Science fiction

No, but if were to reduce both sci-fi and wrestling down to their base level, you'd have the blue-eye versus the invader, yes?
xp

Cha(llo)p, however, is a big Doctor Who fan, which is where our concordance falters.

all tv series sci fi is pretty shit, but most movies can be okay.

Professional wrestling has always been a mainstream, socially acceptable concern, but science fiction is seen as something for malcontents? Wow, this is news to me.

-- Maria, Tuesday, 3 June 2008 13:34 (1 minute ago) Bookmark Link

Think of all the famous professional wrestling fans. Bill Clinton, Margaret Thatcher, Queen Elizabeth II, Ronald Reagan, Frank Sinatra, Idi Amin. All people who were mainstream figures.

Think of all the famous science fiction fans. John Redwood.

Dom, where do you stand on Asimov, Dick and other such writers? Oh wait xpost I C WAT UR DOIN

Yeah, all sci-fi is shit and evil.

I think if you're going to start defending your position here by reaching for the dead white guy canon, Louis, you're pretty much admitting you've lost.

The only way to win on this thread is to have never read it.

http://www.stardestroyer.net/Empire/Tech/Beam/DeathStar3.jpg

Where's the MiB memory-eraser when we need it?

too late Jarl

think I'll check back in an hour

The power of belief

Reality is described as spread thinly on the Disc, so events may be affected by expectations, especially those of 'intelligent' species such as humans, dwarfs etc. Such a world is not governed by physics or logic but by belief and narrative resolution. Essentially, if something is believed strongly enough, or by enough people, it may become true. Jokes such as treacle mines and drop bears are real on the Disc; in reality lemmings don't actually rush en masse off cliffs, on the Disc they do, because that is what people believe (actually, since mass suicide would seriously foul up natural selection, they tend to abseil down them instead). This is also exploited in both wizard and witch magic. For example, if you wish to turn a cat into a human, the easiest way is to convince him, on a deep level, that he is a human.

okay discworld is a completely justified target for your wrath, dom.

not that any scifi has actually been mentioned on this thread yet

The energy cannot be seen in its pure form. It takes the form of things and ideas. As the beauty of a flower is a form of the energy, so is the thought you just had to get some ice cream. The energy mutates at will and without it there is nothingness. The void of no perception.

The closest to a pure form of the energy is love, for love is very similar to the energy itself. Love is watered down well whiskey on the rocks while the energy is perfect whiskey tasted without it ever touching anything but your lips. Life is the glass, the water and the ice.

When the energy mutates, it leaves a void in the form it leaves behind. Life mutates into another form of the energy and death fills the void. Love continues to exist. It does not mutate as well as life. When that love cannot be given or expressed, a well is created. The more that we love and are left with no open way to express that love, the greater becomes our need to give that love where we can.

Love is what happens when the energy gives birth to life, for all things depend on it in some form. Love is how souls communicate with each other. They are otherwise alone within their own realities. If souls do not find ways to communicate with each other, they begin to atrophy.

Love is what happens when souls communicate.

The connection between certain forms of love and reproduction is not coincidental. Souls conceive as well as bodies. If the souls are not communicating at the moment of physical conception, a void remains that must somehow be filled.

Because the act of sexual reproduction naturally exposes two people to each other in many ways, it is very rarely that souls do not communicate during conception.

The energy may take the shape of love only for an instant in time, or it may maintain that shape forever. Most forms of love fall towards the shorter, those that increase in intensity over time are to be treasured.

Souls form bonds over time by communicating with each other. The strongest bonds are those forged in the creation or relighting of souls, conception.

Each soul travels and accumulates and loses energy. It takes a certain amount of energy to be relit in various frames. The lower frames require little energy to relight a soul. The higher frames require a great deal of energy before allowing a soul to be relit within them. The lower one sinks, the more difficult it is to rise to a higher frame. One must work to accumulate positive energy in order to rise in the frames. The giving of love is the greatest generator of positive energy. That positive energy is greatly reduced when one gives, not just of love but of anything, while expecting a return on investment.

Love is not an investment.

Negative energy is created by taking, and it is much stronger when nothing is given in return or when what is taken is not offered. The thief, the rapist and the murderer accumulate more negative energy than they can balance in one lifetime. A liar creates as much, if not more, negative energy than a thief.

A soul remains in one frame and its equivalents as long as it remains in balance. When it is stronger in positive energy, it rises. When it is stronger in negative energy, it falls.

A soul can be destroyed by falling too low, beyond what can be framed. Soul death is the result of having no other soul to orbit, either within the nothingness beyond frames or where no other soul will enter its orbit.

A dead soul is as immortal as a living soul.
It floats forever alone and unable to feel anything.

Those who accumulate enough positive energy to rise to a higher level of being experience enlightenment. Their souls may be able to communicate with souls at a higher level of being. The soul begins to travel before the body. The soul always connects with the next frame before the body, however it may only be an instant. Souls exist on a different concept of time where an instant outside in a frame may be as long as a thousand years within the soul.

A poor starving man, beaten and cheated by his cruel overlord has more opportunity to travel higher than he who dines at the overlord's table.

The souls of a liberated people have less opportunity for higher travel, but a frame can itself rise higher when the souls of its people as a whole generate more positive energy than negative energy. Prophets have spoken of frames rising and teachers have attempted to pass the knowledge that it can be done.

When something is taken from you, whether it is a material thing, your life or your dignity, you expel negative energy that is absorbed by the thief in question. A man who stabs another man is wounding his own soul with the negative energy he takes from the man he is stabbing. One can only avoid absorbing negative energy from taking the life of one without any negative energy. Such an soul would absorb and destroy negative energy from those who try to take from him.

The blueprint of the soul is not a document in the sense that documents are defined here. It is a living document comprised of the energy, defined by those who have written in it by existing. It is the heart of the energy.

Religions become a necessity in creating gatherings for passage together into a higher frame. At the heart of any true religion are the same teachings, surrounded by a myriad of rituals and trappings. These help to define a higher frame, and often to define a lower frame. Passage together to a frame conceived within the collective reality of the religion allows those who accumulate enough positive energy to advance to that higher frame. For those who would not follow the heart of the teachings and seek to expel negative energy, it is pointless to expect any frame advancement. For those that do follow, and believe, a convergence of souls occurs within the higher frame.

Most religions have at their heart the same code, although the translations are done within different collective realities and therefore vary within that context. The particulars change. Any religion with the code as its heart will be able to penetrate the core of individual souls, focusing their fundamental spiritual reality on a shared vision. Souls place their faith in a higher being's guidance and wisom, thus granting power to that being. A kingdom in a higher frame is more powerful and means something different than it does within this frame. The subjects of a higher frame often come to that frame through their faith in a higher being there.

It is easier to follow an existing trail into a higher frame than it is to create your own. Not only must one be able to envision the frame and create it from faith, one must then be able to populate the new frame with other souls or one will remain alone there until the guidelines of that frame allow you to exit.

Harmony is the ultimate goal of souls, but each soul's perception of that harmony is different. This is why there are very few souls one can find true harmony with. Total harmony is as easy to attain as soul perfection. We journey in search of the harmony, to experience all things and to be one with all.

"A Cyborg Manifesto" is a socialist-feminist analysis of "women's situation in the advanced technological conditions of postmodern life in the First World" (Penley, interview cited below). The "elementary units of socialist-feminist analysis," race, gender, and class (173) are in the process of transformation. The tools for analysis: Marxist, psychoanalytic, feminist, anthropological (173) are problematic as they are currently articulated (1985). Problems Haraway finds with each of these "tools" of analysis:

Marxism: 1. Marxist "humanism," we can only come to know the subject through labor; relies upon a Western sense of self. 2. Erases "polyvocal, unassimilable, radical difference made visible in anti-colonial discourse and practice" (159).

Psychoanalysis: 1. Relies upon the family and birth of the self "drama," which is about individuation, separation, the birth of the self, wholeness before language [Lacan's imaginary]. 2. Freudian and Lacanian (and theories based upon their work) rely upon the category of woman as other; "in this plot women are imagined either better or worse off [better off=eg. woman as goddess], but all agree they have less selfhood, weaker individuation, more fusion to the oral [instead of the written, which is the preferred "technology" of the cyborg], to Mother" (177). 3. Universalizes. In an interview with Haraway, she asks: "Can you come up with an unconscious [which she wants to "keep"] that escapes the familial narrative...or that poses the familial narratives as local stories?"

