#Fuse Magazine

[dweeeeeb]

#Fuse Magazine #Fuse #Magazine #Cover Art #Lauren Luongo #David Blazze #MU1EO

[wroteclassicaly]

so, like, my horny steve thot is almost always the same: i just love the idea of his cock being sooo uncommonly long and girthy that he has to take his sweet time getting you ready and even tho he makes you cum on four fingers and his tongue twice, he still can only fit about half of his cock inside you before you’re crying (crying for more? crying for less? you don’t even know … you’re crying for more probably) :(((( hehe

I know this is way more than a Steve thot, but I do hope you like it anyways? Hehe, thanks so much for sending it in, my dear Cece! I tweaked it a little bit ;)

Note: My vaginismus having ass could not take Steve’s monster very easily (if at all), but this is nice to think about. And I felt like having trouble, even with prep from four fingers (my god, I struggle with sometimes one and definitely two) — is relatable af!

Warnings: Language, smut, NSFW, touches on sub space a little bit, mentions oral sex, handjobs, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, and the reader has a hard time taking Steve, so there’s significant pain. I think that about covers it?

Sometimes you felt as if you were floating. Higher than the tallest cliff hanging off the quarry, rocks jagged and waters a deep, enriching blue, rippling in velvet serenity. Your particles could be scattered to the Midwest winds and you’d have yet to realize, halfway through time — maybe even space…? It happens more and more frequently now, tonight is no different.

You shift, one jut of your knee that slides into a slippery sloping press, his wiry leg hairs tickling your calf. He moves, widening your right thigh, your ankle sliding across your rose colored bed sheets, and back behind his slender form, where he’s kneeling in front of you. An electric heat flows so hot between your legs that the cool air rushing in hurts. You fist your own fingers into your air, massaging, tugging, neck stretching to expose the delicate tendons that run up your throat — ones he’s littered in his claims. God if he could suck them raw, nip the sore flesh into his teeth, enough that you whimper again, opening yourself just the way he needs you to…

Your arm is still thrown above your head, the outline of your forearm pressing into your pillow, your kiss-swollen lips shiny with spit and dormant pleas that he’d heard not long ago. He’s tried to say a few words, even used his palm to push down on your abdomen, still four knuckles deep into your soaking wet pussy. It’s to no avail, your eyes completely glassy, lash line soaked, gaze fucked over and reaching outer limits — a place he can only imagine what’s it like (from your perspective, anyways). He knows this path you go head first into. The books and magazines he had read a long time ago in his High School days mentioned how sex is obviously different for girls, how they can experience things more intensely sometimes.

But nothing could’ve prepared him for this. The very first time it happened coincided with a two hour long foreplay. Steve remembers it like the back of a Farrah Fawcet spray canister. He was prepping you to take him — all nerves and mangled, panting breaths. One finger and his mouth on your neck, two found his lips sucking underneath your jaw line and crooking against that spot just right, three had you stifling whimpers into his neck and riding his splayed palm that stayed drenched, and four… Well, four was an unremarkable set of attempts that took up the better part of the second hour.

You’d done it with Steve’s patience, his languid coaxing. And when you had berated yourself for being unable to take it much past the tip of the fourth, he’d slid between your legs and lifted them apart, his tongue finding your creamy opening and helping himself. You lost count on how many fuses he’d lit and caused to explode, only touching your senses upon hearing Steve hiss out a yes when his fourth finger easily joined the other three. It took a few minutes with him talking to you, high on a raspy ease, a delicious chorus of praises pouring off his lips — then you were back. Some sort of transitioning space, Robin had told him when he couldn’t help but to ask, wondering if it was too much for you.

And that fed into Steve’s addiction to satiate his hunger for seeing you in such an uncaring, completely melted state. All because of him.

He grabs your chin with a calloused thumb and pointer finger, pinching to tilt, your lips catching his and separating in an easy smack. His nose tucks into your cheek, another glide of his mouth, four fingers turning back into three and a stretch, and you inhale sharply — everything coming back into focus. Your breath is winded, bosom heaving and nipples dragging across his tufts of chest hair. He’s so fucking warm, his freckle splattered skin stained red with flush, his aftershave sinking into the corners of your mouth, stubble tickling your chin, and inky pupils littered with cinnamon rings. His brows pinch together, pearly white teeth grinning lazily as he presses another kiss to your mouth the moment that you sigh into a shared breath.

“Welcome back, baby.”

His free hand reaches for your forearm above your head, fingers sliding along damp and salty skin, tickling across your palm and lacing with your own digits — squeezing.

“Mhm. Stevie…” His thick fingers buried in that scorching mess between your thighs is suddenly on the forefront. Holy shit he’d gone to town on you. The evidence has slicked down your ass and onto the bed sheets, that’s no secret.

“I tap out again for a second? Fuck, you’re so good.” You coo at him, enjoying how his eyes light up in a mirth unmatched.

He hooks your right leg around his lower waist, leaving the other lowered to where you’ve got it propped. His eyes find yours and he drinks you in as he pulls his fingers from you slowly, both of you letting out a choked moan. His thumb pad caresses your clit, his digits smacking your cunt and scattering some arousal. You jump, toes curling, digging into his waistline.

“Shit, honey, let me taste you first.” He’s teasing, smirking that Steve Harrington smirk, popping his sopping fingers into that plush mouth, making a real diabolical show of it.

You practically chase his touch, eager to sample yourself — whatever he’ll let you have. He wiggles his shiny fingertips and barely touches your bottom lip, teasing you, making you raise up — the action causing his very prominent erection to nudge your folds. You jump a little, that instinctual preparation that promises a very defining pain — working its way to the forefront. Steve shakes his head and swipes his fingers across your mouth, planting them on your hip to massage in soothing circles. You’re so fucking wet that you’ve already soaked him, and that makes holding back from taking what he wants that much harder.

“Easy, okay? Haven’t even tried to put it in yet. You know I’ll always ask you before I do, right?”

You nod, breathing in a few self-comforting breaths. It’s not that you’re terrified of the pain. Hell, your little kinky ass indulges in it most of the time, but there’s also that percentage that is nervous, that worries about how much it usually does hurt, (despite many orgasms and lubrication), or if you won’t be able to take him at all this time. His walnut strands tickle your cheek as he descends to nuzzle your nose with his own, reassuring hand still on your hip.

“You want it like this tonight?”

You nearly combust on the spot, body bowing to a magnetizing nostalgia of various positions he’d fucked you in; nice and deep, or ever-so-slow and fucking filthily. You can almost taste his sweat from thrusts he’s yet to initiate, feel the goosebumps pepper your flesh as his silky mane tickles your forehead, maybe even your neck and shoulder (it all depends on which way he has you, really). You aren’t quick enough to draw in your timid answer, starting to slip again, preparing to drift and seek him out. His fingers leave your hip and pull down on your bottom lip, releasing it with a plop as the digits head towards your jaw — strumming a slow scrape. “Babe?” He’s amused, questioning. “How do you want me?”

“I..” And your throat feels like it’s overworked, yet you’ve barely spoken. It drips with elated exhaustion, slowly clambering upright. “Right where you are. Get the stuff, honey.” You flip his nickname for you back onto him, and it has a reaction that crashes into his chest, making it swell in size for you.

He nods immediately, the hand that’s holding yours — leaving, but only to work open the bedside drawer in haste, fumbling clumsily as he decides to capture your bottom lip between his teeth — leaving little love pecks as an after motion. You can barely leave his mouth, his neck straining and flushed bright red, caked in sweat. He rolls back on his haunches, his heavy cock bobbing against his stomach and leaving a connective trail of your slick and his pre-cum to both, your thighs and his.

“Jesus,” he mutters in awe. You’re always so wet for him.

You do shift a little, relaxing your legs around his lower back and connecting your ankles. He has the lube bottle in hand, cracking its lid and wiggling his brows at you. A silent signal not missed, you present your palm and he squeezes out a good amount of gel in, tossing it onto the nightstand beside your head. And fuck, you really wish you had your Polaroid right now, because watching him inhale through clenched teeth, toned waist giving into a bunch, and licking a sharp swipe of his tongue across his lips, the moment that your hand is reaching forward to take him in your grasp — it’s forever seared into your pitiful, Steve-stamped retinas. Screw your pupils, might as well be little Steve’s there instead.

His breath trembles, caressing his tongue, body unprepared as your fingertips tap a tempo up his shaft, barely grazing, before moving back down again. His cock twitches, jumping in your hand, and that’s the moment that you take your chance and wrap your fist around him. He falls forward on hefty palms, fingers splayed beside your head, bunching your sheets in a white knuckled grip. This is one of the parts that you absolutely go to the outer limits for.

He mouths at your jugular, nose pathing up your neck and dragging across your chin until he’s able to kiss you and pant against your lips. “That’s it, baby. Use it however you want to. S’ all yours. Don’t need to be afraid of it. ”

That first sticky contact where he’s finally parting your folds turns you into a babbling mess, a wanton whimper tangled at your tongue’s tip. The fingernail of Steve’s thumb scrapes at your chin, tugging and encouraging your sounds to spill free. When you oblige, he slides that very digit into your mouth and presses, salt, his saliva, and your own musky essence pouring over your taste buds.

“That’s my good girl — shit!” You roll your tongue around his finger and take him down to the knuckle, your fist gliding across his length at an easy rhythm in a simultaneous thievery.

“Monster madness.” You whisper, letting your tongue flick around his thumb, before releasing.

He meets your mouth in a shared grin — all teeth, light laughs. “So I own a monster and a python, huh?” He winds your hair back behind your ear and you know it’s almost time. Your grip on him has loosened a little.

You share a heavy stare, a connection that doesn’t falter, even through one raise of his bushy brows. You watch in a marveling, drool-lathered wonder as the tendons in his wrist flex when his fingers separate, pushing your folds apart. They disconnect with an audible squelch, making you grip him tightly again — squeezing. A diagram-deep groan punches through his esophagus and claws its way from his mouth. “Oh. Fucking do somethin’, honey. Please…”

His voice sounds wet, like a hurricane is rising inside his lungs, battering his insides, and threatening to flood his throat — a desperation that finds an adjoining link within your own desires. As he still holds you open, you bring his purpling tip to your swollen clit, and with a blinking of newly tear stained lashes — you use him. He couldn’t stop it if he tried, another beading escaping him and helping the friction you’ve begun to stimulate you both with. Your knee jerks and he thrusts into your hand, his thick, full balls catching on your ass, your wetness having found a home there too. It’s all too messy to comprehend a clean up. And he doesn’t want to, if he’s being honest.

