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mostlysignssomeportents · 11 months

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A link-clump demands a linkdump

Cometh the weekend, cometh the linkdump. My daily-ish newsletter includes a section called "Hey look at this," with three short links per day, but sometimes those links get backed up and I need to clean house. Here's the eight previous installments:

https://pluralistic.net/tag/linkdump/

The country code top level domain (ccTLD) for the Caribbean island nation of Anguilla is .ai, and that's turned into millions of dollars worth of royalties as "entrepreneurs" scramble to sprinkle some buzzword-compliant AI stuff on their businesses in the most superficial way possible:

https://arstechnica.com/information-technology/2023/08/ai-fever-turns-anguillas-ai-domain-into-a-digital-gold-mine/

All told, .ai domain royalties will account for about ten percent of the country's GDP.

It's actually kind of nice to see Anguilla finding some internet money at long last. Back in the 1990s, when I was a freelance web developer, I got hired to work on the investor website for a publicly traded internet casino based in Anguilla that was a scammy disaster in every conceivable way. The company had been conceived of by people who inherited a modestly successful chain of print-shops and decided to diversify by buying a dormant penny mining stock and relaunching it as an online casino.

But of course, online casinos were illegal nearly everywhere. Not in Anguilla – or at least, that's what the founders told us – which is why they located their servers there, despite the lack of broadband or, indeed, reliable electricity at their data-center. At a certain point, the whole thing started to whiff of a stock swindle, a pump-and-dump where they'd sell off shares in that ex-mining stock to people who knew even less about the internet than they did and skedaddle. I got out, and lost track of them, and a search for their names and business today turns up nothing so I assume that it flamed out before it could ruin any retail investors' lives.

Anguilla is a British Overseas Territory, one of those former British colonies that was drained and then given "independence" by paternalistic imperial administrators half a world away. The country's main industries are tourism and "finance" – which is to say, it's a pearl in the globe-spanning necklace of tax- and corporate-crime-havens the UK established around the world so its most vicious criminals – the hereditary aristocracy – can continue to use Britain's roads and exploit its educated workforce without paying any taxes.

This is the "finance curse," and there are tiny, struggling nations all around the world that live under it. Nick Shaxson dubbed them "Treasure Islands" in his outstanding book of the same name:

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9780230341722/treasureislands

I can't imagine that the AI bubble will last forever – anything that can't go on forever eventually stops – and when it does, those .ai domain royalties will dry up. But until then, I salute Anguilla, which has at last found the internet riches that I played a small part in bringing to it in the previous century.

The AI bubble is indeed overdue for a popping, but while the market remains gripped by irrational exuberance, there's lots of weird stuff happening around the edges. Take Inject My PDF, which embeds repeating blocks of invisible text into your resume:

https://kai-greshake.de/posts/inject-my-pdf/

The text is tuned to make resume-sorting Large Language Models identify you as the ideal candidate for the job. It'll even trick the summarizer function into spitting out text that does not appear in any human-readable form on your CV.

Embedding weird stuff into resumes is a hacker tradition. I first encountered it at the Chaos Communications Congress in 2012, when Ang Cui used it as an example in his stellar "Print Me If You Dare" talk:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=njVv7J2azY8

Cui figured out that one way to update the software of a printer was to embed an invisible Postscript instruction in a document that basically said, "everything after this is a firmware update." Then he came up with 100 lines of perl that he hid in documents with names like cv.pdf that would flash the printer when they ran, causing it to probe your LAN for vulnerable PCs and take them over, opening a reverse-shell to his command-and-control server in the cloud. Compromised printers would then refuse to apply future updates from their owners, but would pretend to install them and even update their version numbers to give verisimilitude to the ruse. The only way to exorcise these haunted printers was to send 'em to the landfill. Good times!

Printers are still a dumpster fire, and it's not solely about the intrinsic difficulty of computer security. After all, printer manufacturers have devoted enormous resources to hardening their products against their owners, making it progressively harder to use third-party ink. They're super perverse about it, too – they send "security updates" to your printer that update the printer's security against you – run these updates and your printer downgrades itself by refusing to use the ink you chose for it:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2020/11/ink-stained-wretches-battle-soul-digital-freedom-taking-place-inside-your-printer

It's a reminder that what a monopolist thinks of as "security" isn't what you think of as security. Oftentimes, their security is antithetical to your security. That was the case with Web Environment Integrity, a plan by Google to make your phone rat you out to advertisers' servers, revealing any adblocking modifications you might have installed so that ad-serving companies could refuse to talk to you:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/08/02/self-incrimination/#wei-bai-bai

WEI is now dead, thanks to a lot of hueing and crying by people like us:

https://www.theregister.com/2023/11/02/google_abandons_web_environment_integrity/

But the dream of securing Google against its own users lives on. Youtube has embarked on an aggressive campaign of refusing to show videos to people running ad-blockers, triggering an arms-race of ad-blocker-blockers and ad-blocker-blocker-blockers:

https://www.scientificamerican.com/article/where-will-the-ad-versus-ad-blocker-arms-race-end/

The folks behind Ublock Origin are racing to keep up with Google's engineers' countermeasures, and there's a single-serving website called "Is uBlock Origin updated to the last Anti-Adblocker YouTube script?" that will give you a realtime, one-word status update:

https://drhyperion451.github.io/does-uBO-bypass-yt/

One in four web users has an ad-blocker, a stat that Doc Searls pithily summarizes as "the biggest boycott in world history":

https://doc.searls.com/2015/09/28/beyond-ad-blocking-the-biggest-boycott-in-human-history/

Zero app users have ad-blockers. That's not because ad-blocking an app is harder than ad-blocking the web – it's because reverse-engineering an app triggers liability under IP laws like Section 1201 of the Digital Millenium Copyright Act, which can put you away for 5 years for a first offense. That's what I mean when I say that "IP is anything that lets a company control its customers, critics or competitors:

https://locusmag.com/2020/09/cory-doctorow-ip/

I predicted that apps would open up all kinds of opportunities for abusive, monopolistic conduct back in 2010, and I'm experiencing a mix of sadness and smugness (I assume there's a German word for this emotion) at being so thoroughly vindicated by history:

https://memex.craphound.com/2010/04/01/why-i-wont-buy-an-ipad-and-think-you-shouldnt-either/

The more control a company can exert over its customers, the worse it will be tempted to treat them. These systems of control shift the balance of power within companies, making it harder for internal factions that defend product quality and customer interests to win against the enshittifiers:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/28/microincentives-and-enshittification/

The result has been a Great Enshittening, with platforms of all description shifting value from their customers and users to their shareholders, making everything palpably worse. The only bright side is that this has created the political will to do something about it, sparking a wave of bold, muscular antitrust action all over the world.

The Google antitrust case is certainly the most important corporate lawsuit of the century (so far), but Judge Amit Mehta's deference to Google's demands for secrecy has kept the case out of the headlines. I mean, Sam Bankman-Fried is a psychopathic thief, but even so, his trial does not deserve its vastly greater prominence, though, if you haven't heard yet, he's been convicted and will face decades in prison after he exhausts his appeals:

https://newsletter.mollywhite.net/p/sam-bankman-fried-guilty-on-all-charges

The secrecy around Google's trial has relaxed somewhat, and the trickle of revelations emerging from the cracks in the courthouse are fascinating. For the first time, we're able to get a concrete sense of which queries are the most lucrative for Google:

https://www.theverge.com/2023/11/1/23941766/google-antitrust-trial-search-queries-ad-money

The list comes from 2018, but it's still wild. As David Pierce writes in The Verge, the top twenty includes three iPhone-related terms, five insurance queries, and the rest are overshadowed by searches for customer service info for monopolistic services like Xfinity, Uber and Hulu.

All-in-all, we're living through a hell of a moment for piercing the corporate veil. Maybe it's the problem of maintaining secrecy within large companies, or maybe the the rampant mistreatment of even senior executives has led to more leaks and whistleblowing. Either way, we all owe a debt of gratitude to the anonymous leaker who revealed the unbelievable pettiness of former HBO president of programming Casey Bloys, who ordered his underlings to create an army of sock-puppet Twitter accounts to harass TV and movie critics who panned HBO's shows:

https://www.rollingstone.com/tv-movies/tv-movie-features/hbo-casey-bloys-secret-twitter-trolls-tv-critics-leaked-texts-lawsuit-the-idol-1234867722/

These trolling attempts were pathetic, even by the standards of thick-fingered corporate execs. Like, accusing critics who panned the shitty-ass Perry Mason reboot of disrespecting veterans because the fictional Mason's back-story had him storming the beach on D-Day.

The pushback against corporate bullying is everywhere, and of course, the vanguard is the labor movement. Did you hear that the UAW won their strike against the auto-makers, scoring raises for all workers based on the increases in the companies' CEO pay? The UAW isn't done, either! Their incredible new leader, Shawn Fain, has called for a general strike in 2028:

https://www.404media.co/uaw-calls-on-workers-to-line-up-massive-general-strike-for-2028-to-defeat-billionaire-class/

The massive victory for unionized auto-workers has thrown a spotlight on the terrible working conditions and pay for workers at Tesla, a criminal company that has no compunctions about violating labor law to prevent its workers from exercising their legal rights. Over in Sweden, union workers are teaching Tesla a lesson. After the company tried its illegal union-busting playbook on Tesla service centers, the unionized dock-workers issued an ultimatum: respect your workers or face a blockade at Sweden's ports that would block any Tesla from being unloaded into the EU's fifth largest Tesla market:

https://www.wired.com/story/tesla-sweden-strike/

Of course, the real solution to Teslas – and every other kind of car – is to redesign our cities for public transit, walking and cycling, making cars the exception for deliveries, accessibility and other necessities. Transitioning to EVs will make a big dent in the climate emergency, but it won't make our streets any safer – and they keep getting deadlier.

Last summer, my dear old pal Ted Kulczycky got in touch with me to tell me that Talking Heads were going to be all present in public for the first time since the band's breakup, as part of the debut of the newly remastered print of Stop Making Sense, the greatest concert movie of all time. Even better, the show would be in Toronto, my hometown, where Ted and I went to high-school together, at TIFF.

Ted is the only person I know who is more obsessed with Talking Heads than I am, and he started working on tickets for the show while I starting pricing plane tickets. And then, the unthinkable happened: Ted's wife, Serah, got in touch to say that Ted had been run over by a car while getting off of a streetcar, that he was severely injured, and would require multiple surgeries.

But this was Ted, so of course he was still planning to see the show. And he did, getting a day-pass from the hospital and showing up looking like someone from a Kids In The Hall sketch who'd been made up to look like someone who'd been run over by a car:

https://www.flickr.com/photos/doctorow/53182440282/

In his Globe and Mail article about Ted's experience, Brad Wheeler describes how the whole hospital rallied around Ted to make it possible for him to get to the movie:

https://www.theglobeandmail.com/arts/music/article-how-a-talking-heads-superfan-found-healing-with-the-concert-film-stop/

He also mentions that Ted is working on a book and podcast about Stop Making Sense. I visited Ted in the hospital the day after the gig and we talked about the book and it sounds amazing. Also? The movie was incredible. See it in Imax.

