#major carpenter

[barnaclebill]

#major carpenter #world war ii aircraft #world war ii #u.s. army air corps

[grimeclown]

Shoutout to catboy Odo from the background of this deeply unnerving furry porn image I saw on Twitter today

#um major body horror warning for if you go looking for it #the bottom is a John carpenter type fuckef up monster Thing

[dreamersbcll]

“Everything I didn’t say” - for @monarchsrus

——————————————

Tara couldn’t quite remember the last time she was at a cemetery. It might’ve been Amber’s funeral, or Anika’s. Everything had been a blur since that night in New York.

She had tried to prolong this funeral for as long as she could. But the funeral director was losing patience with her, and so were her friends. She had to grow up and get it over with.

Today was the day she had to bury Sam.

Mindy had laid out a new black dress for Tara. It was long-sleeved and simple, enough to cover her bandages and blend in with her arm sling. The girl also laid out a new pair of loafers and stockings for Tara as well. Tara felt like she was going to look like a ghost of herself at this funeral.

That was all she felt. Ghostly. As if the color had been sucked from her world. How cruel of a world it was to strip away her lifeline. She only had Sam back for a year. A whole year. And now she’s gone.

But this time she wasn’t coming back.

Tara tried to prepare herself for that reality each day. She would wake up and look in the bathroom mirror, and tell herself that Sam was dead and she was never going to come home. Every morning. She stared into her hopeful eyes, hoping that the words would reach them, and extinguish the light behind him.

It wasn’t enough. Even now staring at the coffin that her sister’s body resided in, Tara still felt hope. Sam wasn’t in that coffin. She was somewhere in New York, maybe Los Angeles, perhaps even New Amsterdam; anywhere but in this funeral home with Tara.

It didn’t feel real until they buried Sam. Once Tara was staring at that coffin, she could feel it there, clawing up her throat desperately.

Realization.

Her Sammy wasn’t coming home. She wasn’t going to be there when Tara arrived home. There would be no more hugs, gentle touches, or sweet nothings whispered to her. Everything was over. Tara’s life was over before it had even begun.

Ghostface was dead. But so was her sister.

She doesn’t remember the rest of the funeral. She remembers her knees hitting the ground, and falling forward onto Sam’s grave. She remembers the cool sensation of the gravestone against her forehead, and Mindy’s arms around her.

How she gets home is a mystery to her. But she does know that Mindy doesn’t leave her side. Even with Chad still in the ICU, Mindy sleeps by Tara’s side, helps her get dressed, and makes sure she eats.

Sam is still dead.

——-

Fourteen days passed before Tara could stomach seeing her sister’s grave.

She doesn’t remember getting to the graveyard. One minute she was staring at her reflection in the mirror, the next she was standing in a pile of snow, staring down at that gravestone.

Samantha Carpenter

May 19th, 1997- November 1st, 2023

Beloved Sister

“Mi Fuerte Guerrera”

Mindy helped her pick out the gravestone. Well, Mindy made it all happen. Tara just wrote down what she wanted on a piece of paper and gave it to her friend. And then she threw up for an hour and a half.

“Hi Sammy,” she whispered.

No answer. The thing that responded to her was the wind whistling through her hair and the crows circling above.

Her hands shook in her pockets, and she could feel her lungs deflating. It felt like she couldn’t take another breath. There was no reason to keep going.

But she had to. Mindy told her so. Kirby and Gale said so as well. Everybody around her was still forcing her to keep going.

Tara pulled out the note from her pocket, her fingers shaking. She unfurled the note and cleared her throat.

“I- I know you’re not here. Not physically. Everyone keeps telling me that you’re in a better place. But what place is better than being here with me? You told me that you needed me and that you loved me. How could you leave? How dare you tell me that I’m the only thing that matters and then just go away? How could you?”

A strangled sob made its way up her throat, and she choked a little on her words. Hot tears fell down her face, and she furiously tried to wipe them away. This wasn’t the time for tears. She had to talk to Sam.

She cleared her throat and continued. “You were supposed to be here. You should’ve been here. We killed the Ghostface. You weren’t supposed to die. How dare you live only in my head now. I hate you, Sam. I hate you!” she cried, crumpling the note a bit.

Sam said nothing back. Her gravestone still stood there, cold and unwavering. Tara fell to her knees, letting the cold ground soak her pants. She reached for a handout, gently touching the gravestone. She half-hoped that it would be like touching Sam and that she would feel the warmth and stability that her sister gave her. Instead, it was just cold. Numbing. She could feel no life underneath her fingertips.

Unfurling the note once again, she tried again. “I don’t know why I’m here. I don’t hate you. My hate or love won’t bring you back. I can’t bring you back. I used to be the one who read your mind and told you what you needed to hear. I was the only one who could love you for you. But you aren’t here anymore. You’re gone. Why would you leave me?”

“There’s so much we still have to do. You were going to help me graduate. We were going to buy a Christmas Tree. I promised to learn how to knit with you. You were going to teach me how to ice skate. Where do all of our love and plans go now? Wherever you are, does our love still live on?”.

She shuddered as a cold breeze cut her to her core. The air around her froze the tears to her cheeks and made her lungs struggle to breathe. It was everything she deserved for still being alive while her big sister was dead.

“I’m so tired of my grief Sammy. I just want you to love me. To love me like it used to be. I love you, Sam. I love you more than you could ever possibly imagine. I’m so sorry that I didn’t say it enough. I should’ve. I should've told you every fucking minute. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry,” she cried, pressing her forehead against the gravestone. Maybe if she pressed hard enough she could feel Sam’s forehead pressing back.

But she couldn’t, because Sam was dead.

Sam was dead and never coming home.

#scream #sam carpenter #tara carpenter #major character death #this WAS HARD FOR ME TOO #IM SORRY #carpenter sisters #ao3 author #my writing tag #AU: go with grace

[waldobuttersdf]

Most likely to end up in a snowball: Bob.

