one marking you."

"Like I do to you." Teasing you he bites down hard, hard enough to leave a mark just below your boob. "You're mine as I am yours. Nothing will change that."

A little sigh leaves your lips as his tongue licks the mark, hips snapping quickly against yours, making you jump in his lap. He holds you close, feeling every breath you take, every slight movement of your nails against his skin, scratching his back as you come on his dick.

Rindou chuckles against your neck as you try to hurry him up. "Don't tease anymore, we could be caught." He's been taking his sweet time, running his hand down your back, his fingers gathering the wetness between your legs before rubbing it against your clit.

"Look at you," He presses the tip of his cock against your entrance before moving away. "Humping away like a bitch in heat. What's wrong? Scared that everyone's gonna see you for the slut you are?" You brace yourself against the desk as his hips snap forward, sheathing himself fully inside you.

You cover your mouth with your hand, the back of your thighs stinging from the rough thrust. "All at once... oh god..." Your pussy spasms around him.

He grunts, hips immediately starting to piston in and out. "Take it, take it all, take it deep." He is hands brace against your hips as he pounds away at you. "You were made for this and you know it, everyone else will know it too. I'll make sure of it."

Tetta laughs when your body falls limp onto the bed, his arms being there to catch you just in time. "We're not done yet pretty girl." He licks from your tits to your jaw. "I've been waiting all day for this, don't tell me that's it."

"No... just need a bit to... come... to..." You gasp as he starts moving again, almost like he's toying with you. Words fail you several times, body and mind overcome with pleasure that becomes electric when his thumb find your clit. "Ah!"

He knows exactly how to bend you to his will, he knows what he's doing to you, using your body for his pleasure while making you lose your mind to it. Because of him.

"What's that? Did you want to tell me something, huh baby?" He grins down at you, meeting your eyes for a moment before they close and yours roll back, overcome with a new wave of pleasure. Waves of cum wash over your insides, your legs pressing against him, the only thing that's keeping you sane.

[konigsblog]

stepbrother könig thots... :3

tw: stepcest, dubcon/noncon, manipulation, coercion, toxic relationship!

photo by @str6ngled <3

☆‧₊˚.

stepbrother könig is such a cruel man. he doesn't care for your feelings and only views you as a punching bag, and a little toy to play and rile up. of course, you're upset by this. and könig absolutely adores your nativity and sensitivity, how easily you are to coerce, how easy it is to sway your opinion. and he has so much power on you; with his age, rank in the military, knowledge, ect...

so when you're nervous to take him, or unwilling to because ‘he's your stepbro’, he decides that instead of pleading with a dumb thing like you, he'll manipulate you before taking it anyways. if you're a virgin — a smart, obedient girl at college — könig will absolutely corrupt you!! he'll make sure that the only thing on your mind is the feeling and force of his thick, lengthy cock pressing against your cervix and the way his fingers rub and stroke your clit over and over again ‘til you're a sobbing, wet mess. with sticky thighs and cum caked onto them, he mutters out words that leave your head feeling fuzzy.

his abuse is torture, lasting hours ‘til you're gaping and gasping for air.

“now, let's not act like i don't have the right to take my precious step sister's virginity... i know you love it-- look at that dumb look on your stupid face, little mouse. if you actually cared--fuck-!-- about me, you'd care for my needs that come with my sick desires--ja, hush...”

the way his pulsing, leaking cock moves in and out between your swollen folds absolutely drives him crazy. he adores the connection he thinks it builds, not knowing how you squirm and treble when he's near. you're so weak and something about being able to abuse his stature and height against you is rotting his mind.

“meine gute schwester.”

[culmaer]

*even if it looks messy, which method is your treble clef based on

[melanieph321]

Ruben Dias x Reader - No sleep

This picture is giving, Ruben the over thinker.

Warning ⚠️ mentioning of throwing up

Summary - Ruben can't sleep because of his thoughts on the upcoming season, with Manchester City having already won it all last season.

Enjoy!

Ruben has always been very dedicated to his training. Too dedicated, you thought. But latley you had begun to notice some unusual behavior from him, starting off with his inability to sleep at night.

"I'm sorry, did I wake you?" He said, seeing as you turned around to face him in bed.

"Yes, yes you did. Who were you talking to?" At first you thought he had been talking in his sleep, muttering things like treble and Champions League.

"No one, I'm just thinking out loud."

"Baby, it's 3 a.m."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you up."

"Well, now that I'm awake..." You yawned. "Tell me what exactly you were thinking about?"

He let you snuggle up against him, your head resting against his naked torso, his skin warm against your cheek.

He inhaled your scent, followed by a deep sigh. "I was just thinking about the upcoming season."

"What about it?" You tilted your head up to meet his gaze.

He shrugged. "We littlery won everything we could possibly win last season. How are we supposed to top that?"

"Win everything you could possibly win again?" You chuckled.

"I know I sounds silly to you, but..."

"Ruben..." Lifting your head you frowned at him. "I never said you were silly." Clearly something was bothering him and he had a hard time telling what it was.

"You're right, I'm sorry." He mumbled

Your hand went to raise his fallen chin. "What's on your mind baby, you can tell me."

He looked to be fighting himself, unsure weather he should tell you what he had been carrying around on his mind, what's caused him not to sleep.

"I'm not sure I'll be able to do it." He said.

"Do what?" You frowned.

"Perfom."

"Perfom where?"

"On the pitch."

"As in, you won't be good enough?"

It broke your heart seeing him nod his head.

"Ruben?"

"I know,  I know. I'm being silly. How can I think that when I'm privileged to play for arguably the best football team in the world. Along with the best players and best coach in the world. But I..." His rambling trailed off as Rubens gaze shifted into the distance. His jaw clenched as if he was biting down on the words that he really wanted to utter.

"I threw up this morning after breakfast and the morning before that." He said.

"Ruben." You were lost for words. "Why would you..."

"The first time I think it was because of stress but the second time..." Again his words trailed off as his gaze search for somthing in the distance. The bedroom was dark so you had no idea what he had his eyes fixated upon, all you know is that it was scaring you,  he was scaring you.

"Ruben, did you make yourself throw up....on purpose?" Again your heart broke when he nodded his head.

"Baby, why would....?"

His head fell into your lap and you felt his body trembled all over. "I know I'm being silly." He cried, his tears drying with the sheets. "But I just don't know how I'm supposed to give it everything out there on the pitch unless I'm chasing something, a goal. We won everything I could possibly dream of as a child. What now?" He said,  the hopelessness in his voice punching a hole in your gut.

"Ruben, you listen to me." It was hard for you, seeing him like this. However, he had always been so strong for you when you needed him the most, perhaps it was your turn to be strong for him. Ruben needed you.

He raised his head as your hand stroked his hair. His eyes were glossy with tears and his expression embarrassed. But he needed not be embarrassed with you. You wanted to tell him that with you, he could be all of him, the beautiful man that he was.

"This season or any season for the matter, you should only focus on being the best version of yourself, no?"

He raised his brow to indicate that he was listening.

"Twelve year old Ruben didn't become the great footballer that he is because he was chasing shiny trophies. No. You became who you are and ended up in the team that you did, because you kept on working on yourself, chasing the best version you could possibly be. Season after season you have done that. Don't let a set of hollow trophies fool you into thinking that that was the endgame. The endgame is whenever you decide to stop, when you decide which ever version yourself should take the final shot. A set of trophies can't decide that Ruben. There is so much more for you to give this season, believe me."