Feminism: 1. "There is nothing about being female that naturally binds women. There is not even such a state as 'being' female, itself a highly complex category constructed in contested sexual scientific discourses and other social practices" (155). [However, though "female" is a construction, women are still historically real.] 2. Feminism in the US has been characterized by the "natural" unity of all women, not taking into account, nor allowing room for, categories of race and class. 3. The reaction [in progress?] to this imposed unity risks "lapsing into boundless difference and giving up on the confusing task of making partial, real connection" (161). Although a partial solution, why is this problematic?

"I do not know of any other time in history when there was greater need for political unity to confront effectively the dominations of 'race', 'gender', 'sexuality', and 'class'" (157). Goals of the "ironic political myth" of the "cyborg"--a utopian, "possible world." (On utopias: "Most utopian schemes hover somewhere in between the present and the future, attempting to figure the future as the present, the present as the future" [Penley, interview cited below]). Why the cyborg as a metaphor for this text?

"Cyborg replication is uncoupled from organic reproduction" (150) "The cyborg does not dream of community on the model of the organic family" (151).

The cyborg does not aspire to "organic wholeness through a final appropriation of all the powers of the parts into a higher unity" (150). The cyborg "is not afraid of joint kinship with animals and machines...of permanently partial identities and contradictory standpoints" (154). The cyborg is the "illegitimate child" of patriarchy, colonialism, and capitalism.

The cyborg thus evades traditional humanist concepts of women as childbearer and raiser, of individuality and individual wholeness, the heterosexual marriage-nuclear family, transcendentalism and Biblical narrative, the great chain of being (god/man/animal/etc.), fear of death, fear of automatism, insistence upon consistency and completeness. It evades the Freudian family drama, the Lacanian m/other, and "natural" affiliation and unity. It attempts to complicate binary oppositions, which have been "systemic to the logics and practices of domination of women, people of colour, nature, workers, animals" (177).

Haraway likens "cyborg" to the political identity of "women of color," which "marks out a self-consciously constructed space that cannot affirm the capacity to act on the basis of natural identification, but only on the basis of conscious coalition, of affinity, of political kinship" (156). "Cyborg" though, is grounded in "political-scientific" analysis. This analysis takes up most of the "manifesto."

Haraway's political-scientific analysis of where "we" are going: "We are living through a movement from an organic, industrial society to a polymorphous, information system" (161). Her "chart of transitions" on page 161-62 lists specifics. (This was later modified; in case you're interested in the changes, I've attached the 1989 chart below.) The movement she sees occurring is both "scary" and reason for coalition. Haraway, trained in biology, analyzes scientific discourse as both constructed and as "instruments for enforcing meanings" (164). "Scientific discourse," she says in the interview cited below, "without ever ceasing to be radically and historically specific, does still make claims on you, ethically, physically." Haraway argues that "one important route for reconstructing socialist-feminist politics is through theory and practice addressed to the social relations of science and technology, including crucially the systems of myth and meanings structuring our imagination" (163). The relations between science and technology, largely ignored by feminists, is a material reality which women need to be aware of--not fear or disparage. These relations are "rearranging" categories of race, sex and class; feminism needs to take this into account. Haraway's analysis of "women in the integrated circuit" tries to suggest, without relying too much on the category of "woman" (as a natural category), to suggest that as technologies radically restructure "life" on earth, "women" do not, and are not, through education, training, etc., learning to control these technologies, to "read these webs of power" (170). A socialist-feminist politics must address these restructurings.

"Cyborgs: A Myth of Political Identity" acknowledges Haraway's debt to writers of "science fiction," and finds in these texts the sources of her cyborg myth. "Cyborg monsters in feminist science fiction define quite different political possibilities and limits from those proposed by the mundane fiction of Man and Woman" (180).

Since, as Haraway sees it, the world is changing rapidly--and this is due mainly to scientific/technological discourses and the claims they make physically upon "us"--the tools that Haraway (and ourselves) find available and in use are no longer viable. The world/culture/discourses upon which they are based are changing. And the premises upon which these tools rest are those which support capitalism, imperialism and patriarchy, which may be, according to her analysis, dwindling, but only to be replaced by something as bad, if not worse, (and possibly, she seems to suggest, better). She wants to keep some kind of agency (not based upon a whole and individual self), materialism, and a feminism not based upon natural unity between women (contradiction is allowed in the "ironic cyborg myth"). Haraway perhaps isnt doing a lot that is new in this piece. What is interesting is the rhetorical strategy, the suggestion that an anti-science stance is unrealistic and ignores potential pleasures, and the potential value of science-fiction. Haraways cyborg probably wont fare well with many readers, who arent wanting to give up much of what Haraway points to as humanistic.

1989 chart
Representation Simulation
Bourgeois novel Science fiction
Realism and modernism Postmodernism
Organism Biotic component, code
Work Text
Mimesis Play of signifiers
Depth, integrity Surface, boundary
Heat Noise
Biology as clinical practice Biology as inscription
Physiology Communications engineering
Microbiology, tuberculosis Immunology, AIDS
Magic bullet Immunomodulation
Small group Subsystem
Perfection Optimization
Eugenics Genetic engineering
Decadence Obsolescence
Hygiene Stress Management
Organic division of labour Ergonomics, cybernetics
Functional specialization Modular construction
Biological determinism System constraints
Reproduction Replication
Individual Replicon
Community ecology Ecosystem
Racial chain of being United Nations Humanism
Colonialism Transnational capitalism
Nature/culture Fields of difference
Co-operation Communications enhancement
Freud Lacan
Labour Robotics
Mind Artificial intelligence
Second World War Star Wars
White capitalist patriarchy Informatics of domination

I think Dom's gone to lunch

I think Dom's gone out to lunch

Like sci-fi fan Ben Watson.

“Stay”

(or “A Rogue and a Wraith Met in a Bar...”)

by Angela Jade

Rated - NC-17 (slash!)

Warnings - apart from the slash, there’s angst, adultery, alcohol, aberration and a bunch of other stuff beginning with ‘a’. And did I mention THE SLASH?

e-mail - ang✧✧✧@yav✧✧✧.free-onl✧✧✧.c✧.u✧ - constructive criticism and happy thoughts greatly appreciated. Flames laughed at.

Pairing - Corran/Face (implied Face/Ton)

Spoilers - mainly for “Iron Fist” by Aaron Allston, the 6th book in the X-Wing series.

Disclaimer - it all belongs to Lucas. I am not making any money from this.

Thanks and plot bunnies (MWAHAHA!) to GlimmerGirl, Angel and ‘The Girls’ for betas, comments, and laffs.

Dedication - Glim, for the inspiration.

I saw him before he saw me.

He sat on the barstool, hunched over a drink, his back to the busy room. Nondescript black flightsuit, dark hair cropped close - his body language screamed that he wanted to be left alone.

Yeah, well, him and me both.

The only empty stool was the one next to him, but I figured if I ignored him, he’d ignore me. So I circled around the crowded dance floor, claimed my place at the bar and waved at the bartender. It had been a long day and my brain was screaming for alcohol. “Corellian brandy, Essate.”

The multi-armed droid beeped an affirmative and trundled off in the direction of the brandy bottles. I picked idly at a shallow gash in the counter as I waited for its return.

“Do I know you?”

Well, well, what do you know. I could have sworn he’d been giving off the ‘shut up and leave me alone to wallow in my misery’ signals. Guess I’m losing my touch. Either that, or I’m too hacked off to pay attention.

“Depends on who you are.” I finally dragged my attention away from the stained bar to meet his eyes.

Wow. Just ... wow. A ragged scar tried to mar his features but failed miserably - he was stunning. Not ‘ruggedly handsome’ stunning, or even ‘intriguingly beautiful’ stunning. Stunning, as in ‘heart-stoppingly gorgeous’. I hoped I wasn’t drooling.

The green eyes, perfectly placed in the exquisite face, narrowed slightly. “It’s Corran Horn, isn’t it? Rogue Squadron.”

I was all set with the ‘yeah, who wants to know’ rejoinder, when the words died in my throat. Recognition hit like a torp up the exhaust. “Garik Loran?”

A wry smile curved his lips as he raised his glass in a somewhat shaky mock-salute. “Yeah, it’s me. The Face. Breaker of hearts, minds, and promises.” He drained the glass then refilled it from the half-full bottle of whiskey at his elbow. Someone was out to get seriously smashed.

Essate arrived with my brandy and I fed him enough credits to keep the drink coming for a while. I’d feel like shit in the morning, but at least I wouldn’t feel as bad as Loran, judging by the way he was slugging back that whiskey.

I have absolutely no idea what possessed me to start talking to him. It’s not like I was in the mood for conversation... Could it have been the Force? Doubt it. Or, if it was, it works in even more mysterious ways than Luke Skywalker knows - or had ever admitted to me, at any rate.