#dresden files #dresdenfiles #dresdenverse #jim butcher #waldo butters #bob the skull #spiritofintellect #molly carpenter #john marcone #leanan sidhe #michael carpenter #white council #major toot #mister cat

[comparativetarot]

The Hermit. Art by Crystal Carpenter, from Loaf Tarot.

“These shells themselves, though precious, are hollow, May your inner light be the guidance you follow.”

While normally social, this Hermit Crab quits the busy beach in order to find a fitting shell for his next molt. Alone, he clambers through a maze of mangrove roots and extravagant shells.

Many crabs struggle to find the perfect shell, but the outer appearance is not what makes a successful molt. No other crab can tell the hermit what will fit him best. Instead, our hermit friend must resist the temptation to grab the most outwardly impressive shell. In solitude, he must follow his inner light for wisdom on his molting journey.

#Crystal Carpenter #Loaf Tarot #The Hermit #Major Arcana #Tarot #Animals #Crab #Hermit crab

[ungodly-amounts-of-godly-trauma]

major bracket round 1 group c

#sister carpenter #the silt verses #team botw #breath of the wild #tournament poll #im not rooting for sister carpenter but i am praying rly hard she doesnt get swept by popularity bias #that would be too unfair to me #idk anything ab silt verses tho #but if they lose im fine w that i just... popularity bias... #boo #(un)godly trauma #major bracket round 1 #major bracket group c

[gu3ntzel]

LMFAO???

#waino ong #mlb #major league baseball #matt carpenter #adam wainwright #st louis cardinals #san diego padres

[matthewliberatore]

baseball's back 🫶

#major league baseball #st louis cardinals #baseball #mlb baseball #stl #brendan donovan #stl cardinals #mlb #spring training #lars nootbaar #masyn winn #tommy edman #matt carpenter

[playlistsforyoursufferinglove]

#thuy #A-wall #billie eilish #New West #grentperez #sabrina carpenter #coi leray #anika noni rose #beabadoobee #lyn lapid #jenifer lewis #laufey #jvke #fuij kaze #HOHYUN #faye webster #bruno major #artic monkeys #joy again #xxxtentacion #stract #shiloh dynasty #untrusted #pretence #11:11 music group #jeremy zucker #bea miller #liana flores #greco murillo #fallen roses

[autistic-shaiapouf]

Alright so I have a trip coming up and may get a tattoo so the question must be considered, should I get a little tat of pouf's wings

#bc i DO want a whole bunch of bug tattoos is the thing + one of my friends wants a stranger things tat as well like #i could. i could is the thing.. the only major thing would be that the lines would need to be crisp and might need touch ups #and I'll be 2 hours away without a way to drive myself there l m a o; it's like no one i know has had any done locally U_U #but uhhhhhhhh yeah that's just a thought 👀 if i get smthn small idk what I'd want yet but I'll decide hehe #OH might get a carpenter ant; my first bug was supposed to be a purple emperor butterfly over my right shoulder #but maybe I'll do the ant first; i love carpenter ants i wanna keep a colony one day; they're so cool #hoatm rants

[beretheiv]

genuinely so in love with the vicious bridge and nonsense i am obsessed with this album (and how are people still misinterpreting/misunderstanding it 💀, humanity's stupidity still catches me off guard sometimes) WHY IS IT NOT BLOWING UP AS MUCH AS IT SHOULD

#sabrina carpenter #emails i can't send #IT'S ALL I'VE BEEN LISTENING TO LATELY #Y'ALL NEED TO LISTEN TO IT RN #do i need to do a ritual to make the majority of the general public do it ughhh #bere.txt

[artforiasenibudayajepang]

Mengunjungi Dua Stasiun Kereta di Tokyo Yang Terinspirasi Oleh Harry Potter

Berita Wisata Jepang – Sebulan sebelum pembukaan atraksi Harry Potter yang dikenal dengan nama resmi Warner Bros. Studio Tour di Tokyo, Seibu Railways sudah terungkap transformasi dua stasiun kereta di Tokyo ini. Stasiun Toshimaen dan Stasiun Ikebukuro sekarang memiliki sentuhan fiksi London di dalamnya, serta beberapa detail yang mengacu pada waralaba Harry Potter. Berikut ini adalah tampilan…

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#Agust D/Suga dari BTS #Bruno Major #Coldplay #Event Jepang #Harry Potter #Ne-Yo #Robert Glasper #Sabrina Carpenter #Sam Smith #stasiun kereta Hogsmeade #Stasiun Kereta Tokyo #tokyo #Twice #Tyga

[botanyshitposts]

agricultural engineer at my work grew up on a farm in a time when being a farmer also meant being a carpenter (his words) and a couple days ago a piece of stupidly crucial wood equipment broke in our lab and i helped him build a new one in like 2 hours thats actually very sturdy and looks like it was actually done right on the first try because it was and i realized how incredibly powerful of a skill it is to be able to make like, a competent set of shelves, a piece of handmade equipment to specifications, etc and be able to at least have an idea of how to make bigger things and i cannot stop thinking about it now. like he was telling me about how when he was in college it was required for engineering majors to learn how to make the stuff they were designing so he had to take proper woodworking and metalworking classes too and they dont do that as much anymore. and how he has relatives that run a woodshop and build like tables and standing clocks and stuff. imagine somebody asking you for a table or clock and you can just make it and it looks nice and works well for a long time and you can fix it if it breaks. maybe im just gen z but whoa

#INSANE.

[dreamersbcll]

“Everything I should’ve said” - a part 2 for @monarchsrus

—————————————————-

Sam can’t remember the last few days.

It was all a blur. One continuous film reel that repeated itself every time she closed her eyes.

She remembers holding her sister’s rigid body against her, their blood spilling onto each other. Sam’s blood still pumping and Tara’s flowing out of her- intermixing on the cold floor of the kill box.

Every time she closes her eyes she can feel Kirby pulling her off of Tara, and she can hear the guttural scream that tumbled out of Mindy’s mouth. She can still taste the anesthetic smell of the hospital, and how chilly the morgue was. Her hands still remember how cold the stretcher that Tara’a body was on, and how she held on so tight, that her hands turned red.

That was a few days ago. Today was a new day, as Gale said. But today was the day she had to bury her baby sister.

