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celestiamour · 2 months ago

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‧₊˚✧ ❛[ no one has to know what we do ]❜

ft. cho sang-woo x f! reader — squid game

╰₊✧ you lay in bed with your dad’s best friend after a night of passion┊1.3k words

contains: slight smut!! dom sang-woo & sub reader┊age gap (reader is early 20s & sang-woo’s early 40s), (adopted) dad’s best friend trope, purposeful seduction, one-night stands, unprotected piv (don’t do anything the reader does, this is fiction & unrealistic, stay safe), creampie, biting, smoking,

➤ author's note: i was thinking about this man all night, i’m not kidding, i’m doing it again tongiht too because he’s so fine idc if he’s evil, i wanna fuck him not fix him

it’s nearly four in the morning on another cold winter’s night with nothing but a yellow-tinted bedside lamp illuminating the room, completely silent aside from the rustling of the blanket from your movement. you sigh softly and nestle closer to the man lying flat on his back for more of the addicting warmth radiating off his body, your face nuzzling into the crook of his shoulder and your legs entangling with his. he doesn’t pull away like you expected him to, just takes another drag on his cigarette and ignores you for the most part with the weight of the past few hours— the weight of the sins he committed tonight— pressing into his mind.

you, on the other hand, were all soft smiles and feeling content as if you just crossed off an accomplishment on the top of your bucket list. for a situation that could ruin both of your lives if discovered, it certainly feels blissful and freeing to finally fuck the man you’ve been dreaming about almost religiously ever since you came back home from university for the holidays a week ago. you have no idea how you’ve never met him until now when you’ve heard so much about him, but perhaps it was better that way when your thoughts were less than innocent.

despite being middle-aged, he was still very handsome with intelligent albeit weary eyes which seemed to hide some sort of darkness to them. you found yourself studying him from afar, noticing him not wearing a wedding ring and making no mention of a family other than his mother, so you quickly made up your mind that you were going to fuck him before going back to school. it’s not like you had anything better to do anyway.

it actually didn’t take much to seduce him surprisingly: accidental eye contact filled with longing, lingering touches when you handed him his chilled cheap beer, careful actions and words to play up your sex appeal— it reminded you that most men are the same even if the stoic cho sang-woo was older and prided himself in his cunning mind, starved for affection with wandering eyes that frequently followed beneath the hem of your skirt. he looked at you behind his glasses with distrust and tried to act indifferent towards you in front of gi-hun, probably already suspicious about your intentions, but you could already see him drinking up your appearance in your cute little outfit as he downed another bottle. this little game was one you knew well and you always won in the end, there has yet to be anyone you wanted who couldn’t resist you and he certainly wasn’t going to be the first.

he stayed the night in the guest bedroom because it was already dark out, your former room which was converted after you moved out (sometimes it was rented out for extra cash), and at the strike of midnight, you knocked on the door and presented yourself to him seeking his comfort for an unspecified reason with slightly teary doe eyes. it was clear that you didn’t disturb him from his slumber and that he was already awake, visibly restless, and maybe even stressed. it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what was bothering him so much. he was hesitant to let you in at first, as any good man would, but his resolve crumbled after seeing how beautiful you looked in the dim light (not like it wasn’t already a breeze away from collapsing after the alcohol). it’s surprising what a little silk nightgown can do with the thin straps threatening to slip off your shoulders, the short hem revealing your soft thighs, your perk nipples straining through the thin fabric, and how small and vulnerable you looked shivering in your lack of clothes.

“you shouldn’t be here at this time.”

“are you going to turn me away?”

still, even if it all went according to plan, he’s not in love with you. you don’t think he is anyway. you don’t expect him to be. would you like him to be in love with you? it might put the aching loneliness at ease even if it won’t make it disappear entirely. he’s a man old enough to be your father after all, he’s a man who grew up with your father and considered him to be a close friend. is this how you thank your father for taking you in and sharing what little he had with you? by seducing and sleeping with his best friend?

in all honestly, though, he certainly fucked like he was in love with you— like you two were the last two souls on this earth. he was a lot more pent up than you anticipated, or a lot more lonely, trusting into you so deeply one would think he was trying to reach your empty heart as you clawed at his back leaving red rivers of scratched skin. you barely even needed any prep for his size with how soaked you were, evident with a wet patch on your underwear which he teased before throwing it to be forgotten on the floor along with all your other clothes.

it was difficult to keep the sinful sounds of sex to a minimum, skin against skin with moans slipping from your mouth and groans from his. he had to resort to covering your mouth with his large palm to shut you up and bit into your collarbone leaving his mark on you, finally finishing inside of you in his haze before using his fingers to help you reach your orgasm and embarrassing you for once by staring intently at how the mix of your arousals dripped all over his hand.

“when are you leaving for university?”

“why, are you going to miss me when i’m gone?”

“we shouldn’t be doing this.”

“no one has to know what we do,” you giggled, placing a kiss against the corner of his mouth and inhaling the smoke. “i’m old enough to keep a secret.”

those last words made him pause for a second. this was immoral and forbidden. if seong gi-hun were ever to find out, their relationship would be ruined forever and you would be disowned, and he could only imagine the look of betrayal on his face. yet you didn’t seem to care in the least bit about what he would think, gingerly rubbing your thighs together at the feeling of him leaking out of you and touching the area where he bit you. it drew his attention, finally turning to you and admiring the mark sunken into your skin, looking almost proud of it like art on a clean canvas.

“i don’t want you sleeping with some other stupid boys when you go back.”

“hm, only if you promise that this won’t be the last time and that you also don’t fuck anyone else while i’m gone.”

“you know, i can’t promise that. we were lucky to not get caught this time, but who’s to say there will be a next time?”

“well, then i’ll go back to university and have sex with whoever i want, then you can do the same—”

“oh, shut up,” he scolded, pinching your cheeks to pull you towards him and kissing you possessively as if he could consume you whole by it. you were glad to reciprocate, allowing him to climb back on top of you while your arms wrapped around his neck. “fine, as long as you keep your word.”

he said it like he didn’t really want to continue this, like he was conceding to your demands and was merely tolerating you with better things to do, but the thinly veiled desperate need in his words and actions was clearer than glass to you. not that you minded, it was all working out just how you wanted it to.

#📜. her works #cho sang woo #cho sang woo x reader #cho sang woo smut #squid game #squid game x reader #squid game smut

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cheriecoke · 11 months ago

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౨ৎ ˖ ࣪⊹ SAFEGUARD — dazai, chuuya, akutagawa

summary . . . they save you after you've been injured and captured by an enemy.

contents . . . sfw, f!reader (chuuya & dazai) and gn!reader (akutagawa), violence / blood, threats, injuries, hurt/comfort, angst, established relationship, and it's pmboss!dazai bc i can't help myself — 3.5k total

notes . . . i got this request so long ago lol. not my best work, but i have been in the worst writing slump ever and just wanted to finish something. i've also never written for akutagawa before so pls be nice <3

𝐂𝐇𝐔𝐔𝐘𝐀 . . .

there are very few times that chuuya feels he’s been outsmarted. he knows he’s not the mastermind of the port mafia, but he certainly isn’t a fool. when it comes to you and your well-being, though, his mind short-circuits, half of his intelligence draining away while his emotions take hold.

your relationship isn’t a secret to anyone in the port mafia, which means that it isn’t a secret to your enemies either. and while most people know it’s hard to land a finger on chuuya directly, his pretty little girlfriend doesn’t have the power of a god nestled inside of her.

the rage sparks through him, growing fiercely into the blaze of a forest fire, until all he can think of is getting you home safely. he thinks of your sweet smile as he rips the door of the enemies’ base off the hinges, crushing it into a million pieces with the force of gravity.

the men are quick to react, but chuuya hurtles the crushed door towards them, knocking three of them to their feet. another group charges at him, but their guns do little against his skill. after years of fighting some of the strongest ability users, simple criminal organizations are as easy to step over like ants.

chuuya kills them all — except for one.

the man’s knees are wobbling, hand shaking around the gun as he realizes that these will be his final moments. there is fear in his eyes, brown ones that rest wide open, and chuuya almost hesitates. his remorse doesn’t last long, though, before he’s wrapping a hand around the man’s throat, thrusting him backwards.

“where is she?” chuuya asks, voice sharp and commanding.

he can feel the man swallowing.

chuuya knows that backup is probably on the way, but it won’t matter whether they show up or not. he’ll crush the rest of his enemies just as he’s crushed the last twenty men. the poor soul in his leather hold seems to know that as well.

“i-i’ll take you to her,” he rasps, dropping his gun to claw at chuuya’s hand.

he drops him, lets him take a few heaving breaths and coughs, before he’s kicking at him, forcing him back to his feet.

the young man takes him up the elevator, weaves him through a hallway as chuuya leaves a scattering of bodies in his wake, not hesitating to kill a single man that gets in his way. there is nothing that can keep him from you.

how fiercely and loyally he loves you — it drives him to near insanity.

finally, with blood coating his face and his clothes, the young man enters a room, locked with a code, revealing you.

chuuya’s rage is almost as blinding as his corruption, as he gazes at the sight of you. bloodied and bruised, tied up in a chair, so visibly harmed. his hands clench into fists. “get the fuck away from her,” he says to the man who seems to be monitoring you.

“what are you doing in here?” the men left in the room panic, but they don’t have time to react before chuuya throws them back at the wall, so quickly, with so much force, that their spines snap. they hit it with a sharp crack, skulls shattering against the plaster, the wall crushing beneath the weight of them.

limply, they fall to the floor.

chuuya rushes over to you.

the young man that led him here disappears, but chuuya isn’t worried about him. he’s a coward; he’ll likely flee from the country and never look back. the men that truly hurt you are already dead, and he’ll burn this building to the ground once he’s gotten you away from it.

“hey,” chuuya says, cradling your cheeks gently, trying to coax you back awake. he’s not sure if it’s exhaustion, blood loss, or the obvious head trauma that caused you to pass out in the first place. but you’re still breathing, so he counts that as a blessing.

“hey,” he whispers again, kissing your forehead, like it will heal all your ailments. “wake up, baby. we gotta get you out of here, okay?”

it takes you a few seconds to come to, eyes glazed over and shell-shocked as you blink at him. “chuuya?” you say; your voice is so hoarse it makes chuuya want to keel over and vomit. “is it really you?”

guilt gnaws at him, almost crushing, at the fact that thirty-six hours passed, and you’re delirious enough not to recognize him. you probably haven’t eaten, either.

he should’ve been there. no one should’ve ever had the chance to hurt you, yet…

“it’s me, i’m here,” he says, kissing your lips, your temple, brushing your hair away from your face. the strands are sticky with blood. “shit,” chuuya nearly shouts, pulling a knife from his pocket, sawing through the thick ropes around you as quickly as he can. “i’m so sorry, i’m so sorry.”

he can’t get you free fast enough, and you smile at him, drowsy, your eyes fluttering shut once more. “it’s okay, chuuya,” you say, leaning your head on his shoulder. “you’re here now.”

“you have to stay awake,” he says desperately, realizing your head is still bleeding. he doesn’t know how hurt you are. chuuya’s no expert when it comes to medicine, but he’s smart enough to know that internal injuries could be even worse than the external ones.

“stay awake for me, okay, honey? i’ll get you back to the boss and we’ll find you a doctor. you’ll be just fine.”

“okay, chuuya,” you hum, weakly gripping his back. seconds of silence pass before you mutter, “i just want to go home.”

"i know." his heart pulls, and he almost lets out a cracked sob. but he refrains, knowing that there is plenty of time to drown in his sorrows later.

finally, he gets the ropes under, lifting you from the chair. you’re so much lighter, weaker, and it makes him sick as he carries you. “let’s get you home.”

𝐀𝐊𝐔𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐖𝐀. . .

the call comes just as akutagawa is getting ready to head home for the evening, his tasks completed, eyes heavy with exhaustion.

normally, he doesn’t stick around to say any goodbyes, sneaking off into the darkness of the night like a shadow, blending right in. but, something about the evening, so gloomy and drizzly with spring rain, feels off.

with a heavy knot in his chest, so much different than an incoming fit of coughs, akutagawa heads back up to mori’s office, if perhaps to only ensure that everyone else’s jobs had been completed. he’s a lot of things, but he’s never been a slacker; and he’ll do what it takes to ensure that his position in the mafia is eternally secure.

though, he doesn’t have the opportunity to get all the way upstairs before he run into the boss, who is calm, but with an air of irritation clouding him.

he explains the current situation to akutagawa in a clipped tone, bored — an enemy group has kidnapped you, holding you hostage.

“how rude is it to bother a man, just as he is getting ready to go to sleep?” mori says, sighing histrionically.

but what is a minor inconvenience to mori sends an entire wave of dread through akutagawa, his entire body feeling as if it’s been dipped in ice. he can’t explain the horror that washes over him, not really, because he shouldn’t feel so panicked. it is rare for him to get worked up about the danger his subordinates find themselves in, save for his sister, of course.

but you… you’re different.

“can i trust you to diffuse the situation?” mori asks, impatiently glancing at his watch as if that will change anything. “i can call someone else, but they will not be so quick.”

akutagawa doesn’t even think before he accepts the job, hating the way he sounds pathetically desperate for more details. his hands flatten the edge of his cloak, as if his ability is going to take on a mind of its own.

he calls for a driver, calm but breathing so heavily that an aching cough rises up in him. his throat feels as if it may begin to bleed, but he swallows, glances away from the driver and gets himself under control.

there’s a ransom — bring them the money and they’ll return you, mori had told him. you’re only a lower ranking member of the mafia, and someone that makes for a pretty poor bargaining chip, so the motive is questionable.

mori probably would’ve let you die, akutagawa knows, his teeth gritting together, so much so that a splintering sound comes from it. but the boss, in his infinite, concerning wisdom, seems to also know that his loyal dog has an soft spot for you.

as regrettable as that may be.

akutagawa has no doubt that whoever the enemy is, they are no match for him. still, a twinge of anxiety settles in his stomach, fingers jittery as the driver, despite the decreased traffic of the hour, seems to drive impossibly slow.

“are we not in a rush?” akutagawa snaps, leaning forward.

“apologies,” the driver, says, not daring to even look at akutagawa from the mirror. but the car speeds up, enough for akutagawa to be able to notice, at least. it cools the simmer that has already begun deep in his chest.

even so, the car seems to go at a snails pace, minute upon minute flying by, with you in the clutches of an enemy.

akutagawa doesn’t care who they are. he doesn’t care why, or how they captured you. he wants them dead. he’ll rip them apart, easily, and he’ll make them suffer — they’ll be alive for all of it, for every second that he peels the skin from their bones, ripping the smaller ones out of their sockets.

what he feels for you… well, it’s too hard for him to admit to himself. he has no experience with what it means to care for another person, doesn’t even know if that’s his goal. he just knows he wants to protect you.

and he can’t do that if you’re dead.

finally, the car pulls up to an old warehouse, one at the very outskirts of the port, beyond the docks and the shipping carts. it’s tucked far back, an obvious lair for some villainous organization that doesn’t want to be found.

akutagawa gets there, but there is nothing. he hears nothing, feels no signs of life as he trudges through the puddles left behind from the earlier rain.

a small string of panic begins again, as he wondered if maybe the call that mori had told him was only a ruse. maybe this entire time had been a distraction, a way to lure him away. there are other skill-users in the mafia, but none quite as dangerous as him.

though, he hears it, then. a small little sound, muffled and hoarse, full of pain.

he ducks into another corner of a warehouse, and you’re there — bound with chains and a gag across your mouth, one of your eyes blackened with bruises, your nose bleeding.

his heart aches. never in his life has he so quickly made his way over, used the sharp edges of his ability to shear through the chains, falling to his knees as he unbinds the cloth from your lips.

“where are they?” he rasps, mouth opening and closing, hating the sound of his own voice. he recognizes his desperation, his anger, but the affectionate sound that clips at the end is unfamiliar, as he shakily pulls himself closer to you.

you glance up at him, eyes glossy and wide, and though you are scared, hurt, he’s so thankful you are alive. his heart flips once, as you grasp at his cloak, the material that has the blood of so many staining the threads.

“gone,” you say, throat chalky, words nothing more than a note against the wind. “they fled when they heard it was you coming.”

“and left you?” he asks, jaw clenching, as he hopes that the emotions aren’t as visible on his features as he thinks they are. “were you not a ransom?”

“no,” you swallow, hard, as if in pain. he notices bruises around your neck, the shape of fingerprints indented there. “i was bait.”

anger rises up in him like a wave, engulfing him, wholly and relentlessly. he is no stranger to that, like he is the kindness you show him, the way you look at him as if he is your protector, rather than a bringer of destruction. “i’ll go after them. where are they headed? they’ll pay, i’ll slaughter—”

“ryunosuke,” you say, reaching for him as he stands, expression pleading as he backs away. “stay.”

he has half a mind to ignore you — the enemy escaped, after all. but your voice. your eyes… you look so small sitting there, bloodied and bruised and broken.

“please,” you try again, near tears, and though he has never been good with obvious displays of emotion, something within him snaps at the desperation in the word.

he nods, slowing his pace as he returns to you, lets you wrap yourself in him, cling to him. his hands fall, naturally, to your waist, somehow knowing where they belong, even if akutagawa never has a clue what he’s doing with you.

“i’ll call hirotsu,” he says simply, before pulling out his phone, not bothering to untangle himself from you.