“Baby, you have the prettiest clit. God it feels so good, you know that? Don’t stop for me.” He’s shaking in his forearms, biceps rattled, muscles caving in. He’s not even inside of you yet and he’s already drenched and throbbing, about to blow his load.

Luckily, you know him as well as he knows you. And you release, quickly lifting your ass in a slight wiggle, legs still locked and now wound around his lower back. You give him one pleading command. “Split me open, Stevie.”

He takes an intoxicating initiative, finding your left hand to hold on tight, fingers leaving your cunt and wrapping around his glistening base, curls matted with your cream. This isn’t gonna last long. “Need more lube, baby?” He checks one last time, your head shaking

You’re fucking warm and soft when he drags his dick through the seam of you, teasing, slapping your inner thigh, your clit, finally teasing his head to that ring of nerves. “Fuck.” His hand lifts on your hand, knuckles smashing into your pillow case, palms held and fitted. You’re relaxed enough that you’re close to sucking him right in, and as soon as the head pops past your opening, he sees your eyes fill with tears. You dig your nails into the top of his hand, scratching, nearly breaking skin. What comes out of your mouth before he can say anything shocks him.

“H-hold on. Fuck, I think I’m gonna cum.”

Steve’s lips find your neck and they suck, bite, licking clean the evidence of a beginning claim. He has to stop himself from fucking you up the bed at this new knowledge. “Oh yeah? Feels that good?”

“Just go slow.” You whimper into a kiss he bestows, tongue greedily slinking into his mouth to take what you want.

He sees what you mean when he presses in a little more and is flooded with a fresh wave of cream, his eyes rolling back and clouding over. And that’s the moment he knows that he has to check in, because you sniffle. There it is.

“Honey? You alright?”

You’re trying to say you are, but it comes out as a broken “mhm” and you lick your lips, eyes focusing on the ceiling, sclera burning. It fucking stings, your body is telling you what it knows — that it’s gonna be too much, that you’ll be sore. But he’s so warm, so heavy inside, and he isn’t even completely there. You try to shove your hips and seek out more, only to be rebuffed. “Baby…” he warns, composure tilting over that precipice, wavering.

And the air changes, your body goes light, and that’s it.

“Come here.” Your hand that’s unheld, is digging into his hair, its soft strands becoming rising waves in the gaps between your fingers, tumbling over yourself to get to his mouth.

His knees help keep him above you, or else he’d collapse. You breathe in deep, releasing it against his lips when you part, your nipples prodding at his slippery flesh. Smashing your nose into his own, he nudges, he shifts, and you’re caught — his thick cock sinking into you. It’s not even half, but you cling to Steve through gasping cries and tear splattered lips, everything aching and throbbing. Your heart is racing so hard that you’re sure your bones are being dusted to ash.

Despite the nearly unbearable fire his size carries, your body welcomes him halfway in without anything else needed. Steve pauses, not just for you, but for himself and the ridiculous choppiness that he can’t even call breathing. He lifts your combined hands and kisses each finger, making you tighten around him and his hips shove forward. You both curse and he apologizes, to no avail. You’ve begun to beg him, and he thinks he might be in his own transitioning space.

“Honey — Baby, hold on, m’ tryna make it better for you.”

“More, I want it all, S-Steve… Don’t stop!”

“But you’re tensing on me —“

“Please, oh god, please — Steve!”

His control vanishes and his closed fist reaches the bottom of your folds as he helps himself push the rest of the way in — in two swift, squelching glides. His tip finds that spot right away, settled like a flesh tight glove, and it sets off a series of sparks, your throat barely able to let out a scream before your release squirts from your cunt and reaches the happy trail scattered around Steve’s navel. Yep, it’s over. He pulls your linked hands up and drapes them by his neck, pumping his hips on one good time, forehead sticking to yours, eyes wide and lips parted in disbelief, and he comes. Your exposed hands that aren’t together, they find one another and match the other two, lacing, pieced just right.

Steve crumbles and collapses on you, your breasts dripping with combined exertion, his pulse racing to stabilize, face burrowing on the swell of your chest. It’s a few silent moments — his cock softening inside you, your cunt brimming with his warm spend, and then he’s looking up at you from his spot. That five o’clock shadow surrounds his mouth, his pupils trying to normalize, and fuck — his own eyes have spilled moisture. Every freckle and mole is visible, his easy grin and silent apology starting, but you brush the hair of his forehead, enjoying his reddened cheeks.

“I love you, honey. Are you okay? Want me to—“ His own voice sounds discombobulated.

“Stay a little while with me, like this? Inside?” Is your airy soft response.

And now, now you think that Steve will be floating over the quarry with you. Particles that fuse together. Of time and space.

// eat me paragraph //

#asks #kink hour #kristenwrites #newlips #my work #my writing #steve harrington #steve harrington smut #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington x y/n smut #steve harrington x female reader #steve harrington x fem!reader #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington fic #steve harrington one shot #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington x female reader smut #stranger things smut #stranger things one shot #stranger things #stranger things fic #stranger things fanfic #stranger things fanfiction

[redsnerdden]

Police in a Pod, That Time I Got Reincarnated As A Slime won in the 46th Kodansha Manga Awards

Police in a Pod, That Time I Got Reincarnated As A Slime won in the 46th Kodansha Manga Awards #KodanshaAwards #manga #PoliceInAPod #ThatTimeIGotReincarnatedAsASlime #Kodansha

The popularity of manga has gotten bigger over the past few years, and sometimes it can be hard to pick up a new series to read. This is where the 46th Annual Kodansha Awards come in, and the winners of the Boys, Girls, and General categories have been revealed. For the Boys, Category comes Fuse’s That Time I Got Reincarnated as a Slime manga adaption by Taiki Kawakami. This Manga has picked up…

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#46th Annual Kodansha Awards #Anime #Be Love Magazine #Fuse #Josei #Kodansha #Manga #Miko Yasu #Nina the Starry Bride #Police in a Pod #RIKICHI #Taiki Kawakami #That Time I Got Reincarnated as a Slime

[cartermagazine]

Today In History

Robert Nesta Marley was born on this date February 6, 1945 in Nine Miles, St. Ann, Jamaica.

Marley is one of the pioneers of reggae, his musical career was marked by fusing elements of reggae, ska, and rocksteady, as well as his distinctive vocal and songwriting style.

Marley and his friends Neville “Bunny” Livingston (Bunny Wailer), and Peter McIntosh (Peter Tosh) formed the Wailing Wailers. The Wailers’ big break came in 1972 when they landed a contract with Island Records. The result was the critically acclaimed “Catch a Fire.”

Marley went on to sell more than 20 million records throughout his career, making him an international superstar. His musical legacy continues through his family and longtime bandmates.

“Emancipate yourselves from mental slavery; none but ourselves can free our minds.” - Bob Marley

CARTER™️ Magazine

#bob marley #carter magazine #carter #historyandhiphop365 #wherehistoryandhiphopmeet #history #cartermagazine #today in history #staywoke #blackhistory #blackhistorymonth

[skepwith]

More Parts of the Revenge for OFMD Fans

Part of a series: Revenge Master Post.

This post is about stuff in the body of the ship, going more or less from top to bottom. I’m saving the sails and rigging for my next post. If you want to know more basic terms like fore and aft and bow and stern, look for “Parts of the Revenge” in my master post.

Obviously, using these terms is entirely optional, since David Jenkins et al. are free and easy with the ol' historical accuracy. This list is for pedants like me and people who like historical and specialized language. Enjoy!

Main Deck

The low “walls” on the sides of the open decks were called the bulwarks—they were to keep people from falling overboard. On the Revenge, the bulwarks are topped by a rail (railing).

A gap in the bulwark, together with a set of rungs on the hull, was called an entry port. It allowed people to climb aboard from a dinghy.

The top edge of the bulwark was the gunwale, pronounced gunnel. The expression “loaded to the gunwales” is still used to mean very full. The top edges of a dinghy are also called gunwales.

An opening in the deck is called a hatchway. I wrote about hatches a while ago, but what I didn’t realize was that the hatch is the part that covers the hatchway. The wooden grid that lets light and air through is called the grating.

In the bow, the curving rail that goes from the figurehead to the hull is called the head rail, which would’ve been really helpful to know for my toilet post. Oh well.

Stede’s journal could at a stretch be called a logbook (or log). This was a book in which an officer noted details of the ship’s daily progress and journey. Probably a bit less fanciful than Stede’s version.

Weaponry

The Revenge has guns (the word used for cannons) on her main deck and her gun deck. Before a gun was fired, the barrel was cleared with the sponge, then loaded with gunpowder and shot and wads of cloth, all of which was tamped down with the rammer. There were different types of shot, or ammunition; cannonballs were called round shot.

To fire a gun, a lit fuse (usually a slow match) was brought in contact with the vent at the top of the gun—called the touchhole—to ignite the gunpowder. (The wick added in OFMD isn’t accurate. Shocking, I know.) The slow match was usually held with a staff called a linstock, tucked into a notch on the end. You didn’t want to be right next to the cannon when it went off, because there was a non-zero chance it would misfire and explode in your face.

Despite what you see in movies, cannons didn’t produce a lot of fire and smoke; the cannonball did damage by going unstoppably through hulls, masts, and people—often many at a time—like a deadly Energizer bunny.

The gunpowder was kept in kegs in a small room called the powder magazine. (A magazine is an ammunition storage area.) This room was in the hull of the ship, below the water line, to minimize the chances of a stray spark sending the whole ship up in flames. The shot was kept in the shot-locker, a small room in the hold (though this word wasn’t recorded till 1805). As we know, Stede calls this the ball room.

Besides the regular cannons, the Revenge also has swivel guns, small cannons mounted on swivels. These were too small to damage another ship; they were there to fire at boarders and approaching boats. Or, you know, to set off fireworks.

To take an enemy ship, sailors might use a grapnel (or grappling hook). These were attached to a rope and thrown at enemy bulwarks or rigging so the ships could be pulled together for boarding.

The Gun Deck

Everything on a ship had to have a special name: stairs were always called ladders; the floor was called the deck; and a wall or partition inside the hull was called a bulkhead.

Some of you may know that a ship’s kitchen is called a galley. However, this usage wasn’t recorded until 1750; the earlier word was cook-room.

Likewise, the mess is where you eat on a ship, but this sense wasn’t recorded until the late 1800s. In OFMD’s time, mess meant “a group of people who eat together,” like officers of the same rank or sailors on the same watch.