Tara was dead.

Sam had tried so hard to save her. She had fought tooth and nail to keep that boy away from her. Tara had whispered to her to Let her go, and Sam did. She thought Tara could handle it. She believed her sister could. But when her sister's body fell to the ground after Ethan’s, Sam realized she was wrong to believe that letting her sister go was the right thing.

And now she actually had to let her go. She had to let strangers lay the tiny body six feet under. And Sam had to be okay with that.

Nobody asked if she was. They all knew the answer.

Gale and Kirby had bathed her, dressed her, and fed her. The older women picked out a black dress and did Sam’s hair for her. No one spoke during the whole process. There wasn’t much to say about a baby sister that died too soon.

At the funeral, Sam bared her teeth and forced everybody back. Nobody got to touch her little girl’s coffin. Nobody was allowed to get near her grave. Tara was still hers, alive or not. Not anyone else’s. She was Sam’s baby girl. And Sam refused to let anybody near her.

Even as they laid her coffin into the ground, Sam bit the hand of anyone who would touch her. Gale and Kirby had to hold people back, away from the grieving big sister. Though Sam was acting irrationally, nobody dared to tell her that. They let her stand vigil over the burial ground as she said goodbye to her big sister.

Tara was dead. Sam was not. And everybody would feel her wrath.

——

It had been three hours after the funeral ended when Sam finally acknowledged her baby sister.

She sat at the grave, her knees digging into the fresh dirt. Reaching out, she felt the grooves in the cold gravestone, tracing the words.

Tara Carpenter

December 14th, 2002- November 2nd, 2023

Beloved sister and friend

“Mi Cielo”

“Oh, Mi Cielo. Mi amor. My baby girl,” she whimpered. She dug her fingernails into the cold marble, trying to claw her baby sister out of the grave she laid. Perhaps if she dug deep enough, she could uncover her baby sister’s soul again.

Tara would come back and hug her, and tease her for being so worried. She would press her chin into Sam’s shoulder, and sigh happily. Sam would wrap her arms around her and never let her go again. She would tell her baby sister that she loved her, and was proud of that. That they were going to live a long life together, and Tara wouldn’t be able to get rid of her.

Instead, Sam just tore her fingernails apart, her blood dripping onto her sister’s new home.

She sobbed, a rib-shattering noise. If someone reached into her chest to find her heart, they would find a shriveled piece of flesh that no longer had a chance to beat again.

“I don’t know why you told me to let you go. Why the fuck did you do that, Tara? Why would you tell me that? You know I would do anything you asked. You know I trusted you. Why did you let me down? Why did you let me do that?” she cried, folding in on herself.

Tara didn’t answer. Tara was dead. Gone. She was six feet under. Sam knows exactly what dress was on her tiny body and how her hair looked. She helped pick out which bow would go in her hair and what kind of stuffed animals would be buried with her. If Sam could’ve, she would’ve squeezed her body into the coffin too. A death by asphyxiation would be a gentle death. At least then she would know what it was like to be alive for the last time.

She sobbed harder, holding onto the grave for dear life. “I don’t know why you were chosen to die first. You did nothing wrong. None of this is your fault. You were my light, my heaven, my sky; and now I’m left with nothing but darkness. And I deserve it. I deserve all of it. I should’ve been the one slain. I should be dead. Not you, my sweet girl. It should’ve never been you,”.

The chirping of birds overhead was the only thing answering her. The sky opened up, and rain fell from above, soaking Sam to the bone. She scrambled to try and cover the grave, worried that her sister would get wet from the elements.

As the rain poured, Sam let her own tears fall as well. At least then she wouldn't have to admit to herself that she was broken. Weak. A carcass that no longer had a purpose.

“I love you. I fucking love you. Did you know that? Did you know how much I love you? Were you aware of how much I cared? I’m sorry I didn’t say it enough. I’m so fucking sorry. My baby. Mi Cielo,” she wailed, shaking the grace.

The universe had it all wrong.

Tara was dead. Sam was alive. Nothing would ever make sense again.

#scream #sam carpenter #tara carpenter #major character death #carpenter sisters #i’m sorry #double angst #love y’all !! #ao3 author #my writing tag #AU: go with grace

[wesstars]

hot on your lips

tara carpenter x fem!reader (no pronouns)

summary: her hands are on your shoulders, and the next thing you know, your back is pressed to the bed, and tara’s rocking her weight on top of you. she leans in close, breath as soft as her skin against your lips, breathing out a quiet ‘yes.’ wc: 3.0k tags: explicit, minors DNI!! no-ghostface au bc i didn’t feel like fitting it in. bad dirty talk, top!reader and bottom!tara, needy!tara, D/s dynamics, reader is a little tiny bit of a sadist (as a treat,) sex on camera, exhibitionism and voyeurism, mild restraint, mild degradation, horribly excessive use of italics a/n: am I back?? idk how i feel about this. thank you to @evilwednesday for helping me out w the cover image & the title :)

masterlist

Tara’s in your arms before her bag even hits the floor.

You’re so, so glad the hallway is empty as she nearly bowls you over in the doorway of your shared apartment, peppering your face with kisses. You lift her up and give her a spin, pressing your lips to hers—it’s pure comfort, after so many long months of Tara’s school semester. Long distance was a real bitch sometimes, but Tara reminded you every day of how it was all worth it. In fact, you’d felt as if what you had with her was made more real by the distance so often between you. But now, she’s in your arms, finally, and you nudge her suitcase inside with your foot, bending to grab the backpack she’d discarded.

Pulling back, she speaks, so soft and shy it nearly makes your heart burst. “Hi.”

“Tara,” you breathe, “I thought—I wasn’t supposed to go pick you up from ORD until—”

“There was a change of plans,” she interrupts, palms on your cheeks to pull you into a bruising kiss. You feel yourself practically melt into her, like a docile dog in a firm hand. You set her bag down, just managing to not drop it. “I took an earlier flight-” her lips are on yours again- “Couldn’t wait.”

“Couldn’t wait… for what?”

