#nude photographs of young girls

[dvh-43]

10000 likes!

[jaggedamethyst]

bucky barnes and his physical media

pairing: bucky x reader, use of she and girl once or twice

content: bucky is obsessed with physical media, especially photos…but he hates being in them. you try to change that.

notes: minors dni, slight smut but it’s honestly pretty tame here, some obligatory bucky angst. i don’t believe in proofreading I fear.

word count: 1.8k

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆　　 ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Growing up Bucky quickly gained a fondness for cameras. He loved to capture the images of those he loved--moments in time for which he could always look back on when he missed them.

He considered himself a confident guy and took said pictures at any opportunity he was given. He figured someone would always want to look at a face that perfect, if he could say so himself.

It was different, though, when the reflected images no longer were of the young man so keen on going to war. When the moment in time was one that could only elicit one of fear. He couldn’t recognize himself these days, not after being the Winter Soldier. The man was now adamant about not having memories that preserved him as he was now. Not when he was a shell of the man he’d known years ago.

If he absolutely had to take pictures, he was even more sure it would never be on a fucking phone. Not only are they the most fickle objects imaginable, he also hated the damn cloud. He wasn’t entirely prehistoric; he understood when people said that it was a way to store things…but a cloud. He’d had one too many mishaps with technology that things randomly disappearing from the cloud was not too far fetched in his mind. If he had to preserve something special to him it would absolutely be in an album. An album was tangible, and if it came to it, he could easily grab the stack of them in a hurry.

Physical media was absolutely near and dear to him. Whenever an old show was nowhere to be found, he clung to his DVD sets like a lifeline. The same could be said of his photo albums. They quickly became a way for him to reclaim some of the power he felt was lost with his mind. But taking pictures and storing them, to him, was therapeutic.

That's how he ended up with several albums on his shelf. Some were miscellaneous, ones that had yet to be sorted. Others solely for pictures of nature that he found calming to look at.

Nothing compared to the album he had of you, though.

An inadvertent smile would always creep up on his lips when his eyes met the spine of your album. Just the sight of your name sprawled in his handwriting was enough to make him feel warm inside. Inside were photos of you, some candid, others posed. He hated pictures, but for you he would at least attempt to stomach the feeling .

He flipped through the pages as he always did, feeling sort of proud he’d managed to take such great snapshots in time..and even more that he preserved them without the damn cloud.

Bucky made note to add more to this album; it wasn’t nearly as full as he’d like. With that, he swiftly closed the album—a gust of air causing one photo to fly out of the book. He grabbed the print that lay at his feet, not thinking much of it other than it would be returned to its rightful place among the other portraits of his girl.

As he flipped the picture, a heat quickly spread across the man’s cheeks. Oh. He definitely was not expecting this.

A selfie. Yes, that’s what it’s called. He’d learned that word a while ago. Somewhere in time he also learned that while people could be “in the nude,” they’d also referred to risqué photos similarly. Yes, a nude was how he would describe this one.

The man had seen many works of art in his day. Some of which were dedicated to his friend for his accomplishments in war. Others, of objects, like how Bucky would leisurely snap a photograph of a bird sitting stoic in a tree.

None of that compared to the polaroid he’d laid eyes on right now. His thoughts reeled in his mind, observing every detail. He knew it was hard to capture yourself in frame with these print cameras—no clear indication of what was in focus. But you were skillful.

The sun cascaded over your body, highlighting your skin in a way he’d never seen. He couldn’t see your face above your lips, but they curled in a way that seemed purposeful. How he’d do anything to see your eyes reflect the light of the sun that day. He slowly placed a finger on the photo, tracing the curve of your neck…your shoulder…your fingers.

No. He mentally groaned. The curl in your lips, a smirk, made sense now. You’d covered yourself where he wanted to see most. Hands crossed over your chest but your skin remained bare, teasing him. He felt so disgusted with himself even thinking this way, wanting to see more. It’s not like he hadn’t already, but in this moment the taunting imagery drove him up a wall.

He’s not sure when exactly he’d sat down on the couch or when his pants got to be pooled at his ankles. He’s even less certain of what time it is, but your footsteps approaching his door bought him back to reality. You’re off work.

The now strained fabric of his pants irritated him. Not only did your nude leave him extremely worked up, but he didn’t even finish before you got back.

Your voice resounded from the door, “Buck! I left the key, can you open up?”

“Coming!” He froze, an audible huff leaving his nostrils at the poorly timed reply.

He placed the photo in his back pocket before stalking towards the door.

With a swift swing, the door opened to your smile on the other side. Unlike the mischievous smirk that was printed in the picture in his pocket, this one was borderline affable. He let out what could only be described a a mixture between a scoff and chuckle.

You quirked a brow, “um, what's funny?” You rounded the space left by Bucky’s shoulders, making your way towards the kitchen.

“Nothing,” Bucky replied with a hint of sarcasm, “just had a bit of a weird day.”

“Really?” You turned to start the faucet, washing your hands before looking for something to drink. “You…wanna talk about it?”

The man felt his chest continue to rise and fall at an erratic pace. As the water continued to trickle he became painfully aware of the situation in his jeans at the present. Fuck it.

He reached for his pocket, quickly whipping the film towards your back.

He tried to level his voice in an attempt at asking his next question in the most nonchalant way he could muster. “Baby…what’s this?”

You craned your head away from the faucet a bit, “huh?” Grasping a towel, you slowly turned towards the sound of Bucky’s voice. “What’s wha- oh-”

An obvious shock appeared on your face but had he not looked close enough he would have missed it. The shift to an indifferent facial expression perplexed the man--even more when you replied in a chipper tone.

“Oh! I just got this new camera the other day at the store.” You moved past him, turning the corner and heading down the hall towards the junk closet you guys kept. He followed your movement with his eyes, stuck in place with pure intrigue. The distance and scrambling left your voice low to his ear. “You wanna see it? It's so cool and it wasn't too expensive!”

He moved back towards the couch, slouching a bit. “Sure, baby.”

Bucky twisted his head at the sound of you walking, no skipping, back towards the living room. “This thing is so easy to use, Buck. I feel like a pro like you.”

“I am not a pro,” he mumbled, his hand meeting his forehead.

He felt a hand on him, brushing his hair back. The nudge forcing him to lift his head to meet your eye. You’d knelt on the floor in front of him.

“I,” you planted a kiss on his cheek, “think you are amazing at taking pictures.” A pause loomed in the air, “but I wanted to do something for you…show you can be a great subject too.”

You placed a finger on his shoulder, urging him to lay back. “You should get comfortable, Buck…because this,” you gingerly plucked the photo from his grasp “is just the first installment to an amazing collection I think we will have.”

Bucky absolutely needed to work on his recollection skills—his ability to focus too. He again found himself with his pants down and no idea of how he’d come to be that way. This time, a cool breeze swept against his chest—his shirt somehow flung across the room. He absolutely did not mind, though.

The way in which you seemed to be skilled at everything truly blew his mind. With only a hand pumping him up and down, slowly at that, he’d found himself writhing against you. Whispers fell on deaf ears, as he’d quickly become overstimulated from his lack of release before.

“I- I-,” he stumbled as he usually did with you. There was no time when you were together when he didn’t feel at a loss for words. But here, with himself dripping all over your hands, your eyes looking at him expectantly, and your gentle lips grazing against his skin—he was struggling to even say more than one syllable.

You assured him, “it's okay, I know.” Simple words, but enough to make his insides tingle.

“Fuck…please,” he uttered your name. “I can’t-“

Your soft hands grasped his face again, a silent request for his eye contact.

It was so unfair, he knew that she knew that’d be his weakness. As quickly as it started, Bucky would finally finish. A feeling of euphoria and relief rushed the man, his skin prickly and glossed over with sweat.

“This is perfect,” he lowered his head a bit to see you back on your knees, this time holding your hands up. An arched brow raised on his face once more…you could be so damn elusive sometimes. At a further look, he could see you there, one eye closed. He searched between your hands, they were making L shapes in the air.

“Actually perfection,” you said with a flourish of your fingers. You leaned back, grasping your camera from the coffee table. “Now, be good James and don’t ruin my work.”

“I don’t know what you mean-“

Your finger met his skin, softly mixing in with the wetness now drenching his lower abdomen. He felt you marking a shape into the puddle—a heart?

Before he could even register, a flash. You’d taken a photo.

“Like I said, perfection.”

You left the polaroid beside the other on the coffee table, planting a kiss on the man's lips this time.

Bucky’s smile creeped up on his face, a happiness enveloping him.

“I think we need a new album.”

[heeseungwifey]

It's like a Polaroid... nude?

pairing: IdolJay! x y/n

warning: contains smut!

Jay loved fan mail. Receiving letters about how much someone loves him always strokes his ego, feeling rewarded for his hard job. He’s a total workaholic, both professionally and in his private life. He goes to the gym, eats healthy, rests well. He loves how his fans notice his muscular physique in the comments. 

Letters are usually from young girls, he appreciates the love and support but would never correspond to the romantic aspect of the messages. Often some older girls, his age and a bit younger make advances and he, as a man, feels the urge to meet up with them, signing an NDA just in case. They are groupies that just enjoy the experience but they never leave a big impact on him. 

The whole group goes to the hotel after a concert, exhausted from the busy schedule. Jay sees a group of fans waiting outside, his eyes meeting the most beautiful eyes he has ever seen. The girl is standing there with a face mask on and a letter in her hand, she doesn’t seem as excited as the others and Jay gets curious.

The boys get closer to the crowd, signing CDs and receiving fan letters, all normal. Jay, on the other hand, is cautiously looking at this mysterious girl and directly grabs her letter, mouthing a thank you. 

The boys get in the van and some of them open the letters to read out loud, not aware that Jay has only picked up one, hidden inside his jacket waiting to read it at the hotel. He doesn’t know why but his intuition tells him the content of that letter is only for his eyes to see.

It’s midnight and Jay is ready to go to sleep, his pyjamas and skincare are done. He picks up the letter and touches it, feeling like there’s more than a letter, like little pieces of what seems like photographic paper. When he opens the envelope, a bunch of polaroids fall from inside, his curiosity spiking. When he flips them around he sees the girl who gave him the letter, wearing just her bra and red lipstick. it’s a selfie, her beautiful eyes and riqué outfit taking all the attention. The next Polaroid is a shot further away from her face, showing that she’s just wearing her bra and panties, getting Jay’s ears red for such an intimate gift. That’s what he thought until he saw the next one, her tits on full display and just her red lips, such a lewd picture Jay had to stop and read the letter. 

“Dear Jay,

This is me showing my love for you. I noticed you are trying so hard to look hot these days, did you think I wouldn’t notice your muscular tanned arms in those outfits of yours? Your strong legs while dancing and your huge bulge when you sit down? You grow the monster inside of me that wants to fuck you so dumb that you don’t even know the days of the week. To leave you so dry you don’t get with another bitch ever again in your life. To leave you like a puppy waiting for me. I wanted to return the favour for all this hard work and give you a little gift.

Here are some polaroids for your eyes only, for those lonely nights when you need help. I am your whore, just text me and I’ll go anywhere. You got me on my knees.

love and kisses, 

xxx xxx xxx”

Jay couldn’t believe what he just read. Her name wasn’t even on the letter, just her phone number. And a kiss with the red lipstick. Jay picked the other polaroids, realising right there that those left were way worse. A mirror picture fully naked, a close-up of her open legs, her red dripping pussy at the centre of the shot. A picture of her inserting a toy and looking at the camera with her tongue out was his favourite. 

He had to call her. Needed to. His eyes were darting from polaroid to polaroid, his bulge growing bigger and bigger and his thoughts clouding, just flashes of red lips. Jay picks up his phone and calls the number, waiting impatiently for her to pick up, biting his nails and touching his groin mindlessly. 

“Hello?” a sweet voice picks up the phone, which makes Jay wonder if he dialled the wrong number. How could a girl who makes such gifts have a voice this soft?

“Hello! Yeah, I received a letter today and it had someone's phone number, this phone number to be more precise. Is there any chance that the girl who gave me this letter is you?” 

“Jay? Is it you?”

“yeah, it’s me” Jay jumps on his seat, so it is her, the girl with the pretty eyes.

“Oh Jay, did you like my letter? I made it with so much love, I can’t believe you read it” She sounds naughty over the other side of the line, with a sultry voice mixed with innocence. 

“yeah, I did like it… a lot. I was wondering if you were up to meeting today, at my hotel” Jay is unsure this is gonna turn alright, asking with no confidence. 

“Oh really? Do you want me to go?” she sounds happy on the other side of the line, excited to meet her celebrity crush. 

“Yes, I do. I’m at the Palace Hotel, when you get to the front desk ask for room 549. A bodyguard will bring you up here” Jay can’t even believe what he’s doing, being used to meeting with girls he saw at the club and interacted a bit with, no a stranger.

“Okay Jay, I’ll be there in 20 minutes!” she sounded happy and decided like she knew exactly what she was doing.

Jay was tense instantly. Fuck, 20 minutes was too much waiting. He started picking from the floor the clothes and shoes that were scattered all around the room, to give a good impression. Making the bed, tugging the bedsheets and placing the pillows in their place. God, he even took a shower and cut his toenails. He was so desperate to give a good impression to this girl who, being honest, he didn’t have to win. She was already coming to his hotel room to fuck him anyways. 