You might know a berth as a shelf or box to sleep on, like Stede’s (and Ed’s) bed, but this usage wasn’t recorded until the 1790s. The earlier meaning, used from at least 1706, is “a room where a particular group (such as officers or midshipmen) eats and sleeps.” So you might call Jim’s room a berth—except that it changes hands, and its name has been firmly established as the Room.

A berth is also a place in a port or harbour where you can moor (park) a vessel, and thirdly, the safety margin around another vessel or object, which gives us the phrase “to give [it] a wide berth.”

Finally, the area where the animals (remember them?) were kept was a small triangular area in the bow called the manger. This seems to be where the Revenge’s en suite is, at least as far as I can figure, but if you want to include the animals for whatever reason, they’d probably live somewhere around there.

Storage

Some of the stuff on board was stored in casks, a.k.a. barrels. These could be any size, but a large cask was also called a butt. A scuttlebutt was a butt full of water attached to the deck for sailors to drink from. Unfortunately, the word wasn’t recorded before 1800, and the “gossip” meaning not till a century after that. But it’s a great word and you should use it anyway.

A keg was a small cask, usually less than ten gallons, used for things like gunpowder or rum.

A sea chest was a wooden box used to store an officer’s personal effects—or to confine a nosy hombrecito.

The Ship’s Bottom

(As it were.)

In several of my posts and diagrams I said the lower decks of the Revenge were the gun deck, the orlop, and the hold. But my friends, I made a grievous error: the Revenge has no orlop. I know!

In season 2, for the first time we get to see what’s below the gun deck. When Frenchie opens the secret passage in the kitchen, he reveals a set of stairs—sorry, a ladder—down to a grim, damp space. The kitchen is on the gun deck, so this is the deck immediately below it, and while on most ships that would’ve been the orlop, in this case it’s the hold.

The hold was the lowest compartment of the ship, used for storage and cargo. It also sometimes held the ballast—heavy stuff (e.g., pig iron, gravel, stones, lead) put there to improve the ship’s balance. The lowest part of the hold itself was called the bilge or bilges—the area where bilgewater collected and had to be pumped out.

Episode 3 shows the water on the floor—sorry, deck—making it pretty clear we’re in the bilges of the hold. On top of that, an Instagram post by crewmember Will Giles (shared on Tumblr by @ourflagmeansbts) mentioned repurposing the “bilge set.”

Which all proves that the Revenge’s hold is immediately below the gun deck, with no orlop in between.

The keel is the structural piece that runs lengthwise along the middle of the hull’s bottom. Keel-hauling was to drag someone along the outside of the keel, underwater, as a punishment—very nasty, often fatal.

Also underwater, at the stern, is the rudder, whose movement makes the ship turn. On a dinghy you steer by moving the tiller, a horizontal bar attached to the rudder post. On a ship like the Revenge, you turn the ship’s wheel, which is attached to the tiller via cables, and that moves the rudder.

That’s all for now! Coming next: sails and rigging, in port, and more sailing lingo.

Sources: Wikipedia, historicnavalfiction [dot] com, Oxford English Dictionary

#ofmd #ofmd meta #mapping the Revenge #nautical history #adopt our crew

[dysfunctional-doodle]

Doodle for the prompt “Oops” by an anon!

This is actually based on the UK TMNT magazine which had mini episodes inside! Mikey and Raph get fused together together by accident and I couldn’t help but use it as a warm up! Got some panels below for anyone who is questioning everything:

Look at ‘em go, my boys

#tmnt #tmnt fanart #fan art #fanart #tmnt art #digital art #tmnt 2003 #tmnt 2k3 #drawing prompt #tmnt doodles #tmnt mikey #tmnt raph #tmnt mikey fanart #tmnt raph fanart #art #tmnt uk magazine from way back #it’s very random but I vaguely remember it when I was a kid #tmnt fandom #tmnt fast forward

[thatsthewrongwallcraig]

Seek And Destroy

Summary: Run, little sheep, or the big, bad wolf will catch you…

Pairing: Kappa × fem!Reader

Wort Count: ~2k

Content Warnings: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT!, Smut (18+!), “Consensual” Non-Con (Reader Is Clearly Delulu About It), Fingering, Primal Play, Knife Play, Blood Play, Heavy Degradation, Praise Kink, Derogatory Petnames, Spit Play, Kappa Talks About Himself In 3rd Person, Kappa Is A Sadistic Fuck, Aftercare? We Don't Know Her. 

YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!

A/N: I have absolutely no excuse for this and I'll just see myself out now, byeeeeee! 

Tagging who might be interested:

@crypticsewerslut @quicksilversg1rl @alalalaaallaaalaaa @bvg-w1res

Well, my love is an animal call

Cutting through the darkness, bouncing off the walls

Between teeth on a broken jaw

Following a bloodtrail, frothing at the maw

  ~ Aqua Regia by Sleep Token 

The stone floor underneath your bare feet seemed to vibrate ever so slightly with every hasty step you took. One after the other, not looking back behind you and not letting the rising fear in your body paralyze you in your anxiously hectic movements. 

Thud, thud, thud.

The slapping sound of heavy boots hammering down onto the ground not far from you. 

You inhaled sharply, droplets of sweat evaporating from your forehead into the cool midnight air.

"Come out, come out to play!" Kappa's low, menacing voice echoed back from the lifeless stone walls of the hideout. 

Silvery moonlight was beaming into the corridor through smashed windows and missing bricks as you realized that he was closer to you as you had thought him to be.

"Don't make me chase you!" He bellowed through the shadows, grinning to himself, his steps picking up on speed just like yours.

As you took a deep breath, you felt how equal amounts of fear and excitement clashed in your lungs. The juxtaposed emotions fighting for the high ground. Although Kappa demanded you not to make him chase you, you knew that it was exactly that what would make the thrill.

There were days when you didn't run from him, where you surrendered to his rough, harsh touch right away, but tonight he needed more than that.

He had been particularly erratic throughout the entire day. Something wasn't going according to plan and that had easily been enough to set off his already short fuse. You had seen it coming in the way his eyes had burned holes into the yellowed maps scattered on his desk, how his fingernails had scratched into the moist, rotting wood and in the way he had been relentlessly chewing on the inside of his cheeks, picking away at the delicate skin with grinding teeth.

“You know you can’t run from me for long...” Kappa was right about that but you could at least try and that you did.

After taking a right, turning into an equally destroyed and desolate corridor, the old wooden floor scattered with dust and debris, you started running to the best of your abilities. You forced your body forwards, your heavy steps banging onto the ground as you spurted ahead. The sound of your bare feet meeting the floor again and again filling the air before, barely a handful of seconds later, the tone of Kappa’s heavy boots joined in, their rhythm faster and even harder than before.

Thud, thud, thud.

It was all you could focus on as you rushed along the hallway and eventually right that would turn out to be your grave mistake because you stopped paying the necessary attention to your surroundings. You were about to turn another corner, not noticing an old magazine covered by a thick, grayish layer of dust and the moment you set foot onto it it slid to the side, taking you with it. Your posture faltered mid-air, a hissed “Fuck!” rolling over your tongue before you couldn’t stop your entire body from stumbling forth and ultimately falling into the wall shoulder first. The impact was painful, a dull pang of hurt spreading throughout your right shoulder that shot up into the base of your neck. You cringed in discomfort and tried to get yourself to stand upright again but it was too late for you to dash away. Kappa had successfully caught up to you already. 

“There, there..” He scoffed in an amused tone, caging you between his arms as you turned around to face him.

With your back pressed against the cold stone wall, your eyes widened as a wave of shock rippled through your body. It wasn’t exactly caused by the fact that you got caught or the crooked grin tugging at the corners of his lip, no, it was the metallic shine of a hunting knife, reflecting the pale, bluetoned moonlight in the corner of your eye that led you to feel this way. 

“Did that hurt?” Kappa’s free hand went from the wall to your right shoulder, giving it a hard squeeze as he spoke to you with a mockingly concerned voice.

The firm clasp of his broad, calloused hand almost felt worse than the sloppy clunk against the wall and you tried to squirm out of it. 

“Ouch!” It fell from your lips as your eyes met his.

His pupils blown out wide in insidious excitement as he looked down on you. 

“Is my poor little sheep in pain?” Kappa’s voice a saccharine-sweet scorn. 

You couldn't help yourself but nod. The way he talked to you was enough to make you fall under his spell yet again. 

“I’m afraid that there’s more of that to come.”, He furrowed his eyebrows in play-pretend compassion “You ran away from me and I have to punish you for that.” 

"B-but.." A desperate mewl rolled over your tongue. 

"No, shhh shhh…", He shushed you, with a click of his tongue and shaking his head slightly from side to side "You know how that goes, Sugar." 

Indeed, you knew better than talking back. Kappa had taught you better so many times now, so instead of doing that again, most likely overstepping the very fine line of his patience, you just nodded. 

"See? Kappa knows best and you know that too." He stated with a satisfied humm. 

Again, you nodded, staring into his intimidating glare. His strikingly blue eyes bore into you, pressing your back against the wall seemingly all by themselves alone. 

"Now, now…", An unsettling hint of an erratic timbre mixed into his tone, "What am I going to do to you, huh?" 

Obviously, it was a rhetorical question that got answered just seconds later with Kappa pulling the hand that held the knife from the wall. 

"Let's get you out of that skimpy thing you call a nightgown first, yeah? You look like a cheap whore.." He sighed overdramatically and took the blade of the knife straight down to the hem of the red, silken nightgown you'd found just days prior in a pile of discarded clothing. Knowing that it would be gone in a matter of seconds pained you because you had actually been so sure that he'd like it as you dug it out from between old linen shirts and old underwear. 

You felt the cold metal slipping underneath the feathery light fabric, the pointy sharp tip of the blade angled towards the skin of your thigh and before you could fully realize what that meant, Kappa slashed upwards, all the way up to your hip bone. 

Before the real hurt set in, the sensitive skin on your thigh seemed to freeze for a split second, until it turned burning hot equally fast, the cut gushing open. Another blink of an eye and you felt your own, warm, sticky blood pooling from your thigh down to your ankle in a thin yet dark stream. The moment of surprise hit you so hard that the guttural scream erupting from the far back of your throat appeard to have a nearly comical amount of delay to it. 

"Hush, hush…it's okay…" Kappa whispered, leaning in close to your face, resting his forehead against yours, his wide grin almost touching your quivering lips. 

"It's gon' be just fine, you'll see. It's just a little cut, Sugar, it doesn't even need a tourniquet." He tried to calm you as he felt you panicking, your rising and barely even falling chest pushing against his in shallow breaths. 