“This.” She slips her tongue into your mouth, all hot and velvet on your teeth. God, the way it felt to miss her was addictive, but this was a million times better. Grabbing blindly, you miss the door handle a few times as you’re distracted by her soft lips, finally managing to slam the door shut. Shifting your strong hands to the soft crease of her ass and thigh, you bump your teeth into hers in your eagerness, but she doesn’t seem to mind. You walk her into the apartment, kicking the door shut behind you. 

Tara smells like the airport and outside wind, something uniquely New York caught in her hair. She pulls back for only a second to reach around, drop her jacket and shoes, leaving her in just a shirt and comfy sweats. Her palms are sun-warm on your cheek and your neck; any place that she could touch was fair game for her. Your mind feels hazy already—it makes it hard to focus as you try to maneuver around furniture you could navigate in the dark, Tara’s presence more than disarming. Part of you wants to slow down, ask her how her semester went, but the smarter, Tara-influenced majority of you knows that with the way she was pulling at you and your heart, she would straight up kill you if you did that. You’re all too happy to oblige her, kissing her back for every day that she’d been gone. 

“I missed you,” she whispers as she pulls on the collar of your shirt, even though you’re pressed so close already. She’s feather-light in your arms as you carry her down the hallway, nearly stumbling through the bedroom door. You let her down to stand between your feet, freeing your hands to cup her jaw. The curve of Tara’s face is as familiar as the way her nose brushes against yours, soft. It only takes a second, really, but with just her scraping her nails on the back of your neck, you’re wanting, enough to hold her tight and feel her melt against you. 

Tara nearly topples the both of you when she grabs your shirt again and pulls. You just barely catch yourself from crushing her against the bed—but as always, she takes you by surprise, wrapping her arms around your shoulders and slanting her mouth against yours to deepen the kiss. The look in her half-lidded eyes as you peek down at her tells you all you need to know about her intentions. With the way you were kissing up on her, anyone would think that you’d been apart for years, not months, but god knows you couldn’t get enough. 

It’s near obscene, the press of your tongue against hers, but with all of the urgency built from the past few months, it only serves to split you open. As quick as it began, your kiss, broken by barely a gasp for air, turns heated and hungry. It’s filthy, and the urge to spit in her mouth and make her swallow is more than a fleeting thought. Instead, you force her thighs open with your hips, grabbing her ass and pulling her close.

Under her sweats, you can feel the edges of fabric underneath, and you grin, skimming your hands lower. You furrow your brow when you feel a telltale band of elastic, and your hands tighten on her thighs.

“Tara-” your voice comes out a rasp- “are you wearing thigh highs?” You’re nearly dizzy with how much blood rushes from your head to your stomach, pooling low and hot.

“I know you like them.” Tara smiles a little, impishly, but she looks down to your hands instead of your eyes. You know her—she’s looking for confirmation that she’s right, that she hadn’t overstepped in wearing something for you. In your mind, it’s absurd of her to even entertain this sort of thing, the way it sends a tingle up your spine. But Tara needs it, and you’re more than eager to please. You trail your fingers to her waistband, pulling her sweats down and off to expose her. Your grip on her hips is tight and squeezing, holding her in a way that’s unmistakable as want.

You cock your head, ignoring how loud your heart runs. “Oh, yeah? Is that why you’re matching again?” You take her hand, slide your thumb over her fingernails, in gel black. The sheer fabric is the same shade, soft as sin against your palms. Briefly, you consider tearing them apart, seeing the ruin of tatters against her skin—but her little whimper as you trace your fingers where her thighs spill out over the top makes you change your mind.

She’s breathing hard from just the kissing, and when she sighs into your mouth, you’re reminded of the way she’d boldly suggested, your blushing cheeks visible even on FaceTime, that you let her take a souvenir back to her apartment. Tara had complained that she was bored, in a way that homework couldn’t solve, her wide eyes telling you that was as true as could be. You never could back down from a challenge, no matter how warm it made you feel—that was why there was currently an old camera sitting on the bedroom table. You smile, biting your tongue.

“Remember what you said that night, baby?”

You point to the other end of the room, to the camera there, mocking. You expect her to laugh, to shake her head with an exasperated fondness, and push her lips back on yours. Instead, she freezes, swallowing. Her grip on your biceps tightens.

“Tara?”

She turns her gaze to you, and in the half-light you see that her pupils are blown, wide in a sort of disbelieving arousal. It hooks you in, a tug in your stomach, as your mind fills with only Tara. 

“Tara…” you repeat, “do you remember?” She’s quiet, a blush rising steadily to her cheeks. “‘Don’t you wish you could see what you do to me,’” you tease, leaning in close. “You want me to watch you, right? Well, doll, there’s a camera right there.”

“I—” Tara nearly protests, but oh, her flush, the way her hips move so subtly, is telling enough for you. Not letting her hesitate anymore, you grab her shoulders, flipping her so she’s under you. She fits perfectly, holding you up just as much as you’re holding her down.

“You’re gonna watch this when you’re alone, right?” You tease, trailing a hand down her arm to push her wrists above her head with one hand. In your daze, you know her tells as well as you know that drag of desire in your stomach, and so you already know that she’s— “You’re gonna watch this and rut that needy pussy on your hand, is that it?”

It’s your turn to look for confirmation—distantly, it rings in your mind that you must’ve lost your mind, to be talking to Tara like this, but what’s more apparent to you is the moan that escapes from her mouth, the way her eyes slide shut.

“Yeah,” she breathes, something shameless in the twist of her brow as she arches her back. Her nipples press into your chest, hard through her thin shirt, her knees falling open even more. She’s warm, underwear just clinging to her and leaving nothing to imagination. “I’ll watch it whenever you want me to.”

“You will,” you laugh, something deep and dark. “But when you touch, you’ll let me know when you’re gonna come, okay? So I know that you’ve stopped, like a good girl.” You grind your hips between her thighs, watching her breath catch. It’s a soft, bated moment, but something cracks in the air, nearly audible. The shift between the two of you is a familiar one, apparent in the way that she clings harder to you, presenting her chest, the column of her throat, the tilt of her jaw. 

