#you know the type that there's a million of here and a good amount are total pricks. he looked short too. Manlet rage

[avvocarlo]

god I hate asshole 4wd owners

[phantomrose96]

The conversation around AI is going to get away from us quickly because people lack the language to distinguish types of AI--and it's not their fault. Companies love to slap "AI" on anything they believe can pass for something "intelligent" a computer program is doing. And this muddies the waters when people want to talk about AI when the exact same word covers a wide umbrella and they themselves don't know how to qualify the distinctions within.

I'm a software engineer and not a data scientist, so I'm not exactly at the level of domain expert. But I work with data scientists, and I have at least rudimentary college-level knowledge of machine learning and linear algebra from my CS degree. So I want to give some quick guidance.

What is AI? And what is not AI?

So what's the difference between just a computer program, and an "AI" program? Computers can do a lot of smart things, and companies love the idea of calling anything that seems smart enough "AI", but industry-wise the question of "how smart" a program is has nothing to do with whether it is AI.

A regular, non-AI computer program is procedural, and rigidly defined. I could "program" traffic light behavior that essentially goes { if(light === green) { go(); } else { stop();} }. I've told it in simple and rigid terms what condition to check, and how to behave based on that check. (A better program would have a lot more to check for, like signs and road conditions and pedestrians in the street, and those things will still need to be spelled out.)

An AI traffic light behavior is generated by machine-learning, which simplistically is a huge cranking machine of linear algebra which you feed training data into and it "learns" from. By "learning" I mean it's developing a complex and opaque model of parameters to fit the training data (but not over-fit). In this case the training data probably includes thousands of videos of car behavior at traffic intersections. Through parameter tweaking and model adjustment, data scientists will turn this crank over and over adjusting it to create something which, in very opaque terms, has developed a model that will guess the right behavioral output for any future scenario.

A well-trained model would be fed a green light and know to go, and a red light and know to stop, and 'green but there's a kid in the road' and know to stop. A very very well-trained model can probably do this better than my program above, because it has the capacity to be more adaptive than my rigidly-defined thing if the rigidly-defined program is missing some considerations. But if the AI model makes a wrong choice, it is significantly harder to trace down why exactly it did that.

Because again, the reason it's making this decision may be very opaque. It's like engineering a very specific plinko machine which gets tweaked to be very good at taking a road input and giving the right output. But like if that plinko machine contained millions of pegs and none of them necessarily correlated to anything to do with the road. There's possibly no "if green, go, else stop" to look for. (Maybe there is, for traffic light specifically as that is intentionally very simplistic. But a model trained to recognize written numbers for example likely contains no parameters at all that you could map to ideas a human has like "look for a rigid line in the number". The parameters may be all, to humans, meaningless.)

So, that's basics. Here are some categories of things which get called AI:

"AI" which is just genuinely not AI

There's plenty of software that follows a normal, procedural program defined rigidly, with no linear algebra model training, that companies would love to brand as "AI" because it sounds cool.

Something like motion detection/tracking might be sold as artificially intelligent. But under the covers that can be done as simply as "if some range of pixels changes color by a certain amount, flag as motion"

2. AI which IS genuinely AI, but is not the kind of AI everyone is talking about right now

"AI", by which I mean machine learning using linear algebra, is very good at being fed a lot of training data, and then coming up with an ability to go and categorize real information.

The AI technology that looks at cells and determines whether they're cancer or not, that is using this technology. OCR (Optical Character Recognition) is the technology that can take an image of hand-written text and transcribe it. Again, it's using linear algebra, so yes it's AI.

Many other such examples exist, and have been around for quite a good number of years. They share the genre of technology, which is machine learning models, but these are not the Large Language Model Generative AI that is all over the media. Criticizing these would be like criticizing airplanes when you're actually mad at military drones. It's the same "makes fly in the air" technology but their impact is very different.

3. The AI we ARE talking about. "Chat-gpt" type of Generative AI which uses LLMs ("Large Language Models")

If there was one word I wish people would know in all this, it's LLM (Large Language Model). This describes the KIND of machine learning model that Chat-GPT/midjourney/stablediffusion are fueled by. They're so extremely powerfully trained on human language that they can take an input of conversational language and create a predictive output that is human coherent. (I am less certain what additional technology fuels art-creation, specifically, but considering the AI art generation has risen hand-in-hand with the advent of powerful LLM, I'm at least confident in saying it is still corely LLM).

This technology isn't exactly brand new (predictive text has been using it, but more like the mostly innocent and much less successful older sibling of some celebrity, who no one really thinks about.) But the scale and power of LLM-based AI technology is what is new with Chat-GPT.

This is the generative AI, and even better, the large language model generative AI.

(Data scientists, feel free to add on or correct anything.)

[randombush3]

(extremely talented, creative) stalker

alexia putellas x reader

based on this and a poem from when i was little. i chose alexia because she fit the character more and i rushed this immensely because i was being pestered for attention by multiple creatures. oh and i went for something decently light-hearted bc these hozier fics have been affecting my soul and ruining my spotify daylists.

happy monday people x

p.s. not proof-read because it's lunchtime and i'm hungry (edit: i just did my proof-read now and i've realised that it was in fact not lunchtime??? it was past lunchtime and i was just zoned out!)

Alexia doesn’t care much for art. Sure, she admires the effort, the time such talent sits behind a canvas and marks something that was once blank until others begin to value it. She agrees with the masses about the beauty of quaint watercolour paintings of the coast, and she lets Mapi rave about charcoal and graphite and oils as if she understands what is so special about the varying media. 

She knows she is only here today because the art is about sports. The gallery seems almost reluctant to allow the athletes in, worried they have brought with them their football boots and cones to dribble around, but it would be bad practice to prohibit the muses from the collection. She isn’t an idiot, though, and she knows that no amount of forced reading about the artist and other sophisticated matters will slip her seamlessly into the crowd. 

There are lots of people; people she has never heard of, but make it clear they are far superior to her by the way in which their eyes politely drop to the tattoos inked onto her calloused hands. Their skin is soft, accustomed to the stems of crystal champagne flutes, and the drawings that hold so much personal meaning to the footballer are scrutinised to the point of silent… offence.  

So much for appreciators of art, she thinks to herself, counting down the minutes until it is acceptable for her to leave. 

With a huff and a vow to never – no matter how much she earns – forget where she has come from, Alexia staggers, uncomfortable in these particular heels, towards the painting she deems easiest to understand. 

It is the largest in the room: deep, crimson reds on top of familiar greens, streaks of gold falling out of a ponytail. 

Call Alexia egotistical, but anyone would be drawn to a painting of themselves. 

The artist has done a good job, she guesses, not entirely sure if there is a deeper meaning behind the grass stains on her socks or the crumpled shading of her Spain jersey. It is a little creepy that someone she does not know has captured her likeness so expertly, so practised. 

“The nose isn’t quite right,” a voice says beside her. 

Alexia turns in surprise, amused enough by the stranger’s observation to examine her painted face, eyes not drawn from how majestic her image is beginning to seem. She sees no obvious issue, and so she replies, “I think it’s fine.” 

“Just fine?” 

She is still staring at herself, now impressed by the grandeur of the painting; its size, its quality. “Well, I am unsure how someone painted me so accurately when I was never called in for a… I don’t know, a consultation? And it seems a little weird to me that my hair is loose, because I tend to slick it back so it doesn’t fall out of my ponytail, and, you know, I always have something written on my boots, but otherwise, it’s fine. I doubt anyone here has ever watched a football match, so none of this will matter to them.” 

“It doesn’t bother you that someone might pay millions for a painting that you have deemed not-quite-right?” 

The voice is somewhat too interested, and suddenly Alexia swivels around to face its owner properly, worried she has spoken her mind to a journalist. 

“Those millions go to a charity that will improve women’s sports every–” 

You are definitely not a journalist, although once, when art really wasn’t paying, you had off-handedly typed out a few articles for one of the bigger galleries. 

Alexia knows you are not a journalist because you are dressed to be in front of the cameras, not behind them. 

Your hands hang by your sides, but in a rather unnatural manner as though you are itching to do something else, and she is briefly overcome by the horror that you seem elegant enough to be a potential buyer. Has she put you off? 

“Oh,” you interrupt, “don’t be so profound. Sometimes you footballers sound like change-making machines.” 

“There is change to be made,” she responds indignantly. 

“Hence the exhibition,” you allow with a little smirk, nodding towards the rest of the room. Although the biggest of the collection, you had asked for your painting to be displayed in the corner; a filter, in a sense, to ensure no one throws money at the largest thing in the room just because they can. “It creeps you out to be painted?” 

The question is curious, but Alexia no longer feels like she has been caged in an interrogation room. 

She thinks about her answer for a moment, torn between returning to gaze at the expanse of the scene in front of her or staring at you, wondering if you count as one of the works of art on display. 

“I have never met the artist,” she explains neutrally. You laugh, and it sounds infused with champagne and nervousness. “What? It’s like having a stalker. An extremely talented, creative stalker, but someone who studies me in secret nonetheless.” 

“No, I understand. She must have researched you until the ends of the Earth.” 

“The artist is a woman?” She isn’t sure she is surprised, but she asks you anyway, wanting to anchor you to the spot. 

“Alexia, this is an exhibition for women’s sports.” Your point is valid, but you have said her name and she is far more intrigued by the way that had sounded to praise you for your intelligence. You let out an airy breath and click your tongue. “I’d even say, given by the way she has painted you from the back, that the artist fancies you.”

“It’s the squats,” she easily replies with a giggle. “Who is the artist?” 

You take a step towards her, the sharp points of your heels clacking against the concrete floor. She follows your index finger to the white plaque beside the canvas, reading the name written in small, black letters. 

“I haven’t heard of her.” 

Alexia sounds so thoughtful that you have to hide your smile behind your palm, coughing to provide an excuse for the action. 

“Because you’ve heard of quite a few artists, haven’t you?” 

“I know the main four.” 

“The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles?” 

“No.” 

Again, you laugh, and it is melodious and rich and Alexia wants to hear it for the rest of her life. Which is not normal, she tells herself, because you are some loaded stranger and she is only here for another hour before she can escape back to the pitch and her teammates who like her tattoos and admire her and respect her hard work without seeing her as some tacky social-climber who scrounged an invite to an area of society where she is institutionally unwanted. 

“Picasso,” she then offers, rather petulantly, looking at you with a childish frown. In her head, she estimates the distance between your bodies, noticing how you have not returned to your original position. 

“Ah, well done. He’s quite niche.” She doesn’t appreciate the teasing, and so she steps sideways to… put a stop to it somehow. Obviously, the plan had never truly been formulated, and it comes across as a half-lunge to push you away, but then you are swinging your arms as though the conversation is boring you and she desperately wishes you’d stay put. 

“What do you think about the painting?” she fires into the shortened space between you, the question wrapping around you like a rope that ties you to the spot. 

“It’s boring.” She scoffs, because after all, it is a painting of her. “The poor artist must have been tortured by the task, having to force her eyes to stay open while watching football matches.” 

And if Alexia were not so distracted by the way your swinging hand has begun to brush against her own, she would probably catch you out there and then. 

(But your touch is electric and she is otherwise engaged.) 

“Like, come on, can’t the sports photographers just get their pictures blown up? No one needs such an outrageously huge portrait of Alexia Putellas in their home, or stadium, or whatever. I reckon the artist is now regretting the angle she painted from, anyway, in case some pervert with more money than sense bids for it and hangs it up in his bedroom.” 

“Bedroom?”

The tips of Alexia’s ears go red, a stark contrast to the expensive silver hoops she sports, and you stop your fidgeting, hand resting on top of hers – perhaps unintentionally – as her misunderstanding wedges an awkward pause into the middle of your rant. 

“Sorry,” you apologise, “that was probably not the best thing to say, considering it’s a painting of you.” 

Alexia runs through what you have said, hoping her subconscious has caught it while her mind was preoccupied with what your sexual orientation might be. “Why have you come here if you are so against the principle of it?” 

“I was required to,” you explain, through half-gritted teeth and a jaw that tenses with leftover annoyance from a conversation you had with the coordinator. 

Seizing the opportunity to get a humorous punch back, Alexia quickly fumbles out a, “someone’s important.” 

She’d celebrate her victory over you, the way you blush in embarrassment, if you hadn’t started anxiously playing with her fingers. Suddenly, the air that bridges the gap between you is set alight and Alexia stares at where you are connected. 

You hastily pull away. “Sorry,” you say for a second time. “I have to sell this, and I’m nervous.” 

“Sell wh– The painting?” 

“No, Alexia, I’ve been sent by Real Madrid to hold you hostage so I have to sell this act.” Briefly, fear washes over the footballer’s face, tanned skin paling at the idea that you have a weapon concealed in the satin folds of your dress. Then, your hand makes a decisive movement and your fingers are intertwining with hers before she can run to safety. “I thought it was best to lure you in by flirting with you.” 

“You’ve been… flirting with me?” 

“God, imagine if I actually were here to kidnap you.” You hold up your joined hands so that she can see for herself. “Is your weakness women who bully you?” 

She blushes again, unsure how to handle what you have insinuated. 

Alexia grasps onto what little dignity remains and straightens herself, shoulders rolling back as she emulates the confidence she has been painted with. “Only pretty women,” she drawls. 

She is about to use whichever line appears in her mind first, completely unashamed by it because she has guessed you would tease her no matter what leaves her mouth, but some evil, cruel person clinks a small fork against their glass, clearing their throat, and your hands quickly return to your body, your attention drawn away from the conversation. 

“Thank you all for coming,” announces the event coordinator, clearly gearing up for a speech. “There will be time for more chatting later, but I cannot resist showing off our most talented artist any longer.” 

You roll your eyes. The expression is directed at Alexia, who chuckles privately, sunshine blooming in her chest that you have spared a silent comment just for her. 

“Y/n, darling, where are you?” 

An authoritative gaze searches through the crowd and lands on you.

The dots connect, Alexia begins to feel like an idiot, and you are sashaying away before she can ask you to stay.

[pedge-page]

Himbo joel is definitely into humping

Call this bitch humpty dumpty because all he DOES is hump anything reader has when she's not home.

Warnings: humping, pillow humping, dry humping, public humping, cumming in pants, cum eating, mommy kink, typed out on my phone at lunch and not proof read one bit

18 + ONLY

- - - -

He loves curling up in her bed, sniffing her bedsheets and pillow case. The remnants of your scent sending rivers of arousal right down to his cock until its stiffening. Can't help but hump the matress as he inhales your smell.

The need is so strong that he pushes your one pillow between his knees, the other right in his face. Lying down on his stomach and smashing his nose into it as he start experimentally grinding down on the soft plushness. He groans with a laugh. You'll be mad, no doubt, but so long aa he can enjoy it, he'll just be sure to put it right back.

He keeps rocking his hips into the pillow, suffucating his thick length. It encompassed it perfectly. Just the right amount of pressure to make him grunt with each roll. He props himself on his knees a little higher and angles the pillow to bend taller. The position nudges his balls effortlessly. He whimpers face down into your sheets, his teeth tearing into the fabric with damp Saliva forming while he Bounces along the pad. "M-mommy," he whines, wafting the scent of your sweat and shampoo. He fucked you right here just a couple hours ago but he'd give anything to plunge his length into your soft sweet wet tight pussy right now.

Fuck, it's cruel you leave him like this. Mommy is so cruel sometimes and he doesn't always understand it. Maybe he should be bad, make you spend time with him (punish him) and remind him why he needs to be kept close at all times.

His jaw drops as he stills and starts cumming in his pants. Creamy white slick pours through his sweats and begins to seep into the soft once dry pillow below him. It feels so fucking good, making a mess just for you that he pushes his crotch further in and slowly rubs his cum into your pillow. Sticky and wet, Joel smears it all over like a giddy Painter who's satisfied with his art.  He knows he should clean up before you come home, but he can't bring himself to care. Instead, he keeps his softened cock messy cum covered pants and pillow tightly wedged against him and falls alseep wrapped up in your distant presence.

-

When they are together, and he's too horny just looking at her and begging Mommy to take him home and let him have you, he pulls you close in a crowd and humps your legs or ass. Just enough that it looks like swaying. But the immediate relief he gets from the burning ache in his jeans does wonders to calm yet agitate his brain further.