No, I don’t think there were any altruistic ‘let me share your pain’ thoughts that underpinned my motives. I was just depressed as hell and felt like venting to the world at large, and to the gorgeous man sitting next to me in particular. I opened my mouth to speak, but he beat me to it.

“You’re married, aren’t you?”

Zap. Reality bit like a pissed-off bantha. “Yes.” The brandy burned a flaming path down my throat. Hopefully it would hit my brain soon. “Very, very married.”

“You don’t sound too happy about it.”

Okay, now I was mad. I’d barely met the guy and here he was, commenting on my marriage, on something he knew absolutely nothing about. I threw back the rest of my drink and turned to give him a piece of my mind.

He wasn’t even looking at me. I’d figured, with an inflammatory remark like that, he’d at least be watching for a reaction. He just sat there, holding his glass to his lips as he contemplated the wall behind the bar. Finally he turned and raised a quizzical eyebrow. A ‘talk to me or shut up, I don’t much care’ look.

I shrugged. “We’ve got a pretty open marriage. We both work away a lot, and we decided at the beginning that it would be okay if we saw other people ... well, as long as we kept it quiet.”

“What? Was she noisy?”

Sith! The ego on this guy!! “No. It’s just ... I got back yesterday from the latest in a long line of shitty missions we’ve pulled lately, and I find her in bed with three men!” I struggled to keep my voice under control and threw back the last of the brandy in an effort to stop the shaking in my body.

“And it didn’t occur to you to jump in and join them?”

The only reason I didn’t yell at him or choke on my drink was because ... well ... for a brief moment, standing there in our sunlit bedroom, watching my wife take it from three guys, it HAD actually occurred to me. But she was MY wife, dammit... “No.”

“So did she walk out or did you?”

“Me.” Yeah, after I’d called her every nasty name I could think of, after she’d yelled at me, after I’d blasted the crap out of the comm unit, after she’d called me a hypocrite... Me, a hypocrite!

Another brandy. Still sober. “Women, huh?”

“Wouldn’t know, captain. Haven’t touched one in years.”

I watched him sip his whiskey, his eyes staring, unseeing, at the opposite wall. “You’re not bi, then?” I asked.

“No.” He turned vivid green eyes on me. “Would it make any difference?”

“To what?”

“Oh, come on!” He swiveled round to face me, his knee almost touching mine. “You’ve been hitting on me since you sat down!”

“In your dreams, buddy.” Although, now you mention it...

One side of his mouth tilted upwards and his eyes seemed to twinkle with amusement. “Yeah. Right.” He swallowed hard and turned back to his whiskey, suddenly morose again. “Like I need you in my dreams.”

If there’s one thing I can’t handle, it’s mood swings. I get enough of those at home. Brain says ‘ignore him’, other parts of my anatomy say ‘like hell you will.’ “Hey, some people like to see a Jedi show up in their dreams. Scares the monsters away.”

The look he gave me was composed of one hundred percent, pure, unadulterated pain. Eyes glistening with unshed tears, contracted pupils - I watched as his larynx bobbed up and down a couple of times. “A Jedi, huh?” His lips tightened as he returned his attention to his drink. “Don’t know that a Jedi would have been much use.”

“Whaddaya mean ‘not much use’. We’re damn useful. What are you talking about?”

He drained his glass again and looked longingly at his whiskey bottle, before apparently changing his mind. His voice was low and none too steady when he finally turned toward me once more. “The most important person in my life, the one I loved, the one I would kill or be killed for, died two weeks ago. Shot down on a backwater planet with the most pathetic medical facilities...” He paused, his eyes creasing with pain. “I went down after him. Found him... eventually...”

I watched him rub a hand over his eyes, and I felt as guilty as hell. My pain was nothing compared to his - Sith, I wasn’t even in pain, just angrier than I had a right to be.

“He was still alive then.” Green eyes burned into mine. “I could have saved him. I could have surrendered to Zsinj and they would have operated and he would still be alive today.”

“Crap.” The word was out of my mouth before I could stop it.

“What?!” He looked like he was going to hit me. What the hell - maybe a fight was just what I needed.

“Zsinj isn’t stupid, Loran. He’d have figured you and your pal out in no time flat, and you’d both have been up against the wall. And then he’d have gone after the rest of your squadron and wiped them out, too.”

It was weird. The anger just seemed to drain out of him and his head drooped forward over his glass. “That’s what he said,” he whispered. “Before he died. Before I had to...”

There was nothing I could say, no words that would ease his pain. Without thinking, I put down my brandy glass and edged my fingers towards him, just barely brushing his arm. His right hand snaked towards mine and we touched, fingertips to fingertips.

His eyes met mine. “Do you have somewhere to sleep tonight?”

“I could go home, I guess.” Even as the words left my mouth, I knew it wasn’t going to happen. Mirax needed more than a few hours to cool down.

“Do you want to go home?”

“Not really.”

The self-satisfied smile was back, if somewhat diminished. His thumb brushed the length of my index finger. “I have a room in this building. Twenty-jay-two-four. You’re welcome to stay.” He was obviously trying for casual indifference, but it came over as more of a plea, his voice cracking mid-sentence.

My brain went into overdrive as I considered his offer. For a start, I wasn’t sure exactly what his offer was - floor-space, a bed for the night, something more... Seriously, I wasn’t convinced I wanted anything ‘more’ - it had been weeks ... months since I’d been with another man.

The indecision must have shown on my face. He stood up, his expression aloof once again. “Whatever you want to do, captain. The offer stands.” His hand came to rest surreptitiously on my thigh, sending a jolt of heat right through to the muscle, and those powerful green eyes met my own. “See you.”

I couldn’t tear my eyes away from his back as he departed, head held high and, apart from a slightly circuitous route to the exit, no outward sign that he was roaring drunk. He stopped in the doorway, his body sent into silhouette by the brightly colored lights from outside. I held my breath as he turned his head, that immaculate profile there for all to see.

Then he was gone.

My hand was actually shaking as I lifted my glass to my lips and I quickly drained the brandy. Still too sober for a decision. Essate obligingly set another glass of amber liquor in front of me.

*****

I don’t know how long I stood outside the door, staring at the symbols etched into its silver surface. Twenty-jay-two-four. My alcohol-soaked mind registered that it was the correct door, yet I still wasn’t entirely convinced that I shouldn’t just turn back to the lift and leave. Maybe Mirax would have calmed down by now and was either asleep or waiting up, ready to forgive my harsh words and violent reaction...

Yeah, right. Real likely.

My hand reached out of its own volition and pressed the door announcer.

Nothing.

I hit it again, more forcefully.

Still nothing. No answering voice, no sound of movement ... nothing. Crap. He’d gone out again. Or not come home in the first place. A dozen scenarios zipped through my brain, most of them involving him picking up some cute guy and...

The door opened, snapping me out of my reverie ... and I just stared. Wearing nothing but a pair of black shorts and a confused expression, he ran a hand through mussed hair and squinted into the light of the corridor. “Oh, it’s you.”

I forced myself to focus on his face. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“I wasn’t really sleeping.” He turned and walked into the darkness of the room. “Come on in.”

“Are you sure? I can find somewhere else to sleep if you want...”

He stopped at the huge window and stared at the city lights outside. “No. I invited you - you might as well stay.”

Well, thanks for the enthusiasm.

As my eyes became accustomed to the darkness, I looked around my room for the night. It was dominated by a large, rumpled bed; the twisted white sheeting proclaimed its occupant’s insomnia. An empty sidetable, a chair almost hidden under a heap of clothes, a two-seater couch - not much else. One other door I assumed was the refresher.

“Would you like a magnifier to check for ranats?”

My head snapped up. “Sorry. Force of habit. Used to be in Corsec.”

He crossed his arms and leaned against the window; his face was still in shadow, but his voice held hints of amusement. At least, I think it did. “Well, officer, I swear I’m innocent. Most of the time.”

I muttered another apology and indicated the compact sofa. “Should I sleep there?”

Biceps and pectorals briefly stood out as he pushed himself away from the window. “Up to you. Bed’s plenty big enough.” He tilted his head to one side. “Assuming you trust me, of course.”

Trust? Trust him to do what? Trust was what I felt for my wingmate, my squadron, my tech crew. I trusted they’d keep me flying and shoot the bad guys off my tail. Did I trust this guy not to kill me in my sleep? I watched him as he shrugged and walked back to the bed. Nice ass. “Yeah, I trust you.”

“Good.” He crawled across the bed and turned his back to me, pulling the sheets up to his chin. “G’night.”

Hmm. Okay. Don’t know what I expected, but that definitely wasn’t it. His behavior in the bar had implied he was at least going to try to jump me. I was surprised at the hint of disappointment I felt.