“I will,” she says obediently, her pleading gaze making you grin. “I’ll stop, I’ll touch myself, whatever you want—”

Just as quick, you’re pushing yourself off of her. The room is quiet, save for your footsteps and Tara’s breaths, adorably shaky. The camera is easy to set up, even if you do chance a look at her one too many times. You’re back by her side, and you both watch the red light, winking back at you.

You sit down next to Tara, trailing your hand up and down her stomach. “I’ll tell you every dirty little thing I’d like to do to you, if you’re patient,” you whisper in her ear, something meant for only her to hear.

Her hands are on your shoulders, and the next thing you know, your back is pressed to the bed, and Tara’s rocking her weight on top of you. She leans in close, breath as soft as her skin against your lips, breathing out a quiet ‘yes.’ Giving a little twist that not-so-accidentally presses her heat against the seam of your jeans, she pulls her shirt and bra off in one miraculous motion. You touch her skin, smooth and warm and hot, and you just know she enjoys how your eyes can’t help but drop lower, your hands nearly following. She leans in to kiss you again, the ends of her hair tickling your collar. You both pull back, and you take a second to just look at her, and you can see how she’s been. School was long and difficult, it’s in the set of her eyes, and you want to know more, despite the burn in your stomach. 

But with the way she’s looking back at you, white little teeth worrying at her lip, you all but smile.

“Alright, pretty girl,” you tease, “what is it, now?” She whines when your hands meet her chest, rolling her nipples between your fingers. “C’mon, tell me.”

It comes more easily than you expect, and it drops molten heat into your chest. “I wanna ride your face,” she whispers. You grab for her hips, tight. “I want everyone to know you’re mine.” 

Glancing over at the red light, you bite down a groan. “Do you think you deserve it?”

“Yes, yes—” she’s already straining against your grip, trying to crawl her way up your body.

“That’s for me to decide, Tara.”

She keens, but she drops her head to watch your hands on her—she’s sensitive—as she pants. You shush her, sliding your thigh between hers. It must catch on her in just the right way, because she’s tensing up in your arms, fingers digging into your shoulders. 

“You’re looking so desperate,” you laugh, glad she can’t see the flush on your cheeks.

“I am.” Her bold declaration stops your heart in your chest; you know she’s telling the truth. 

“So say ‘please,’” you murmur, head spinning.

Her eyes are glossy when she finally looks at you. “Please…”

“Very good,” you say patiently. You lean up to kiss her, sucking her bottom lip none too gently. “Why don’t you beg a little?”

You see how the false hope makes her tears so willing to spill out. Her hips rut on your thigh, with no rhyme or rhythm—you’re practically begging yourself to help her, but you hold back.

“Please,” she says again, taking a ragged breath. “Please, want your tongue in me—”

“Louder, Tara,” you snap, threading a hand in her hair and pulling her head up, none too gently. You force her to look in the camera, watching her pupils dilate as she stares down the lens. “I want you to be reminded of what a whiny bitch you are.”

“Want you to eat me out,” she whines to the camera, closing her eyes against the redness in her cheeks. “Want…” The next time she says it, it's louder—you release Tara’s hips to pull her panties off, nearly tearing them when she shifts up the bed at the same moment. 

It makes you ache, being so close to touching Tara, her scent heady and thick, ensconcing your every sense. Her hands grab the headboard as you wrap your arms around her thighs to pull her closer to your lips. She’s practically shaking in her anticipation, and truthfully, it’s hard for you to wait any longer. You trace your tongue across the stretch marks on her inner thighs, and then straight to her cunt. She’s all velvet and honey against you, as you eagerly run your tongue up and down, savoring what you’ve missed. It’s so intoxicatingly good that you nearly miss the way she cries out, your name a shameless prayer. 

You miss her weight on your chest as her back arches, and immediately you’re tracing the dip in her spine. Irrevocably, you’re watching her every move as you tease at her clit, making her rut her hips against your face, chasing friction.

“Fuck,” she says on an exhale, breaking the word into two damning syllables, just like the ba-dum of your heart. Tara tears her hand from the headboard, threading her fingers into your hair to pull you closer. It’s a gesture that you should chastise her for, but you can’t bring yourself to resist her.

“That’s it, pretty girl.” You wrap your lips around her clit and ease two fingers in at the same time—she’s so wet it doesn’t take much to get them in. When you look up at her, the glazed expression on her face is something sated and satisfied, like chocolate wouldn’t ever melt in her mouth. A lazy grin graces her lips, a dusty pink rising up on her cheeks as she squirms against you, adjusting easily to the familiar stretch. 

Somehow, you can feel in your gut that she’s being good for the camera, and you can’t bring yourself to take your time. You want everything at once, to make her come over and over again into your waiting mouth, greed your only sin since you were so far past lust, falling into adoration and something dangerously like—

“Please.” It spills out of Tara’s mouth, golden and warm.

“You’ve been saying ‘please’ an awful lot, Tara.”

You wrap your hand, the one not knuckle deep in Tara’s cunt, around her thigh. Squeezing, you felt the soft stockings against your palm as you guided her hips to rock into you, your fingers and your tongue. You wanted her to feel whenever she’d play the video back, for her to be able to memorize fucking your mouth, so no matter the distance, she’d remember. As if on cue, her moan echoes around the walls, in your mind. 

“The camera’s gonna pick that up, you know.” Your voice is rough, out of breath with how warm it is to be under Tara.

Her voice is tight, choked. “I know, baby.” 

You don’t stop, only shifting slightly to get your thumb on her clit, so you can lean back. You swipe your tongue on your bottom lip, tasting her so sweet, and you watch her eyes, fading in and out of focus, tracking your motion.

“Gonna—”

“Tara,” you laugh, but it’s a warning. She whines, hips twitching, and you can see her lip between her teeth.

“Gonna—oh god—it’s—”

“Gonna what?” You mock, flexing your fingers. “You can do better than that.”

“Please, let me come?” Something warm unfurls in your chest at Tara knowing you want her to ask, your perfect girl, even when she’s so far gone.