When Jay was getting unsure she was gonna show up, three light knocks sounded from outside his hotel room. As fast as he could he got up from the bed and walked towards the door, trying to keep his cool. 

When he opened the door he was met with the same eyes he had seen that afternoon, foxy and deep brown. He was speechless, as if he hadn’t been imagining this situation for 20 minutes. 

“Hello Jay! Sorry for being late, couldn’t find a taxi” He opened the door for her, her figure walked inside the room. jay noticed what she was wearing, a long coat and knee-high boots. It was quite an outfit, given that it wasn’t that cold of weather to be in such a wintery outfit. 

“Can I ask for your name…? You didn’t tell me in the letter” Jay closed the door and walked to where she was, sitting in his bed and her purse on the table under the TV. 

“Oh really! how silly… my name is y/n. Sorry, I guess I wasn’t focused when I was writing the letter…” She’s sitting with her legs crossed, subtle movements that Jay catches as she’s rubbing them. She remembers what she wrote in the letter.

How could she forget when in front of her was Jay in a tank top and grey sweatpants, his sexy and toned biceps on sight and his protruding bulge obviously waiting for her. She knew what she had done with that letter and those polaroids, ready to satisfy him as soon as she walked into the room. 

“Oh, nice to meet you, y/n.” Jay gets close to kiss her on the cheek, as a greeting, but she turns her head and kisses him on the mouth instead. Yeah, fuck it, they both know for what they came for. Let’s stop acting dumb. 

Her hands push his head to deepen the kiss,  grabbing a fistful of his hair. Jay is standing right in between her legs as she’s sitting down and he’s standing. When the kiss gets more heated she takes off her boots and stands up on the bed, tongue-tied with him as she takes off her coat, wearing nothing underneath but a lingerie set. Jay can’t believe his eyes as he looks up at that sight. His hands go straight to her ass, groping and massaging it. God, the kiss has gotten him so worked up he needs to take his pants off immediately. 

“Oh baby, does it hurt down there? Do you want me to help you with that?” she says as she grabs his shoulders and gets off the bed, already on her knees by the time Jay gets to moan a yes. 

“Sit down honey, I’m going to put my money where my mouth is” Y/n pulls his pants down and pushes him to sit on the bed, his dick springing out and looking achingly red and precum coming out of it. 

“I knew it, it’s big! Fuck Jay, you don’t have an idea of how many times I have thought about doing this  to you…” She kisses it right on the head  “How many times I’ve fantasised about how it looks…” Another kiss “How it tastes…” she takes it and puts it in her mouth, slightly sucking on it. “Do you like it?’”

Jay can’t even speak, he’s sweating and if he tries to open his mouth he might let a whimper escape. She knows she’s doing a good job by Jay’s reaction so she keeps on going. Saliva all over his dick and her head bobbing as she makes eye contact with him, her hands slightly scratching his thighs. 

“stop… no, no… STOP” Jay grabs her head and stops her, trying really hard not to come because of the popping sound of her mouth leaving his dick. He knows himself and much rather fuck her with the energy he has now than waste it on some blowjob. He needs to fuck her and feel her tight walls around his cock, filling her with his cum. As much as he loves her mouth he knows she’s way better fuck. 

“I don’t wanna come yet baby girl… let me be inside you for that” Jay gets y/n from the ground and sits her on the bed, lifting her by her ass and placing her in the middle of the bed. The lingerie set is starting to bother him, taking off the garters and the bra, leaving her only in her panties and thigh-high tights. Jay starts sucking and licking her perky nipples, moans escaping from her mouth as she just pushes his head up to her chest, going insane every second that passes and Jay doesn’t fuck her.

“Jay, please… do something, it hurts” y/n is almost crying at this point, rubbing her thighs is not enough to relieve the heat she feels between her legs. Jay smirks, pulling slowly her panties off and breathing heavily right next to her heat.

“Does it hurt here? do you need me to help you ease the pain?” Jay looks at y/n face from between her legs, y/n just wishing she could take a picture and keep this moment forever. Jay puts in one finger, realising how wet and ready she is for him. After getting three fingers in and many complaints from y/n to just fuck her already, Jay goes to his backpack and pulls out a condom. 

“Okay baby, I’m going in. You okay with it?” Even after almost supplicating him to fuck her he still makes sure she really wants to, which y/n feels a fire in her belly, he's 10x times hotter now than she already thought. 

“Yes Jay, I want you to fuck me like none has ever done it to me before” And with a kiss they both seal this promise, Jay going full in and bottoming out. He waits a few seconds so y/n can get used to the size, getting a few strands of hair out of her face, feeling too intimate while doing missionary position.

Jay starts moving slowly, y/n already asking for more and more, Jay feeling how her walls keep on getting tighter and tighter. He’s worried to get into it, cumming way too soon. His view is criminal, her hair all over the bed, her rosy cheeks and open mouth, her tits bouncing with each thrust… Jay needs to make her come before him so he starts doing circles on her clit, getting whimpers in response. Y/n is almost done, too tired to keep on going for this round. 

“Jay… Jay, I’m coming… stop it’s too much, I’m coming hard, ARHHHG!!!” y/n is laying on the bed, with blurry vision and an aching body. Jay finishes right after her, taking the condom off and painting her belly with his seed, satisfied with his job. 

y/n lays there for half an hour, Jay has let her chill on his hotel bed. She’s asleep as he cleans her up from the mess he made and waits for her to wake up to get her a bath ready. By the time she’s up again, Jay is cuddling with her and kissing her forehead, like she was his girlfriend and not some groupie. 

“Did you have fun? I think you kept your promise” Jay smiles as he remembers what the letter said. 

“What did I promise?” y/n is quite disoriented from the kick nap she just took

“You said something like… you were going to fuck me so dumb that … I wouldn’t even know the days of the week or something along those lines hahaha” y/n hides under the blankets as Jay pets her head. 

“To be honest… I wrote that when I was drunk… and horny… like I had just seen a fancam of you and you looked soo good… I got sad I didn’t stand a chance with you. But I guess I did” y/n looks up at him and he’s smiling at her, so cute she just had to kiss him. 

“So you were horny and you wrote that letter?”

“And took those polaroids, thinking of what your reaction could be to them. I guess I know now” 

“And did you think of me while you were touching yourself with that toy?” Jay wonders, already knowing the answer. 

“I don’t think I have ever touched myself without thinking of you Jay, I thought about you 24/7”

“That sounds good… now you just don’t have to think of me, now you can call me” Jay smirks and y/n understands perfectly, this will happen over and over again…

[justmeinadaze]

Secret Underneath (Steddie X Plus Size You)

"She's got a secret underneath (she's got a secret underneath) Yeah, she's his naughty little freak (yeah, she's his naughty, little freak) She likes to put on a show (she likes to put on a show) She likes when he takes control (she likes when he takes control)"

A/N: This came from utter annoyance at men online and just desperately trying to find a confident man who cares.

ENJOY!

Warnings: Sugar Daddies Steve and Eddie/ Baby Fem Plus Size Reader, SMUT, daddy kink (cause im me), blindfold, toys, voyeurism (I guess. They watch her pleasure herself on cam), dirty talk. Sub/dom dynamics, oh um age difference even though its not mentioned (guys are about mid to late 30s and Reader is in her mid to late 20s)

ANGST, Reader is assaulted by an ex (mentioned but not expanded on) boys comfort her, mentions of her wanting to be held and tired of feeling lonely, guys online try to flirt in the beginning but she shuts them down. I think that's it. Cliffhanger ending because again...Im me.

Word Count: 5555 (ooooo :P)

“I can take care of a young little thing like you. You’re perfect”

“If I’m perfect why do I need someone to take care of me?”

“Do you want to help Daddy finish, baby? My big hard cock needs some help.”

“Oof a real Daddy doesn’t need to announce how big his cock is. Try again, little boy.”

“I bet a little girl like you needs to be put in her fucking place, you stupid fucking slut. Now get naked and send me nudes or else.”

You role your eyes as you promptly block the person who sent you the message. When you signed up for this sugar baby website you were hopeful to find someone who wasn’t like the “men” you had talked to on regular dating apps. You wanted someone who knew what they were doing, confident, and could handle your sass without running. 

You had met a few who could live up to the title but none you wanted to keep around long term. 

Sliding your mouse through the images, you found a profile that intrigued you. The image attached wasn’t of one man but two and it didn’t show their faces. It wasn’t odd for the Babies to want anonymity like yourself but your profile picture at least showed all of you in your curvy glory with a mask blocking your eyes and lingerie blocking everything else. Daddies always felt the need to show off so usually their profile images accentuated their faces and/or their money.

These two, with an account named Mogul/Rockstar, were only photographed from the neck down and it was definitely a picture they took, not some professional or anything like that. The man on the left had a black, well fitted suit with his admittedly gorgeous hands holding a glass of whiskey. The man on the right was a bit less put together with torn jeans and a blue jean vest over his bare chest just barely blocking the tattoos that peaked out. You assume he must have long hair because the ends of wavy locks rested on his shoulders.

When most men reached out to you it was with some silly pick-up line or innuendo. This profile, however, simply sent you one word; “Hello.”

(8:45pm) “Hey there. Not much for words?”

(8:47pm) “We imagine you’ve heard them all. : ). “

(8:48pm) “Are you really two people? Or do you just have an extra ego?”

(8:48pm) “Oh or let me guess! Your dick is so big it counts as another person.

(8:50pm) “I mean my friend IS a big dick but lol”

(8:51pm) “Yeah, honey, it’s really two people. We like to be clear about that. Any Baby that becomes ours would be just that; ours. 

(8:53pm) “We’ve learned pretty quickly not many women feel comfortable with two Daddies which is absolutely fine and why we are up front.”

(8:54pm) “How up front are you being really when you don’t show your face?”

(8:55pm) “Hm. Not a yes girl. I like that. It’s good to ask questions. 

(8:57pm) “We do that for a couple of reasons. One being we are well known faces so we don’t want a Baby to choose us solely on that.”

(8:57pm) “Because you don’t want to be embarrassed?”

(9:00pm) “Asking questions is good. Interrupting isn’t. Don’t do it again.”

(9:01pm) “Or what?”

…

(9:08pm) “Or what, huh?”

(9:15pm) “Fuck you! Ignoring isn’t very Daddy like!”

(9:16pm) “Oh? Did little baby get her feelings hurt? We don’t ignore as punishments but you aren’t ours yet, sweetheart. If you don’t want to follow any rules that’s fine. We can just continue looking and you can be a brat with someone else.”

(9:18pm) “I’m sorry.”

(9:19pm) “What’s the other reason?”

(9:22pm) “Actually, that’s the biggest reason. Our fame gets in the way of a lot of things if you can believe it. Expectations are ruined and certain ideals are put in place.”

(9:23pm) “My reputation as a rockstar makes some ladies think I can’t be soft and I definitely can. Our image isn’t solely who we are.”

(9:25pm) “I can understand that. Being a bigger girl people think I’m either desperate or my weight becomes a fetish to them. Which, I mean, fetishes are fine but men make me feel like…it’s the ONLY reason they are sexually attracted to me.”

(9:26pm) “And not because of your personality. Yeah…”

(9:28pm) “Is that why you’re a bit of a brat? Lol need to weed out the idiots?”

(9:30pm) “Something like that. Lol.”

(9:32pm) “Baby, I think my friend and I are in agreement that we’d like to try this out if you’re willing. You don’t have to see us or do anything you don’t want. Per the anonymity that was mentioned, we aren’t going to give our names so you don’t have too either. We also won’t be showing our faces so, again, you don’t have to.”

(9:33pm) “More than anything, we just want someone to look out for and talk to. Maybe make you feel good from time to time if you let us.”

(9:35pm) “Ok, Daddy.”

(9:36pm) “Good. Good girl. : ). We can talk on here until the three of us get more comfortable and then we can give you our numbers so you can talk to us there or individually. As you can imagine, rockstar travels a lot and so do I for deals so we aren’t always together 24/7.”

(9:40pm) “Are you both friends or partners?”

(9:42pm) “Friends for sure.”

(9:43pm) “Ok, baby girl, we’ll let you go but we’ll talk to you tomorrow. Get some sleep.”

(9:45pm) “Good night, Daddy.”

(9:46pm) “*Daddies”

(9:48pm) “Good night, honey.”

(9:48pm) “Sweet dreams, princess.”

As you laid in bed that night, you couldn’t help but wonder who they could be. You did some quick googling of businessmen who were friends with rockstars but that was stupid because that was a very common friendship found within industries. Rolling over, you plugged in your phone to charge it, pausing when you heard it ding.

Mogul/Rockstar deposited $300 into your account!!

Wow. No man had ever sent you that much just for an introductory conversation. Maybe because it was two of them they felt the need? As you drifted off to sleep, you found yourself getting more and more curious about them, dreaming of possibilities that may come to be.

############

That first month went by a lot smoother than you expected it to when it came to this account. They were incredibly kind and genuinely seemed to care about your day and what you were up to. Any time you voiced any kind of concern, they listened and did what they could. For example, you wished you could tell who was responding when since at the moment they replied as one. A few minutes later Rockstar changed his text to be red so you knew you were talking to him. 