The silence of the room contrasted with the buzzing in my brain. Too much brandy. I closed my eyes and let the weight of an emotionally draining day saturate my body; suddenly I felt very tired.

I opened my eyes again; Face hadn’t budged, and was now making little breathy noises that I guessed meant he was falling asleep. I stripped off to my shorts, piling my clothes on one end of the couch - then I thought ‘what the hell’ and took off my shorts too. I could never get a good night’s sleep unless I was nude.

The coverings were slightly warm when I crawled under them, but the pillow was cool against my cheek. I was asleep within seconds.

But not for long.

It felt like a miniature quake, the whole bed shaking with tiny spasms. Eventually I managed to open first one eye, then the other.

It was him, Loran.

Initially I thought he was crying; his shoulders were shuddering rhythmically and I could hear him whimpering. I reached out to touch him, then changed my mind, my hand dropping short of his back. “Are you okay?”

“I ... I can’t...” More shuddering. “I need to ... but I can’t...”

“Can’t what?” I edged closer, still unsure if I should touch him.

He took a shaky breath. “I can’t ... it won’t...” Another deep breath.

Something in the way he was moving caught my eye, the regular motion of his shoulder creating a pattern familiar to anyone who’s ever shared a bed with a man. I moved up to his back and stroked his upper arm. Thought so. “You can’t get yourself off?”

“It’s never happened to me before!” The arm slowed but continued its rhythmic pumping. “Ton just had to look at me, to touch me, and I’d be half way there.”

I rubbed my hand up and down his arm, trying to slow his pace before he damaged himself. “And you’ve not had sex since he died?”

He glared at me over his shoulder, eyes red-rimmed and tearful. “I’m not a total slut. He only died two weeks ago.”

“People cope with death in lots of ways.” I shrugged, my arm creeping a little lower.

His eyes narrowed and his arm actually slowed. “You’ve lost someone, haven’t you?”

“I’ve lost lots of people.”

“And did you...?”

“Sometimes.”

“Does it help?”

“Sometimes.”

“Oh.” His attention turned back to the task at hand.

“Let me help.” My hand closed gently over his; he froze, then slowly slipped his hand from under mine. At least the shorts were already gone.

He wasn’t totally soft, but he wasn’t properly hard, either. I carefully stroked him and pressed a few kisses to his shoulder. “Relax.” Finally he twitched under my hand and a short, low moan escaped his lips, sending a shiver straight down my spine. I was steel-hard instantly.

He twisted his face towards me again; I lifted my head from his shoulder, wondering what he would say. He didn’t utter a word. Just wrapped his now-free hand around my neck and pulled me in for a mind-blowing kiss.

Face Loran has a beautiful mouth. And he knows exactly how to use it.

Of course, it couldn’t last. Kissing someone at that angle is okay for a minute or two, but then it just gets downright uncomfortable. And apart from that, my erection was getting squashed and his wasn’t hardening quickly enough.

I pushed him onto his back and rapidly mouthed my way down his body, over smooth skin, hard nipples, taut abdominal muscles... Sith, even his navel is perfectly formed!

I paused when I reached his groin and looked up to check I wasn’t making a complete fool of myself. His hands gripped the top of the bed, his eyes squeezed closed and his lips parted. Oh, yeah - he wanted this alright. Even if he was thinking about his dead lover, I didn’t care. He was amazing. Amazing and rock-hard. I went down on him like a starving man at a banquet.

There’s a technique to deep-throating someone, and I was taught it many years ago by Baccaria Tarase, one of the best hookers on Corellia, and her ‘nephew’, Benat. It’s one of my lesser-known talents. I closed my eyes and swallowed him down as far as I could.

It’s incredibly gratifying to make someone scream with pleasure, although it doesn’t usually happen so quickly. Poor kid was desperate. I pulled back a little and just sucked for a while, watching him squirm and pant - he never opened his eyes, not once.

Finally I closed my own eyes and stretched out with my feelings; not to read his mind, just to touch his emotions. I could sense him struggling to hold back his impending climax, trying to draw it out. He needed the release but, well, I needed something, too. He groaned, first in disappointment when my mouth left him, then in delight as I turned him onto his stomach and kneed his legs apart. I admired his cute ass as it rose up to meet me, then gave it a slap. “Hey, where’s the lube?”

One hand snaked out and pointed to a dispenser by the bed. Convenient. I slathered a handful of the stuff over both of us and considered how much preparation he’d need. A loud groan as he pushed back towards me gave me my answer - not a lot. I let my right hand slide gently over his back, caressing the length of his spine, admiring the movement of muscle under skin.

When I reached his tailbone, he pushed back once more. “Now,” he growled.

Always happy to oblige. There was a short, sharp moment of resistance, then his body yielded to mine.

Beautiful. Intense. Exquisite.

He moaned and swore and groaned and clenched his fists in the pillows. I just gritted my teeth and attempted to screw him into the bed. The pain and anger I’d been feeling for a day and a half, as well as the frustration and stress that went with my job, dissipated like mist on a warm day. Each thrust drove another demon away, wiped out another bad memory ... and made me feel damn good. I came fast and hard, then held him tightly as he finally climaxed, sobbing his relief.

*****

Afterwards we just sat quietly, him with his back against the top of the bed, me between his thighs, leaning back against his warm chest. It had been a long time since I’d felt so relaxed.

His arms encircled me and I smiled as he kissed the nape of my neck. “Of course, I could never love someone like you,” he whispered. “You’re too serious. Not my type at all.”

“You’ve not exactly been a bundle of laughs yourself,” I replied, my eyes still firmly closed.

“No, I guess I haven’t.” He pressed a cheek to my shoulder and I could feel the warm trickle of a tear as it slipped from his skin to mine. “I miss Ton.”

“I know.”

“You’ve got to go apologize to your wife, Corran. Don’t stay angry at her, don’t let her think you care so little...”

“I will. I’ll go first thing in the morning.”

“You’ll stay the rest of the night?” He actually sounded incredulous.

“Of course. I don’t screw and run.”

“Yeah. Thanks for that.”

“You’re welcome. Always glad to help out a fellow pilot.”

“Sure. You’re a real altruist.” He blew out a sigh, tickling my neck. “What are you going to do the next time you fall out with your wife?”

“Don’t know. Try to keep my temper, I guess.”

“You could always give me a call.”

“Probably not such a good idea, Face. Much as I’d love to do this again, I’ve got to stop running from my problems.”

“I didn’t mean that.” His teeth nipped at my shoulder. “I meant I could come over to your place. You two could ... umm ... sort out your differences, and I could keep her bedmates entertained...”

I laughed as I turned to face him. “What if they’re straight?”

“Three of them?!” he replied, eyes wide with mock horror. “How likely is that?”

So cute. “C’mon. We should get some sleep.”

“Yeah.” He leaned in to kiss me.

I kissed him back.

We did get some sleep.

Eventually.

~FIN~

"lunch" as a verb, i think he's working at home

the idea that not enough has been written about the sopranos is hilarious.

Come What May (back to part 1)

by Angela Jade

Rating - NC-17 (slash!) - underagers and non-slashers... don’t let the door hit your ass as you leave.

Email - ang✧✧✧@yav✧✧✧.free-onl✧✧✧.c✧.u✧ - constructive criticism and general feedback very welcome. Flames laughed at.

Summary - a series of vignettes exploring a relationship between the two greatest X-wing pilots ever. Set during the Original Trilogy.

Disclaimer - Luke, Wedge, and the entire SW galaxy belongs to George. I’m not making any money from this.

Part six - some months after the Battle of Hoth

He’s alive. He’s alive. He’s alive...

The words whirled through Wedge’s brain over and over, a mantra he didn’t dare stop in case it evaporated and took with it the spark of hope that had kept him sane over the previous few months.

Alive.

Turning the last corner before the med bay, he almost ran down the diminutive figure striding the opposite way. “Princess! I’m sorry - I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

”Me neither.” She looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes, the hint of a smile dawning along with recognition. “Wedge? Luke’s been asking for you.”

“He has?” Delight that he hadn’t been forgotten warred with the fear the rumor-mongers had instilled in him over the past few days; days he’d spent fighting stubborn bureaucrats and narrow-minded officers determined to keep him away from the starship that held the man he loved. “How is he?”

A shaky sigh. “What have you heard?”

“Not much. I just got back from a run to Bothawui and no one will tell me anything.” Except for the gossips: Luke deserted; Luke’s in prison; Luke’s dead...

She nodded absent-mindedly, as if trying to choose her words. “Physically, well, I guess he’ll recover. He lost a hand, but he’s been fitted with a prosthetic, and the graft has taken...”