"Stop it," you whisper warningly. Not even looking his way as you try to brush him off. But joel just takes your hand below and presses it against his Jean clad errection, grinding himself into your palm with a slutty sigh.

He likes brushing his cock against your jeans. The curve of your butt providing the perfect cavern to put his tented cock, rolling up and down on his heels or back and forth with little pats in each Crash.

"Cum in your pants and you're getting punished tonight, you threaten. He has to hide his smirk as he pushes himself fully against you and starts shivering, undoubtedly spilling his load right into his trousers with a raspy groan only for you to hear.

Hes so bad sometimes. He does it on purpose. You know it. He knows it. And he knows you won't do anything right now in public in front of others.

You grin and drag your pointer along his bulge, now slowly dampened with cum. He jitters from your touch, watching with parted lips and hazy eyes as you push your digit into your mouth and hum.

His mouth twitches, ans he can already feel his dick pulsing again with excitement, just thinking of the million ways you're going to make him suffer tonight for directly disobeying Mommy in front of everyone.

Anyway what yeah himbo!Joel likes humping and stuff.

- - - -

Taglist

@harriedandharassed @lola8888673 @its-nebuleuse @zliteraturehoe @merz-8 @joeldjarin @pascalscoffin @pedroshotwifey @ghostslillady @innerpersonunknown @missladym1981 @mrsoharaxx @survivingandenduring @milla-frenchy @cockykookiee @fairytale07 @daddy-din @pedropascalsbbg @spookyxsam @somehopeatlast @millercontracting @pedrostories @mishala005 @theoraekenslover @animez96 @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @puduvallee @cassiecasluciluce @loohoop

[ham-st4r]

𝓳𝓾𝓼𝓽 𝓪 𝓬𝓪𝓵𝓵 𝓪𝔀𝓪𝔂 𝓹𝓽.3 - 𝓛. 𝓗𝓮𝓮𝓼𝓮𝓾𝓷𝓰

📞 Pairing: heeseung + female reader!

Warnings: smut, phone sex, mutual masturbation, dirty talk, cursing.

Genre: PSO (phone sex operator) heeseung.

Summary: too lazy to make one honestly :/ but y’all know the drill probably a couple errors in here too my bad 😣

Number of words: 1,981k

Feel like this is turning into my other work “cyber sex” and I’m highkey disappointed but I hope y’all will still like it

Pt.1 pt.2

Find your way around!

“You always make me feel so good, angel.” You hear Ethan panting on the other end after what had been nearly two hours of being on the phone doing and saying things that you never even dreamt of until you found him.

Despite your initial plans of not calling him back, you found yourself coming home from school the very next day and doing just that. You felt pathetic about it, using what little money you had scraped up from your part-time job just to have phone sex with a guy that was probably millions of miles away, and to top it off, he was probably also laughing all the way to the bank with the ridiculous amount of money you had already spent on these risque calls.

You shifted uncomfortably on your bed, pulling up your soaked panties and fixing your disheveled skirt.

“You had a good time, too, right?” He asks a bit hesitantly because of your sudden silence. He knew it always got a little awkward after you both came together, but you’ve never been this quiet after.

“Yes, Ethan. It always is,” you reply quietly, and he smiles from ear to ear on the other end, happy that you’re just as satisfied as him. You cleared your throat softly before speaking again. “Ethan, you don’t always have to pretend that you’re into it too. I’m fine with you just guiding me,” you say shyly, but it was the truth. You didn’t want him pretending that he was enjoying himself when he clearly wasn’t.

“W-what?” He asks, completely and utterly puzzled by your statement.

You giggle softly, finding it amusing how he tried to act like he didn’t know what you were saying, but it didn’t surprise you cause he’d always been professional at his job. “Ethan, I know you’re not really enjoying it, and that’s fine.”

He just laughs on the other end. “Angel, I think enjoying would be an understatement. I fucking love it when you call me. Love how sweet your moans sound in my ear, and you know what I love most?”

Your face feels hot from his words alone, but you’re still not convinced he’s telling you the truth, especially cause his job was all about pleasing people. He was probably just saying what you wanted to hear. “What, Ethan?” You ask him.

“Love hearing you cum for me,” he sighed softly, looking at the mess of cum all over his chest and stomach. “More than you know,” he whispers.

“Ethan, It’s fine if you do-“

“Angel, let me prove it to you, yeah?” He cuts your words, his voice sounding a little desperate to get you to believe him.

“How?” You question, not taking a moment to stop and even process what exactly is happening, only curious to figure out how he’s gonna prove to you that he’s telling you the truth.

“Do you have any socials? I would ask for your number, but I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.” he chews on his biting lip, hoping he wasn’t coming off as some type of creep, but this is the only way he could think of to prove it to you.

Your heart rate picks up as you mutter your social to him, hoping it wasn’t a mistake giving your account to some random stranger. Well, not exactly random, but a stranger nevertheless.

“That’s my Angel,” he said softly and quickly typed in your account, following you at light speed.

Without thinking rationally, you immediately accept his follow request and open up a DM from him, anxious to see what it says.

Ethan: Hi angel!

You smiled when you saw what he sent. It was a picture of his palm that read angel on it with a little heart drawn next to it.

But before you swooned over him too hard, that could have been anyone’s hand, so you weren’t so quick to believe him just yet.

You: 🤨.

You typed out your reply, and you hear him laughing softly on the other end.

“Still not convinced, huh, angel? Fine, tell me what you want. I’ll do anything to prove it to you. You have every right to be apprehensive.” Your timidness wasn’t at all surprising by now. After a few calls with you, he was well aware that he had to take things slow, which was fine by him.

“Uhh, maybe a picture of your face?” You say more like a question, and it comes out sounding more than offensive. “I-I mean, n-not like- I wasn’t trying to be rude or anything, it’s just- ” you sigh, deciding to just give up on trying to explain yourself, and you hear him laugh once again as you whine in defeat.

“You’re so cute. Fine angel, my face you shall get” he opened his front-facing camera and put his hand in front of his mouth, palm open so you could see the word that he had written prior, and what better way to prove that he was l telling the truth than to show the residual cum coating his upper body from your guys not so quick session earlier.

Your breath hitched the moment you saw it, and your hands fumbled on your phone, trying to exit the screen, shocked by the image you saw. It’s not that you didn’t like it, but it was so unexpected.

So unexpected that not only did you accidentally screenshot it, but you hung up on him as well.

He heard the rustling on your end before everything went silent. “Angel?” He peeked at his phone, seeing that the call had been disconnected. He almost had a heart attack before he realized he could quickly get a hold of you because of your shared socials.

Ethan: Hope I didn’t scare you off ☹️

He anxiously awaited your text. Minutes passed, and you still hadn’t replied. He wanted to say something, but he didn’t want to pressure you into responding if you didn’t want to.

You clutched your chest, face completely on fire from the picture he sent, and you shamelessly eyed every single last inch of his body that was in the frame, and he looked so hot.

While you were having your fun, he was having a complete meltdown, especially cause he saw that you had saved the picture.

Were you sending it to your friends? Were you laughing at him because he looked stupid? Did you find it disgusting?

Ugh

You probably did. Why did he think sending you a picture of him covered in his cum would be attractive?

Speaking of, he got up and went to the bathroom, wiping himself completely clean. Hopefully, by the time he was finished, you would have responded.

That was wishful thinking cause when he looked at his phone, he could see that his message was left on read.

He had the right mind to just block you and save himself the embarrassment, but it kinda was too late for that already.

Ethan: You there? 😬

The ding on your phone finally brought you back to reality, and you quickly typed a reply.

You: Yes

You felt bad you just left him waiting, but how could you be calm and collected enough to type a coherent reply after what he had just sent you?

He sighed in relief now that you had finally replied.

Ethan: So, is that proof enough that I’m not faking it?👀

You cupped your mouth, head hanging low in embarrassment because you practically called him a liar earlier.

You: Yes, sorry for not believing you 😞

Ethan: It’s okay, my angel girl 😘 so I saw you took a screenshot of the picture.. does that mean you liked it👀

You: Screenshot?

You reply confused

Ethan: Angel, you don’t have to pretend you didn’t. It’s fine

Your eyes nearly bulged from your sockets when you saw his reply because you didn’t screenshot anything.

You: Ethan, I didn’t

You told the truth you’d never screenshot anything without his consent.

Ethan: You sure? 🤨📸

He took a screenshot of his screen, clearly showing the part where it said you had taken a screenshot.

You: No…

Ethan: 🤥 yes

He sent back, laughing hysterically because why were you lying over something so trivial? Sure, if anyone else had taken a screenshot, he would have minded, but it was just you, so he wasn’t mad about it. He even thought it was kinda cute, in a way.

You: You calling me a liar? 🧐

Ethan: I never said that. I said, “🤥”

You: That’s the same thing!!?

Ethan: No, it’s just 🤥

You: I didn’t.

You stood your ground, but that screenshot of you clearly saving the picture was not helping your case. It was clear evidence.

You: You know what? fine, I’ll screenshot my gallery and send it to you.

Ethan: K 😌 I’ll give you time to delete it.

You ignored him and went into your gallery, and low and behold, that picture was the most recent one, and the pieces slowly came together.

Fuck.

Ethan: I’m waiting 🤥

You: Umm… so about that

Ethan: You did, and it’s fine, Angel. I’m not mad. I’m glad you liked it enough to want to keep it forever 🙈

You: Hear me out, I took it on an accident.

Ethan: 🥱🤥

You: STOP 😩 When you sent the picture, I was fumbling with my phone and accidentally took it. It was never my intention to save it. I’d never save a picture of you.

Ethan: Never? OUCH 😔

You: No, no, no, that’s not what I meant. I meant without your consent, of course.

Ethan: So you would? 😃

You: Yesn't?

Ethan: Yes or no?

You: I mean, I wouldn’t be opposed to it…👀

Ethan: So yes? Okay then!

Before you could reply, he had already sent you another attachment, one that made your face heat up by a thousand degrees.

Ethan: You can save that one, too, angel. I like the idea of you having me in your phone 🥰

You hesitated for all of a second to save it, not thinking about the fact that you’d have a random bulge pic in your gallery, but who cares? That would only be between you and him.

Ethan: That was fast. You’re making me blush🤭

You: And you’re turning me on 😶

Heeseung had to look at his screen again, a blank look on his face as he blinked a few times to make sure he was reading that correctly. That wasn’t the angel he knew. How the heck were you so shy over the phone and so bold over text?

Ethan: I can show you more, you know? That’s if you want it.

He’d be lying if he said his boxers weren’t becoming taut. He’d also be lying if he said his heart wasn’t racing in his chest cause it most definitely was cause he was literally about to bare it all to you.

You: More of what?🫣

Ethan: More of this

He took another pic. This time, his underwear around his thighs, his semi-hard cock resting in his palm while he turned the flash on so you could see the scribble of your nickname next to his cock, which had already grown more than an inch.

You: 😳

Ethan: Don’t get shy now. That’s exactly what you wanted, and we both know it, Angel.

You: I know, it’s just so….

You can’t believe a single picture of his cock could have you so turned on. You were heating up down there, and the faint pulse between your legs only amplified the longer you stared at it. He was so big and thick you nearly drooled at the sight on your phone screen.

Ethan: So???

He pulled his underwear back up while waiting for your reply.

You: Big 🫣

He smirked reading your text, and he swears you were the cutest little thing ever, so shy yet so bold he liked that about you a lot.

Ethan: That’s not even as big as it gets 🤫

You: Oh? So, just how big does it get, Ethan? 😝

Ethan: FaceTime me and find out 👀

Thank you for reading. Please reblog and leave feedback. - 🐹

Permanent taglist🔖 @hee-pster @hoyeonheeseung @furious-eagle @heehoonsnemo

Just a call away taglist🔖 @heeseungshim @rayofsunshineeee @fakeuwus

[bandgie]

That Seungmin ficccc 😍, if you can/ are comfortable with it can you do a mini part two when he does use y/n in her sleep, and slightly gaslights her into thinking it is a dream. Only if your comfy with that type of stuff. Amazing writing tho, have a good day!! 💙☺️

a/n: hi anon yes! thank you so much (fic anon is referring to here)

warnings: MDNI 18+, NONCON SOMNO, intoxication (fem!&male!), just read the ask man

1.1k words

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡

Truthfully, Seungmin just liked watching you sleep. It was just relaxing to him. How gently your chest would rise, how still you would be deep in slumber. You looked peaceful, content, pretty.

Just like now, though Seungmin's intentions are far less endearing. Both of you had drank a decent amount last night due to the baseball game on. No, you didn't know a whole bunch about the sport, but you'd never pass the opportunity to have a drink or two.

He's kneeling at your bed, watching your face. He's making sure there's no sign of you waking up, no twitch in your eyebrow to indicate that you're still somewhat awake. Seungmin deems you sound asleep once he blows on your face and you give no reaction.

Standing to his feet, Seungmin makes his way to the foot of the bed. He carefully places a knee on the bed, feeling how the cushion dips under his weight. He pauses for a few seconds before continuing, crawling over your lower half.

You're laying flat on your back, head turned to the side with your hands limp besides your head. Your nude legs are slightly parted, a simple underwear covering your cunt. Seungmin can see the mound, the sight making his mouth water.

He manages to get on his knees. Seungmin wastes no time in pulling his boxers down, pulling out his flaccid cock. 

This is wrong. This is dirty. Yet, he can't find it in himself to stop as he pulls your panties to the side. 

Fuck, you're so pretty. Your pussy lips tucked nicely, clearly not aroused in the slightest. Mindlessly, Seungmin pumps himself with his other hand. No amount of cameras could compare to the beauty of your physical body. So warm, so soft, so pliant. 

Seungmin carefully hovers over you just enough so the tip of his cock can rub against your clit. He quietly moans at the feeling of your hot cunt, daring to dip his dick just a little deeper.

Then you move, a quick jolt in your leg. 

He freezes, holding his breath as he patiently waits for you to stop moving. 

Idiot, he thinks. Of course she'll wake up.No, no. Not if you're careful.

Seungmin pulls his cock away from your cunt and replaces it with his thumb. Maybe his dick is too much, he might just as to settle with using his hand. 

He rubs your nub in gentle circles, round and round until he starts doing it to himself. 

What are you doing!? He screams at himself internally. Stop before you get caught! You won't get caught. The other voice soothes him. If you just do it slowly, she'll stay asleep.

The internal battle in Seungmin's mind persists. It seems as though he has a winner though, because his thumb had grown gold and dipped a little further. 

He can feel your entrance, how it slightly twitches. Seungmin has one hand rubbing your pussy and the other hand rubbing his cock. It's so easy for him to get lost in the feeling of your warm cunt and his building pleasure. He doesn't even seem to notice how much harder he's begun to rub circles and how you've started to stir awake. 

"Ughhh," you groan tiredly. It takes a long time for your eyes to adjust to the darkness. Your head slightly pounds from your abrupt wakefulness. You have to blink a few times before you make out the figure over you. 

"Seung?"

Oh shit. He stops. A million excuses run through his mind when he locks eyes with you. What should he say? What should he do? He can hear that same voice in his head saying 'I told you so' while the other is desperately trying to come up with lies.

"Sleeping," he finally manages to say. "It's just a dream. Shh~, go back to sleep."

You would normally question your dream Seungmin further, but the sleepy paradise you were in calls to your attention more. You nod drowsily, "Mmm, k." You lay your head comfortably on the pillow, relaxing your legs to let dream Seungmin continue.

"Feels good," you hum.

To say that Seungmin is shocked would be an understatement. He can't bother to move as he watches you fall back asleep. It looks as though you're smiling, as if happy he's there violating you. Maybe you are happy, you did say it felt good after all.

As a test, Seungmin places his tip back into your pussy, waiting to see you move.

You don't.

There's no patience in him while he humps you. His length sinks low enough to collect your slick before bringing it back up to your clit. Everything's gotten slippery, making it all the easier for Seungmin to glide his cock against you.

He uses one hand to apply pressure on his dick. He softly groans at the feeling. Seungmin's hips move at a quick pace, a complete 180 from how gentle he was previously being. This time, he wants to hear you, he wants to see how your body reacts to him.