“Why?” Your question makes Tara still her hips, which is saying something. “Why should I let you, baby?”

She’s quiet, and since you’ve always been weak for her, you take pity. Your heart’s racing, and the heat in your stomach craves to just see her.

“You’re so good for me, my love… why should I let you come?”

“Because—” Tara breaks off with a lovely little whine, and then it hits her. It breaks up into a floaty feeling in her stomach, like a plume of sparks. Her thighs are trembling around your head, and you lean up to smear her slick on your lips, nudging her clit. “Because I’m your good girl.”

“That’s it, doll,” you murmur. “Come for me, Tara.”

And Tara comes, white hot and tense against you, and in that moment, you think you believe in magic. You want to invent something new just to eternalize her with more than the camera, something more than memory. She’s breathing hard, and you wiggle yourself out from under her. Pliant in your arms, she’s quiet as you help her lay down gently on the covers. For you, your mind was anything but quiet. You think you could run anywhere just to feel Tara, and you can’t resist smiling. Crawling over to give her a peck on the lips, you think Tara’s done—she’s blinking sleepily, eyes flicking between you and the camera, so you move between her knees to shuffle her stockings off, skin against skin. You hear her clear her throat, breaking your trance of fondness.

You look up—you see Tara look to the camera again, and your eyes helplessly follow. She’s got a mischievous little quirk to her lips, like she just knows how bad you wanted to see her come, and…

“You’re gonna tell me those dirty things now, aren’t you?”

--

a/n cont'd: 🌝

please do not repost, reproduce, copy, translate, or take from my work in any way. thank you!

masterlist

#project wes #fanfiction #tara carpenter #tara carpenter x reader #scream franchise #scream movies #scream 5 #scream 6 #tara carpenter x fem!reader #tara carpenter smut #tara carpenter x reader smut #smut #reader insert #self insert #i really don't know how to use tags god #tara carpenter fanfiction #lgbtq #tara carpenter x y/n #jenna ortega smut #jenna ortega x reader

[wilwheaton]

When you watch The Curse, you are watching two children who were abused and exploited daily during production. No adults protected us.

This was originally published on my blog in August, 2022.

I had a wonderful time at Steel City Comicon this weekend. It was my first time at this particular con, so I didn’t know there was such a huge contingent of horror fans, creators, and vendors who attend.

I love horror, and I was pretty psyched to be in the same place as John Carpenter and Tom Savini, across the street from the Dawn of the Dead mall. Pittsburgh feels like one of the places horror was invented, at least to me.

A number of these horror fans came to see me, and asked me to sign posters and other things from a movie my parents forced me to do when I was 13, called The Curse. I had to tell each of these people that I would not sign anything associated with that movie, because I was abused and exploited during production. The time I spent on that film remains the most traumatizing time of my life, and though I am a 50 year-old man, just typing this now makes my hands shake with remembered fear of a 13 year-old boy who nobody protected, and the absolute fury the 50 year-old man feels toward the people who hurt him.

I told this story in Still Just A Geek, and I’ve talked about it in some podcasts I did on the promo tour, but I’ve never put it out in public like this, in its entirety.

I suspect someone at the publisher would prefer I tease this and hope it drives book sales from people who want to read all of it, but I honestly don’t want to have another weekend like this one where everything is awesome, except the few times people who have no idea (and why should they) put that fucking poster in front of me, and all the fear, abandonment, and trauma come flooding back as I tell them that I won’t sign it, and why.

To their credit, each person was as horrified as they should have been, told me they had no idea (if they didn’t read my book why would they), and quickly put the poster away. They were all understanding. I am grateful for that.

But I really don’t need to tell this story over and over again, so here it is, with a child abuse and exploitation content warning, so I can just tell people to Google it.

After Stand by Me, everything changed. The attention from entertainment journalists, casting directors, and especially teen magazines came pouring in. The movie was a generational hit, beloved by critics and audiences alike, and every single one of us could pick anything to do next.

River’s parents and his agent got him Mosquito Coast, with Harrison Ford, as his next movie. I also auditioned for the role, but I knew even then that River was going to book the job. He was perfect, and I’d have to wait a little bit for my opportunity to come along.

I went on a lot of theatrical auditions after Stand by Me. I had tons of meetings with directors and the heads of casting at every major studio. It was all a very big deal, and I felt like we were all looking for something really special and amazing as my follow-up to Stand by Me.

At some point, a couple of producers contacted my agent with an offer to play one of the leads in an adaptation of H. P. Lovecraft’s “The Colour Out of Space.” The script was titled The Farm. (It would, of course, be changed when the film was released).

I read it. I did not like it. It was a shitty horror movie, and I saw that right away. It was the sort of thing you rented on Friday when the new release you wanted was already out of the store.

My mother, already an incredibly manipulative person, used every tool at her disposal to change my mind. My father threatened me, mocked me, told me “It’s your decision” when it clearly wasn’t. It was all so weird; I didn’t understand why they cared so much.

I told my parents I didn’t like it and didn’t want to do it. I clearly recall thinking it was a piece of shit that would hurt my career.

It wasn’t the first thing that had come our way that I wanted to pass on, and every other time, it hadn’t been a very big deal.

Sidebar: I was cast in Twilight Zone: The Movie, in 1983. The film tells four stories, and I was cast as the kid who can wish people into cartoonland. It was a GREAT role, in a movie I still love. (Note that Twilight Zone had four directors. One of them got three people killed. The segment I was cast in was not that one. I mention this because too many people zero in on this to deflect from what this whole thing is actually about.)

But I was CONVINCED by my parochial school teacher that if I worked on The Twilight Zone, which she had determined was satanic, I would go to hell. (This woman and her bullshit played a big role in my conversion to atheism at a young age, but when she told me that, I was all-in on the supernatural story they taught us in religion class.) I was so scared, more scared than I’d ever been to that point in my life, I cried and wailed and begged my parents to not make me do the movie. And I never told them why, because I was afraid my dad would laugh at me for being weak and afraid. My agent tried to talk me into it, and I wouldn’t budge. It’s the only thing I deeply and truly regret passing on, and I really hate I made that choice for such a stupid reason.