When it came to finances, they were more than generous, giving you a set amount of $500 at the end of each day. They never once asked for anything sexual or made innuendos about their bodies or yours. 

As the second month began however you found yourself getting antsy.

(6:42pm) “May I ask a question?”

(6:43pm) “Yeah, of course, anything, honey.”

(6:45pm) “Can we do something…I mean can you help me…”

(6:46pm) “We can help with anything, princess. You just have to ask like a big girl.”

(6:47pm) “Can you…help me cum…”

(6:47pm) “Please, Daddy.”

(6:48pm) “We can do that for you, pretty girl. If you want. You remember the rules?”

(6:48pm) “Yes, Daddy.”

(6:49pm) “You don’t even have to turn on your camera or mic or anything. You can just…watch me.”

(6:50pm) “We never do anything we don’t want to do.”

(6:51pm) “But we would love to watch you cum. Do you have toys or were you just going to use your fingers?”

(6:53pm) “I have toys, Daddy.”

(6:54pm) “I actually just got this rabbit vibrator but I have no idea how to use it.”

(6:57pm) Mogul/ Rockstar has invited you for a video chat.

Biting your bottom lip, you grab your mask and pull it over your eyes, checking your appearance in the camera box before clicking their link. The camera box was still just their image from the site which you expected but was pleasantly surprised when a husky voice flowed through your speakers. 

“Hey, honey. You don’t have to turn your mic on if you don’t want to. We just thought it would be fair since you’re about to vulnerable with us.”

You smiled as you turned on your microphone. 

“Is it vulnerable? It’s just…masturbating right?”

“I mean, are you playing with yourself on the internet for just anyone?”

The second voice that followed through sounded extremely familiar as if you heard it somewhere before. It was incredibly sexy none the less. 

“No.”

“Then I would say you’re being vulnerable, babe. Jesus, you are really beautiful by the way.”

“Thank you, Daddy.”, you beam.

“Can we ask why shorts and an oversized shirt? Most women wear the lingerie or a bra and panties.”

“Or are totally naked.”

“I just want to be comfortable. I’m not roaming around my house in a bra and panties.”, you giggle. “I take those off as soon as I get home from work.”

“Very fair. We’ve never asked what you do. Do you feel comfortable telling us?”

“I’m a teacher. Another reason for said anonymity.”

“Again fair.”

“Um, may I ask, whose voice is whose?”

“Yeah, pretty girl. I’m the Mogul.”

“I’m the rockstar.”

Smiling, you nod but you find yourself completely unsure of how to proceed. Usually, you could play innocent and do what you needed in the bedroom but something about these men were making you…

“Honey, are we making you a little nervous?”, Mogul asked in a sweet tone. 

“Yeah a little bit. I’m sorry.”

“No reason to be sorry, sweetheart. Can you do your Daddies a favor and show us the toy you got?”

Like a little kid in a store, your smile grew as you opened the box by your feet and produced the pink vibrator, displaying it for them to see.

“Is that your favorite kind of toy?”

“Usually men are but—” You quickly covered your mouth with your palm not meaning to let your sass slip out like that. Again, you were surprised when you heard both men laugh.

“I like that sassy attitude.”

“The confidence to.”, Mogul adds. “Don’t cover up that personality for us, baby girl. We’re big boys. We can handle it.”

“Most men can’t.”

“Most men aren’t us.”

“That’s for damn sure.”, you smirk as your thighs rub together. 

“Why don’t you take off those short for us, sweetheart?”, Rockstar suggests as you nod, rising from your chair to bring them down and toss them aside. “Good girl. Can you open your legs for us so we can see that pretty pussy?”

Licking your lips, you close your eyes as your open your legs giving them a good view. 

“Open your eyes, baby girl, and don’t move them from the camera.”, Mogul commands in a firm tone. “Jesus, man. I bet she tastes really fucking sweet.”

“And is really fucking tight. That toy is going to stretch you out I bet.”

You moan at their words as you tease your slit with the end of the vibrator.

“I wish you both were here to help me.”, you whine as you palm slides under your shirt to massage your breast. 

“Go ahead, honey. Push it into your cunt and tell us how it feels.”

Mewling, you easily guide it inside of you, the subtle vibration against your clit driving you crazy.

“Fuck, it feels so good, Daddy.”

“Yeah, princess? Fuck, I’ve never wanted to eat a pussy so bad in my life. Look at her. I just want her to ride my face till she cums over and over.”

“Fuck…yes.”

“You’d like that, baby? Make a mess all over Rockstar’s face.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Such a dirty little girl. Can you say it for us?”

“I’m…I’m a dirty girl. Fuck, Daddy, it feels so good inside of me.”

“Fuck, baby girl. You’re so fucking sexy. Make yourself cum.”

“Can I, Daddy? Please. I’m so close.”

“Yeah, sweetheart. You have our permission.”

Your body shook as you came, your hips grinding against the toy as you elongated your high. 

“Good girl, honey. Very good. Come back to us.”

“Th-thank you. Thank you.”, you grin as you bite your lip. “Wait, did you guys cum? I wanna hear it.”

“This was about you, babe. We didn’t touch ourselves.”

“Doesn’t change the fact that we’re really fucking hard though after that display.”, Rockstar laughed.

“Are you serious? You guys didn’t…at all. Most men do.”

The image in their camera box suddenly changes and their laps from the waist down come into your view. Both men were wearing shorts and you could vaguely see their bulges poking through. Their hands were gorgeous, one littered with rings that you assumed belonged to the rockstar. 

“Again…we aren’t most men.”

“Don’t make us have to remind you again.”

Nodding, you softly apologize as you lean back in your chair.

“What’s wrong, baby? Are you pouting?”, Mogul asks in a tone that makes you smile. 

“Not really. I just…I wish you could hold me.”

“Yeah…yeah, princess, we wish we could to.”

“Will you ever trust me enough to show me your faces?”

You listen as they heavily sigh.

“Maybe. Let’s just take this one step at a time, ok?”

After your good nights and lying in bed alone, you don’t know why but you begin to cry. You had been alone for so long, broken hearted from the bullshit your ex put you through. You loved what the site offered but you wondered if that momentary high would be enough to sustain you. You just wanted someone who would hold you and tell you everything was alright. Someone who would take care of you and make you feel safe so you didn’t have to worry anymore about…everything. 

As your phone dinged, you glanced at the notification that illuminated your screen. 

Mogul/Rockstar deposited $2000 into your account!!

Hardening your heart, you reminded yourself that you were strong, squeezing your eyes tightly shut as you forced yourself to sleep. 

##############

(6:15pm) “Hey beautiful. What are your plans tonight? Rockstar and I were thinking maybe the three of us could have a camera date and just talk. Nothing sexual.”

(6:17pm) “You don’t have to of course.”

(6:20pm) “Sweetheart, you know how we feel about you not answering.”

(6:25pm) “Shit, you guys. I’m so sorry. I was charging my phone while I was getting ready! I actually have plans tonight.”

(6:27pm) “Ooo that sounds like fun. Spending some time with friends?”

(6:29pm) “Not exactly lol My ex actually invited me to dinner so we could talk about some things.”

(6:30pm) “You’re going on a date?”

(6:32pm) “Um, I guess you can call it that.”

(6:32pm) “Is that a problem?”

(6:33pm) “We made it clear that if you agreed to be our Baby you would be ours.”

(6:34pm) “Virtually, yes, but the information and rules you gave me didn’t say I couldn’t go out on a date. 

(6:35pm) “What. Did you think I was just going to be ok with not knowing who you two were and never having you two fuck me or hold me. 

(6:35pm) “To not go on actual dates and feel wanted.

(6:36pm) “Needed.”

(6:38pm) “Didn’t realize you needed everything spelled out for you. Relationships take time. Like you we imagine, we’ve been burned before. We don’t want another whore who’s only dating us for our money or status. We deal with fake people enough!”

(6:39pm) “We like talking to you and you’re so beautiful. We WANT to see where this goes but if you’re in that much of a rush maybe this was a bad idea.”

This Baby is currently offline. You may leave messages for her and she will get this when she logs back in!!

***

(9:32pm) CurvyBabyWAttitude has invited you for a video chat!!

(9:34pm) Mogul/Rockstar declined your invitation for a video chat.

(9: 35pm) “Please…I need you…”

(9:38pm) “Now you need us? After your date I’m thinking didn’t go well since it’s 9:30.”

(9:39pm) “Try again, little girl. We aren’t the kind of men you use whenever you feel like.”

(9:41pm) “We have feelings to.”

(9:45pm) “What? No sassy come back? Nothing sarcastic you want to say?”

(9:50pm) Mogul/Rockstar has invited you for a video chat!!

“Jesus Christ. What happened, baby?!”

When you illuminated their screen, you were a complete mess. Your hair was frayed every which way and even under the mask covering your eyes they could tell your make up was smeared from tears. Your black dress that you had worn was torn at the sleeve, hanging down as you held it together with your hand. 

“Did that fucker hurt you?”, Rockstar growled. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know who to call. I’m so sorry, Daddy. I should have stayed here with you. I’m just so tired of feeling lonely. As soon as that fucker showed me even a little bit of attention I just…”

You listened as they mumbled to each other, unable to make out what they were saying as you dried your tears with your fist. 

“We’re in New York right now. Are you close to that state?”

“Y-Yes?”

“Do you trust us? Say it.”, Mogul replies sternly when you nod.

“Yes, I trust you.”

“There’s a hotel outside of the city. I’ll message you the address and room number. You follow the instructions we give you to the letter. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

***

“Hi, um, I’m checking into a room…under, um, Baby Girl.”

You cringe as you relay the information but all the young lady does behind the hotel counter is beam over at you as she types on her computer. 

“Ah and here’s your key. Do you need an escort or anything?”

“Oh, uh, no, ma’am, thank you.”

“No problem! The gentleman said he would be right there.”

You glanced around you nervously as you rode the glass elevator up to the floor your room was at. You appreciated that they didn’t make you go to some run-down Bates Motel but you were still a bit on edge. 

Heading for the door, you paused taking a deep breath before putting in the key and slowly entering the room. It was a modest little room but lived up to its five-star rating just on looks alone. Shifting your gaze, you realized quickly you were alone but noticed a note with the words “Baby Girl” on the mattress. 

Lifting it up, you found a black silk eye mask one would use for sleeping folded underneath. 

“Please place this mask over your eyes and we will be right in. 

We know it took a lot of trust for you to drive out here so we’re trying to meet you halfway.”

Taking a seat, you sighed as you tried to put the thing over your head, struggling a bit as a bruise had begun to form where your ex tugged at your dress. 

The sound of the door clicking and swinging slowly open caught your attention as you froze in place. 

“Um, f-full disclosure, my eyes are closed as well. I couldn’t get this thing further down and I could see under the—” You point at the bottom of the mask as the door closed. 

Cologne filled your nostrils as footsteps walked closer to you. 

“Is it ok if I touch you so I can fix it?”

Your head tilted to the side at the sultry, smooth voice just above you.

“Yeah…who-who is this?”

“I’m the mogul in our name. Rockstar is on his way.”

“Were you two not together?”

You feel the atmosphere shift as he kneels in front of you and his fingers gently hold your head as he adjusts the mask to be more comfortable.

“We were but he wanted to stop and grab some things in the lobby. How does that feel?”

“Better, thank you.”

He withdrawals his hands but he doesn’t move as you feel his eyes scanning you over. Braving crossing a boundary, your hands carefully reach out and find his cheeks. Taking a hold of your wrists, Mogul helps guide your movement over his fluffy hair making you smile at how soft it is. When your thumb finds his lips, he exhales heavily and his warm breath has your pussy clenching around nothing. 

Abruptly, the door beeps and opens again as the smell of cigarettes fills the room.

“Do you know how hard it is to find ice in this goddamn palace!?”

Your head tilts again as you try to follow the new voice as he moves about the room. 

“And that would be the rockstar.”, the man in front of you assures as he pats your thigh and sits beside you. As he goes to release your hand, you immediately reach for him again, afraid of being in the dark now that they were here.

“Next building you buy should be a fucking hotel so you can put things where us humans can find them.”

You hear what sounds like someone being lightly hit as everything becomes silent again. 

“Hey, sweetheart. Sorry. My mouth tends to move before my brain does.”, he replies in your direction at a bit of a calmer register as he bounces on to the bed beside you. “God, asshole got you good, huh? Ok, this is going to be cold.”

You yelp and wince when something freezing lands on your arm. 

“I searched for like an actual icepack but I guess the 5 stars don’t include first aid.”

“Ok! I get it. You’re not used to fancy places, dude. Jesus.”

Rockstar laughs through his teeth making you smile again as your free hand reaches towards where you assume he is. Your fingers touch hair first and your eyebrows scrunch together as you realize you found the ends just above his shoulder. 

“Yeah, I, uh, wouldn’t run my fingers through that. It’s all tangled. You may get stuck and have to stay with us forever.”, he chuckles before it trails off. 