That heartwarming tale of healing through big suits is a pretty good place to wrap up this linkdump, but I want to call your attention to just one more thing before I go: Robin Sloan's Snarkmarket piece about blogging and "stock and flow":

https://snarkmarket.com/2010/4890/

Sloan makes the excellent case that for writers, having a "flow" of short, quick posts builds the audience for a "stock" of longer, more synthetic pieces like books. This has certainly been my experience, but I think it's only part of the story – there are good, non-mercenary reasons for writers to do a lot of "flow." As I wrote in my 2021 essay, "The Memex Method," turning your commonplace book into a database – AKA "blogging" – makes you write better notes to yourself because you know others will see them:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/05/09/the-memex-method/

This, in turn, creates a supersaturated, subconscious solution of fragments that are just waiting to nucleate and crystallize into full-blown novels and nonfiction books and other "stock." That's how I came out of lockdown with nine new books. The next one is The Lost Cause, a hopepunk science fiction novel about the climate whose early fans include Naomi Klein, Rebecca Solnit, Bill McKibben and Kim Stanley Robinson. It's out on November 14:

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250865939/the-lost-cause

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/2023/11/05/variegated/#nein

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pollymorgan · 3 months

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Oh my God, how embarrassing... I did it and translated my German fanfiction into English... into bad English! Don't be too harsh on me, but rather make suggestions for improvement: So now a little phone sex with Coach Negan. 🙈😌

Warnings: arrogant Negan, frustrated woman, explicit phone sex

Today is one of those days again, where nothing seems to work as it should. Just like so often lately. Why couldn't I transfer those damn photos to the laptop? I've never been very tech-savvy, but the modern world practically forced me to. I'm actually a cookbook author and used to be quite successful with it. Some of my books were bestsellers and I even had my own cooking segment on a nationally broadcasted morning show. But then I was suddenly replaced by a younger, "cooler" colleague and ever since then, I've been struggling to keep afloat with social media, more or less. If only the technology would cooperate..

Even in my personal life, I have been replaced. Four months ago, my husband left us. By us, I mean my three children and me. After 19 years of marriage. But love goes where it goes, right? Nothing can be done against that. At least, those were his words when he got into his Porsche with a blonde woman who could be his daughter and disappeared.

Since then, he has managed to do something with his children exactly twice. But in exchange, he has already disappointed them seven times by canceling the meetings at short notice. Yes, I'm keeping count. At least for now.

My oldest daughter Penny is 15 years old and fully immersed in puberty, and it seems that this situation is hardest on her. She and her father were always a unit, his little princess. But there's no trace of that at the moment. Most of the time, he doesn't even bother to answer his damn phone when she tries to reach him.

I see her suffering. She's lost interest in school, and her circle of friends is dwindling visibly. I would love to help her, but how? At the moment, I just can't seem to reach her. Our communication mostly consists of doors slamming.

But back to my current problem. These damn pictures! The article is supposed to go online today. I cooked an Indian dish and had to drive halfway across town to get these damn spices. Thursdays always bring an international post, and now, of all times, nothing is working again. My laptop doesn't recognize the memory card, and the camera won't connect either. I keep plugging and unplugging the cable, hoping the error will magically resolve. Which of course it doesn't. Suddenly, I glance at the small display in the lower right-hand corner. Damn it! So late. I won't be picking up the kids on time again, the second time this cursed week. Annoyed, I close the screen. Grabbing my purse, I walk quickly to the garage. Where's the damn car key? Nervously, I rummage through my chaotic bag, spilling half of its contents on the floor. Finally finding it, I get into the car and speed out of the driveway.

The first stop is the kindergarten to pick up my youngest. She's a real bundle of nerves, but so sweet that you can forgive her anything. Of course, she throws a tantrum right at pickup. It's a real struggle to get her into the car. Like a madwoman, I drive on to the elementary school to pick up my 9-year-old son. He is the calm one in our family and thankfully waits with his best friend relaxed in front of the school. At least one who's not mad at me. Lucky me. And off we go, heading to my daughter's high school. From a distance, I can see her and immediately know that - once again - something is wrong. She stands all alone and pretty annoyed on the street, looking out for me. When I park the car right in front of her feet, she angrily drops onto the passenger seat.

"Penny, I can explain, you know what a loser I am when it comes to technology..." I try to justify myself.

My eldest rolls her eyes in annoyance. "Mum, this time, for once, it's not your fault..." I see tears forming in the corners of her eyes, and automatically, I feel a lump in my throat.

"Mister Smith... he..."

She doesn't need to continue speaking; just hearing that name fills me with such anger again. Right from the start, there have been issues with her physical education teacher, Negan Smith.

I've only seen him twice so far, at parent-teacher conferences, but Penny's stories are enough for me to know that he's an absolute failure as a teacher. He has his favorites whom he praises to the skies, while the less athletic students suffer under his authoritarian ways. My daughter already feels uncomfortable in her own skin, and that jerk doesn't even realize the impact his remarks have on the young girls.

A few years ago, his wife passed away from cancer. A terrible tragedy, but apparently that did not make him more empathetic; quite the opposite.

I'm currently looking in the rearview mirror to avoid hitting anyone in the chaos outside the school. That's all I need on this crappy day. Then I catch sight of none other than Penny's physical education teacher.

"Isn't that him?" I ask excitedly.

My daughter buries her face even further into the backpack in her lap. "Yes, Mom, it's okay, please just drive..."

The anger that had been building up recently had just found a good release.

With the words "Nothing is good...", I yank open my driver's door and head purposefully towards my daughter's physical education teacher, who is just stowing his bag in his car.

"Who do you think you are?" I stand behind him with arms crossed, eagerly awaiting his reaction.

Confused, he turns around to face me and suddenly a big grin spreads across his face. "Negan Smith, nice to meet you, and who do I have the pleasure of speaking with?"

What a cocky jerk!

"The mother of a rather offended young girl, because of you..."

Can't he just drop his arrogant smile for once? Quite unimpressed, he closes the door of his car.

"Penny has so much potential and she's wasting it on the damn bench..."

Such an idiot, he clearly knows who I am.

"Maybe you should listen to the young students as well, instead of just spouting off random remarks at them?"

Amused, he shakes his head. "I did... her excuse for skipping today's P.E. class was menstrual cramps..."

"And in your opinion that's not a valid reason or what? How dare you even pass judgment on that? Your students' bodies are going through changes and such discomforts should be taken seriously..." I respond a bit too loudly, causing some students to turn towards us.

Resigned, he raises his hands. "Of course, but not every damn other week. Maybe you should give your daughter some biology lessons again and explain to her that her P.E. teacher isn't completely from another planet."

Oh God, what does this man think he is..

"And you should work on your teaching skills... Otherwise, maybe I should consider contacting the school board!"

„Oh wow, you're actually a bigger drama queen than your dear daughter!".

Did he really just say that? Did he just seriously insult me? My daughter's teacher. I look at him in disbelief, but he just grins.

"And now she's quiet... I really have to go now, but I'm pretty sure we'll meet again soon." With these words, he jumps into his car and drives off.

Completely perplexed, I walk back to my car and am greeted by my daughter with the words "That was soooo embarrassing.."

7 hours later

Finally peace! Why does it always have to be such a struggle to get the kids to bed? Isn't it unfair that you are a thousand times more tired than the dear little ones? What a crappy day! I'm glad to be freshly showered in my bed and finally have some time off. Just me and my phone, no one else. No more whining, arguing, and crying. As much as I sometimes curse technology, I also love being able to connect with people over the internet. It's fun to respond to comments, the direct exchange with like-minded people is the only positive thing about social media. As I scroll through Instagram, I suddenly see comments coming in at a rapid pace. Confused, I open them. From "Do you always look so good when you cook?" to "Can you cook that for me sometime?" to heart emojis, and they all come from the same account. As I read the name, a shock runs through me. Can this be for real? "Coach Negan" is he not only a tactless asshole, but also a real psychopath? Excited, I click on his account, but apart from a profile picture where he is clearly recognizable, there is no further information.

I quickly open the messaging function and type "What is this???" into my phone. It only takes a few seconds and I receive a response.

"I am a fan 😉"

For a while, I stare at the screen, unable to believe what is happening here.

Suddenly, he sends me a picture. I open it and see a photo of me from my highlights, showing me from my post "Valentine's Day." I had cooked a three-course meal and written a pretty cheesy text back then. It's one of my most liked posts.

"Red lipstick suits you. Matches your fiery nature.." he writes.

What does he want to achieve? Did the confrontation before school hurt him so much that he is trying to provoke me? But to be honest, it seems like he's the one giving me a warning. Well, but if there's one thing I've learned, it's that the best defense is a good offense.

"Oh, do you think so? Most men say I look better without wearing anything...I mean, without lipstick, of course.. 😉".

"Are you already in bed?" he asks next. What a bizarre situation? Why does my daughter's teacher want to know where I am? The same teacher who called me a ‚drama queen‘ just a few hours ago.

I keep trying to type a suitable response on my phone and then delete it again. Finally, I write briefly, "Yes, and you?"

"Yes, and I'm studying your profile. Do you realize how crazy you can drive a man with these pictures? Why am I even asking, of course you do. 😉"

The feeling of small electric shocks runs through my body. The whole thing feels strangely forbidden. Maybe what I'm doing here is damn wrong, but right now, the consequences seem pretty irrelevant to me.

"How mean, you can look at my pictures, but you don't have any online yourself."

"That's true, but how about you hear my voice instead?" Attached to this message was his phone number. Okay, this is all moving pretty quickly, in a pretty strange direction. I'm so excited that I can feel my heart pounding wildly in my chest. But what do I have to lose? I haven't felt like this in the last 20 years. Okay, it's a damn bizarre situation, but I'm an adult and single. So I can finally talk to whoever I want. Even with the biggest jerk I've come across lately.

Feeling totally tense, I dial the number and as it rings, it gets even worse. I take a few deep breaths, and suddenly the deep voice on the other end answers with a "What took you so long to decide?" and I can practically feel his grin.

"Well, I had to think for a moment about what would be so sensible about calling my daughter's narcissistic gym teacher in the middle of the night," I say calmly.

"And what would be sensible about that?" he asks with interest.

"I haven't really found a solid reason yet, but maybe you can tell me?"

He thinks for a moment, and I imagine him lying in his bed. A slight tingling sensation spreads in my stomach, which is intensified by his response.

"Well, I can make sure you feel a little better... forget all the everyday crap that's weighing on your pretty shoulders right now."

I briefly close my eyes to focus more on his voice, which really manages to relax me a bit with just that simple sentence.

"And how do you plan to do that?" I ask softly.

"When was the last time you were really well fucked?" As soon as he says it, my lower abdomen tightens, and I automatically press my legs together.

After I take a moment to collect myself, I honestly respond, "That was much too long ago..."

"Oh, poor girl," Negan provocatively replies, but instead of getting upset about it, it triggers completely different feelings in me. "Tell me about what you imagine when you stroke your lonely pussy at night."

I have to swallow briefly to get rid of the extremely dry feeling in my throat.

"I can tell you what I think about when I do it in a moment..." I say softly but firmly.

And his tone changes too. His breathing becomes heavier. "Then tell me, come on," he commands.

"I imagine it's your fingers running over my body and finally sliding my panties to the side and penetrating deep into me..." My cheeks feel like they're glowing. I've never talked like this with anyone before, and now I just did it with a man who is actually a stranger to me.

"Come on, sweetheart... touch yourself for me and tell me if you're wet," he interrupts.

Without thinking, I click on the speaker icon on my display and place the phone next to me on the pillow, then I slide my right hand under my nightgown into my panties and I'm surprised at how aroused I already am, how swollen my clit is, and how sensitive my whole intimate area has become. I sigh softly.

"Fuck, the sweet little sounds you're making... they make my damn cock twitch in my hand with joy..."

Just the thought that he's so aroused by me on the other end sends waves of pleasure through my body.

"I'm already so wet because of you, Negan..." I admit breathlessly.

"You dirty, pretty lady, if I were with you right now, I would slowly penetrate deep into you... you need that now, don't you?"

"Yes!" I can only whisper.

"Okay, now do everything exactly as I tell you, understood?" he demands.

"Yes, please tell me what to do.." I focus solely on his voice, completely tuning out everything else.

"Take off your panties. Use your index and middle fingers to gently stroke over your mons pubis and then slowly over your outer labia, but not more, just right there.."