A hand? He lost a hand? Bile rose in his throat; he fought to keep it down and to disguise the shaking that threatened to paralyze him. He realized the princess was still talking.

“But, mentally...” She shrugged her shoulders, her mouth a tight line. “I have no idea.” Their eyes met again, and Wedge experienced a sudden affinity with the young woman he hadn’t felt since one angst-ridden night on Hoth. “He’s hiding something, Wedge. I just know it.”

“Maybe he’ll talk to me.”

“Perhaps.” She laid a slender hand on his arm. “I hope so.”

Luke was alone in the med bay when Wedge walked in, his nose centimeters from the huge transparisteel window that dominated the room. He either ignored or didn’t hear Wedge’s entrance, just kept staring out into space, his gaze directed somewhere beyond his own reflection.

Wedge’s breath caught in his throat at the sight of his erstwhile lover seemingly surrounded by stars, as if he were at the very center of the galaxy itself. He looked like he belonged there; larger than life, unencumbered by mortal constraints. For a long moment, Wedge simply stood and watched, drinking in the scene before him. He’d dreamed of this moment, tried to imagine what he’d do and say if he came face to face with Luke again, but now all his rehearsed conversations fled from his mind and he grappled with words that slithered eel-like out of his grasp. He took a deep breath. “Hi.”

“Wedge?” Luke continued to stare at the star-strewn vista, cradling his right hand carefully in his left. “Wedge.” His voice cracked and he made a tiny choking noise.

In seconds, Wedge was by his side, pulling him in, hugging him as if he didn’t dare let go. “It’s okay. I’m here.”

But Luke’s arms didn’t return the embrace, and when his head lifted from Wedge’s shoulder, his eyes were dry. A tiny smile tugged at his lips but couldn’t quite settle there. “You’re just as I remembered you. You haven’t changed.”

“You have.” He slowly ran his hands up Luke’s arms, outlining tense muscles under the loose robe that tried to conceal them. His hands crept along broadened shoulders and skimmed up Luke’s neck, before finally coming to rest cradling his face. “Do you want to talk?”

Luke’s eyes snapped shut, but not before a glimmer of pain escaped through the lids, raw and intense. Wedge knew that if it wasn’t for the hands that gently held him, Luke would have turned away. Turned away, and perhaps asked him to leave?

“You don’t have to,” Wedge whispered. What could make the normally communicative Luke Skywalker so unbearably reticent? Had they been apart so long that they could no longer talk to each other? He swallowed the hard knot that had formed in his throat; was their relationship a thing of the past? “I just thought...”

The eyes snapped open again, tearing Wedge’s words from his throat. So blue; blue as the sky on Yavin, blue as the seas on Corellia, blue as a stun blast straight to the heart... “I don’t know how much I’m allowed to tell you.”

“Then just tell me the unclassified stuff. Have you been letting Artoo cut your hair again?”

“Oh, Wedge!” The quaver in his voice almost matched the shaking of his body as he finally wrapped his arms around Wedge’s waist and returned the embrace.

Slowly stroking his back, Wedge buried his face in Luke’s hair, reacquainting himself with his unique scent. Okay, so humor worked. Don’t mention the serious stuff, keep the topic light, and we might get somewhere. Diplomacy - how hard could it be?

Wedge couldn’t think of a single question guaranteed to be repercussion free.

“I thought of you a lot, you know.” Luke’s voice came from somewhere around Wedge’s neck. “I missed you.”

Relief flooded through Wedge. Luke still cared about him; whatever kind of relationship they had, it wasn’t over. “I missed you, too.”

A long pause. Finally Luke raised his head, his eyes searching Wedge’s features. “I... my hand...”

“I know,” whispered Wedge. “Leia told me.” His head tilted to one side. “May I...?”

Hesitantly, Luke dropped his arms from their comfortable position around Wedge’s body. Cradling his right hand in his left once more, he slowly raised it, as if for Wedge’s inspection. “It feels... strange,” he murmured. “Like I can control it, but it’s not truly a part of me.”

Wedge carefully took the hand in his own and ran a thumb over the palm’s artificial creases. “It looks good.” The fingers flexed automatically at his touch. He raised his eyes to meet Luke’s, and the air between them seemed to thicken with the obvious unspoken question.

Luke’s gaze dropped first. “I got some other injuries, too. Cuts and bruises, nothing broken...”

“You want to tell me how you lost your hand?”

“I... I’m not sure...”

Wedge caught Luke’s chin between thumb and forefinger and gently tilted his head back up. “Tell me.”

Blue eyes tore into Wedge, eyes that were at once familiar and yet unknown. “It hurts, Wedge.”

“Your hand?”

“No. My memories.” He let out a shuddering sigh. “It was Vader. I fought Vader, and I lost.”

Incredulity struck him dumb for only a moment. “Darth Vader? You fought Darth Vader? How?”

“My lightsaber. I... we dueled, and he cut off my hand...” Finally the deluge of tears broke through the barriers that had held them in check - real heart-breaking, gut-wrenching tears, loud and seemingly inconsolable.

Fighting his own paralysis, Wedge steered him towards the bed. He’d never seen Luke like this - not after screaming nightmares or friends’ deaths - never. Luke Skywalker was falling apart, and Wedge’s heart was doing the same. Sitting them both down, he wrapped his arms around his friend and held him.

The tears subsided surprisingly quickly and sobbing was replaced by shaky breaths and the occasional sniff.

“What happened, Luke?” Wedge’s words whispered into Luke’s hair. “What did that bastard do to you?”

Another sniff. “I... I don’t...”

“Did he torture you?”

“No. Not physically, anyway.” Luke’s left hand clamped around his right wrist. “Apart from this, of course.” He sighed and wiped his sleeve across his face. “He tried to turn me, to make me like him. A servant of the Emperor. He told me things...”

Wedge’s hands settled once more on Luke’s jaw and turned his face. Blue, tear-filled eyes focused on Wedge; eyes, he suddenly realized, that were looking to him for answers. “No one can ever make you like that, Luke. Not Vader, not the Emperor himself. You are a good person...”

“I have evil inside me, just like everyone else,” whispered Luke. “I get angry, I feel jealousy, I want to avenge...”

“That doesn’t make you evil.”

“But it’s there. And if I give in to it, the Force will still flow through me. But it will be turned against my friends, against all that is good in the galaxy.”

“Then don’t give in. Fight it.”

“I don’t think that’s the answer.” One almost-steady hand rose to caress Wedge’s cheek. “He hurt Leia and Han and Chewie. Hurt them because of me. I don’t think I could bear it if he hurt you.”

“You would have to.” He bent forward and gently kissed him, their lips barely touching. “You’d have to cope, to go on without me, if necessary.”

“I need you, Wedge.”

“And I need you. But so does the Rebellion and the rest of the galaxy, and they matter more than I do.” He silenced Luke’s automatic protest with another kiss. “You’re home now. Safe.”

“Leia needs me. She’s fallen in love with Han, but Vader gave him to a bounty hunter...”

“Leia’s in love with Han?”

“Yes.”

Wedge couldn’t suppress a teasing smile. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with the jealousy you mentioned earlier, would it?”

“Idiot.” Luke’s answering smile quickly disappeared when he pulled Wedge in for a passionate kiss, their lips and tongues tracing familiar patterns against each other, a private dance of reassurance. When they finally parted, Luke rested his forehead against Wedge’s. “I have to be strong for Leia.”

”Then be strong for her,” whispered Wedge, his finger tracing the cleft in Luke’s chin. “Hold her when she cries, sit with her when she can’t sleep, listen to her when she needs to talk.” His gaze flicked up to meet Luke’s. “Then come back to me and let me be strong for you.”

“You sure you can handle that, Antilles?”

“I’m a Rogue and a Corellian. I can handle anything.”

*****

Title: Rising Through the Ranks

Author/pseudonym: webbygurl

Fandom: The Sopranos

Pairing: Tony Soprano/Matt Bevilaqua

Rating: NC-17

Archive: Yes

Notes: characters from Season Two (no spoilers)

Summary: Tony Soprano gives Matt Bevilaqua a chance to do him a favor.

Rising Through the Ranks
by webbygurl

Matt Bevilaqua and his buddy Sean Gismonte were in the Bada-Bing, complaining about how Christopher was using them as his "errand-boys." They were anxious to rise through the ranks in LCN, but so far there had only been shit jobs and not much action.

There were girls in g-strings dancing around on the stage in front of them, but Sean was checking out the men at the bar. Neither of them paid much attention to the girls. Then Tony came into the club and headed to the men's room.

"Hey, Sean! Look who just walked in! It's Tony!"

"No kidding," Sean said. He was engrossed by another young guy on the other side of the Bing.