You can feel them both watching you as your palm finds his cheek and like with his friend your thumb moves along his bottom lip. They were a bit more chapped but based on the smell you assumed that was due to the cigarettes. As your hand began to travel down his neck, you paused and pulled away not wanted to make either man uncomfortable. 

“I’m sorry.”, you mumble.

“What are you sorry for, honey?”

“I don’t mean to be…that much of a brat, you know. I like talking to you both to and I want to see where this goes but…I guess I’m like him sometimes.” You pause as you gesture towards the rockstar. “My mouth moves before my brain. I’ll understand if you don’t want to be my Daddies anymore.”

Both men were silent for what felt like an eternity before the ice was removed from your skin and replaced by lips. A pleasant sigh escaped you as he tenderly kissed your bruises.

“Why did you ex hurt you?”, Mogul asked.

“Because he’s a fucker.”

“Yeah, we gathered that.”, Rockstar teased as he leaned away from you but intertwined your fingers with his. 

“He, uh, took me on a date to this tacky little restaurant that I told him a million times I hate and then on the drive home he insinuated because he took me out I’d want to…you know.”, you exhale as your head hangs. “I’m just so tired of being lonely. I just want someone to take care of me. ME. Not the supposed ‘whore who needs to be put in her place’ or ‘the desperate big girl’. I’m strong and I can take care of myself. I’m just…tired.”

Fingers tenderly moved your hair behind on of your ears. 

“God, I love your attitude.”

“It’s not uncommon for us to constantly run into ‘yes’ people. It’s one of the problems we have with Babies. Always ‘Yes, Daddy.’ Or ‘Of course, Daddy.’ Sometimes we can’t tell if it’s them being genuine or pandering to us to get what they want. Which…I guess is fine but…”

“Not what we’re looking for.”

Your hands search for Mogul’s face and he grins as he leans in allowing you to touch him. When your lips find his, however, he hastily pulls back and rises to his feet. 

“Hey, no, honey. You don’t have to do that. That’s not why we came down here.”

You feel yourself start to panic, losing your bearings since you can’t see. You had gotten used to them both being next to you and when he stood up you suddenly felt lost. 

“I’m right here, princess. You’re ok. Everything’s ok.”, Rockstar murmurs in your ear as he squeezes your thigh.

“You don’t want to fuck me?”, you ask to the void, unsure of exactly where the other man may be. 

A deep, guttural groan echoes in front of you as you turn your head towards it.

“I’ve never wanted something or someone so bad in my life, baby, but… that’s not why we came here.”

“He doesn’t want you to feel used. Your ex tried to do that and he doesn’t want you to feel like we’re the same.”

“I don’t. I don’t feel that way at all, Daddy.” Your voice had dropped into that little girl tone as you fully allowed yourself to be vulnerable for them. “Please…”

Lips connected to yours again but the taste was different. The nicotine that lingered on his tongue mixed with the slight taste of mint toothpaste set your body on fire as it fully came to life and you wrapped your arms around the man’s neck as he gently tilted you onto your back.

The bed dipped on your other side and you disconnected from one set of lips to another. You became lost in his kisses as his tongue danced with yours and their hands roamed your skin. 

“We’re going to be gentle tonight, baby girl. Let us take care of you.”

You allowed them to undress you and waited patiently as they removed their own clothes. Lying on either side of you, they each lifted one of your legs over their hips as their lips and tongues sucked on your neck.

Rockstar’s fingers glided through your folds and you groaned loudly as he massaged circles into your clit. While running your hand through his hair, Mogul licked and sucked on one of your nipples making your hips buck as you searched for more friction. 

“Please.”

“What do you want, sweetheart? You want my fingers?”

“Yes, Daddy, please.”

His nose presses against your cheek, his mouth opening in a silent moan as he effortlessly guides two of his digits inside of your core. 

“Fuck. I was right. You are tight. Jesus, sweetheart, our cocks are going to stretch you open, baby.”

“Can…Can I have you both?”

“Can you handle that?”, Mogul asked with a slight whine of want. 

“Yeah, Daddy. I can, I promise.”

“Baby girl, I don’t think you understand what you’re asking for.”, he chuckles and you listen as he sucks on what you assume is his fingers. “You may think we’re cocky but trust us we’ve earned the right to be.”

You suck in a breath as you twist your hips and feel two long thick fingers pushed into your ass as both men thrust their digits into you. 

“Oh…my…”

“Can a little girl like you handle your Daddy’s big cocks inside of you at the same time?”

Your hands cling to the man in front of you as you passionately kiss him, his tongue catching your moans as you tremble and trench his fingers as you cum. 

“Y-Yes, I can…I can handle it.”

They abruptly sit up and manhandle you around the bed, Mogul’s arms holding you tightly as he places himself on the edge of the mattress with his legs hanging off the side. Just as you had, his palm comes up to caress your face as his thumb traces your lips. 

“You’re so beautiful, baby.” You softly smile at the sincerity in his voice while he circles your arms around his neck. “Just hang on to Daddy, ok? We got you.”

His hair tickles your nose as he tilts his head and grips his cock between your bodies. 

“Shit, um, I almost forgot. Is it ok…I don’t think we have condoms.”

“It’s ok. I’m protected and I’m clean. You can cum inside me…if you want to…”

“Fuck, sweetheart, you’re going to kill us. Ok, go ahead and baby let me know when you’re ready for me.”

“Yes, sir.”

You feel his mushroom tip tease your entrance making you both moan. 

“Take your time, honey. I got you.”

As you slowly descend onto him, he sucks in a breath as your fingers thread through his hair. 

“So big. Fuck, Daddy.”

“How does she feel, man?”

“Mmpf, tight. That’s it. You’re almost there.”

When you’re fully seated on top of him, his forehead leans to rest on yours as his humid breath fans your face. The action causes you to clench around him and he grunts in pleasure.

“Hang on to me.”, he whispers as he tips back onto his hands tilting you with him. 

Rockstar spits in his palm behind you and you mewl as he rubs it between your cheeks.

“Are you ready, princess?”

“Yes, Daddy, I’m ready.”

Holding your ass open, he gradually slides into you.

“Oh fuck. I wasn’t expecting… goddamn baby girl.”

Ringed fingers take hold of your bicep as both men thrust into you at the same time hitting every spot inside of you that has you melting into them. 

“Oh my God. Yes!”

“Yeah, baby? Fuck, dude. I don’t know how—mmm—how long I’m gonna last. Her ass feels so good.” A hand slaps your behind making you moan as another strong palm grips the back of your thigh guiding your movements as you bounce back into theirs. 

Lips in front of you open mouth kiss your chest up to your neck as you push them closer to your skin. 

“Please. Fuck, Daddy! M’gonna cum.”

Slamming their hips up to meet yours, your body quivers as the coil snaps.

“Atta girl, honey! Making a mess all over our cocks and coming hard like that. So fucking sexy.”

Clinging to them tightly, you allowed them to use you to chase their highs. The man behind you warms your insides first, grunting as his rhythm falters. The man in front of you soon follows thrusting his spend deep inside of you.

“We’re going to pull out, sweetheart, ok?”

“Ok, Daddy.”

After carefully removing themselves, you feel yourself being lifted into the air and spun around before being placed on soft pillows. A wet rag cleans you and you pleasantly sigh as you curl under the covers that were placed over your body. 

“Are you both going to stay?”

Cool metal touches your skin as a hand pets your head. 

“Do you want us to?”

“I promise I won’t look.”

Warmth encases you as they lay on either side, murmuring praises as you steadily fall asleep. 

#################

When you woke up the next morning you were alone, finding a note on the nightstand that said they thought it best to leave before you woke up but that the room was yours for as long as you need and to message them when you made it home. 

You did what they requested but decided to utilize the rest of your Sunday for yourself thinking about everything that happened. You heard your phone pinging but you didn’t want to talk to anyone wishing you could call in that following Monday. Unfortunately, you made a promise to a friend, you couldn’t break. 

“Y/N, honey, are you alright?”, your colleague asks as she lightly elbows your side. 

“I’m fine. Just an interesting weekend.”

“Alright, guys so this where all the important decisions are made.”, the building tour guide obnoxiously smiled as she guided the class around the office space. “Let’s see if the boss is available.”

“Well thank you for chaperoning with me. When Mrs. Ludwig cancelled I thought I would have to reschedule.”

“No problem. I know nothing about business and economics but…”, you giggle. 

“Holy shit!”

“Mark!”, your friend shouts. “Watch your mouth! Jesus!”

“Mrs. Raymond, it’s Eddie Munson. The guitarist from Corroded Coffin!”

Turning your head in that direction, you realize two men are staring your way, one of them indeed the famous rockstar. 

Rockstar…

Blinking you tilt your head as you notice the rings on his fingers.

That voice. I knew that voice.

“It’s not uncommon for us to see Mr. Munson around here. Him and Mr. Harrington have been friends for a long time. Right, sir?”, the tour guide asks.

“Steve Harrington? The business mogul?”

Mogul…

“See, Y/N. You know some things about the business world.”, your friend grins. 

As the world around you seems to slow down to a halt, you three continue to stare at each other as you figure out where to go from here.

[osmanthusoolong]

Because I see posts about this going around often, and I don’t want to argue about it on any given post:

Personal cameras for amateur photographers have been common since the turn of the 20th century. The Brownie camera was released in 1900 and marketed to children, amateur photography, whether developed at a photo lab, or at home, was very common. I’ve got a pretty pink art deco camera from 1930, and its existence really highlights that by then, cheap novelty cameras (pretty cameras for the girls !) were common because of market saturation.

While some areas (urban, industrialized) had more cameras than others, it’s kind of ridiculous to act like nobody outside of the wealthy had them, or took mundane pictures or silly ones or nudes and lewds within the 20th century. (Note: if you were taking something risque, you’d have to develop it yourself or know a lab that was cool with some things, but still.)

It is important to understand the presence of technology in history, not least because of the really asinine conspiracy theories about how black and white film is a psyop to convince people that the civil rights movement/HIV history was further in the past than it was (you can still get b&w film, btw), or that it would be really rare and special for someone to photograph a pet in the midcentury, on a less harmful level.

Also, because it sure is Pride month, I’m gonna recommend the book I’ve been reading, Len and Cub: A Queer History by Meredith Batt and Dusty Green, which is about the discovery of a trove of photos from the first half of the 20th century of life, including gay life, in a supremely rural Canadian village, taken by a young man who got a camera in 1905.

[princessdimondheart]

Sea of Cortéz | Price x Daughter! Reader | Ch.1

Pairing: Price + Daughter! Reader, Reader x OC, TF-141 x Platonic! Reader

Warnings: 🔪- death, bodies

Edited: No

A/N: I had this idea pop up while watching NCIS!!! So there might be some references or even a little crossover if I make more parts…Should I make more parts?? If so I have notes on what should happen next.

Masterlist 

Ch. 1 [Here] | Ch. 2

Character banner ©️ Me

1.

Gaz huffed as he grappled over a rocky outcrop. He was glad he remembered to put on his gloves for this mission. He had previously forgotten to pack his gloves for other missions and ended up with scuffs and scratches. A hand appeared in his line of sight. He reached up to grab hold of his Captain’s open hand. The older man grunted as he helped pull the younger man over. The rest of the Task Force had just made it up as well. 

They were on a reconnaissance mission to find different routes to an AQ compound. They also had to make note of their patrols, numbers, and any movement to and from. The known compound was hidden in a steep valley within a mountain range in the United Republic of Adal. If Gaz recalled correctly, Al Mazrah was just over 50 kilometers away from their current location. 

The Captain was making conversation about his grown daughter that Gaz had learned about at the beginning of the Task Force. The team was in the Captain’s office when Johnny was the first to notice a framed photo of a rather pretty lady, thinking it was his girlfriend or something. A scowling Price said that she was his daughter and that she looked more like her mother than him. That he had her at a very young age and her mother was never in the picture almost immediately after her birth. Now his Captain was trying to set him up with her. His face burned at the thought of dating his Captain’s own blood. He was feeling kinda proud that he would be considered worthy enough for Price’s daughter. Johnny was snickering at him with a grin so wide Gaz wanted to smack it right off his face. He scowled at the Scot. 

Ghost was on point with Soap just behind him. He and the Captain were in the back watching their six. They had made it down the other side of the rocky hill they climbed up to and we’re now making their way through a dry creek bed. The bed was dry with cracks splitting the top layers of dirt. The dry flecks crunched under their boots. 

Ghost rounded a bend and paused. “Fuckin’ hell. Hold.” He raised his clenched fist. 

Captain Price moved closer to Ghost. “What is it?”