Immediately, I follow his instructions. The air feels cool on my bare lower abdomen. I feel strangely exposed, even though I am alone in my bedroom, but it's not uncomfortable, quite the opposite. I begin to caress myself gently.

"How does that feel?" his voice breaks the silence again.

"Good, but I want more.." I plead.

"I already knew that.. Bend your legs and spread them wide.. as far as you can.." He gives me a brief moment to comply with his instructions. "Now push your pelvis even further forward.. Imagine I'm between your legs and you want to present me with your beautiful pussy, you would like that, wouldn't you?"

"Yes.." I say and nod vigorously, even though no one can see me.

"Such a good girl.. and now run your index finger through your slit, spread your juices.."

I can't and don't want to hold back my moans now. There is silence for a while at the other end, then I speak heavily.

"Are you also pleasuring your cock for me?" I ask as I continue to touch myself.

"Oh, sweetheart, so your thoughts are currently only about that.." he says snappily. "Yes, I am, and if you keep moaning so sweetly into the phone, it won't be long, so it's time for you to start massaging your clit, but don't be too timid, circle it with two fingers and use some pressure, even if you're very sensitive now, you can take it.."

Oh God, that was exactly what I needed right now. My body felt like in ecstasy and I could feel the orgasm slowly building up.

"Don't come yet," he commanded, and on cue, I immediately removed my fingers from my most sensitive spot.

"Now, bring your knees close to your body!“

"Yes," I replied, completely exhausted. "You're doing it perfectly, how much I would love to see you in this position right now, just the damn thought!" I could clearly hear him softly moaning. This sound made my body twitch with excitement.

"Penetrate yourself with two fingers... nice and slow. Focus entirely on the feeling of stretching your pussy wide... Tell me when you're all the way in!"

"Now," I whispered, already quite spent.

"Then add your ring finger, once you've done that, you can come intensely as a reward, I promise."

Slowly, I press the third finger into me, which initially causes a bittersweet pull, but I'm so wet that it's not a problem.

Without me telling him, Negan knows that I fulfilled his request.

"So perfect, sweetheart! And now, pleasure your clit! Bring yourself to climax and don't hold back any sound, I want to hear every sweet noise from you."

With the first gentle touch, my body twitches like crazy.

"Negan, please come with me," I stammer into the phone.

"Yes, I promise, beautiful," he replies breathlessly.

And these words are enough for me to come as intensely as I haven't in the past years. My thighs tremble uncontrollably and my heart almost jumps out of my chest. My lower abdomen contracts in waves and I can barely breathe. It feels like I am weightless for a few seconds.

"Do you feel good?" he asks after a short pause.

"Perfect.." I reply and can't gather my thoughts yet.

"Okay, then I expect you tomorrow at 3:30 p.m. for a parent-teacher meeting at the school, and, by the way, without panties.. Good night!" After these words, I only hear a beep on the line.

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evita-shelby · 9 months

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12 Days of Smuff: Day 8

Fancy party + praising

For the anon who wanted more Luca smut 🖤🖤

Cw: smut, mirror sex, praise kink, breeding kink, daddy kink, mentions of a misscarriage, past infidelity and implied cuckolding 🤭

Luca feels his pride swell when he walks in with his wife.

She is everything a man could want and some more. Even better she is only his.

They can stare all they want, they can gossip all they want and it wouldn’t change the fact that Luca has the crème of crème.

The wedding is elegant and fine, his cousin looks lovely in her blue dress and the groom is of good enough standing with their family to provide a good party.

The Shelbys are invited as are the Black Country Boys and the Sabinis and other assorted families they are on good terms with…for now.

Luca will make them all kneel before him when the time comes, or perhaps he will let them have England while he goes where the real power lies: America.

The Irish no longer had the power from before nor did the Jews, the time for Sicily’s sons to show the new world how its done was coming.

And who better than Luca to pave the way to glory.

“Really at your cousin’s wedding and your scheming, Luca?” Eva asks as she drinks the bubbly champagne they have to hide back home.

Prohibition had made them rich, with the stupid ideology that a ban on drink would make the nation sober Christians.

Only made it easier for the wolves to wear the snow white wool during the light of day.

“As if you’re not bored out of your mind either, pussycat.” He answers as he gets a better idea to pass the time.

On their wedding party they snuck away to fuck, during the trip here Eva had fucked herself on his cock as they shared a deck chair and just last night, they’d fucked until the sun rose.

Eva wanted a baby and it was taking its sweet time being conceived. The sooner it cane the sooner they could pretend the one they lost never existed.

“You’d think I didn’t leave you satisfied this morning with how you’re thinking, Lucito.” The witch murmured as if she didn’t have new lingerie made with a slit that had her pussy on display.

Her dress was short, not short enough to be scandalous, but practical for what he has in mind.

“And worth every penny.” The witch almost purred as he nudged her towards the empty dressing room down the hall.

Luca was a man of class, he’d never stoop so low as to fuck her in the powder room when the bride’s dressing room had elegant couches and a mirror to fuck in front of.

“You’re by far the most beautiful woman in the room, tonight, Mrs. Changretta.” Its not long until they’re tossing his aunt’s church veil off the lily white couch and he’s showing his wife how beautiful she looks with her pussy spread open on the mirror across them.

His maga has never felt insecure about her looks or her place in his heart, but seeing all the women Luca dallied with in Birmingham gathered under one roof, Eva had been on edge.

Didn’t help Thomas Shelby seemed to be intrigued by her and every second he tried not to stare was a second Luca spent thinking of how to kill the gypsy.

The Sicilian takes his time as he prepares her for him. Having her suck his long fingers as he praised her to the heavens.

“No one can ever compare to you, maga. Its why Shelby stares at you, ‘cause he can’t have you. No one can.” The gangster feels her moan around his fingers and knows she’ll make a mess before he even fucks her.

“I’m yours, daddy. Only yours.” The witch cries once her mouth is free and his fingers enter her trimmed little pussy rather audibly.

No smart comments nor other words come out of her as he gives her a taste of what’s too come.

He’s slow and methodical about this, he wasn’t forgotten by all those women for a reason.

Polly couldn’t keep to her husband’s bed when Luca came to visit his father and half-brother, neither was sure if little Sally had been Gray’s or his.

“The only woman who’s gonna give children is you, you’re gonna look so good with our baby growing inside you.” The party is in full swing outside, but Luca doesn’t give a shit about who’s missing them when his witch looks puts the whores in the pictures to shame.

She writhes and clenched around his fingers as she came, only words she could say was his name.

“You want me to fuck a baby into you right now, do you want daddy to fill you up with his cum as he tells you all the things you already know?” the gangster doesn’t need to do much to prepare himself for the main course, just the sight of them in the mirror had him harder than the rusted piece of iron he wore in his pocket the day he married her.

The witch could only nod as she bit back a rather loud moan.

“Let them hear you, amore, let them hear how good daddy fucks you.” He groans as he thrusts into her at the perfect angle.

And sure enough Eva cries and babbles loudly as he rams into her as deep as he can. “Oh, god, Luca!”

Its not long before she’s cumming again underneath, the white sofa bearing the testament of the capo’s virility just as he ruins her pussy as some romantic ballads try to drown the sinful sounds they make at the newlyweds expense.

And with such a sight before him, Luca came just as hard as he came on their wedding night.

“How long do we have until they come looking for us?” his wife asks with eyes shut as she recovered from their lovemaking.

“Long enough to ruin the sofa some more.” He answered panting from the exertion.

#12 days of smuff #luca changretta x oc #luca changretta x ofc #luca changretta x eva smith #incantatrice #evacore

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toxinellebug · 6 months

Text

It’s The Supreme’s World: We just live in it…

Some world building and character info for the Re-Verse and how it affects Marinette, Adrien, and Gabriel before we get into the next Kamikotized hero.

Peace was never an option… It was an ultimatum.

While World Peace Day is celebrated everywhere, truly, only Capital Cities are able to host the full splendor of such a magnificent event.

Paris is famous for never being outdone when it comes to this extravagant and cherished celebration:

Throughout the day, on every corner of the city, you could find a rare sight you would not see any other day of the year- flower carts.

Usually, flowers were too expensive for just anyone to purchase, so florists only sold the finest, most delicate and exotic flowers to appeal to the high class.

But on World Peace Day, cheap, less popular flowers were made available so even those of low income could enjoy the rare luxury of owning a real flower;

Perhaps it is a frivolous purchase, but even the most stingy of penny-pinchers could not resist the urge to loosen their purse strings when offered a single pink carnation for the ridiculously low price of only €20!

Flowers weren’t the only thing worth buying-

There were street vendors with international fare offering a variety of delights one would expect from a carnival or festival. Each seems so exotic when they come from a culture different than your own; takoyaki from Japan, bratwurst from Germany, frappe from Italy, Cotton Candy from the United States of America.

(Yup, spun sugar is originally a traditional american food invented in 1897 by American citizens William Morrison, and John C. Wharton, and it remained a unique American speciality until it was introduced at the 1904 World Fair. The irony? One of those dudes was a dentist.)

It is a culinary trip around the world without the cost of voyage.

Unless you were a vendor, of course.

While plenty were local, many more would venture from their homes to capital cities for World Peace Day, knowing they could make a larger profit than if they were to sell their goods at smaller towns.

Some even traveled from out of country, it was a huge investment for a single day, but one that would immensely pay off if they could convince customers that their goods were more authentic.

There was also a lavish parade with floats decorated in peace lilies, white poppies, hyacinth, cosmos, pincushion flowers, red peonies, and lavender, all carrying red banners with the symbol of The Supreme.

Marching bands play folk music, and talented performers in costumes from all over the world perform traditional dances.

It is a feast for the eyes seeing all the different cultures that were united for the sake of Peace.

Of course, the most beautiful sight (that you have to pay an admission fee for) is in the Jardin des Tuileries where all the metal sculptures and plastic foliage are removed to make room for impressive, imported floral displays;

Tudor roses from Britain, Quatre–temps from Canada, Dahlias from Mexico, Cattleya orchids from Brazil, Meihua from China, and naturally French Iris at the center… All countries in the world are represented by a display of their national flower, to symbolize how all nations came together under the guidance of The Supreme.

—

Roland Dupain loves World Peace Day more than Christmas!

Poverty had become common place after the Great war- the whole world seemed dull and grey. But the people endured to rebuild what had been lost. Roland Dupain’s grandfather had perished in the war, and his grandmother had to raise 2 sons on her own, one of which would marry Roland’s mother.

Then, WW2 began.

Both his father and his uncle went off to fight, following in their father’s footsteps.

5 months passed before Mrs. Dupain received word that Roland’s uncle had been killed in action.

A miserable year passed and the world descended into Hell-

Nazi’s invaded France and took control of Paris.

Parisians lived in fear and battled with hunger every day. A pregnant Mrs. Dupain cried herself to sleep, having lost all hope of ever seeing her husband alive again, resigning herself to her fate of having to bring a child into the world that would never know their father…

Then, the unthinkable happened;

The Axis Powers abruptly and unanimously surrendered!

Not to the Allies Forces…. No, something far greater and more powerful.

There was dancing in the streets! Peace at long last!

Tanks and weapons were disassembled, materials and rations that had been collected for the war efforts were donated back to the people, armies were permanently disbanded, and Roland’s father came home.

Oh, that euphoric feeling of relief and utter joy when Mrs. Roland leapt into her husband’s arms, weeping tears of joy.

No more war, no more bloodshed, no more hiding in fear, no more starving!

From now on, theirs was a world of everlasting peace!

ALL HAIL THE SUPREME!

2 months later, Roland Dupain was born, and every year until his father’s died from Tuberculosis, Roland was regaled with stories of the suffering caused during the War, and how The Supreme was their savior.

Ever since, Roland Dupain has celebrated Peace Day with fond memories and a sense of pride…

Which is why his greatest shame is his wife, Gina.