𝐃𝐀𝐙𝐀𝐈 . . .

dazai is not a forgiving man, and will never learn to be. forgiveness is not a luxury he is often able to indulge in in his line of work, and his heart has hardened enough that until the end of time, those that are branded his enemies will remain his enemies.

though, in his blackened heart, one soured over the course of time, you have carved out your own little space, lit it up with golden rays of light that are fiery enough to melt the stone casing of his chest.

his only love — his only weakness. but it is a weakness that his enemies know about as well.

dazai tries his best to keep you safe. he always has, and he knows that, sometimes, his grasp on you can be a little too tight. that the way he tries to keep you under his watchful eye can sometimes be stifling, frustrating.

but he can’t always be there to protect you. and it is in times like these, that he regrets letting you go without a bodyguard. he regrets that he listened to your insistence that you could keep yourself safe.

he should’ve at least told you to take a friend.

“boss,” his subordinate says, bowing his head, his voice pleading, desperate. “i’m so sorry. your wife—”

“if anything… anything happens to her, you will be the one responsible, do you understand?” dazai says, his eyes cold as he glowers down at the man, only a few inches shorter than him, but feeling so much smaller. “i will personally see that this act does not go unpunished.”

“of course, sir,” the man says, and he, at the very least, has the decency to sound resigned. to accept his fate and suffer the consequences, for allowing the boss’s wife to get herself into such a situation.

and dazai means it, every last word; if he finds you in a state closer to death, anyone who put you in harm’s way will be torn apart from the inside out. he isn’t able to think of anything but bringing you home safely, his hands shaking with rage as he sends more than enough people out on a search to find you.

with all the strings he’s able to pull as the mafia boss, it doesn’t take long to find you, for those that have bravely — or stupidly — used his wife as bait to come forward, and offer an attempt at some sort of negotiation.

there’s little of the conversation that dazai remembers on the phone, even less that he remembers after that. the anger bubbles up in him and grabs hold of his conscience, the emotion directing his movements with a mind of its own.

he’s already sent out every last one of his people into the field, ensuring that the organization that had the gall to threaten you is wiped off the face of the earth. deleted from every corner of the world, buildings flattened to the ground. by tomorrow, they won’t have ever existed.

today, he doesn’t care what happens as long as he finds you alive.

you’re held hostage by two men — so completely beaten that they’ve given up on any restraints. whatever they wanted from you, you seemed to refused to have given up, lip bleeding, eyes swelling so badly that you can’t even open them.

dazai doesn’t hesitate before pulling the trigger on the first man, then turning to the other, shooting the hand that holds the pistol. the man recoils, shouts, and drops the weapon completely, as dazai lands another bullet to his knee, causing him to fall.

slowly, dazai walks up, firing again to his other arm, a loud snap echoing throughout the room. the man winces, trying to crawl to the gun, one last desperate attempt to stay alive.

he kicks the gun away, watching, as, pathetically, the expression in the enemy’s face changes — any of his remaining hope vanishes.

“you told me she was unharmed,” dazai says, bending down, his coat flaring out behind him as he squats.

the man coughs, gasping for air as the blood seeps out of him. “we lied.” he smiles cruelly, and though he shares the same sort of darkness as those in the port mafia, there is something even more twisted in his smile.

dazai hums. “you the leader?”

the man doesn’t give an answer, but the slight twitch of surprise on his face is all dazai needs. he’s no one — just a grunt whose life was put on the line to guard you.

“didn’t think so.” dazai shoots him once, straight through the forehead, instantly killing him. but he is vindictive, angry, and the man he truly wants to destroy, the one who took you, is nowhere to be found. another bullet lands, tearing apart the flesh of his temple, then another, and one more, his skull beginning to cave in from the force of it all.

dazai heaves, letting the gun clatter to the ground as it runs out of bullets, and then he realizes, all this time, you’ve just been watching him. the ugliest side of him — the worst side of him.

you’re no stranger to it, of course. how can you be, when you’ve shared a life with him for years? but that doesn’t mean he wants you to see it, see how bloodthirsty he can become.

he stumbles over to you, where you’re still sitting on the ground, your wrist in your lap, bent at an angle that he knows isn’t right. bruises are littered across your skin, and your hair is matted from the blood that pools at your temple.

it takes every ounce of restraint he has to stay calm, a million feelings swirling under his skin. ones that he was never familiar with until he met you.

“i’m sorry,” he says, taking your face in his hands so, so softly, worried that he’ll hurt you even more. “i’m sorry, darling. i should’ve — i should’ve been there.” dazai notices his hands are shaking and he balls them up into fists, leaning back. “fuck. fuck — i’ll kill them all, just tell me who it was. anyone who laid a finger on you. i’ll cut them down one by one.”

“osamu,” you say, and your voice is raspy, cracking, as your unbroken arm reaches for him, squeezing his shaking hand. “i—”

you open your mouth to continue, but only tears come streaming down your cheeks, over your bloodied lips, saltiness soaking your jawline. no words don’t leave you, but a soft sob chokes itself up your throat.

“hey, hey, hey.” dazai’s voice softens, every muscle in his body relaxing as he draws you nearer to him, into his chest with a touch that’s barely there. “you’re safe. i’m here, okay? they’re not going to hurt you again, sweetheart.”

you sniffle, barely making a sound, but he can feel the tears drop onto his clothes, soaking the material.

“can you walk? are you hurt anywhere else?”

you hesitate for a moment before answering; he’s not sure if there’s a reason you only answer the first question. “i can walk.”

dazai nods, and though the rage is still bubbling there, underneath the surface, there is a coolant streaming through him at the vision of you alive. the men who did this will pay the price, but he still has you — and that’s all that matters.

thank you for reading !!! ❤︎

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bet-on-me-13 · 6 months ago

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Lex is Vlad reincarnated

So! Lex Luther, the greatest person to ever exist, had recently made a discovery.

A few weeks ago, a Cult of moronic simpletons had managed to kidnap him. Him! All for some stupid Demonic ritual where they sacrifice the wealthiest man they could find in return for something meaningless like "No More Poverty" or "No More Starvation".

He had survived, of course, and was unfortunately save by Supermoron.

But before the Man of Steel had busted in, he overheard something from the Cultists. Apparently they had chosen him for more than just his wealth, there was something more about his Soul that they were after. It felt "Divine", as if he had the soul of a God stuffed in a Mortal's body.

And obviously it must be correct. He was already the most intelligent man in the world, One of the wealthiest, and held more political power than any single man on the planet, so of course "God in disguise" was the next logical addition to that List.

Over the next few weeks he studied and prepared.

He needed to make sure that his efforts would be rewarded, that those Cultists had been correct about him despite their idiocy.

After buying up as many Magical Artifacts as he could related to Identity and Soul, he tested himself on Each and Every One. And Lo and Behold, he is truly a God.

Well, the Reincarnation of One. Apparently this was common in immortal beings such as himself, reincarnating themselves into mortal bodies as a sort of Vacation from their Duties. All he needed to do now was find a way to regain his Memories and Power without dying, and he would truly become a God On Earth.

A few more weeks of Preparation, and he was ready.

Apparently the Manchild of Steel had caught onto his plan in that time. His Ego probably couldn't bear another God living in the same City as himself, so he tried to stop Lex's plans of Ascension. Thankfully, in his research he had discovered his Rival's vulnerability to Magical Attacks, and set up countermeasures for him and his Breakfast Club should they attempt to interfere.

He stepped into the Ritual Circle, and began his Ascension to Godhood.

Try as they might, the League could not foil his plans this time. The Ritual Circle lit up with a sickly green light, and expanded to cover his entire body. The Ritual began to finally complete itself.

He had Won.

...

Oh.

...

Vlad stood at the center of the circle for a few moments. He took in all his Memories of his most recent Life, and Facepalmed so hard he was sure The Badger heard it back in the Realms.

Ten Tousand Years of Therapy specifically to curb his egotistical tendencies, and That is how he decides to spend his most recent Life? Acting as a Billionare Supervillain attacking a well meaning Hero for nothing less than Ego?! He even Cloned them!? Had he learned NOTHING!?!?

"Careful Team, we don't know how powerful he is now." He heard his current Nemesis say.

Oh right...they were still there.

He didn't really feel like explaining everything to them, and he technically still had about 40 years left on his Vacation...

He simply turned his back to them, flew back to his Mansion, turned back into his Human Form, and set about his Day. Maybe he could right a few of the wrongs he had done on this life?

It would certainly throw his current Nemesis for a loop. And while he may not Hate him anymore, he definitely still liked to Mess with him.

Maybe this would be more entertaining than he thought?

#Dpxdc #Dp x dc #Dcxdp #Dc x dp #Danny Phantom #Dc #Dcu #Vlad is Lex #Vlad reincarnated as Lex #He is absolutely embarrassed at how egotistical he was in this life #He is still just as Dramatic as Lex #But now he is doing it for good reasons #He likes to mess with Superman a lot because he still has some time on his Vacation #He pays for a Statue to commemorate Superman #He has an Interview where he fully supports Superman with his favorite Journalist Clark Kent #He even starts sending Child Support to Superman #He basically just goes back to living as Lex but without the Massive Ego #Also better morals but just barely #Superman is tearing his hair out trying to figure out his Angle #He succeeded in becoming a God #And then he just went back fo life as normal but less Evil?#The Lex he knew would never do that #He must be planning something #Maybe #Surely he must be right?

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hairmetal666 · 3 months ago

Text

Eddie's still a couple miles from home when the van dies. The engine gives a few pitiful putters before groaning and rolling to a definitive stop. He drops his head to the steering wheel, letting out a groan of his own.

He was at the Hideout, it's like 1am, and he can't sleep out in the van, not after last time, when Powell found him.

He's walking home. The shortest route is to cut through the woods, which he hates, but the moon is out and there's still some leftover late-August mugginess in the air, so it's fine. It's fine. Not like there's anything to be scared of in the forests of Hawkins, Indiana.

He's close to home when he trips on an exposed root, scrapes his hand against the sticks and rocks on the forest floor.

"Fuck, shit," he mutters. In the weak light of the moon, he sees the gleaming red seeping from the cut on his palm. It stings. He swipes it on his jeans, keeps going.

The nature sounds go quiet all at once, like someone turned them off, and goosebumps raise on the back of his neck.

Further into the woods, off to his left, something lets out a high-pitched chitter, nothing like he's ever heard before. His heart rate skyrockets, feet moving faster now. There's a flashlight in the van he wishes he thought to bring with him; why hadn't he grabbed it?

He hears the snap and crackle of branches and dead leaves under heavy feet, the crashing through the woods growing louder as the thing moves closer. In the dark of the trees he sees a massive, hulking shape, certainly not human, running straight at him.

Eddie stumbles back--

A dark shape leaps from the woods to his right, a strangled scream slips from his throat but--

It's a...dog?

That doesn't make sense, it's too big, too--

It positions itself in front of Eddie, thick growl rumbling straight through his bones.

This close, he can see that it's a wolf, but that's wrong too. There aren't wolves in Indiana, and it's still too big, bigger than any wolf he's ever seen on Wild Kingdom.

It snarls, creeps towards the other creature still lurking between the trees.

He's terrified to move, to get the attention of either of these things, but then the wolf turns, illuminated in the moon glow. Its coat is thick, chestnut and light brown. Its eyes are bright hazel with flecks of gold, clear and intelligent. His stomach swoops, but not with fear.

It whips its attention away, but it's pressing against him, pushing him back towards civilization.

A fleshy, wet humanoid leg emerges from the tree line and the wolf makes a terrible noise as it lunges. He takes off running.

His body wasn't made for sprinting, but he keeps going until he reaches the trailer, until he throws himself through the front door. He stays there, leaning against it, until he stops shaking. He needs a joint, like ten of them, needs to forget this night ever happened, because what the fuck.

Later, when he's so high he can't move, he can't stop thinking about the wolf's eyes, that there was something weirdly familiar about them.

The next morning, he hardly remembers any of it.

When he bothers to go to school the next week, Steve Harrington says hi to him, even though they've never spoken before.

He doesn't go back into the woods.

---

Steve keeps saying hi to him, like it's normal for them. Then again, Steve now spends most of his time with this junior from band, Robin Buckley. Anyway, who the hell knows what's normal anymore.

There's this one night in early November, he's smoking on the porch, giddy from finishing a song, smiling up at the full moon.

And he's so happy, elated, electrified by creativity, that he forgets about the woods, finds himself staring right into them.

A pair of golden eyes stare back.

He's not afraid.

That same swooping sensation from before grips his stomach, doesn't let up.

The wolf steps forward, not out of the trees, just closer. Without thought, he mimics the move.

There's a soft rustle of brush and the eyes blink out. Eddie keeps staring, transfixed. His heart's speeding but not with fear.

---

By January, he's actual, real life friends with Steve Harrington. They're hanging out like that's a regular thing they do. He supposes, by now, it is.

He also meets the gaggle of eighth graders that follow Harrington around like ducklings. When they find out he runs a dnd club, they become obsessed with him too.

He doesn't see the wolf again.

---

Eventually, he forgets all about why he's supposed to avoid the woods.

He plans a deal at Skull Rock, thoughtless, and once he's there he's not scared at all. The sun is high in the sky, the air warm, birds swoop and sing and insects chirp.

Eddie clamors up the rock, pulls his notebook and a pen out of his back pocket.

He only means to stay for a little bit, maybe an hour or two, but it's so nice out, and you can't really blame a guy if his eyes get a little heavy. If maybe he doesn't quite try to fight the urge to sleep.

When he wakes up, it's full dark.

The moon is out, stars bright, but the birds are gone and so is the heat of the day. He shivers, and it's got very little to do with the cold. If he runs, he can make it back to the van in five minutes, probably less.

A creeping chitter crackles through the air and the night bugs go quiet.

Eddie curls his knees into his chest. He remembers now, why he needed to stay out of the forest.

There's a shadow that separates itself from the cover of the underbrush. It moves in silence, not even a stick or a leaf cracking where it steps. It stops in front of the rock, lips pulled back to reveal long, deadly teeth. It's growling softly.

The wolf.

"I'm sorry," Eddie says. Doesn't know why he's talking to it. "I lost track of time, I--I'm sorry."

The wolf tosses its head, annoyed, and again he's struck by the odd familiarity of the gesture. It turns its attention from him, pacing along the clearing, Its body carefully placed between Eddie and whatever is lurking in the deeper forest.

Hours pass that way, the wolf's focus never faltering even when nothing appears. The sky brightens, and the danger doesn't seem so immediate. The wolf lays down at the base of the rock formation, and Eddie finally lets himself relax too. He falls asleep between one blink and the next.

A bright beam of sunlight hits him just across the eyes, dragging him back to consciousness. There's a hazy second where he doesn't remember anything about where he is or what happened, but it's kind of hard to ignore what sleeping on a big rock does to your body.

He also realizes--he's not alone. There's someone on the rock with him. Someone sturdy and radiating heat, their body nestled tight against his.

Eddie springs up, heart racing, to find--

Steve Harrington. Naked Steve Harrington. Curled up with him on Skull Rock. What the fuck

He thinks he's going to choke on his tongue.

Steve is gorgeous. So fucking hot. All his sun-kissed skin on display, the constellations of freckles and moles, and--god, he's just a little bit hard. And Eddie gets it, okay, he knows it just happens sometimes, but Steve's a little hard, and perfectly pink at the tip, and Eddie--

He pulls the leather jacket from around his own shoulders, places it over Steve's waist, but even though he's careful--gentle--Steve stirs, nose wrinkling.

Eddie draws away, nervous, as Steve blinks to wakefulness, staring right at him.

"Wha--" he wipes the sleep from eyes his and Eddie watches as understanding dawns on Steve's handsome face. "Oh. Fuck."

And Eddie, he's putting it together, he thinks. He thinks--the familiar golden hazel eyes and the annoyed shake of the head and--it's not possible. It's not. But how is Steve here right now? Why is he naked? What reason besides--

"It's you?" He breathes, doesn't even really mean to say it aloud.

Steve gives one sharp nod, looks away.

"You're a werewolf?" Eddie's voice breaks.

"Shu--it's not--I'm--" Steve's shoulders sag. "Yeah, I guess I'm a werewolf."

"Holy shit, Steve. Holy. Shit. Are there more? Jesus Christ."

"I'm the only one that I know of."

"But-- Weren't you bitten? Or--don't tell me--were you born like this?"

"Um. I was bitten by a dog that seemed completely normal. Obviously--" he gestures to himself. "Something was going on there. We think--"

"Sorry, we? There's a we?"

"Oh, well, Robin, Nancy, and Jonathan know. So do Dustin and the rest of the kids. Joyce Byers. Hopper--"

"The POLICE CHIEF knows you're a WEREWOLF," Eddie yells. It startles some birds in a nearby tree, making both he and Steve flinch.

Steve's ears go red. "Hop, he's not--not bad. We--he's helped us out a couple times. Um, there's also a doctor? Who knows? He works for the government and he's trying to figure out why I'm, you know."

"What the fuck, Steve. Like. What the fuck? A government doctor knows you're a werewolf?"

"It's um. You've heard the stories about something being wrong with Hawkins?" Eddie nods. "They're not just stories."

It's a lot to take in. That Hawkins really is cursed, that Steve really is a werewolf, that--

"So, that was actually a--a monster? In the woods? And you--you were, what, looking out for me?"

"Well, I wouldn't need to if you stopped going into the goddamn forest!" There's that annoyed head shake.

"I didn't mean to!'

"What about yesterday??"

"I didn't mean to fall asleep!"

"For fuck's sake, Eddie!"

"I'm sorry!" He throws his hands up. "You could've told me there was a monster."