Okay. Back to The Curse.

This time, when I told them how much I hated it, they wouldn’t listen to me. My mother, already an incredibly manipulative person, used every tool at her disposal to change my mind. My father threatened me, mocked me, told me “It’s your decision” when it clearly wasn’t. It was all so weird; I didn’t understand why they cared so much.

That is, until they made me take a meeting with the producers of the movie, in their giant conference room on the top floor of a tall building in Hollywood. All I remember about this place was that it was huge; the table was way too big for the five of us who spread around it, and there were floor-to-ceiling windows on three of the walls, but the room was still dark. There was a weird optical illusion in the center of the table, this thing they sold in the Sharper Image catalog, made from two reflective dishes with a hole in the top of one. You placed an object in the bottom of the bottom dish, and it made it look like that object was floating above the whole thing. They had a plastic spider in it. What a strange detail for me to remember, but it’s as clear in my memory as if I were sitting in that room right now.

One man, who I presumed was the executive producer, was European or Middle Eastern (I didn’t know the difference then, he was just Not Like People I Knew), and I was instantly afraid of him. He was intimidating, and seemed like a person who got what he wanted.

So we sat there, my father who didn’t give a shit about me, my mother who was cosplaying as someone with experience, and me, thirteen years old, awkward as fuck, and scared to death.

I don’t remember what they said to me in their pitch or anything other than how uncomfortable and anxious I was to even be in that room. I tried so hard to be grown up and mature, but I — and my parents — was way out of my depth. I’d done one big movie and that was it. We didn’t have my agent with us, who had lots of experience and would have known what questions to ask.

No, in place of my experienced agent, my mother had decided she was going to be my manager, and she tackled the responsibility with an enthusiasm that was only matched by her absolute incompetence and inability to go toe-to-toe with producers the way my agent did. She was outwitted, out-thought, and outmaneuvered at every turn.

“You don’t have a choice,” my father commanded. “You are doing this movie.”

So we sat there, my father who didn’t give a shit about me, my mother who was cosplaying as someone with experience, and me, thirteen years old, awkward as fuck, and scared to death.

At some point, this man, who is represented in my memory by big Jim Jones sunglasses under dark hair above an open collar, said, “We are offering you a hundred thousand dollars and round-trip travel for your whole family. We will cast your sister, Amy, to play your sister in the movie.”

It all made sense, now. I was only thirteen, but I knew my parents were pushing me so hard because this company was offering me — them, really — more money than I’d ever imagined I’d earn in my life, much less a single job.

I knew that the right thing to do, the smart thing to do, was to say no. There would be other opportunities, and it was stupid to cash myself out of feature films for what I thought was, in the grand scheme of things, not very much money.

It’s incredible to me that I knew all of this. It’s incredible to me that I could see all these things, plainly and clearly, and my parents couldn’t (or, more likely, chose not to).

So after this man made his offer, all the adults in the room ganged up on me, selling me HARD on this movie.

My mother said, “Don’t you want your sister to have the same opportunities you’ve had? Wouldn’t it be fun and exciting to go to Rome? Think of all the history!”

The experience was awful. It was the worst experience I have ever had on a set in my life, by every single metric. The movie is awful, and it is the embarrassment I knew it would be.

I don’t think about this very often, because it’s super upsetting to me. Right now, I’m so angry at my parents for subjecting me and my sister to this entire experience. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

In that moment, I felt bullied and trapped. All these adults were talking to me at the same time, and I just wanted it to stop. I just wanted to go home and get out of this room. I just wanted to go be a kid, so I did what I’d learned to do to survive: I gave in and did what my parents wanted.

The experience was awful. It was the worst experience I have ever had on a set in my life, by every single metric. The movie is awful, and it is the embarrassment I knew it would be.

But here’s the thing: when you watch The Curse, you are watching two children, me and my sister, who were abused on a daily basis. The production did not follow a single labor law. They worked us for twelve hours a day, on multiple film units (while I work on First unit, second unit sets up and waits for me. When I should get a break to rest, they send me to Second unit, then to Third unit, then back to First unit. I was 13.) without any breaks, five days a week. I was exhausted the entire time. I was inappropriately touched by two different adults during production. I knew it was wrong, but I was so scared and ashamed, and I felt so unsupported, I didn’t tell anyone. I knew my dad wouldn’t believe me, and my mother would blame me. Anything to keep the production happy, that’s what she did. That was more important to her than the health and safety of her children. The director was coked out of his mind most of the time, incompetent, and so busy fucking or trying to fuck one of the women in the cast, he was worse than useless. He was a fading actor who was cosplaying as a director, as in over his head as my mother. My sister and I were never safe. Instead of harmless atmospheric SFX smoke, they set hay on fire in barrels and blew actual smoke onto the set. They took buckets of talc, broken wood, bits of wallpaper and plaster, and threw it into my face during a scene inside the collapsing house. My sister is in a scene where she goes to get eggs from some chickens, and they attack her. So they hired Lucio Fulci, the Italian horror master, to direct her sequence. His idea, which everyone was totally on board with, was to throw chickens at my sister. Live chickens, live roosters, live birds. Just throw them at a nine-year-old girl. Oh, and then tie them to her arms and legs so they’ll peck her. All of this happened under my mother’s observation, and with her full participation.

Everything I need to know about who my parents are is wrapped up in that experience: the total lack of concern for my safety and happiness, treating me like an asset instead of a son, lying to me, manipulating me, and using me to get things they wanted, and then gaslighting me about it.

If just ONE of the things I can remember happened to someone I loved, I would have grabbed my kids, gone to the airport, and flown home. Fuck those abusive assholes in the production. Let the lawyers sort it all out. Nobody hurts my children and gets away with it.

My mom says she “had some talks” with the producers. She claims that, once, she wouldn’t let us leave the hotel. (God, what a fucking dump that place was. It was just slightly better than a hostel.) I have no memory of that, but honestly the entire experience was so traumatic, I’ve blocked most of it out.