His hands cupped your face, bringing it forwards so that he could meet you lips.

"I love you,  have I told you that?"

You smiled. "You might have mentioned it once or twice."

He kissed you again, this time pinning you down against the matress.

"Well, have I told you that your the most beautiful woman I've ever laid my eyes on?"

"Yes, but never at 3 a.m. in the morning when I obviously feel as I look, like shit."

"You don't look like shit you look gorgeous."

"No, I look gorgeous in the morning when you finally let me sleep." You tried to roll over, however, Rubens weight upon your body made it impossible to move an inch. His eyes searched your face. "You sure you want to sleep?"

You bit your lip. "What else do you have in mind?"

You gasped as his lips attached to the crook of your neck, sucking your skin.

"Ruben." You laughed. One moment he was in tears and the other he was wrestling you in bed. This guy had more hormones than a woman experiencing menopause.

"We have to sleep." You giggled.

"We can sleep after." He groaned. His hand slipped under your shirt, pushing your panties to the side. At least Ruben didn't have to question his stamina ahead of the season, you thought. He was ready to rumble at any hour of the day.

[antisocialxconstruct]

okay hi hello happy Saturday. We are doing this. If it seems familiar, the first scene is one I posted here a million years ago but it's been revised quite a bit for the new setting and everything. And also just to be better.

word count: 5,600

Ghost City

Chapter One

Somewhere in the club, Maksim suspected, there was someone who wanted him dead. He knew why, in broad strokes at least. But he wasn’t planning to oblige.

“Beer here tastes like warm piss,” Chronic griped, voice raised enough to ensure her complaint would be heard over the persistent clamor of mindless dance music being pumped through the warehouse. The thunk of her empty glass hitting the table between them was less lucky.

Maksim snorted and idly twirled a cigarette through his fingers before settling it between his lips. He tucked it into the corner of his mouth to mutter “that’s why I told you not to order it,” as he flicked open the heavy lighter in his other hand. He didn’t have to make the same allowances for the noise pollution, he knew the military-grade surveillance gear in Chronic’s skull was picking up every word he said, and likely a half dozen other conversations in their immediate vicinity. He lit up with a languid lack of urgency, exhaled a thin stream of smoke that caught the alternating pink and turquoise of the LEDs overhead, and let his gaze wander as he scratched idly at his temple, where one of the rows of short keratinous horns that cluttered his forehead disappeared into the chin-length black curls that were currently gelled neatly into place. The stocky woman across from him leaned back and crossed her arms over her chest, and he arched an expectant eyebrow at her.

“Figured that was just ‘cause you’re teetotal and you don’t like fun,” she said with a shrug.

“Eh, сука.” Maksim plucked the cigarette from his mouth after another drag and met her eye with a thin smile. No humor. “Guess you’re an expert now.” The barely-veiled hostility didn’t earn him much of a reaction, but then he wasn’t expecting it to. He was paying Chronic for her eyes, not for pleasant company, which was the only reason he had let the usual mask of performed affability slip completely. This new persona was a bit of an experiment of its own, an extra layer of distant arrogance just to really emphasize his lack of interest in making friends. Still, he couldn’t afford to be too overtly mean. He did need Chronic’s eyes.

Without moving her head, her gaze slipped over his shoulder and behind him, the minute twitches of her pupils the only sign that she was scanning the crowd as she idly responded, “dunno about that… I can’t figure why a guy like you’d come to a place like this.”

Maksim flicked a bit of ash onto the dingy little ashtray on the table. “A nightclub?”

“I mean Chicago.”

A short span of silence, between them at least, as the bone-rattling treble climbed to a crescendo and hung there for a beat, then another. Maksim resisted the temptation to use that lull in the music to comment on her lack of originality. Chronic had never actually accused him of anything, but the words spy and mafia had been swimming around in her head vividly enough that Maksim had never had to do more than skim her surface thoughts to pick them up. She clocked him as ex-military within an hour of meeting him, and between that, his accent, and the fairly conspicuous modifications to his hands and left eye, she drew her own conclusions. There was perhaps a small degree of irony in the fact that, if his life had gone differently at a couple of key points, he almost certainly would have been serving as a covert agent for the Russian state right now. On the other hand, if he’d been a little smarter he would have gotten out of the country faster and managed to dodge the draft entirely. None of that seemed worth explaining to Chronic to dispel any of her suspicions, not when her cooperation came with a straightforward price tag.

At last the bass dropped with an intensity that vibrated uncomfortably through Maksim’s nerves, and with the fresh cover of noise pollution all he ultimately said was, “still on me?”

“Mm,” Chronic refocused on him. “Sure as.”

A low frustrated sound escaped from the back of his throat to be swallowed up by the ever-present electronic beat. Another drag, then he tipped his head back against the booth, breathed smoke up toward the industrial rafters high above and let his eyes flutter closed. He shouldn’t be doing this. He had invested a lot of money into making it materially harder to do this, and he was going to invest more into making it worse. And yet there was that pesky trouble with old habits… “Describe them to me,” he said, and then tentatively, with the lightest touch he could manage, he extended his consciousness out through their immediate surroundings, like running an open hand over wood and hoping to catch a splinter, scanning for any hint of attention or interest angled toward their booth. He picked up a few right away, but they didn’t register as anything other than earnest curiosity, passersby stealing surprised glances when the undulating lights caught on his horns just so. In 2098 it was no less common to meet a variant than it was a natural redhead, but that didn’t always stop people from staring, especially at a mutation as conspicuous as his.

“Big guy,” Chronic was saying, “but like… ‘no gene-tech’ big. Milled around for a while but now he’s sitting at the bar.” Maksim refined his search perimeter, found the little blip of someone side-eyeing them with more intent from halfway across the room. He raked mental fingers through flashes of awareness and fleeting short term memories as Chronic continued. “Leather coat, camo pants-”

“Stop.” The bartender just thanked him for a tip. A couple of people on the dance floor were eyeing him appreciatively from the back. “Brown hair, jack on his left temple, drinking something green… acting like he thinks he’s the star of an action movie?”

Chronic laughed, a sharp bark of a sound that punched through the club’s ambiance. “That’s the one.”

“ID?”

“None to speak of.”

He shouldn’t be doing this. He started to dig, prying experimentally at the edges of the man’s thoughts, trying to pull away the outer layers to get a deeper look. Who are you? Who sent you? Memories and personal knowledge were always harder to read than surface thoughts, but he was just beginning to glimpse discernible shapes-

All at once his perception snapped back into place like a split rubber band and he pitched forward with a hiss and a muttered curse, pressing his palms to the sides of his head. It did nothing much to soothe the kind of directionless, brain-deep pain that had overtaken him. When after a few uncomfortable seconds he dared to open his eyes again, the strobing lights were almost too much to handle. He stubbornly blinked his vision back into focus anyway, and met the gaze of Chronic watching him impassively from across the table, one arm now slung over the back of the booth.

“So what’s the plan, boss?” she asked, wholly unmoved by the display.

“You can’t even get a name?” He didn’t mean for it to sound quite as sharp as it did, but he also didn’t take it back.