“A bloody massacre…” His words and the lilt in his voice made Gaz’s blood run cold. 

~~~~~

There was carnage left behind from this most obvious ambush. The two vehicles were blasted to bits, likely from an IED or smaller explosives. The Marines here put up a good fight. Dozens of empty round casings littered the sandy ground. Although some died in the blast before they could make a defense. 

Four bodies were laid about around the vehicles. Based on their position they were fighting on two sides. Soap and Ghost began checking the bodies for any inkling as to why these Marines were here. They never received intel about another team being out in this region of Adal. 

Gaz and Price covered them, searching along the bluffs nearby and further upstream. He stood by Soap who’d crouched to grab something from the Marine’s pocket. 

“Oh, fuck!” Soap exclaimed. Gaz looked at him confused. Johnny help up the… photo… of a person I’m rather revealing clothing. Or lack of clothing. Why did her face look so familiar?

Then it clicked! That was Price’s daughter. She was much older in her semi-nude photograph but it was the same girl from the photo on Price’s desk. 

“I don’t think I’ll be getting that date with your daughter.” Gaz let out an awkward chuckle. He was definitely not going on a date when they went back. 

Price was confused by his words. He walked closer to the pair. “What do you mean, Kyle?” 

Soap makes sure her privacy was covered and shows it to Price. His frown was almost instant. 

“Is that… that.. a um,” he swallowed hard and shook his head. “A nude photo of my baby girl?” 

Ghost came closer. “Hmm… seems so…”

The Captain’s body was stiff and then he turned his head down to the man that was in possession of such a photo of his not so little girl. His brow in a heavy glare. “Who the bloody hell is this bloke to have a fuckin’ nude photo of my-!” He gave the Marine a rather disrespectful kick to his side. 

“Woah! Captain!” In the heat of the moment, trying to pull Price back before he did anything else he would regret, Gaz almost missed the soft groan that came from the body. 

“Oh meh god, he’s fuckin’ alive!” Johnny heard it too and yelled, falling to his knees to check the Marine’s pulse. “…It’s faint but there. He must of passed out from blood loss or pain.” 

Gaz looked at his shocked yet still confused Captain. “We need to call for a medevac.”

“Soap and I will stay and complete the mission as fast as possible.” Ghost slapped his large gloved hand on Price’s shoulder. “We’ll wrap the rest up before the helo comes and when you get back, you can handle whatever the ’ell is goin’ on ’ere.”

Price shook off his hand but agreed with what Ghost said. He called over the radio and a helicopter was inbound in 30 minutes. Gaz and Soap did what they could to help the Marine out. Wrapping him in bandages where he was shot. A bullet hit him in the right shoulder and another two in the left leg. From what Gaz could discern, the two bullets just missed his bone but he wasn’t sure if any major arteries were nicked. He wasn’t certain but the convoy must have been ambushed within the last 24 to 48 hours since this guy was still alive. The rest of the Marines were placed in body bags that they all carried in their packs just in case a mission went south. 

Just in time, the helicopter arrived just down stream from the ambush site. Sand blew around them in large puffs of clouds. All the bodies, dead and alive, were loaded up. The medics on board were immediately on the Marine still alive, treating his wounds and placing and IV drip before the doctors back on base could look him over and perform surgery. 

Price yelled into the headset he wore the moment they got on the helo. “Who is this man?”

The medic pulled out a metal chain from the Marine’s shirt. His dog tag. “He appears to be a Gunnery Sergeant… Miguel Juan Cortéz. A-positive blood type-.“ Price waved him off. 

~~~~~

When they arrived on base, the medics took the lead and had the Gunny offloaded and halfway to the med-tents before Gaz and Price could even stand up. They both made it to the tents when the Gunny was rushed into emergency surgery. They sat outside the operating room on the old wooden benches. They creaked when they sat down. 

Several hours passed before they heard steps rushing towards them. They looked up to see Kate Laswell speedily making her way towards them. She stopped just a foot or so in front of them. 

“I heard down the grapevine that you brought back Miguel Juan Cortéz?” She rushed taking in only a short breath. 

“Yes, why?” The Captain was still upset but had time to cool off somewhat. 

“Good! Good, actually that’s perfect!” Laswell sighed in relief. Their raised brows in confusion alerted her to their lack of info. “He’s important, well, very very important to the people on The Hill right now.”

“Politicians?” Gaz cringed. Laswell looked back and forth between them.

“Kyle, John… Gunnery Sergeant Cortéz is two Senatorial votes and a Presidential signature away from being a Medal of Honor recipient.” The intensity of  Laswell’s eyes showed that she wasn’t messing around nor was it a lie. Both men straightened in their seats.

The Medal of Honor… an award so prestigious that it was rarely given to anyone. A soldier had to go above and beyond the call of duty at risk of their own life. An act of Valor. 

Just who was this Gunny Cortéz?

🔖 Taglist:

[artphotocollector]

"There were lots of things, touching, poignant, or queer I wanted to photograph." --Lee Miller

Lee Miller led an extraordinary life in her 70 years. While not as appreciated in the photography canon as she deserves to be, or as widely known for the pioneering contributions she made, with the publication of Lee Miller: Photographs from Thames & Hudson, along with a new film, Lee, starring Kate Winslet, her story is being freshly shared with a younger generation.

Lee Miller's story is told in these pages by her son Antony Penrose, who also compiled the more than 100 images that reveal Lee Miller's diverse interests from surrealism and solarization to fashion and portraiture to wartime photojournalism. For anyone who has not discovered Lee Miller's work, this new edition from Thames & Hudson is an ideal introduction.

What is not told, respectfully so, is the sexual trauma Lee Miller suffered as a young girl to the peculiar relationship with her father who often photographed her nude. And how these experiences impacted her. Lee Miller endured the best and the worst in people. As a photography correspondent in WWII, she also witnessed the unique horrors of Dachau and Buchenwald concentration camps. While there was much beauty in Lee Miller's life, there was also much unhappiness.

Yet, what a life! Lee Miller's legacy endures. Her passion for art, travel and adventure will always inspire. Lee Miller: Photographs, shows us why her work still matters. --Lane Nevares

[madonnalouise-ciccone]

Madonna poses before she was famous in New York! On February 12, 1979 photographer Martin H. M. Schreiber called an agency and they sent one of their young models for him to shoot for one of his lecture classes. Years later the model would become Madonna, the images are now to be shown in the UK for the first time at the Brighton Festival. She is often hailed as a trend setter and the undisputed queen of pop, but now a gallery in Brighton is set to show Madonna as you have never seen her before. Taken 30 years ago these black and white photographs show the unknown 20-year-old Material Girl in an intimate and sensual photo shoot. Looking remarkably like her daughter Lourdes, Madonna was a then young carefree model. Posing nude for just $30 for New York photographer Martin H. M. Schreiber in 1979, the original photographs, "The Madonna Nudes – 30th Anniversary Exhibition", were shown at Brighton's Impure Art Gallery for the first time in the UK during summer. "These photographs were taken during my photography lecture courses in New York," says 52-year-old Schreiber. "At the time she was signed to a model agency and they sent her to this job at my studio on 22nd street Manhattan."The shoot lasted a few hours and it was after that time that we got to know each other for a while." Martin H M. Schreiber developed his eye and technical abilities in the US military in the sixties, while working freelance for the New York Times. After his discharge in 1968 he attended the School of Visual Arts in New York but quit and went solo, winning honorable mention in the first Life Magazine photography contest. In 1977 he began teaching a course at Parsons on photographing the nude and his first book BODYSCAPES was published in 1980. In 1985, after Madonna had become a global icon, the shots appeared in Playboy, catapulting Schreiber to fame. Established in May 2008, Impure Art is the UK’s only permanent, commercial, erotic art gallery. It has fast acquired a reputation for showing daring and exciting work of extremely high quality. They represent over 100 local, national and international erotic artists. The Madonna Nudes – 30th Anniversary Exhibition ran from May 1 to 31 as part of Brighton Festival Fringe.

[whileiamdying]

Remembering Maria Schneider, the Star of “Last Tango in Paris”

Photograph by Jack Mitchell / Getty

In a new book, translated by Molly Ringwald, Maria’s cousin recalls the fame and turbulence that followed the release of Bernardo Bertolucci’s controversial film.

By Vanessa Schneider

April 13, 2023

Did you know, Maria, that you were almost not cast in “Last Tango in Paris”? You weren’t Bernardo Bertolucci’s first choice. Legend has it that he originally wanted to do a story between two men before quickly abandoning the idea. He was a hot director at the time. His film “The Conformist,” from 1970, which starred Jean-Louis Trintignant and Dominique Sanda, had been a great critical success. With “Tango,” he wanted to show the dark side of the sexual revolution, exploring sex and psychological violence between two people in a Parisian apartment: a run-down forty-five-year-old man named Paul, whose wife has just committed suicide, and a young woman named Jeanne.

In the beginning, the Italian director went to Paris, hoping to re-cast Trintignant and Sanda as Paul and Jeanne. Bertolucci recalled that Trintignant turned it down, saying, “In your film, they’re having sex all the time. Sorry, but I just can’t go nude.” Sanda was pregnant and declined the offer as well. Next, Bertolucci tried to meet with the two biggest actors in France, Jean-Paul Belmondo and Alain Delon. Never the type to waste time, Belmondo refused to even see him. “I don’t do porn films,” he said. Delon’s response was more ambiguous but classic Delon—he said neither yes nor no. Bertolucci’s casting process broke down. And then someone suggested Marlon Brando. The mythic actor of American cinema was older and heavier than he had been in his prime. A string of commercial flops had placed him in the category of Hollywood “has-beens” and he needed cash after having purchased a Polynesian island, which had turned into a money pit. He didn’t know it yet, but his comeback was just on the horizon, percolating in the desire of two young filmmakers—Francis Ford Coppola, who thought of him for the title role in “The Godfather,” in 1971, and Bertolucci for “Tango.”

The first meeting between Brando and Bertolucci took place at the Hôtel Raphael in Paris. Bertolucci described the project to the American actor as the story of a man and a woman who renounce their social identities and only communicate carnally, through their bodies. Brando told him that he wanted to first watch “The Conformist,” so Bertolucci set up a screening for him the same day. Afterward, Brando invited the director to his home in Los Angeles, to discuss the film in detail before the shoot in Paris. The actor agreed to play the role of Paul in exchange for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars and ten per cent of the film’s gross—a significant sum of money at the time.

The director first caught sight of you in a photograph with Dominique Sanda, who had become a friend of yours. His Parisian friends tried to talk him out of casting you. “Everyone said that she’s just a girl who spends all night dancing at Castel’s,” he recounted years later, referring to the Parisian night club. “No one saw in her what I saw, something wild behind the androgynous body with the enormous breasts.” At one point, before you started filming, he asked you to have breast surgery to “re-do” them. You refused. It was your sole act of rebellion. From then on, nothing would be asked, only demanded.

You hesitated to do the film at first, you later admitted, since you “didn’t totally understand the script,” though you did recognize that it was daring. Your agent swept away your reservations. “You can’t refuse a leading role opposite Marlon Brando!”

You’re nineteen years old, still a minor, about to embark on one of the most scandalous films of the nineteen-seventies. Your mother had to sign the contract on your behalf so that you could accept the role.

The first scenes you film are with Jean-Pierre Léaud, the favored actor of Truffaut and Godard, who plays your fiancé and an aspiring filmmaker. Bertolucci didn’t want to put you face to face with the icon right away, fearing you would be intimidated.

When you do meet Marlon Brando for the first time, it’s on the Pont de Passy, just as you’re about to shoot the film’s opening sequence, where your characters cross each other on the bridge. You find it funny that he’s wearing lifts in his shoes and think, Oh, he’s not as big as all that. There’s a childlike sweetness you perceive in him as he initiates small talk with you. He asks you what your zodiac sign is.

“Aries,” you tell him.

“Me, too,” he says. “Rising?”

“Libra.”

“We’ll get along just fine,” he says, “which is good, because I believe we have a few intimate scenes. . . .” He gives you a kiss on the cheek, as a father would give to his daughter.

Your first real scene with him takes place in the apartment. Any doubt about the nature of the film is immediately gone. For the sex scenes, or any scenes with nudity, Brando requests a closed set and Bertolucci complies, making the set off limits to anyone not directly involved with the film. Photographers and other onlookers wait on the sidewalk every day for the actors to appear. Some even rent apartments across the street, hoping to get a shot.

Gossip spreads throughout Paris that the Italian director is making something risqué and disturbing.

Brando imposes rules and conditions for everyone involved with the shoot. He does away with the usual hierarchies of film production. It’s out of the question for him that the crew should eat less well than the actors. During breaks, he offers drinks and sandwiches to everyone, paid for out of his own pocket. “He respected all people,” you later say. “No matter how big or small. . . . I’ll always remember him as generous, a man of integrity.”

Brando goes back to his hotel every day at 6 p.m. and refuses to work on the weekends. Bertolucci doesn’t object. For you, however, there is no such reprieve. You film take after take until midnight, and on Saturdays you film with Léaud. It’s more brutal than a marathon. By the end of the three-month shoot, you’re drained and exhausted and you’ve lost twenty-two pounds. The crew often finds you in tears. Some try to comfort you with a word or a look; others say nothing, pretending not to notice. She’s lucky, this little unknown, sharing the screen with the great Brando. . . . She doesn’t get to complain. Once you dare protest to the director: it’s too much filming, fourteen hours a day, every day. You later tell me that Bertolucci responded without even looking you in the eye. “You’re nothing. I discovered you. Go fuck yourself.”

The Italian director knows that he is making something volcanic—as captivating as it is incendiary. The crew members must have been sworn to secrecy. The pairing of you and Brando works well, and Bertolucci is jubilant. The girl is docile, he thinks, and the actor brings his wounds to the role with an intensity beyond the director’s wildest dreams. Brando gives him advice about camera placement and actors’ performances. Bertolucci is fascinated by the experience of this Hollywood giant. You observe their dynamic, intrigued, watching as Brando asserts his authority. At the last moment, you are brought in to shoot your scenes. Eventually, Bertolucci barely speaks to you, only to Brando.