Putting it in may be a bit too much. There's no way he could find his way out of that one. Even then, Seungmin is more than content to use with you like this.

You've started to move just a bit more. Hips jolting upwards and mewls leaving your tired lips. Your reactions get Seungmin riled up. The last remaining underwear you have is getting soaked in both of your arousals. It's soon to be soaked with his cum from how close he's getting.

Seungmin voices a sequence of moans before finishing on your cunt. The ropes of cum color you pussy a pretty milky white, your panties sharing the same hue. He uses his cock to spread the orgasm even more, watching how your pussy twitches from the stimulation.

It's not enough for Seungmin to get his cum on your clit no, he needs to put in you too.

With a slender finger, he collects droplets of cum before it vanishes deep into your cunt. He prods at your opening before sliding his finger in. 

Seungmin gasps at the feel of your pussy, how much it's convulsing. He feels bad for leaving it neglected. You wanted something to clench on so desperately, you're taking just one of his fingers so eagerly.

He thrusts the cum deep inside you, wiggling his digit within your walls. 

You whine when he pulls away, slipping your stick underwear back on. Seungmin shoves his half-hard dick into his boxers before getting off the bed. He makes sure to cover you with your sheets, he doesn't want you getting sick.

He does, however, leave you confused in the morning. You're sitting in crusted underwear from what you can only assume is your own cum. And a weird, vivid memory of Seungmin.

a/n: hope you liked it! and happy thanksgiving lmaoo

[tojis-favorite]

TOJI AS YOUR R&B SINGER! BOYFRIEND

(i love giving toji random occupations)

HEADCANONS UNDER CUT

Okay first let's talk about the type of music he would make first. I feel like he would make music like a mixture of bryson tiller and partynextdoor (LISTEN).

The music he would make would be talking about your relationship and most of it would be sexual but not overbearing. It would just be the perfect amount (i’m going to link some songs at the end <3) .

He’s a rising artist, he started out by posting songs on youtube and they would get a decent amount of attention. When he released his mixtape someone had posted a snippet from one of his songs on twitter and he started BOOMING. He has about 3 millions followers on instagram and the more music he puts out the more fame he gains. Which he can find overbearing sometimes.

So far he has done features with Lil Baby, Lakeyah, and Gojo (🤭). He tries not to do too many features at one time because he doesn’t want to be overpowered by the artist he works with; he wants to be known for his voice, not for the people he works with.

ON TO YOUR RELATIONSHIP!

You have been with him since the BEGINNING. You guys had started dating when you were in highschool. You were a freshman and Toji was a Sophomore. You were friends with a popular group but you weren’t necessarily popular yourself. Toji saw how we were not in the mix a whole lot and he liked that about you.

Anytime you would sleep over at Toji’s house he would sing you to sleep without even realizing it until you would wake up the next morning and would tell him. With the start of your relationship the love that he had for you was beautiful and he would find himself writing about it (all of it).

For your birthday he had sung you one of the songs and that's when you told him that he needed to start taking music more seriously because you could see the talent in him. So he did. Now you're in your Sophmore year of College and he decided not to go to college due to him being on his rise to fame (best believe he is paying your tuition, dorming, and books).

Everyone knows you're in a relationship. Toji did not try to hide your relationship from anyone, especially when he started to get more recognition. He loves to just randomly post you on his story and he has a tattoo of your name on the side of his neck in cursive so people know you are serious.

NSFW (these are all different occasions)

First things first STUDIO SEX (omg). Toji goes to the studio at night most of the time and that’s usually when your day comes to an end. Once he sees that you made it back to your shared apartment he sends you an uber to the studio.

“Thank you,. have a good night sir!” You said as you stepped out of the uber and made your way to studio 15 which Toji informed you of earlier. “Baby i’m here” you said in a sing-song voice as you opened the door to the studio. He was all alone. The lights in the room were red as your boyfriend sat in a chair playing around with the track that was currently playing.

Turning around in the chair a smile spread across his face before he pulled you into a hug. “Hey pretty, how was your day?” looking at him you struge “It was okay, I just went to class and went out with Mina after and then I went home and now here I am.”

Grabbing your face, Toji presses a kiss to your lips as you grasp onto your shoulders. Just by kissing him you could tell that he was frustrated as his tongue explored your mouth while his hands traveled to your ass. Pulling away he keeps his hold on you as he kisses your neck. “I really need my muse right now, can you help me baby?” Your boyfriend asked as he started to pull off the pants you hand on along with your panties.

Wrapping his hands around your thighs takes you into the next room with the microphone. Walking over to the microphone he pulls down his grey sweatpants and lines his cock with your entrance make sure to support the bottom of your ass you bounced on his cock your arms wrapped around his shoulders holding on to him.

“Fuck Toj-mhm your so deep.” You moaned as he started kissing your lips. “Your so fucking pretty y/n, cum on your cock.” Squeezing your eyes shut you feel your orgasm approaching as Toji starts to move faster as you curl your toes. You try to bite on his shoulder to shield the sound until you feel a sharp sting on your ass.

“I want to hear you cum on my cock little muse, fuck-ing give it to me.” He said in a groan as he started to cum. “Oh my gosh im cuming” you announced as you started to shake on top of him as you felt his cum shot inside you. “Thank you so much my little muse” your boyfriend said as his kissed all over your face lovenly.

It was a Saturday night and you were currently with your boyfriend at a club he was hosting for. “Do you want anything else to drink?” You felt a hand on your waist that was your boyfriends. Nodding your head you answer “Can you get me like two shots of Hennessy?”, “Okay i’ll be right back pretty.” he said walking off to the nearest bar.

Shortly after we came back with two shot glasses and watched as you took them back to back. Bending down you feel his lips next to your ear. “You okay baby.” Toji asks you as he fixes some hairs that were in front of your face. “Yeah we don’t have nights like this often so i’m making the most out of it.” You explained looking around at all the lights in the club already feeling the effects of the alcohol.

Suddenly Bring it back by Travis Porter started to play throughout the club which caused you to squeal. With Toji standing behind you, bend over and you start to twerk on him to the rhythm of the song. You could have a bunch of flashes on you as you could hear your friends encouraging you as you feel Toji get hard as he rubbed on your ass through your dress making sure it didn’t go up too high.

You get back up once the chorus is done playing and look up at Toji as he pulls your dress down for you. “Let’s go to the car real quick” He said as he started to guide you out of the section. “Where the hell are you guys going?” one of Toji's friends interaigate you, “Well, be right back Gojo.” He stated rolling his eyes and continued to guide you to the back door.

When you guys make it outside Toji opens the door to the back seat of his car, having you go in first. “Lay down on your back for me, pretty.” Doing what he said you lay down on your back as he closed the door behind him. “You are so incredible, you know that? You can do the simplest shit and you still manage to turn me on more and more, open your legs.” He said his voice was demanding.

Open your legs you gasped as Toji wasted no time leaning over pulling your panties to the side and attaching his lips onto your clit letting out a groan as he did sending electric shocks throughout your whole body. “Oh my gosh Toji you're making me feel so good.” You said as you held on to his hair for support your eye rolled back into your head as your heels pressed into Toji’s back.

Moving your hips against his face he puts two fingers inside of you as he licks on your clit being able to see that you're about to cum. He gently bites down on your clit before groaning to your pussy which sends you into overdrive as you start to cum all over his face as he slurps up all the cream that tries to escape you with a smile.

Breathing through your nose you stare up at your boyfriend from on your knees while you take his cock in your mouth. He had been nervous for the performance at an award show and you had taken him backstage to calm his nerves.

“Your way to good for me my little muse fuck keep doing it like that pretty girl.” He guides you as he puts his hands in your hair, guiding at a slow pace making sure you aren't choking around him. Looking into his eyes you could definitely tell he was more relaxed which made you happy.

Circling your tongue on his tips you see him squeeze his eyes shut before he starts moving his hips toward your face. Opening your mouth wide you grab his cock tapping it on your tongue a few times before taking all of him in your mouth saliva almost covering your whole face.

“I’m cumming pretty, you think you can swallow my cum for me hmm?” Toji let out a few short breaths before he let out a deep groan as he came in your mouth, his hips riding out his orgasm. Swallowing his cum you stand up with the help of Toji and give him a hard kiss to his lips. “You've got this, you've done this before and you're going to do it a million other times.”

“Why are you acting like this pretty girl?” “Because it was disrespectful and you can be to fucking friendly sometimes. You angrily explained to your boyfriend over facetime. Your best friend had just sent you a video of Toji from a meet and greet with a fan.

In the video he kissed the girl's cheek which was completely fine, that's not what you had a problem with. You had a problem with the fact that towards the end of the video the fan turned her head and almost kissed your boyfriend and instead of addressing the problem Toji just laughed it off with the fan.

You guys had talked about him establishing boundaries with his fans and he wholeheartedly agreed. “What did you want me to do? ,Cuss her out?” Sighing, you shake your head understanding what he was saying. “I am going to post something on twitter though just so it doesn't happen again sweetheart.” he said to reassure you as he shifted his camera showing how he was lying in bed.

“Do look even more pretty when you're mad at me,” Toji said with a smile he white teeth biting the bottom of his lips. “What are you wearing?” He asked, smirking as you took the blanket of your body exposing the silk dress you were wearing.

“Fuck your so beautiful.” Your boyfriend let out a breath as you saw him pull his cock out of his boxers. You hide your face smiling when you see the pre-cum escaping out of his tip. “Talk to me pretty.” he said as you could hear he fist go up and down on his shaft.

Look at the camera you set your phone up on one of your pillows as you slowly start to pull the strings off of your shoulder causing your boobs to be exposed, your nipples hard due to them being uncovered.” “Ahh shit show me, show me that pretty pussyb of yours please.” Bending over with your ass toward the camera you open your lips moaning as the cold hits your clit.

Toji damn near came when he saw you put your fingers inside of you fisting the sheets and you moved your fingers faster. “Turn around so I can see your face.” you turn around as you meet with the sight of Toji's chest going up and down as his breathing got harder to viens in his neck and arms bulging.

“I’m cumming pretty- mhh I wish I was there so I could cum on your pretty- fuck face.” groaned as spurts of cum came out onto the camera his phone covered in cum as he saw you cum on your own fingers.`` You need to come back home Toji. I miss you.” You while chasing your orgasm as you saw him wiping camera off with a smile on his face.

“I’ll be home soon pretty.” he informed you with a lazy smile on his face as he watched you slip your straps back onto your shoulders. “I love you Toji” you geeked as you saw the look on his face “I love you more princess.”

BONUS SCENE <3

“TOJI!” you scream as you enter your shared bedroom with him seeing him laying in your bed on his phone. “What’s up pretty girl?” he asked as if he didn't do anything wrong. “Why would you put my moans in the back of your new song that’s so embarrassing” you said crossing your arms over your chest. Standing up from the bed Toji wraps you in a hug laughing.

“No it's not, I think it adds a pretty nice touch to the song and people seem to agree with me seeing as it has 1 million views already.” he said with a cheeky smile on his face. Rolling your eyes you unwrap yourself from him just for him to pull you back into his arm again. “Are you really upset y/n because I could just release another version of the song? He asked, looking into your eyes.

“It’s fine Toji next time let me hear it before you release so I can try to moan better.” You stood on your tiptoes moving your lips toward his meeting you halfway he pressed a kiss to your lips before pulling away. “Your moans are fucking perfect pretty.” He said before throwing you over his shoulders.

“TOJI PUT ME DOWN!”

TOJIS MUSIC

Her way- Party Next Door

Overtime- Bryson Tiller

Break from Toronto- Party Next Door

Let Em’ Know- Bryson Tiller

B.E.D- Jacques

From the City- Party Next Door

Exchange- Bryson Tiller

Or Nah- The weekend, Ty dolla sign, and Wiz Khalifa (he would sing the weekends part 😩)

Drama- Roy Woods ft. Drake

Self Esteem- Lambo4oe ft NLE CHOPPA

A/N should I do Gojo? 😭😩🤭

[corroded-hellfire]

I genuinely wanna know about Brittany and Eddie's story. Like how did they meet? What kind of relationship did they have? Did they actually love each other at one point or were they just irrational horny?

I love that you want to know what led up to the toxicity that we see between the two of them now. That genuinely makes my heart so happy. Showing is easier than telling when it comes to the question “what did of relationship did they have?” so if you have any specific questions or scenarios you’d wanna hear about between them, I would be happy to elaborate! They did genuinely love each other at some point. Was it ever the same point in time? Ever the same amount? All things that are debatable. But yes, they both did truly love one another somewhere along the way. And as for how they met, I know Eddie briefly mentioned it to reader in the past, so I thought I might expand a bit on that here!

Warnings: Brittany cause she needs her own warning tbh, Eddie gets hard cause he’s a dumb young boy, reader is not in this

Words: 1.2k

[As You Wish masterlist]

It’s been a good day for Eddie Munson so far. He came up with a great ending for the campaign he’s been hard at work on, Ms. O’Donnell had a substitute, and Jeff booked a new gig for Corroded Coffin next week. Now, to top it all off, he has one of his best customers meeting him, meaning he’ll score some great cash.

Eddie sits on top of the picnic table, metal lunchbox at his hip, tossing pretzels in the air and trying to catch them in his mouth. Two have hit him in the nose and one in the eye, but for the most part, he’s doing pretty well at it.

Distant giggling catches Eddie’s attention and he puts his baggie of pretzels back into the pocket of his jeans. Chrissy is always a bubbly person but even she doesn’t just laugh to herself for no reason. But she’s not alone, Eddie realizes as he glimpses two green cheerleader skirts approaching through the trees.

Hawkins High isn’t a big school, so Eddie’s seen all the cheerleaders around, even if he couldn’t tell you their names. Honestly, he probably wouldn’t be able to pick out their faces either if they weren’t in their uniforms. Why pay attention when sports are so far out of his realm?

Eddie fiddles with his cross ring as the girls approach and he can hear them talking, laughing over something together. He wonders if the other girl is here to score something too, or just tagging along with her friend. If she’s looking to buy, what could he talk her into?

A twig snaps as Chrissy finally steps into the small clearing, her friend a step behind her.

“Hey, Eddie,” Chrissy says, already reaching into her sweater pocket for the cash.

“Hi,” Eddie greets, but his gaze is already stuck on the second blonde cheerleader. Usually, there’d be a goofy smile on Eddie’s face if he were staring at a girl he was attracted to, but he has enough self awareness in the moment to realize he’s actually giving this girl a pretty charming smile.

Chrissy looks up and sees the two of them looking at one another. Brittany’s smiling right back at Eddie and it’s a smile Chrissy’s seen her friend give a million guys. Sighing as she counts the cash in her hand, Chrissy wonders if she should warn Eddie or if Brittany’s gaze will even stay on the metalhead for more than this afternoon.

“Um, the usual?” Chrissy asks, stepping closer to the picnic table.

No response. Eddie’s attention doesn’t stray from Brittany.

Chrissy purses her lips, silently wondering how long these two can stare at one another before someone busts them out here for doing a drug deal. Sure, no one ever comes out here but if these two don’t stop with the heart eyes, someone is bound to come by eventually. Maybe the cops when the three students never come home from school. Brittany’s parents are definitely the type to panic if they don’t know where their daughter is every minute of every day.

“Eddie?” Chrissy tries again.

“Huh?” Eddie blinks, tearing his gaze from the curvy stranger in front of him. “Oh, right. Uh, yeah. Half ounce? It’s fifteen.”

Chrissy hands him the cash and quickly stashes the small bag of green buds he hands her into the pocket of her sweater.

“And um,” Eddie drawls, eyes traveling back to Brittany, “what about you? Anything I can get you?”

The blonde with the heart-shaped face walks forward, hips swaying with every step. She gazes at Eddie from beneath her perfectly made up eyelashes and gives him a coy smile.

“I don’t think there’s anything in that little black box to satisfy me,” she says, her voice sickly sweet coming from those pretty pink glossed lips.

The sultriness in her tone goes straight to Eddie’s cock.

Swallowing down a groan and trying to conjure visions of Wayne’s old army buddies drunk and rowdy to diffuse his boner, Eddie slaps his ringed hands on his thighs.