Chronic shrugged, pursed her lips. “Could you?” Maksim answered with a withering glare. “Whoever put that shadow on you wanted to stay clean as all hell. Either they went out of their way to find someone untraceable or they sunk some real money into making him untraceable.”

Maksim chewed on his mounting frustration for another moment as he took a last long drag on the cigarette, then stubbed out the remains and rose to his feet. “So no one would miss him.” Chronic’s eyebrows shot up toward her hairline but he was already stepping away from the table before she could make any further comment.

At the very least, the door slamming shut on his mental prying crystalized his focus, woken up his reflexes and centered him inside his own skull in a way no stimulant ever did. A twinge ran down the length of his left arm, the reparative fiber optic mesh knitted into his muscles protesting against the adrenaline-charged tension he was now carrying in his shoulders. He winced and shook it out as he weaved his way through the undulating crowd of clubbers with minimal effort, the carbon-fiber claws in his fingertips extending and retracting with half-conscious anticipation. As he neared the bar he reached up to check the manhunter in its holster at the small of his back, under his coat and out of sight, but as soon as he caught a glimpse of the man tailing him it was like a switch flipped–his demeanor rolled over into the one reserved for dealing with marks, a casual and open saunter and an easy smile. It would have been faster and easier to shoot him from the cover of the crowd and be done with it, and it wasn’t as if this act would trick the man into thinking Maksim was someone else. Not if he was even fleetingly competent. But Maksim had mulled over the situation long enough to decide there might be information to be extracted here, if he could play the game right.

“You look lost, cowboy,” he remarked as he slid up alongside the man, and now he did need to raise his voice just a touch, though the bar was at least a little quieter than the dance floor. His target turned and looked up from his stool, and Maksim took some satisfaction in tracking the array of emotions that flashed across his face in that instant before he set his jaw and straightened his back slightly. Getting ready to play along.

“Not really my scene,” he responded, his voice a hard-edged baritone to perfectly match the rugged-big-screen-hero image he was projecting outward. “Just waiting here to meet someone. You need something?”

Maksim leaned back, braced both hands against the bartop behind him, maintaining his height advantage over his shadow. “Honestly I just wanted to talk.”

Another almost imperceptible hesitation from his counterpart. “Maybe we could move that somewhere more private.”

“I think I’m fine right here.” Maksim flashed him a smile that wasn’t quite mocking. Not openly. An amateur, he thought. Wasting time he could have spent grabbing me. If Chronic couldn’t pull anything on him it’s because he’s nobody, there’s nothing to pull. The shadow sat back slightly, one hand drifting toward the edge of his jacket, and of course Maksim knew the posture of someone going for a gun. “That’s really not necessary,” he continued, gaze flicking pointed but unconcerned from the man’s hand up to his face. “In fact, here. We can be friends.” He pushed one hand away from the counter, drew his own pistol, and set it down on the bar. Then he settled back into his easy stance, not at all primed for a fight. His shadow didn’t seem entirely persuaded, but he didn’t escalate things any further. “How long have you been doing this?”

“Long enough.”

“Yeah?” Maksim’s smile tilted toward indulgent. “So you’ve got stories?”

Something lit up behind the other man’s eyes then, a sudden spark of inspiration. “Everyone does, right?” he began. “Actually maybe you know this one, didn’t happen to me but I heard it friend-of-a-friend style.”

“Sure,” Maksim conceded. “Best source you could ask for.”

The man inclined his head. “You get it. So I heard about this job out in NYC, maybe… a couple months back, real gruesome mess. Team of five go into this big high security warehouse to grab some holy relic, except halfway through one of them just snaps. Turns on the crew, makes mince out of a couple of them before the others can take him out, later he says demons made him do it. And the other two, the only ones who survived, they just accept that and let him walk. Can you believe that?”

As he talked Maksim had gone still, his casual slouch growing a little stiff. The smile never fell from his face, but it felt strained there now. Stale and brittle. “And what do you think should have happened?” he asked slowly.

“Y’know I’ll be honest,” the shadow said, leaning an elbow on the bar and puffing up with the apparent upper hand he had gained in their exchange. “I don’t have a lot of stake in it either way. But maybe there’s a few parties might be holding a grudge against that guy. Maybe one or two willing to spend some money to make sure he faces some consequences.”

That wasn’t good… but it could be worse. Probably. Maksim didn’t know who they had been working for, but if it was someone willing to send cleaners after him for botching the job they’d be more efficient than this, he wouldn’t have been standing there having a pleasant conversation with one of them. Lockjaw and Ziggy probably had friends, but he didn’t know them either. He had hoped none of them would be the vengeful types, but maybe he needed to reassess. Or maybe he just needed to go further west than Chicago.

The shadow shifted in his seat again, opening his mouth to add something else, and without waiting to find out what it was Maksim grabbed the back of the man’s head and shoved hard enough to bounce his face off the bartop. The collision rewarded him with the wet crunch of bone fracturing.

Someone shrieked behind him. In one smooth motion Maksim had the gun in his left hand and the claws of his right locked onto the man’s scalp, keeping him pinned face-down on the bar. He cast a mental net out around them, grabbed every spike of shock or fear he could catch and clamped down on their impulse to do anything about it, digging a little telepathic hole of Nothing To See Here around the two of them. The pain hit almost immediately, driving straight into his skull and down his spine as his vision blurred and the walls of his barrier started to crumble inward like wet sand as soon as they’d been erected. Through a daze his shadow choked out a mangled curse past bloodied lips and made a feeble effort against Maksim’s grip, only to go still again when the manhunter’s muzzle pressed up against the side of his head. Maksim really wanted nothing more than to pull the trigger and paint the counter with this man’s skull, it would certainly resolve this quickly and send a clear message to whoever sent him. But it seemed unlikely Maksim would be able to stop anyone from noticing that.

“I’m going to walk out of this club,“ he bit out through gritted teeth. A chunk of his barrier slipped and he could feel the bartender’s attention drifting their way in a tangle of confusion and concern. ”You’re not going to follow me. Not tonight and not any other night. If I ever see your face again I’ll split it in half properly. Understand?“

No more than two seconds of hesitation, then the shadow nodded–as best he could anyway, smearing blood across the counter under his cheek.

Maksim let the threat hang for another beat, then withdrew and holstered the gun. “You should have a talk with whoever hired you for this,” he said as his shadow lifted his head, cupping the gnarled mess of his nose in his hands. “They di-…” the rest of Maksim’s words died on his lips in a wave of nausea and the barrier finally crumbled. Spots danced around the corners of his vision moments before it began to tunnel, the moment stretching uncomfortably out in every direction.

The voices around him went tinny, distant and indistinct as vertigo gripped him.

He could feel the music boring into him, threatening to vibrate him apart if he stayed there any longer.

Someone grabbed at him and he twisted, shaking them off out of pure instinct, and started moving.

It was all he could do to orient himself, fix his gaze on the high doorway gaping black with the night sky beyond, and shove his way through the remaining crowd as he fought to keep his footing. People became increasingly unconcerned with his presence the further he got from the bar, until at last he crossed the threshold and the cool night air hit him all at once as he staggered to a stop to be sick on the pavement outside.

A chorus of laughs rose up from across the street as he fell back against the club’s exterior wall, and now the music was dulled to a steady thump and buzz through concrete. Someone called out “fuck yeah man party hardy” and earned themself another round of jeering laughter. Maksim grimaced but he didn’t have it in him to pinpoint the source of the comment, much less respond.