The director is fixated on the cinematography. He wants the film to be orange, the color of the seventies—of hippies, of the California sun, of Indian spices. The first rushes are reassuring; they have the tint he’s looking for, but he’s not quite satisfied. In the apartment, with the shutters closed, it seems that he still feels there’s something missing—some climactic event that can push the film beyond what would be considered merely audacious.

One morning, Bertolucci takes Brando aside and suggests a scene that isn’t in the script. The men agree that nothing should be said to tip you off—that it’s better if you are taken totally by surprise. Did you sense a particular atmosphere on the set that day, see complicit looks among the director, actor, and crew? Or were you too tired by that point to question anything? Who thought of the butter? Was it Brando, Bertolucci, or both?

Rolling, action . . . . You and Brando are lying on the floor, dressed. Suddenly, Brando turns you over, roughly pulls down your jeans, and, grasping a mound of butter in his hand, he shoves it between your legs while thrusting his pelvis against your backside. You fight, you scream and cry. It’s impossible to escape; Brando’s body is pinning you to the floor. Bertolucci keeps the camera trained on your anger and terror. There’s only one take. It doesn’t last long, but for you it’s an eternity. Brando releases his grip and you scramble up, staring at the two of them with murderous rage. In your fury, you destroy the set. After, you go to your dressing room and remain prostrate for hours. The director couldn’t care less; he got what he wanted. He couldn’t have dreamed of better. “She raged against me, against Marlon, against all men,” Bertolucci would comment years later, remembering the scene.

You come out of the filming shattered, sensing this one scene has marked you forever, like a bad tattoo you’ll spend the rest of your life trying to cover up. It doesn’t matter that the sodomy was simulated—it makes you feel dirty and violated. You don’t understand that you could’ve prevented this scene from appearing in the film, since it wasn’t in the script that you had agreed to. You could’ve called a lawyer, filed suit against the producers, and made Bertolucci cut it, but you’re young, alone, and poorly counselled. You know nothing yet about the rules and regulations of the film world. The perfect victim.

Rumors swirl preceding the film’s release. It’s the return of the great Brando! A beautiful, provocative newcomer lights up the film! Bertolucci has really gone too far! At the French première, a few weeks before Christmas, people rush to find a seat. During the opening sequence, a malaise settles over the audience. Jean-Luc Godard storms out after ten minutes, furious and outraged, yelling, “Horrible!” You’re waiting outside the theatre and don’t hear him. You’re probably wearing jeans with boots and a coat that’s too thin to keep you warm. You pace and stomp your feet to prevent them going numb, smoking cigarette after cigarette, listening to the muffled noises coming from the screening room. At the end, the audience departs the theatre in embarrassed silence. They pass by without looking at you.

There’s only one person who approaches you: the actress Jean Seberg. She’s fourteen years your senior, as fair as you are dark. You’ve seen her in Otto Preminger’s “Saint Joan,” Godard’s “Breathless,” and the Romain Gary films. You don’t know it, but the two of you have Marlon Brando in common. It was her admiration of Brando that made her decide, at twelve years old, to become an actress.

Seberg, the American icon of French New Wave cinema, looks different. Her face has been ravaged by a series of sad love affairs and a chronic depression that she attempts to drown in alcohol. She divorced Romain Gary, and two years before the release of “Tango” her baby daughter, Nina, died. In September, 1979, after multiple previous suicide attempts, her naked body will be found wrapped in a blanket in the back of her white Renault, on a street in the Sixteenth Arrondissement.

It’s the first time you’ve met her, but she wraps her arms around you and holds you tight against her chest. She’s small and bony like a malnourished child, but the warmth of her body feels familiar. She buries her face in your brown curls and whispers in your ear, “Take care of yourself.”

“Last Tango in Paris” comes out in theatres on the fifteenth of December, 1972. It fails to pass the censors and receives the rating “forbidden for anyone under eighteen,” which only piques the public’s curiosity. Immediately, it becomes the preordained object of scandal. Catholics mobilize, and a complaint is filed in Italy, which the far left views as an affront to freedom of expression. “Tango” becomes the latest symbol in an ancient fight between the guardians of a certain moral order and the defenders of the artist’s right to create—the wet blankets versus the squeaky wheels. An Italian court condemns Bertolucci, Brando, and you to a two-month suspended prison sentence. Copies of the film are destroyed.

For Bertolucci, the controversy is a triumph. His film has succeeded in garnering the passionate response he desired. It’s discussed in bars and restaurants, debated by artists as well as by elected officials. It’s forbidden in the dictatorships of the Soviet Union and Franco’s Spain. Democracies, on the other hand, make a point of defending it. The film is released in New York in only one theatre, where tickets are sold out weeks in advance. It’s your first taste of success, but you stay on your guard. It’s hard for you to know what to think when you are as likely to be booed as you are to be showered with compliments. You’re twenty years old.

Meanwhile, just as your career is taking off, Brigitte Bardot, a friend with whom you’ve been staying, announces that she will retire. She’s had it with films. From now on, she wants to devote her life to animals, insisting they are far better than humans. You don’t bother to try to talk her out of it, since you know there’s no changing her mind. She goes on to say that she’s moving to Saint-Tropez, where she vacationed with her family as a child and where she filmed her great success “And God Created Woman.” When you leave her apartment on the Avenue Paul Doumer, you’re not sure where you’ll go next.

The release of “Tango” is an explosion whose shock waves consume you within a couple of weeks. Nothing has prepared you for what’s coming. The insults on the street, the aggression, and then, conversely, the adulation and the fawning. Doors suddenly swing open, offers come from the directors everyone is dying to work with. There is suddenly too much of everything in your life, too much desire, too much temptation, too much violence and criticism. With the wild grasping of someone drowning, you fall back onto a clichéd pun to explain the excesses of your behavior. “Il vaut mieux être belle et rebelle que moche et re-moche.” (“It’s better to be beautiful and rebellious than ugly and ugly again.”) It’s delivered with a sardonic smile, like you only half believe it.

Since the press has portrayed you as a wanton muse, you play the assigned role. You will be as electric and without boundaries as what’s expected of you. Your first public statements whet the appetites of the gossipmongers. A girl who has grown up too fast, who still has the bloom of youth, taking aim at everything. As a journalist now, I shudder when I read the interviews. You settle the score with your father, the actor Daniel Gélin, with all the rage and sadness of a neglected child. This father who took so long to acknowledge you, who now, as his film roles dwindle, cozies up to the smoldering fire of your success. You take him down with an assassin’s precision: “A bitter man jealous of his own son.” Your famous co-star fares no better. “The Brando myth? Whatever! . . . He’s obsessed with getting old and pays special attention to his makeup. Every morning, someone had to go get him; otherwise he wouldn’t come. He’s also lazy and slow. He never knew his lines; he just improvised. Between takes he went back to his dressing room, supposedly to ‘center himself’ . . . Marlon is temperamental, a big drinker.” I can easily picture the journalists laughing nervously, unsure how to respond.

The press can’t decide what to make of you—whether to love you or to hate you. Feminists wage war over the film. According to them, it goes too far under the guise of sexual freedom. Pointing out your youth—the apple cheeks and the look of confusion in your eyes about what’s being asked of you—they wonder whether what was captured on film was not art but abuse. They underline the nearly thirty-year age difference between you and Brando and note that in almost every scene you’re naked while he remains clothed. And then there’s the infamous sodomy scene. Some sense genuine protest and suffering in your cries.

In our home, we don’t speak about the film. The first time I hear anyone mention it is on the playground when I’m five or six years old: a group of kids laugh and yell, “Pass me the butter!” At first, I pay no attention to them, though what they say confuses me. They repeat it, day after day, and I don’t know why. Finally, I ask my mother about it.

“It’s because of the film,” she snaps, annoyed, then quickly tells me not to worry about it.

This scene becomes your cross to bear. For your entire life, you will have to endure unsavory jokes and cruel pranks. Once, in a restaurant, a waiter asks, with an obnoxious wink, whether you’d like some butter. On an airplane, a smirking flight attendant puts a pat of butter on your plate when you haven’t asked for any. In Rome, where you are filming René Clément’s “Wanted: Babysitter,” you’re insulted on the street. More than once you are physically attacked. Faced with seemingly endless questions about it, you hide your pain behind a forced laugh and respond with a quip: “I only cook with olive oil.”

As a child, I keep everything about you in a red plastic folder, the kind with the two rubber bands angled at the corners to keep it closed. Inside are photos of you that I’ve torn from magazines, along with interviews and press clippings from your films. I’m in elementary school, and I collect everything ever written about you with a perseverance that borders on obsession. I beg my mother to entrust me with the pictures of you at my age, along with your first drawings, and I decorate the folder with star-shaped stickers and rainbow glitter. On the front of the folder, I glue a black-and-white photo of you from a newspaper. In the picture, your cheeks are round, your smile radiant. I cover the picture with Scotch Tape to safeguard it from age, a childish attempt to protect you from life’s contamination.

On the rare occasions that I open my red folder in front of friends, I receive looks of bewilderment and suspicion. Who is this supposedly successful actress whom no one’s ever heard of? I’m suspected of lying, of inventing a famous relative to get attention.

Over the years, as the file grows, I notice with disappointment that each piece I collect has less to do with your films and more to do with the turbulence of your personal life. The features and reviews are replaced by tabloid stories with salacious headlines. As I get older, even these articles begin to disappear, and there’s rarely anything new to put in the red folder. Occasionally, you have a role in the kind of low-budget international film that’s sure never to be released in France, but you’re no longer considered for lead roles, and after a while you cease to interest even the journalists. Like so many others of your generation, you join the troop of discarded stars, rejected by a new era that has no place for rebels. You’re no longer the celebrity of my childhood, the one strangers recognize on the street with a frisson of excitement and envy, but you remain my special cousin for whom I harbor a tender and morbid fascination. A precious, broken family jewel, hidden away in a secret drawer.

I keep the red folder at our family’s house in the French countryside. The old farmhouse is a repository of memories. In a room that’s ostensibly my father’s office (although I never saw him work there), he keeps the archives from an extreme-left Maoist political organization to which he once belonged. There’s also a collection of drawings, some by you, thrown together in colorful disarray, alongside stacks of the very first issues of Libération, the left-wing newspaper founded in 1973 by Jean-Paul Sartre and Serge July, where I will later work as a journalist. The farmhouse suits you: wallpaper with big orange and chartreuse flowers, patched furniture, salvaged objects. There’s a sprawling, overgrown garden, which during my childhood was regularly transformed into a hippie haven, a place where men and women dressed in tunics gathered around a campfire and strummed guitars while smoking enormous joints. It seems the perfect place to keep the folder safe.

Throughout my adolescence, I keep track of the red folder—a testament to your former glory. I read and reread the fragments of your life. I don’t always recognize the girl in the stories that the press chooses to tell. They are half-truths, approximations, fantasies, and some blatant falsehoods. But, even so, there is usually some element of truth. A young girl ravaged by an explosive public début.

In a profile from Elle in 1972, the journalist Marie-Laure Bouly, perhaps in an attempt to reconcile the public’s fascination with Maria Schneider and the scandal of “Tango,” begins her article with a systematic evisceration of the movie: “A crude film that further pushes the limits of just how far is too far.”

She goes on to describe you as both a capricious child and a femme fatale, dressed in a dramatic fur coat bought at Kensington Market in London. You’re free-spirited—too free. The journalist doesn’t seem to have found much to sink her teeth into, so she sprinkles her feature with quotes of yours taken out of context, which she doesn’t bother to explain. Then the story comes to an end with the sudden departure of its subject. Bouly concludes: “Maria Schneider is always on the go—already well on her way.”

Every time I visit the house in the country, I perform my ritual of taking the red folder out of the drawer to examine its contents. As the years pass, the smell of dust grows stronger. The photos fade, and the paper begins to erode from the humidity. One day, I can’t find the folder at all. It seems to have vanished entirely. I’m heartbroken. I can’t shake the feeling that the folder—the pride and embarrassment it brought me, its comforting omnipresence, its gradual, eventual disappearance—somehow represents you. Once the folder is gone, I know that one day I will write about you. Not the story that you would write, which belongs only to you, but ours. ♦

(Translated, from the French [Tu t'appelais Maris Schneider], by Molly Ringwald.)

This is drawn from “My Cousin Maria Schneider.”