“Well,” Eddie says, pushing himself up to stand on the wooden seat of the picnic table. He walks booted heel to toe until he comes to the edge of the wooden plank, then hops down, crushing autumn leaves beneath his feet. “You’ll just have to let me know what I can do to satisfy you, then.” Eddie slips his hands into the pockets of his black jeans and quirks up the corner of his mouth into a smile as he takes a few steps closer to Brittany. “Might even give you a discount.”

“Hmm,” Brittany hums, eyes clearly raking up and down Eddie’s form as she chooses her next words. “That’s a lot to consider. I think I’ll have to take some time to think on that one, Eddie Munson.”

His name on her lips throws him for a loop. Not that he wasn’t well-known around school for one reason or another, but the fact that she knows his name, who he is, and is still standing here flirting with him confounds him. Especially when she doesn’t even want to buy drugs.

“You know my name?” He’s aware it’s not the most suave thing to say, but his curiosity is far too piqued not to inquire further.

“I do,” is her only reply.

Eddie chuckles and presses a hand to his Metallica tee-clad chest.

“Isn’t it only fair I know the name of the fair maiden before me?”

Brittany giggles, her nose scrunching up as she turns her head to look at Chrissy.

“He is a nerd. But it’s adorable,” she says, looking back to Eddie.

Eddie sketches a bow, as if to further prove the point. It makes Brittany giggle again and the sound fills Eddie with excitement.

“I’m Brittany,” she introduces herself. “Brittany Sobachkin.”

Before Eddie gets the chance to say anything, Brittany grabs a black pen from an outer pocket of her backpack and shoves up the sleeve of Eddie’s leather jacket as far as it will go. The tip digs into his skin as she jots down seven numbers, replaces the cap, and puts the pen back in her bag.

“If you come up with anything you think can satisfy me, give me a call,” Brittany says.

Eddie stares at the numbers before lifting his head and nodding at the pretty blonde in front of him.

“I won’t let my brain rest until it comes up with something,” he vows.

Chrissy steps up next to Brittany and loops her arm through her fellow-cheerleader’s.

“Thanks, Eddie,” Chrissy says with a cheerful smile at the man, making it clear to the two others in the space that this is her initiating the goodbye. “Same time next week, yeah?”

“I’ll be here.” Eddie shrugs, turning to look around at the small clearing surrounding them.

“Will I have to wait that long to hear from you?” Brittany asks, lower lip sticking out in a pout.

“Absolutely not,” Eddie says with a bright grin.

“Good.” Brittany steps forwards and takes the pick necklace hanging around Eddie’s neck in between two of her perfectly manicured fingers. “I’ll see you around, Eddie.”

“You know where to find me.” He internally winces, wishing he could’ve come up with something better to say, but the girls are already turning away.

“Bye,” Chrissy trills, waving over her shoulder.

Eddie lifts one hand out of his pocket to give a single wave in return.

Once Eddie can no longer hear the girls’ fading footsteps in the leaves or twigs, he lets out a loud, large sigh, and collapses back against the picnic table.

“Well, fuck,” he says to himself with a small laugh. “I’m gonna marry her someday.”

[precious-little-scoundrel]

Dear John || Something Borrowed

Masters of the Air fanfiction

Summary: Upon the sudden stop of all their correspondence, Miss Lana Tierney finds herself bereft of her pen pal John Egan’s support -not however, without him first having made a heavy declaration and entrusted her with a precious bit of himself. Battling Tinsel Town’s awful labyrinth of censors, agents, and an ever disloyal mother, Lana seeks to find John, and having once found him, to remind him of his promise to try. Meanwhile in Stalag Luft III, Major Gale Cleven may loiter at his incriminating radio longer than strictly necessary in hopes of hearing a voice that would bring his best friend a shred of hope.

My many thanks to: Christi and Ashley for endless amounts of encouragement and advice and enrichment of the plot, y’all are invaluable darlings and precious friends. To Bri who has been the brains and requests behind the concept and the beating heart behind giving Bucky a love of a lifetime

Warnings: 18+ disturbing content. Not so much war focused but rather Hollywood in the 40’s which can be horribly gruesome itself. We are happily ripping off Lana Turner’s real story for much of this, and so in this chapter you will find mentions of certain harrowing abuses she endured. Such as: brief references to a forced, studio-required abortion, bugging of a woman’s room, arranged engagements, drugging, hinted sexual exploitation, willing current sexual favors in return for a role, Bucky going a little nuts as a POW, Lana’s mother being the worst, John Huston making a cameo that will probably make you wanna punch the guy. It’s ok, the real fella deserved it. Go ahead. Again, nothing explicit, didn’t wanna get all yucky but these themes are prevalent in here in passing.

Word count: a whopping 8k

Character name reminder: Julie Jean Turner goes by the Hollywood alias of “Lana Tierney”

Lana lay abed and stewed. She was past grief, or perhaps it was easier explained that Grief and her sisters, Denial and Betrayal, were more of Julie Jean Turner’s privilege. Miss Lana Tierney, academy hopeful and box office gold, had little left but rage and the moist silk of her pillow pressed to her burning cheek.

“What an awful few days it’s been.” she’d allowed herself to say a few weeks back.

The Julie Jean of that week didn’t know the meaning of the word.

Life was bad enough then, back when he called, but his voice cured everything from her terrible week. Vincent and the engagement and the studios, all of it. But then came a letter, one written awfully like a goodbye, and another one after it but all of them were little provisions for if he were to go down.

Scribbled hours before going up.

“I love you, I know it’s a lot to spring on a gal who’s just doing her bit and keeping me happy but I do. It’s an awful type of love, Julie, very tight fisted and I think I only love you because you love me so well in your way. I don’t think that’s the sort of love to do anybody any good, but I’d regret not saying it, beginners can’t be haughty. Here I wanted to stick my toe in and you gobbled the whole leg, and I love you. I love you for it. I love you.”

She’d rubbed over his signature, not a bit of cursive in that scrawled -John- a million times.

And then, just like that, just like what had happened to her friends and a million women across the world- his letters simply stopped. Julie Jean learned elsewhere he’d been shot down for weeks by the time she’d gotten the last one. It was hard to have finally heard his voice and known of his purpose, but now? -a dead silence that had a voice and face and love attached to it. It was agony of a sort she’d never known and was made worse by the loneliness in her secrecy of not being able to mourn it aloud.

She moaned into the mess of her pillowcase and ignored Bertha's fifth knock of the afternoon. Who’d recognize the glamorous Miss Tierney now? Pitiful and tear streaked and pale from blood loss. She still lay on a chucks pad the studio nurse had rolled her onto, a feeble trickle still seeping between her legs. Curled on her side with eyes glinting at the afternoon sun, she seethed at one more thing taken from her.

Lana could hardly stand it. But she had to try. She’d made John promise he would. They’d promised each other, and somehow she hadn’t any doubts that wherever he was, he was trying.

“Miss Tierney?” That was Herbert’s voice and Jean rolled her eyes at the predictability of this household. After not answering Delores they sent in Bertha and upon not answering Bertha here was Herbert and if she didn’t answer him, her mother might manage to rouse herself and drive over.

“Come in Herb, if you must.” she groaned, hand outstretched and patting blindly for a cigarette on her nightstand.

Her old driver came in with an unusually light step, it bespoke a sympathy for her plight that Jean would have preferred a thousand times never to read on his usually persnickety face. “How are you holding up after -“ he stood awkwardly at the foot of her bed as Jean rummaged and when she sat back with cigarette and holder in hand, she found him looking down at her with such concern she nearly threw the lamp at him. “Tonsillitis, huh?” he hummed sympathetically.

“Oh yes, nasty bout.” she lied merrily, the ache in her violated womb protested her move to sit up. “They had to take them clean out.” it was the only printable explanation for her ailment.

“Yeah.” Herb had been a renowned stuntman before he’d been demoted to driver, and before stuntman he’d been a soldier in the trenches and before that he’d been a clerk. If anyone knew about coat hangers and poor girls held down to be kept forever virginal and ever in use, Herb knew. Herb had warned her even, told her what a sick racket they ran here in Tinsel Town. Much good it did her, she was in too deep before she knew she had so much as stuck her toe in.

Rather like Bucky in love, apparently, and that thought made her madly blink away a stupid rush of tears.

“What’s that?” she pointed at the parcel she just now noticed was tucked under his arm.

“Oh, this? Chocolates. Here, my lighter miss?” Whatever was under Herbert’s arm wasn’t shaped like any chocolates she knew and Jean was about to give him a talking to for being insipid when her mood was so poor but then she saw him press a warning finger to his lips. He walked around the side of her bed and indeed pulled out a lighter, metal and rude and no doubt a relic of the first war, and flicked it for her to light up. Bending down he smelled of tobacco himself when he took the unprecedented liberty of whispering in her ear: “They bugged the room during your operation, Miss. Must be careful. Especially if you want to keep your gift.”

He pulled away and looked down at her sorrowfully before quietly laying the dirty brown package atop her pristine sheets. Mother had them changed after the bloodbath of the…operation. They were spotless before and now they were sooty. That pleased her.

Jean forgot to look away from him. She was startled and upset by the news but she didn’t doubt it. They’d probably bugged the phone ages ago, god knows they’d stop at next to nothing and she did so want to keep something for herself. If she couldn’t have a baby, her baby, then she’d keep a parcel, damn them all. Then a cold feeling of dread filled her and she thought to grab at her books and look for the hidden letters.

Gone. Mother. It must’ve been mother, it was her sort of thing to have rifled through Lana’s things while she was being operated on and found them and took them and-

The rage spurred her to look down at what Herb brought her, cigarette forgotten between her quivering lips. She expected it to be from him, a little pep up. Perhaps a doll or a stuffed animal to cheer her. But no, this parcel in its plain brown wrapping had come from afar, smudged and delayed a million times judging by its redirected stamps -and she’d know that writing from anywhere.

Her Johnny.

Julie Jean’s little gasp let slip the cigarette from her mouth but not before Herb caught it from singeing the sheets. He was quicker than anyone gave the old man credit for, banged up head or not. “Thought that might cheer you.” he grinned in that begrudging way of his, as if he were cross at the joy made manifest on his face.

“I’m scared.” she admitted in a whisper, hands hovering over the brown twine strings. Whatever was inside was squishy and giving. And whatever it was, John had sent it before he’d been shot down. But still, somehow it felt like a gift from him on this, the worst day of her life. Like he was sending some comfort even from hell on earth and without a clue of her own dispair. Herb seemed to read it the same way, and that’s how Jean knew she wasn’t being a delusional, hysterical wreck, if that crusty old sod knew its significance in coming today, then it was plain as the irregular nose on his face.

“Scared of chocolate?” His tease covered a strong reminder for her to watch her words.

“Mm, yes, what if there’s raspberry filled ones?” she whispered back. “You know how I can’t abide raspberries.”

“Guess you’ll just have to be brave and see.” he nudged her.

Nodding her head solemnly, Jean tugged apart the twine that had kept John Egan’s package together for an entire transcontinental delivery. It fell away with a crinkling sound and she found folded upon it, without a bit of fuss or wrapping, the oddest piece of cloth. Almost a patchwork of pale leather and a zipper and -Jean’s throat closed as her hand descended and felt along the soft fluff of a sheepskin collar.

He didn’t. He didn’t send her his jacket? Surely —

Herb made a noncommittal noise beside her which sounded awfully like some touched sorta gasp at the sight, but as it was Herb and he had a tobacco wad where he should have had a heart, so he must’ve been coming down with the same cold that landed Lana in tonsil surgery.

Hands shaky and heart hammering, Jean reached in and pulled the garment out, a tiny little note fluttered out. Someone else’s penmanship. “To the care of Jean Turner, until it can be retrieved by Major Egan.”

“Oh god.” she felt like sobbing before pressing her face into the sweat fumed plushness of it. “Johnny. Johnny. Johnny.” she kept his name buried in his jacket, secret like his gift and his love and his comfort and her desires. Eyes and mouth muffled into the darkness of something that was his. She felt Herb’s gentle hand pat on her head and the following click of the latch as he went out.

“Mister Vincent called to say there’s dinner and photographs scheduled for tonight, Miss Tierney.” he informed her levelly before he left and her ears were not so buried in Air Force Shearling she couldn’t hear of her doom. “There’s been some speculations -they want to smooth it over. Bertha was trying to pass it on.”

Bertha wanted to wipe off whatever remaining blood was on her and primp all signs of coercion off her devastated face, that’s what Bertha was here for. Jean vaguely wondered if her mother’s clenching hand print still lingered on her cheeks, she rubbed John’s jacket against the soreness of her mouth, muffling her sobs the way her mother’s hand had stifled her screams of pain only hours ago.

Back to work, asap, it would seem. -Bleed down your nylons dear, it’ll be alright, so long as they see a happy face and a lucky new couple.

Vincent. She wasn’t sure how she’d face him, the weekend getaway and his little “test drive” of her had been bad enough, the fact he hadn’t the brains to prevent it from having consequences or the spine to stand up for the life of the child he made- oh, she wondered how she’d manage to down her asparagus in the face of it all. Acting, she presumed, a true talent that had suddenly become a personality since -since? -she wasn’t sure when.

Beside her for months now, stacked beneath the pile of new Runyon books she’d taken out of the library, had been a pile of letters that didn’t have a bit of acting in them. Raw and true and terrible and wanton, each of John Egan’s thoughts tumbled off their confining pages and into her heart in mirrored response to her own. Now mother had them.

Jean wondered where all her own letters to him were, now that he was gone and someone else was in his bunk.

Funny to think of that, the most honest account of herself was most likely moldering in the bottom of some MIA airman’s footlocker.

It was all a bit self indulgent, she admitted even as she stripped out of her bloody gown and down to her bare skin, but she had lost plenty and she needed him: so she slipped him on, soft wool caressing her and stopping the shivers of shock that had wracked her all morning. It smelled so manly and sweaty and terribly real she about swooned at the sensation of having a bit of him next to her. Now she’d seen him -all those darling candid photos in repayment for hers- and she’d heard him -oh that awful, wonderful telephone call right before he disappeared- and now she was smelling him.

Jean would have to bathe and take a handful of aspirin and cinch in her girdle and kiss her fiancée tonight, but for a brief hour she layed in bed naked as a baby with her gift wrapped around her like swaddling clothes.

Vincent came later with the car, one of his father’s for certain, and eyed her choice of outerwear with a sour mouth. Fleece and chiffon was an odd mix but Lana always had been a trendsetter and it was early November, even if it was Los Angeles. Of course, for her the jacket was John, and so she wore him like armor -and if she was wearing it, they couldn’t take it without her knowing.

“I’m cold.” she answered Vin’s unspoken question sharply on the ride over, “I’ve just had tonsil surgery, you may recall?”

“It stinks.” he huffed back, his nose presumptuously nuzzling under her curls and very near the sweat soaked fleece, “Smells like a barnyard.”

What it smelled like was a red blooded American man’s honest days work killing Nazis. But Vincent and his pale hands and arranged medical exemptions weren’t likely to know what that smelled like, so Lana felt compelled to give him a pass. “It’s for the war effort,” she sighed, “we must all make sacrifices. Mr. Warner told me it would be grand press to wear it.”

She’d never spoken to Mr. Warner about much else but weather and her tits, but growing ever more desperate as these days went on, Lana thought perhaps she’d pay him a visit.

“Great press?” Vincent seethed, charmingly one track focused, “The press should be about our engagement! Not the war!”

“Be a realest, dahling,” she soothed, “nothing, not even the great scion of a prestigious family such as yours is half as fascinating right now as ball bearings and top turret production in Greenfield. If we want them to print about our engagement, it’s got to have something to do with the general war, see?“

“Ah, ah I see.” Vincent swallowed her lie well enough, still perturbed at the fracturing of his beloved media attention but consoled that Lana was not aspiring to make him a fool.

Oh how foolish that was of him, Lana hummed to herself as they pulled up to the restaurant, perhaps not tonight or in a week's time. No, for now she was down and out and no doubt about it, but eventually, she’d scramble on top, she had to or she’d be offed eventually by it all. She knew that now, it was plain with each aching step on wobbly legs and each smile of her crimped, anemic face, Vincent’s pliable hand more vice than support on her elbow as she stepped out under Chasens’ green awning.