"Hold on, this'll help…" He turned his wrist to cast the knife to the ground, before he held his palm up to his mouth, sloppily spitting a little puddle of saliva into it before slapping his hand right onto your aching thigh. 

A wet slap echoed through the desolate corridor before you couldn’t help yourself and started to whimper in pain as his warm, slick spit mixed into the open wound. 

"That'll make it clot nice and fast…" Kappa huffed, his hot breath against your face.

Another high-pitched mewl fell from your lips as you felt him forcefully pressing his thumb into the cut, spreading his saliva with malice and sadistic pleasure. 

From there on out, his blood-tainted fingers wandered towards the inside of your thigh.

"Oh…", He scoffed in amusement, "What's that?" 

His curious fingertips dipped right into your embarrassingly wet cunt without any warning, shoving themselves inside of you with force if necessary. 

"Look at you, my perfect little slut." Kappa cooed, his lips stroking yours with every word spoken. 

"Do you like it when I brutalise you like the obedient little bitch you are, huh?", He bore his fingers further into you until he was knuckle-deep inside, "Does it get your pussy all wet for me?" 

"Uh-hu…" You admitted, your face burning red in shame and embarrassment. 

God, you knew it was wrong and you felt so sick in the head for it but your body had its own way of reacting to him, his perversions of intimacy. 

"What a good, messy little whore you are…" Kappas words a crude praise as his lips eventually pressed themselves against yours. 

They tasted salty, sweat mixed in with a lingering hint of cheap cigarettes and red wine. The taste involuntarily flooded your mouth as he pushed his tongue past your weak lips. By now his fingers started to move at a violently harsh pace, pulling out just to bury themselves inside you right away again. It was painful and yet the lewd, squelching wet sounds emitting from between your legs told you just how deranged you truly must've been. A part of you felt disgusted with yourself whilst the other one wanted nothing more than to please Kappa, do everything he asked you to and, indeed, be his good, little slut. 

Entirely choked up between those two sides fighting inside of you, your body simply rolled its hips against his fingers, seeking to release the growing pressure in your stomach. It felt as if all the pain and pleasure simultaneously curdled up into a tight coil that was oh so ready to snap as soon as possible.

"Oh, you gonna cum, Sugar? Already? Pathetic." Kappa taunted you as he picked up the pace even harder. 

"Cum on my fingers then you pathetic slut. C'mon." 

Of all things it was his mocking tone that eventually had you tripping over the edge and before even the slightest moan of orgasmic release could escape your mouth, his lips were right back onto yours, drinking every little sound up as your statue convulsed, still tightly pressed to the wall.

Heavy waves of painful bliss crushed through you as Kappa finger-fucked you all the way through your orgasm, up until the last contractions had eased up. 

"Such a good fucking bitch for me.." He huffed in a breathy groan as he broke from the bruising kiss and pulled his fingers out of your cunt. 

Your legs threatened to give out as you watched Kappa raise the slick-wet and blood stained fingers to his lips before he started sucking each and every one clean with what seemed like pedantic precision. 

#kappa black mirror #kappa #kappa x fem!reader #black mirror 6 #black mirror: beyond the sea #black mirror #rory culkin #dead dove do not eat

[usafphantom2]

Curious about the glass... And how it held up to the severe heat...I found this air and space magazine article from 1999.

The glass through which the all-important cameras peered had to be free of optical distortion even though the inside temperature was 150 degrees and the outside 550 degrees. (Pilots have reported that the windshield of an SR-71 gets so hot at cruise that they can’t touch their gloved hand to it for more than a couple of seconds.) That one was solved by the Corning Glass Works and Perkin-Elmer, a lens manufacturer, in three years and at a cost of $2 million.

They fused quartz glass windows to the metal frame using high-frequency sound waves, which had never been done before!

William Burrows.

@Habubrats71 via x

[cordspaghetti]

hi sorry if this is a silly question! but i’ve seen your art around and it’s amazing!! i’ve been wanting to get into mcr for a bit because of it and i know nearly nothing about them (somehow) and it seems like they have a lot of, lore for lack of a better word. if you have any suggestions, where should i start? btw i adore ur style! :)

Hey!! this is such a fun question oh my god. And thank you so much, i’m so happy that you like my art!

ok so when you say you know nothing about them I’m going to assume you mean like… absolutely nothing. after listening to the music i think youtube is a pretty good place to begin getting into the My Chemcial Romance Lore. very visual band. definitely watch the music videos on their channel if you haven’t already—any behind the scenes/making of videos, live performances, and promo videos on there are really great too. their tour diary/documentary Life on the Murder Scene is CRUCIAL. Some other nice ones to look at afterwards are mcr in the studio 2002, this WSOU interview, this 97x a look back with mcr series, this kevin smith smodcast... also anything from steven’s untitled rock show or fuse tv for early stuff !!! mcr’s career can be split into 4 extremely distinct eras corresponding with each of their albums, so you can pretty much pick what you’re most into and investigate from there… some other fun ways to learn about them are searching up magazine scans/articles (AP, kerrang, and rock sound covered them a lot, plus SPIN and nme a bit), combing through my chemcial romance dot com on the wayback machine (their blog posts are a highlight), checking out fan zines and archives (lots on tumblr and also ig), and reading Books (off the top of my head i can think of Not the Life it Seems by tom bryant and Where are Your Boys Tonight by Chris Payne). Also the Killjoys comic series if you dig danger days 😎. ok i’ll stop there!!! this is mostly like… how to Find the lore, rather than the lore itself haha. i hope you find it helpful! anyone who wants to add on pls do…

#thank you for the ask anon #sorry for the lack of organization 😭

[greatlydelirious]

You can't just write "model nude for Vincent which of course led to passionate, mind-melting sex" and never mention it again! WHERE BLEASE BLEASE BLEASE

𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐅𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐡 𝐆𝐢𝐫𝐥𝐬

Vincent Sinclair x F!Reader

Ask and you shall receive!

wordcount: 4k words

warnings: fluffy smut, body worship, lovesick corny bastards

Candles sway gently as they cast an orange glow throughout the room. The darkness mixed with the low light perfectly heightens the dips and curves of your body. Bare skin sparkles and your most private areas are hidden by shadows. Enough to tease while still leaving room for imagination.

“More to the left?”

You await further instruction with bated breath. Half from the innate eroticism of what you were doing and half because of how hot the basement is. A light sheen of sweat has accumulated over your body. Although paired with the lighting it only made you look more breathtaking to the man in front of you.

Vincent turns his head to the side while silently evaluating you. Unconsciously he begins to tap the eraser part of his pencil against his masked lips. He was a true artist hyper-fixated on his craft; or as you’ve come to learn, his muse.

-

Often you sat with Vincent when he was carefully crafting a new sculpture or drawing out ideas that popped into his head. “Sat with” truly means he had you situated in his lap or within arm’s reach. He told you once that your presence calmed him and made him more productive. Bo grumbled about how if he didn’t know better, he would have thought you and Vincent were the ones conjoined. Not an outlandish comment since you two were practically fused at the hip.

Vincent is a man of few words and even fewer demands. Day after day he works on his projects while simultaneously taking care of you. Any need you have; he makes sure it is met. All he asks for in return is your companionship. Yet you still couldn’t stop the nagging feeling to do something more. After days of contemplation, you finally come up with the perfect way to thank him for all he does.

The idea came to you after sifting through the plethora of books Vincent had under the metal frame of his bed. It was hard to keep yourself preoccupied in the vacant town of Ambrose, so you usually found refuge in books. Most of them were older than you, save for the few Lester would scrounge up after going through the belongings of the people unfortunate enough to stumble here. By this point, you’ve read them all; some even twice.

After noticing you sighing while staring at the cracked ceiling, Vincent tugged you by his bed and pulled out the hidden treasure for you to scour through. You felt like a kid on Christmas day. Each book looked more interesting than the last. One, in particular, had you enraptured at the very first page. A picture of a naked woman was on the yellowed and slightly aged paper. She bashfully turned her face away from the camera as the only scrap of fabric on her body was a strategically held piece of sheer fabric.

“Tasteful,” You admonish silently.

Lord knows what kind of nudie magazines his twin brother Bo had. Just imagining the possibilities made you cringe. Shaking your head, you continue to skim through the intimate photography book. In between some of the pages were torn pieces from Vincent’s sketchbook that contained rough drawings of poses like the ones inside. You smile at the idea of Vincent blushing while using these photos for reference.

Of course, he uses the images for art purposes only. You blanch at the weight you didn’t even know was there, leaving your shoulders at the reassurance. Intimacy was extremely important to not only you but your relationship. Each touch expressed words that Vincent could not and would not utter. So, the thought that he would seek pleasure outside of yourself made you feel insecure.

You knew it was unfounded, but like any woman in love, you strived to make your man happy and fulfilled. The last time you brought up concerns of you potentially being an inadequate partner to Vincent, he vehemently shook his head and whined like he was the one doing something wrong. It almost annoyed you that he was so perfect. Vincent is intelligent, but not pompous. Silent, but not dismissive. Talented, but not showy.  Truly a caring lover despite the dark acts he participates in.

As you reach the end of the book an anecdote gets the gears in your brain to turn;

“The foundation for any good art form is a subject to expand creativity upon. Whether that be a person, place, thing, feeling, or as this book showcases, pose; inspiration can be found anywhere. In special cases, an artist has a specific muse that sparks ideas in them. Next time you’re talking to an artist, ask them what their muse might be.”

It’s evident that Vincent makes good use of this book, but maybe you could offer him something more interactive. He wrote all the time that you are “one of a kind” to him, so using you as a reference, rather than a random woman, might work better for him. Offering this might also have the added benefit of making you feel more useful.

You close the book with a determined snap before sliding it back with the others. After taking a steadying breath you make your way toward Vincent.

-

When you propositioned your idea to Vincent, a deep flush immediately ran down his neck as he eagerly nodded. Ironically, now you were the one who felt flushed. How could you not when his gestures while concentrating are so adorable? Although when he rolls up his sleeves to reveal the thick veins that run from his hands to his forearms, your thoughts quickly become less wholesome.

That pencil was the size of a pinky in his large hand. Hands that made even you feel small when they roamed across your body, savoring the sensation of your skin against his. Your own gently twitch at the memory of what that feels like. With a large hand came thick fingers that always seemed to wander down to your-

A small grunt pulls you from your ogling. Looking up, Vincent shakes his head before finally taking a seat in the chair a few feet away from the worn couch you were currently lying on. The position you are in puts you on display while keeping you comfortable.