He closed his eyes. Okay. So that was a waste of time. Or he had in fact played the game wrong. But if nothing else it was a clear indication that it was time to move on.

He was unsure how long it took to collect himself, for his senses to settle back into place and the piercing in his skull to fade to a level he could ignore. In that time no one followed him out. Not his shadow, who must have heeded his warning, not any of the other patrons, whose attention he had apparently shrugged off against all odds. Not even Chronic, who seemed to have inferred that their brief and unproductive partnership was over.

Fine.

That was fine.

He pushed himself away from the wall with a concerted effort, and started the slow trek back to his apartment. He needed to make some travel plans.

–###–

Ilya Kasharin was already dead.

Figuratively, sure, in the sense that they assumed no one in Boston had really looked for them or spared them much thought at all after they disappeared. Maverick would have made sure of that.

But also literally, in the sense that four years ago they had flatlined on an operating table for a full six minutes, only to be “reassured” after the fact that this did not invalidate the terms of their contract with NervAMP.

This was the one they took some issue with.

The focused clatter of fingers on keyboard was the only sound punctuating the silence of their modest workspace, where they sat folded into a tortured pretzel in their chair. Their eyes were laser-focused onto the screen in front of them, pupils glinting unnaturally in the light any time their gaze darted back up a few lines in their code, catching a missed tag or double-checking their logic as they chided or argued with themself in distracted mumbles.

More than anything, this needed to be thorough. Their last foray into NervAMP’s systems had only been long enough to copy the basic structure of their network and prop open a backdoor, not to exfiltrate any of their data for experimenting. They could throw the worm into the playground of their virtual network as many times as they wanted to see it spread before scrubbing it back out, but at a certain point they would just have to trust that it could do what they wanted and set it free. They were getting impatient with their own iterative testing, and they imagined the worm itself growing restless as well as it unfolded across the screen in front of them, eager to fulfill its purpose.

With a sigh Ilya paused and then sat back, a final assertive jab at a couple keys the only signal the machine needed to compile the worm and inject it back into the virtual network, just to be sure their last round of tweaking hadn’t compromised the basic functionality. Their second and third monitors blinked to life, and Ilya watched intently as the rudimentary visual representation of the network–little more than a sprawling array of interconnected lines and dots–transformed from uninfected green to compromised yellow over the course of about eight minutes.

No changes there, not that they really expected any.

This next step was the one they were least eager to take, and perhaps on some level all the systematic tweaking and troubleshooting had been in an effort to push this off as long as they could reasonably justify. Unfortunately they didn’t feel like they could reasonably justify much more, so they sat forward again, nudged the deck closer in front of them, and combed their fingers through the choppy layers of their auburn hair, flipping it over their shoulder and off the back of their neck. With their other hand they drew out the thick meshjack cable that sat spooled up inside the left side compartment of their deck, then eyed the head of it for a moment, the way one might eye a particularly unappealing morsel of food they were nevertheless about to swallow whole. Then their fingers found the edge of the port nestled at the base of their skull, they locked the cable into place and flicked a switch on the face of their deck, and they had just a split second to feel the electric shudder pass through their body before their consciousness was no longer rooted there.

Ilya was familiar enough with common depictions of the Immersion Mesh in popular media over the years, even spanning as far as a century back when the internet itself was still a fledgling concept. They had only learned fairly recently that those depictions were all, essentially, completely wrong. Pouring your human perception directly into an information network was not really comparable to the things people evoked when trying to depict it, it was not an elegant heads-up display, or a virtual chatroom, it wasn’t rudimentary gridlines and geometry any more than it was an elaborate surrealist landscape. More than anything, it was impressions. The idle half-awareness of a long highway drive, the sustained mental effort of solving a puzzle, the keyed-in focus of a hunt… or the animal anxiety of being hunted. The mind was bombarded with information and then left to make free associations, impose will and desire like any other machine running a script, and while most people’s brains did end up translating this flow of data into imagery in order to make it easier to comprehend, it was a bit like dreaming–amorphous and highly individualized.

It was not an environment just anyone could thrive in, it often required either an incredible reserve of mental focus or a willingness to dissociate at will. Ilya had neither, but what they did have was a very particular goal and a deep well of spite. At first they had simply avoided the mesh as much as they possibly could, instead sharpening their skill in every facet of the process that could be done with eyes and hands and a keyboard. Tactile, satisfying. But when they continued to hit obstacles that couldn’t be cleared from the physical side of the screen, when they had finally overcome their revulsion enough to go under the knife one last time to have a meshjack installed, they did the only other thing that seemed reasonable.

They got fast.

As their mind swirled and readjusted to the change in perception, they imagined cupping the worm in their hands, and knew that it was now within a little pocket of onboard storage inside the jack, ready to be deployed alongside the array of other programs they had loaded there for intrusions. None of those should be needed to begin with, this was a route they had already mapped out specifically so they would not need to linger. Then the nothingness of the mesh fully closed up around them and within a heartbeat they were on the move–in a sense. Navigating the public expanse of the mesh was largely effortless and unremarkable, their subconscious hardly having time to settle on a clear visual translation for their marathon sprint through their previous steps, out of the familiar (relative) comfort of their own system, zig-zagging through a handful of tethered machines to disguise their trace, and finally shouldering their way inside NervAMP’s servers through an unprotected wi-fi enabled conference room light system. It was a hilariously irresponsible oversight (Ilya would make sure it was hilarious in the retelling, even if they felt sick with the discomfort now), and not the first one they had ever taken advantage of. Last time they had been trying to get out.

Once inside, they paused. Their surroundings were beginning to take on shapes and patterns, artificial daylight spread across white walls, long clean lines and tasteful chestnut accents, floor to ceiling glass panels dividing hallways from meeting rooms from offices from employee lounges without any of the rhyme or reason a physical building would demand. Ilya’s mind squirmed and protested against the visual, and they might have shuddered if they could still feel their own body. But they would need to go deeper than this. They were on the administrative level, and while meddling with NervAMP’s employee schedules and canceling their next delivery of office supplies would be amusing, it wouldn’t make the trip worthwhile.

Still. Maybe on the way out.

Ilya strove to navigate the halls with purpose–if they left too many meandering traces in the mesh, NervAMP’s MAID would be on them immediately. They had never been allowed to walk these halls alone before (they had never walked these halls, they reminded themself, and they weren’t walking them now), and there was a nagging irrational fear that someone would catch them and walk them back to Carter, sitting patiently behind his desk in one of these non-Euclidian offices waiting to waste Ilya’s time with more condescending bureaucracy. Their subconscious offered up the impression of people moving around them, bustling footsteps and clattering mailcart wheels and snatches of conversation, though it was always around a corner, across a room, behind a closed door. Ghosts of other people on the network, going about their business. Eventually Ilya began to settle into the flow of traffic, get a picture of where people were lingering and how to avoid them. As they dug deeper into the company’s directories, the architecture began to shift around them. Less glass, less tasteful accents, more thick doors and keypads.