The same woman who hard the nerve to lecture him about about family values when he was ready to disown his son for marrying an outrageous woman who wouldn’t even take her husband’s last name and who had nonsense ideas about experimenting with time-trusted recipes, (flour from rice?? Peuh! That’s not how it’s done!).

Gina, with her big speech about how nothing was more important than family…

She brought disgrace to their family when she was arrested 2 years ago for civil disobedience and public disturbance!

Well, there was no way he was going to allow his granddaughter to go down a criminal path!

The world was tough but fair; so long as you work hard and follow all the rules, no questions, you won’t have any problems.

So simple!

Marinette needed to learn to how lucky she was to live in a world under The Supreme’s protection.

What better way to do that then helping her grandfather sell traditional Pain de campagne to tourists on World Peace Day?

It was a tradition started by his father, that he had carried on and tried to continue with his own son (until that wife of his put crazy ideas in his head like how pain au chocolat would be more popular.) but now, he would continue this tradition with Marinette- she would become part of a proud history, develop a sense of service, and most importantly, stay on the straight and narrow!

Children need discipline, after all!

She would thank him, one day.

-Marinette strongly disagrees.

Up until she was 11 years old, for Marinette Dupain-Cheng, World Peace Day was all about yummy treats, exciting parades, and pretty flowers.

While her parents sold pastries, her Nonna would take her strolling around the city to enjoy the excitement!

Then, just a few months before she turned 12, Nonna was sentenced to 8 years in a penitentiary labor camp.

Now, World Peace Day was about carrying baskets of rye sourdough bread, lectures on how things were and were not done, and the same old stories Grandpa Roland had already told her hundreds of times before, all while watching everyone get to have fun.

It was like having detention outside of school!

The worst part was the elderly tourists who would gush over her and pinch her cheeks for ‘being such a good girl who helps out her grandfather!’

Apparently being a “good girl” didn’t entitle her to personal space.

Seriously, why did people feel entitled to put their hands on her just because she was a kid?

Mom and Dad were no help; her Mom believed this was important quality time with her grandfather that she’ll appreciate someday when she’s older.

Dad’s opinion was, as always, that her mother was right.

You know what’d she’d really appreciate?

Getting to celebrate World Peace day instead of lugging around crusty bread made from overly fermented yeast! It was like her grandfather had an allergy to delicious food and having fun!

Grandpa Roland claimed World Peace Day was his favorite holiday, yet he spent the whole day either selling bread or complaining about how other people were selling bread wrong, how people dressed was wrong, or how people looked at their phones while walking around was wrong!

No one seemed to know how anything was “done,” save for him, and honestly? Marinette was 100% done with all of it.

—

For Adrien, World Peace Day is now the one time the city doesn’t stink in the literal sense.

The amount of actual flowers should help offset the stench of chemical fumes.

But he didn’t use to think that way…

World Peace Day used to make him happy, because it made his mother happy.

When he was little, his mother would giggle at the spectacle of Adrien-tallest in the world, as he sat atop his father’s shoulders for the best view of the parade in all of Paris.

Her smile was even sweeter than the sticky residue she tried in vain to wipe from his cheeks because Père didn’t hesitate to buy him every sugary treat that caught his eye.

Her voice was like a song as she pointed out and named each and every flower in Jardin des Tuileries to him, and as much as he wanted to pay attention, it was a hypnotic lullaby paired with a sugar crash that left him in a sleepy daze in his father’s warm embrace as he was carried home, his last conscious thoughts his mother’s kiss upon his forehead as his blanket was tucked tight around him.

As he got big enough to walk without being carried, he toured the celebrations with his parents each holding his hands in theirs.

Father still had his sweet tooth, despite mère playfully scolding him, reminding him of the lecture Adrien would get from the dentiste.

He was old enough to listen to her name all the flowers now, but too excited about the exotic music and the foreign dancers to really pay attention to what she said.

Though he did hear, and make a face, at his father’s mushy declaration that mère was the most beautiful rose in the world.

He never really noticed that mother’s grip on his hand was starting to weaken.

Years passed and he was too busy checking that the path ahead was clear of bumps and dips to notice any candy vendors or dances. His father was also more focused on pushing mother’s wheelchair than enjoying the parade.

Mother’s tone was still cheerful as she admired the flowers, but Adrien was too worried about whether the outdoor air was making her cough worse, her words went in one ear and out the other.

Last year she had been too weak to get out of bed. She had been too exhausted to watch the entirety of the parade on TV- visiting Jardin des Tuileries was out of the question.

Adrien would have given ANYTHING to listen to her list off the different flowers, he swore he would commit each one to memory.

Now….

Was there really any point?

He’d seen all the dances dozens of times, the music was also pretty boring.

There was nothing special about the food vendors, and too much sugar was terrible for your skin anyway.

He honestly didn’t care about flowers.

World Peace Day was just another over-rated holiday that people obsessed over to temporarily forget the mediocrity of their dreary lives.

What a joke.

—

For a young Gabi Grassette, son of a pommes frites vendor, World peace day meant sweets; Barbe à papa, English toffees, Mexican chocolates, and Polkagris!

Their family didn’t have a lot, but on this most special of days, his Papa would allow him some spending money to enjoy what the world had to offer~

At 8 years old, he was practically grown up, and able to walk up and down the street by himself.

It was the first World Peace Day he had a clear memory of, it was also the first time he saw a real flower up close.

Back then, he hadn’t really understood what his parents meant; things were either “real” or “imaginary”, weren’t they?

He was able to touch the plastic flowers his mother decorated their kitchen window with, and last week in L'Ecole Primaire his teacher taught him how to fold fleurs de papier. Those were plenty real enough!

Why would adults waste euros on something silly like flowers when they could buy candy instead?

Gabi couldn’t believe he was already so much smarter than everybody else! That was probably why he was allowed to enjoy the celebration by himself unlike other children who still needed adults to watch them.

That was until he stumbled across “it”.

A single blossom that had fallen off a parade float, carried off by a gentle breeze, only to land delicately at his feet.

It was so much more fragile than he’d imagined;

The petals were just as thin as paper, yet surprisingly soft to the touch.

Its center was fuzzy? A scent not unlike the perfume he was used to, but not the same either- it was both more airy yet more bold, but like a passing whisper- there was no strange undertone to remind him of cleaning sprays.

The stem was flexible, to a point. It was smooth with a certain give. If he pressed a fingernail to it, it tore a little, but instead of revealing wire inside, it was just more green- a sticky green.

The leaves had… creases? The lines weren’t painted on, they were embedded in the leaf itself almost like…. like… veins.

Veins, as if it were….

Alive.

This tiny thing in his hands wasn’t made in a classroom or a factory… it was ALIVE.

He had been told that flowers and other plants were things that grew from the ground, but he had never fully understood what that truly meant until now.

Flowers, REAL flowers, were delicate, fragrant, colorful, and ALIVE and it was the most amazing thing Gabi had ever seen!!!

But, why was something so precious only celebrated one day of the year?

Why were there so few?

Why didn’t the adults grow them everywhere? Why did they have to settle for paper or plastic ones when real ones were so much better?

It wasn’t the first time he, or any child for that matter, had questioned why the world was the way that it was, but for Gabi, it was the first time he had questioned why no one was trying to make the world better.

While his childhood had given him the blissful ignorance of believing that a certain holiday was all about delicious treats and beautiful flowers, with adulthood came the wisdom of understanding that World Peace Day was supposed to symbolize the end of the violent history of the world that would never again be repeated.

But only the enlightened were able to realize what World Peace Day was really about;

Worshipping The Supreme.

Some speculated that The Supreme was a small group of the world’s greatest minds.

Others suggested The Supreme was a single individual, appointed by the Divine Almighty to lead the world to salvation.

A remaining few even dared to imagine The Supreme as God himself; righting the wrongs of humanity and guiding them to the perfect world they could have been before the Tower of Babel.

Perhaps that last one wasn’t too far fetched-

After all, the way all the World Leaders agreed to surrender their power after WW2 without hesitation was almost as if they were compelled by some supernatural force…

In order to ensure everlasting peace for generations to come,The Supreme reshaped the nations of the world;

Monarchies were archaic- being able to trace your incestuous genealogy back to the dark ages didn’t qualify you to have any sort of authority.

Elections were flawed and allowed money, baseless propaganda, and empty promises, to fool voters and keep the greedy and corrupt in power.

That’s why wars over natural resources, religious superiority, or ethnic cleansing used to be commonplace throughout history- the wrong people were put in charge of governing the masses.

Only exceptional individuals who will uphold the ideals of a utopian society should be given that kind of power.

Mayors, Governors, Senators, and Prime Ministers/Presidents were replaced with High Officials, Grand Officials, Executive Officials, and Executive Administrators…

All of which were selected by The Supreme, and who answered only to The Supreme.

Only The Supreme could decide what those “utopian ideals” were, and no one else had any say.

Once, Gabi had been foolish enough to believe that was what was best.

After reinventing himself, from his name to the people he associated with, becoming a member of high society allowed to walk amongst the rich, the powerful, and the celebrity elite, Gabriel Agreste was finally able to see past all the bureaucratic smoke and mirrors.

No one truly had the best interests for the whole of humanity at heart.

Those with authority obeyed The Supreme out of fear and a lust for power.

Connections with the rich and influential were shallow at best; today you were friends and colleagues, but tomorrow they may very well stab you in the back to turn a profit.

In the end, the power to decide what was justifiably right or criminally wrong belonged to The Supreme, and their word was absolute.

If there was anything to take away from that, it was that absolute power corrupts absolutely.

#miraculous paris #miraculous ladybug #miraculous fandom #miraculous world #shadybug #claw noir #griffe noire #toxinelle #adrien agreste #gabriel agreste #marinette dupain cheng #the supreme #emelie agreste #Re-verse

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ask-st-ccchoir · 5 months

Note

(Very vague except from a fanfic I'm half writing about ocean)

"Before that day I hadn't ever lost... Well that's not true. I lost twice.

The first time I ever lost was when I was competing in the national school debate.

That was a set up though, it wasn't my fault. The kid lied about having a fatal illness! (which is a horrible thing to do, but I applaud the strategy. Evil genius if I do say so myself)

The second time is the Kiwanis international singing competition, 2006.

I blame it on noel. He had a voice crack.

O'CanÆDAH or something.

*skip a bit*

That's when I lost my life...

But even then I didn't really lose.

*skip some more*

Anyway there were six of us in the accident. Me, Constance, Noel, Mischa, Ricky, and this... Unidentified body.

Of course I knew it was Penny the whole time.

I think somehow she knew it was me too...

And that's why, on Monday, September 14th, in a competition against myself, I lost."

// i would read AWESOE//

^ pelase tell if you're done:3

#ask ccchoir #askthestccchoir #rtc musical #ride the cyclone #Jxy.TXT

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bbobpul · 10 months

Text

the last thing i wanted (is the first thing you do) — stsg

NOTE. my first ever jjk au!!!!!!! REBLOG! REBLOG! REBLOG!

PAIRING. satoru gojo x suguru geto

GENRE. angst, hurt/no comfort

SYNOPSIS. a person like satoru harbors no regrets, that was until he met a person like suguru.

WARNINGS. none

W/C. 1.3k

masterlist

Satoru, in the depths of his soul, harbors no regrets. From the second he took his initial breath as humanity's finest sorcerer, an immense feeling of pride flowed through him, leaving absolutely no room for guilt. He handles life with the weight of incredible power and the absence of regret, balancing the line between having everything and having nothing to lose.

Satoru sees the world as a vast tapestry embedded with fibers of triumph and loss. His intimate understanding of life's complexities rests not on the absence of obstacles, but on his unwavering embrace of them. Because he knows that remorse is merely a whisper in the wind, easily scattered by the stubbornness of a heart that pulses with purpose, the very essence of his being echoes with the harmonious music of living without the veil of shame.