There was conversation and photographs all through dinner, her agent and a Warner Brothers executive kindly gracing the table with heavy, stilted and very implied conversation. Lana might’ve breathed better in her booth had they held an actual gun to her head and told her to finish her parsnips that way. They were very happy she had recovered from the tonsillitis so well, they were very eager to see her on set bright and early tomorrow, they were very eager that any doubt about how in love she was with the respectable Vincent be ameliorated -a very big word to say with a mouthful of steak- and very hopeful that Lana wouldn’t get any ideas about a repeat of the War Bond tour. Yes the last one had been very effective and the government was pleased, but too much exposure to common crowds had a tendency to lessen the goddess effect, she must be let out to the pubic sparingly, and they in turn must not feel entitled to her in any way.

Such as…reaching out through the post, for example, much less expecting to be answered with anything less standardized than what Bertha might write twenty times over in her name in an afternoon.

“I just want to do my part.” Lana demurred.

“Oh honey, you’ve done your part, and now you’ve got a new part. Make a wish.” And there before her was brought out a cake slice with much fanfare, icing making a pretty little drizzle of words -“speedy recovery Lana, love from everyone at Warner Brothers Studio.”

She’d seen actresses carried out plastered to the four winds on sedative from slices just like this one, chivalrously poured into a waiting backseat of a producer or studio head, taken back to be put to bed. God knows what else happened in those beds. Her nausea returned fourfold and it wasn’t acting when she gasped a need to go to the powder room.

Instead she dashed to the phone, the one in the cubby near the toilets, trying resolutely to ignore the spying eyes of waiters and curious waves of famous guests passing by.

“Pick up, Herb, pick up.” she begged, listening to it ring and ring, then suddenly felt a horrid fear at the realization she’d left the jacket slung over her chair at the booth, with Vincent. “Herb please, please.” she moaned, stomping one well shod foot against the marble floor.

“Hallo?”

“Herb, oh Herb!” Lana gushed urgently on hearing him pick up, “You must come pick me up, they’re onto me with the letters and they’ve brought out cake and- bring a car, Vincent brought his father’s-“

“-Thank yeeew, Herbert, that will be all.” Mother’s affected transatlantic sent shivers down Lana’s spine right as she felt the cold clasp of her rings around her wrist, receiver wrenched effectively from her nerveless hand, “This is a family matter, your services are not required.”

“Mommy dearest.” Lana felt her lips trembling in a odd way that fought against the creeping numbness, “What a pleasant surprise.”

“Would that I could say the same, Lana.” Mother reproved, “To abandon your fiancé without thought? And to find you calling on Herbert, like this were some otiresome fundraiser from which you may carelessly abscond -really. Your behavior is nothing but deplorable lately, I hardly know you. The cost, Lana, think of the cost of it all, this recklessness.”

“Who told you?”

“That you weren’t appreciative of the cake?” Mother smiled shyly, “Alfonso.”

The owner, of course, when he couldn’t get a hand up Lana herself he had become quite partial to mother, loyal to an opulent degree. She suspected that cake more than ever, the phone, too. God there was no getting out of this town, this place, this life.

“Alfonso says you’re distracted,” mother went on, “pale and sniffing some jacket? What has gotten into you?”

“Vincent.” Lana joked miserably and if half of Hollywood wasn’t sat so near, she’s rather sure her mother might’ve struck her.

“You’re going to go back out there, and you’re going to smile for the pictures, and you’re going to like it.” Mother laid out the case, the plan and the rest of her life, “And when we go home you’ll be getting a piece of my mind.”

“Oh really mother,” Lana sighed heavily, “I couldn’t take the last piece.”

The pinch on her arm was familiar of when Lana was a child and refused to sing in yet another talent show - the fifth that weekend. “Your fault for falling ill, now we must make up for lost time.” they were gliding back to the table arm in arm with Lana’s pale skin pinched between mother’s manicure, “Smile, darling, smile and wave.” as they wove between one starry guest and another.

Mother’s gait stalled for one fraction of a moment upon coming up to the table and seeing the bizarre article of clothing hanging over Lana’s chair. “Works better than a mink.” Lana proclaimed quite loudly, giddy enough to attract most male attention around who craned their necks to watch her shimmy it on for a try-on, much to Mother’s feigned amusement. She shimmied in the fleece, chiffon doing little to hide the jiggle of her derrière beneath the jacket’s hem and the flash of a bulb cracked significantly amongst the dinner chatter.

“It’s much too large for you -the sleeves, the shoulders-“

“That’s because it’s a genuine article mother!” Lana preened, satisfied to have caught the eye of the one she wanted as he sat in his booth.

Powerful and dark and lecherous, The Jack Huston stared at her unabashedly over the haze of his cigarette, his own date forgotten, taking in the way the man’s coat dwarfed her little body in a pantomime of covering her physically, masculine leather and zipper in stark contrast to baby soft skin swelling out of her neckline. She knew that look well, one of a man sizing her up for how she’d look beneath him.

Lana smirked at him significantly, squeezing the material around her dreamily and created a significantly more substantial amount of decollage for him to view upon doing so. “Lana, sit down for god’s sake.” Mother was hissing and Lana saw Huston laugh at it, she rolled her eyes and dramatically shrugged, seating herself as asked but refusing to break eye contact with him until he raised his glass in a toast to her brazenness.

“Lana, photographers! Come now! Chin up, smile, smile darling.”

There were so many flashbulbs here it was obnoxious to not only Lana’s throbbing eyes but the other patrons, still a hard launch of a stilted, lab grown relationship was hardly an oddity in Hollywood or its most favored eating spots, and so it was endured.

“Doll, open up,” Vincent cajoled in Lana’s ear, hand kneading her waist and nose pressed to her hair, “practice for the wedding.”

It looked quite humorous if a little uncouth in the papers next day, Lana’s gasping and amused indulgence of her green boy fiancé as he playfully stuffed her mouth with cake in that pitiful tradition of marital provocation.

“Look at my dearest daughter, tonsil surgery yesterday and already, so eager, can’t be kept from dinner with her darling fiancé!”

The world grew fuzzy as Lana did her best to keep the wad of cake in her gums until she could spit the most of it out. “Tell your studio i want compensation for having to share press with the war effort.” Vin was complaining to the executive and Lana felt her world swim, only one single, dire hope remaining -Herb.

She gripped the edges of the jacket tighter and tried to focus. Mother was being called away, taking her leave with a photographed kiss to Lana’s clammy temple -some business with Aunt Lu and that promised check for her swimming pool. Lana had put in a lot of swimming pools for a lot of relatives, she was beginning to lose track between the pools and the houses and the cars and the wardrobes and always -“it’s family, Lana, they depend on you. Chin up, smile, smile darling, smile for the cameras, there’s my golden girl, box office magic.”

“Lana it’s very important you understand the role of an engaged woman-“ the executive was very insistent and Lana was very tired and very fuzzy feeling, which apparently Vincent could sense as his hands began to grow courageous in his petting, “-it’s a fine balance between respectability and attainability. The studio has worked so hard to give you this life, made enormous sacrifices so you could have a chance at this career, created an expertly crafted persona for you -if you were to jeopardize it all in any way, by inviting speculation about yourself or your lackluster roots-“

Lana was about ready to stand up and scream “I’m Julie Jean Turner from Broken Arrow Oklahoma!” and watch the deflated disinterest cover her audience like snow, it would ruin the effect -she wanted them to care that her life was a lie, but as soon as she told the truth, they’d lose all interest either way. Fame was funny like that.

“Mr Vincent,” Alfonso was most solicitous as well as perispring when he hurried over to her fiancé’s side, “there’s been an incident, your car, sir! The windows, they are smashed! And there appear to be eggs?”

Lana wasn’t sure she successfully suppressed the bubbling little laugh that flitted out of her leaden chest at Vincent’s deathly white pallor. There were two of him in her fractured, drug impaired vision and he acted like looney twins, scrambling up from the table in a flurry of hands and pomade, tux tails flapping like a frightened bird. “It’s my father’s car you idiot! Where was the doorman? Where?”

“Ooooh daddy’s gonna be mad.” Lana cooed to herself, amused at how this failure of a son couldn’t land a deal or a car or his own, only a troublesome actress who was in dire love with a man she’d never met.

Dear Herb, the eggs were such a nice touch.

The executive was waving off the cameras, this part of the night hardly suitable to be recorded. “Stewart, phone call for you.” A commanding, sonorous voice beside her sent goose flesh popping along Lana’s arms beneath the jacket, Jack Huston and his cologne suddenly pervading the place like an ominous deity casting its shadow over the now almost empty table.

“Mr. Huston.” Lana simpered sweetly when Stewart had left and it was just them alone with his hand on the back of her chair, thumbing at the lamb skin. There were two of Huston too, in her vision, and Lana gulped in trepidation of having to please both.

“Miss Tierney,” he replied, grinning a little too wide for her to focus, “you know what you look like you need?”

“What’s that, Mr. Huston?”

“Call me Jack.”

“What’s that Jack?” she tittered, happily courting ruin.

“A nightcap.” Jack declared and was extending a large palm for her before she could second guess. It was the choice of a lion over a wolf here in Hollywood, and Lana had such plans for Mr. Huston. But, like most things, Lana’s plans must wait until Mr. Huston’s plans for her had been satisfactorily met.

Of all the backseats to be poured into in Hollywood, Huston’s was rather plush and smelled nice and had a clinking little bar in the console, well stocked and vintage. Better yet, the car wasn’t his father’s, it was his. As was his mind and his time and his appetite. Lana could only dream of having that sort of brash freedom, for now she must attach herself to those who did if she so much as wanted a taste.

“So what’s with the jacket?” Mr. Huston had the liberty to be casual on a ride back to his house with a much desired starlet, after all, he had a slam dunk assurance she wasn’t going to say no on arrival.

“It belongs to a man who loves me.” she slurred earnestly.

“Pilot?”

“Yes. He writes the sweetest, filthiest things.”

“To you?”

“Only to me.” she whispered with drunken vehemence.

“I bet he does.” Huston laughed.

Mr. Huston enjoyed ribbons: tying them around her, to be specific but of all the novel and varied ways to be satisfactory it wasn’t so bad, and when he lay next to her afterwards as the drug began to take her fully under, Lana was pleased by the heavy arm around her waist. He didn't care about the tonsillitis. Bucky’s jacket hung carefully over the armchair in her line of sight, Jack had been nice about that, too.

Yes she could make some use of Huston and his ribbons and his new army uniform and his government contracts.

————————————————-

“I was insensible.” Lana maintained the following day at a meeting with Mother and Stewart and a slew of concerned agents and executives who were pleased enough by the engaged cake smashing photographs, less so by the discreet vandalizing of their blonde product by John Huston. “I don’t know what you put in that cake but it did the trick and I was as aghast as you upon waking up where I woke up.”

“And the jacket?” Mother had her priorities straight, troublesome memorabilia first, dear daughter’s virtue second.

“Shoot, I think Huston has it.” Lana whimpered, “I was in such a state, such a rush to leave-“

“Well that was a very unfortunate oversight, Lana.”

“I know.”

“He could use it against us.” Mother fretted.

“He’d make a fool of himself if he did,” Stewart shined best when full of his self-bloated importance and meetings such as these were essential fuel for that importance, “it would look like he took a pilot to bed.”

“Stewart, she’s all over the nation’s morning paper’s wearing the horrid thing!” Mother snapped and while she herself was admittedly awful most times, Lana never doubted she was shrewd, far more than Stewart and all the men in the room she jockeyed for lead with. “In fact Lana, this has really brought to a head a growing issue. Your restlessness, your ingratitude, it’s become insufferable and now it jeparadizes everything. I am speaking of the coat but also of the letters. Oh yes, I know all about those.”

A wise performance required Lana to play the frightened and shocked little miscreant and so she did, wide doe eyes looking beseechingly penitent and horrified in the face of having been caught doing a single independent thing. “Oh mother-“

“They are bad enough with their filth and their familiarity,” mother cut her off, “but to have written to him in your old name! Lana, the carelessness! It’s a mercy he’s dead, think of the presumptuous attitude he would have adopted had he returned. Unthinkable!”

“Dead?” Lana felt her throat close up, wishing desperately to be back in his jacket again, regretting most harshly her high-priced scheming of last night. All of it had been for him, and he was dead.

“Quite dead.” Mother was irritated by her crestfallen state but not so much as to prevent her crowing over little Lana’s misstep. “And now I am burdened with the necessity of tracking down his effects, getting your side of the correspondence back, think of the unpleasantness of contacting his family! Conversations with dead servicemen's families are always so tedious. You do recall what a bore it was for me to have to carry-on with them on your tour. And all of this to get back your filthy, perverse break of discretion.”

“Were they to get out they’d ruin your reputation.” Stewart put in the obvious, “They’d reveal your plain and common upbringing, your drab name and worse, you would be known to be a horny, hungry young woman.”

Lana stared at him across from his desk, that adrift feeling of aloneness taking over her, such as she’d only felt a few times in her life, like when her mother left her on her first studio couch for an audition, despite her pleas to stay. “Yes,” she agreed faintly, “it would be a terrible thing for an object of desire to appear willing. Or wanting, at all capable of their own needs. It would really ruin the shine of it all, I see.”

“Lana!”

“Oh mother, really, pimped out all my life -all for it to be ruined by the suggestion I might like it!”

“It’s worse than all that.” Stewart insisted gravely, immune to female objections and tantrums, “I’ve been contacted this morning by one of the branches of our government dealing with espionage and information,” -no wonder he was feeling so very important today- “and they’re concerned that the German Air Force is aware of your correspondence with Major Agen-“

“It’s Egan, actually.”

“-Agen and a tapped phone call as well, they have concerns, Lana, about the Germans using this connection as leverage on him, now they have him in their camps, under their thumb, at their mercy.”

Lana’s fractured world slid together again like a suctioned mosaic, one focal point of reason being clear. “He’s a prisoner of war.” she knew just the right inquisitive tone to encourage Stewart to keep blabbing.

“Yes.” Stewart was very grave and very important about being privy to this information, and Mother let out a fuming little cluck of her tongue at his fumble.

“So, he’s a prisoner.” she smirked triumphantly at Mother and was not corrected for once. “Not dead.”

“Good as dead.” Mother clarified.

Lana still smiled, she could work with “good as.”

———————————————-

“Jack?” Lana had timed her delicate attack most carefully, waiting until Huston was relaxed but not asleep, dressing but not in a hurry, happy but not restless, and most importantly, not remotely tired of her.

“What doll?” Jack had a broad back and nice hands, sometimes Lana imagined they were rather like Egan’s, or maybe that’s what she told herself to keep the tears at bay long enough for each amorous performance to conclude, “Your mother bitchin’ about me again?”

“Well,” she shied away into the bedding, “to be honest, yes.”

“Little rebel.” he praised her on his way to sling on his suspenders, apparently he was going out tonight, she felt a clench of panic in her gut at the need to throw her pitch before he left or hushed her.

“Jack I’ve been thinking.” She began again.

“Not what you’re payed for, doll.”

“No, true.” Lana was used to laughing at that same joke told by a couple dozen different men, “But is that skit competition still on? The one for the CBS slot?”

“Yeah, few more days left, why?”

“Anything promising yet?” Lana ventured carefully, Jack was so very busy with all these government contracts for documentaries and proganada shows, and ever since then he’d had a very short fuse, fussy over his stalled artistic dreams. Not that he didn’t care about the war, he did in fact, and that’s why Lana liked him if she liked him at all. But he liked it the way a movie maker does, he wanted to tell stories and he wanted to be somebody important, and if he wasn’t going to be shot at he damn sure would be known to hang about the guys who were.

He was off to the Pacific to film some Marines mucking about on some godforsaken Atoll in a month or more. She had to make her move.

In the meantime, he was to organize a broadcast. Lana bad learned that from the grapevine at Warner’s, Betty D. dropping as much over her three carrots at lunch.