[yuri-for-businesswomen]

?? why does that person think most models are sex workers. i know 1 actual model, and 3 clothes models and they aren’t sex workers wtf.

literally what job can a woman do without someone suspecting she must be having sex for pay to supplement it 🤢

yeah i thought that was a weird thing to say but i didnt want to dismiss the conversation it brought up about possible links.

one thing i can think off for example is women trying to get into acting and modelling being groomed into soft and even hardcore porn under false pretense (casting calls that dont state its porn) or because its the only paying job they get. many young and naive women move to LA to become actresses, for example, and i could imagine pimps and porn producers knowing and using that.

i also recently made a post about how soft porn scenes have become standard even in shows targeted to teens. did you know for example that chloe cherry was cast for euphoria season 2 by sam levinson after making a porn parody of season 1? she entered the porn industry at 18 because she was „bored“ (her words). i dont want to know how many young euphoria fans look up to her and want to be like her.

then of course there is the rampant sexual abuse in the entertainment and fashion industry - photographers and producers pushing women to do uncomfortably sexual or nude shoots and scenes is one thing, sexual assault the other. the latter is an issue with every industry with men in power (so, every industry) but sexual nudity/sexuality can be a part of the job in some areas too. there is some overlap.

some women might do both too, their fashion or entertainment gigs dont pay enough so they do porn or prostitution „on the side“. but then they are both an aspiring model/singer/actress and a woman doing porn/being prostituted. doesnt mean its the same thing. i think one key difference is that one is their passion and the other is out of desperation and they would stop as soon as they get big. chloe cherry is not doing porn anymore since she became an actress/influencer, for example.

but claiming that high fashion and commercial models are usually also in the sex industry is misleading and not useful. an h&m model has no inherent connection to the sex industry. and lingerie ads are not sex, theyre just sexy. if you know what i mean. huge difference if actual sex is involved (including masturbation) or not. to stay with euphoria, sydney sweeney did some pretty heavy and pornographic sex scenes in the show, but that doesnt mean she is a woman doing porn/a „sex worker“. this only proves how useless that term is if everyone from modelling lingerie to being penetrated by strangers several times a day is apparently doing „sex work“.

i have seen nude shoots being used as a grooming tool, leading to kink/fetish/bondage shoots, which lowers inhibition to do actual porn. this is something we should keep an eye on. but its not a necessary connection. for some reason (i know why) germanys next topmodel (popular show) is forcing its contestants to do a nude shoot every fucking season even if the girls cry. does that mean they are part of the sex industry now? no. but that doesnt mean its not abusive or exploitative.

[toofasttoocool-reborn]

How does Serena and Calem's photo shoots with Viola tend to go?

"Oh mes chéries vous êtes magn-ifi-ques!"*

The sounds of the very bulky and professional looking camera was ringing all over the arena now turn into a professional photoshoot place,Viola the first champion of Kalos was ecstatic at the ideas of taking her favorite models in photo,the pay was nice too of course,but that wasn't what the eye of Viola was there to get,it was there for the art,the passion and the rippling muscles of Calem on full display in this greco-roman style pose,Serena was gabbing his leg with showing her entire naked body to the camera,one could wonder if the nude was more "artistic" or "pornographic" in nature.

The attractive young lady snapped her finger as to signal to the sleepy intern to do something,not that he knew what was excepted of him,looking at the scene dumbfounded.

She snapped her finger again,then again...

"Hey!You!The sleep looking fatass!Don't perturb my artistic anymore!Go fec...fic...Give me water!"Her eyebrow were wriggling of anger and consternation,she was a nice girl over all,but one thing she didn't accept was incompetent middle men who perturb her art.The fat intern immediately run to the nearest fridge tripping on the way there.

"Putain...Ok mes petits choux à la crème!Vous allez poser dans une pose...erotique...sensuel..."**

Calem and Serena couldn't be more happy as both stood up and stretched for a bit before the most famous man of kalos rested on what was for all intent and purposes a fake rock and his wonderfully evil wife sat in a way that the camera could catch her fake bubble ass on camera as she started to place her lips on the erect penis of the main center of the image.

"M-a-g-n-i-f-i-q-u-e!Wonderful!"Viola could barely hold her excitement over such a powerful and evocative masterpiece,all her life she wanted to catch what was femininity and masculinity and she had both right in front of her impious eye!Of course such excitement make it's way all down to her pants as she was furiously masturbating, which,in a sort of miracle, didn't affect the quality of the pictures at all.

After a very long photoshoot,Viola collapsed on a folding chair, sweaty and running extremely low on energy but extremely happy.

"Wake upppp mon petit chou we are not finish..."

This high pitched arrogant voice who seems to step on you when you hear it could only come from Serena,but why was she still naked and why was Calem still with her,the photographer didn't had time to react as the trophy wife put her richly decorated nails on her mouth.

"Tututut,You see that intern didn't get a massive erection seeing me,and that make me oh,so really sad....but I see you are extremely receptive on the other hand..."As she was saying those world like she was in drama class,she extended her finger to place them in Viola pants who was,by then, sweaty and almost completely removed from her legs.

"Could...Can I?Miss Serena?"The tomboy was begging for it instinctively getting on her knees red as a tomato and drolling.

Senera gently lower her head toward her wet pussy,the passionate fiery passion was nowhere to be seen as all that left was a fan,an admirer even...this was the most perfect pussy, nothing was visible outside of it,the line was perfect and the skin seemed almost shiny she couldn't help but lick it with passion,Viola had seen plenty of naked women before,but that wasn't one there...she was a goddess,her body was a masterpiece,she felt so humble.

Senera bit her lower lips, the licking wasn't good and deeply unprofessional too,but the sheer passion and worshiping of her perfect body was enough for her.

"Good work...mon esclave***,will you do what your godess,your Erato will tell you?"

Viola in an uncharacteristic meek voices answer:"Yes,Mistress..."

*Oh my sweethearts,you are wonderful!

**Fuck,alright my littles cream puffs,you going to pose...something erotic...sensual

***My slave

[dailyunsolvedmysteries]

The Wednesday Strangler

The Wednesday Strangler is a suspected unidentified serial killer who operated in Japan from 1975 to 1989. The serial killer is thought to be responsible for seven murders (which are also referred to as the Saga women murders) and got the nickname due to six of the seven victims disappearing on a Wednesday. As of now, the seven murders remain unsolved and The Wednesday Strangler is currently unidentified.

27th August 1975 (Wednesday) – ‘Y’ A 12-year-old girl had been home alone in the evening when she disappeared. The girl, commonly referred to as ‘Y’, usually spent her evenings studying at the bar her mother ran but had been home alone on this night. When her family returned to the house they found the television still on and the shoes the girl had worn that day were still at the house. The daughter of the neighbours next door would tell law enforcement she saw an unidentified man pushing the girl into his vehicle.

12th April 1980 (Saturday) – ‘H’ A 20-year-old woman living in Shiroishi had been home alone when she disappeared on the 12th of April in 1980, notably under similar circumstances as the first victim. Commonly referred to as ‘H’, the young woman had attempted suicide before and had told people in her life that she was going to attempt again once she turned 20. ‘H’ had turned 20 just one day before her disappearance. On the 16th of April, just four days after H had gone missing, her father received a letter stating how his daughter will probably not return home and that they hope he (the father) suffers too. H’s father later received multiple phone calls telling him not to go on to TV programme to discuss his daughter’s disappearance and not to show any photographs of H. ‘H’ is the only victim on the list to have gone missing on a day other than Wednesday. 24th or 27th June 1980 Two bodies were discovered in a septic tank next to a primary school in Shiroishi. The bodies were that of ‘Y’, the 12-year-old girl who had disappeared five years earlier, and ‘H’, the 20-year-old woman who had disappeared a few months earlier in April. According to various reports, the septic tanks had been filled with stones. The bodies were too badly decomposed to give an accurate cause of death. *I’m unsure if both bodies were found on the same day at the same time or if the confusion around the dates has arisen due to ‘H’ being found first, on the 24th of June, and ‘Y’ then being found on the 27th of June. A man would later be arrested on suspicion of committing these two murders but he was later released without charge due to insufficient evidence. In any case, there are rumours of the links between this man and the two victims, some claiming the man frequented the bar which Y’s mother worked at and another rumour claiming he had been dating ‘H’. Just to reiterate, these are rumours and not definitive facts.

7th October 1981 (Wednesday) A 27-year-old woman living in Shiroishi was last spotted by a colleague talking to a man who was approximately in his 30’s and sat in a car. This is the last known sighting of the third victim alive. Allegedly, the third victim had missed four days of work prior to her disappearance and had then told people she was caring for her unwell mother. Her body was found on the 21st of October 1981, two weeks after she was last seen, in an empty lot. There were no signs of sexual abuse and the cause of death was ruled as strangulation with a power cord.

17th February 1982 (Wednesday) – ‘A’ An 11-year-old girl, referred to as ‘A’, was walking home from school when she was strangled to death in Kitagata. Her body was found nude from the waist down and her school bag still strapped to her back. Several witnesses later came forward to report a man in the area, who had been driving a white car, had attempted to abduct them on the same day as A’s disappearance. One primary school student had been carried away by an unknown man but was let go because of her crying and screaming.

8th July 1987 (Wednesday) – ‘H’ A 48-year-old woman, referred to as ‘H’, disappeared after receiving a phone call that visibly upset her. The fourth victim had been eating with her mother and son when she received the phone call. She went on to tell her mother that she had to leave to give a ride to a friend but told her son she had to leave to go for dinner with a friend. At some point after her disappearance, H’s car was located in the carpark of a bowling alley. ‘H’ had worked at the same place as the 27-year-old who had been found strangled to death six years prior.

7th December 1988 (Wednesday) – ‘N’ A 50-year-old woman disappeared in Kitagata after leaving her house to play volleyball, a ten-minute walk away from her house. Commonly referred to as ‘N’, she usually made this walk with a friend, but on this day the friend wasn’t attending and so ‘N’ took the walk alone. Witness reports state that ‘N’ was seen speaking with a woman sitting in a car but law enforcement has never been able to identify the woman. One week after ‘N’ went missing, her husband received a phone call that was recorded by a police officer who was investigating the disappearance of ‘N’. There’s a transcript of the phone call which I’m going to include below, though I’m not 100% sure that this is a word-for-word translation. Still, it does give you an idea of the type of phone call it was. Mr. N: Hello, this is Nakajima.

Unknown caller: Your wife was found, wasn’t she?

Mr. N: Huh?

Unknown caller: That’s nice.

Mr. N: Just where in the world was she found?

Unknown caller: Wasn’t it in Yakigome? (slight pause)

Mr. N: Who is this speaking?

Unknown caller: A person you know.

25th January 1989 (Wednesday) – ‘Y’ A 37-year-old woman disappeared after walking home from a night out with a friend. She is often referred to as ‘Y’, but there is little other information available regarding her disappearance. 27th January 1989 The bodies of ‘H’, ‘N’, and ‘Y’ are found together located at the bottom of a cliff at Kitagata Otoge. All three causes of death were determined to be strangulation. These final three murders would go on to be known as the “Kitagata affair,” as all seven murders on this timeline occurred in a 20-kilometer radius of the Saga Prefecture.

[handeaux]

Cincinnati Photographers Dealt With The Bizarre, The Salacious And The Macabre

With almost everybody these days carrying a camera-equipped cell phone and posting fresh images to social media hourly, it is difficult to remember a time when photographs were rare, expensive and inconvenient. Cincinnati’s photography studios caught our citizenry at their best and their worst and sometimes at their weirdest.

In the 1880s, for example, it was common to print a photographic portrait on a person’s skin. Young women often had pictures of their beaux fixed on an upper arm or lower leg. One Cincinnati photographer told a reporter for the Times-Star [30 July 1884] about a young woman who was infatuated with a traveling salesman:

“We can photograph on flesh very nicely now and I made a good print. I fixed it thoroughly and she went away happy. A month later she came back with blushes and wanted it taken off. Her lover had turned out to be a married man, and of course she hated him for his cruel deception. However, she wears it yet, as I told her to let it wear off.”

Photographs could serve to bring couples together, the photographer said, describing a rather unusual request he had received from a young woman.

“A woman, handsome and determined, had a picture made holding a pistol to her head, as if about to suicide. This she sent to her lover, who was probably getting tired of her. Underneath the picture she wrote: ‘If you don’t, I will.’ He understood. It had its effect, for in two weeks I made a group picture of them both, and she was attired as a bride.”

Women, it seems, made the most outlandish requests of photographers. One Cincinnati portraitist told the Post [7 September 1883] that women regularly requested photos of one foot, or one hand, set against a backdrop of black velvet. Women particularly proud of their hair arranged for photos from behind to show their mane in all its glory. Other women had photos from the rear for an entirely different reason:

“Some girls, who have caught on to an unknown correspondent, through an advertisement, get the backs of their heads or a coquettish corner of their faces pictured to send them.”

Some photographers produced images that went way beyond the coquettish. A studio owner told the Cincinnati Penny Paper [16 October 1882] about a colleague of his who was just starting out in the business and had yet to engage a suitable number of clients. One day, a young man stopped by to inquire whether the photographer had any photos of nude women for sale. The photographer did not, but asked the young man to return in a couple of days.

“Soon as his customer left he called his wife and told her he wanted to take her nude and sell it. She hesitated at first, but finally consented to sit. She had an exquisite figure, and the young man, who had never met the lady, was so well pleased with the photographs that he bought a dozen. He showed them to his friends, who purchased more, and finally the photographer’s income from selling his wife’s nude photographs became the most lucrative part of his business.”

The Penny Paper reporter asked his source whether the wife knew how widely distributed her nude image had become.

“Oh yes, but she does not care a copper. She laughingly said one day, ‘It is dollars and cents to me, and as long as the public like my form, I will sell them copies of it.”