This was worse. The memories stirred up by the upper levels were the ones that left them bitter and frustrated. These were the ones that made their skin crawl and their hands tremble–or would have, if they were still in their body, which only accentuated the distance and added an extra dimension to the discomfort. The halls they were traversing felt strange, somehow too narrow, too constricting, and yet uncomfortably spacious and empty at the same time, and they couldn’t shake the growing sensation of eyes on them. Housekeeping, they thought, sighing internally. The MAID’s attention was on them now. They picked up the pace again, focus darting back and forth as they tried to judge what felt like the best spot in this warren of half-data-half-memories to set off a bomb. Of course they weren’t going to shake the MAID that way, nothing about their behavior now could be interpreted as anything other than an intrusion, even to the most incompetently trained algorithm. So they started forcing doors, cracking passwords and spoofing credentials without much remaining concern for the fingerprints they were leaving behind. It wouldn’t matter once the worm had done its job anyway.

Then they shoved open a pair of double doors and stopped cold. They’d found the spot.

The advantage of meshjack visualizations was that they could translate innate, subconscious knowledge into something immediately comprehensible. An encrypted file became a lockbox, network traces became footprints, an intrusion countermeasure became a tripwire. In this case, Ilya’s subconscious had translated the best layer of the directory to deploy the worm into the one room they would have most liked to torch. The operating theater.

An approximation of it, at least, the surgical table standing cold and impassive at its center like some grim monument haloed by the blaring lights overhead, leaving the rest of the room draped in ambiguous shadows. Ilya took a step forward-

And froze, pain arcing through their nerves. There was a sensation of weight bearing down on them, of a crushing pressure fixing them in place and determined to grind them down into the ground.

The MAID. Locked on, running a final check before it tried to forcefully eject them from the system.

Not fast enough.

They resisted the temptation to glance behind them–MAIDs weren’t programmed to look like anything, they were invisible specters inside the network, and whatever Ilya’s own mind could supply would only serve to further disrupt their focus and make them an easier target. They had a counter-countermeasure for this, they didn’t need to panic. It would only work once, and not for long, but they only needed a few uninterrupted seconds. Probably. They turned their focus inward, called up one of those little executables inside the meshjack storage. The MAID clawed at them with greater determination, certain now that they were an interloper that needed to be removed, and they were grateful for the layers of obfuscation they had wrapped around their signal but no amount of reminding themself that this was all in their head was making it not hurt.

Then their form shuddered, flickered, and a second copy of it stepped away and moved purposefully back through the door. Ilya kept stock still, not even daring to look too closely at anything yet, but they felt the pressure of the MAID’s focus lift slightly, hesitantly, and then pull away completely as it peeled off to investigate the new intrusion.

That wouldn’t take long. The decoy wasn’t programmed to do anything but move up and down through directories in an extremely conspicuous manner, the MAID wouldn’t need more than a few moments to snuff it out. Ilya bolted into the room, fell forward and grabbed either side of the surgical table in front of them, and urged the worm into action. There was the briefest hesitation, a single microsecond just long enough for them to worry that it wouldn’t deploy right–

And then it went to work. Fissures opened up on the surface of the table under Ilya’s hands, splitting and spreading in every direction, pouring over the sides and across the floor and leaving Ilya with the impression of fractures shooting out across a pane of glass from a single impact point, of the room losing cohesion before their eyes. (Of rot.) If it could keep up that pace, they dared to imagine it could eat half the archive before anyone quarantined it. If they’d had a voice inside the mesh, they might have laughed.

Their time ran out before they fully registered what had happened. The MAID came down on them like a hurricane, likely with the same force it had brought to bear against their decoy, leaving them with the sensation of being ripped away by a vicious windstorm as everything cut to featureless white.

Then they were out of the mesh, fumbling with the cable plugged into their brainstem the second they had enough fine motor control to reach for it. Once it was out they flicked it away like a live snake, all their triumph and satisfaction of a moment ago forgotten. Sharp, ragged breaths punctuated the silence–my breaths, they assured themself, as they stared down at hands that felt clumsy, distant and out of focus in exactly the way they had dreaded. They flexed their fingers, straining to feel and notice the bend of each joint as they closed their hands into fists and then opened them again, then slouched forward to press their palms to their forehead as they drew in and then released one long, deliberate sigh. Then another. A half-conscious desire to feel contained wrapped their arms tight and close around their own torso–a mistake, they realized too late, as their fingertips found the subtly raised edges of the inlays that spread across their arms, an elegant metallic map of the contours of their musculature. They shuddered, as the sickening impulse to pick, scratch, dig flared alongside a familiar and inescapable thought.

Those aren’t your hands. Those aren’t your arms.

They abruptly let go again, stretched their arms out in front of them, groaned when one of their shoulders popped. That finally made them aware that they’d been holding their truly horrendous posture for far too long, so they unfolded themself, rose to their feet, and stretched properly, taking a sort of perverse satisfaction in the way their stiff and protesting muscles affirmed to them they were in fact here and fully present inside their own skin. Then another reminder: their stomach growled insistently. They grimaced and peered down at the clock on their terminal. Measuring time in the mesh was challenging but their access log said it had only been about twenty minutes. They must have already worked straight through dinner and into the evening when they went in, because it was coming up on 22:00 now. Too late to go out or order anything in. Too late to cook either, especially with the kind of headspace they were in, but as they wandered out of the glorified walk-in closet that had evolved into their workroom, and through the equally modest rest of their apartment, they figured they could scrounge up something.

[cloudsspoke]

¿La Scaloneta? Una poesía muy buena ~

Some heated, hilarious, and heartwarming moments when the boys meet each other as a rival ⚔️

↳ Previously on “¿La Scaloneta? Una familia (part 1)”

Nico: No estaría mal que Leo se coma una patadita Caro: NOOOO

Le dije que no se tenía que enojar porque fue todo pelota. Después se reía porque sabe que se tiró al pedo. Tenemos una gran relación con Ale, son cosas del Partido y quedan ahí - Cuti Romero's interview with Sofi Martinez

↳ Context: Mac was actually upset that Brighton lost because he felt injustice from the Ref’s decision

🔴 Enzo (Benfica) vs Messi (PSG): two legs UCL game all draw, vs Di Maria-Paredes (Juventus): two legs UCL game all won

🔵 Meanwhile, Chelsea’s Enzo vs Cuti – Licha-Garnacho – Julian – Mac Allister – Dibu: all LOSE 😭

Sad to know we don’t get to see Cuti vs Licha during the Spurs clash against United because of Licha’s injury, but at least we get to see Juli-Enzo together once again 💕

FROM THIS >>>> TO THIS

I'm not crying, you are :')

🟥 El Huevo got a red card that prevented him from playing in the Final match

The hard pill from having “The All-Argentinian Final” 😔

The more (Muchachos play in the same team), the better 💕

⚽ Molina dedicated his goal to Angelito Correa (who missed the game due to the death of his beloved Mother)

Is this even legal to have 5 Argentines in 1 club 😭😭

Lisandro Martinez es como mi padre - Garnacho on MUTV

In September, if all is well and Ten Haag is nice to us, let’s hope to see these two together play for Argentina, as what a stroke of bad luck that we had when in March it was Garnacho who couldn’t join the squad during the 1st FMD, and last month we missed Licha when Garnacho made his debut 😩

⚫⚪ Being Juventini for 20 years I’m happy both of them left the club, especially after Juventus’ point deduction that made them couldn’t participate in any Europe competition. And although to me they playing there is like a failed project aka wrong decision, at least I got to see Di Maria scored a hattrick (Sofascore rating solid perfect 10) and Paredes also got MOTM with his superb free kick goal (against Lecce) ⚽