That was until he met Suguru. He uncovered a void within himself that he had not known existed at the time. Suddenly, the concept of having everything became less clear than it had previously appeared. Satoru grew to understand the delicate intricacies of fear—the fear of losing something valuable—with each passing moment spent with Suguru.

Suguru became a vibrant thread in the monochrome patchwork of his life, bringing value to the hues of who he was. Their experiences together, laughter, and even moments of silence of understanding offered an analogy that went beyond the apparent contradiction of having it all. Satoru found himself navigating unfamiliar emotions, discovering that vulnerability was not synonymous with weakness but rather a tribute to the profound connections that may change one's fundamental being.

As the vibrations of his growing fear resonated in the haze, Satoru decided to carry on, confident that the might of both of them could withstand any kind of obstacle. After all, he was Satoru Gojo, and Suguru Geto was far more than a friend; he was a foundation in a world where weakness and power coexisted, and the dreaded feeling of abandonment was overpowered by the unwavering strength of their bond.

"Penny for your thoughts," Suguru's voice slipped in from behind, a soft interruption in the quiet ambiance. Sunlight streamed through the leaves of the tall tree hovering over the both of them.

Satoru's laughter, rich and warm, filled the air. "I'd pay you a million to know what's been going on in your mind these days."

"Funny how I should be the one telling you that, Satoru."

"Just some stuff. How to enhance my skills and all," Satoru replied, a thoughtful expression playing on his features. His words hung in the air, playing with the dust caught in the sunlight.

The conversation lingered in a brief silence, allowing the weight of unspoken thoughts to settle. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves beneath them, like the earth sighing in relief, creating a soft melody that accompanied the subtle tension of their exchange.

"You've lost weight, Suguru. Been indulging in too much Somen?" Satoru asked playfully, his eyes scanning his best friend with a discerning gaze. The school bore witness to the shared history etched in the lines of their faces, with vintage photographs adorning the walls and memories echoing in every corner.

Suguru, on the other hand, simply observed him. The sunlight accentuated the vibrancy of his blue eyes, turning them into a deeper shade. His normally white hair appeared softer in the natural light, free from the usual hold of styling wax. The subtle play of light and shadow seemed to come alive in the place, expressing the complexities of their thoughts without the need for words.

Perhaps it's the cascade of tragedies that unfolded in the past year, or maybe it's the weight of loss they've shouldered despite their youth. It could be the haunting number of bodies they had to burn that eclipsed Satoru's understanding of what was poised to unfold between them. The school, charged with an unspoken heaviness, seemed to hold echoes of sorrow and resilience, intertwining the threads of their shared experiences into a tapestry of unforeseen challenges.

"How have you been, Satoru?" Suguru broke the silence with the sudden question.

"Fine," Satoru replied, though the simplicity of the answer carried an unspoken weight that hung in the air.

"Will you be fine alone?"

"Huh?" Satoru's confusion was evident in his response.

Instead of clarifying, Suguru released a dry laugh. "Nothing."

Satoru, despite the facade of casual conversation, felt a certain gravity in the air that tugged at the edges of his consciousness.

"I have been thinking," Suguru began, his voice carrying a subdued intensity, "of a lot of things." The words hung in the air, poignant, unspoken thoughts and the echoes of a shared history that had weathered storms together.

The depths of Suguru’s silence and his rhetorical question were a dust storm that Satoru paid no attention to until they stood, feet apart from each other, where Satoru’s one and only fear came to life. The unspoken weight of Suguru's contemplations now materialized, hanging in the air like a dense fog, shrouding the space between them.

The words Suguru spoke carried a weight that only Satoru's heart could comprehend from a distance. "This is the life I've chosen. All I can do now is give it all I've got. This is what I was made for. Don't ruin it for me... like what you always do."

In response, Satoru's determination to challenge those words was evident. "I'll ruin it all over for you." There was a sense of defiance in his retort, a refusal to accept Suguru's chosen path without a fight. The exchange encapsulated the tension and complexity of their relationship, a clash of wills that hinted at a deeper, unspoken history between them.

The conversation between Suguru and Satoru unfolded with poignant intensity. Suguru, expressing a long-suppressed desire, explained, "You need to understand that this is the first thing that I wanted. Maybe the only reason why I haven’t done this is because of you, Satoru. Always having to compromise for you. Always having to break into your mind to have you understand everything. Your problems are always my problem. It was never easy with you, Satoru. And I figured that leaving you is the easiest thing to do."

Satoru, grappling with the weight of Suguru's words, countered with an emotional, "And the last thing I wanted is the first thing you do."

Suguru's response, delivered with a touch of resignation, reflected the complexity of life. "Well, life won't always agree with you, Satoru. If it was you in my shoes, you would do it without any hesitation because you could."

"What you want is impossible," Satoru asserted.

"You say it's impossible when you yourself could do it," Suguru countered, feeling the weight of Satoru's silence. "You have always been the righteous one, Satoru. Everything you do and will do is justifiable because you are the strongest. But are you the strongest because you're Satoru Gojo or are you Satoru Gojo because you're the strongest?"

Everything after that, to Satoru's mind, became a blur. The questioning of his identity and strength stirred a tumultuous whirlwind of thoughts, leaving him grappling with a reality he had perhaps never truly considered.

Satoru, in the depths of his soul, harbors no regrets.

Until he met Suguru, who altered his life forever. Satoru now regrets not following him, failing to realize the profound significance of Suguru's quietness in spite of his own noise. The load of accountability falls entirely on his shoulders, and he feels that he only has to blame himself, not Suguru. Despite his regrets, Satoru is willing to let Suguru reacquaint him with the nuances of life, which he had no opportunity to learn. Whatever happens, he's willing to let Suguru rain on his parade since he's learned to embrace the curse that he was taught to abhor. He's grown to accept the fear he used to keep buried, realizing it was just a fear with no real meaning prior to it ever striking.

Now, Satoru finds himself back to square one. He fears nothing because, in losing Suguru, he believes he has nothing left to lose.

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brookstonalmanac · 18 days

Text

Holidays 9.3

Holidays

Andrew Luck Day (Indiana)

Anniversary of the End of the Second World War (Russia)

Another Luck Unlimited Day

Armed Forces Day (Taiwan)

Beslan Remembrance Day

Brazilian Day

Broadcast Day (South Korea)

Civil Aviation Day (Tajikistan)

Cromwell’s Day

Day of Universal Alarm

Day to Mourn All Manifestations of Sexism

Drexciya Day

Feast of Atqksak (Baffin Land)

Flag Day (Australia)

Foundation Day (San Marino)

Gaura Parba (Nepal)

Harvest Bell Day (a.k.a. Hare Bell)

Levy Mwanawasa Day (Zambia)

Lost Day

Lower Case Letter Day

Memorial Day (Tunisia)

Merchant Navy Day (UK)

Merchant Navy Remembrance Day (Canada)

National Army Day (Moldova)

National Dahlia Day

National Day of Prayer for the Victims of Hurricane Harvey

National Guard Day (Tajikistan)

National High Heels Day

National Holiday of Commemoration (Tunisia)

National Shoot Your Shot Day

National Stephen Day

National Wilderness Day

903 Day (Texas)

Penny Press Day

Richard the Lionheart Day (UK)

Skyscraper Day

Solidarity Against Terrorism Day (Russia)

Tales and Tallows Day (Elder Scrolls)

Teasel Day (French Republic)

That Day I’ll Always Remember (in the song “Papa Was a Rollin’ Stone,” by The Temptations)

Tokehega Day (Tokalau, New Zealand)

U.S. Bowling League Day

V-J Day (China)

World Day of Hygiene

Yamashita Surrender Day (Philippines)

Food & Drink Celebrations

Afternoon Tea Time Day

International Rosé Day

National Barbecue Baby Back Ribs Day

National Welsh Rarebit Day

Independence & Related Days

Bir Tawil (Declared; 2022) [unrecognized]

Day of Liberation of Monaco (Monaco)

Irida City Foundation Day (Philippines)

Mexico (Formally Recognized by US; 1923)

Qatar (from UK, 1971)

San Marino (Founded; 301 C.E.)

United States (Formally Recognized by Great Britain; 1783)

Yeesland (Declared; 2017) [unrecognized]

1st Tuesday in September

Another Look Unlimited Day [Tuesday after 1st Monday]

Camo Tuesday [1st Tuesday]

Play Days begin [Tuesday through Saturday after 1st Monday]

Protect Your Groundwater Day [1st Tuesday]

Taco Tuesday [Every Tuesday]

Takeout Tuesday [1st Tuesday of Each Month]

Target Tuesday [Every Tuesday]

Tater Tot Tuesday [Every Tuesday]

Telephone Tuesday [Tuesday after 1st Monday]

To-Do List Tuesday [1st Tuesday of Each Month]

Tranquil Tuesday [1st Tuesday of Each Month]

Trivia Tuesday [Every Tuesday]

Two For Tuesday [Every Tuesday]

World Art Drop Day [1st Tuesday]

Weekly Holidays beginning September 3 (1st Full Week of September)

Play Days (thru 9.7] [Tuesday thru Saturday after Labor Day]

Festivals Beginning September 3, 2024

Barbera Festival (Plymouth, California)

Bigsound (Brisbane City, Australia) [thru 9.5]

Tennessee Soybean Festival (Martin, Tennessee) [thru 9.7]

Van Buren County Livestock Show & Fair (Clinton, Arkansas) [thru 9.7]

Feast Days

Aigulf (Christian; Martyr)

Akwambo (Path Clearing Festival; Akan People of Ghana)

Alison Lurie (Writerism)

Armand Vaillancourt (Artology)

Baile and Ailinn (Celtic Book of Days)

Barkley (Muppetism)

Bengt Lindström (Artology)

Bernard de Pailissy (Positivist; Saint)

Cuthburga (Christian; Saint)

Day of Mimi’s Well (Pagan)

Day of Universal Alarm (Shamanism)

Drexciya Day

Gregory I, Pope (Christian; Saint)

Gregory the Great (Christian; Saint)

Hildelitha (Christian; Saint & Virgin)

John Picacio (Artology)

Joseph Wright (Artology)

Lawrence Clark Powell (Writerism)

Lawrence Welk Day (Church of the SubGenius; Saint)

Macnisius of Ireland (Christian; Saint)

Maidens of the Four Directions (Hopi Native Americans)

Malcolm Gladwell (Writerism)

Mansuetus of Toul (Christian; Saint)

Marinus (Christian; Saint)

Mort Walker (Artology)

Paul Kane (Artology)

Phoebe (Christian; Saint)

Pius X, pope (Christian; Saint)

Remaclus (Christian; Saint)

Prudence Crandall (Episcopal Church (USA))

Sarah Orne Jewett (Writerism)

Say No to Haggis Day (Pastafarian)

Simeon Stylites the Younger (Christian; Saint)

Wendy O. Williams Day (Church of the SubGenius; Saint)

Lucky & Unlucky Days

Dismal Day (Unlucky or Evil Day; Medieval Europe; 17 of 24)

Egyptian Day (Unlucky Day; Middle Ages Europe) [17 of 24]

Fatal Day (Pagan) [17 of 24]

Lucky Day (Philippines) [49 of 71]

Sakimake (先負 Japan) [Bad luck in the morning, good luck in the afternoon.]