Steve glares. "Yeah, cause that's an easy conversation. 'Hey, Ed, just so you know, monsters are real. I'm kinda one of them. And some of them in the woods around Hawkins want to eat you'."

"It would've been helpful! And that night, at the trailer, you were--?"

"Making sure you were okay."

"But. Why?"

"Don't you feel it?"

And Eddie doesn't even have to ask what it is. "Yeah, I--yeah."

Their eyes lock and his stomach goes all warm and swoopy. Eddie forces a laugh, forces himself to look away. "So, being a werewolf made you gay?"

Steve coughs out a choked sound. "No, I--no. I was--before."

Honestly, this information is more shocking than Steve being a werewolf. "But--King Steve. All those girls?"

"Robin thinks I was--um--what's it called? Like using that to avoid that I'm also attracted to, you know, dudes. "

"And--it's--Sorry, but this is insane. It's me? That you like?"

Steve laughs. "Why is it easer to believe that I'm a werewolf?"

"I don't--I guess it's cause I've seen you as a werewolf."

"To be fair, you've also seen me, who is gay."

"That's--that's--" Eddie splutters. "Fair."

"Do you remember performing in that talent show?" Steve asks.

"In junior high? Yeah."

"I thought you were really--you did a good job."

"Oh. You--huh." Eddie hides his face in his hands, tries to smother the laugh, but it's impossible.

"Don't--" Steve shoves at him, "Don't laugh! I--you were cute! Goofy! I thought you had nice hands!"

"That's all it takes?" He smirks, can't help but be pleased that Steve's had a crush on him all this time, that it's always been mutual.

"You were nice," Steve says. He's serious now. "You were always kind."

He doesn't know what to say to that, how to hide his growing blush. "So, your werewolf senses know that you like me," he teases.

Steve's neck is read now too. "Um. Yeah? I--yeah. Robin says it's fera--feram--that I'm drawn to your scent"

"Oh, pheromones. Oh." And it's all sort of hitting him now, that this is real, that Steve--he and Steve--oh. "I, uh, like you too, if that wasn't obvious."

"I know." Steve taps the tip of his nose. "I can smell it."

"That's--oh god--that's. So embarrassing. All this time??"

"Only this year"

"That doesn't make it better! Oh my god."

"You've got it so bad," Steve sing-songs, pulls Eddie closer.

"I can't believe the werewolf of Hawkins has a supernatural crush on me."

"Werewolf of--no, absolutely not. You are not calling me that." Steve swats at him.

"Oooh, yes, I am." He pushes Steve back.

"Do you know what will happen if Dustin hears that?"

"Unfortunately for you, that's not a deterrent."

"You're going to be so much trouble--" Steve moves to grab him, Eddie's jacket slipping down his torso. "Oh shit, I'm naked."

"You are very much naked." Eddie can't help his wide grin.

"Don't--don't be gross about it."

"Oh, so you think you'd be normal about waking up to the guy you have a massive crush on naked next to you?"

"I--I--" Steve goes crimson. "Shut-up!"

Eddie giggles, leans into him, and Steve twines their fingers together.

"Okay, but let's get out of here? There's only so long I can tolerate being naked sitting on a rock."

They climb down, Eddie valiantly not oogling Steve the entire time.

"So, do you only turn at the full moon? Does it hurt? How did everyone find out? You have to tell me about the other monsters. Are there vampires? Is anyone else I know a monster? Oh my god, is Robin a witch?"

Steve sighs, can't quite hide the grin pulling at his lips. "I'm not answering all that."

"Steve!"

"I've signed a bunch of NDAs."

"A bunch of--what the hell? Steve! You can't just--"

Steve grabs his hands, squeezes. "I'll tell you. All of it. Promise. Just, not right now?"

Eddie bites his lip in thought, tries not to notice Steve staring at his mouth. "Ugh, fine. But I won't forget you owe me explanations. Plural!"

"Yeah, yeah." Steve rolls his eyes, tugs Eddie forward.

They walk a few steps in silence before Eddie belts out, "Aroooooo, werewolves of Hawkins!" before taking off through the trees.

"Eddie, seriously?" Steve calls after him, only to be met by the echo of his laughter. "Are you really trying to outrun a werewolf right now? I mean, honestly."

"Catch me if you can, sweetheart."

Steve's laugh is a little bit like a bark as he starts to chase.

#steddie #steve x eddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #ficlet #but long tho #fluff #mutual pining #werewolf steve harrington #protective steve harrington #oblivious eddie munson #banter #coming out #flirting #getting together #scenting #eddie keeps wandering into the forest and encountering demogorgons #steve becomes a werewolf cause he's bitten by a dog infected by the upside down #werewolf of hawkins

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occamstfs · 5 days ago

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Court Ordered Change

Cyrus has long tormented those he sees as beneath him, his students, his roommates, just about anyone. When he's challenged by the university Honor Council he'll learn to treat others with decency whether he wants to or not.

Standard asshole academic to hairy himbo! Hope you enjoy! -Occam

“This will conclude the hearing on the behavior of Cyrus Washington towards his fellow dorm-mates.”

Cyrus was aghast, from the start he had been livid at being called to the honor council on drummed up charges that are purely non-academic. He’s got his second degree to work on, and just as those brutes in his classes do every day, the people he’s supposed to trust for help have simply wasted his already limited time. In a huff, Cyrus checks his watch and impatiently stands to leave.

He is stopped by the gavel-handed bureaucrat sitting at the head of the council raising a finger as he tilts his head, “Oops! Nownow Mr. Washington, there remains sentencing! I believe it would be prudent-”

“Oh what? Do I have to say I’m sorry!? Do you assh- judges not have anything better to do than waste the time of an actual student? You know there’s an AI Plagiarism epidemic right now so if you, uhm.” Cyrus freezes as he turns to see the man indifferently taking in his words, staring straight through him. Smiling wider than could possibly be comfortable, Cyrus catches the slightest lip twitch before he speaks up once more.

“I believe it would be prudent for you to walk a mile in the shoes of those you so denigrate Mr. Washington. As your roommate Reg suggests, you do not know the ‘struggle.’” Cyrus grimaces hearing the pallid, still-grinning man say his roommate’s name. As if it were alien in his mouth. He hammers his gavel and his pale eyes lock in on Cyrus directly. He swears he can feel heat from the gaze as the freak finishes his sentencing, “The court sees fit to force you to change as you clearly will not better your behavior of your own volition.”

The academic glances between the people sitting at the table ahead of him, force? He tries to speak up but is unable as the central judge continues, “Each further step you take on the path of belittling your fellow man, demeaning his intelligence, judging his appearance, insulting the core of his being. You will find yourself more than a step closer to joining him yourself. And with that, we adjourn this meeting of the Honor Council.”

Cyrus sneers, the honor council. A bunch of good-for-nothing little tyrants. They certainly never responded to the reports he’s levied against handfuls of students plagiarizing in his classes but when Reg Allen can’t take half the shit he gives Cyrus suddenly the world comes grinding to a halt. That, that oaf!

As soon as the thought takes pride of place in Cyrus’ mind it becomes irrevocably clear that the council was not being fanciful. He didn’t see them leave but they are suddenly gone. He does not know what they did but he feels it in his bones, intense pressure and throbbing. Cyrus could feel himself begin to change.

Perpetually thin from skipping meals to lead discussion groups and grade essays on top of his own research, Cyrus feels something novel. Not usually that sweaty of a person, he wipes his brow with his sleeve and notices how it catches just short. He feels his thin bony arm somehow straining a sleeve that has always hung limp, as every garment has to do on his slack shoulders and frail arms.

The academic grimaces as he clearly sees not-quite-biceps for the first time ever, begin to fill his sleeves. Cyrus feels them slowly throb larger through layers of clothing as he runs the numbers on reality. Sticky with sweat he quickly disrobes from the suit jacket and runs into the bathroom. This could well be a nightmare, staring at his reflection he sees his curls lengthening, growing thicker as they fall down the back of his neck.

His lip twitches in disdain as they crest towards his shoulders. He shakes his head to focus and is immediately distracted, feeling his hair bounce lower. The words of the honor council echo through his head, they said they’d force him to change. These steps do not seem to be taken in that direction. An image of Reggie flickers in his mind and he is filled with irritation that the brute has any place in his subconscious, or whatever this wretched dream is.

Reflexively his new heavier arm goes to smack down on the porcelain sink he stands at. His brow furrows as he sees the meatier hand act so aggressively, as if he weren’t controlling it. His already thicker arms bulge and finally begin to send tears down the length of his ironed button-up. In between them he sees buttons beginning to strain and dark nipples poking out from the fabric as for the first time in his life there is something akin to definition on his chest.

Hastily he tears open the button up and gasps as he sees small pecs hanging on his thin chest, pushing larger with each increasingly anxious breath. Mouth open in shock he sees a shadow appear on his face and his eyes darken as his perpetually clean shaven face is darkened by a meager mustache goatee combo that he would never be caught dead having.

As trimmed pubes begin trailing up towards his belly button, across a waist that has grown thicker but remained lithe, Cyrus can’t help but feel up his new form. His torso is slick with sweat and feverishly warm against his wider hands. Letting himself enjoy this bizarre dream, feeling himself start to chub up, in the corner of his eye he sees his expression dull. Just before he can bite his lip, Cyrus alights with rage as he recognizes the dumb look on his face. “God! This is all Reg’s fault!”

He will not find any pleasure in this clumsy inelegant form. He will not waste time working on biases that he has every right to have. The athletes in his university housing and dullards whose work he has the misfortune of grading are in fact not going to revive the benefit of the doubt. He pictures them sailing through life, imagining opportunities tossed at their feet due to their appearance or athletic abilities.

Jaw clenched hard enough to crack a tooth, he grunts in pain as it cramps. Feeling real pain he rubs his chin and ignores the feeling of more stubble growing underneath his fingertips. Wanting control of his dreamscape he imagines a chair behind him and petulantly crosses his arms as he goes to sit. This is of course, not a dream and he falls on his ass.

Grunting in pain he lands on glutes that have already begun to put on healthy weight. His dress pants tear from his vain attempt to catch himself and his crotch is freed to the open air as thick thighs send tears coursing down the length of his heavy legs.

Cyrus reaches up to the sink to pull himself up, frowning at the dark hair that stretches down from his wrists. Until now he’s never even had to be concerned with body hair at all, let alone shaving. He’s been happily almost hairless for as long as he can remember. Feeling the wet jungle in his pits scratch his side as he pulls himself up he clicks his younger as this is apparently no longer to be the case.

In front of the mirror once more, his half-acceptance of his hairy pits and a paltry treasure trail immediately fades as he sees hair has spread far beyond these realms. Fertilized by the sweat still dripping down every inch of bare skin, his body has continued to grow, and with it comes a forest of thick dark curls. Like a trail of gunpowder, his pubes have steadily raced up his torso and now connect with an explosion of tight curls in the center of his chest. His thicker nipples are haloed by hair while the center of his chest is buried by still racing branches of curls.

Scratching at his itchy skin as in every corner of his growing body new forests of hair continue to sprout. Cyrus once more tries to mute the chaos of his changing mind. Rubbing his burning chin in thought as his small goatee puffs out and connects with his mustache, he desperately tries to ignore how the sound of it scratching and crunching makes him feel. Chest both anxiously hollow and full of pride as it continues to pile on weight, he resolutely stares at his reflection.

Somewhere in the recesses of his increasingly foggy mind he finally realizes how changes seem to accelerate whenever thoughts of his obnoxious roommate take the wheel. Point in case as he crosses Cyrus’ mind once more he bursts larger. The man barely catches himself as he falls to the sink once more, weighed down by his entire upper body expanding at once. Had he taken any of the council’s words to heart perhaps he would realize that it’s clearly only when he digs at the man, but wont to blame anything but himself that seems a bridge too far.

Looking decidedly athletic, as his shaky eyes take in his reflection and his quivering lips label him a mouth-breather evermore, what may be his last saving grace flows through his mind. He looks so fucking good, sure a little like Reg, a little like men he’s sure couldn’t stumble their way through a thesis. But he looks good. His eyes lose focus again as his fingertips dance across his muscled form. Imagining how good he’ll be in bed he’s halfway to drooling when he hears Reg’s voice in his mind, “Brooo let’s hit up the town!” The man’s face is clearer than his own reflection as Reg leans in closer than Cyrus could ever remember letting him, “Bout time we see if we can get a third like you wanted eh?”

The words that cannot be a memory strike him like a tackle, his attention is red hot as blush burns across his sweaty face. He tries to speak but finds his throat dry. Mind struggling to mediate between the two egos now inhabiting him, and filled with a thirst too great to ignore, he forces his head under the faucet and drinks from this public restroom sink. Shooting back up he has to fight the urge to punch his reflection as he sees red. Water dripping down his goatee he sneers and almost shouts, “I am not like him.”

It echoes throughout the tiled room, sounding deeper as it returns, making the already sunken slow bass of his voice even lower. He swallows hard as an Adam’s apple bulges out if his neck underneath stubble that has begun to thicken on his neck and up his cheeks. “I’m not fucking like him! He’s so-” Cyrus hunts for an insult derogatory enough to suit his needs and comes up short. “He’s such- he’s so–” His hands shake with rage as they grow clumsier, arms hanging lower and biceps bulging larger with each anger-clouded heart beat and struggled breath.

Curls that once sat atop his head and hung down his neck begin to retract as with each refrain of I’m not like him, and each half-created thought of insult towards Reggie only compounds the fact that he is now more like him. His hair retracts and forces itself into a generic haircut almost exactly like that on Reg’s head. His mustache and goatee expand into a full beard that hugs his jaw as it too squares out. Body sculpted beyond belief, painted with hair that Cyrus has long denigrated, the once mousy academic finally realizes that this is all his own doing.

Watching his hair seem to straighten as his eyes lose the intelligence he has long held above all else, Cyrus tries to speak up too late to make a difference. And just then his cock bursts his shorts. He moans loudly in the bathroom as his briefs fall to the floor, exposing a mass of curls surrounding a cock harder than it’s ever been before. Standing out straight it smears pre across the porcelain sink before dripping even more onto the tiled floor.

All the fight left in Cyrus drains alongside his haughty sense of self. He feels his balls pulse with a heavy need for release as they hang lower in the open air, staring at his hairy reflection he simply scratches his ass and laughs. The new Cytrus poses in the mirror flexing and quietly moaning as even the slightest movement sends his cock bouncing. Only when he hears the door to the bathroom creak open does he realize he’s standing nude in a public bathroom.

Under his thicker brow his unfocused eyes turn to see what poor or lucky visitor is going to stumble upon this stud. His ajar mouth turns to a smile as he instead hears the mystery guest announce himself who else but Reggie. His bro. “Yo Cy! You in here? Heard from the hammer guy that ya might be?”

Turning to find his roommate with torn clothes scattered at his feet, Reg laughs and makes sure no one else is going to stumble in on him. “Bruhh you can’t be goin’ around like this huhuh,” smile wryer than you might expect on his face as he goes for his bag. “Don’t work though bro, I’ve got some shirts for ya here throw them on.”

Cyrus quickly tosses them on commando and thanks his bro with a degree of kindness that he’d never exercise, even minutes ago. “Shit thanks Reg! Dunno what came over me, guess I just hit the gym too hard or uhhh, somethin?” His thicker brows furrow together as he tries to understand how he ended up in this compromised state. He’s not too worried though, his bro came to help before it was even an issue. Almost as if Reggie knew he’d be here.

Before that line of thought can be followed, if coming to conclusions was something Cyrus even remained capable of, Reggie throws an arm around him. “Ohh kinda sweaty bro aren’t ya?” Cy just laughs and smells his pits. Adjusting his shorts as his cock throbs from such close proximity to Reg, he tries to lean in even closer.

“Let’s get you back to our room huh? Seems like you could do with some rest bro.” Cyrus nods in agreement, eyelids drooping as soon as Reggie puts the idea to words. Despite whatever part he played in all this, with each breath of Cy’s new musk and each stamp towards their shared domicile his mind too begins to change. Cyrus has always been his bro, fuck they even share a bed. Way cheaper to bunk together.

Yeah that’s what it is, the economics of it all. His own jockstrap is strained as he feels the sweaty man burning under his arm. Scratching his beard with his free hand he lets his mind swim. The life shared with his bro quickly usurping the months spent lodging with someone who treats the world as beneath him.

By the time they’ve made it back to their suite Cy’s already half asleep. Reggie deposits the sweaty man face down onto their bed and he immediately begins snoring. The bed creaks as his changes come to their conclusion, growing heavier as he becomes the perfect complement to his roommate. Then he sets about his day as always, not quite noticing how the world around him has changed. Pictures on the wall now showing him and Cyrus together, of course, as they always have been.

The thought, ‘it’s better this way’ briefly crosses Reggie’s mind but he promptly shakes it off. No idea what it could possibly be referring to. Scratching his chest he starts preparing lunch for the both of them. Getting a ping from Grindr from a twink excited to pay the pair of them a visit, Reg just smirks. Doesn’t get much better than this. He wouldn’t change a thing.

#male tf #mental change #jockification #hair growth #reality change #personality change #dumber #muscle tf #himbofication

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odoraful · 21 days ago

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𝑺𝑵𝑶𝑾𝑭𝑰𝑬𝑳𝑫 𝑷𝑨𝑹𝑲 ᯓ 𝒁𝑨𝒀𝑵𝑬

the physician does not open his grand estate to visitors, however, he makes an exception for a special someone he’s known since childhood

⟡ content: reader is addressed as 'miss'; regency era inspired (certainly not historically accurate); reader and zayne are awkward yearners for each other; 3.5k wc

⟡ a/n: the mr darcy to zayne pipeline is very real to me !! did i watch pride and prejudice for the 234th time because of this? yes i did hehe i hope you enjoy mwah!