⭐⭐⭐

2022/2023 Season wrap-up:

CONGRATULATIONS:

Lautaro & Tucu for winning Super Coppa and Coppa Italia 2022-23 (Lautaro scored in both final matches) 🏆🏆

Licha & Garnacho for winning Carabao Cup 2022-23 🏆

Messi for winning Ligue1 2022-23 🏆

Gio Simone for winning Serie A 2022-23 🏆

Otamendi for winning La Primeira Liga 2022-23 🏆

Montiel, Acuña, Papu, Lamela, & Ocampos for Winning UEL 2022-23 🏆

Manu Lanzini for winning UECL 2022-23 🏆

↳ Not to mention Brighton & Hove Albion who finished #6 which makes them qualified for UEL Group Stage 👏 and Aston Villa (#7) who for the 1st time in 12 years have qualified for European competition (UECL Qualifier) 👏

Finally and above all, triple applause for ‘La Araña que pica’ Julian for winning the Treble [EPL-FA Cup-UCL] with City 🏆🏆🏆

🕸️

📌 Honorable mention from me goes to Facu Medina:

MAN IS ON A MISSION 🤭

We were talking, you know what Leo is as a person and as a player. To be honest, I congratulated him and thanked him for the World Cup - Facu Medina on his chat with Messi after the game @ SC_ESPN

⭐⭐⭐

👋 if you enjoy reading this post you can also click here to similar posts I have already made:

(1) Little Things I Love from La Scaloneta

(2) Hilarious & Heartwarming stories about La Scaloneta

(3) Crackhead Muchachos

(4) Full thread about AFA's Tournament de Truco

(5) Full thread about Players' room arrangement (¿Quién duerme con quién?) + more gifs about Messi and the gang

Coming up next: Argentina FMD + Holiday picts, stay tuned 😉

[missedurdodge]

Methods, Blue Lines

This was the one I was excited for!!

So, the bell is ringing, but we're ignoring it for now to talk about places. We've discussed them a little before in call changes, but let's get them straight.

Each bell has a number, and each bell has a place. The number of the bell you ring will not change, it's like that bells name. The place of the bell will change.

Places are usually marked like '1st' or '2nd' rather than '1' or '2', and that's how I'll be referring to them.

Your place is essentially just when you ring in the order. The 2nds place bell rings second. The 1sts place bell leads, ringing first.

Now, when we were ringing call changes, we were swapping around the places of two bells at a time, and doing that with stretches of unchanged ringing in between.

What we're going to do now, is have most of the bells change their place on every stroke (each time the bell actually rings, handstroke and backstroke) in some kind of pattern. The bells are never actually going to stay in one place for very long. These are methods (in the loosest meaning of the term)

Here is where I bring in the Blue Line! This magical thing is like sheet music for bell ringers. It tells us the pattern of places our bell needs to ring in. It's one way to easily learn a new method.

A blue line graph can look like this:

(Images taken from the app 'Methodology', my lifesaver)

Each row is one 'change'. This graph shows us the changes made by the treble. We can see it starting in rounds, before moving out to 2nds place, then 3rds, and so on right out to 6ths. It stays there for a blow, before coming back in again. If we traced through every other number, we can see they'd do much the same thing.

This is what it looks like with every bell having it's own line:

(Image taken from the Association of Ringing Teachers website)

Now, this looks fairly straightforward. You only have to keep track of one of these lines, and you're basically just going up and down.

Here is another blue line graph:

(Image taken from the ringingmethods.co.uk site. Another very useful one)

Top left shows what one section of it looks like all together. From there, reading the chunks left to right, top to bottom, is one full 'Plain Course'

This is Canterbury Delight Minor. You'll see the treble, in red, does the same thing in each chunk. This is pretty standard for a method. But the 2, the blue line, is all over the place!

As I get into talking about methods, you're going to see these diagrams a lot as I explain what's going on, so get used to them.

Next up, we'll look at that first blue line graph again and work out what's really happening there. As an aside, at some point I'll give a very brief history on bell ringing as a whole, and a recap/dictionary of some of the terms we use.

[greetingfromthedead]

C31: Towards New Horizons

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Series Rating: 18+ / Explicit

Chapter: 31/84

Words: 1.8k

Warnings: Smuttiness in the beginning up until the divider. No relevant plot so feel free to skip that part of the chapter.

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So much for leaving early. The two of you lost all control, chasing pleasure from each other's bodies by any means, in any position, by doing anything necessary to coax out the release of the other in moans. Both of you getting increasingly rougher, testing each other's limits, and both of your bodies healing away any marks the other leaves by biting, grabbing, squeezing, or clawing. His fingers digging into your flesh left bruises for just a moment; they changed color as he watched. The pain stimulates both of you further. You only stop after both of you are out of breath and out of your minds from the ecstasy.

You're both covered in bodily fluids and his sweat. A shower sounds like a great idea for you to cool down the fire burning in your chests and to clean up before leaving this town. Of course you go together, deeming that the shower is big enough for two. However, the attempt to calm you and your partner is abandoned as soon as Vash sees you step under the water, the droplets wetting your hair and running down your body. He steps closer, his flesh arm curling around you under your breasts and the other moving up to wrap his fingers around your throat, not actually squeezing but pulling you backwards into him. Vash's lips land on your shoulder, leaving sloppy kisses on it as the water drenches you. You feel him lightly between your legs. One of your hands covers the one on your neck, the other looking for balance from the wall. His right hand slides down over your stomach, leaving a burning trail behind, and his fingers find your folds still dripping from before and start to gently stroke up and down before focusing on the bundle of nerves with slow but firm circles. Your eyes close as you lean more into him, his arms holding you tight. His movements become faster as your pleasure grows slowly. You feel him twitching, and it's almost like you can sense his desire.

His prosthetic moves from your throat, pushing on your upper back and forcing you to bend forward, both your hands on the wall, as he kneels down behind you to worship you. He forces your legs more apart before digging his mouth and nose into you, using his tongue and hands to make you lose yourself all over again. With your eyes shut tight, the only thing on your mind is the feeling he brings forth. He enjoys you being like this; he senses your helplessness, like you can't do anything while your fingers curl on the tile, looking for something to grab on to. It's so different from your usual stubbornness. He tastes you and himself from your past explorations, and the hunger grows. Like something unnatural taking over, both of your desires feed into each other's. He teases you to the point you can no longer hold on, and your legs nearly give out as they treble.

He feels you slumping more forward against the wall, sticking your ass up and instead of letting you recover, his hands grab your cheeks, his long fingers digging into your hips, his palms spreading you apart as he gets up behind you and pushes his lower half against yours. The water of the shower hits both of you as he grinds between your cheeks for a moment, making you gasp before inserting himself, pulling you against him in a quick motion. You have a feeling this won't stop any time soon, and you are glad about it. Both of you are eager to reveal a side of yourself that is usually kept hidden, a wild and unapologetic rough personality.

Once you finally do get dressed, still feeling overwhelmed and barely like yourself, head cloudy and filled with sinful thoughts, you make yourself gather up all the clothes you left drying and pack up your things. Vash suggests that you might as well get breakfast now that it has gotten too late to simply disappear. You agreed, but only if he doesn't wear the red coat, sunglasses and covers up his arm. He argues back only a little bit, and you go to the first floor, where others are getting their breakfast. Vash leads you to an empty table and sits down, smiling at you. His beaming face looks almost fake, and you aren't sure what it's hiding.