Unlucky Day (Grafton’s Manual of 1565) [40 of 60]

Premieres

Bosko the Lumberjack (WB LT Cartoon; 1932)

Cartoons Ain’t Human (Fleischer/Famous Popeye Cartoon; 1943)

The Cat and the Mermouse (Tom & Jerry Cartoon; 1949)

Dime to Retire (WB LT Cartoon; 1955)

Do You Really Want To Hurt Me?, by Culture Club (UK Song; 1982)

Fantastic Voyage, by Isaac Asimov (Novel; 1966)

From Hare to Heir (WB MM Cartoon; 1960)

Funf Orchesterstucke (Five Pieces for Orchestra), by Arnold Schoenberg (1912)

Funny Business in the Books or The Library Card (Rocky & Bullwinkle Cartoon, S5, Ep. 210; 1963)

Going the Distance (Film; 2010)

The Gold Rush, featuring Flip the Frog (MGM Cartoon; 1932)

Goodnight Moon, by Margaret Wise Brown (Children’s Book; 1947)

Johnny Got His Gun, by Dalton Trumbo (Novel; 1939)

Listen Without Prejudice, by George Michael (Album; 1990)

Machete (Film; 2010)

The Man in the Queue, by Josephine Tey (Novel; 1929) [Alan Grant #1]

Mister and Mistletoe (Fleischer/Famous Popeye Cartoon; 1955)

Never Go Back, 18th Jack Reacher book, by Lee Child (Novel; 2013)

Old Smokey, featuring the Captain and the Kids (MGM Cartoon; 1938)

The Prisoner of Zenda (Film; 1937)

Roll the Bones, by Rush (Album; 1991)

The Sailor Who Fell from Grace with the Sea, by Yukio Mishima (Novel; 1963)

Scooby-Doo! In Arabian Nights (WB Animated Film; 1994)

Scooby-Doo! Return to Zombie Island (WB Animated Film; 2019)

Search for Tomorrow (TV Soap Opera; 1951)

Shang-Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings (Film; 2021)

The Sky Scrapper (Oswald the Lucky Rabbit Disney Cartoon; 1928)

Snow Place Like Home (Fleischer/Famous Popeye Cartoon; 1948)

Something Happened, by Joseph Heller (Novel; 1974)

Special Delivery Stomp, recorded by Artie Shaw (Song;1940)

Tenet (Film; 2020)

Tom and Jerry: The Fast and the Furry (WB Animated Film; 2005)

Topsy Turvy World, Part 1 (Rocky & Bullwinkle Cartoon, S5, Ep. 209; 1963)

The Trouble with Girls (Elvis Presley Film; 1969) [#30]

The Villain Still Pursued Her (Terrytoons Cartoon; 1937)

Ye Happy Pilgrims (Oswald the Lucky Rabbit Cartoon; 1934)

Today’s Name Days

George, Gregor, Silvia, Sophie (Austria)

Gordana, Grga, Grgur (Croatia)

Bronislav (Czech Republic)

Seraphia (Denmark)

Solveig, Veegi (Estonia)

Soila, Soile, Soili (Finland)

Grégoire (France)

Gregor, Phoebe, Silvia, Sonja (Germany)

Anthimos, Arhontia, Arhontion, Aristea, Ariston, Phoebe, Phoebi, Phevos, Polydoros (Greece)

Hilda (Hungary)

Fausto, Felice, Gregorio, Lorenzo, Marino, Rosa, Teodoro (Italy)

Bella, Berta, Klaudija, Klaudijs, Slaida (Latvia)

Bronislova, Bronislovas, Mirga, Sirtautas (Lithuania)

Alise, Alvhild, Vilde (Norway)

Antoni, Bartłomiej, Bazylissa, Bronisław, Bronisz, Erazma, Eufemia, Eufrozyna, Izabela, Jan, Joachim, Joachima, Manswet, Mojmir, Szymon, Wincenty, Zenon, Zenona (Poland)

Antim, Meletie, Neofit (Romania)

Belo (Slovakia)

Basilisa, Gregorio (Spain)

Alfhild, Alva (Sweden)

Page, Paige, Phebe, Phoebe, Phoebus (USA)

Today is Also…

Day of Year: Day 247 of 2024; 119 days remaining in the year

ISO: Day 2 of Week 36 of 2024

Celtic Tree Calendar: Muin (Vine) [Day 4 of 28]

Chinese: Month 8 (Guy-You), Day 1 (Geng-Wu)

Chinese Year of the: Dragon 4722 (until January 29, 2025) [Wu-Chen]

Hebrew: 30 Av 5784

Islamic: 28 Safar 1446

J Cal: 7 Gold; Sevenday [6 of 30]

Julian: 21 August 2024

Moon: 1%: Waxing Crescent

Positivist: 23 Gutenberg (9th Month) [Riquet]

Runic Half Month: Rad (Motion) [Day 12 of 15]

Season: Summer (Day 76 of 94)

Week: 1st Full Week of September

Zodiac: Virgo (Day 13 of 32)

Calendar Changes

桂月 [Guìyuè] (Chinese Lunisolar Calendar) [Month 8 of 12] (Osmanthus Month) [Earthly Branch: Rooster Month] (Bāyuè; Eighth Month)

#Holidays

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sweetwhispersofchaos · 1 month

Text

Eject Chapter 6

Story Summary: Ejecting from your plane in the face of danger? Expected. Forbidden love amongst pilots? Not so much. Will they bond or will this break them for good?

Chapter Summary: A sunrise, a promise to think, and a surprise reward

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Natasha "Phoenix" Trace All the Daggers, Mav x Penny, Amelia, OC's

Warnings: Language. Assault (not by a major character). Injury. Eventual smut. Alcohol consumption. Smoking. Discussions of mental health. (It's a rollercoaster. You've been warned!) Chapter

Word Count: 4006

Eject Masterlist

I do not own anything except the original characters.

The distant sound of metal clanking roused Rooster from his slumber. The overhead lights were now fully on, and it took him a minute to come to terms with his surroundings. He was still on the wing of Phoenix plane, his arms wrapped around her as she breathed steadily into his chest. He really didn’t want to move from this moment, it was peaceful. However the searing pain in his shoulders and right side from his ejection the previous day were a reminder that movement was probably a good idea at that moment.

Rooster didn’t have a watch on, but Nat did. He slowly moved her arm so he could get a view of her wrist. With a groan he shifted, gently jostling her as he did. Her head dipped then rose, her eyes fluttering open and coming to meet his, bleary and blood shot.

“Morning” he whispered.

She groaned as she sat up, rubbing her hands across her face. “Morning” she grumbled into her hands before dropping them to her lap and turning to look at him. He smirked at her groggy but beautiful face, her wild hair, and dazed expression.

“We should probably make a movement. I’d rather not spend my first day as a national hero in the brig.” He said with a wiggle of his eyebrows. She let out a small chuckle and used the back of her hand to smack him lightly in the chest. Rooster put his hand over the spot she tapped and feigned pain, but Phoenix started to panic.

“Oh gosh, I didn’t think about your harness bruises. Are you ok?”

“Nat, I was kidding. I’m fine. Sore, but fine. Come on, I have an idea. Let’s get out of here.”

Once they clambered down off the wing of the plane, both started to stretch. As Rooster raised his hands over his head he winced, letting out an audible suck of air which caused Phoenix to jolt around to him quickly.

“Are you hurt?” she asked concerned.

“No, but damn woman, I now have an even higher level of respect for you and Bob. This shit is quite unpleasant.”

The corner of her mouth tipped up as she spoke “Consider this penance for your stupidity. My pain was justified, yours not so much.”

“Ouch” he tossed playfully at her before taking her left hand in his right and raising it to his chest. “Come with me? I have something I want to show you.”

She stared blankly into his eyes then nodded yes. He dropped her hand and started to walk towards the stairs at the end of the hangar.

After their ascent all the way to the flight deck he led her through the pre-dawn darkness to the back side of the island, the tall tower where the main bridge was located.

“What are we doing here?” She asked skeptically “We could get in trouble for being here, you know?”

“Last night I sat two feet away from the end of the flight runway. At least now I’m hidden.” He winked at her after speaking, to which she rolled her eyes.

“You’ll see soon enough. Want to sit?”

“My ass hurts from sitting on that wing all night, so I’m good” she said as she leaned against a large spool of rolled up hose, crossing her arms over her chest and still looking at him as if he had lost his mind.

“Suit yourself” he said as he jumped backwards onto the roll of hose next to her. His hands came to rest on the edge of the spool between his legs, his feet swinging lightly in the cool night air.

After a few moments of silence, Phoenix broke into his thoughts.

“Is this going to take long? I should probably get a shower and real sleep at some point.”

He looked over at her with a tight grin and spoke “You are one of the most patient people I know, could you act like it please?”

She rolled her eyes again and turned her head back towards the horizon, which was beginning to turn shades of purple and blue. He hoped the clouds wouldn’t block too much of the view. He wasn’t sure if she had ever seen a sunrise from the side of a carrier before. In her jet most likely, but not from the ship itself.

She spoke quietly into the dark “I’m sorry about my meltdown last night. I’m still disappointed in your choice, but I’m just glad your back and that this damn mission is over.”

“Yeah me too.” He answered back to the ocean. “And don’t be sorry. You’re gorgeous when you’re gross and mad at me.” She merely looked at him with exasperation and he gave her one of his million-watt smiles.

After a few moments of silence, he saw her hand move from the corner of his eye and come to rest on his right thigh. Without any other acknowledgment he placed his right hand on top of hers and intertwined her tiny fingers between his. She really did have small hands. It was amazing the power those small hands could wield with incredible control and accuracy. She really was a modern-day superhero, and he felt the pull of pure awe shudder from his stomach.

“Do you realize what a badass you are?” he asked as he turned to look at her. She scoffed through a wide grin and looked at him, mirth in her tired eyes.

“Of course I do.” She tossed playfully at him, and he gagged in faked disgust at her confident answer.

“You act like I can’t swing dick with the best of you pigs. I know my worth.” He barked laughter and squeezed her hand.

“Well good. Saves me the effort of showering you with praise.” At that she scoffed back as if hurt, then they both broke into light laughter Rooster feeling another pang in his right side at the movement.

As the sky continued to lighten Rooster dropped her hand and hopped off the large spool. He turned to where she was leaning against her spool. As he came into her space she stood, dropping her arms to her side, and looking up into his brown eyes.

Rooster took both of her hands in his, letting them hang between them.

“Come here, watch this with me?” He asked.

“Ok” was her response.

Rooster moved to face the side of the ship, pulling her by her hands until her back was flush to his chest. He wrapped his arms slowly around her shoulders and chest, ignoring the sharper pain up his side, and her hands reached up to rest on his folded arms. He leaned down to place his mouth closer to her right ear and spoke gently.

“I’m not asking you for anything you’re not willing to give, but I want a chance to sing your praises for as long as you will let me.” And he watched as tiny goosebumps began to form on her neck behind her ear. He continued “Take some time, think about what you want. What will make you happy. If its friends, then its friends, and I’m ok with that. If I’m in your life in some way, that’s all I ask. That you don’t push me away. Please?”

She said nothing, and he raised his head, resting his chin on the top of her head as the sun began to eclipse the horizon. As light began to break and the sky lightened, he hoped she could feel the care in his touch, hear it in his voice. That he wasn’t going anywhere.

After a few more minutes, she squeezed his arms and made to move away from him. Rooster dropped his arms as she turned to face him, a deep look across her face that he couldn’t quite read.

“Thank you for showing me this, it was a nice way to put yesterday to rest. It seems I have some thinking to do, and honestly, I don’t know how you can tolerate the smell of me” to which he snorted “So I’m going to go take a contemplative shower and nap.” With that she reached up and feathered his cheek with a light peck, then walked away, disappearing around the corner of the Island.

She was going to think. Thinking was good. Or at least he hoped it was.

*****

Rooster slipped into his room where three collective sets of snores echoed in the dark. He pulled off his shoes and shirt, running his hand over the spot on his side that hurt the worst and flinching ever so slightly at the touch. There was a growing bump but he ignored it, deciding sleep was more important.