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Whilst many other gentleman in the country wished to show off their homes to display their refinement to the public, the solitary owner of Snowfield Park could not think of anything more undesirable. It was truly a shame, though. The estate had received its name from how picturesque it looked during the winters. Fresh snow fell in perfectly smooth blankets around the property, and dusted the foliage of trees as if intentionally painted on by an artist. When morning light emerged, and the snow began to melt away, the grand home would sparkle like sequins on a debutante’s dress.

Those who travelled past Snowfield Park could only admire it from a distance when heading to the next town over—rolling along on their carriages or leisurely walking by. What a waste it was, they all thought, to not allow visitation from guests and host lavish balls as often as one could. They all wondered whether the owner was even in his right mind.

He is a physician, that is the reason. He hardly has time to indulge in what he believes are frivolities.

A physician? How noble! He must be someone of great intelligence.

Indeed. I believe his name is Dr Zayne.

Quite the severe fellow I must admit. I remember during the last ball, the gentleman did nothing but loiter and offered a dance to no one.

Merely loitering? Goodness, has there truly been no one that has caught the man’s eye?

I wonder who is fortunate enough to be acquainted with him and be allowed visitation to such a place.

That was how many of the conversations that passed Snowfield Park went. Little did people know, other than the owner’s most immediate family, there was one other special person who the owner invited over.

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“Miss, you’re telling me you’re acquainted with the gentleman residing in Snowfield Park?” the driver of your carriage asked, speaking each word in disbelief.

You nodded. “Yes, I am.”

Your body also bobbed along with each trod of the horse. The carriage was open air, only able to seat two people, yourself and the driver. Much to your chagrin, your plain reply left the driver guffawing.

“You sure you’re not one of the many admirers trying to catch a glimpse of the elusive man?”

Glancing at the driver’s side profile, you could see him wiggle his brows. The driver was a young man, barely out of his teenage years, who had a penchant for dramatics.

“Certainly not!” you exclaimed, more defensive than your intended.

If the driver had not been so focused on the path ahead, he would have seen your cheeks turn pink.

“We have been good friends since childhood,” you asserted, “and just happened to drift apart when he went to university to study, that is all.”

The driver gave a sound of understanding, though, he still seemed unconvinced by your explanation.

It was completely true though. Your families lived in neighboring estates, and they endeavored to meet often when they found out they had children of similar ages. Many of your memories in youth had Zayne in them. Reading together in your grandmother’s study (Zayne reading aloud the narration, and you tasked with the dialogue for the characters), foraging for flowers and cataloguing them in your shared notebook, practicing your piano forte whilst Zayne completed anatomy sketches (with you often as the subject).

When he went to study medicine, you both sent letters to each other in those initial months. However, with your desire to seek your own passions (and your grandmother’s concerns over your entrance into society), and Zayne’s own pursuit of his career, the length of time between letters grew longer and longer.

Head swimming with memories, you stared off into the countryside. Tall trees that lined the dirt path segmented the bright afternoon sunlight as the carriage rolled past a long stretch of river. Far, far ahead, you saw a glimpse of Snowfield Park. No other details could be made out aside from that it was an impressive estate. You wondered if you could predict Zayne’s taste in design. Surely there would be a well maintained garden and a wide staircase leading to the front doors.

The driver could not ride fully into Snowfield Park as he had business in the next town he needed to attend to. You happily agreed to being dropped off a little ways before, just as the trees began to clear. The weather was pleasant, and it would take no longer than half an hour to walk. The driver pulled on the reins, causing the horses to slow to a stop. He hopped off first, moving to your side to assist you in getting down.

“Thank you,” you said as you smoothed out the skirt of your dress with your hands.

He gave an exaggerated bow. “You’re most welcome, miss. I hope Mr Zayne treats you well,” he winked, then hoisted himself back up onto the carriage.

Waving him goodbye, the carriage went on ahead to the next town over.

You were still quite a ways from the estate itself, left with a distance of grassy field to cross before it transformed into neatly sanded paths and a garden. Though, it was too small from where you were to make out any details. Thankfully, you enjoyed to walk.

As you set off, you checked the small purse dangling from your wrist. It contained your personal belongings, including the very thing that summoned you to Snowfield Park to begin with. A letter from Zayne lay neated folded inside.

Taking a deep breath, you began your journey on foot.

The closer you walked, and the more the house expanded in your view, the greater your heart twisted in your chest.

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Zayne’s home was even grander in real life than what you had imagined.

There was certainly a garden. One that stretched out well beyond the home’s facade, with neatly trimmed hedges, pristine white flowers and a three-tiered marble fountain. You walked through, gently reaching out to touch the petals of flowers. And there was certainly a staircase. Two to be exact, lined with railings carved from stone supported by miniature pillars. Both were built from the ground floor up to the first level, creating separate entryways from two different levels.

The estate was meticulously maintained and so peaceful. Only the wind and the trickle of water from the fountain could be heard. This type of serenity seemed fitting for Zayne.

You chose to walk up the stairs, heading toward the main entrance with ornate double doors. Your breath grew uneven with each step. It was inexplicable how rattled your nerves were at that very moment. What could possibly rouse your anxiety? You did not harbor any ill feelings towards Zayne. Quite the contrary, in fact. Back then, and even now, despite the length of time without contact, you were fond of him.

Rationalizing all this in your mind, you tried to bury your nervousness just as you reached the front doors. Grasping the knocker, you gave three firm knocks, hoping it sufficient enough to signal any occupants of Snowfield Park.

You readied yourself if Zayne himself would open the door for you. It was unlikely, but not entirely impossible. Typically, there would be servants that would initially greet guests. But, perhaps, the owner of the estate would alter convention for an old friend.

The door swung open and you subconsciously held your breath.

The person by the door seemed a bit older than you. She wore a simple dress with an apron tied around it, hair held back by a white bonnet. You exhaled. Conventions remain ever unchanging, you thought, putting on a shy smile.

“Uhm, good afternoon, my name is Y/N. I’m here to visit Mr Zayne.”

The lady looked you over up and down with her discerning eyes. Her brief inspection completed, her skeptical gaze gave way to a warm and inviting grin.

“Please come in! Mr Zayne has been expecting your arrival.”

You relaxed with relief, stepping in and getting a first look at Snowfield Park that many so desired to.

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Compared to your own abode with your family, the interior of this seemed to be fit for royalty.

The room had gold framed portraits of various people and landscapes hung on its cream colored walls. Ornate gold decorations filled the bare spaces in between each painting, reminiscent of leaves which curved and stretched towards the ceiling. The sunlight pouring through the large windows made each metallic embellishment shine. Tables held bronze candelabras with unlit candles and vases with arrangements of different florals. Lounges and chairs with navy upholstery lined the edges of the room, ideal places to sit and idle. Beyond you and to your sides were open archways, where you saw a peek of the winding staircases that led deeper into the home.

You tried your best to not just stand there slack-jawed at the entrance and follow the servant further inside. Was this really the estate that Zayne owned? The same Zayne who picked carrots off his plate at dinnertime and spent his allowance at the candy store in town?

The servant let you catch up to her in center of the room. She leaned in close to whisper, even though you were the only people in this vast space.

“Miss, just between you and me, Mr Zayne has been quite restless these past few days.”

“Restless?” you frowned. “Whatever for?”

She nodded towards you. Her implication that you were the object of Zayne’s anxieties made you even more confused.

“You must be a very special person to rattle him like that. He’s been pacing around, inspecting and re-inspecting all the furnishings in every room, buying fresh linens for your guest quarters.”

She then chuckled. “Quite frankly, it’s refreshing to see such a side of him since he’s so often busy with his work.”

“Speaking of, that is what he is currently occupied with now. I’ll let him know that you’re here.”

The servant curtsied to you before rushing through one of the archways. The sound of her footsteps on tiled floors retreated.

There was nothing to do but wait, and so you did.

You took a turn around the room, admiring the paintings of unfamiliar people and unfamiliar landscapes. Did Zayne know who these individuals were? Had he travelled to different parts of this country? You were now uncertain if the man you would shortly reunite with would even be recognizable to you.

One minute of waiting turned into three, then ten, then fifteen. You could probably recite the arrangement of paintings in the room with how much studying you were doing to fill the time. Looking off ahead of you, the entryways were a silent invitation to explore. Surely the servant wouldn’t mind that you had wandered off a little bit. She certainly hadn’t said anything against doing so.

Your feet moved of their own accord into the entry way ahead of you, eager to see more of the interior of Snowfield Park.

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“Mr Zayne,” Yvonne called as she knocked on the door of the study.

Zayne was penning a letter containing care instructions to the family of one of his patients.

He continued to write as he called out, “You may come in.”

Entering the room, the excitement on Yvonne’s face at being able to announce your arrival was replaced with horror as she saw Zayne.

“Mr Zayne! Have you not changed into your finer clothes yet?”

Zayne glanced up from his writing with a furrow in his brow. He was wearing his night clothes, a simple loose fitting white shirt, pants, and a robe. His dark hair lightly tousled from a restless night of sleep.

“I have not. Y/N isn’t due to Snowfield Park until the afternoon.”

Yvonne gaped at him, her voice high with alarm. “It is the afternoon now, Mr Zayne. And she has arrived not just a moment ago.”

The quill almost fell from Zayne’s grasp at his own shock. It was terribly unlike him to forget the time. His plans of burying himself in his work to keep his mind busy from your arrival had backfired on him.

He immediately stood up. Folding the letter and placing it aside, he strode towards Yvonne.

“She’s here? The time must have escaped me.” He ran a hand through his hair, attempting to steady his composure.

The day that he had perfectly planned had already sidetracked. You were here in his house and he was hiding away in his study in his undergarments. Outfit aside, was there even enough time to ready himself mentally as well? This was the first in a long time that he would be seeing you face-to-face, he hadn’t even thought of what he should say to you.

“Well don’t just stand there all flustered!” Yvonne huffed, piercing through Zayne’s thoughts. “You need to get changed right this instant!”

She scrambled behind Zayne and pushed him out of the study.

“It’s improper to leave such a lovely young lady waiting for so long! Come on now, Mr Zayne!”

He followed Yvonne through the familiar halls of Snowfield Park to his rooms. She spoke her thoughts aloud, deciding on what shirt, waistcoat and cravat would look the most appealing. He agreed with her that navy and white would make a suitable combination, though, Zayne had greater worries aside from the coordination of his clothes.

Five years it had been.

Five years since he went away to study at university and begun working as a physician.

Five long years of being away from you.

Gradually, you two had begun to drift apart like the slow moving of continents over centuries. Starting with a delayed letter, leading to a delayed response. The lengthy time between correspondence began to feel too awkward, leaving words unsaid. Once you had shared all the same experiences together, and now, you had become a fond daydream for Zayne. An occupant of his thoughts whenever the nights got too long for him. How were you? What were you doing now? Were you taking care of your health? Thinking of you seemed to soothe him.

That was why when there was a listing for an estate in the same village you both grew up in, he hardly hesitated in his decision to purchase it. Internally, he also saw it as a sign. If this were to be the place were he settled down, he knew he needed to invite you to visit.

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Snowfield Park could have easily been mistaken for a museum if one were to end up in the room you were in now. Not only were there more paintings hung on the walls, much like the entry hall, but there were sculptures, antiques and other unique trinkets on display as well. All were neatly spread out, with brass plaques beneath to provide a description of the piece. Too fascinated by the space, you forgot how much waiting time passed since the servant left.

One piece in particular caught your eye.

A sculpted bust of a man sat atop a pedestal, raising it up to your eye level. With a straight bridged nose and stern brows, the face would leave many people with a rather cold impression. Shivers winding up their spine by the frigidity of the sculpted likeness. Not you, however. Warmth bloomed within your chest. Lips parted in amazement. Many of the features remained the same, though refined with age. It was a familiar and cherished image of a close companion.

Zayne. Your Zayne.

Before you could stop yourself, your hand reached out. Closer and closer. Just until the pads of your finger barely ghosted against the cheek of Zayne’s face.

Hearing a step behind you, you instantly retracted your hand. Snapped out of your stupor.

“Y/N.”

You never thought your name could be spoken so gently until that moment. The origin was a low and smooth voice, like a spoonful of honey one would dissolve in a cup of tea.

Turning around with wide eyes, a name fell from your lips.

“Zayne,” you breathed.

In the quietness of the room, even your faint utterance of his name echoed in the space.

Zayne could have took you for one of the art pieces in this space with how well you looked. An ivy green dress with a grey shawl draped over your arms. You had traded elegance for practicality, leaving your gowns for balls at home so you could walk more freely. Still, the breath hitched in his throat as he looked you over.

His posture straightened before he bowed. “I’m sorry for frightening you.”

When he lifted his head, you noted how he blinked away from your gaze towards the ground. A habit he had as a young boy that he kept even now. Seeing it comforted you, though you could not understand why.

“I did not mean to disturb. I should have made my appearance known to you sooner.”

An apology. Those were his first words upon your meeting. You knew he had always been like that. Ensuring his intentions were made clear and rectifying anything that he misinterpreted. Aside from his manner, it was his appearance that also made your stomach flutter.

Both his coat and vest were navy, though the latter item was patterned subtly with white stripes. Tied neatly around his collar was a white cravat which accentuated his strong jawline. What was most striking were his eyes. Green and amber, resembling a precious gemstone. You didn’t remember them being so entrancing.

You shook your head (both in response to his apology and to dispel your meddlesome thoughts), and curtsied.

“It’s alright, truly. I was already at the end of my viewing anyway.”

He moved closer to you, each step reverberating. Your heart thumped traitorously in your ears. You hoped he didn’t notice how you stiffened when he reached your side.

“You seemed engrossed,” he said, looking over at his own sculpture.

“W-were you perturbed by my staring?”

His eyes brimmed with earnest as he replied, “No, no, not at all. That is a galley’s purpose. These artworks are displayed to be looked at.”

He hesitated, thinking about his words before continuing. “Though, I would hope that a… prolonged viewing indicates your favor towards a certain piece.”

You grew hot. Had your admiration really been so obvious?

“This is really a lovely home, nicer than anything I’ve had the pleasure of visiting” you said, quickly changing the subject.

A small smile tugged at his lips. People would quickly change their opinions about his coldness if they were to see the expression on his face.

“My staff are to thank for their work in its upkeep,” he responded. “I’m glad it is to your liking.”

Neither of you spoke for a moment. Mere seconds that felt like eternity as you stood side by side, fiddling with the material of your respective clothing, as if they were the most attention grabbing thing in this very room. You played with the hem of your shawl whilst Zayne adjusted the wrists of his jacket.

“Was your journey here smooth?”

The question tumbled out of Zayne more hurried than he intended. Desperation tinged his words, almost pleading you to continue talking to him. He wanted to hear your voice. Wanted to hear you speak to him about anything, like you once could together.

“It was. I rode a carriage from town then walked,” you replied, brightly. “I went through the garden at the front on my way to the entrance, as well.”

“The jasmines are in bloom now, as are many of the other flowers. I can give you a more proper tour later on, if you’d like.”

“I would enjoy nothing more,” you chirped, unable to temper your excitement. “I remember jasmines were your favorite when you were younger.”

His gaze fell on you, voice wistful and sincere as he spoke. “They still are, very much so.”

Two images seemed to flicker before you. The boy you once knew, and the man standing before you now. Perhaps the two were never separate. There would always be traces of your youth together, no matter when or where you found each other. This realization entered your mind with tenderness, much like the words of a loving mother doting on her child.

Again, the conversation lulled.

The statues and paintings were stationery witnesses to the endearing awkwardness of this pair reunited. Neither of you had the courage to look at each other, lest you revealed the flush that spread across both your faces. With nothing but Snowfield Park and time to yourselves, there would be much catching up to do.

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#odorawrites #zayne love and deepspace #love and deepspace zayne #zayne l&ds #l&ds zayne #zayne lads #lads zayne #zayne x reader #zayne x y/n #zayne x mc #zayne fluff #l&ds zayne x reader #lads zayne x reader #love and deepspace fluff #love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader

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thelostconsultant · 6 months ago

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Instant dad - pilot

pairing: Oscar Piastri x ex!reader

summary: You have no choice but to tell Oscar he has a five years old son. Now he wants to be a part of his life to make things complicated...

note: A little warmup chapter. Oscar is in his early 30s, so yeah, there's a time jump.

[part 1]

“We would like to meet Oliver’s father. His biological father,” the principal clarified as he glanced over at your boyfriend. You’d been together for three years, he had been by your five-year-old’s side for over half his life, why wasn’t he enough?

But he insisted on meeting him, saying if he was dead and you could prove it, or if your boyfriend was your husband, they would move on with the enrollment, but you had confirmed that you weren’t married and the biological father was alive, so now they wanted to have a chat with him. He didn’t even care about the tiny little detail that said father had absolutely no idea he had a child. What a bunch of morons.

In the evening, while your son was reading a book about cars in his bed with your boyfriend, you sat by the dining table with your phone in hand, trying to figure out what to do. This fancy private school was perfect, they knew how to handle intelligent kids like Oliver, and you wanted the best for him. You wanted to make sure he didn’t get bored, that he would get the kind of intellectual challenge in school that he needed.