You’re lounging on your side with your left leg draped in front of your right. Your thigh kept your modesty below even if the “v” of your groin was still visible. A pillow kept your head aloft, letting you watch Vincent as he worked away. Your left arm sat atop your thigh while your right arm crooked lazily next to your head.

To Vincent, you are the most gorgeous reference he’s ever been blessed with. To you, you felt like the textbook definition of self-conscious. Although the man has seen every little inch of you during your highs and lows, you couldn’t help it. It’s vulnerable to be in your birthday suit with someone while not in the throes of passion.

However, judging by the way Vincent slightly maneuvered his hips, your gift was having a bonus effect that you weren’t the only one feeling. Time goes by in a slow crawl. The more minutes that pass, the hotter you get. Despite the warmth encompassing your body from the boiling wax in the room, goosebumps prickled across your skin.

You try to adjust yourself surreptitiously. A feat when his eyes flicked up to you every other damn second. Your fingers itch to release the ever-growing ache between your closed thighs. You almost marvel at how Vincent has managed to keep his cool for so long.

There are subtle giveaways of Vincent’s own desire. His adam’s apple bobs up and down and the grip on each item in his possession is a little too tight. Figurative floodgates open as you watch the rather large bulge in his pants strain under the zipper. Yes, you knew what you were getting into by volunteering to pose, but by this point, it was plain old torture.

In a twist of fate when you squeeze your thighs together to feel some pressure, Vincent looks up at the same time. There was no doubt he saw the way your muscles bunched. Especially since instead of glancing back down to his drawing, his eyes stay fixated on you.

The sketchbook and pencil slip to the ground as Vincent abruptly stands up. Instead of pouncing on you, Vincent stalks toward you. He soaks you in from the tip of your toes to the top of your head. Just like before you let him take the lead, not daring to move a centimeter unless prompted. Even if you want to do quite the opposite and hang onto him like a spider monkey on a tree. Each step he takes toward you makes you want to do the latter.

A calloused thumb makes perches on the much softer flesh of your cheek. Vincent gently rubs the skin there while staring straight into your soul. You answer his unspoken question by wrapping your hand around his wrist, your own thumb rubbing against the pulse point that thrummed underneath. No words were needed to communicate how much you wanted this; how much you wanted him.

Releasing your hold on Vincent, you let out a shaky breath as he trails down your neck to your collarbone, leaving heat in its wake despite his feather-light touches. He skims the side of one breast before doing the same to the other. His eyes are fixated on how your nipples immediately pucker at the close contact. The skin is taut and anticipatory.

You gasp when he rolls the bud in between his middle and forefinger. Vincent lavishes both with attention; lightly twisting and rolling them while you arch in his expert hands. When he is satisfied with how he worked you into a needy frenzy, he continues his descent down. He squeezes the soft flesh of your breasts, sides, and hips, until stalling at your thighs. Two large palms caress your trembling thighs up and down. All you can do is watch as he indulges in your body.

Despite his breath coming out in flustered pants, Vincent slowly peels your leg off the other and opens you up like he was savoring every moment. The warm air hitting the wetness between your thighs makes you flinch. Vincent darts his head up to look at you. Your face is reddened by your desire and your lips are parted so you can intake oxygen better since the atmosphere is thick with humidity and tension.

Tentative fingers slide against your folds. A grunt sounds above you as Vincent spreads your slick, marveling at how drenched you are already. When a single digit sinks into your pussy, you sigh in relief. Pent-up emotions left you needy, wanting, and craving just the slightest hint of satisfaction.

Obscene noises fill the room as a second finger joins the first. Vincent stretches you, but it’s still nothing compared to the real thing. Regardless, you’re panting by this point. Velvety walls quiver around rough skin while you cry out for more. Thankfully, Vincent knows your body better than you do. You swear you see stars when the two fingers inside you stroke your g-spot. Simultaneously, his other hand begins to work your clit. Now he was demanding with every firm, fast touch.

“Right there! Feels so good baby.” You moan out your encouragement as you quickly reach the metaphorical ledge of your fast-approaching release. Vincent hums in acknowledgment before working double time. Blessed by perfect timing, his fingers derive sinful rapture from the respective pleasure points he is expertly rubbing.

The mental foreplay earlier had you so on edge you knew you wouldn’t last long. In seconds you are cursing and moaning Vincent’s name. Your heels dig into the fabric of the couch, and you hold the forearm closest to you in a death grip as you finally give in to your orgasm. You fuck onto his fingers while you ride the waves, each new one making you shudder more than the last.

When he finally pulls out of you, you’re soaked. If you didn’t feel so good you would be embarrassed by the mess you made on not only yourself but the couch. Still dumb from your orgasm you can barely register the extra weight dipping the cushions. Vincent slings your shaky legs over his wide shoulders to make room for himself. Your legs lock tight when warm breath hits your delicate skin.

Instead of the familiar waxiness, a tangible hot mouth connects with your core. The sensation makes you cry out and scramble to find purchase. Your fingers interlace with Vincent’s long hair and when you tug, he groans, sending a delicious vibration straight to your clit. His tongue lashes at anything it can reach. “Tasting” isn’t even the right word; it was like he was memorizing every nuance.

The sight of the two you should be a painting in its own right; an erotic scene depicting a man’s face buried in a woman’s sex while her thighs clamped down on either side of his head. Maybe you could ask Lester to find you a video camera…

Movement rocking you causes you to look down. Vincent’s hips are gyrating as he humps the couch in shallow thrusts. That alone made you feel like you were on the precipice of another orgasm; and when he starts sucking your clit, it almost becomes fact. But you are desperate for all of him and you would be damned to be envious of a couch.

“I need you, Vincent.” Removing your grip on his hair, you opt to pet his head. A part of you thought if he didn’t feel your touch, he would be too lost in you to even hear your words.

One final lick stripes up the length of your sex followed by a kiss to your mound. You stare at the ceiling to pray to any God that was out there because dear Lord this man was going to be the end of you. How can he eat you out like an animal then turn around and be so sweet? The only phrase to describe what you feel is sensual whiplash.

By the time you find your bearings, Vincent is standing next to you with his mask secured back in place. However, you do notice a light sheen under his chin that makes you blush a feverish red. He wore it with pride though, chest puffed out and heaving. His erratic breathing has nothing to do with exertion, not with his stamina.

Stepping back, Vincent makes quick work unbuttoning his overalls. When you make a move to help him undress, he pushes you back down. With a huff, you don’t argue and watch the show in front of you unfold. He peels the beloved sweater off next to reveal a lean frame carved by taut muscle.

The man looked like a specially curated statue himself. All cut lines and understated masculinity. You forget how easily he can snap you in half with how deceptively sweet he was. The shiver that rakes your body is an amalgamation of instinctual fear and arousal.

Soon enough Vincent is as bare as you. Your mouth waters as your eyes move down. Vincent’s cock juts out hard and proud. You always marvel at how impossibly long and equally thick he is. “Perfect mind, perfect heart, perfect cock,” You muse in your head. The tip blushes pink as it shines with a coat of pre-cum. Nothing excited him more than tasting you.

A noise akin to a growl confirms that Vincent knows exactly what you’re thinking. In only two large strides he situates himself on top of you. Blindly his cock rubs against your folds as he cages you between his strong arms. Still sensitive and slippery from your previous orgasm, you let out a high-pitched moan when the wide head of his cock nudges your clit.

He tries, again and again, to push inside your tight depths, but you’re far too slick to give him easy passage. Vincent grunts in frustration before you take him in your hand. As you squeeze his length to maneuver him, he starts to thrust into your hand.

“Does that feel good baby?” You coo the question while making your fist tighter. Your ministrations elicit more noises from the normally silent man.

“Do you want to feel something even better?” With an emphatic nod, Vincent mewls.

In the beginning “dirty talk” made you slightly embarrassed, but when he reacted to it the way he did, embarrassing yourself was the least of your worries. Biting your lip, you help slip the head of his cock into your pussy. Just the girth of his tip is enough to make you wiggle your hips to accommodate. You push your head against the pillow when Vincent finally sinks into you. Pleasure outweighs the slight bite his cock always leaves you with.

Exhaling sharply, Vincent shakes from restraining himself to give you time to adjust; but you’re tired of waiting. You wrap your arms and legs around him like you imagined earlier and pull. “Take me. Now.” For emphasis, you dig your heels into his ass which makes another inch slide into your wet pussy.

And take you he does. Without further encouragement, Vincent bottoms out while still having more shaft to spare before pulling out and doing the same all over again. You become lethargic in your lust-fueled bliss, going lax in his hold while moaning breathlessly. In no time Vincent quickens the pace. He delves into you hungrily, taking each little morsel you have to give.

Long dark tresses act as a curtain hiding away the lovers’ impassioned faces. All you can see, and feel is the man above you and you wouldn’t have it any other way. When you think you’ve reached the height of pleasure you’re surprised once again.

Vincent folds back your left leg until your knee is next to your head. A loud whine escapes you at the surprise new position that made his cock sink into you even deeper. Vincent nuzzles the side of his masked cheek into your newly elevated foot. A deep rumble akin to a purr leaves him almost soothingly. It’s his way of verbally praising you for taking him so well. The sound is a sweet contrast to the way he was rapidly snapping his hips into you.

Each of Vincent’s breaths comes out haggard. Unsurprising given your joint exertion and the mask smothering his airflow. Although this was his normal you wanted him to be comfortable and see your lover in his most intimate state. You’ve seen him unmasked before, but it’s been ingrained in him to hide. That’s not something you’ll ever get behind.

With trembling fingers, you stroke the skin just under his mask, “Please Vinny… can you take it off?”

Your syrupy sweet moans mixed with the pet name demolish Vincent’s trepidation faster than an atomic bomb. A dull thud comes from the floor as warm flesh presses into your neck. Frenzied wet kisses smother the sensitive spot that leaves you more breathless than before. In tandem, fingers begin to sloppily rub your clit again in fast circles. Vincent shifts to support himself on his forearms to better drive into you. He was more than desperate to feel you find your ecstasy around him; he was practically frenzied.

Each gentle caress and sharp thrust make your mind begin to melt like the wax mere feet away. Your bodies felt like malleable putty. No longer are there two different people, but a beautiful combination of one. He was you and you were him.

“Oh God, Vincent please don’t stop,” The words come out slurred like you were drunk on his cock. “I’m so close!” Every time he reaches the end of your depths, his pubic bone roughly rubs your clit. It was too much; he was too long, too thick, and too good at making you lose your mind.

You cling on to Vincent like a lifeline as you come undone around him. Incoherent words string together to make a non-sensical sentence. Only your cries of pleasure are recognizable.