He slid his ear buds in, turning on a white noise loop on his phone to drown his bunkmates out. As he climbed into his bed below Payback, the back of his head hit the pillow and he stared up in the dark trying to make heads or tails of the last 24 hours. He lived every human emotion in one day and suddenly, his body seemed to weigh more than the carrier he rested on. His eyes slammed shut as the thought of her leaning against him watching the beautiful sunrise, and he drifted away.

****

Hours later a hand came to rest on Roosters shoulder, jolting him awake and almost hitting his head on the bunk above. He hissed as a quick jab shot into his side. He rolled over to see Bob in grey sweatpants and a NAVY t-shirt looking concerned. Rooster sat up on the side of his bed and removed his ear buds then rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

“Are you ok Rooster?” He asked.

“Yeah man, just sore.”

“I’m sorry to wake you, especially since you were out all night.” The wizzo said with a knowing grin.

Rooster looked up at him annoyed but let out a barely audible “s ok” before moving to stand.

“What time is it?”

“Oh-9. I wanted to let you sleep but we’ve been summoned to the ready room for a meeting.”

Rooster groaned as he stretched, feeling every inch of the harness on his aching body but especially that one spot. He worked to control the grimace on his face.

“What sort of meeting?”

“Maverick didn’t say. He just said come to the ready room at 0930 for a friendly meeting. Whatever that means.”

Rooster snorted “The last time he called a friendly meeting we played football on the beach for 2 hours.”

“This is true. He said no uniforms so I’m guessing it’s something like that.”

“Probably. Thanks for the info, man, I’ll be there in a little bit.”

Bob nodded and disappeared out the door. So Bob knew he had been out all night? Rooster wondered if he knew because he saw he was missing from his bed or because Phoenix told him. Or both. Those two were trouble together, he thought.

Rooster realized he hadn’t eaten in over 24 hours and his stomach growled in response. He threw a clean shirt and shorts on, tossed down a protein shake and granola bar, then headed out.

He cruised into the ready room at 0929, obviously the last to arrive. The entire squadron was already crammed into the room, Maverick standing in the far-left corner chatting with Hangman and Fritz. The elder pilot nodded his head to Rooster on his entrance then returned to his conversation.

Rooster looked around at the assembly in front of him. Payback and Coyote were sitting on a couch to his left with Fanboy sitting on the arm. Halo, Omaha, and the Ivy Leaguers were sitting and standing around the tall table and stools on the opposite end of the room. Then his eyes came to rest on the small couch directly across from him where Bob and Phoenix sat, her legs draped across Bobs lap, her head resting on the back of the couch. They were deep in some conversation when he walked in. She briefly turned her head to make eye contact with him then returned her attention to her back seater. She looked so exhausted and adorable all at the same time.

Rooster moved to his right and came to a seat in the ratty old armchair that faced the couch Payback, Fanboy, and Coyote sat on, putting him right next to Phoenix. She didn’t acknowledge his movement, continuing to discuss something about some band with Bob.

Once Rooster took a seat, Maverick cleared his throat and moved to stand behind Paybacks couch, Hangman and Fritz leaning against the lockers behind him.

“Well. We did it.” Maverick said, a grin growing across his face.

Several tired “hooyas” echoed along with clapping from a few others. Mav continued.

“I spent some time with Cyclone last night discussing some, reward for your efforts, if you will.”

At this statement the room seemed to perk up.

“So, with that said. 1400 today is a one-hour swim call just for the people in this room.” His statement made excitement wash over the group.

“Also, after we port tomorrow, each of you will receive 2 weeks leave before returning to previous assignments or moving to your next.”

Hangman let out a “Hell Yeah” as several others high fived.

“I’m damn proud of each one of you. This was wilder than anything even I have done, and you each played your part with the laser focus needed to complete the mission. You have earned a little fun and relaxation. So, I’ll see you on deck at 1400 to take a dive over the side of the carrier.” Then he put a hand up and smiled as several “Thank you’s” echoed on his exit.

Fanboy looked up at the crowd in front of him with a look of confusion and asked, “Did he just say dive over the side of the carrier?”

Payback looked at him shocked, “You’ve never had a swim call on a carrier before!?”

“No?” he answered, still confused.

Hangman moved to put his hands on the back of Fanboys shoulders “Fresh meat ladies and gentlemen” with his shit eating grin.

“Huh? What?” Fanboy asked looking terrified as others in the room whooped and laughed.

Payback laughed the loudest and just said “Be on deck at 1400 in your shorts. You’ll see.”

Rooster chuckled but was still so tired, and the pain in his side was becoming more constant, so he decided that was enough of this until it was time to swim. Well, maybe not him. But he could watch. He moved to stand, “Well that was exciting, but your hero is still completely fucking wiped out. I’m headed back to bed. I’ll see yall afterwhile.” And he made for the door.

“Excuse me, but pretty sure I am the hero here sport” he heard Hangman holler over the din, obviously with a smile on his face. The room went quite sans a few chuckles.

Roosters hand came to rest on the doorknob and he barely turned his head to acknowledge. “Hangman” he started but gave a second thought as the pain in his side continued to burn. “You know what, fine, take the hero title. I’m too tired to care.”

More light laughter as he started to turn the knob and open the door.

Bob called out over the din before he could escape. “Hey Rooster, some of us were going to the hangar here in a bit for work out.”

Payback looked up and added “Yeah man want to go? Fanboy here wants to try kickboxing. Should be entertaining.” He grinned as Fanboy tossed a pen at his pilot.

Rooster looked over to Bob, who gave him an interesting look he couldn’t quite read.

“Nah thanks, I’m just going to sleep.” And with that he turned and walked into the hallway.

*****

He made his way to the showers to clean up, still feeling slightly gross from the activities of the day before. Wrapped in a towel around his waist, he looked in a mirror for the first time and flinched. The dark outline of his harness was painted around his body, an extra deep, raised bruise on his mind right side looking the worst. Now he knew what had been hurting. He had a few cuts and scratches all over and the dark circles under his eyes were frightening. He was obviously a mess. His outside matched his inner turmoil at that moment. He was scared to death of what Phoenix would decide. Outside of exhaustion and the pain on his side, that was all his mind could think about.

He sighed and made for his room.

It was dark inside minus soft lamp light. He didn’t notice the small silhouette at first, then realized once the door closed and he turned fully into the room that someone was standing between the bunks. Not someone.

Nat.

“Oh uh, hey. What’s up?” he asked a little lost.

She stood from Bob’s bed and took a step closer. Her hair was hanging around her face and she looked beautiful in the faint light.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. But I could use a nap too and, well” she hesitated, her eyes wandering down his body to the towel and back to meet his eyes as he watched her face flush in the even though he could only really see half of it “I seem to sleep better with company. Want some company?”

HOLY FUCK! Calm down brain. Don’t panic. “Uh I mean yeah but what if someone shows up needing in?”

She smirked that smirk he loved so much and responded with “Don’t worry, Bob said he could guarantee 2 hours.”

Rooster made a mental note to shake that man’s hand the next time he saw him as he locked the door behind him.

“Oh ok, cool. Yeah, I really need some more rest so sure, lets cuddle.” She giggled and then pointed to the towel.

“I think your missing something.” She let out between light giggles.

Rooster looked down then it was his turn to blush. Oh yeah, clothes. Before he could move to grab some shorts, she had taken a few more steps to close the gap between them. She reached a tentative hand to his chest and lightly traced the bruise from the harness that rose black and blue all the way across. He didn’t dare move. Or breathe. He just tilted his head down slightly to watch her finger feather across his chest. He was only in a towel; this was not good.

He raised his eyes to her face, a look of deep contemplation resting in her eyes and eyebrows. Then she met his eyes, and he could see tears welling up in them.

“Hurts like a bitch huh?” she asked him.

He watched as a couple of tears escaped her eyes while he held them in his gaze. He let out a small breath with a crooked smile and nodded yes.

She spoke again “It’s sort of ironic, isn’t it? We’re broken people, with broken pasts, with broken hearts, and now our bodies match in a slightly broken way.”

Jesus, he loved her so much it hurt. She was right, they were different people and yet so much the same. But he was frozen. He didn’t know what to say or do in this moment because he didn’t want to assume anything. Rooster was taking her lead until she said otherwise.

She wiped both of her cheeks with her free hand, then brought it to rest flat on his chest next to her other hand. He could feel the damp she had just removed from her face on his skin, and it damn near broke his heart to see her this way. He had seen her cry more in the last 12 hours than he ever had. She really was broken, and he wasn’t sure he could fix her. But he would die trying.

Her eyes continued to search his and he realized he had said nothing this whole time, for fear words would fail him. As he looked in her eyes, he took a deep breath and tried to find the right thing to say. Before he could speak though she removed her hands from his chest with a very sad expression and turned her back to him as she crossed over to the bunks. She called quietly over her shoulder “I’ll wait here while you find something other than a towel to wear.”

He let out a small chortle under his breath and let his head hang chin to chest as he shook it. Yup, there she is. Always running from him. But if cuddling was what she wanted, then he would take what he could get if it meant being close to her. Helping her through her trauma and pain was going to be a long process.

He pulled shorts out of a drawer and yanked them on after throwing his towel over the end of his bunk. Then he walked up behind her and gently slid his arms around her waist. She tensed at first, then her body melted into him, a sigh escaping her mouth. He bent down into her ear, much the same way he had earlier that morning and whispered, “Are you ready for a nap my broken birdie?”

Her shoulders began to shudder, although he wasn’t sure if it was from laughter or sobs, or possibly both. Her hands were resting on top of his and they gave a quick squeeze. She raised her head slightly over her shoulder and in the dim said, “That sounds wonderful my old bird.” And she snorted as he tickled her stomach with his resting hands.

“I’ll make you think old.” He said as he pulled her around to face him but as he pulled her in, her hand came to land on the mounded bruise on his right side and he let out a muted holler. She immediately jumped back, snatching her hands away as if she had just touched the face of the sun. Rooster leaned over wincing slightly while gripping the top bunk frame. Phoenix practically shouted at him.

“Rooster, what the hell? Are you hurt? Did I hurt you? Are you ok?” she spit questions one right after the other as she came to a seat on his bed and gently moved his hand from his side so she could see what it was covering. She gasped at the sight of a baseball sized mound near his rib cage. She must have missed it in the dark, he figured.

“Oh Bradley. Did you go to med last night? Did they see this?”

“It didn’t quite look like that last night and frankly, something else was on my mind.” He hissed through clenched teeth.

Nat chose to ignore the painful remark and stood to look at him. “I think you have a broken rib. Come on, back to med you go.”

“Yeah I guess a nap is a lost cause now huh?” He tried to joke but sputtered as sharp pain ripped through his chest.

“Ok buddy, take it easy. Where are your shirts and I’ll grab you one.” He nodded to the same drawer his shorts came from as he braced himself against the room door. Natasha opened the drawer and grabbed one of his famous Hawaiian shirts. She turned to face him with it held out and an eyebrow raised in question.

“Rooster, I don’t think these are regulation.”

“It’s not, but right now I’m glad I brought it.”

She helped him slide the shirt up one arm and then the other, a low groan escaping him as he stretched to reach his opposite arm in the last hole.

Nat opened the door and gestured for him to move through it.

Damn his shitty decisions still coming back to bite him. He would mourn the loss of that nap forever.

Chapter 7 ->

4 notes · View notes

itsclydebitches · 1 year

Text

Title: Drawn Sunflowers

Fandom: Ted Lasso

Pairing: Ted/Trent

Word Count: 2,438

Summary:

This just in, his mind whispered, tone both exacerbated and snide. Local ex-journalist enamored with middle-aged man writing in a journal. Can his life get any more pathetic? Tune in at 11:00 to find out!

Fuck, but he shouldn’t have drank last night. Coming out to Colin had been bad enough. Pairing that with alcohol, mere hours before he’d spend the day in an enclosed space with Ted Lasso, was stupidity, plain and simple.