"He just went to the men's room. Let's go in there."

"You go. I'm staying here."

Matt Bevilaqua walked into the men's room of Bada-Bing. "Hey, Tony, how's it hanging?"

Tony was standing at the urinal, taking a leak. He nodded and grinned. "Hey, what's up?"

Matt stepped up to the urinal next to Tony, unzipped his fly, and pulled out his dick. "Hey, T., did you see that blonde out there? I'd like to break my dick off in her ass."

Tony gave a small grin and a dismissive nod. He finished pissing, tucked his dick back in his boxers, and zipped up his slacks. Matt was still holding his dick, but nothing had started coming out of it yet.

Tony glanced down at Matt's midsection. "So, did you come in here to take a leak, or did you just want to be with me?" Matt was embarrassed, since in fact that was exactly why he had followed Tony into the men's room. Matt gave a short laugh and raised a hand in protest.

"I'm just busting your balls, kid," Tony said, punching him on the shoulder. "Hey, when you're done, come out back and talk to me for a minute."

"Sure, T., anything," Matt said. He zipped up, since he hadn't had to piss anyway.

Matt followed Tony out through the bar, the card room, and outside to the back of the Bing. Tony shut the door behind them, and turned to face Matt. They stood next to the Dumpster, and flies buzzed around. A faint stench of garbage wafted over them.

Tony wasn't grinning now. He put one hand on the outside wall of the Bing, and leaned close to Matt's face. Matt looked up expectantly, ready to do anything to get on the good side of Tony Soprano.

"Look, kid, I wanna ask you something."

"Sure, Tony, anything!"

"Look, this has got to stay strictly between the two of us, got it?"

"Got it, T., no problem!"

Tony leaned in closer. "So you and your buddy-- what's his name?"

"That's Sean! You know, we're really looking forward to working for you--"

"Right," Tony cut him off. "So, do you and him...? You know." He gestured with one hand in circles as if to finish the sentence.

"What do you mean?"

Tony raised his eyebrows and exhaled. He glanced over to the closed door, and looked around. They were alone. "I mean, do you guys... make each others happy?"

"Well, yeah, we're best friends."

"No... look." Tony glanced around again. "I mean, do you cop each others joints?"

A lump rose in Matt's throat, and his voice came out in a squeak. "No way, we don't do that shit." He gave a nervous laugh. "I'm strictly into pussy."

"Come on. It's nothing to be ashamed of. Have you sucked his cock before? Has he sucked yours?"

Now Matt looked around, hoping someone would rescue him. He knew Tony was going to be pissed off if he found out that a couple of fanooks had served at the executive card game.

"Come on, I wanna hear you say it," Tony pressured him.

Matt was about to cry. His throat was tight. He was sure Tony had someone spy on him and Sean. If he lied, Tony might fuck him up even worse. Either way, he could probably kiss his chances of rising through the ranks goodbye. He looked down and nodded his head.

"Look, Matt, like I said, it's nothing to be ashamed of. I sort of suspected it with you two, but I just wanted to know for sure. Take it easy, buddy." Tony clapped Matt's shoulder, and left his hand resting there. "Listen, why don't we go for a ride together. How does that sound?"

Matt nodded, the lump in his throat made him afraid that if he spoke, he would start crying. He had a suspicion he wouldn't be coming back.

Tony guided Matt around to the parking lot where his SUV was parked, his hand still on Matt's shoulder. Matt thought about asking to say "bye" to Sean, but then thought better of it.

Tony drove Matt to a motel; not the one he had a stake in that was run by the Hasidim, but a tourist stopover far down the coast. He parked out of sight of the registration office. "Wait here," Tony said, and got out of the car to check in.

Tony came back to the SUV and drove around to their room at the far end of the parking lot. The place was deserted. Tony opened the room with a brass colored key attached to a green plastic tag that had the name of the motel in white letters, "Sea & Surf."

A queen size bed took up most of the small room. There was a TV on a battered dresser.

"Have a seat," Tony said to Matt. The bed was the only place to sit, so Matt sat on it, near the pillows, with his feet hanging off the edge. "Go ahead, take your shoes off, put your feet up, make yourself comfortable," Tony said.

#

Tony sat on the edge of the bed and fiddled with the remote control. His cock had been twitching the whole way up here. This Bevilaqua kid was so young, so smooth, and the eager way he tried to get near Tony and please him had gotten his attention. He'd used fantasies about Matt just to help him get a hard-on with Carmela, and even with his goomah, Rina. He ordered an adult movie using the remote control, then turned to Matt, who was stretched out on the bed now.

He pointed a fat finger at Matt. "Listen, what happens here, stays here. I'm dead serious about this. You're a nice kid, but if it gets around that Tony Soprano swings both ways--" he gestured with his hands back and forth for emphasis "--you're dead. And there will be no second chances. Capiche?" Matt nodded. He still looked scared to death. "OK, now that we've got that out of the way," Tony continued, "let's get down to business."

Tony scootched over the bed to Matt, and loosened Matt's belt. He slid Matt's slacks off. Matt was wearing maroon colored Jockey briefs. Tony laid his face against the front of Matt's briefs,
sniffing and feeling the warmth radiating from under the cloth. The kid was still limp, probably because he was still scared.

"I'm going to take care of you first, then you're going to take care of me," Tony said. "Sound good?" Matt nodded, looking amazed.

Tony put his mouth over Matt's cock, which was still encased in the Jockeys. He blew warm breath through the cloth of the underwear. Then he pulled down the underpants to Matt's thighs, and took Matt's balls into his mouth. He gently sucked first one, then the other, then flicked his tongue back and forth between the two. Then ran his tongue up from Matt's ball sack to the base of his dick, then licked slowly up the shaft. Tony glanced up, and saw that Matt had closed his eyes and was leaning his head back. Matt moaned as Tony took the head of his cock into his mouth and twirled his tongue around the head. Then he plunged down, taking the whole thing into his throat, and started sucking gently and bobbing up and down. "Oh God, oh God, oh God," Matt said, then "I'm gonna blow, oh T., I'm gonna come!" Then his dick exploded, sending stream after stream of come down the back of Tony's throat.

Tony swallowed Matt's load, then slid his mouth off his dick, gently sucking it clean. His own dick had gotten hard as a rock as he had sucked off this young stud. What was the saying.... "young, dumb, and full of come." It was true in this case. Tony grinned. "My turn," he said.

Tony scootched up to the head of the bed. He hadn't even taken off his shoes, he had been in such a hurry to get his mouth around Matt's cock. He kicked his shoes off, unbuckled his belt, and pulled his pants and boxers off and tossed them on the dresser. Matt had sat up, and was looking like he was trying to catch his breath and figure out what had happened to him. Tony grabbed Matt by the ears and pulled him down to his midsection. "Now you take what I give
you, and enjoy it, punk."

Tony's dick was fat and long. Matt gagged as he took it into his mouth, but Tony kept a hold on his ears and jerked his head up and down relentlessly. "That's it, you suck your Uncle Tony's big cock. You suck my dick, you dirty fanook." He pulled Matt's head all the way down, so his nose was jammed against Tony's pubic mound. Tony felt his dickhead straining against the back of Matt's throat. Matt started squealing and tried to pull his head up, but Tony kept his head down with an iron grip. Tony felt his face twist into a grimace. He felt the come rising up through his cock, then spurt deep into Matt's throat. Tony grinned and relaxed his hold on Matt's head.

As they were pulling their pants back on, Tony tossed Matt a wad of bills, two thousand dollars. "What's this?" Matt said.

"Now, I'm not going to pay you every time we do this, and I don't want you to feel like I'm treating you like a whore or anything," Tony grinned at his private joke, "but that's just a little
something to show my appreciation." Tony dropped the grin. "But I'm dead fucking serious about keeping this to yourself."

"Absolutely," Matt said.

Tony relaxed. "Maybe we'll get your buddy Sean to join us sometime."

"Oh, man, T., I can't tell you how cool that would be!" Matt's eyes lit up at the thought.

"But next time, it's just going to be the two of us. Because next time, I'm going to have your ass."

end

omg latebloomer wins

No, but if were to reduce both sci-fi and wrestling down to their base level, you'd have the blue-eye versus the invader, yes?

Not neccessarily. Can't speak for the finer intricacies of wrestling, but if you look at SF's inception period, for every War of the Worlds there were several books of exploration and curiosity such as 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea and Journey to the Centre of the Earth (The Time machine is kinda halfway between the two). And there's a case to be made for the first SF novel being Frankenstein, which is about hubris (a common theme to this day).

And hubris isn't an ongoing theme in pro-wrestling?