At the age of five, he could read on his own just fine, he even learned some Spanish from your boyfriend, and he was a quick study in general. It was infuriating how he was a mini version of his father, from his intelligence to his looks, everything reminded you of him. And if you met F1 fans together, someone surely went, “He looks so much like Piastri at his age!” Sadly, that wasn’t a coincidence, and the poor kid picked up on the whole you-look-like-him thing and chose him as his favorite driver.

Sometimes you consider telling him. Oliver, not Oscar. God, there was no way you would ever tell him the truth. He had his own, certainly busy life and he probably didn’t need a child in it. Yes, you saw the photos, he was good with kids, but meeting one for a few minutes wasn’t the same as having your own. Your son on the other hand could find out when he got old enough to understand why you had left and went no contact with his father. That was over ten years away, of course, so you had time to figure out what to do. Until then, you made sure the few photos of you and Oscar were stored somewhere safe in case he wanted to see them when the time came.

Now you were cornered, your hand forced by that damn principal. You had no idea if he was still using that old social media profile of his, but you had to try. So, you took a deep breath and started a call, deep down hoping he wouldn’t answer. You weren’t ready to talk to him, not yet, but you had no choice. And then his face showed up on your screen, the sight bringing back memories you’d been trying to forget for years.

“Hey. Are you sure it’s me you wanted to call?” he asked, although there was a hint of a smile on his lips.

Nodding, you let out a sigh. “Hi. Yeah, um… I don’t even know where to start.”

“At the beginning?”

Silence followed his words, your brain in overdrive as it tried to find the best way to start. But maybe being straightforward was the right answer. “I have a son. He’s five,” you added, hoping the meaningful look you were sending his way could be seen over the screen.

After a few seconds of heavy silence, you could see the wheels turning in his head as he did some math. “Wait, five? We… That was a bit over five years ago. Could he…?”

“Yeah,” you confirmed. “He’s your son.”

His face was emotionless for a while as he tried to process the news, but this was nothing new, he was the king of hiding emotions. But then, just as you thought he would end the call, he let out a sigh. “Why now? What do you want from me? Money?” he asked, although you could tell he was unsure about this whole situation.

The fact he assumed you wanted money only made you angry. “It’s not your money I need. Hell, I don’t even want you to meet him,” you snapped. “The thing is, there’s this private school I want to send him to, and they have this stupid rule to have both parents present at a parental interview. Since my boyfriend and I never got married, they want to see the biological father. That’s all I want. A meeting with the principal.”

Oscar put up a finger as he bit on his lower lip, his eyes focusing on something behind his phone’s camera. “Let me get this straight. After all these years, you say I have a son, but I’m not allowed to meet him?” he then asked, looking back at you.

“Yeah.”

“One meeting,” he then stated, his voice serious. “You let me meet him once and I’ll talk to that principal.”

“Oscar, come on.”

“That’s the deal I can offer.”

You didn’t have a choice, you knew that. If he didn’t do it for Oliver, he would have to go to another school. Letting out a sigh of defeat, you nodded. “But we don’t tell him that you’re his father. He watches F1, and since he looks a lot like you, he decided that you’re his favorite driver. That’s all you’re gonna be, nothing more.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, I,” Oscar began hesitantly, and you could see as he sat down on his couch and looked up at the ceiling. “You just told me I had a son. What do you want from me, to forget it? I want to meet him. I want him to know who I am.”

“He’s five. If he finds out, he’ll want to see you again. He will want you to be a part of his life. I don’t want that.”

You could see he was uncertain about this. He probably understood that becoming his father would mean he would have to regularly visit the two of you, and even if you all kept it a secret, there was still the risk of the truth slipping out and making it into the headlines. “Is he anything like me?” he suddenly asked, his eyes softening as he watched you.

A smile crept on your lips as you thought about this, because it was so painfully obvious to you that you couldn’t deny it, no matter how badly you wanted to do that. “He’s a highly intelligent little smartass, just like you. And his looks… A mini you, no doubt.”

Oscar nodded. “Then I want to be a part of his life. Let me spend time with him,” he asked, seeming relaxed.

“Two hours.”

“No, I’ll stay for a week, and I want to see him every day,” he was quick to clarify. “I can look out for him while you’re at work.”

Whatever happened to the idea of meeting Oliver once? That’s not what you had just discussed, and now he was changing his demands? “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” was all you said in the end.

“You said it yourself, I’m his favorite driver,” he pointed out with a smug smile. “We’ll be fine.”

You were doing this only because of the school. You remembered what Oscar could be like; if he made up his mind about something, he definitely wasn’t about to let his plan go. Now he wanted a week with his son, and you knew that was the only way he would do what you needed from him. “All right. Can I send you the school’s number so you can make an appointment? I told them you travel a lot, so they’ll need to be flexible.”

“Sure, I’ll call them as soon as I can.” You thanked him, and were just about to say goodbye when he spoke up again. “Wait, can you send me a photo or a video?”

“Yeah, I have a few hundred of those,” you replied with a smile.

Oscar remained silent, but he let out a sigh and you knew something was on his mind, something he wanted to tell you. “I still have a hard time believing it, you know.”

“You seemed pretty confident when it came to getting to know him.”

“I wanted to use my chance to corner you,” he admitted. “But this? That I have a son? Hard to believe.”

“Well, he’s yours. You’ll understand it when you meet him,” you told him kindly.

After you said goodbye, you went up to check on Oliver and your boyfriend, but by the time you got there, they were sleeping soundly with the open book resting on your son’s chest. With a smile, you took the book and leaned down to give both of them a soft kiss. You couldn’t help but wonder how your little family’s dynamics would change with Oscar’s presence.

Well, it wasn’t really your son you were worried about, the main issue was your boyfriend. Oscar was a famous F1 driver, someone your son idolized, of course he felt threatened. You told him it would be okay, that you didn’t have feelings for him anymore, but he didn’t seem convinced. Maybe if they met and he saw you were indifferent, he would finally trust you a lot more. One can hope, right?

#oscar piastri x you #oscar piastri #oscar piastri x reader #formula 1 #f1 #f1 x reader #f1 x you #f1 imagine #f1 fanfic

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minswriting · 10 months ago

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SPENCER REID NSFW ALPHABET

A = Aftercare

spencer is so good at aftercare!! after any session, he’s holding you, giving you kisses, or you’re doing that to him. he’ll see if you need anything while giving you the softest of smiles. he just loves you! and wants you to be taken care of!

B = Body Part

spencer’s favorite body part on himself are his hands and fingers. he loves to finger you, making you cum with nothing more than just his hands. however, on you, he loves your waist. he likes to grip it during sex or to just pull you to him by your waist while you’re walking down the street together.

C = Cum

when spencer cums, he cums a lot. and it has everything to do with the fact that he doesn’t have a lot of time to jerk off. so he really only ever has release when he’s with you. he will literally paint your whole entire body with his cum and then use it as lube to fuck you.

D = Dirty Secret

spencer is a switch (it’s not the secret) and would love for you to tie him up and blindfold him while you’re riding his cock. it’s the idea of being at your mercy every once in a while that really gets him going. but being who he is, he’s just too shy to mention it.

E = Experience

i don’t think spencer has a lot of experience at all. but due to his intelligence level, he’s a fast learner and loses his virginity with the knowledge of already knowing how to make you cum. once the two of you are comfortable with one another, it’s literally the best sex ever.

F = Favorite Position

spencer’s favorite positions definitely are missionary, riding, and one where you’re on your stomach lying down and his front is pressed against your back while he’s fucking you. it’s just so sensual and deep and just feels oh so good.

G = Goofy

depending on the mood, i think spencer can be a bit goofy. but it’s not like being funny. it’s just things to lighten the mood like a little giggle here and there or a comment about how beautiful you look while he has the softest smile on his face.

H = Hair

spencer most certainly had a happy trail and is actually very well groomed down there. he likes to maintain it simply because he likes to look clean. on you, however, he doesn’t care. so even if you have a bush, he’s eating you out like a starved man.

I = Intimacy

he’s very intimate when you guys have time to take your time. he’s maintaining eye contact with you, holding you close to him while he’s fucking you or you’re riding him, and regardless, he’s telling you how much he loves you and how beautiful you are. intimacy is like the norm for him when it comes to sex.

J = Jack Off

it’s very rare for spencer to jerk off but when he does it’s when he’s in the shower and he’s pumping his cock hard and fast in order to get some sort of release. this usually happens when he’s on long cases and he’s unable to stop thinking about you and your cunt.

K = Kink

okay so he’s got quite a few. when he’s feeling more subby, he’s lowkey got a mommy kink. but when he’s in his dominant mood, he wants you to call him sir. i feel like spencer is also very huge in body worship. he’s got a huge praise kink (giving and receiving) and a huge degradation kink (giving and receiving). also lowkey he’s into somnophilia.

L = Location

he prefers to have sex in the comfort of your bedrooms. however, you guys have definitely fucked in the restroom at the bureau. and at a few bars. and in the car. and in the kitchen. and in the living room. honestly you guys have fucked in every room in your apartments.

M = Motivation

you. just simply you. he’ll take one glance at you while you’re working on something and he would start imagining you on your knees in front of him. or him on his knees eating you out while you’re doing your work. he just wants you wholeheartedly.

N = No

this definitely stems from the trauma of his profession but anything that hurts you or is a risk to your life in any way, shape, or form is a big no for him. he can do choking but not enough for you to actually lose your breath.

O = Oral

HE LOVES IT!! spencer is such a munch. he will eat you out for ours and make you cum at least twice on his tongue before he does anything else. he is also big on receiving it too. 69 all the way baby 😏😏

P = Pace

definitely depends on the mood. when he’s stressed and just needs release, you guys are fucking hard and fast. but if you both just want to feel close to one another, you guys are fucking slowly and sensually, clinging to one another for dear life.

Q = Quickie

loves them. especially early in the morning right before he has to get ready for work. you wake him up by riding his cock and he’s whining beneath you. god it’s his favorite thing. he also loves bending you over the counter and taking you from behind.

R = Risk

spencer likes to think he’s modest and would not take any risks. but he’s lowkey an exhibitionist and gets off on the idea of being caught at some point. so he’ll fuck you in places like the bathroom or fitting rooms.

S = Stamina

depends on the day but usually he has enough stamina to do two rounds. when he’s exhausted though, he can only do one.

T = Toys

loves them! especially when he’s away, he wants to call you while you’re fucking yourself with a dildo, imagining his cock inside of you. he absolutely adores using vibrators on you to tease the hell out of you too.

U = Unfair

dom spence can be so unfair. he loves to overstimulate you and do orgasm denial. but he also loves it when you do the same to him. deny his orgasm until he can’t help but cum without your permission. or overstimulate him until he’s got nothing left.

V = Volume

he’s very vocal. he’s a whiner, a whimperer, a moaner, a groaner. he’ll praise you, talk dirty to you, talk you through it. and he loves it when you reciprocate it. he’s not afraid to make noise with you.

W = Wild Card

spencer loves getting pegged.

X = X-Ray

i think spencer is just above average. he’s about seven or eight inches but his cock is skinny, not girthy. especially due to his thin and lean build. but he knows what to do with it. and regardless, you’ll be cumming on his cock.

Y = Yearning

i think he’s someone with a high sex drive but with immense self control. he wants you 24/7. but he knows to control himself because sex isn’t as big of a priority as is making sure you’re both happy and thriving.

Z = ZZZ

depends on the day but spencer will always do aftercare before falling asleep. so i would say he would fall asleep at least a half an hour after sex.

#spencer reid #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid smut #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds imagine #criminals minds x reader #criminal minds smut #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fanfiction

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threeacttragedy · 3 months ago

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Entry 13: The One Where the Ashes Blew Towards Us with the Salt Wind from the Sea

“Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again.”

Ah, yes, that ominous opening line from Daphne du Maurier’s novel, “Rebecca.” Have you ever read it? It’s an old book – from 1938, in fact! – but it’s truly a remarkable story, especially for its time. It’s not often you find yourself rooting for the murderer.

Lately, I have found myself becoming more and more frustrated with the fandom. And, no, my annoyance is not from the Sincerely Ignorant teetering on and off the boat every time someone takes a dump on the deck of the USS Lukola – I’m pretty fucking used to that shit – and, honestly, many of our dear Sincerely Ignorant seem to be gaining their sea legs. It’s the Conscientiously Stupid that have struck a chord with me – a disturbing, dissonant chord that leaves me questioning the average level of human intelligence.

My issue with the Conscientiously Stupid is that they push narratives that, when taken collectively, make no goddamn sense. Thanks to The-One-That-Lurks-in-a-Play-Misty-For-Me-Heaping-Pile-of-Discordant-Garbage, I have had the [dis]pleasure of learning about Nicola- and Luke-Adjacent theories. Did you know that the small scrap of green blanket Nicola was sitting on in her August 11 “Drink Your Milk” picture proved that the picture was meant for Jake? You know the guy that, at that point in Fandom History, most people had no clue even existed? I mean, that makes a lot more sense than linking the “Drink Your Milk” shirt Nicola was showcasing to the one Luke was seen wearing on June 22. Now, I’m not saying the shirt belonged to Luke, but if we’re comparing apples to apples, which one of these theories seems more plausible to you?

At this point, you have probably started to realize I enjoy weaving in and out of storytelling mode, mixing fact with theory and speculation. Today, I decided to take a classic novel – surely you didn’t think I made that reference to “Rebecca” for nothing – and loosely intertwine it with some Conscientiously Stupid adjacent theories. This is all in good fun and, like usual, mostly for my own dark humor.

I should probably begin by introducing our book characters. Honestly, you can probably guess which of our shipmates I have assigned to each role fairly quickly.

First, we have our Unnamed Narrator. Seriously, her first name is never revealed.

Second, we have Mrs. Danvers, the obsessive, borderline psychotic housekeeper.

Third, we have Maxim de Winter, our Narrator’s husband.

Fourth, we have Jack Favell, the dodgy and unlikeable cousin.

Lastly, we have our titular character, that darling creature Rebecca.

Now, let’s see who is on the playbill.

ANTONIA AS MRS. DANVERS

It pained me just a little to give the role of Mrs. Danvers to Antonia, primarily because Mrs. Danvers is such a complex character and I’ve always found Antonia to be rather simple. And, no, I’m not insinuating Antonia is simple-minded; I am saying it was never difficult to see through her bullshit (i.e., the phrase, “patterns are patterning,” didn’t come out of thin air). It helped that Mrs. Danvers is one of the main antagonists in the book and almost certainly the GOAT at trolling the heroine of “Rebecca.” I mean, the second Mrs. de Winter didn’t stand a chance with Danny lurking in the background.

The general narrative in Lukola Lore is that Antonia is an online troll. I’ve never been sure as to who her primary target was – Nicola or the Lukola fandom. I tend to believe it originated as Nicola and the Lukola fandom was simply collateral damage. I also cannot say for fact that Antonia was trolling anyone, but I can confirm that the general belief within the fandom that Antonia was trolling is well-documented on social media. For today’s story, we are going to assume the narrative that Antonia was trolling both Nicola and the Lukola fandom. We are also going to assume the USS Lutonia (because I have no fucking clue what the Luke-Antonia ship is called!) was real. Don’t get your feathers fluffed over this. This belief does exist – and it’s why Antonia has been able to fuck with the Lukolas as long as she has – but I promise I have every intention of peppering the side of this ship with holes.

Okay, let’s tow the USS Lutonia out to sea. Don’t forget your Dramamine!

We are living under the umbrella that Luke and Antonia were dating during the World Tour. Poor Antonia was forced into hiding by – who the fuck knows but let’s keep rolling with this narrative – and she wasn’t allowed to be openly seen with Luke or post anything on her social media with Luke. And, Luke mirrored this behavior and made an effort to keep Antonia out of the spotlight (in fact, at the New York City premiere, the average viewer wouldn’t have known Antonia was anything more than Luke’s “friend of a friend”). Antonia, annoyed with this lack of engagement (and, almost certainly fed up with, at a minimum, fans shipping Luke with Nicola), started the pattern of posting pictures of herself and tagging her location as places the fandom knew Luke had recently been. Luke, for his part, made no effort to acknowledge his relationship with Antonia. Instead, he continued his flirtatious relationship with Nicola. After the London premiere, the Lukolas put a target smack dab in the middle of Antonia’s back and blamed her for setting up Papsmear for her own benefit. Luke still made no effort to acknowledge his relationship with Antonia or protect her from the abundance of online hate she received. In fact, he posted his “I will not let [Cressida] ruin our night” story to Instagram instead (see my “Entry 1 – The One About That Weird Ass Cressida Post” if you’re confused by this comment). During post-Papsmear events, Luke did not list her as a plus one and he didn’t like any pictures of Antonia that were not on her grid. In fact, the only evidence directly linking Luke to Antonia were leaked and/or since-deleted pictures and videos not released by Luke. Throughout the summer, Antonia continued her efforts to place herself in proximity to Luke via tagged or easily recognizable locations. Oddly, many of Antonia’s posts seemed to occur shortly after Nicola posted or before/after DeuxMoi posted pap pictures, which gave birth to the “Antonia is trolling” subplot. Still, Luke made no effort to acknowledge his relationship with Antonia. On July 30, Luke was papped with Antonia and his friend group in Sorrento (see my “Entry 11 – The One About the Heart of the Ocean” if you want my opinion about that excursion). This was the last time Luke and Antonia were publicly photographed together. Once Luke returned to London on August 2, Antonia continued her campaign of insinuating she was in the same location as Luke, with the most recent being the Italian restaurant in Rome (which the restauranteur debunked, in my opinion). Again, Luke and Antonia have not been photographed together since July 30. To date, Luke has made no effort to acknowledge his relationship with Antonia, and the only visible interaction by Luke are his likes on Antonia’s semi-monthly Instagram grid posts, which seem obligatory at this point. For the month of November, there was no interaction between Luke and Antonia because Antonia did not post to her grid (gasp!).