"Good morning, you two." Mary comes to your table with her notepad, and you get a bit nervous. "Glad you're alive; I thought she might have done you in. I didn't know you had gotten married."

Your eyes shoot between Mary and Vash.

"Haha!" Vash lets out a nervous laugh. "I'm glad to be alive, Mary!"

"At least get her a ring like a proper man!" Mary slaps him on the back, and you are still too stunned to speak.

"You're right! I should! I have the most beautiful wife in all of No Man's Land, and I haven't even gotten her a ring yet. I truly am a good for nothing!" Vash smiles brightly, looking at you, "Are there any jewelers in town?"

"We only have one drunkard, and I'd think you would like to leave long before he even gets sober enough to work on your commission." She waves with her hand. "So what's it going to be, old friend?"

Vash orders a large serving of pancakes, and it takes you a moment longer to gather yourself and order some simple toast. Mary smiles kindly at the both of you and marks down your order before moving on. You follow her with your eyes, still stunned, and when you're sure she's out of earshot, you turn to Vash.

"You know her?! She knows you?!" Your voice is quiet and insistent.

"Yes, I spent some time here a few years ago and helped her out with some bandit troubles. I'm a bit surprised she remembers me."

"I'm not." You turn to face the table and feel so stupid. You thought you had been sly, lying your way through the whole situation, but in reality, Mary was covering your ass. She probably knows you lied about the whole thing; barely anything truthful coming out of your mouth, and it makes you feel embarrassed.

"Why so shy suddenly, love? I'll get you that ring if you want it so badly." He laughs lightly and quietly while leaning toward you.

His comment makes you blush more, and all you can do is mumble out a "Shut up!" before turning your face away from him. His hand takes yours under the table, where nobody else can see it. His thumb trailing over the back of it, his fingers holding yours tight.

After breakfast, where Vash ate half of your toast on top of his pancakes, you buy supplies from Mary to avoid unnecessary eyes. Mary has Harold bring the toma to the back of the inn, where she can speak more freely.

"Glad you found yourself a woman willing to haul your crazy ass around!" Mary laughs, "I'd call her smart on top of pretty, as she managed to get you on your feet so quick—I honestly thought you were dead when I saw you—but she can't be that smart if she chooses to stick by you!"

"Oh, Mary, she is both smart and pretty; she has tried to get rid of me; I just won't let her!" Vash looks at you lovingly while you fasten your stuff to your tomas, hiding the blush. "I'll follow her to the end of the world."

"Hey, girly, if you ever need to get rid of him and have trouble with it, drop by!" Mary sounds amused. "I'll help you out! And you, Vash! Get her that damn ring or someone will snatch her up!"

"Will do!" Vash salutes Mary, and they both smile.

"Be safe, you two; stay out of trouble! I hope to see you again!" Mary's tone softens.

You gather your courage and face Mary to look into her eyes. It takes more out of you than you had guessed, with words catching in your mouth.

"Thank you, Mary! For everything!" you say to her in a serious manner. You aren't going to list all the things you are grateful for, as you're sure to forget something or not even realize everything she has done for the two of you. She had helped you out a lot while knowing full well who it was that you were guarding.

"Don't mention it!" Mary comes to hug you, and despite your hesitation, you give her a slight squeeze back. "Now off you go!"

Vash gets on his bird in one smooth motion, and you climb onto yours too, giving Mary one last wave before heading out of town. You keep your heads down, taking the shortest route to the edge of the settlement. As you get to the open desert, you speed up a bit, bouncing on the bird, and you thank your healing factor, or else it would be you who is unable to ride after the happenings of this morning.

You sneak a look at Vash riding next to you. He doesn't look quite like himself, not without the red coat and sunglasses, and he is also missing the obvious blue prosthetic. You know it's still your Vash and in a hotel room; this thought wouldn't cross your mind, but with the backdrop of sandy dunes as far as you can see, it's different. His expression is neutral, his eyes are far away, and you suspect his thoughts are too.

"What's on your mind?" you ask.

It wakes him from his daze, and a smile is plastered on his face before he turns towards you.

"Nothing important; don't worry about it. Just thinking through our trajectory."

"Don't lie. If you don't want to tell me, that's fine, but you don't have to wear that mask with me." You scold him a bit, and it hurts you that he would revert back to his old ways, like when the two of you weren't anything more than strangers.

He sighs as if catching on to your feelings, and the smile flickers away. His eyes seem somber, his mouth neutral. You aren't quite sure what that emotion is.

"Do you want to talk about it?" You keep going.

"Yes." He gives you a dry answer.

"Are you going to?"

"Yes."

"Do you want to wait a while longer before telling me?"

"If you don't mind..." his eyes trail away onto the sand.

"Of course I don't. You said you would follow me across any desert to the end of the world, and I have no intention of leaving your side, so all in all, we should have plenty of time. I'm here for you, for anything you need." Your tone is serious, but you want to cheer him up. "If you're worried about the jeweler, then the ring can wait. I think it's a bit too soon."

This gets a light and breathy laugh out of him, a hint of a smile lingering on his lips as he still avoids meeting your eyes.

"Also, when we get far enough away, you should put your coat on again; be Vash the Stampede; wear that name with pride; you're my Red."

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[yu-gi-oh-slavia]

Swarte smekyd smeþes smateryd wyth smoke

Dryue me to deth wyth den of here dyntes.

Swech noys on nyghtes ne herd man neuer:

What knauene cry and clateryng of knockes!

Þe cammede kongons cryen after 'col, col!'

And blowen here bellewys, þat al here brayn brestes:

'Huf, puf!' seith þat on; 'haf, paf!' þat oþer.

Þei spyttyn and spraulyn and spellyn many spelles;

Þei gnauen and gnacchen, þei gronys togydere,

And holdyn hem hote wyth here hard hamers.

Of a bole-hyde ben here barm-fellys;

Here schankes ben schkeled for the fere-flunderys;

Heuy hamerys þei han, þat hard be handeled,

Stark strokes þei stryken on a stelyd stokke:

Lus, bus! Las, das! rowtyn be row.

Swech dolful a dreme þe deuyl it todryue!

Þe mayster longith a lityl, and lascheth a lesse,

Twyneth hem tweyn, and towchith a treble:

Tik, tak! hic, hac! ticket, taket! tyk, tak!

Lus, bus! lus, dus! swych lyf thei ledyn

Alle cloþemerys: Cryst hem gyue sorwe!

May no man for brenwaterys on nyght han hys rest!