Ongoing theme? They've recycled that Mr. McMahon storyline for ten fucking years now.

Why isn't there any Rocky Horror slash?

redundant

"I just don’t know what to do," Jesse said frankly. "I want to help him, but I never know what to say; I’m going through the same thing, but…"

"But not in the same way," Joey finished for him, nodding understandingly. "Pam was your sister, Jess. It was hard for all of us, and I don’t think it was any less hard for you."

"I guess we all feel alone sometimes." Jesse ran a slender hand through his long, dark hair, cut in the fashionable mullet style.

Joey sucked up the last bit of his chocolate milk shake and leaned back against his end of the diner booth. "I know what you mean, buddy." He twisted his recently employed plastic straw around and around his strong hand. "What Danny and Pam had was really special…and it’s horrible what happened, but at least he experienced that kind of love, you know?"

"Yeah," Jesse said, "just once, I’d like to feel that for someone."

They fell silent after that, just staring at each other. Joey had been such a comfort to Jesse over the last few months, Jesse reflected. How would I have managed without him? he wondered.

Across the table, Joey was wondering much the same thing. They pretended to antagonize each other, but really, it was all in good fun. They would not have survived had it not been for that firm friendship that had been established back in high school.

"You know," Jesse said slowly after a minute, "in a way, I sort of feel that way about you. I mean—not that I would want to go out with you or anything, but that I can always rely on you."

Joey cupped his soft chin in his hands. "It’s true," he agreed; "I’ve never had with a woman what Danny and Pam used to have, but I’ve always felt a certain amount of…affection for you."

Both chuckled and fell silent again, contented with each other. Then, without warning, each of them knew—at the same moment—that the man across from him was thinking the exact same thing. Jesse started into his friend’s deep, blue eyes, and saw the same passion, the same smoldering need, that he knew he himself was feeling.

"I—" he said, but Joey cut him off, moving a large finger to his suddenly moist lips.

"I know," he said.

Without a word, Joey rose and made his way nonchalantly to the men’s room. Jesse waited five minutes, taking the time to polish off his half-eaten banana split; then, his hands shaking with an anticipation he knew he hadn’t felt in years, left a few dollars on the table and followed his friend to the back of the restaurant.

When he entered the one-person restroom after knocking softly, he was nervous. The light had been switched off, and even though he had heard his friend summon him into the room, he was suddenly afraid that there had been some horrible mistake—that, perhaps, Joey was not there at all, that Jesse had imagined the whole thing. That he was just going insane with unsatisfied lust.

He relaxed, though, when Joey said softly, "Turn on the lights." Jesse let his leather Elvis jacket fall to the floor and obediently flicked the switch after fumbling for a few moments against the papered wall (his hands were still trembling, now with excitement rather than anxiety).

"Oh," he couldn’t help ejaculating softly, when the fluorescent overhead lamp flickered on. What he saw in front of him made his heart swell with firey, choking love; made his manhood grow large and stiff and strain against his tight, black jeans.

"Joey…"

dom do you also hate horror movies and stories? it basically does what science fiction does, without technology as a motivating factor

Do you ever wish you could just forget everything, even just for a few seconds? That you could just snap your fingers, or close your eyes, or maybe tap your heels together three times and mumble “There’s no place like home,” and all your problems would vanish. Or maybe you wish you had some sort of potion, and when you drank it all the stupid stuff just wouldn’t matter anymore.

Well, I know how to do it. It’s easy really—just like magic. Magic dust. All you have to do is keep a little in your pocket with you, and when the going gets rough, puff a little down, and PRESTO! You’re amazing, you’re incredible. Everyone loves you—your pill-popping mom, your clueless dad, your geeky brother…even that crabby old guy who runs the newspaper stand, and the homeless guy who’s pants are always pissed when you pass him in the morning. The magic just makes you invincible.

Yeah, that’s the great thing about heroin.

“Will, it’s already 70 degrees outside—you’ll burn up!” Vivian shouted from the kitchen. Will, in a jeans and a plain black, long-sleeve shirt grimaced, and shot back, “I’ll be fine Aunt Viv,” as he let the front door bang shut behind him. Parents. Always trying to give advice when he didn’t need it.

Between the walk from his house to the car (where Carlton was waiting), the sweat started to bead on his forehead. He wiped crossly at it with a sleeve, and nearly jogged the rest of the way across the lawn. As soon as the car door was slammed shut behind Will, Carlton hit the gas—that boy wouldn’t have speeded if his life depended on it, but there was no way he was going to be late for school because of his lousy cousin again.

Man oh man when is this class gonna end….

Will’s eyes jumped to the clock again, where the time was precisely ten seconds later than it had been the last time he’d looked. It was hard enough to focus on anything, let alone the stupid teacher up front gabbing away. The room felt tight, stuffy, overcrowded, and it was getting harder and harder to breathe—as if each time he took a breath, the air around him crushed in his chest a little more. He squeezed his eyes shut, and jammed his forehead against his the heel of his hand, trying to calm down before he ended up hyperventilating. It sort of worked, especially if he let his lips mumble silently while he did it.

When the bell rang, all he wanted to do was bolt straight out of the classroom. Instead, the teacher, Mr. Wagner, called him up to the front. Carlton exited the classroom with the other students, but paused outside the door, only a little worried; Will got in trouble with the teachers all the time.

When Will reached the teacher’s desk, he braced his hands apart on his side of it, and leaned over. It looked like typical confident, cool-boy behavior, but all Will wanted to do was keep from flipping out.

“Are you alright, Mr. Smith?”

“Fine,” he managed to get out, feeling his insides start to clam up a little at the question instead of the usual reprimand.

“Are you sure, Will?”

He made the mistake of looking up into Mr. Wagner’s eyes, which were both serious and troubled. Will gave a slight nod and forced out a, “Yeah,” before he dropped his gaze, then hurried out of the room.

“Will—” Carlton started when his cousin exited the classroom. “Not now Carlton,” Will replied shortly, starting to try to push past him. Suddenly Jazz, sporting a grin and a second-hand leather jacket, slid a thin arm around Will shoulder—and between him and Carlton. When he caught sight of Will’s face, he grimaced. “You look bad, my man. Don’t worry—I got the cure.” And with that, Carlton watched Jazz lead a very relieved Will away.

As Will was leaning foreword to open the car on the passenger’s side of the car, a girl came running across the front lawn of the school, catching his elbow in a dainty hand. “Will,” she nearly gasped, out of breath, “Will, I was wondering…since it’s a Friday night and all…well, I know they’re not your absolute favorite band, but the Boyz 2 Men are playing down at the The Club tonight…”

Carlton smiled—Caitlyn, Will’s girlfriend of two weeks, was by far the nicest of the ones Carlton had had the “privilege” of meeting in a while, and while she didn’t know it, Will loved Boyz 2 Men.

“Look, I’m sorry Cait; I can’t,” Will told her, without even looking up, before he opened the door and climbed in. Caitlyn struggled to hide her disappointment, even as Will told her, only semi-apologetically, “I’ll call you this weekend.” Carlton sat in shock for a minute, but when he realized Will wasn’t going to tell the girl anything else, he started home.

Carlton came downstairs, and couldn’t stop a frown; Will was sprawled across the entire couch, flipping channels on the TV, an untouched bowl of cheetos on the coffee table in front of him. His cousin, the party animal, home on a Friday night? When he’d turned down that girl for a third weekend in a row, Carlton had figured he’d had something crazy already planned, so this was a bit worrisome. Not to mention annoying; he’d wanted to watch Oprah.

“Hey,” he tried.

“Hey.”

“So, uh…what’re you doing home?”

“Huh?”

“I mean, why aren’t you…you know, out?”

Will grunted, and Carlton came to sit on the armrest of couch on the side Will’s head was on.

“So you turned Caitlyn down yet again to stay at home and watch television?”

“Yeah, it looks like it.” There was an unpleasantly sarcastic edge on his voice when he said it.

“You know…” Carlton hesitated, not sure how to point out that his cousin was being a dick without actually calling him one. “That’s not really very…nice.”

This time, Will tilted his head back to look at him with the ‘you’re a midget’ look that Carlton hated so much, and shrugged his shoulder’s a bit, before turning back to the TV screen. “I just didn’t feel like going to the movies with her.”

Carlton nodded, and sat on the edge of couch a bit longer, before getting up and heading for his room. But he couldn’t get it out of his head—it wasn’t Will’s answer that was bothering him, but the way his eyes had looked when he’d said it.