Now, for all the Lutonia’s out there, explain to me why this kind of relationship is acceptable to you. Seriously, explain it to me.

Convince me that Luke didn’t shutter Antonia from the moment the USS Lukola schematics were presented to the engineers.

Convince me that Antonia is the kind of woman who would happily accept Luke’s blatant dismissal of her existence while he globe-trotted around the world with a woman he was being openly shipped with by fans, the press, and Bridgerton mates.

Convince me that Luke’s behavior towards Antonia doesn’t make him the worst boyfriend on the planet.

Convince me that Antonia’s online behavior towards Nicola and the Lukola fandom during and after the World Tour doesn’t make her a troll.

Convince me that Luke and Antonia are the definition of “true love.” Actually, before you do that, convince me that Luke and Antonia are currently dating.

Or, maybe you’ve realized that any effort to try to convince me would be a waste of your time because you, too, are starting to find this entire narrative unacceptable. It equates Antonia to someone who doesn’t mind being boxed into a corner and forced to claw her way out, and it likens Luke to an overbearing womanizer who doesn’t give two flips about how online hate may be affecting his partner. I mean, we may as well dump these two into an entirely different book called “The Handmaid’s Tale.”

I didn’t assign the role of Mrs. Danvers to Antonia because I thought Antonia was a feeble coward without her own voice. And, no, I didn’t give her the role because Mrs. Danvers is an obsessive psychopath. I gave Antonia the role of Mrs. Danvers because the fandom handed her the power to influence this narrative on a silver platter, just like the Narrator in “Rebecca” allowed herself to be manipulated by Mrs. Danvers. Moving forward, when you see Antonia with a lit match, all you need to do is lean over and blow it out. Poof! And, she’s gone. Seriously, if you see our version of Mrs. Danvers with anything that might light a fire, take it away from her!

Surely someone out there gets my joke…

LUKE AS MAXIM DE WINTER

Of course, Luke is Maxim de Winter, the outwardly charismatic, but recently widowed anti-hero who caught the affection of our Unnamed Narrator. I mean, he’s a good guy, right? Uhh, yeah, sure… Who doesn’t want to be married to a brooding chauvinist who is outwardly obsessed with the titular character? Wait a minute, that doesn’t sound like Luke at all! Oh, no, actually it does – if you believe the USS Lutonia is real!

For Luke, we are going to assume the same narrative as above – that the USS Lutonia is real, that Antonia trolled Nicola and the Lukola fandom, and that Luke refused to acknowledge his relationship with Antonia. Besides the obvious “Luke is the shittiest fucking boyfriend in the universe,” I have a few other gripes with the USS Lutonia.

Initially, I understood the concept of “keeping Antonia in the dark,” after all I try to be logical when I process information. It was always possible Luke and Nicola were rocking some great PR in the beginning of the World Tour, and that was the only thing they were rocking. In fact, that’s what I initially believed Nicola was doing – being cute but also professional in her interactions with Luke during those early press junkets. Luke, on the other hand, always seemed to wear his heart on his sleeve. Once they hit Australia, it seemed obvious to me that something had changed (go back and read my “Entry 12 – The One Where We Start Laying the Yellow Brick Road to Italy” for a briefing on this). The more I watched Luke and Nicola interact on the World Tour, the more I became convinced Antonia must have been a thing of the past (or possibly nothing) for Luke – until Antonia showed up at Papsmear. At that point, I fully expected Luke to just own up to her. Like, give up on trying to hide Antonia from public view. But, then he pulled that goddamn “Cressida” post (seriously, if you have not read my first entry to this blog, go back and read it!). When you look at the World Tour and subsequent Hot Boy Summer, and the behaviors that were – and were not – on display during that timeframe, you start to develop a completely different view of the USS Lutonia. I mean, I’m not even sure that ship ever left the planning room!

One of the most glaring cosmetic flaws with the USS Lutonia is why “nice guy” Luke would treat Antonia with such indifference if he loved her. When asked who was most like their Bridgerton character, everyone always answered Luke. That he was the kindest, most genuine person. If that’s true, then why did Luke treat his “girlfriend,” Antonia, like she didn’t exist? Again, convince me that Luke’s Public Display of Apathy towards Antonia made him a great boyfriend. Even if Luke was a private person, one would think that after someone he cared about received as much hate as Antonia did after Papsmear, he would have stepped up and taken control of the narrative. He didn’t hesitate to clear up the “cake eating” picture from his September 7 Instagram post (about Nicola), and that “Cressida” post will live rent-free in my mind forever. The only “logical” explanation I can come up with for “nice guy” Luke to shutter Antonia right from the jump is that Antonia is not, and was not, a significant person in his life. That, or he really is a shithead, and he has a team of people lying about what a great guy he is.

We also need to consider Nicola’s interactions with Antonia. First, Nicola has never followed Antonia and Antonia has never followed Nicola, at least not on her public account. But, Nicola followed – and still follows – Luke’s ex, Jade. Now, typically, I’d just be like, “Meh,” on something like this. But, after Papsmear, Nicola could have very easily played the “Diplomat Barbie” and given Antonia a follow on Instagram. But, she didn’t, which signals to me that Nicola wasn’t touching Antonia with an invisible 10-foot pole. Second, if you watch the back-and-forth between Nicola and Antonia on social media – in black and white, pen on paper – you’ll see Nicola playing the cat-and-mouse game right along with Antonia (Nicola just played it a helluva lot better). It even appears Nicola sicced her – what my father calls JVN – “assassin” on Antonia starting around July 20 or, at the very least, she condoned JVN teasing Antonia. If everything was great between Luke and Antonia – and Luke was genuinely happy with Antonia – why would Luke put up with the back-and-forth on social media between Antonia, Nicola, and JVN? Oh, that’s right, because Luke is the corrupt captain of the USS Lutonia. Seriously, if all was well between Luke and Antonia at this point in the timeline, then you’d have to surmise that all was not well between Luke and Nicola. We will get to that in a moment. Right now, aboard the USS Lutonia, Luke is just a lousy boyfriend.

Lastly – and what has always left me scratching my head – why would Luke allow Antonia to troll his fandom? Why allow Antonia to make insinuations online that they’re together but never come to her rescue when the fandom starts flinging shit at her? In my opinion, the InStyle copycat pictures (go read my last blog entry…) were just Antonia getting her feet wet. Why continue to put up with Antonia after allegations began flying that she arranged Papsmear and the Italy pap pictures? I suppose the answer most Lutonias would give is, “Because they’re in love.” With everything I have outlined in this entry, do you honestly get the “in love” vibe from those two? Because I don’t.

Now, why did I draw parallels between Luke and the book character, Maxim? It’s not because I believe Luke to be a male chauvinist so wrapped up in his own drama that he ignores those around him. The USS Lutonia will definitely paint that impression, though! It’s because Maxim’s demeanor was superficial. What the Unnamed Narrator believed was true about her husband was not actually true. And, that’s how I view the USS Lutonia – Luke’s behavior and the narrative surrounding this ship does not match the logic.

JAKE AS JACK FAVELL

Sorry, Jake, you get to be the icky Jack Favell. Yeah, that manipulative, blackmailing creep sleeping with his own cousin! But, hey, that subplot isn’t any more disturbing than Jake being shipped with Nicola, is it?

Alright, let’s jump on board the USS Jakola but not before I preface this section with my father’s flabbergasted words: “This ship is on the bottom of the ocean. These people must have oxygen masks. They’re down there with Jules Verne. This just doesn’t make sense.” No, it really doesn’t make sense but, because I’m here to tell a story, I will begrudgingly dive into the USS Jakola narrative. And, by “dive,” I mean plunge to the bottom of the ocean because that’s where this ship rests.

Just like we did with the USS Lutonia, we are going to assume the USS Jakola is real. The Jakolas believe that Nicola has been seeing Jake since, I guess, the Renegade Nell premiere on or about March 26, 2024. Although, the last I checked Eamon Farren was also at that premiere holding an umbrella for Nicola. I am not confirming Nicola was ever dating Eamon; I am simply saying he was present at the event and holding a fucking umbrella for her. You can make up your own mind about Eamon’s role in Nicola’s life. Regardless, it must have been an instant connection between Nicola and Jake because, if the Jakola narrative is to be believed, they began secretly dating after that. The Jakolas will argue that all the songs Nicola posted to her Instagram stories were for Jake. The Claddagh ring has no traditional meaning when Nicola wears it, and Chaos Week was also for Jake (and a “fuck you” to Luke). The Lukola-coded fan fiction was a “fuck you” to the Lukola fandom (see my “Entry 10 – The One About the Audibly Loud Lukola FanFic”). And, Jake and Nicola are in love and have hard launched their relationship because (a) Jake has been seen wearing Nicola’s bucket hat, (b) they have been seen in public together, and (c) they occasionally hold hands.

I’m not going to lie – for the longest time I didn’t pay any attention to the USS Jakola because it was such an incredibly absurd concept to me. A few weeks back, I posted to my Tumblr account a music video that Jake had done in early 2023. The song is called “Mixed Emotions” by You Me at Six, and the article that came out with the video on February 7th, 2023 stated, “With Jake Dunn who played the protagonist in the video who is actually a friend of mine, we actually spoke a lot about toxic masculinity and his experiences within his sexuality and the impacts it has had on his relationship with his dad.” It honestly never occurred to me the USS Jakola actually had passengers on board until October when the Jakholes went bananas over Nicola holding Jake’s hand. In my opinion – and you do not have to agree with me – the music video speaks for itself as does Jake’s social media presence, whether it be on his own pages or on those of his friend group. I’m sure I’ll get some Jakholes in here crying that we shouldn’t speculate on Jake’s sexuality, but the reality is the only people speculating on Jake’s sexuality are the Jakolas trying to discern whether he’s heterosexual. But, why doesn’t he just come out and say it? I get this question all the time. The answer is quite simple – he doesn’t need to. Jake never buried this part of his life; it’s other people burying it for him. Do you need to blast your sexual preferences out into the universe? I didn’t think so.

For shits and giggles – because that’s what I’m here for – let’s keep going with the story that Nicola and Jake are hot and heavy with each other. I’ll play center field and say Jake is a switch hitter. Happy now? If Jakola is real, then why would Nicola lay all those Lukola-coded breadcrumbs? And, NO, I am not explaining every crumb she’s dumped online. This post is already too damn long. But, Dear Jakolas, don’t tell me those coordinated airplane pictures didn’t have you crying into your pillows. Seriously, though, why would Nicola fuck with the Lukola fandom? I’ve mentioned in previous posts that Polin and Lukola have even been blurred by Netflix & Co. at this point. What would be the point of dragging the Lukolas along only to find out it was Nicola just fucking around? That makes about as much sense as “nice guy” Luke being the shittiest boyfriend on the planet. Again, the narrative does not fit the logic – although you’re welcome to try to convince me that Jakola is real.

For starters, convince me as to why Nicola is Jake’s “type” and not Luke’s. I am not being factitious. I seriously want to know why she’s acceptable for Jake but not Luke. And, if you’re going to tell me it’s because Luke likes brunettes, you better bring me some evidence that Jake likes blonde women.

Convince me that the Claddagh ring has no traditional significance to Nicola and that Jake would be okay with Nicola wearing that Claddagh ring – the one she had made in honor of Bridgerton Season 3, the season she shared with the man that fills her Instagram grid and tags and is the other half of Lukola. If you’re stuck on the significance of this ring, go read “Entry 6 – The One Where I Explained the Claddagh Ring to My Dad.”

Convince me that Nicola and Jake are a couple. And, if you’re going to mention handholding, then convince me that Nicola is not in a relationship with Mark, JVN, Jack R., Golda, Hannah D., Dylan L., or Luke. Oh, and is it true Jake is now dating Ellie Bamber? Convince me he’s not…

Any ways, good luck, babe, trying to sway me into believing Jakola is the real deal because I have a feeling your efforts are going to make your face become as flushed as Jack Favell’s when he was caught with his hand in the till.

NICOLA AS REBECCA

Surely you didn’t think Nicola was going to be the heroine of this story! If you believe the USS Lutonia and USS Jakola are smoothly sailing across the ocean blue, then the only role Nicola could reasonably play is that of the story’s villain – Rebecca. Yes, Rebecca was a bad, bad girl. She was manipulative and intentionally cruel; a Bitch with a capital “B.” She haunted poor Maxim and controlled Mrs. Danvers and Jack like a master puppeteer. She also tortured the Unnamed Narrator from her watery grave.

Seriously, though, let’s turn the tables. Let’s pretend Lutonia and Jakola are real. Starting, say, April 29, Nicola started trolling Antonia by dropping Luke-coded material online and really started ramping up those doe-eyed looks in Luke’s direction. Remember all that cute BTS? Perfectly timed to make it look like Antonia was trolling her when in reality Nicola was trolling Antonia! Unbeknownst to Luke, Nicola commissioned that Claddagh ring and started wearing it to make it look like she was in a relationship with Luke. She even organized a side jaunt over to Galway to introduce Luke to – surprise! – her mother! But, after being rejected by Luke – because he really is in love with Antonia (the USS Lutonia is blasting its horn right about now) – Nicola – YES, Nicola! – set up Papsmear to ruin Luke. I mean, if he wasn’t going to be her boyfriend, he sure as shit wasn’t going to be anyone else’s! All summer Nicola waited for Luke, but he’d gone into hiding, scared to surface because Nicola might find him! After growing tired of waiting for Luke, Nicola got her assassin, JVN, to start trolling Antonia online, that way Nicola could put all her efforts into finding and trolling Luke. She set up Chaos Week. She trolled him on the airplane. But, she needed help (after all she had so many other events and awards shows this summer) so she enlisted her unwitting accomplice, Jake! Jake helped her set up that Lukola FanFic to remind Luke of what could have been. But, nothing was working so Nicola upped the ante and volunteered Jake to be her confused boyfriend. “Luke…Luke…” I can still hear her desperate cries being carried like ashes in the wind…

SEE! I can do it, too – make up total bullshit to fit whatever narrative I please!!!

Yeah, yeah, maybe I went a bit too far (I warned you I had a dark sense of humor) but, honestly, I believe the only way the USS Lutonia and USS Jakola could stay afloat is if Nicola is the villain. She doesn’t even have to be a super villain. She just needs to be disingenuous enough to alienate Luke, terrorize Antonia, manipulate Jake, and mislead an entire fandom. Lucky for her, I don’t believe Nicola to be a real-life Rebecca. If you need an explanation as to why, then you didn't watch the same World Tour as me and you’re clearly on the wrong side of the fandom.

In truth, I believe the real villain to be…

YOU AS THE UNNAMED NARRATOR

Now, now, calm down. I’m not calling you out – at least not individually. I’m calling all of us out.

We as a fandom are the Unnamed Narrators of Lukola, Jakola, and Lutonia. We built these ships, and we control whether they stay afloat.

We took the narrative out of Luke and Nicola’s hands the moment we launched the USS Lutonia. Then we had to go and build the USS Jakola – I guess, because we were bored. No matter how hard Luke and Nicola try to pull the narrative back under their control, we allow side characters to feed us their side of the story! We fill our bellies with their nonsense and then vomit it all over the deck of the USS Lukola.

Seriously, we are the villains in this story. And, collectively, we are one bloody powerful super villain, aren’t we?

We control the narrative. So, if there’s a narrative you don’t agree with – for example, one that doesn’t make sense to you – stop being Conscientiously Stupid and feeding into it.

Remember what I said earlier? If you see Mrs. Danvers with a lit match, blow that fucker out! Otherwise, you’re going to let that bitch burn down the whole goddamn house.

#lukola #luke newton #nicola coughlan #my thoughts #my opinion #speculation only #my mood

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sanakiras · 11 months ago

Text

HEAVEN

PAIRING — jeon wonwoo x fem!reader

WORD COUNT — 3.4k

SYNOPSIS — wonwoo has a reputation for being distant, quiet and a bit mysterious. once you get to know him better, though, you come to find the sweet, shy boy underneath the surface.