Your pussy tightens like a fist around his cock as each spasm makes you pull him in deeper. Vincent loses himself in you, giving four more manic thrusts before also letting go. With a strained groan, Vincent calls out your name before slamming your hips against his and shooting his release inside you. Warmth spreads in your core to a point that you feel almost uncomfortably full, but it’s an ache you welcome wholeheartedly.

For a few agonizing moments, Vincent continues to move inside you. Each extra thrust of his softening cock pumps his cum deeper and deeper. The overstimulation makes you whimper and claw at his shoulders. With one last deep thrust, he finally stills. A soft kiss is lovingly placed on your temple before Vincent supports himself back on his palms to gaze down at you.

Vincent truly was his brother’s twin. The malformed visage on the right side of his face doesn’t scare you, but only makes your heart further soften. Which at this point would mean the organ was pure liquid because of how much you love this man.

You muster a tired smile as you bring a hand to the scarred flesh of your lover. Instead of flinching away, he leans into your touch. Never did he tire of your little pets. Vincent slowly leans back down to pull you into yet another kiss. Lips and tongues dance in a languid tango backed by an orchestra consisting of light hums and deep moans. Every time you feel like you have no more energy to give, Vincent breathes new life into you.

After sharing your mushy feelings via your mouths, you both pull back panting as if you romped for a second time. The telltale twitch of his cock still buried in your pussy is evidence enough that Vincent would of no qualms with going for round two.

Sighing, Vincent reluctantly leaves you to search for a rag. It takes all your willpower not to whistle at the sight of his toned ass. “Someone call the police because this man is packing in the front and the back,” You have enough restraint to keep the comment to yourself as well.

When he finishes cleaning you both off, Vincent grabs the forgotten drawing that tumbled onto the floor. A noticeable blush spreads across his face and down his neck as he holds his sketchbook. Sitting up you stretch your hand out, “Can I see it?”

When he hesitates, you put on your best pout. “Pretty, pretty please? You can’t make love to me like that and not show me what you drew.”

Only after one more round of saying “pretty please” while adorning puppy eyes that would make even Bo falter, he gives in. You’re drowning in anticipation by the time he offers the book for you to hold. Any composure you recovered quickly dissipates. At your silence, Vincent tries to grab the picture until he sees the tears swelling in your eyes. He immediately tips up your chin expecting to see disappointment but is only greeted by adoration.

Despite the time constraint, the drawing was extremely detailed. Unlike his other sketches that consisted of haphazard lines and rough ideas, this piece looked fully actualized and it’s even shaded. To say you were impressed was an understatement. You had never seen your body look so beautiful before. What makes it all the more sentimental was knowing that’s how Vincent saw you.

A thumb wiping away your tears helps ground you enough for you to find your words, “It’s wonderful Vincent. You’re wonderful.”

Then something rare happens, Vincent smiles; a wide, boyish, genuine smile unobstructed by a mask.

Any and all interactions are greatly appreciated.

#vincent sinclair x reader #vincent sinclair x you #house of wax #house of wax x reader #slasher x reader #slashers x reader #vincent sinclair #delirious masterlist

[dweeeeeb]

#Fuse #Magazine #Fuse Magazine #MU1EO #Cover Art

[darth-mortem]

My friend @g8se transleted several of my COD fanfics into English. This is one of them.

ATTENTION: This fic contains Call of Duty MW3 spoilers.

Having buried Johnny, Ghost no longer wants to live. He tries to commit suicide, but at the last moment, a real miracle saves him. From that moment on, this miracle accompanies Ghost throughout his long and stressful life. 4172 words.

Post-canon, fix-it, angst, hurt/comfort, love

When the wind carried Johnny's ashes over the mountains of Scotland, Ghost finally realized that he was gone. There would be no more of his radiant smile, no more cheerful banter and jokes during missions. Ghost would never hear his voice again, feel the touch of his hands and tender lips, or run his fingers through his ridiculous mohawk. The opportunity to say what Simon hadn't had the chance to say, thinking he would do it later someday, was now gone. Simon himself was no more, having died in the underground with Johnny. Now, only Ghost remained, who would never again remove his mask.

You can read on Ao3 or here:

All the way to the small motel where the three members of Task Force 141 had stopped, Ghost remained silent. He didn't utter a word, even when they were sipping from a bottle of whiskey, reminiscing about their fallen comrade. "Rest in peace, Johnny" were the last words Ghost heard from Price and Gaz. The latter looked at the lieutenant with concern, but Ghost seemed oblivious. He sat, staring into space, seemingly not hearing anything that the other two soldiers were saying as they remembered Johnny. When the bottle emptied, and it was time to go to their rooms, Ghost quietly stood up and, without even attempting to say goodbye, went to his own room.

Price and Gaz stopped in the room next to him. For a while, Ghost could hear their muffled voices, and then everything fell silent. He then stood up, pulled another bottle from his backpack, and placed it on the table by the window. Next to it, he placed his pistol.

Ghost didn't know how to express emotions, but now, after a significant amount of alcohol on an empty stomach, he felt that he could no longer take all the pain that was literally tearing him apart from the inside. His hand, that was clutching the glass, trembled, and burning tears rolled from his eyes, washing away the black face paint, and soaking the fabric of his balaclava.

Ghost cried silently. His shoulders shook, he breathed convulsively, tears blurred his eyes, but not a sound escaped his chest. The whiskey was already starting to make his head spin; reality swayed and blurred, but he still finished the bottle, set it aside, and reached for the pistol.

His fingers instinctively gripped the handle. Ghost automatically checked the magazine, removed the fuse, and racked the slide. Price and Gaz talked about revenge, but the lieutenant knew that it would bring him neither comfort nor solace. Even if he burned the damn world down, it wouldn't bring Johnny back. He didn't care whether Makarov lived or died in agony. Johnny was gone. If he was now in a better place, Ghost didn't believe in Heavens, he would still not care about the damn revenge, to the futile attempts of those still alive to give his death some meaning.

Ghost's lips trembled, as if he wanted to say something, but he couldn't, even now, when his hand already raised the weapon. He pressed the muzzle of the pistol to his temple and closed his eyes. His finger rested on the trigger. He could no longer and did not want to live. Not after his restless Johnny, the glimmer of warm light in Task Force 141, finally managed to see beyond Ghost's skull mask; managed to bring him to the surface; helped him remember what it was like to be human. Not after the indifferent and cold piece of lead took away that warmth and light, in an instant destroying all the careful and uncertain dreams that Ghost might still have some life left. That maybe, someday, Simon would take over, and then he would take off the mask and walk away from the army with Johnny, leaving all this behind for the sake of simple and quiet human happiness.

Ghost's finger began to slowly pull the trigger when suddenly someone's strong hand seized the pistol by the barrel and yanked it towards them, pulling it from his palm. The lieutenant opened his eyes, expecting to see Sergeant Garrick or Captain Price in front of him, but...

Johnny stood before him. The gaze of a seasoned soldier immediately noticed the absence of the scar on his chin, the wrinkles that had appeared on his face a few years ago despite his youth. Johnny was dressed in jeans, a dark blue t-shirt, and his usual sand-coloured armour, and behind him, his wings shone with a warm yellowish light, immense and incredibly beautiful.

"What’re ye doing!" Johnny exclaimed, stepping forward and clenching his fists. "Don't ye dare! I won't let ye!"

And he rushed toward Ghost, embracing him tightly. His wings curved around him, sheltering the lieutenant from the whole world, immersing him in an endless ocean of warm and gentle light. It delicately touched the bleeding wounds on Simon's soul; tiny rays pierced through the armour of sorrow and despair; it touched the heart; it took him as if with tender invisible hands, touches that bestowed healing and peace.

All of this turned out to be too much for Ghost. His fingers slid powerlessly over Johnny's shoulders, which seemed so real and tangible, and then his weary consciousness left him, and he hung limply in the arms of someone whom just a few hours ago he considered absolutely and eternally lost.

One-four-one should have been heading back to base as soon as possible, but Captain Price didn't wake up the lieutenant, wanting to give him a chance to get some sleep. He and Kyle had breakfast together at the café near the motel, hardly speaking, only occasionally glancing anxiously through the window towards the door of the lieutenant's room.

Ghost woke up late, with a very heavy head. He vaguely remembered last night, and lying in bed with his eyes closed, he couldn't gather his thoughts together and understand what had happened. He distinctly remembered planning to shoot himself. The lieutenant had made that decision when he hugged Johnny's cold, lifeless body in the helicopter on the way to the base. He knew that instincts wouldn't allow him to do it, so he deliberately got heavily drunk to dull them. And when he was ready, when he felt the chill of the gun barrel even through the fabric of his balaclava, something happened.

He saw Johnny.

Of course, Ghost knew that it was just an illusion. The response of an overtired brain to lack of sleep, food, an excessive dose of alcohol. But Johnny looked so real that Ghost still felt, with his hands, how he touched him.

Opening his eyes, the lieutenant saw a ceiling with cracked whitewash above him. He swallowed a bitter lump that had formed in his throat and slowly raised himself on his elbows, intending to get up and go to the shower, but...

Johnny was sitting on his bed, on the unoccupied half, his legs crossed, looking at Ghost with a slightly sad but still shining smile. Seeing that the lieutenant had woken up, he immediately got up, approached, and embraced him, making him lay back on the bed again.

"Never ever do that again!" Johnny exclaimed furiously, leaning over Ghost, and looking into his eyes. "Ye can't die now, ye understand? Yer time has not come yet!"

"I've lost my mind completely," Ghost thought, looking into Johnny's bright blue eyes.

"Not at all," he smiled cheerfully, then gently stroked Ghost's cheek, slipping his hand under his balaclava. "Ye weren't supposed to see me at all, tis against the rules and all that, but when ‘ave we ever followed the rules, huh?"

"Johnny?" Ghost whispered almost silently, his lips barely moving, and he felt tears welling up in his eyes again.

"That's right!" he replied cheerfully, then leaned in, lying on the lieutenant's chest and gently traced his fingers over the exposed part of Ghost's face in the opening of his balaclava. "Ye asked me if I'm with ye, and I said ye already know the answer. Even death won't change that. Ye protected me, love, and now it's my turn. I wuldnae disappear; I'll be with you all your life. And then, when yer time comes, I'll take ye by the hand, and we'll go together where there's no more war, no fear, pain, cruelty, or death – only light and love. There, we won't have to part anymore, and we'll be together forever."

"Johnny..." Ghost whispered. "This isn’t an illusion? Are you really here?"