“I was wondering why we haven’t got ourselves an anecdote to Axis Sally.” Lana chose to be blunt, Jack was different from other men, he liked her babified act as much as the next man, but he’d belted her too for ‘playing dumb’. Since then she’d said her mind, as much as she dared and he called her idiotic often, but she’d not been belted again. “Our boys keep listening to that trash, and the housewives too, just to hear reports on the missing and the prisoners.”

“They listen ‘cause she’s sexy and funny.” Jack informed her with a pointed look.

“That too.” Lana contemplated the sheets before her, “But can’t we be funny and sexy too? Instead of demoralizing we could be happy! And we’d not have reports on prisoners but we could give them clues and hope, in case anyone's listening in.”

“Listening in.” Jack had stopped his halfhearted listening to her, wheeling suddenly with cuff links partway hanging, “You mean in camps?”

“Camps. Resistance. Wherever.”

“They don’t let them have radios, ya know.” Huston pointed out, but it wasn’t said in argument, he was pondering too.

“You know they still manage.” Lana smiled softly and he smiled back.

“Ok, what’s the pitch?” He sighed and sat himself down again on the side of the bed, evening plans abandoned for the moment.

Lana’s heart swelled with hope and the delicious feeling of being taken seriously. Even if she was lying in his bed with hair a mess and dignity mighty rumpled. “Perhaps we could tack onto Fred Allen’s spot? Hasn’t he got a vacancy? A variety show? A skit? I don’t know, but we could have repeat actors and we could have guest stars. And it could- it could be a girl-“

“-Allied Sally.” Huston joked and Lana genuinely snickered at that.

“Something like that.” She agreed, chagrined at the need for a catchy, corney radio name, “And she could be waiting for her sweetheart, sending him messages and well wishes and jokes and -Oh! The score! The scores on everything! Baseball! Jack!”

“Calm down, calm down, it’s decent.” Jack hushed her, waving her giddy self back down as she warmed to her topic, “And you could be her.” he stated the obvious.

“Don’t you think I’d manage it well?” She cajoled, cocking her shoulder in her best pantomime of a coquette. “Aren’t I funny and sexy, Mr. Huston?”

“Hmph,” he scratched his cheek and stared at her as if summing up the likelihood of this working, “needs another angle. Beyond skits.”

“Alright. Like what?”

Huston secured his cuff links, smile broadening as his mind began to whirl, “Letters.” he stated and Lana’s heart froze, “Love letters, we gotta keep it sexy, you said so yourself. There’s nothing so funny as a redacted letter being read out over the censors. The constant beeps alone will get laughs, give it the right inflection in between and you’ll have a game on your hands with the listeners guessing and filling in.”

“Letters.” Lana mumbled in agreement, numb at the brilliance of it and filled with horror at the idea of monetizing what John Egan had given her -connection, love, devotion, grit, humor. But this broadcast, it might be the only way to keep in any sort of contact with him. At what cost? Would he care at all for her after it? Would he think she used him up for a little business inspiration? Oh she couldn’t bear it, yet worse, she couldn’t bear life as Vincent’s wife, locked in for another ten years at Warner’s under mother’s thumb. “It’s brilliant.”

“Almost uncanny how likely a story it is.” Huston grunted as he pulled on a shoe, sending her a sly look that broke her a heart a little more, “Nothing so powerful as a tale based on a real thing, Lana.” he reminded forcefully.

The letters, the blackmail her mother hung over her, all of it dealt with if this pitch became a reality. It would all fade into a myth. And with it all the realness John had brought her. “Yes, I said -it’s brilliant.”

“Yeah, well, easy does it for now.” He cautioned, “Gotta sort your mother and let that contract expire gently. I’ll pitch it myself. See what CBS can wrangle up. Don’t get your hopes up and keep that jacket safe, it’ll be invaluable when we get you a storyline for it.”

“Right.”

“Well go on, tell mommy dearest.” he goaded, nodding to the phone.

“Oh they wouldn’t be approving.” Lana disagreed, referring to the whole pack of them, her mother and her lawyers and her agents.

“Why not? Sounds like great business. Solves all the scandal too.”

“Something like this part-“ Lana demurred, “-wouldn’t suit my image, mother says.”

Jack barked out a rough laugh, plopped back down on the bed and tugging the sheets from her clutches. “Your mother does realize you’re walking wank material, right? That’s your image.”

“Yes,” Lana sighed, “but…unwilling, she says. That’s the crucial part.”

“Oh. Yeah, well,” Jack eyed her up, “you do make a great impression of a scared lamb in bed.”

“They’re concerned it’ll make me too independent. Like the War Bond tour,” she gave a wistful smile, “I kissed so many boys my lips swelled right up. It was grand.”

“Now Lana,” Huston cautioned, “I’m not on any crusade to liberate you, myself.”

“Oh I know!” She was quick to assure, ever the obliging little lady, “And I don’t want to be. Not from you or the studio-“

“-just from mother dearest?” he nodded knowingly, not knowing the half of it.

“Yes.” she pretended great relief at his perception.

“Huh, well, good. Because this idea would have a contract of its own, and it would be long if I’m any judge of the longevity of the project. You’ll be locked in for years.”

“But it’ll be my choice.” She reaffirmed, and this time she meant it.

“And you’ll look willing.” Jack grinned and she grinned back, compulsively like a child mimicking their threat. “Might take some practice though, to make you look willing. Get over here, doll.”

———————————————-

Major Gale Cleven was appreciative of the dangers of listening to the radio in camp, it was one of those necessary and crucial risks that required responsible stewardship and utmost care. It wasn’t a flippant pastime and it wasn’t a recreation, but then again, neither was it strictly business. Like much of their lives as prisoners of war, he and his fellow soldiers toed a strict line between honoring their captors’ jurisdictions while also thwarting their imposed restrictions at every possible juncture.

Sometimes one should listen to the radio because that is what free men did, and Gale Cleven tried by any means possible- letters, books, calculus or his frigid metal headset- to stay free in his mind, to comport himself with the same surety as his free counterpart.

Otherwise, you lived like a ghost in your own body. And that was no good for oneself or those around you. As everyone who shared a bunk and combine with John Egan was quickly learning. The immediate joy of reuniting with him, the fear of losing him to his wounds, the relief of his recovery, it had all leveled out at the end like a anticlimactic ride on a rollercoaster, skidding to a plateau where he was neither well enough to be exempt from Gale’s concern, nor ill enough to warrant the patience required to put up with his rabid moods. Always restless, being kept in the glamorized equivalent of a dog run was hardly fitting for his nature. It was hard on everyone, but Gale wasn’t such a relativist as to assume John Egan had it the same as everyone. Some folks required more miles and more sky to keep them sane, and Bucky was one of those.

It had tipped Gale into a habit that could no longer be qualified as strictly informative, nor could he defend it as necessary where he to get caught. It was undoubtedly poor stewardship to spend an extra half hour listening to the inane comedy of a BBC guest production. But he had started it to cheer Brady when Glenn Miller’s band was on, and it had done such good for him and Bucky as they crowded ‘round, that Gale had since stayed alert for any other such ‘triviality’ that might be of use.

If the Colonel walked in and demanded an explanation for this extra bit of carelessness, Cleven thought he might make a decent defense about waiting for Ed Murrow to come on, broadcasting for CBS from London, always with a decent take on what was happening in the war. The motivation of Murrow often having stars on his program was completely erroneous.

Or so Gale swore to himself for the tenth time as Demarco kept watch and he himself painstakingly tuned the dials and bent his ear to sort the static.

There was music and the typical overlap of voices for awhile until he honed it down, British and American accents floating in, obnoxiously layered all on top of each other still, yet this time intentional. He must’ve hit a variety show. He gave himself two minutes, that much he’d allow and if the thing he’d been waiting for in secret for months did not occur,

he’d move right on or pack up for the night.

“I’m not sure about no boy writing you letters!” a man’s voice crackled through, comedically irate.

The next voice was girlish, smooth despite the poor frequency and made the hair of Gale’s arms stand on end from universal male appreciation and a gut wrenching sense of recognition: “Well I don’t know any more about it, paw paw, except that he loves me and I love him!”

“Yeah?” -Gale thought perhaps that was Bob Hope’s voice, play acting as the fuming father figure, “Yeah, then tell me, dear daughter, what sorta fella calls the girl he loves: Acorn! Huh?”

Gale’s eyes bugged from his head, glassy and shocked and Crank rushed over in solidarity, terribly sure the whole continent of North America had just been reported as broken off into the sea. “What is it Buck?”

“Crank!” Gale croaked, “Go! Go get Egan, tell him his girl’s on the radio and to get his ass in here, goooo!”

“Egan’s got a girl?” Benny was bewildered.

“Acorn!” Brady and Gale yelled in unison.

“But that’s Lana Tierney.” Crank pointed over the spunk wall, or as it was called in more noble moments of higher aspiration, the Wall of Hopes and Dreams, where Lana and Rita smiled tantalizingly and warm from their crinkled posters, down on the men’s bunks.

“Yes, Acorn. Go!”

Gale held his breath and listened harder, trying to gauge how far into the sketch he had caught them, wishing them to linger, as if by sheer willpower alone he could make her stay on until Bucky got there.

Fuck -acorn? Why would she use that? She had to be out of her mind to dare a thing like that, had to be just to get his attention, right? Surely? Had to be out of her mind, Gale decided, which was just another diagnosis for love. And that gave him pause.

“What’s your feller anyway? He a squirrel?” Bob Hope was pressing the issue right as Bucky burst in with a flurry of flapping overcoat and steaming breath.

“Get in here, come on, get over here.” Gale stood up and pointed to his vacated seat, shoving Bucky down for good measure and crouching to press the headpiece to his ear, wanting to share it for some idiotic reason, as if like a parent he could cut the cord if something sad or risky came on.

“Maybe he is,” Lana was breathily defending, “and we’ll live happily ever after in our tree. And there’s nothing you or Jerry can do to stop us!”

“Shit.” Egan breathed out reverently like he’d been punched real and good and an epiphany on life was brewing beneath his shuttering smile. “Holy hell it -it is her. It’s acorn.”

“On a show called ‘Dear Acorn’, Bucky.” Brady chimed in, face as lit up for Egan’s current happiness as if it were his own.

“So what’re you twos gonna live on, huh?” Bob Hope crackled through “Love and nuts?”

“Oh well dunno, I do so love my nuts.” Lana rejoined.

“Jesus!” Gale pulled away from the headset like it had personally accosted him for a tumble in the sheets.

“Acorn.”

“Yeah paw paw?”

“You’re nuts.”

“About him I am.”

“Uhuh.”

“And there’s nothing you or Jerry can-“

“-can do about it, I know, acorn.”

“Pinky promise!” Lana chirped a couple thousand miles away, and John Egan obeyed her once more with a raised hand and a crooked finger.

That night at roll call they had something to whisper about, and for once it wasn’t half cooked schemes to climb the barbed wire or try smothering the commandant in his sleep. Instead Bucky was rocking back and forth joyfully on his heels in the bitter night air, trying hard to keep his grin in check as the spotlight swooped over, choosing the intermediate bits of darkness to nag Gale for any bits he’d missed.

“I sent for ya right away, Bucky.” Gale insisted in a gentle whisper out the side of his mouth, “They were just starting to joke about letters being written to an acorn.”

“Can you believe it?” Egan hissed, almost demented in his sudden good cheer, “She’s that proud of me, built a whole damn show on it. Fuck, it makes a man wanna fight a dozen wars.”

Gale eyed him up carefully, the inside of Bucky’s head a foreign place even to him, but if his friend was hopeful and generous enough not to mind his intellectual (or rather, lack of intellect) property being capitalized on for the war effort, then Gale wasn’t about to sow seeds of doubt. “She’s somethin’ else.” he agreed nebulously, and meant it, “Bombs Away Betty, huh?”

“Showing partiality to one branch of the armed services, Buck.” John was back to grinning, “She must’ve liked the jacket.”

Hope you enjoined, thank y’all for all the screams and thoughts you’ve sent through my asks, the comments and reblogs too, I treasure each.

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[lady-ashfade]

Never come back.

Day 5 Of Fictober.

Human!Bakusquad x Naga!Reader. Quick drabble.

A lot to happen in a short amount of time. Idk with this but I thought about it.

Warnings: threatening from reader, readers dark pasted mentioned, cussing, horrible writing on this one, fish death.

In every story there is always a girl falling in love with the monster she finds in a cave. But in this story you are the girl in the cave, alone with your treasure. Far from any human connection and where no one should ever find, with millions of gold trinkets and gold safe within your protection. You lived many years from hatching alone with empty eggs of your siblings and a mother with no heartbeat. Only for your father to be the only one was left and who raised you while he could, teaches you to speak and how to hunt. He taught you how to survive one your own, knowing one day he’d be gone.

Being alone meant you got to pick a new home for yourself where not even the deadest of predators could find you. A cave with a lake within it, much space to climb and slither around and keep your treasure in. Your heart aches for someone to love and to keep you company but to afraid to look for them. After all you lost so much already and being alone was all you knew. You spent years clearing and moving things around in case anyone found you. But no one would be as stupid to enter your home…

“Dude, look how cool this shit looks.”

The group watch denki shine his flashlight around the dark and wet cave walls. Everyone watches their step and looked around themselves. “Does anyone feel like we shouldn’t be here?” Kirishima asked as he tugged at his backpack straps. Mine nodded at the redhead, “It was so warm outside but this place is so cold.” She shivered. The group were in summer clothes that weren’t made for this type of situation.

“Shut up, fuckin pussies.” Bakugo rilled his eyes and walked in front of the two, his phone shining his own light. “Came here to find some shit remember? It was your fuckin’ idea.” He sent a back glare at kiri as the man just shrugged. Mina held onto kirishimas arm and rolled her eyes at the blonde. “Actually, it was my idea.” She smirked as he turned his head and gave her a snarl with flared nostrils.

“Great, then you probably lead us to almost getting kill- Again! I had to save all our asses last time.” He shouted and his voice was so loud throughout the cave. Mina giggled and rushed to him and jumped onto his back almost making him fall, “But this time I have a good feeling.” She pressed a kiss to his cheek and he blushed light pink for a moment before turning his head. His arms hooked under her legs as she wrapped her legs around his waist and neck.

“I wish I could smoke down here,” sero sighed and kicked a rock. “Left my shit at camp.”

Denki smirked as he saw a archway like opening in the cave and saw something shining through it. He stopped in his tracks and held his hands up to stop them all, “Get the camera!” He shouted excitedly. Kiri pulled out the camera immediately and was beaming with happiness, “Rolling.” He pointed the camera at the other blonde.

Mina jumped off bakugou as denki talked to the camera like some YouTuber. Everyone sneakered at him but followed him forward wondering what he saw or what he’s up to. Bakugo yelled at the other blonde and told him to hurry up so denki did so. Soon denki was walking into the room and they all froze at the sight in front of them.

“Holy shit.”

“What the fuck?”

“About time.”

“…I’m going to buy so much clothes.”

Mine ran passed the boys and went to the gold she she saw, many jewels and jewelry, small gold cups and coins. She picked a few up and threw them in the air, “We’re so rich!” She proclaimed. Sero came at her side and looked at some of the stuff that was in the almost infinite pile of treasure. He picked up a goblet and looked at the designs engraved in the gold. Snakes running up the bottom and around the cup.

“Treasure hunters! That’s what we are.”

Kirishima turned off the camera and ran to denki and pulled him into a jumping hug, Bakugo just looked around. He was in slight shock at finding so much shit. His eyes trail to the floor and found something strange, so he walk towards it and bent down. A small fish with only its head on it’s bones not looking a day old..Nothing rooting, hell the blood was still wet.

“I don’t like this guys.” He stood up and crossed his arms. “Somethings not right, pack all you can and lets go.” He took the bag off his shoulder and threw it over to them. Staring at the group he saw them looking at him but not saying a word and barely moving, he rolled his eyes. “Can’t take orders? I swear,” he huffed.

He was about to move to do it himself until something wet dripped onto his shoulder and made him shiver. Body freezing and eyes going wide as he looked closer and realizing they weren’t staring at him…

Something wrapped around his legs and lifted him into the air before he could react, a small yell leaving his lips. “What the hell?” He ask as he was flipped upside down from whatever was hanging him. The others watch in fear as the big snake like creature got ahold of their boyfriend and held him in the air.