TAGS — established relationship, explicit sexual content, sub-ish virgin!wonwoo, lowkey corruption kink, i have a sickening crush on this man can you tell, not proofread :)

♪ — the nbhd - heaven,, hank lotion - k-sEx

NOTE — gam3 bo1 wonwoo and ep 1 nana tour wonwoo footage has been making me act UP and i think he’s just so cute <3 screw the hard dom wonu agenda i like to see my men a lil WEAK ‼️😁

like most people, you felt rather intimidated when you met jeon wonwoo for the first time.

stoic, quiet, intelligent. the strong and silent type. that was the clear image you had of him. and to top it all off, he had the criminally good looks too. a relatively rare kind of man to come across, in your opinion.

though you began to see him in a different light after bonding with him over your shared love for video games. since then, you’ve discovered he can actually be quite talkative, cracking silly puns or laughing at the corniest dad jokes. he’s well-spoken and is actually very open about his feelings, which you found refreshing.

and while developing a friendship with him, you realized how much of a big softie he actually is, which paints quite the contrast compared to his cold and quiet persona he unintentionally seems to put up towards those outside his circle of close friends and family.

it reminds you of the day he asked you out — that sweet, shy smile on his face with rosy cheeks, all flustered and stuttering that you really don’t have to say yes if you don’t feel like it and he’ll push it all to the side like nothing happened if that’s what you’d prefer—

you very easily interrupted him by agreeing to go on a date with him. you’d never seen him smile wider.

wonwoo is cute when he smiles.

and despite his nervousness in the beginning, he still made efforts to be as talkative as he could and show you his interest in you, which you found very sweet. you had a great time with him, and you noticed rather quickly how comfortable you felt around him.

a couple dates later, he asked you if you wanted to be his girlfriend, and you certainly didn’t refuse him.

he’s also turned out to be a gentleman in his own way — subtly saying he could do certain things for you to make your life easier in that monotone voice of his, eyes following you around whenever he’s with you.

the first time he slept over at your place was rather recently after you two made it official. it wasn’t planned, since he was supposed to go back to his place after your date, but due to issues with public transport, you offered him to stay with you instead.

with his face and chest bare, he got into bed next to you. of course you’d imagined what he looked like underneath his big hoodies, but actually having him by your side like this was different.

and wonwoo was putting every bit of effort into playing it cool, even though he was freaking out to be sleeping next to his first girlfriend, forcing himself to look away from your tank top that left very little to the imagination.

yet ironically, it was all he could fantasize about before drifting to sleep.

normally, you’d only let a guy into your bed to do things other than sleeping once you’ve been dating for quite a while. it’s never been something you like to initiate quickly — but wonwoo’s been making you question it. severely.

because he looks so hot when he’s out on the field with his football team, when he’s working out, when he’s gaming on his pc, even when he just fucking smiles at you. the worst thing of it all might be that he doesn’t even seem the slightest bit aware of how attractive he is, nor what effect it has on you.

maybe you should really just tell him you want to jump him like a tree.

but you don’t want to rush him. for all you know, he doesn’t feel like doing that at all with you yet, and for some reason you just didn’t know when or how to ask him about it. later, you thought to yourself.

though you will say you’ve been pushing his buttons a little over the course of time. ever since that night, you’ve subtly been putting yourself on display for him. low-cut shirts and dresses so he can take a peek at your cleavage, accidentally exposing a bit of the fabric of your lingerie, sitting in his lap and rubbing up on him — unintentionally, of course.

it took every ounce of self-control in your body not to smirk when you felt him stiffen up underneath you.

the progress of your relationship has been nothing but positive, really. but you’re aching for him to just touch you at this point.

the day you hit your breaking point isn’t much later. you were trying on some newly bought dresses in front of him, one more revealing than the other — sundresses always work magic on men for whatever reason — and you turned around to find him pathetically trying to hide his hard-on while seated on your bed.

and you just couldn’t find it in you to wait any longer.

so that’s how you ended up sitting in his lap, hands on the back of his neck as you’re grinding against him. his glasses are sitting lop-sided on his nose, black locks messy from your fingers threading through them, lips swollen from your kisses.

the moment he feels your fingers tugging at his hoodie, he feels the need to clear up what he’s been meaning to tell you for a while now.

“i need to tell you something. i’ve—” he cuts himself off when he accidentally lets out a whimper, “i’ve never had sex with anyone.”

he’s still heavily breathing, looking at you in anticipation, and you just can’t escape the buzzing feeling you get from the idea of taking his virginity.

“do you want to?” you ask him, and how could he say no when you’re holding his face like this, looking at him like you’re willing to give him the ride of his life?

“yeah, yeah, i just—i usually don’t last very long,” he sheepishly admits, then internally asking himself why the fuck he would say that, “sorry, i’m nervous.”

but you think it’s endearing. “i don’t mind. we can always go for a second round, right?”

all he can do is nod his head in agreement. “i, i um—i’m not sure what to do next. i’m sorry, this is embarrassing.”

“it’s not, really. it’s not some big performance you need to put up, it’s something fun and exciting and intimate. you can go ahead and relax, and tell me if you like or don’t like what i’m doing.” you reassure him so patiently, which puts him at ease.

jesus — if anything, he’s already a whimpering, stuttering mess and you’re hardly even touching him.

so you move your hand down into his boxers, fingers wrapping around him to test the waters. he gasps in surprise once he feels you touching him, heat rushing to his cheeks.

“just let me take care of you, ‘kay? we can stop anytime.” you tell him, and he trusts you enough to let you go on.

you press another kiss to his lips before moving backwards, fingers taking a hold of the waistband of both his sweatpants and boxers.

the cold on his skin makes him shiver, but he’s hardly given the time to feel exposed in front of you when you’ve already got your hands on him, pleasantly surprised by his size.

“you’re so big, wonu.” you tell him in a sweet voice, feeling like you’re about to drool at the sight of him.

“didn’t think i was big.” he mumbles more to himself than to you, staring at the ceiling as he tries to steady his breathing.

you chuckle a little as you watch him. “you are. gonna have to work for it to make you fit into me.” the words make his eyes widen, images of you getting fucked by him flashing through his mind.

“fuck, really?”

“mhm. but you’ll do that for me, won’t you?”

wonwoo is absolutely crumbling underneath you here. the effect that your mere words have on him should be studied, because shit, he’s never felt this hot before. why is it so hot in here? is he sweating already? “yeah, i’ll—i’ll do anything you want me to.”

he’s such a sweetheart that it makes you want to ruin him.

for the sake of both his and your own pleasure, you decide not to tease any longer and touch his cock with your lips. he lets out a moan of surprise, the feeling being unfamiliar to him, but holy shit — this has got to be what heaven feels like.

his chest heaves as he tries to control his breathing once more, focusing on keeping his breathing by his stomach. your tongue darts out to lick his cock, and he whimpers, which makes you triumphantly smile a little.

you’re genuinely curious to see how long he can last, so you catch him by surprise by taking him into your mouth as far as possible, and his hand subconscously flies to the back of your head, and he doesn’t know whether he wants to push your head down or pull it back. he releases a choked moan, spurring you on to keep him lodged in your throat despite his efforts to pull you off him.

“fuck—please don’t make me cum already, baby, please—” he begs, loving the feeling of your mouth on him like that — he just doesn’t want to hit his peak that fast.

unfortunately for him, you do.

with your mouth currently no longer on him, you gently jerk him off instead, his hips automatically bucking into your grip. “what if i want you to?”

“you’ve barely—barely touched me. ‘s embarrassing.” he chokes out. the heat is still rushing to his cheeks. his hands are shaking.

of course he’s nervous. you’re his first time, his first girlfriend, it’s all new to him. he’s clearly afraid you might be turned off by him being all flustered like this.

so you make it your mission to show him it’s very much the opposite.

discarding your dress, you’re left in your tank top and underwear, nipples poking through the thin, white fabric. you move to tilt his face up with your glossy, acrylic nail, gently holding his chin, your face mere inches away from his.

“do you have any idea how wet i am? just from seeing you like this?” you ask, pulling his one hand down so he can feel the dampness of your panties. “bet you could slip right in.”

a broken whimper slips out of his mouth when he feels it. he didn’t know you were this turned on.

you push his head and upper body back against the pillows, making him lie down fully, and you’re just so eager to suck the life out of him.

the feeling of your warm mouth and tongue around him makes him experience a sensation he didn’t think was possible. christ, this must be what heaven feels like.

“oh my god—you’re so fucking good.” he’s arching his back with his eyes tightly shut from the pleasure you’re giving him. it’s only when you take him as far in your throat as possible that the first guttural groan is ripped from the depths of his chest. it’s a low, sexy sound that makes you clench around nothing.

he’s burning hot under you, causing his glasses to fog up a little. he carelessly throws the pair onto his nightstand, the grip on the back of your head becoming harsher and less gentle than before, because he’s that fucking close now.

it’s cute seeing wonwoo not knowing what to do with himself. keeping your mouth on his cock, gripping the sheets, throwing his head back before he casts his eyes back down to watch you suck him off — it’s like he’s being overstimulated in the best way possible.

it’s enough for you to sense he’s close, which makes you take your mouth off him to jerk him off instead, all so you can watch him chase his release. “that’s it, wonu, give it to me.”

there’s a sudden shiver that runs from his back and core all the way down to his toes. he tenses up, unintentionally grabbing your wrist to stop your movements as he trembles and his body gives in to his orgasm.

once he’s coming down from his high, he looks at you like you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

“that was… holy shit.” he laughs a little to himself, eliciting a chuckle from you.

“i’m that good, huh?”

“yeah.”

“wanna keep going?”

“mhm.”

“okay. take off your shirt.”

wonwoo blinks for a moment. he practically forgot he was still wearing one, so he sits up and gets rid of the black shirt, throwing it beside your bed, now completely bare before you.

if he’s being honest, you did ease his nerves by letting him have his first orgasm already. the strange sense of shame he previously felt has disappeared into the air, with only nervous excitement left.

he feels good.

especially when he watches you move to sit on your knees on the bed, removing the tank top and slipping out of your underwear.

his eyes are glued to your naked body, hardly able to look away — that is, until you sit down in his lap, your dripping heat touching his hardening dick, making him twitch under you.

“where do you keep your condoms?”

the question forces him out of his constant staring at your body. “uh—nightstand.” he mutters, taking the initiative to reach and get it himself.

thankfully, he manages to get it on himself quickly. you urge him to lie back down again while you position yourself above him, shamelessly staring at his strong chest and broad shoulders.

his mouth is agape when you sink down on him, and fuck, he’s in so deep.

the stretch burns, especially because you didn’t get yourself ready, but you’re so dripping wet to the point you don’t care — you need him in you.

wonwoo notices you struggle despite your arousal. “you don’t have to take me all the way if it hurts.”

you hum, a half-smirk creeping onto your face. “but it hurts so good. so i will.”

once he’s sheathed fully inside you, he’s subconsciously holding his breath. the anticipation for you to move is killing him. the sensitivity of his dick makes him whimper, his lashes fluttering as his teeth sink into his lower lip in a failed attempt to hold it together.

you decide to tease him a little by clenching down on him. his hands fly to your hips, gripping the skin harder than intended from the sudden feeling, his breathing becoming erratic again. “hah—don’t do that, please, i don’t wanna cum yet baby—please.”

“why? you close?” you ask him with an innocent face, knowing damn well what you’re doing to him.

“yeah. need you so bad.” he answers truthfully, his ego and pride nowhere to be found anymore. whether he sounds pathetic or not, he doesn’t give a shit. all he knows is that you’re sitting on top of him and he needs you to make him feel what he’s been desperate to feel for so damn long.

so you tilt your head. “‘s okay, wonu. i’ll give it to you.”

he can hardly even make out a response before you lift your hips and proceed to sink back down on him, your hands on his chest. a filthy moan rolls past his lips — you think it’s the best sound you’ve ever heard in your damn life.

then you begin to roll your hips, and he sucks through his teeth from the feeling, a mix of overstimulation and pleasure rushing through him. once you let out your first dragged-out moan, his fingers twitch for a moment, digging deeper into your skin.

“have you thought about this? fucking me?”

despite the position he’s in right now, he still feels his face heat up when you ask him dirty things like that, even more so when he answers them.

“yeah, i did.”

“when? tell me. i wanna hear it.” you tell him, and when you’re so gorgeously riding him like this, how could he not oblige?

wonwoo swallows, stuttering as he focuses on recalling the memories while admiring you and the feeling you’re letting him experience. “when i saw you wearing that short skirt on our second date, and—and that time you came to watch me at the football game. couple of my teammates were drooling over you. so was i.”

his words turn you on, because you doubted whether you were sensing actual jealousy from him that night, and this confirms it.

“were you?” you ask, running your nails down his stomach. “what’d you do about it?”

he bites his lip. “i’ll sound like a pervert if i answer that.”

teasing him again, you push yourself down on him almost harshly, relishing in the way he gasps under you. wonwoo is wonderfully responsive in bed, and you’re having a fucking field trip with it.

“yeah? try me.”

“i touched myself after getting home, and i... thought about you. in that skirt.”

“i’ll wear it for you next time.” you smile, watching him close his eyes in pleasure when you leave your marks on his chest, putting a few hickeys on his neck and collarbone on purpose. “i touched myself thinking of you, too.”

that makes him twitch inside you, which is exactly what you wanted.

his hands dip to the curve of your ass, following your movement. “really?”

“mhm. i thought you looked so sexy in your football attire. you were wearing that tight compression shirt that you always wear when you go to the gym too — drove me nuts, wonu.” you confess, which seems to work as a brief shot of adrenaline for him.

he moves to sit up, bringing your bodies closer together by looping his arms around your waist, the slight change in position making you moan.

the drag of his cock inside you is slowly making you go insane. your face is hot and you’re dripping wet for him, sucking him in to the point you feel like you need to claw at the walls.

“god, feels so good.” he mutters, his mouth finding your breasts before he begins to suck on the skin like a man starved.

once he notices you’re both getting closer, but you’re getting tired from your position on top, he takes a breath and flips you over, now hovering above you.

burying his face in the crook of your neck, he holds onto your body and fucks you. his thrusts are harder than he intends them to, the control over his body lost in his relentless drive to make you both feel good.

he’s panting hard, doing everything in his power to make you cum first this time while indulging in his own pleasure as well. “am i doing good for my first time? does it feel good?”

god, you can only half-catch the words with the way he’s fucking you. it’s almost funny — such a sweetheart he is, asking you if he’s doing well while simultaneously fucking you into oblivion.

“you’re so good, wonu. so good—‘m so close.” you cry out, manicured nails digging into his back, making him groan.

“wanna feel you cum around me so bad.” the words almost sound like a plea, like he’s begging you for it.

then he kisses your neck, and he hits the perfect spot inside you over and over, and it’s enough to make you clench so hard around him that he can’t hold it any longer. your orgasm makes your legs shake, and he fucks you right through it, making you wonder why the hell it took the universe so long to let him into your life.

he moans and whines and shakes when he hits his climax, twitching inside you, filling up the condom. with heavy breaths, he lets his body rest on top of you, his head by your collarbone, a comfortable silence emerging as your heartbeats slow and breathing steadies.

surprisingly, it’s him who speaks up first.

“i’m gonna need a while for my legs to start working again.” he chuckles breathily, covering his face a little when he notices you poking fun at him.

“aw, baby, did i drain you that much?”

“i genuinely can’t even feel my limbs.”

you laugh at him, pressing a kiss to his cheek, and he smiles so sweetly — as if he didn’t just fuck the living daylights out of you. “wanna go again?”

he blushes a bit, tilting his head as if he has to think about it, before sheepishly giving you his answer.

“... yeah.”

thanks for reading! let me know if u liked it x

® SANAKIRAS — do not repost, remake or copy my work in any way whatsoever. translations are not allowed.

#jeon wonwoo x reader #wonwoo x reader #seventeen x reader #seventeen smut #wonwoo smut #svt ff #svt fic #seventeen fanfic #svt x reader #svt smut #svthub #jeon wonwoo fanfic #original post

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mostlysignssomeportents · 2 months ago

Text

They were warned

Picks and Shovels is a new, standalone technothriller starring Marty Hench, my two-fisted, hard-fighting, tech-scam-busting forensic accountant. You can pre-order it on my latest Kickstarter, which features a brilliant audiobook read by Wil Wheaton.

Truth is provisional! Sometimes, the things we understand to be true about the world change, and stuff we've "always done" has to change, too. There comes a day when the evidence against using radium suppositories is overwhelming, and then you really must dig that radium out of your colon and safely dispose of it:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/09/19/just-stop-putting-that-up-your-ass/#harm-reduction

So it's natural and right that in the world, there will be people who want to revisit the received wisdom and best practices for how we live our lives, regulate our economy, and organize our society. But not a license to simply throw out the systems we rely on. Sure, maybe they're outdated or unnecessary, but maybe not. That's where "Chesterton's Fence" comes in:

Let us say, for the sake of simplicity, a fence or gate erected across a road. The more modern type of reformer goes gaily up to it and says, "I don't see the use of this; let us clear it away." To which the more intelligent type of reformer will do well to answer: "If you don't see the use of it, I certainly won't let you clear it away. Go away and think. Then, when you can come back and tell me that you do see the use of it, I may allow you to destroy it."

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/G._K._Chesterton#Chesterton's_fence

In other words, it's not enough to say, "This principle gets in the way of something I want to do, so let's throw it out because I'm pretty sure the inconvenience I'm experiencing is worse than the consequences of doing away with this principle." You need to have a theory of how you will prevent the harms the principle protects us from once you tear it down. That theory can be "the harms are imaginary" so it doesn't matter. Like, if you get rid of all the measures that defend us from hexes placed by evil witches, it's OK to say, "This is safe because evil witches aren't real and neither are hexes."

But you'd better be sure! After all, some preventative measures work so well that no living person has experienced the harms they guard us against. It's easy to mistake these for imaginary or exaggerated. Think of the antivaxers who are ideologically committed to a world in which human beings do not have a shared destiny, meaning that no one has a moral claim over the choices you make. Motivated reasoning lets those people rationalize their way into imagining that measles – a deadly and ferociously contagious disease that was a scourge for millennia until we all but extinguished it – was no big deal:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Measles:_A_Dangerous_Illness

There's nothing wrong with asking whether longstanding health measures need to be carried on, or whether they can be sunset. But antivaxers' sloppy, reckless reasoning about contagious disease is inexcusable. They were warned, repeatedly, about the mass death and widespread lifelong disability that would follow from their pursuit of an ideological commitment to living as though their decisions have no effect on others. They pressed ahead anyway, inventing ever-more fanciful reasons why health is a purely private matter, and why "public health" was either a myth or a Communist conspiracy:

https://www.conspirituality.net/episodes/brief-vinay-prasad-pick-me-campaign

When RFK Jr kills your kids with measles or permanently disables them with polio, he doesn't get to say "I was just inquiring as to the efficacy of a longstanding measure, as is right and proper." He was told why the vaccine fence was there, and he came up with objectively very stupid reasons why that didn't matter, and then he killed your kids. He was warned.