The unidentified photographer probably sold his wife’s images from under the counter, because Cincinnati wasn’t ready for nude photographs. In 1890, George Morrison and Frank Jennings, photographers based in the West End, were hauled into court on charges of making obscene pictures of young women from the area – otherwise known as the Red Light District. According to the Cincinnati Post [18 October 1890] the judge ruled that testimony in the case was “too filthy to be heard” and fined the pair heavily.

It's a bit ironic, because another photographer told the Post [7 September 1883] that “bad” women generally requested “respectable” pictures:

“To tell the truth, their pictures are more modest than many of the society belles of upper tendom.”

The women of that “upper tendom,” the high-society classes, posed provocatively, leaning seductively forward with bare arms and a plunging neckline.

“Why, here is one young girl who had my wife photograph her in her chimise. Her father got hold of the pictures at home, and burned them, then forbade me making any more prints.”

Perhaps the most bizarre photographs taken in Cincinnati involved dead people. A woman showed up one day at a photographer’s studio pushing an infant in a baby carriage. The infant had died hours earlier and the mother wanted a photograph to remember the child. The photographer admitted that photographing corpses was “not nice work.”

“We sometimes make post-mortem pictures, but don’t hanker for it. We have made a picture of a corpse, and by retouching both the negative and the print made it life-like – eyes open, and color in the cheeks. But photographing a corpse is almost as bad as shaving one.”

One might think photographing dead people would give the photographer a bit of advantage because corpses wouldn’t move during the long exposures required back then. It turns out that photographers, at least in Cincinnati, were slow to adopt newer and faster photographic processes. A photographer in 1884 complained that his subjects couldn’t sit still for the thirty seconds it took to capture their image. He wondered how their parents endured the four or five minutes of immobility required for a good Daguerreotype portrait, while admitting that he was aware the latest plates allowed exposures of one-thousandth of a second. The American Israelite [21 January 1881] was having none of it:

“They can instantly photograph express trains going at sixty miles an hour, so that it looks, smoke and all, as if it were taken at a stand-still. And yet they can’t or won’t photograph a man sitting in a chair, without screwing his head round in a vice like a moveable doll and keeping him looking at a smudge on the wall, till his lip drops, and his eyes water, and the pleasant little speech he meant to think about, just to hold the expression, goes maundering through his head like the ghost of a homeless echo. Every ‘photographer’s studio’ must be at least twenty years behind time. Why is it?”

[dailyunsolvedmysteries-movedd]

The Wednesday Strangler

The Wednesday Strangler is a suspected unidentified serial killer who operated in Japan from 1975 to 1989. The serial killer is thought to be responsible for seven murders (which are also referred to as the Saga women murders) and got the nickname due to six of the seven victims disappearing on a Wednesday. As of now, the seven murders remain unsolved and The Wednesday Strangler is currently unidentified.

27th August 1975 (Wednesday) – ‘Y’ A 12-year-old girl had been home alone in the evening when she disappeared. The girl, commonly referred to as ‘Y’, usually spent her evenings studying at the bar her mother ran but had been home alone on this night. When her family returned to the house they found the television still on and the shoes the girl had worn that day were still at the house. The daughter of the neighbours next door would tell law enforcement she saw an unidentified man pushing the girl into his vehicle.

12th April 1980 (Saturday) – ‘H’ A 20-year-old woman living in Shiroishi had been home alone when she disappeared on the 12th of April in 1980, notably under similar circumstances as the first victim. Commonly referred to as ‘H’, the young woman had attempted suicide before and had told people in her life that she was going to attempt again once she turned 20. ‘H’ had turned 20 just one day before her disappearance. On the 16th of April, just four days after H had gone missing, her father received a letter stating how his daughter will probably not return home and that they hope he (the father) suffers too. H’s father later received multiple phone calls telling him not to go on to TV programme to discuss his daughter’s disappearance and not to show any photographs of H. ‘H’ is the only victim on the list to have gone missing on a day other than Wednesday. 24th or 27th June 1980 Two bodies were discovered in a septic tank next to a primary school in Shiroishi. The bodies were that of ‘Y’, the 12-year-old girl who had disappeared five years earlier, and ‘H’, the 20-year-old woman who had disappeared a few months earlier in April. According to various reports, the septic tanks had been filled with stones. The bodies were too badly decomposed to give an accurate cause of death. *I’m unsure if both bodies were found on the same day at the same time or if the confusion around the dates has arisen due to ‘H’ being found first, on the 24th of June, and ‘Y’ then being found on the 27th of June. A man would later be arrested on suspicion of committing these two murders but he was later released without charge due to insufficient evidence. In any case, there are rumours of the links between this man and the two victims, some claiming the man frequented the bar which Y’s mother worked at and another rumour claiming he had been dating ‘H’. Just to reiterate, these are rumours and not definitive facts.

7th October 1981 (Wednesday) A 27-year-old woman living in Shiroishi was last spotted by a colleague talking to a man who was approximately in his 30’s and sat in a car. This is the last known sighting of the third victim alive. Allegedly, the third victim had missed four days of work prior to her disappearance and had then told people she was caring for her unwell mother. Her body was found on the 21st of October 1981, two weeks after she was last seen, in an empty lot. There were no signs of sexual abuse and the cause of death was ruled as strangulation with a power cord.

17th February 1982 (Wednesday) – ‘A’ An 11-year-old girl, referred to as ‘A’, was walking home from school when she was strangled to death in Kitagata. Her body was found nude from the waist down and her school bag still strapped to her back. Several witnesses later came forward to report a man in the area, who had been driving a white car, had attempted to abduct them on the same day as A’s disappearance. One primary school student had been carried away by an unknown man but was let go because of her crying and screaming.

8th July 1987 (Wednesday) – ‘H’ A 48-year-old woman, referred to as ‘H’, disappeared after receiving a phone call that visibly upset her. The fourth victim had been eating with her mother and son when she received the phone call. She went on to tell her mother that she had to leave to give a ride to a friend but told her son she had to leave to go for dinner with a friend. At some point after her disappearance, H’s car was located in the carpark of a bowling alley. ‘H’ had worked at the same place as the 27-year-old who had been found strangled to death six years prior.

7th December 1988 (Wednesday) – ‘N’ A 50-year-old woman disappeared in Kitagata after leaving her house to play volleyball, a ten-minute walk away from her house. Commonly referred to as ‘N’, she usually made this walk with a friend, but on this day the friend wasn’t attending and so ‘N’ took the walk alone. Witness reports state that ‘N’ was seen speaking with a woman sitting in a car but law enforcement has never been able to identify the woman. One week after ‘N’ went missing, her husband received a phone call that was recorded by a police officer who was investigating the disappearance of ‘N’. There’s a transcript of the phone call which I’m going to include below, though I’m not 100% sure that this is a word-for-word translation. Still, it does give you an idea of the type of phone call it was. Mr. N: Hello, this is Nakajima.

Unknown caller: Your wife was found, wasn’t she?

Mr. N: Huh?

Unknown caller: That’s nice.

Mr. N: Just where in the world was she found?

Unknown caller: Wasn’t it in Yakigome? (slight pause)

Mr. N: Who is this speaking?

Unknown caller: A person you know.

25th January 1989 (Wednesday) – ‘Y’ A 37-year-old woman disappeared after walking home from a night out with a friend. She is often referred to as ‘Y’, but there is little other information available regarding her disappearance. 27th January 1989 The bodies of ‘H’, ‘N’, and ‘Y’ are found together located at the bottom of a cliff at Kitagata Otoge. All three causes of death were determined to be strangulation. These final three murders would go on to be known as the “Kitagata affair,” as all seven murders on this timeline occurred in a 20-kilometer radius of the Saga Prefecture.

[5sosfanfictioncatalogue]

Bisexual!Michael Masterlist

but then i hear u calling (there u are) (ao3) - orphan_account michael/luke N/R, 933

Summary: michael and luke have always been the closest. friendly kisses lasting no longer than 3 seconds are shared frequently between the duo- calum and ashton watching from a distance, almost admiring their friendship. until it wasn't a friendship anymore.

How You Get the Girl (ao3) - 1loulu5 michael/calum, michael/ofc T, 2k

Summary: “Wh… What does ‘castrate’ mean?” Michael sounded perplexed.

Calum laughed, “It means I’ll cut your balls off.”

“Oh-”

~~~

Michael calls Calum, his ex for the past 4 years, for relationship advice.

Not Just a Stupid Game (ao3) - coffeemuke michael/luke E, 2k

Summary: A game of truth or dare leads to Michael following through on a dare.

Paint Me - @daydadahlias (cornflowerblue (daydadahlias)) luke/ashton, michael/crystal E, 17k

Summary: “Holy shit, hold on a minute,” Calum says, “is that who we’re supposed to be drawing?”

“I can’t draw him,” Michael gawks, “I’m not a Goddamn renaissance painter.”

Or, the one where Luke is an art student practicing realism for a month and Ashton is the nude model in his portrait class.

Promise (ao3) - boomercal calum/ashton, sierra/luke, michael/crystal, calum/ofc M, 115k

Summary: Live music photographer Calum does one favour for a friend (filling in last minute for a show), and his life changes for good. Finding his muse, world-famous pop/rock sensation Ashton Irwin. He thinks once the shows are over, he can pack it in and forget all about it, but a Google search and a phone call set him up on a North American tour where he'll see the man every day... Too bad his Google search revealed the man of his every fantasy has a purity pact with God. So what's a..promiscuous young man to do? Repress it? Sure, that'll work.

Tangled in a Triangle (ao3) - orsumeuphoria michael/crystal/ashton E, 9k

Summary: “You ever have him like this, Crys?” Ashton asks. Crystal doesn’t say anything, but she must shake her head because Ashton continues, “Shame. I think you’d like it. He’s so pretty on his knees.” Michael keens. “C’mere.”

Crystal’s immaculate sneakers appear right behind Ashton’s boots.

The next command he gets isn’t spoken. Ashton only has to tap the base of his jaw for Michael to look up.

The image of both Ashton and Crystal towering over him, Ashton smiling softly and Crystal looking intrigued, is one he burns into his memory.

“Hi, dove,” Ashton murmurs softly, “Fucking missed you.”

The Blower's Daughter (ao3) - MyMy michael/calum, luke/ashton M, 13k (WIP)

Summary: “Did you need something else?” Michael inquires politely a little confused himself.

“I was wondering if I could get your number actually?” The stranger asks biting his lip into his mouth quickly.

“Oh sure!” Michael replies happily. He reaches around the register to the side facing the customer and feels around for the little stack of cards with the shop info on it and the logo embossed in solid black.

“Here this has the shop number right here.” Michael points to the tiny row of numbers on the card. “So if you need anything don’t be afraid to call, okay? We can do special orders as well so anything music related we’ll try our best to get it for you!”

The Gayest Thing I've Ever Done (ao3) - coffeemuke michael/luke, calum/ashton E, 1k

Summary: Band bonding crosses the line between normal and weird, and it's Luke's fault. But the boys don't seem to mind.

The Posse's Origin (ao3) - Jay_isnotokay calum/ashton, michael/ashton E, 6k

Summary: "...I've been apart of the princess posse for a few weeks now and I still don't how you two got 'initated' in the first place." Luke said.

"Alright, LuLu, have I got a story for you."

~

Or Luke wants to know how the posse started and, well, they tell him.

up to your mouth, feeling it out (ao3) - orphan_account michael/luke, luke/ashton E, 9k

Summary: Ashton's the one who suggested it; after all, he would know how well Luke would do in the industry, since he spent most Friday nights with his best friend's lips around his cock. Luke, on the other hand, didn't know he would end up fluffing for a record-breaking pornstar who is like, really really hot, and definitely his type.

or, Luke is broke and has a talented mouth (and a tongue piercing).

your string of lights is still bright to me (ao3) - merlypops michael/calum E, 81k

Summary: Michael is struggling to be the father his daughters need. Until he meets Calum again.

[bionicinbuff]

When I draw youth, the more keen eyed of you have probably noticed I tend towards drawing female children more than male. There really is a simple reason for this.

It's because through history, art and artists have treated female youth as a 'forbidden' subject. My theory is that it's mostly because of the patriarchy and an inability for men raised to view females as conquerable objects to see even young females as anything but desirable.

But it's been there for centuries. Cherubs in classical works are almost always male. Female children are almost always clothed while male children are nude in the same piece. Even when depicted nude, girls are often posed more demurely or modestly while boys are depicted with penises prominently displayed.

Well, i don't think this is right. Society's double standards and stubborn holds on such ways of thinking only serve to make things worse. So I believe it's my mandate to help balance things out a bit... If even a little.

Today's drawing is from one of my original inspirations. Sally Mann. While she wasn't the only one, she had no qualms about photographing and featuring her children in the nude. They weren't nudists, but her family was open and accepting as their children grew, and as I learned after nannying 4, and looking after countless others, the vast majority of girl children LOVE to be naked.

So why not celebrate that? The more open we are about nudity, the less of a shock it is and the less power nefarious types have.

It doesn't mean we have to stop being careful and safe, but we shouldn't also have to hide our girls away out of fear and ignorance while boys enjoy a much more open existence.