“Humanss~ Should have known, nothing else yells like you.” Your tongue made more sounds as it rattled out of your mouth. “A full pack here no less? Greedy little things,” you shook your tail and made the human in your clutch swing a bit as you looked down at him. “Going after my treasure.” You listened at the one you hold onto as he yells at you but you pay it no mind. Looking back at the others you glare harshly.

“How many know you’re here? I bet you wanted to have my scales~ too!” You shout and hiss at them loudly to make them flinch. They group together and hesitant their movements in fear. They looked at the human you held and you looked down at him too, they seemed to care for him…

“Mate?” You asked and juggled him around again. Your hand came up to meet his ears and his hair to look over each detail, “Plain looking human.” It was almost laughable how calm you spoke when you said it.

“Please, we didn’t know this belong to you! I swear if you let us go we’ll never return.” You drop your hands away from the boy and look at the girl talking to you. She had tears in her eyes but determination… “Can’t trust humans.”

Next thing bakugo knew he was thrown from your grip and down on the ground in front of his lovers. He groans in slight pain at the hard ground he landed on. “Humans kill us- Take my family,” you looked around and they watch you grow bigger as you get anger “Take my treasure!” You lash out and swing your tail at them. The group jump out of the way together and shout at your attempts to attack them.

“We’ll do anything,” the girl you talk to earlier fell to her knees and cried out. “Let us live.” She begged as tears rolled down her cheeks as she hit the ground. You tilt you head at the sight of a human acting such a way…you calm down and sink back down.

“Humans don’t cry- You shouldn’t..” you looked around panicked and find a necklace on the floor and toss it to her to make her stop. “Stop crying! Look, shiny.” She looked down in confusion. You just tired to kill them and now..

“You’re strange. They said you carry large weapons to skin us, they say you scream at us…” they inch back as you got closer to get a look at them, “not like others.” A idea comes to your head.

“Must be weak.” Your tail inches closer as you wrap it around each of them as they try to get away. “Protect instead. Mates- Yes, Mates.” You rub your head on theirs. You hear them protesting and the loud one calling you stupid and trying to hit you.

“My little humans.”

[bluelocksource]

Itoshi Sae’s trivia (source: twt & Egoist Bible).

"I'll see with my own eyes what kind of FW (idiot) will be born in Japan."

☆ Character's colour: Adzuki bean color (reddish-brown).

☆ Nickname: ‘Japan’s Treasure’.

☆ Birthday: 10th October.

☆ Current age: 18 (3rd year of high school)

☆ Zodiac: Libra.

☆ Birthplace: Kamakura City, Kanagawa Prefecture.

☆ Family: Mother. Father. Himself. Younger brother.

☆ Current height: 180 cm.

☆ Foot size: 26.5 cm

☆ Dominant foot: Left foot.

☆ Blood type: A.

☆ Starts playing football: At age 1. “Before I knew it, I was playing soccer.”

☆ Team before returning to Japan: RE・ALE (レ・アール) Youth FC.

☆ Favorite food/drink: Salted kelp tea (shio-kombucha). “Because I can go back to 0.” (meaning he feels refreshed after drinking it)

☆ Disliked food: French fries. “It’s deadly delicious but it’s deadly to my health.”

☆ Favorite animal: Seagulls. “I like migratory birds that doesn’t stay in one place.”

☆ Favorite season: At the end of summer. "It seems that the world is starting to get lonesome."

☆ Favorite football player: Álvaro Recoba. “The left footer that casts a rainbow (perfect curve) on the pitch.” (Sae was referring to Alvaro quotes: “If today's game is on a rainy pitch, I'll draw a rainbow with my left foot.”. Álvaro is known for his curling-free-kick.)

☆ Favorite music: ‘Mercury’ by tofubeats ft. Seira Kariya. “I listen to this to cool down.”

☆ Favorite manga: Gegege no Kitaro.

☆ Favorite movie: Taxi Driver. “This De Niro is the coolest.”

☆ Favorite TV show: Chibi Maruko-chan. “It reminds me of home.”

☆ Favorite brand: “All of my sponsors. They know they're not crazy for betting on me, they have good eyes.”

☆ Hobby: Analysing data of football players and teams. “It’s easier to see the numbers in visualized data.”

☆ Mushroom shoots vs Bamboo shoots: “Depends on the mood.”

☆ What goes best with rice : Salted kelp (shio-kombu). “They don’t have it in Brazil, so I asked my parents back home to send some here.”

☆ What makes him happy: “A play beyond my imagination.”

☆ What makes him upset: Being forced to carry Japanese soccer on his back. “I’m talking about you guys.”

☆ What he thinks his strength is: He has flat ways looking at things. (meaning he look at things objectively) "People often calls me dry**, but who cares?"

☆ What he thinks his weakness is: The fact that he doesn’t know anything else other than soccer. “You guys shouldn’t live this way.”

☆ Favorite/Best subject: “I don’t know since I’ve only focus on soccer and didn’t pay attention in classes.”

☆ What made him cry recently: “Like I'd tell you, idiot.”

☆ Usual sleeping time: 8 hours (7 hours sleeping + 1 hour nap)

☆ Place he washes first when taking a bath: His bangs’ hairline.

☆ Fixation: Buttocks. “You’ll know an athlete's ability by the shape of their buttocks.”

☆ Number of chocolates received from previous Valentine: Around 2000. “That’s what my manager told me.”

☆ The first time he got confessed to: “I don’t remember which one was the first, octopus.” (here, octopus is just an insult like 'idiot' or 'fool', etc.)

☆ What will he do if received 100 million yen: “I’m not interested in such small amount of money.”

☆ At what age he stops receiving presents from Santa: At age 10.

☆ What was his last wish from Santa: “My own talent that I haven’t yet seen.”

☆ How he spent his holiday: Gazing at the sea.

☆ What will he do during his last day on Earth: Give the world's best striker the world's best pass.

*Not sure about the exact pronounciation but the most of the translation says 'Les Halles'. Updated! (25/7/2024)

** In Japan, there are terms called ‘dry person’ & ‘wet person’. ‘Dry person’ is someone who can think rationally without being overwhelmed by emotions and because of their calm demeanor, they are thought to be cold and unapproachable. ‘Wet person’ is the opposite of ‘dry person’.

note: i want to apologize in advance for any mistake made in the translation!

[lovetei]

could you write obey me boys with an idol mc? like they just somehow became famous on devildom 🕺 like these kpop/jpop idols! i was thinkin abt a newjeans like concept (attention, hype boy and cookie specifically)!

Hmm, that's so cute. I wanna see the boys watching your private life through your videos!

Damn... This made me want to redo my ROYAL Universe, I put such a small effort in that I feel sorry :')

Never mind, I'll redo it later.

--------------------------------------------------

Obey me universe where MC is an Idol

IDOL Universe: Introduction

Warnings: MC uses gender neutral pronouns, manipulation, slightly dark themes

Links: Masterlist

--------------------------------------------------

Frilly skirts and sexy tuxedo's

The one and only idol that threatened every other groups in the Devildom by simply playing their songs intro,

MC

Dancing at the largest stage of the Devildom is basically your normal by now.

Getting invited at parties where the wealthy and the influential can only enter

Your influence spread like wild fire all across the eighth rings of hell until no one in the Devildom don't know you.

But that isn't enough,

After you conquered the lower class of demons you climbed your way up to meet the socialites

And now here you are, on one of your highly earning concerts but this one is different

There's a different face among the crowds

There's Leviathan

Sitting in front with no one beside him

That's weird, your manager told you that every ticket are sold out and the VVIP tickets are sold at the same day...

No way...

Did Leviathan bought all the VVIP tickets?!

Yes, yes he did.

He even bought a special fan meet ticket.

"Hi! Good evening!" You cheerfully greeted to your only fan that managed to afford your over the top VVIP fan meet ticket.

"Have a seat." How weird, the rumors said he's all shy and stuttery but the person you're seeing right now is no weeb, it's the grand admiral.

"Ah, yes... Thank you!" Even though nervousness is starting to cloud your senses you need to keep your idol persona or else some nasty news will dug themselves up from the graves.

"I must say your pricing is totally over the top but I expected it from an idol whose at the top of the current food chain." Wow, how blunt.

"Yup! This ticket allows my fans have more indept conversation with me!" You smiled with your usual bright grin.

"Yeah, I almost thought it's a bait for those in the noble class. You know, for them to brag about how they managed to get their hands on such ticket." He replied as he took a sip of the coffee in front of the two of you.

"I'll go straight to the catch." He voiced out as soon as the mug landed on the glass of the coffee table.

"I want you to perform for my birthday." You almost choked up on your own spit after what he said sinked in.

"Aw... I'm deeply sorry but my manager won't allow me-" Is what I'm about to say but my manager barged into the room, sweating adn excused herself saying she has something to say to me.

She went closer and whispered something to me "He's willing to pay hundred of billions Darling! Hundreds of millions!"

What? Is he some type of freak? Why would he pay hundreds of millions just to have some idol like me to dance and sing around for his birthday?

MC, Devildoms brightest star who's hiding something

MC who secretly despised all the creepy people in the fan meets

MC who washed her hand throughly until it scratches every fan meet because of the amount of disgusting people that touched them.

MC who thinks everyone, everything is there to help them get on top of everything

MC who practiced the 'genuine' smile the crowd loves so much.

MC who can cry on command that faked their cry on live stage a they accept their most recent award.

MC Devildoms brightest star

MC who's willing to be in a dating scandal with the avatar of envy if it means it'll raise their popularity and their net worth.

[bi-bard]

Flirting - Graham Dunne Imagine [Daisy Jones & the Six]

Title: Flirting

Pairing: Graham Dunne X Reader

Word Count: 888 words

Warning(s): none

Summary: In the hopes of getting the attention of some big-time journalist in the music world, Graham tries his hand at some flirting.

Author's Note: I warned y'all that this show was going to be my next hyperfixation. I told you that this would happen.

Might write another part to this.

PART TWO HERE

PART THREE HERE

----------------------

I had started growing tired of going to parties that were just very extravagant ways to make professional connections.

Having fun and enjoying myself had been left so low on my list of priorities that I truly saw no point in going to those annoying events anymore.

I walked straight to the bar in the venue and pulled myself onto a stool.

"Evening!" the bartender said with a smile. I grinned back. "What can I get you?"

I rattled off my order before turning around and looking at the crowd of people. I took my glass off the counter as I did so.

People were so interesting when they needed things. Some of them were confident. It was difficult to tell who was faking it and who wasn't. The key was the eyes. Truly confident people could look their target in the eye. It made me chuckle.

I had been in the music industry for a decent amount of time. I was a journalist but after enough time, anyone could figure most of it out.

I had been lucky. I earned some respect early on. Some of it seemed to grow and snowball, but some of it was balancing on the edge of a cliff. I was constantly fighting to keep my hold on it.

Maybe that's why I had grown so cold to so many people.

Just as I turned around to order another drink, a guy placed himself on the stool next to me.

After telling the bartender what he wanted, he motioned at me, "And I'll buy their next round."

I scoffed. "No..."

I grabbed my wallet and pulled out some cash.

"This should be enough for my drinks and his," I explained. The bartender nodded.

I turned to look at the man that sat next to me.

He was looking down at the counter. "Sorry... was trying to be nice."

"Well, I don't like feeling indebted to anyone," I replied. He slowly nodded.

Our drinks were placed in front of us.

"I just wanted to buy the most attractive person here a drink," he shrugged.

I chuckled. "That line ever work for you?"

"Haven't really tried it before."

"I don't recommend trying it again."

"I'll keep that in mind," he nodded.

I chuckled.

"You're (Y/n), right? (Y/n) (Y/l/n)?"

"Good guess," I leaned my elbow on the bar. I felt like I had already experienced this conversation a million times before.

"I- I've read your work," he explained. His eyes were jumping between my eyes, the counter, and everything else around me. "It's really well written. You... You've helped me understand records that I would never have listened to twice. I think you offer unique perspectives-"

"What's your name," I asked, cutting him off bluntly.

"Graham," he replied. "Graham Dunne."

"What band are you in, Graham Dunne?" I exaggerated a bit as I said his last name.

"We call ourselves the Dunne Brothers- how did you know I was in a band?"

"Two types of people tend to come up to me at events like this," I explained. "I've learned how to sort them out. Overly confident and aggressive: music producer or some other big name at a label. Awkward and uncoordinated: band member, but usually not the lead singer. Either way, goal's usually the same. Sweet talk in my ear until I write what they want me to write."

"That... sounds lonely," he replied.

"Oh, no, don't do that," I said. "Don't pity me. Makes me sick to my stomach."

"I didn't- I didn't mean to... I'm sorry."

"People look at me and see a young person in a position that they don't think I deserve," I shrugged. "To them, I am an easy target. Grow used to it after a while."

"Well, I'm still sorry."

I knew that I wasn't going to get him to drop the topic if I didn't accept the sentiment. "Thanks."

He nodded.

"Now... why did you come up to me?"

He took a deep breath, guilt clearly written on his face. "There's a gig. I have a gig- We have a gig. Tomorrow night."

There it was.

"You want me to write a review of it," I concluded.

"I'd be honored if you did," he offered a soft grin. I nodded slowly.

I don't know what exactly inspired my next actions.

Maybe Graham just seemed different. Something in his eyes was more genuine than anyone that I had met in a while. Maybe he was just better at convincing people to do stuff for him.

Regardless of the reason, I leaned forward, letting my lips brush the shell of his ear while I slid my card under his fingertips. "Call me at this number, we can meet for breakfast, and you can tell me all about that gig you've got."

I leaned back again, biting my lip to avoid chuckling at the stunned look on his face.

"I'll see you around, Graham Dunne."

I stood up and started walking out of the party.

I paused at the door and turned to look at Graham again. He was getting pat on the back and clearly teased by the other people around him. I assumed it was the rest of his band.

I chuckled to myself before going on my way.

This was going to be a very interesting experience.

----------------------

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What I Write For

Some Original Characters

[powderblueblood]

STEVE HARRINGTON X MILLION DOLLAR MAN !!!!

( idk if that’s what you meant 😭 pls delete if it’s not <3 )

send me 🎵+ character name and i’ll write a lil blurb inspired by a song from their playlist (you can also request songs and i will do my level best. god is a dj and i'm god)

▶ MILLION DOLLAR MAN - LANA DEL REY

you've got the world, but baby at what price? or how falling in love with notorious conman steve harrington began your career as a fence of stolen jewelry.

an: @stveharringtn cherry how the fuck did you know that i've been sitting on a conman!steve au for what feels like a hundred thousand years. PERFECT SONG PERFECT CHOICE lets begin i hope you like it

warnings: my blatant obsession with the oceans eleven cinematic universe and pathological need to create a heist au out of EVERYTHING. and CUSSING IS IN THIS TOO.

word count: 2.5k

MIAMI BEACH, 1990

“Whatever happened to a good old-fashioned safe?”

“I don’t trust a safe. I don’t trust me, I don’t trust you, and I most definitely don’t trust a safe.”

Dustin Henderson dangerously toes the edge of squawking, but he doesn’t know any better. At this point in his career as a thief, he doesn’t understand that when Steve Harrington says he doesn’t trust anyone, it’s not dismissive. It’s simply a missive, a fact of life. Everyone’s got knives, everyone’s got backs. Stands to reason that someone’s going to thrust and someone is going to get stabbed. 

Steve likes to take all the necessary precautions. 

He doesn’t trust anyone. 

“But her you trust?” 

Robin Buckley’s tone is hard. Robin Buckley is the only person that Steve could imagine himself trusting, and even so, they keep each other at an imperceptible arm’s length. To the outside world, they’re bosom buddies, best friends eating dirt together. But they both understand the business that they’re in. 

They keep their knives sharp.

They take all the necessary precautions. 

So why the fuck is Steve bringing an outsider into the ring. 

“I never said that.” Steve grabs a coaster and pointedly puts it where Robin might next aim her beer bottle, dripping with incriminating condensation. All over his agarwood coffee table. 

“It was inferred.” Robin pointedly puts the bottle down– to the far left of the coaster. Fuck you.