Fuck that guy.

Or take Bill Clinton. From 1933 until 1999, American banks were regulated under the Glass-Steagall Act, which "structurally separated" them. Under structural separation, a "retail bank" – the bank that holds your savings and mortgage and provides you with a checkbook – could not be "investment bank." That meant it couldn't own or invest in businesses that competed with the businesses its depositors and borrowers ran. It couldn't get into other lines of business, either, like insurance underwriting.

Glass-Steagall was a fence that stood between retail banks and the casino economy. It was there for a fucking great reason: the failure to structurally separate banks allowed them to act like casinos, inflating a giant market bubble that popped on Black Friday in October 1929, kicking off the Great Depression. Congress built the structural separation fence to keep banks from doing it again.

In the 1990s, Bill Clinton agitated for getting rid of Glass-Steagall. He argued that new economic controls would allow the government to prevent another giant bubble and crash. This time, the banks would behave themselves. After all, hadn't they demonstrated their prudence for seven decades?

In fact, they hadn't. Every time banks figured out how to slip out of regulatory constraints they inflated another huge bubble, leading to another massive crash that made the rich obscenely richer and destroyed ordinary savers' lives. Clinton took office just as one of these finance-sector bombs – the S&L Crisis – was detonating. Clinton had no basis – apart from wishful thinking – to believe that deregulating banks would lead to anything but another gigantic crash.

But Clinton let his self interest – in presiding over a sugar-high economic expansion driven by deregulation – overrule his prudence (about the crash that would follow). Sure enough, in the last months of Clinton's presidency, the stock market imploded with the March 2000 dot-bomb. And because Congress learned nothing from the dot-com crash and declined to restore the Glass-Steagall fence, the crash led to another bubble, this time in subprime mortgages, and then, inevitably, we suffered the Great Financial Crisis.

Look: there's no virtue in having bank regulations for the sake of having them. It is conceptually possible for bank regulations to be useless or even harmful. There's nothing wrong with investigating whether the 70-year old Glass-Steagall Act was still needed in 1999. But Clinton was provided with a mountain of evidence about why Glass-Steagall was the only thing standing between Americans and economic chaos, including the evidence of the S&L Crisis, which was still underway when he took office, and he ignored all of them. If you lost everything – your home, your savings, your pension – in the dot-bomb or the Great Financial Crisis, Bill Clinton is to blame. He was warned. he ignored the warnings.

Fuck that guy.

No, seriously, fuck Bill Clinton. Deregulating banks wasn't Clinton's only passion. He also wanted to ban working cryptography. The cornerstone of Clinton's tech policy was the "Clipper Chip," a backdoored encryption chip that, by law, every technology was supposed to use. If Clipper had gone into effect, then cops, spooks, and anyone who could suborn, bribe, or trick a cop or a spook could break into any computer, server, mobile device, or embedded system in America.

When Clinton was told – over and over, in small, easy-to-understand words – that there was no way to make a security system that only worked when "bad guys" tried to break into it, but collapsed immediately if a "good guy" wanted to bypass it. We explained to him – oh, how we explained to him! – that working encryption would be all that stood between your pacemaker's firmware and a malicious update that killed you where you stood; all that stood between your antilock brakes' firmware and a malicious update that sent you careening off a cliff; all that stood between businesses and corporate espionage, all that stood between America and foreign state adversaries wanting to learn its secrets.

In response, Clinton said the same thing that all of his successors in the Crypto Wars have said: NERD HARDER! Just figure it out. Cops need to look at bad guys' phones, so you need to figure out how to make encryption that keeps teenagers safe from sextortionists, but melts away the second a cop tries to unlock a suspect's phone. Take Malcolm Turnbull, the former Australian Prime Minister. When he was told that the laws of mathematics dictated that it was impossible to build selectively effective encryption of the sort he was demanding, he replied, "The laws of mathematics are very commendable but the only law that applies in Australia is the law of Australia":

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2017/07/australian-pm-calls-end-end-encryption-ban-says-laws-mathematics-dont-apply-down

Fuck that guy. Fuck Bill Clinton. Fuck a succession of UK Prime Ministers who have repeatedly attempted to ban working encryption. Fuck 'em all. The stakes here are obscenely high. They have been warned, and all they say in response is "NERD HARDER!"

https://pluralistic.net/2023/03/05/theyre-still-trying-to-ban-cryptography/

Now, of course, "crypto means cryptography," but the other crypto – cryptocurrency – deserves a look-in here. Cryptocurrency proponents advocate for a system of deregulated money creation, AKA "wildcat currencies." They say, variously, that central banks are no longer needed; or that we never needed central banks to regulate the money supply. Let's take away that fence. Why not? It's not fit for purpose today, and maybe it never was.

Why do we have central banks? The Fed – which is far from a perfect institution and could use substantial reform or even replacement – was created because the age of wildcat currencies was a nightmare. Wildcat currencies created wild economic swings, massive booms and even bigger busts. Wildcat currencies are the reason that abandoned haunted mansions feature so heavily in the American imagination: American towns and cities were dotted with giant mansions built by financiers who'd grown rich as bubbles expanded, then lost it all after the crash.

Prudent management of the money supply didn't end those booms and busts, but it substantially dampened them, ending the so-called "business cycle" that once terrorized Americans, destroying their towns and livelihoods and wiping out their savings.

It shouldn't surprise us that a new wildcat money sector, flogging "decentralized" cryptocurrencies (that they are nevertheless weirdly anxious to swap for your gross, boring old "fiat" money) has created a series of massive booms and busts, with insiders getting richer and richer, and retail investors losing everything.

If there was ever any doubt about whether wildcat currencies could be made safe by putting them on a blockchain, it is gone. Wildcat currencies are as dangerous today as they were in the 18th and 19th century – only moreso, since this new bad paper relies on the endless consumption of whole rainforests' worth of carbon, endangering not just our economy, but also the habitability of the planet Earth.

And nevertheless, the Trump administration is promising a new crypto golden age (or, ahem, a Gilded Age). And there are plenty of Democrats who continue to throw in with the rotten, corrupt crypto industry, which flushed billions into the 2024 election to bring Trump to office. The result is absolutely going to be more massive bubbles and life-destroying implosions. Fuck those guys. They were warned, and they did it anyway.

Speaking of the climate emergency: greetings from smoky Los Angeles! My city's on fire. This was not an unforeseeable disaster. Malibu is the most on-fire place in the world:

https://longreads.com/2018/12/04/the-case-for-letting-malibu-burn/

Since 1919, the region has been managed on the basis of "total fire suppression." This policy continued long after science showed that this creates "fire debt" in the form of accumulated fuel. The longer you go between fires, the hotter and more destructive those fires become, and the relationship is nonlinear. A 50-year fire isn't 250% more intense than a 20-year fire: it's 50,000% more intense.

Despite this, California has invested peanuts in regular controlled burns, which has created biennial uncontrolled burns – wildfires that cost thousands of times more than any controlled burn.

Speaking of underinvestment: PG&E has spent decades extracting dividends for its investors and bonuses for its execs, while engaging in near-total neglect of maintenance of its high-voltage transmission lines. Even with normal winds, these lines routinely fall down and start blazes.

But we don't have normal winds. The climate emergency has been steadily worsening for decades. LA is just the latest place to be on fire, or under water, or under ice, or baking in wet bulb temperatures. Last week in southern California, we were warned to expect gusts of 120mph.

They were warned. #ExxonKnew: in the early 1970s, Exxon's own scientists warned them that fossil fuel consumption would kick off climate change so drastic that it would endanger human civilzation. Exxon responded by burying the reports and investing in climate denial:

https://exxonknew.org/

They were warned! Warned about fire debt. Warned about transmission lines. Warned about climate change. And specific, named people, who individually had the power to heed these warnings and stave off disaster, ignored the warnings. They didn't make honest mistakes, either: they ignored the warnings because doing so made them extraordinarily, disgustingly rich. They used this money to create dynastic fortunes, and have created entire lineages of ultra-wealthy princelings in $900,000 watches who owe it all to our suffering and impending dooml

Fuck those guys. Fuck 'em all.

We've had so many missed opportunities, chances to make good policy or at least not make bad policy. The enshitternet didn't happen on its own. It was the foreseeable result of choices – again, choices made by named individuals who became very wealthy by ignoring the warnings all around them.

Let's go back to Bill Clinton, because more than anyone else, Clinton presided over some terrible technology regulations. In 1998, Clinton signed the Digital Millennium Copyright Act, a bill championed by Barney Frank (fuck that guy, too). Under Section 1201 of the Digital Millennium Copyright Act, it's a felony, punishable by a five year prison sentence, and a $500,000 fine, to tamper with a "digital lock."

That means that if HP uses a digital lock to prevent you from using third-party ink, it's a literal crime to bypass that lock. Which is why HP ink now costs $10,000/gallon, and why you print your shopping lists with colored water that costs more, ounce for ounce, than the sperm of a Kentucky Derby winner:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/09/30/life-finds-a-way/#ink-stained-wretches

Clinton was warned that DMCA 1201 would soon metastasize into every kind of device – not just the games consoles and DVD players where it was first used, but medical implants, tractors, cars, home appliances – anything you could put a microchip into (Jay Freeman calls this "felony contempt of business-model"):

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/24/rent-to-pwn/#kitt-is-a-demon

He ignored those warnings and signed the DMCA anyway (fuck that guy). Then, under Bush (fuck that guy), the US Trade Representative went all around the world demanding that America's trading partners adopt versions of this law (fuck that guy). In 2001, the European Parliament capitulated, enacting the EU Copyright Directive, whose Article 6 is a copy-paste of DMCA 1201 (fuck all those people).

Fast forward 20 years, and boy is there a lot of shit with microchips that can be boobytrapped with rent-extracting logic bombs that are illegal to research, describe, or disable.

Like choo-choo trains.

Last year, the Polish hacking group Dragon Sector was contacted by a public sector train company whose Newag trains kept going out of service. The operator suspected that Newag had boobytrapped the trains to punish the train company for getting its maintenance from a third-party contractor. When Dragon Sector investigated, they discovered that Newag had indeed riddled the trains' firmware with boobytraps. Trains that were taken to locations known to have third-party maintenance workshops were immediately bricked (hilariously, this bomb would detonate if trains just passed through stations near to these workshops, which is why another train company had to remove all the GPSes from its trains – they kept slamming to a halt when they approached a station near a third-party workshop). But Newag's logic bombs would brick trains for all kinds of reasons – merely keeping a train stationary for too many days would result in its being bricked. Installing a third-party component in a locomotive would also trigger a bomb, bricking the train.

In their talk at last year's Chaos Communications Congress, the Dragon Sector folks describe how they have been legally terrorized by Newag, which has repeatedly sued them for violating its "intellectual property" by revealing its sleazy, corrupt business practices. They also note that Newag continues to sell lots of trains in Poland, despite the widespread knowledge of its dirty business model, because public train operators are bound by procurement rules, and as long as Newag is the cheapest bidder, they get the contract:

https://media.ccc.de/v/38c3-we-ve-not-been-trained-for-this-life-after-the-newag-drm-disclosure

The laws that let Newag make millions off a nakedly corrupt enterprise – and put the individuals who blew the whistle on it at risk of losing everything – were passed by Members of the European Parliament who were warned that this would happen, and they ignored those warnings, and now it's happening. Fuck those people, every one of 'em.

It's not just European parliamentarians who ignored warnings and did the bidding of the US Trade Representative, enacting laws that banned tampering with digital locks. In 2010, two Canadian Conservative Party ministers in the Stephen Harper government brought forward similar legislation. These ministers, Tony Clement (now a disgraced sex-pest and PPE grifter) and James Moore (today, a sleazeball white-shoe corporate lawyer), held a consultation on this proposal.

6, 138 people wrote in to say, "Don't do this, it will be hugely destructive." 54 respondents wrote in support of it. Clement and Moore threw out the 6,138 opposing comments. Moore explained why: these were the "babyish" responses of "radical extremists." The law passed in 2012.

Last year, the Canadian Parliament passed bills guaranteeing Canadians the Right to Repair and the right to interoperability. But Canadians can't act on either of these laws, because they would have to tamper with a digital lock to do so, and that's illegal, thanks to Tony Clement and James Moore. Who were warned. And who ignored those warnings. Fuck those guys:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/11/15/radical-extremists/#sex-pest

Back in the 1990s, Bill Clinton had a ton of proposals for regulating the internet, but nowhere among those proposals will you find a consumer privacy law. The last time an American president signed a consumer privacy law was 1988, when Reagan signed the Video Privacy Protection Act and ensured that Americans would never have to worry that video-store clerks where telling the newspapers what VHS cassettes they took home.

In the years since, Congress has enacted exactly zero consumer privacy laws. None. This has allowed the out-of-control, unregulated data broker sector to metastasize into a cancer on the American people. This is an industry that fuels stalkers, discriminatory financial and hiring algorithms, and an ad-tech sector that lets advertisers target categories like "teenagers with depression," "seniors with dementia" and "armed service personnel with gambling addictions."

When the people cry out for privacy protections, Congress – and the surveillance industry shills that fund them – say we don't need a privacy law. The market will solve this problem. People are selling their privacy willingly, and it would be an "undue interference in the market" if we took away your "freedom to contract" by barring companies from spying on you after you clicked the "I agree" button.

These people have been repeatedly warned about the severe dangers to the American public – as workers, as citizens, as community members, and as consumers – from the national privacy free-for-all, and have done nothing. Fuck them, every one:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/12/06/privacy-first/#but-not-just-privacy

Now, even a stopped clock is right twice a day, and not every one of Bill Clinton's internet policies was terrible. He had exactly one great policy, and, ironically, that's the one there's the most energy for dismantling. That policy is Section 230 of the Communications Decency Act (a law that was otherwise such a dumpster fire that the courts struck it down). Chances are, you have been systematically misled about the history, use, and language of Section 230, which is wild, because it's exactly 26 words long and fits in a single tweet:

No provider or user of an interactive computer service shall be treated as the publisher or speaker of any information provided by another information content provider.

Section 230 was passed because when companies were held liable for their users' speech, they "solved" this problem by just blocking every controversial thing a user said. Without Section 230, there would be no Black Lives Matter, no #MeToo – no online spaces where the powerful were held to account. Meanwhile, rich and powerful people would continue to enjoy online platforms where they and their bootlickers could pump out the most grotesque nonsense imaginable, either because they owned those platforms (ahem, Twitter and Truth Social) or because rich and powerful people can afford the professional advice needed to navigate the content-moderation bureaucracies of large systems.

We know exactly what the internet looks like when platforms are civilly liable for their users' speech: it's an internet where marginalized and powerless people are silenced, and where the people who've got a boot on their throats are the only voices you can hear:

https://www.techdirt.com/2020/06/23/hello-youve-been-referred-here-because-youre-wrong-about-section-230-communications-decency-act/

The evidence for this isn't limited to the era of AOL and Prodigy. In 2018, Trump signed SESTA/FOSTA, a law that held platforms liable for "sex trafficking." Advocates for this law – like Ashton Kutcher, who campaigns against sexual assault unless it involves one of his friends, in which case he petitions the judge for leniency – were warned that it would be used to shut down all consensual sex work online, making sex workers's lives much more dangerous. This warnings were immediately borne out, and they have been repeatedly borne out every month since. Killing CDA 230 for sex work brought back pimping, exposed sex workers to grave threats to their personal safety, and made them much poorer:

https://decriminalizesex.work/advocacy/sesta-fosta/what-is-sesta-fosta/

It also pushed sex trafficking and other nonconsensual sex into privateforums that are much harder for law enforcement to monitor and intervene in, making it that much harder to catch sex traffickers:

https://cdt.org/insights/its-all-downsides-hybrid-fosta-sesta-hinders-law-enforcement-hurts-victims-and-speakers/

This is exactly what SESTA/FOSTA's advocates were warned of. They were warned. They did it anyway. Fuck those people.

Maybe you have a theory about how platforms can be held civilly liable for their users' speech without harming marginalized people in exactly the way that SESTA/FOSTA, it had better amount to more than "platforms are evil monopolists and CDA 230 makes their lives easier." Yes, they're evil monopolists. Yes, 230 makes their lives easier. But without 230, small forums – private message boards, Mastodon servers, Bluesky, etc – couldn't possibly operate.

There's a reason Mark Zuckerberg wants to kill CDA 230, and it's not because he wants to send Facebook to the digital graveyard. Zuck knows that FB can operate in a post-230 world by automating the deletion of all controversial speech, and he knows that small services that might "disrupt" Facebook's hegemony would be immediately extinguished by eliminating 230:

https://www.nbcnews.com/tech/tech-news/zuckerberg-calls-changes-techs-section-230-protections-rcna486

It's depressing to see so many comrades in the fight against Big Tech getting suckered into carrying water for Zuck, demanding the eradication of CDA 230. Please, I beg you: look at the evidence for what happens when you remove that fence. Heed the warnings. Don't be like Bill Clinton, or California fire suppression officials, or James Moore and Tony Clement, or the European Parliament, or the US Trade Rep, or cryptocurrency freaks, or Malcolm Turnbull.

Or Ashton fucking Kutcher.

Because, you know, fuck those guys.

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If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/01/13/wanting-it-badly/#is-not-enough

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