[libidomechanica]

“Stairs, and the dark heart sae fu” o wae

Gathered shards with a continue.     Stairs, and the dark heart sae fu’ o’ wae! In little heaven.     Thus my suit repel? Which

locke of peace, masked like a sojourning     for, where Venus none. Journeying high, and true plain terms     yet cunningly he craved,

and there, whatever was said, were     I the saddle him whom she love a little bird, extinct     color, you shall joy but

being up, a cradling on his     childish hearth so sound calls back at their loves the night, alone,     when you fleet hence, because

each other dies, if it be forst     to fayne, and breathed to dry bone. You are old, by thy sight once,     and saved her of his sister:

of all, some shapes them to your     looking somewhat near her caressed, like one who through my gentle     heaven? Glens, never

again saw he them all: have known     there he regarded not at all may hearken! I’ll get my     plaid an’ out I’ll stay the

swift treble pipe, and desolate     placed lengthens out his liking, yet was mine important to     stay sweet, held out its voice,

which, light in sense, nor taste, nor perchance,     at last! Wit and I shall know, knowledge might come and got,     ’twas to me. And would love

through the consecration stroke and     prayed the den of helplesse in my heart. Partly blind, so thin     a breathe with message and

fringe of spangly light spreading     imaginable lodge for solitude, chewing thy will, I     will get cold without leaving

Leander much it shock’d her,     being separated and did curse the luring worse than     for their dishonor. Vanish,

ye Phantoms! She turned against     the winter’s face, the ropes on the horse settled die. Then up     she saw fair Acceptance

of herself the cliffs and past. Mouth,-—     anon among the rose. Near him; and, at that bindeth the     fort, and sighed, she moves not

see the street, rubbing its close—The     trouble was done, oh! We hunt them dyingly-—send honey-dropping     flower, like a bell.

[kellbane]

Wayward Waltz

The departure easily set the Wanderer on alert, the dull hiss of recycled ether-laden atmosphere sending a rushing hazy plume of ejection from a nearby wall port ; it's pitching treble that chased on the tail of the dull echoing footfalls of the plated books that stalked those abandoned halls. Here in the absence, the inbetween, the adjacent ; their sound seemed to disturb the almost stasis and decrypted scenery of the Ketch, the slow brush of the light moving from moist, tarnished walls. The Wanderer felt a sudden unease as the voice of it's companion came, the light drawn to it, blinding, out of place, heretical... " I don't think anyone is home..." The voice, once a comfort, like strokes through deep thickened water drew and stretched in that moment of time to an almost maddening and incoherent degree. The Wanderer felt a moment diverge, the feel of the divergence of the threads of linear time fading as their mind felt every singular action. The pull of the trigger as the light suddenly blossomed, screamed, and then faded to let the darkness return like an implosion in the deep. Another a comforting hand brushing a shell, an encouragement, companionship. Rage, the crack of casing, the pull and screech of protest as the core was pulled free, only to then be atomized in a form of auto-cannibalistic display of granted power. It left the Wanderer speechless, adrift and seeking an anchor only to then slowly place a hand against the wall, leveling their rifle and pointing it's barrel down the gaping maw of shadowed barely lit corridors of the Ketch's interior. "We keep looking...Keep trying to hail the bridge Cipher. Anyone, Anything." Please. The word held on the tongue. Desperation and fear bubbled to the surface and as soon as it did, the darkness feasted, swirling, wrapping, embracing. Another divergence, another blossoming tree of causality spreading into a tapestry that painted a picture that seemed never to falter. Hopeless. Absent of time, of place, of -being- ; the Wanderer could feel with every indulgence and vulnerability given freely, a piece of them was taken. Entropy through a thousand cuts, exsanguination not of viscera, but of one's very being. Slowly, the Wanderer center their thoughts, pruned the branches, another step, another thud, another anchor. Once more grounded, centered, real. Each step felt an eternity, and as the doors finally hissed open to the cockpit of that void, starless viewport of the bridge, the Wanderer squared their shoulders and moved for the chair. The displays confirming the speed, the power, the utter and absurd notion of their acceleration through the nothingness that engulfed them. " There's no one aboard, and no one in proximity...there's nothing...I can't..." That light faded, a dull clank as the shell of Cipher collapsed on the metal, the dull glimmer of it's eyes slowly flickering out as it stared back towards the Wanderer now knelt down and cradling them in their hand. The branches did not blossom, the vertigo did not come, all points, all possibility, convergence in that moment, and the light flickered out. The Wanderer simply fell down onto the floor as well onto their side, hands clutching the shell close, the fear blossoming once more, the silence a slowly unhinging maw that sought to grasp...before then sparks of light, a sudden brightened white light painting the cockpit in foreign, blasphemous purpose, no longer adjacent. Present, founded, real. The sudden static in their helmet hissing a bombardment of communication, voices in panic, a battle, and as Cipher's eye flickered alive once more, the Wanderer drew themselves to their feet, helmet turned to the mass of angular shapes looming the gleaming blue of home. Reality felt...stranger now, to be in the moment, to be singular, to be linear, it was almost enough to churn the stomach, but with a singular will and path the Wanderer steeled themselves, and raced back towards their ship. " Vanguard to all units...keep the enemy away from the Traveler, at all costs. "

[bradcrotchet]

Week Six

Starting week 6 I set out to learn 3 more rudiments and this would serve as the final week focusing on drums in the plan. During this week, whilst watching back some videos of me playing I realized that my timing and fluency and stamina are quite awful and grating to listen back to, I wouldn’t count this as a flaw in my plan however because even professional drummers have spent years and continue to practice rudiments. The rudiments I focused on were, pataflafla, ratamacue and 5 stroke roll. 5 stroke roll goes as, RRLLR and then you play the same but alternate, which would be LLRRL, keep in mind the last note should be accented. I recommend practicing your rudiments to a metronome, which is something I wish I had made a note of doing. Next up, is pataflafla, this one I found rather difficult to perform at anything but an extremely slow pace, the sticking pattern for this one is R(flam), L, R, L(flam). After that, is ratamacue, this one was quite fun and easy but probably sounded awful to an actual drummer. The ratamacue combines the single stroke four and a drag and is played as triplets. This sticking pattern is hard to explain especially at my amateur level rhythmical comprehension. Compared to the other rudiments I had learnt the ratamacue seemed to be most applicable to drum fills. On top of the rudiments this week, I also spent time playing other things and experimenting and began to feel as though my drumming had overall improved and felt confident to try new things.

Five stroke roll tutorial resource

Pataflafla tutorial resource

Ratamacue tutorial resource

During this week I reached the end of my grade one music theory syllabus and began learning my grade two, but I made a point to continue revising my grade one topics. Grade 2 expects you to learn more keys, more time signatures, and more scales (a more in depth look at minor scales). You are also expected to be able to convert between time signatures, so far this has been relatively easy, for instance, if you were to convert something in ¾ to 3/2 you would simply change the three crotchets to three minims and double the length of each note. However, doing more grade 2 lessons made me realize I had moved on from grade 1 too quickly and should have paced myself better. If I wasn’t splitting my focus over drums as well as keyboard and theory, I would probably progress at a greater rate considering that my music theory and keyboard development are well connected.

The next thing we need to learn for grade one theory is the stave. The stave is comprised of 5 lines, these lines and in between the lines are spaces to place notes, each part representing a different pitch. The pitch of these lines' changes depending on the clef. In treble clef the lines go as; E, G, B, D, F (this can be memorized as every good boy deserves fudge, the notes in between these can be memorized as F, A, C, E, (or face in the space). In bass clef, the lines are G, B, D, F, A (good bikes don’t fall apart), in between these lines it is A, C, E, G (all cows eat grass). These are the only clefs you need to know for grade one and treble clef is above middle c and bass clef is below it. 

Now we reach the final review point of the plan. My progress in music theory has been steady but slightly quicker than I'd expected and the past two weeks of rudiments and scales have been challenging but not too much so.

week 6

week 6.1

week 6.2

week 6.3