"I really am here, Simon," Johnny replied and looked into his eyes. "I loved ye so much in life that the ones up there wouldn't dare tae separate us even after my death. So now I'm sort of your guardian angel. Cool, huh? But keep in mind, no one but ye’ll be able to see or hear me. It won't be easy, but..."

"I love you too," Simon interrupted and embraced Johnny, pressing him to his chest, feeling the warmth and weight of his body and his breath on his neck. "Even if I really lost my mind and I'm hallucinating – I don't care. It's better this way than without you."

"Then get up," Johnny laughed cheerfully. "Cap’s already waiting for ye."

On the way to the base, Price and Gaz no longer could hide their concerned looks towards Ghost. He still didn't say a word, his eyes constantly staring into emptiness, not focusing on anything specific.

Deciding to give the lieutenant some time, captain Price quietly ordered Kyle not to bother Ghost as well. They hoped their friend would pull himself together, but everything got only worse. Riley continued to remain silent, responding to all questions with nods, head tilts, or shrugs. However, this only applied to cases when someone living and real addressed him. Several times, the lieutenant was noticed in remote corners of the base muttering something to himself, yet again staring into emptiness with the insane gaze of his dark eyes. Laswell even hinted to Price that it wouldn't hurt to send Riley for a psychiatric evaluation or therapy. The captain, though reluctant, was ready to agree, as he himself had noticed that Riley had become too strange. But unexpectedly, Makarov's trace appeared, and the one-four-one had to move quickly in that direction.

Time was short, yet Price managed to carve out a moment to talk one-on-one with Ghost. Sending Gaz to check the helicopter's readiness, the captain called the lieutenant over, took him by the shoulders, and shook him slightly, forcing him to pay attention.

"Simon," he said, "tell me you're okay, because I need your cool head and your combat skills right now."

Behind Price, Johnny was clowning around. He was making faces and, holding an imaginary microphone, sang very off-key:

“Don't wanna close my eyes

I don't wanna fall asleep

'Cause I'd miss you, baby

And I don't wanna miss a thing!”

"Simon!" Price raised his tone a bit, noticing that he was once again staring somewhere past him.

"I'm okay," the lieutenant finally replied calmly, and as his eyes narrowed in the skull-mask eye sockets, Price understood that he was smiling.

Everything proceeded as usual. The remnants of Task Force 141, with support from Kate Laswell, tried to catch the elusive Makarov, who kept evading them, leaving traps, bombs, dangerous chemicals, and other things behind that could harm both his pursuers and civilians. Ghost's strange behaviour persisted, but during missions, he remained a professional as before, so Price abandoned thoughts of treating him. Lieutenant Riley was needed in combat, and besides, he had the most right to seek revenge.

As for Ghost, at some point, he got himself a Bluetooth headset, and rumours about the Lieutenant from 141 going crazy and talking to himself started to gradually die down. Even Gaz relaxed and stopped closely monitoring Ghost. Only Captain Price remained concerned because he knew well that Simon had no one to talk to on the phone.

The first episode occurred during one of the missions. Task Force 141 encountered overwhelming enemy forces. Ghost and Gaz had to retreat to the evacuation point under Price's cover, who coordinated them, lying with a sniper rifle at a considerable distance. The two soldiers managed to obtain the necessary information, but now they had to somehow get it outside the territory of the enemy base.

The hard drive was in Garrick's hands, and Ghost understood that now the sergeant's life was a priority due to his valuable cargo. Ordering Gaz to go first, the lieutenant covered him, trying not to fall too far behind. He no longer had grenades and throwing knives, and he had just loaded the last magazine into his assault rifle. After, there would only be a pistol - a fifteen-round Beretta, one magazine of which was half-empty, and the other lay in the pocket. Ghost knew that this wouldn't be enough for the retreat, but he didn't worry because Johnny was circling above him, spreading his wings.

Price, who was watching his boys through the optic sight, saw how Ghost suddenly stopped and looked up, and then both he and Garrick clearly heard his words.

"Yes, Johnny," Lieutenant Riley said, "let's give it a try."

"Ghost!" Price shouted into the microphone of his radio, but it was already too late.

Riley darted off to the side, drawing the enemy's attention to himself. The captain understood that his top priority now was to protect Garrick with the information, but he couldn't help keeping an eye on Riley. He ran along a broad path, responding to the enemy's actions so precisely and accurately, as if someone was guiding him.

"Not 'someone'," Price thought, "it’s Soap." Only with Sergeant MacTavish did Ghost work so seamlessly, as if there was a special connection between them on a level that’s superior to others.

"Go!" Johnny ordered sharply, and Ghost leaped from his cover toward the next one, gripping his assault rifle. "To the right! Drop! Move!"

Riley sprinted, following these short commands, and Soap, from the height of his flight, saw everything, not missing a single bullet fired towards the lieutenant.

Later, when all three were in the helicopter, having obtained what they came for, Price looked at Ghost, who was sitting relaxed across from him, as if someone was leaning against him, resting their head on his right shoulder.

"That was quite a run," the captain finally said.

Ghost raised slowly his head, looked at Price through the openings of his mask, and replied briefly:

"Thank you, captain."

Kyle became a witness to the second episode. Then everything happened very quickly: a fragmentation grenade was thrown at them, and the sergeant managed to fall for cover, but the lieutenant did not. Gaz got up almost immediately, overpowering the disgusting squeal in his ears, and he saw Ghost rising from the ground completely unharmed.

"How did you survive?" Kyle asked in amazement. "The shrapnel had cut everything around you!"

"Luck," Ghost replied shortly and, shaking his head, added, "let’s go!"

Of course, Gaz could not know that a mere second before the explosion, Johnny pushed Riley to the ground and fell on top of him, covering them both with his wings. The fragments bounced off the shining orange feathers, and Ghost remained unharmed.

There were also less obvious things. For instance, Lieutenant Riley, who used to grumble about smoking to all the soldiers of the 141, sometimes even to Captain Price, began smoking himself. Moreover, he chose the same cigarettes that Soap preferred. Also now, he could often be seen munching on chocolate chip cookies, which Johnny loved. Furthermore, he now quite frequently preferred sweetened coffee. Garrick and Price closely observed these peculiarities but didn't attempt to ask any questions, knowing that Ghost wouldn't answer.

"I feel the same as you do," Johnny once said, as always walking to the right of Riley, who was heading to the mess hall. "So, when ye kiss me, I feel it twice as keenly as ye do. When ye drink whiskey or that disgusting stuff of yours, I taste it."

"Where are you leading with this?" Ghost asked, and they turned to look at him, but upon seeing the blue light of the Bluetooth headset, lost interest.

"I wantae taste the flavour of a burger, chips, ‘n’ my favourite biscuits!" Johnny exclaimed, and the feathers on his wings stood on end. "I wantae remember what it's like tae smoke a cigarette with coffee!"

"Okay," Ghost replied calmly and turned towards the cafeteria, where all of this could be bought.

Gradually, everyone got used to Lieutenant Riley's strange new behaviour, and even comrades-in-arms stopped paying special attention to it. In the 141, they recruited a new soldier, and eventually, they found and killed Makarov, avenging their fallen comrade and saving the world from the Russian villain. After that, Price, Garrick, and Riley gathered again on the hill where almost a year ago, they scattered the ashes of their deceased comrade.

"Now you can truly rest in peace, soldier," Price said, looking into the distance where the sun was setting behind the mountains.

Ghost smiled under his balaclava and glanced to the right, where Johnny stood beside him.

"I can't say I'm not glad that we killed that bastard," Soap said, hugging Ghost and extending his wing around him.

Though the battle continued. One threat was eliminated, but there were still many others that the soldiers of Task Force 141 had to deal with. Without much enthusiasm, Lieutenant Riley accepted a new soldier, though he still preferred to work alone. Meanwhile, rumours began circulating at the base that Ghost was invincible. Of course, he occasionally got injured, spent time in the hospital, but much more often he got off with a whole skin from the worst, almost hopeless situations.

Years passed. The cast of the unit changed from time to time, and eventually, Price retired, with Major Riley taking his place. Now young soldiers were telling legends about his invulnerability and the discussions of this strange phenomenon never ceased.

"He’s definitely guarded by some higher power," Gaz once said, when the entire 141 was in the rec room after another hellish mission. "Some kind of angel."

"Or a demon," another soldier said thoughtfully.

Ghost just smiled and looked, as it seemed to everyone, into emptiness at an empty chair pushed away as if someone had been sitting in it.

Major Riley retired when he turned sixty. They tried to persuade him to stay and take a staff position or become an instructor, but shuffling papers or dealing with young recruits wasn't what he wanted. Leaving the army, Ghost went to Wales, where he settled on the coast, having bought an old, non-functional lighthouse for a song. He personally restored it, turning it into a cozy home, far enough from people so that no one would disturb him.

Finally, peace settled in the soul of the old soldier. He fulfilled his military duty and left the ranks, making way for the young. In the village where he went for supplies, they called him Major Riley, but he felt the identity that made him a soldier, a Ghost, gradually fading away.

Simon still woke up early, but now he allowed himself to linger in the cozy bed – too big for one, but he wasn't alone. Johnny was with him, covering them both with his wing, and they talked or just stayed silent, listening to the sound of the waves coming in through the open window.

Johnny hadn't changed at all. He was just as young-looking as when he died, as Simon first saw him again. His happy smile and charming blue eyes still shone when he looked at him. Riley aged slowly, keeping himself in shape, his body hardly changing, except for his hair turning completely grey, and wrinkles lining his face. Old scars had faded, becoming less noticeable, and Simon gradually swapped his balaclava for a buff with the same skull print. However, now he only wore it when he went to the village or when old friends visited – Price, whom he now simply called John, and Kyle.

"Let's buy a boat," Johnny suggested once, as they stood together on the top balcony of the lighthouse, accessible from the lantern room. "It's strange to live by the sea and not have a boat."

"Are we going fishing?" Simon asked, leaning against the metal railing as he smoked.

"Yes!" Johnny exclaimed happily, embracing him.

One day, Ghost received a call from Gaz with the sad news that Price had passed away. He died peacefully in his sleep, seemingly finding peace and tranquillity at the end of his chaotic life. With no family, Kyle and Simon took care of everything. Simon subconsciously hoped to see John when they picked up the urn with his ashes and drove to the Scottish mountains to scatter them, as Price had written in his will, but it didn't happen.

"He had no unfinished business," Johnny said when Ghost and Gaz stood on the hill, watching the wind carry the ashes of their former captain high into the sky. "He went straight to a better place. We'll meet him there when your time comes."

"Kyle," Simon looked at his friend and saw tears in his eyes, "I might go before you. I'd like my ashes to be scattered here too."