Still, nothing to do but shoulder ahead. So Trent cleared his throat, wincing at how rough his voice was.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

(Full fic under the cut!)

Ted was writing.

The fact that someone other than himself kept a notebook shouldn’t have been an Earth-shattering revelation - it wasn’t like Trent had a monopoly on the hobby, regardless of what the awards now packed into boxes under his bed might imply - but Ted’s intrinsically chaotic nature meant that Trent had spent the last two years methodically cataloging every reliable character trait the man possessed. For his sanity’s sake, you understand.

For example, you never offered Ted Lasso tea, not unless you wanted a hilariously insulting rant on the horrors of your national drink. He preferred barbecue sauce to ketchup (though apparently a worthwhile specimen hadn’t yet been found across the pond). He preferred khakis to jeans, jeans to dress pants, literally anything else to a full-blown suit, and Trent had not spent an afternoon bemoaning the fact that he was unlikely to see Ted dressed to the nines anytime soon.

In short, Ted Lasso was an enigma wrapped in a few choice consistencies that kept those around him from coming untethered. He did not eat mushy peas. He did text with hieroglyphic-like GIFs. He did bake. He did not cook. He did play Legos at the tender age of forty-seven, beating out an eleven-year-old in enthusiasm.

He did not write.

That, Trent had confirmed, lay solely in Beard’s realm. He brought an analytical eye to every match, his mind brimming with strategies and his hands full of annotated books, each notation incomprehensible, even to a seasoned expert in short-hand. Based on what little he’d seen, Trent wasn’t even sure Beard was writing in English... or any language known to someone other than himself. But the knowledge was clearly there, paired with Roy’s physicality and personal knowledge of the game, leaving Ted to bring... whatever it was Ted Lasso brought to every space he crossed into.

Hope? Optimism? Charm? Charisma? Trent had stopped trying to name the ethereal thing a while back.

(Or rather, he wasn’t ready to drop the ‘L’ word just yet. No, not even in his own mind; not even to describe Ted’s coaching style - a skill so far removed from Trent himself that linking the two in any respect was a cosmic joke. A Mars and Venus situation.)

(The fact that his thoughts kept turning to grade school romantic rhymes meant nothing.)

All of which was to say: finding Ted scribbling in the back of the AFC coach bus was a bit of a shock. It was a mystery then, the kind of low-stakes investigation that Trent found himself drawn to more and more nowadays, enough that he stood and - ignoring Colin’s curious look - began his wobbly way to the back of the bus.

There was a reason he’d always written about sports rather than participating in them. It took all of five seconds for Trent to loose his balance, careening hard into Isaac’s shoulder. He just gave Trent a firm pat and righted him like he weighed all of ten pounds, never even taking out his air-pods.

Trent firmly told himself he’d already lost his dignity to vanilla vodka and carried on.

Rebecca had moved about a half hour before, kicking Will to the proverbial curb so she could talk finances with Higgins. Coach Beard was sacked out across one half of the back seat, a baseball cap slung low over his eyes, pig nose still in place, accentuating his snores. That left Ted in semi-privacy, still scribbling with such focus that he hadn’t even noticed Trent’s approach.

He’d have felt mildly insulted if the whole scenario weren’t fascinating.

Still, nothing to do but shoulder ahead. So Trent cleared his throat, wincing at how rough his voice was.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Ted’s head snapped up and he blinked, drowsy, like he was coming out of a daze. Or maybe he’d had a long night too. Trent suddenly felt a pang that he hadn’t gone looking for him. Not that he regretted his time spent with Colin, not at all, but there was a soft ache for the time he might have had with Ted instead, like looking back at a path untraveled even as you enjoyed the one you were on. Dinner, a show, perhaps even that promised lesson in bike riding...

Trent mentally shook his head, chastising himself. That was a fantasy - and a presumptuous one at that. There was no reason why Ted would have wanted to spend their rare free night in his company. It was for the best that Trent hadn’t gone and embarrassed himself, rejected for the exciting plans of Coach Beard - that was definitely glitter in his hair - or worse, invited along out of pity. He’d attended the party for Colin’s sake, even enjoyed himself there, but that was still far from Trent’s preferred way to unwind. It hadn’t escaped his notice that after rejecting his suggestion of a museum, the team had not included him in whatever plan they decided on.

He was used to being... outside it all. That’s where being a “colossal prick” tended to land you. Hell, Trent was lucky the team had accepted him to the extent they had, no longer hushing the moment he walked into a room, or throwing obscene, half-hearted gestures his way. He might have bonded with Colin over a shared secret, but Trent wasn’t so foolish as to believe that the damage he’d caused could be erased in a single night, or even a season. That work would be a lifetime in the making... though he wasn’t sure how to navigate it without Ted.

Ted, who was speaking to Trent for the first time in over twenty-four hours and he wasn’t even listening.

“Surprised you know what a penny is,” he said, smiling tiredly, but genuine. “Shouldn’t it be ‘Pence for your thoughts?’”

Trent winced. “Ted. ‘Pence’ is the plural of ‘penny.’ Besides, it was first used by Sir Thomas More, a Lord High Chancellor of Great Britain.”

“Was it now! Well, look at that. I’m just learning all sorts of nifty things on this trip.”

Trent honestly couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. He’d long lost the ability to differentiate between Ted’s Ted-ness and the subtle, teasing exaggeration that brought to mind something Mae had said, back when she was regaling Trent - with a truly galling look in her eye - about how Ted had hustled Rupert Mannion over darts: Be curious, not judgmental.

Sometimes it felt like Ted was gently coaching the whole world, encouraging those around him to ask questions instead of jumping to cynical conclusions, all the while using himself as the poor test subject. It was an effort that, as a former journalist turned Ted Lasso supporter, Trent had come to appreciate.

So he simply said, “Yes, I've learned a lot too” and took the empty seat beside him, basking in that approving smile. It felt like Trent had just passed some unspoken test.

This is great, he thought wryly, recalling something he’d read on Twitter recently. I’m going to get a good grade in Ted Lasso, something that is normal to want and possible to achieve.

Ted leaned into his space until Trent’s world was the subtle musk of a man who hadn’t had the chance to shower this morning, heavy deodorant to cover it up, some brand-generic moisturizer, and something... smoky? Sweet. Just a little bit tart.

If that wasn’t a fucking metaphor right there.

“Anything you want to share with the class?” Ted asked, whispering it like Trent’s education was a national secret. His mind flashed to Colin, vulnerable on the Homomonument, voice breaking with as much longing as relief. If only he knew. “Not just yet, I’m afraid.”

Ted huffed. “I appreciate that. Well, call me Dumbo because I’m all ears when you wanna talk. Until then, save that hard earned cash of yours, sport. My thoughts are messier than Henry’s bedroom after a sleepover; not worth even a penny.”

“Oh, I highly doubt that.”

Trent knew better than most how intensely personal writing could be. He’d learned Teeline like all the other Journos, then modified it over the years into a kind of personal code. His messy handwriting, the despair of a long line of tutors, added an extra layer of security. It wasn’t that he thought his work so worth stealing - they were all covering the same beats, after all - but rather the thought of anyone seeing his work before it had been edited to the moon and back made his skin crawl. It was why he’d never bothered with tape recorders and possessed a laptop security system that would probably raise the feds’ suspicions if they were to ever look.

So no, Trent didn’t sneak a peek at the open book on the table.

Instead, Ted deliberately pushed it his way and that, more than anything, made warmth rise up in the center of Trent’s chest. He’d been cold for so long, the kind of cold where you’d gone numb to the discomfort and thought, foolishly, that what you were feeling was normal - good, even. Thawing had been a fucking painful experience, but now Trent was basking in a miniature sun turned his way. That burning, too, was painfully exquisite.

With a nod of gratitude, Trent turned his attention to the writing and... paused. Well, Ted had better handwriting than he did, but that was about all he could say for the readability of what was in front of him.

“Tri-ANGELS?” he asked. Feeling daring, Trent skittered his fingers over the word, thumb inconspicuously caressing that first ‘T’ and ‘R.’ He now had nearly half of what his name would look like written in Ted’s hand and he committed the lines to memory, wondering if he could recreate them in the privacy of his flat.

Can you please stop acting like a teenage girl for five minutes? It was hard though, what with alcohol, dancing, and the adrenaline of a confession still coursing through his veins; nigh impossible with Ted sitting so close that Trent could have brushed their thighs together with one simple, casual shift.

This was becoming a habit, apparently: caught up in fantasies to the point where he missed reality happening right in front of him. Trent tuned back in to hear Ted say something about Beard's knowledge and the fate of the team and a whole lot of other undoubtedly important information that Trent simply wasn’t able to focus on. He’d kick himself for it later, but right now it was enough that Ted had trusted him with the journal. Trent’s mind was too fuzzy and bright to unpack what was in it.

It was enough to have it, hold it... and realize it wasn’t just any journal.

“You went to the Van Gogh museum?” he blurted, interrupting Ted's static explanation. It came out like an accusation, which was stupid, presumptuous again, but Trent couldn’t help the little flicker of hurt that surfaced. Ridiculous and insulting. Ted didn’t owe him a second of his time - had, more than anyone else on Earth, reason to withhold it - and he hadn’t even been in the room when Trent’s suggestion had crashed and burned. Underneath that absurd disappointment was a swoop in his stomach; the realization that Ted had chosen the exact outing Trent would have gone on if Colin hadn’t taken priority. It was that fantasy that their paths might have crossed through something like fate and the electric knowledge of shared interests: art, football, A Wrinkle in Time.

Writing.

“Trent Crimm, investigative journalist extraordinaire.” Ted’s gaze flickered down to the museum’s embossing in a teasing gesture. “But I sure did. Hell of a thing to see in person, I’ll tell you that. You know, sunflowers are--”

“Kansas’ state flower.”

It was out before Trent could even consider pulling it back, exhaustion slowing his mind until the deep dives he’d gone down the last three years - obsessive hyperfixations, really - rose up, unfiltered. A mortified blush began to spread across his cheeks, but if Ted found it at all odd that an Englishman knew this random, not-at-all significant fact about his home, he didn’t show it. A soft, syrupy smile spread onto Ted’s face and his own cheeks pinked in pleasure. Trent had to look away.

“You a golfer now?” he said, smile turning into a grin that was, thankfully, more familiar and thus more manageable. “Because that right there was a hole in one! Righty-o, Trent. The sunflower has been our floral emblem since the 1800’s. I’m sure Beard could give you an exact date. I was just happy to see a little piece of home depicted with such love, you know?”

Trent’s chest grew tight at that. He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Ted reached across the table to give his hand a brief squeeze, casual like they’d been doing it for years.

Trent swore then and there that if he ever found the courage to write about this moment, he’d do his best to imbue it with as much love as Van Gogh had given sunflowers.

Talk felt sacrilegious after that and they settled into silence through unspoken agreement. It was comfortable though, a rarity in Trent’s life, and before long he felt his eyes growing heavy. The murmur of the boys sharing their own tales from last night, the gentle motion of the bus, Ted breathing easy and deeply beside him... Trent made a note to stand and stretch his legs in a minute, lest he fall asleep.

He woke up three hours later.

Head pillowed on Ted’s shoulder, he blinked heavily and yawned, sinking deeper into the fleece warmed by another. For one sublime moment Trent floated, before the embarrassment, the apologies, the photographic evidence that - fuck - he’d drooled on Ted’s shoulder he existed in a hazy space of near total bliss. Only one thing permeated that feeling: Ted’s journal, opened now to a new page with a message scrawled and angled oh so particularly, like someone had wanted those words to be the first thing he saw. Trent awoke from one dream and landed straight in another.

I’d like to visit the museum again someday. Come with me?

~Ted❁

#Ted Lasso #Trent Crimm #Tedependent #TedTrent #Ted Lasso fic

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