Carlton had really started to worry. Not full-blown panic or anything—but he knew that Vivian was picking up on something too, when she asked Carlton, “Is everything alright with you and Will?” Carlton has given her an honest answer; “I think so.” But with each day, he was a little less sure. Will had broken it off with Caitlyn, which wasn’t so unusual, but as far as Carlton knew he hadn’t even hooked up with anyone since—at least, not anyone that anybody knew about. He showed up less and less often to get rides home from Carlton and he often came home long after everyone was asleep.

Naturally, Carlton had assumed that Vivian would bring it up with him—but she hadn’t. In fact, it seemed that she was just as happy not knowing what was going on, as long as Will was in the door by the time she was awake. She hadn’t really seemed herself lately, either—she was always tired, and seemed out of it; Carlton found he had a hard time carrying on a conversation with her on several occasions. But when he’d asked his dad, he’d told him not to worry about it; she was going through a bit of a rough time, but he had it all taken care of.

Carlton glanced at the clock—11:37 and sighed, before climbing the stairs to his room, where he couldn’t stop from glancing over at the other empty bed.

Uncle Phil heard the front door creak open, and then the soft foot-steps of his step-son sneaking in. He flipped the lamp on, and Will froze, looking like a deer in the headlights.

“Well. You’re home early,” Uncle Phil commented, standing to move towards Will, who wasn’t sure how to respond, and just stood there.

“Look, Will—“ the boy had started moving again, carefully unlacing his shoes as if he couldn’t hear Uncle Phil— “You can’t keep doing this, It’s not fair to your Aunt Vivian, or me. We worry—“ Will hung his jacket on the banister— “about you. So,” Uncle Phil drew himself up; he wasn’t used to trying to be the law enforcement figure of the house, but since nobody else seemed up to it… “You need to start being home at seven on school nights, and ten on the weekends—no more nights out.” Will, selective-hearing in tow, walked right by him and up the steps, causing Uncle Phil to falter on what he was about to say next. He stood still at the bottom of the steps until he heard the door to Will’s room click shut.

Carlton tried to interest himself in the TV; it was six o’clock and Will hadn’t been home for over twenty-four hours. Uncle Phil would be home any minute, and then Carlton was sure, they’d be calling the police. If Vivian hadn’t been a zombie at this point, Carlton was sure that would have happened long before. Suddenly, the door creaked open, and Carlton looked up—then felt his temper flare when he saw who it was. Will Smith, and a pretty messed up as well.

“Mom! Will’s home!”

Vivian rushed in from the other room and wrapped her son up in a hug, saying over and over again things like, “Honey I was so worried,” and “I love you so much Will, don’t ever do that to me again,” and Carlton tensed, waiting for the explosion—but it never came. Instead, she said softly, “You look pretty bad. Why don’t you go up to your room, and get some sleep.” Will offered her a weak smile, and stumbled away up the steps towards his room.

Vivian retreated to the kitchen to nurse a cup of coffee.

Carlton couldn’t take it anymore—he could feel the anger rising in him like he’d never felt before. He stormed up the steps and down the hall, grabbed the handle and threw the door open to the room he and Will shared and—stopped short in disbelief.

Will was on his bed, one sleeve rolled up to his shoulder, a badly tied tourniquet tied around that bicep. One hand steadied the other at the elbow, and the blue veins of his arm bulged sickeningly. He was trying to get the needle to stick but his sides were shaking as he alternated between dry heaving and silent sobs, and he kept missing. Bruised, spidery tract marks wound down his arms. The spit and snot was dribbling down his chin.

“Will…”

The boy didn’t even look up, just kept trying to shoot up, as he heaved out, “I c-can’t do it, Carlton. I can’t and I-I—“ he wiped at his nose with his arm, “I tried but I…”

Carlton had moved to his side, and sat on the bed next to him, resting a hand on his cousin’s back. “Shhh, Will. It’s ok. I’m here.”

But Will cut in with another sob—“I mess up so much—so badly and—I hate—hate—“

Carlton rubbed a circle on Will’s back as he replied soothingly, “No, Will. I love you. We all love you, no matter what you do. We’re gonna help you.”

More tears poured from Will’s eyes and Carlton fought back his own, before he felt something warm and looked down; Will’s arm had begun to bleed. He reached for the needle and Will’s expression grew frightened. “Carlton—I need it—I need this—don’t—“ But Carlton calmed him with more shushing, before he gently took the needle away, then stretched out Will’s arm further, before easily sliding the needle into a vein. “Will,” he said quietly, starting to push the plunger down, “you can have it. But you have to promise that after…after this, we’ll talk to mom and dad. Together. And we’ll get you help, ok?”

Will managed a slight nod, before his eyes slipped closed and he let the heroin flood his system.

I've been reading SF!

very few s.f. stories i can think of are about "good vs evil" actually, they're usually about the dread and anxiety produced by changing technology

crossposts

c&ping guaranteed to improve any thread

HOW ALF GOT LUCKY

One day Lia (ME) went for a walk in the park to see the site of the finest man she had ever laid her sexy eyes on. IT WAS THE HOTTEST GUY EVER! She watched as he walked around the park, his sexy hair blowing in the wind. She became hot seeing his face glance her way. His long pointed nose was the site of pleasure as he pointed it her way. His big hairy body was the body of a man, and was erotic to even view. IT WAS ALF! He stood only feet away from Lia, and began to step closer, his big hairy feet making her heart throb with every step. Slowly, he stood before her, and looked down at her awesome boobies.

" I like you titties" ALF suddenly blurted.

" These old things?" Lia nervously responded, showing it to ALF

"I would like to lick your titty please" ALF asked with a cocked head.

Lia reached out for ALF's big hairy body, and guided the sexy alien to her house off the lake.

She lead ALF in, and offered him a titty. He cheerfully accepted. You see ALF had never experienced a real titty like that, he wanted full on titty love, and his past relationship didn't offer that.

ALF slowly put his large hand over the titty, and began to squeeze. ALF HOWLED to the sky as he felt such pleasure. Lia, who became aroused by such a reaction, lead ALF to her room to make a baby ALFY.

9 MONTHS LATER-

ALFY ALF ALIEN JR. was born to the proud parents. ALF even used the titty during nursing time. ALF had never loved anything as much as those titties, well accept his baby ALFY. The two lived happily ever after in their alien ALF world, and had many more baby ALF'S.

c&ping guaranteed to improve any thread

-- DG, Tuesday, 3 June 2008 13:23 (1 minute ago) Bookmark Link

I LIKE YOU, TITTIES

haha most predictable quoting-of-thing-posted-to-ilx ever :D

" These old things?" Lia nervously responded, showing it to ALF

^^^^magical prose

I quite like some sci-fi.

Wait Buffy is sci-fi?

stop stop yr taking this thread seriously

My c+p'ing of Lily Allen and Phil Collins erotic fan fiction was much better. You kids are amateurs.

TS: Phil Collins erotic fiction vs ALF erotic fiction

^^^ only time you'll see "Phil Collins" and "erotic" in the same sentence, although to be fair the sentence also contains the word "fiction".

my god it's full of slash

In the above story, ALF is played by Har Mar Superstar in a fursuit.

"Niiiiiiice pussy".

i'm currently reading 'stories of your life and others' by ted chiang....wow

so are there any good SF novels of the endgame of climate change? I could google, but that's no fun.

the bacigalupi(?) thing, The Wind-up Girl touches on this. it's not about that, but is set in a post climate change, post GM crop disaster world. (i didn't like it tbh)

(wow, i spelt bacigalupi right!)

John Brunner "The Sheep Look Up"

I can think of a bunch of books that touch on it or use it as background (Robinson's Mars Trilogy, for example), but that's the only one springing to mind that uses it as the central focus

baccy-go-loopy is more about the exhaustion of resources than climate change maybe? but i did read ship-breaker first. i got the feeling that that was one of the coming areas in the genre, that and the neurological basis of consciousness

I can think of a bunch of books that touch on it or use it as background (Robinson's Mars Trilogy, for example

hm forgot Bruce Sterling's "Heavy Weather" uses some serious climate change/weather disruptions as its backdrop. it's not very good though.

haven't read KSR's latest but I wouldn't be surprised

http://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Where_Late_the_Sweet_Birds_Sang

Early Ballard disaster novels? The Drowned World, The Burning World...I haven't read The Crystal World so I can't speak to that one.

http://www.orbooks.com/catalog/greenhouse/

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nausicaä_of_the_Valley_of_the_Wind_(manga)

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/A_Pail_of_Air

Kim Stanley Robinson's 2013 is very very good (and has a load of stuff about climate change if Morbs is still checking this thread).

Haha, it's actually called 2312. 2013 is the year we are in.

jonathan frakes telling you you're wrong for 47 seconds pic.twitter.com/zU7HqQjGdN

— *gated reverb snare* (@softsynthbear) April 12, 2019