The movie was the commercial and critical failure I knew it would be. My parents spent the money. I don’t know what they spent it on. I got to keep fifteen cents of every dollar, so . . . yay?

My sister and I hardly ever talk about this. I suspect it was as upsetting and traumatic for her as it was for me. I told her I was writing about it, and asked her if she remembered anything. She told me she’d been lied to her whole life about this movie. Our mother let her believe she had been cast on the strength of her audition. “I was excited to work with you,” she said. She reminded me about some stuff I’d blocked out, including a scene where my character’s older brother (played by an actor named Malcolm Danare, who was kind and gentle, and made both of us feel safer when he was around) shoves my character into a pile of cow shit. When it came time to shoot the scene, the mud they’d put together to be the cow shit looked an awful lot like cow shit. When Malcolm pushed me into it, we all found out it was real cow shit. I was FURIOUS. The director had lied to me and had allowed me to have my entire body shoved into an actual pile of actual cow shit. I don’t remember what I said, but I remember he treated me the exact same way my father did whenever I got upset: he laughed at me, told me I was being too sensitive, reminded me that he was the director and he wanted to get a “real” performance out of me, and concluded, “If it bothers you so much, we’ll get you a hepatitis shot,” before he walked away.

My sister also recalled that, after she survived the scene with the chickens, it was the producers’ idea to give her one as a pet.

Okay, let’s unpack that for a quick second: you’ve been traumatized by these birds, so we’re going to give you one as a pet. That you’ll somehow keep in your hotel, and then will somehow get back to America. It will shock you to learn that neither of those things happened.

She remembered, as I do, the huge fight I had with my parents in our kitchen, where I told them I hated the script and I hated the movie. I didn’t want to do it, and I hated that they were making me do it.

“You don’t have a choice,” my father commanded. “You are doing this movie.”

“This is the only film you are being offered,” my mother lied to me. She made me feel like, if I didn’t do this movie, I would never do another movie again in my life. I had to do this movie. As my father bellowed, I had no choice.

Both of my parents denied this argument ever happened. Can I tell you how reassuring it is to know that my sister, who was also there, remembers it the same way I do?

The makeup department decided they would literally cut my little sister’s face with a scalpel, in three places, and put bandages over them.

But one thing she told me, the thing I did not know, the thing that makes me so angry I want to break things, actually managed to make the entire experience even worse than I remembered it.

There’s a scene after her chicken incident where I check up on her in her bedroom. She’s got cuts and bruises, and I guess we talk about it. I don’t remember and I can’t watch the movie because I’m terrified it will give me a PTSD flashback (I’ve had one of those and I recommend avoiding it). Here’s the thing about that scene: she has some cuts on her face, and those cuts are real. They are not makeup.

I’m going to repeat that. My nine-year-old little sister had actual cuts on her face that were placed there by an adult, on purpose.

The makeup department decided they would literally cut my little sister’s face with a scalpel, in three places, and put bandages over them. My sister told me our mother wasn’t in the makeup room when this happened — honestly, it seemed like our mother was strangely and conveniently absent when most of the really terrible things happened to us on the set — and when my sister told her what they’d done, she “lost her shit” at the production. She was pissed, I guess, which is appropriate and surprising. I wonder what would have to have happened for her to put us on a plane and get us home to safety? I mean, her son being abused daily didn’t do it, and her daughter being CUT IN THE FACE ON PURPOSE didn’t do it.

I just . . . I can’t. I can’t understand or comprehend allowing your own children to be physically and emotionally abused. They were literally selling my sister and me to these people, like we were some kind of commodity.

This was a tough conversation. My sister’s experience with our parents is very different from mine. My sister and I love each other. We’re close. I know it’s hard for her to hear that her brother, who she loves, was so abused by her parents, who she also loves. I was really grateful she made the time to talk to me about it, and grateful the experience wasn’t as horrible for her as it was for me.

As we were finishing our call, Amy also remembered one man, a young Italian named Luka, who was our driver for the movie. I haven’t thought about him in thirty years, but I can see his face now. He was kind, he was friendly, he taught us how to kick a soccer ball, and in the middle of an abusive, torturous experience, he stood out as a kind and gentle man. I mention him because she remembered him, which made me remember him, and goddammit I want at least one small part of this thing to not be awful.

The Curse remains one of the most consequential times the adults in my life failed to protect me. I’m 50. I still have nightmares.

Ultimately, as I predicted and feared, this piece of shit movie cashed me out of respectable films forever. I got offers for movies, but they were always mindless comedies or exploitative horror films. They were never the serious dramas I wanted to work in after Stand by Me. The industry looked at me and River, wondering if one or both of us would become a breakout star. They quickly saw that River was doing real acting work, and I was in this piece of shit. For River, Stand by Me was a beginning. For me, it would turn out to be pretty much everything, at least as far as film goes.

There are thousands of reasons film careers do and don’t take off. Maybe mine wouldn’t have taken off anyway. Clearly, it’s not where my life ended up, and I’m super okay with that now. But when all of this happened, it hurt and haunted me.

The Curse remains one of the most consequential times the adults in my life failed to protect me. I’m 50. I still have nightmares. Everything I need to know about who my parents are is wrapped up in that experience: the total lack of concern for my safety and happiness, treating me like an asset instead of a son, lying to me, manipulating me, and using me to get things they wanted, and then gaslighting me about it.

This annotation is the last thing I wrote before I turned this manuscript in, because opening these wounds is hard and painful. I put it off as long as I could, and I feel like I’m still holding back, because just this small glimpse of the experience has taken me a week to write. I can’t imagine trying to go back and unpack the whole thing. (Note that is not in the book: I’ve made an EMDR appointment to work on this because the nightmares have come back after the weekend).

Fuck The Curse, and fuck every single person who exploited and hurt two beautiful children to make it. You all participated in child abuse, and you all knew better. Shame on all of you. I hope this follows you to the end of your life. I hope that living with what you did to innocent children has been as hard for you as it has been for me, because you deserve no less.

#tw abuse #tw child abuse #tw exploitation #child actor #still just a geek #lucio fulci #trauma survivor #speaking up for the child who was silenced by his abusers