"Okay," Garrick wiped his face with his sleeve and looked at Riley. "Just let it be not too soon, alright?"

"Alright," Johnny replied cheerfully instead of Ghost, "You can count on me!"

Simon lived to the age of eighty-three. He didn't fall ill and preserved his strength and military discipline until the end. However, one day he began to feel that his time was running out. This feeling grew stronger, reaching its peak when he and Johnny sat on the shore, watching the sunset – the stern old man with a perfectly straight back and absolutely white hair, and the young cheerful guy with huge, orange wings radiating warm and gentle light.

"What do you think, Johnny," Simon spoke, lighting a cigarette, "did I live a good life?"

"A mighty good one," he replied, leaning his head on Simon's shoulder. "Ye saved many innocent lives and defeated much evil. Ye found peace here, at the edge of the world. And ye were a ray of light in my life."

"Odd," Simon smiled sadly and ran his fingers through Johnny's hair, "I always thought the ray of light was you."

They fell silent for a moment, watching as the red sun dipped into the sea, leaving glimmers of its light on the water. Simon stubbed out the cigarette in the sand, briefly closed his eyes, and asked:

"My time is coming, isn't it?"

"Aye," Johnny didn't argue and hugged him even tighter, shielding him from the cold wind with his wing. "But there's no need to be afraid. It won't hurt, love. You'll just fall asleep."

"And then you'll take me by the hand and lead me to a better place?" Simon asked, feeling a bitter lump rising in his throat and his eyes stinging with tears.

"Aye," Johnny replied again. "We'll go there together, and there will be no more pain or death."

"And we'll be together forever," Simon whispered, squeezing the warm hand of his guardian with his cold fingers.

A few days later, in the village, Simon and Johnny stood in front of the newspaper stand and looked at the page with obituaries. One of them was about the retired Major Riley, who lived in the lighthouse and was found dead on the beach near his home.

"They wrote so many good words about ye," Johnny said, playfully nudging Simon in the side.

He stood beside him – once again young, without scars, without the burden of the horrors of the past on his shoulders, and behind him were folded, shining snow-white wings. He wore his uniform and gear, but no mask. It was no longer needed.

"Odd," Simon replied, and he smiled perplexedly. "I didn't really talk to anyone here."

This time, on the hill amid the Scottish mountains, Kyle Garrick stood, thinking he was alone. He held an urn with ashes in his hands, and tears rolled down his cheeks.

"I'll miss you, Simon," he said with a trembling voice, "all of you, guys."

Ghost and Soap, standing to the right and left of him, exchanged glances, and Simon placed his hand on Kyle's shoulder, but, of course, he felt nothing.

"Ye'll join us when yer time comes," Johnny spoke. "Yer children will bring your ashes here, as ye wrote in yer will, and we'll meet ye up there."

Ghost looked up at the sky, where Johnny had pointed, and saw that the clouds had parted, and through this opening, bright warm light shone.

"Is it time for us to go?" Ghost asked.

"Aye, sir," Soap replied.

Johnny approached Simon, took him by the hand, they spread their wings, and slowly started to ascend into the sky, towards their home waiting for them beyond the bright light.

* Aerosmith «I don't wanna miss a thing»

#call of duty #fix it fic #you will cry #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #ghost x soap #ghostsoap #soapghost #soap x ghost #ghoap #simon riley #john mactavish #fanfic #captain john price #kyle gaz garrick #cod mw3

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

Mantaray by Dean Jeffries

Mantaray by Dean Jeffries

The holy grail of the hot rod generation was to be able to fabricate beautiful car bodies in steel and other materials. Many of the kids who became Hot Rod building legends had honed their fabrication skills in the hot house of the WW2 American economy. The war ended and charged-up servicemen came home and wanted the buzz of driving fast cars. It was boom time in America and everything seemed possible.

Dean Jeffries was one of this generation of brilliant mechanics and fabricators with an audacious enough vision to dream with his eyes wide open. Having worked extensively with AC Cobra creator Carroll Shelby, he began to build the Mantaray in 1963 in response to a call for submissions to a high prestige competition that had been posted by a promoter called Al Slonaker.

The young Californian fused two old Maserati single seater chassis he had acquired and welded them together. The suspension, brakes, and steering were kept on for the finished article but apart from four Weber carburetors, the car was, he told Street Rodder Magazine recently “true-blue American, right down to the 15-inch magnesium-cast Halibrand wheels and the bred-for-Indianapolis Goodyear Blue Streak Speedway Special tires.”

Unsurprisingly, the gorgeously curvacious body Jeffries created (which was, apparently, hand-built from no less than 86 sheets of metal), was enough to win him the ‘contest of fame’. This not only won him a prize of $10,000 and a trip to Europe, but also changed the way the world thought about Hot Rods.

This is what we call truly creative car culture. And we love it.

Mantaray by Dean Jeffries

#Mantaray #car #cars #muscle car #american muscle #Dean Jeffries #hot rod

[harrisonarchive]

February 1967; photo by Henry Grossman. “George always had a very pragmatic streak. He never let the so-called glamour of show-business seduce him. He always saw through phoney people very quickly. He was the practical one, the one who could mend the amplifier or change the fuse. And he is one of the most generous people I know. If you were a friend of George in need, he would reach into his pocket and give you his last penny. Equally, if it were a matter of principle, he would defend you to the last. If ever I were in trouble, George Harrison is the kind of person I would like to be able to turn to.” - George Martin, With A Little Help From My Friends: The Making of Sgt. Pepper (1994) “There was a time in the Nineties when Dad was very sick. He was confined to bed and things were fairly touch and go for a while. George [Harrison] was wonderful, simply wonderful; he came over to visit and brought Dad a Ganesh elephant symbol, telling him it would keep him safe and well. He was such a comfort to the whole family during a difficult time. He was a very keen gardener, the grounds of his home were just beautiful, still are, and he helped Mum a lot with our garden. He would drive over to see us with as many plants as he could fit on to the passenger seat of a McLaren F1! He meant a great deal to my dad; to all of us.” - Giles Martin, Express, May 27, 2012 “I spoke to George Martin recently, and he was talking about all the ‘20 years ago today’ stuff and The Beatles CDs, and he said, 'Never mind, George. It’ll soon be gone and we can go back into our shells.’” - George Harrison, The Observer Magazine, 1987 Q: “George Martin recently admitted he still felt embarrassed about not giving you more attention in the studio. He claimed he’d been ‘beastly to George.’” George Harrison: “He wasn’t beastly to me, but he spoke to me recently and said his only regret was that he didn’t realize sooner what I was. He already had enough to deal with, I suppose, with this band The Beatles who already had two guys out there writing and singing. He didn’t really need to try because in those days most groups had their songs written for them. It was all quite new. But only this summer he said to me, Will you ever forgive me, George? (Laughs) He’s such a gentleman! It was nice of him to say that, you know.” - Q, 1988

“I said to the boys, after we’d done a few takes of rather nondescript songs, I said, ‘Come into the control room and have a listen and see what we’ve been doing. And if there’s anything you don’t like, tell us.’ And George was the one who took the leap. And he said, ‘Well, I don’t like your tie for a start.’ And the others were horrified. They thought, God, he’s blown it. But of course, I fell around laughing. I thought it was — it was so cheeky, and so funny that I… you know, he endeared himself to me.” - George Martin, Living In The Material World (x)

#George Martin #George Harrison #Giles Martin #Judy Lockhart-Smith #quote #quotes by George #quotes about George #The Beatles #Harrison songwriting

[hawkins-losers]

You’re my best view | Eddie Munson x Reader

Summary: You play Eddie’s guitar - he’s in love

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Harrington!Reader

Word count: 0.4k

** please keep sending requests for Robin and Eddie

-

Music echoed through the trailer as you strummed Eddie’s guitar in your underwear and one of his tee shirts. If your parents - or brother - were to see you right now, they’d probably blow a fuse. 

Eddie had taught you the song last week and you had been practicing it every time you came over - which was almost everyday. It didn’t sound nearly as good as when he played it, but you were proud of yourself. 

You hummed the lyrics as you played, smiling when you got the note right and wincing when it was wrong.

‘‘You’re getting great, love,’‘ Eddie pointed, smiling at the progress you made.  His chest was bare, exposing his tattoos. Around his neck lay the silver chain with a guitar pick pendant you had gotten him for your six months anniversary, which he always wore proudly.

You grinned. ‘’Thanks.’’ You took a short break from playing, your fingers sore because of the hard strings. ‘’Did you know this is Led Zeppelin’s most sexually explicit song? I read in a magazine that ‘love’ can be replaced by both ‘sex’ and ‘penis’ in different sections of the song.’’

Eddie’s eyebrows pulled together as he thought about the lyrics and did the switch. He barked a laugh. ‘‘That’s so true!’’ he said, amazed at how clever this was. ‘’Since when do you read magazines about Led Zeppelin?’‘

As much as you loved Eddie, metal was not your favorite genre of music. You liked some songs and bands, but you wouldn’t buy their cassettes or records. Let alone read about them.

‘‘I don’t. I just opened a random magazine at work while I was bored and thought it was a funny fact to tell you.’‘ 

Eddie got up and you went back to playing. 

He returned shortly and plopped down on his bed, a lighter in hand. 

‘’This is the best sight ever,’’ he gushed, looking at you in amazement. ‘’You, in your underwear and my tee shirt, playing my guitar. Fuck. I wish I could photograph this and frame it on my wall. It’s better than any Playboy magazine.’’

A soft giggle left your lips, flattered by your boyfriend’s words. 

‘’I can make that happen,’’ you said, raising your eyes from the guitar. ‘’But it’s gonna have to be polaroid size.’’

Eddie cocked an eyebrow, surprised. ‘’You’d do that for me?’’ 

You would’ve said ‘no’ for a nude, but you had a large tee shirt on and the guitar was covering your underwear. 

‘’As long as it doesn’t leave your bedroom,’’ you made him promise. ‘’I don’t want a sexy picture of me to be passed around town.’’ 

‘’I’ll take the best care of it.’’ He reached for his blunt on the small table by the bed, lit the tip and took a small puff before bringing it to your lips. ‘’Just like I take the best care of you.’’

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson x y/n #stranger things #stranger things imagine #stranger things s4 #i didn't reread myself so sorry if it sucks

[chenechen]

Congratulations on making it to the Jump magazine, Mr. Wakui.

Every time I look at the two brothers from the new series, I thought they look like Takemichi and Mikey fuse together.

Not complaining, just think it's hilarious.

#tokyo revengers #negai no astro