“I don’t see how that’s my problem.” Fuck you right back. 

“I know why he’s not using a safe,” Eddie Munson crows from the near background, wiping ash from his face. Eddie Munson, munitions expert. Eddie Munson, expert in blowing up any conversation within a three mile radius. Detonation test, by the way, that’s why his face is covered in shit. 

Steve holds out a hand–stop right where you are–before he can reach the agarwood table. 

“Because he’s–” and proceeds to make that finger in hole gesture that doesn’t crack a single smile in the room. Not even Dustin Henderson’s, mostly due to the fact that it’s happening behind his head. “Because he’s fucking her.” 

“It’s not that,” Steve and Robin say in unison, with Steve’s eyes narrowed on Eddie and Robin’s eyes trained unmercifully on Steve. 

It’s not that. They’re right. It’s worse. 

-

There’s something psychosexual about the game of tennis. The grunting, the tiny little skirts, the whacking of balls. The amount of money rich people love to spend on it. There’s something evil here, and you’ve committed yourself to a summer of trying to figure it out. 

Well, half-committed. Your real commitment is making enough tips to make a dent in your looming student loans. Post-graduation, a friend had given you a hot tip about private tennis clubs in Miami. They use hundos like napkins there, girl. Go get your piece. 

Your nana lives in Miami. Lived. She’s dead now, three months. You’re living in her condo now– technically in a seniors complex, assisted living type of thing, but it’s okay. It’s quiet. The people chat and force you to play bocce ball sometimes, the only sport you understand. 

Tennis, you don’t understand, other than the fact that these people have more money than they know what to do with and they’re all too repressed to grunt in the privacy of their own homes. 

After a time or two taking drink orders and bringing their rackets for in-house repair, they all blend into the same amorphous blob– the white outfits-on-white people effect does not help. They tip you in enormous digits, confident that you’ll remember them and treat them right, but you don’t have that skill. Some of your co-workers do, but you don’t. 

So, you notice when someone stands out. 

You smell him before you see him, and you know how that sounds, but bare with– 

The thickening, insistent incense smell of patchouli. Rainwater. Dust. Lemon.

When you turn from your place behind the bar, fetching your eighth double vodka soda in what seems like as many minutes for another bleach-blond man in his mid-forties, he’s leaning with one elegant elbow propped on the marble top. Sunglasses push over a shock of brown hair, streaked with blonde from the Florida sunshine. 

“Macallan, buddy. Up.” But he’s not talking to you. He’s talking to the bartender, Trent, the picture of incompetence. Trent nods to him, smiling broadly, but that flattens into a hard line as he turns toward the bar. 

This guy politely turns his head, eyes glossing right over you. But you are just staring a bullet hole right though him, and you can’t help it. He’s magnetic. He’s dressed in a light blue linen suit, a far cry from the tennis uniforms or the hollering Versace shirts every other man in the place seems to be wearing. The slope of his shoulders suggest something… provincial. 

He’s not a city boy– man. This is a man. 

You hear a clatter to your immediate right and see Trent pouring a finger of Chivas into a tumbler. 

“Oh, Trent, that’s not–” 

He passes it off to the linen gentleman, this Miami cowboy, with a serene smile. Most people wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between a Chivas and a Macallan, but you would. 

And you bet he would too. 

He departs in a cloud of the same heavenly scent he’d arrived in, heading courtside to watch trust fund kids fumble over backhands. 

“Trent,” you say, reaching for the correct bottle and a fresh tumbler. “Meet Macallan. For next time, okay?” 

The blond kid just shrugs at you. “All that shit tastes the same to me.” 

To you. 

You linger near the arm of his chair before speaking, suddenly able to hear your pulse in your ears. Up close, you can see moles dotting the hand holding the errant glass of Chivas. A big hand too, it seems to dwarf the crystal. 

“Excuse me,” you say, as steady as you can manage. It’s not very steady. You wish you would’ve thought to check your makeup before you made a beeline out here, but time, you couldn’t help but feel, was of the essence. 

He looks up at you over his sunglasses and you think your knees might buckle. 

Eyes like a dark wood. Inviting you in. The kind of eyes that don’t look through you. 

Christ, people had been looking through you all summer, but it didn’t matter now. 

“Is that the Macallan?” he mumbles conspiratorially. 

You just– nod, uniform-required ponytail bouncing. 

“I’ll trade you,” he says, about to pass off the glass of Chivas, but then he pauses. Takes you in, surveying you in a way that makes you blush, “if you can finish this one with me.” 

“Um…”

“Is that allowed?” he asks, “I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

Trouble be damned. The hell with trouble. Not only is your reputation as a little worker bee here untarnished, you can’t not sit with him. 

“I’m due a break, actually.”

“So I’ll trade you. Sit down, get comfortable. Give me the scoop on these tennis brats.”

He leans in to take the glass of Macallan from you, to pass off the glass of Chivas, and he brushes your hand. You experience the full entirely of a cliche, feeling electricity thrum under your skin– but then he passes a fingertip over the ring finger of your right hand. 

“That’s a pretty piece,” he hums, “Princess, right?”

For a second, you falter. Princess? Me? But it’s the ring he’s referring to– the yellow diamond engagement ring that once belonged to your nana. 

“Close!” you say, twisting the band on your finger in an act of self-consciousness. “Carré cut. Less pricey than a princess.”

“But just as pretty.” 

“And more rare, actually.” 

“Huh,” he says, and you smooth your skirt out with one hand, taking the seat nearest him. Enveloping yourself in the cloud of him. “Rarer than a princess.” 

From the court, a headband-wearing pre-teen in dazzling whites hollers fuck you, Mommy! Fuck you and your fucking bullshit topspin! I fucking hate this place!

“I’ll drink to that.” 

-

NEW YORK CITY, 1995

The car door slams behind Dustin Henderson, raindrops rolling from the brim of his baseball cap. It’s late November and a freezing rain has descended upon the Diamond District. 

Steve had at least hoped he might see sunshine when he got out of the joint. 

From the wheel, he cranes his neck to the back seat where Dustin sits, wiping the dripping water from the hat’s beak. His Thinking Cap. He’s had that thing since he was a kid and has somehow managed to keep it in immaculate condition. Dustin loves details. Dustin also loves risk. Which is why he’s the only man for this recon job. 

“Tell me,” Steve says, tone as level as he can possibly keep it. 

“She is way hotter than I remember.”

“Dustin.”

“Miami always makes people less hot. I think it’s the heat,” the kid chuckles, an obvious attempt at lightening a tense mood. See, they weren’t supposed to be here. They weren’t supposed to be looking for you. Robin hadn’t said don’t go looking for her, but that more or less should have been in the terms of Steve’s release from Sing Sing. 

“Dustin.” 

“She’s in there, just like you said she’d be in there. It’s a white room and it’s got every kind of goddamn sparkler you could think of. Three layers of security. Three. What kind of jewelry store you ever been to that’s got three layers of security?” 

A detail like that would make a less accomplished thief sweat. But Dustin and Steve share a knowing smile. 

“A jewelry store selling stolen jewelry.” 

“Exactly,” Dustin nods. “I thought she’d be front-of-house, but she’s got her own office. Tucked away in the corner. Appointment only.” 

“Any availability?”

The younger man smirks. “For me or for you?” 

-

Buddy’s is the last place in midtown you can get a decent drink and not be surrounded by throngs of yuppies. 

You know this, because you tend to date the yuppies in the throng. 

This is the one place that seems to be universally avoided by the trader set– it’s too dark and wooden in here, no brutalist architecture to make them feel at home while they rail lines of coke off their girlfriend’s compact mirrors. 

At Buddy’s, there’s a pianist that’s been propping up the corner for the last half century, minimum. A carpet that’s never been shampooed spreads across the floor and the mahogany is dented in all the places the light doesn’t hit. You can smoke indoors. Everything Happens to Me by Chet Baker will play, and everything feels like it’s going to be alright. At least until happy hour ends. 

You have a regular seat by the bar, a vantage point for people-watching. A gin martini, hold the vermouth, sits waiting for you by the time you arrive. On an average Thursday, you spend a couple of hours drinking three of these in an act of decompression from the violent fluorescent lighting of your workplace. From peering through a looking glass, examining the way light refracts through gemstones. 

From moving cargo that isn’t yours to move. 

This Thursday has been no different. 

You drag a finger along the condensation of your martini glass, it’s perfect conical shape a welcome weight in your hand. 

Your hair is piled up on top of your head, and you wear your reading glasses, and though you are beautiful, no one bothers you. Nothing bothers you. 

Until you hear a sound you haven’t heard in years. 

Tapping, against the bartop. One, one. Two, two. Three, three. Nerves. It was the only time you could ever tell that he was nervous. 

“Macallan, buddy. Up.”

Fucker.

-

He knew you by every single detail about you, let’s get that straight. 

He is entirely sure that in a room of a thousand clones of you, he would be able to pick out the real one, just from your minute sigh. From the way your one shoulder always slopes. From curl at the base of your neck. 

From the way you play with your grandmother’s Carré cut diamond, still sitting pretty on your right hand. 

He positions himself a number of seats away from you, from the seat that he’s been watching you sit at for a couple of nights in a row now. He does not approach you directly. 

Partially to see if you’ll still remember him. 

Steve is still vain, in his ways. He wants a spotlight shone on him. 

He only ever remembers the warmth of yours. 

He orders the same drink he ordered that day you met at the tennis club, the same way. He even hopes the bartender will mistake the Chivas for the Macallan and you’ll have to climb over the bar and charmingly correct him. But Antoine, as he’s heard you call him, has been behind this bar longer than Saint Peter at the pearly gates, so there’s no fear of that. 

You don’t react right away, and he doesn’t expect you to. He savors it, in fact, the opportunity to slyly watch you. Even if you’re seething. Even if you’re seething, you’re seething like a goddess might seethe. Horrifying and beautiful, all at once. The definite end of him. 

Then, the lack of attention you’re showing him stretches on a beat too long. 

“Excuse me,” he says from his spots a couple of seats down, “Can you do me a favor?”

You don’t respond. This doesn’t stop him. Never has.

“You mind tasting this for me?” Steve pushes the glass toward you, sending it sliding down the bar. You catch it with your right hand, yellow diamond catching in the light. A cut like that has never sparkled until you’ve worn it. “You think that’s Macallan or Chivas? Be honest.”

Steve’s fingers flex unconsciously as you lift the glass. Tilt it toward your lips. Still making no eye contact. But you don’t sip. 

“I think you should be in prison,” you say into the crystal tumbler and place it back on the bar top. “Why the fuck are you not in prison.” 

Steve closes the space between you, taking in that powdery perfume you’re still wearing after all this time. Candied violets. He settles into the beside you and props his palm under his chin. 

“Why are you selling stolen jewelry.”

He sees you tense for a brief moment, then release. Like you knew he’d say that, like you should have seen that coming. Because you know him, and you always see him coming. Other than Robin, you’re the only one that ever has. 

“I asked you first.”

“I asked you second.”

“So that when some bastard in a bad linen suit asks me to hold on to some stolen jewelry, I’ll at least know how much it’s worth.”

A beat. You stare Steve down with such naked disdain that his heart twists in his chest. You hate him, and he sees that, and with all the evidence stacked up against you, he should hate you too. But that wasn’t what bit him.

“That suit wasn’t bad, Princess.”

[the-final-sif]

One of the things I think people as a whole don't understand about the internet today is that so much of what's wrong/dangerous/flawed about the internet exists because so much of the internet started as one person's hobby they built in their spare time or as a specific task for a specific function that was just useful/functional enough that literally everyone started using it. There's tons of biases built into the modern internet and some of that is carelessness but a lot of it is... just like. This was invented by a group of grad students fucking around for a few weeks. How the fuck were they supposed to know it'd be become the global standard and that nobody would bother to address or change these things?

Like, the whole reason that the US government gets the ".gov" domain name is because this entire system was invented in the US primarily for use in universities. Under the original system, you had to phone in to talk to the center who owned the list, tell them what name you wanted and then a person would type your name/ip onto the list attached to a nickname much like a phonebook. Then people slowly figured out domains and maintaining domain registries. And then the system became useful enough that more of the US started using it, and then people realized "oh shit, other countries want to use this too, guess we need to figure that out".

The "world wide web" or the thing we all know as the internet (and the reason that every website you visit has www in front), was invented originally by one dude trying to make his own job easier (Tim Berners-Lee). He thought it was pretty cool and shared it, and he was one guy who only spoke English and was just doing what he thought was going to work.

Like, this is a very lighthearted article talking about him, but I think it illustrates the point really well,

Sir Tim Berners-Lee, the creator of the World Wide Web, has confessed that the // in a web address were actually "unnecessary". He told the Times newspaper that he could easily have designed URLs not to have the forward slashes. "There you go, it seemed like a good idea at the time," he said. He admitted that when he devised the web, almost 20 years ago, he had no idea that the forward slashes in every web address would cause "so much hassle". His light-hearted apology even had a green angle as he accepted that having to add // to every address had wasted time, printing and paper.

via "sorry for the slashs"

We have an entire internet and infrastructure built rather haphazardly but also in such a way that going back and trying to change or fix things either requires an insane amount of work or could render vast swaths of the prior internet inaccessible.

Like, I think everyone here remembers Flash getting shut down and how much of childhood games got wiped off the generally accessible internet and relegated to projects like Flashpoint. It was really hard to see, but Flash was also a project started in 1996 (or 1993 if you count the OG version that turned into flash) that was supposed to be for a limited set of use cases, and not the medium on which major parts of the internet would run. By the time Adobe shut it down, Flash was incredibly dangerous with the constant risks of malware, it was buggy, slow, and there were a million better programs. It had to be killed to make way for better things, but because of how the internet was built, that death came at a pretty high cost.

So if you're ever wondering why it feels like the web is a bunch of dominoes ready to fall down at any time, it's because it is. And it does. And so many people spend so much of their time combating all the problems created by using systems that were never intended to handle everything they are currently handling because the alternative is a task of monstrous undertaking that would almost certainly turn decades of history to dust.

[deliciousangelfestival]

The Audacity Of This B - Lloyd Hansen Series

Character: Lloyd Hansen x Rich!Female Reader

Summary: Reader's ex-fiance suddenly visits her. What does he want? And how will Lloyd react?

Words Count: 4.200,-

Warning: 18+, smut, death character, bad words.

Authors Note: Thank you for leaving any comments, likes, and reblogs.

I love you all. 💕💕💕😘😘😘

If you have any feedback or want to ask any questions please send it to my inbox. 

This chapter is from Lloyd Hansen's Series - 3 Billion Divorce.

Check out Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Extra Story

And check out my other stories from Masterlist.

Some relationships couldn't work out. It happened.

Like Ethan, his biggest regret is losing you.

That was his fault for letting his insecurity win. 

Seeing you with someone else makes him want to puke. 

His pointed finger moves between you and Lloyd. “You’re married?”

You move closer to Lloyd to rest your hand on his chest. You look at him with a warm gaze; Lloyd smiles back at you without any signal. 

He's a good actor. 

“ Yes.” 

Ethan crunched his face when he saw the intimate act. He altered his gaze. “I don’t believe you.”

"You chose him over me ?!"

"Ethan, if you came here to disrespect my husband, get the hell out."

Ethan took a step back. You've changed. 

He knew there was a big gap between you both. His parents always compare your achievements to his.

Everyone said he would be the luckiest person to have you as his wife. It felt like his pride was being stomped. 

"You're missing a good chance, Y/N."

After Ethan left, both of you were still in the same position. You tried to push Lloyd away, but he didn't budge. 

 He wondered how you ended with Ethan. “Do you like him?” 

You were silent then he saw you smile for a second “At first.” 

Lloyd clenched his fist; the thought of you with someone else just irked him.

"So… he's your type huh?" Lloyd sneered like he was mocking you.

"He wasn't my choice. When I studied abroad, they chose a fiance for me without my knowledge."

To be precise, your grandmother chose Ethan. She picks her closest aid to monitor you. 

If your relatives couldn’t tame you, your husband could do it.

“I thought I found a good guy. He was sweet at first, but it didn't work out."

He smiled, but his displeasure was obvious. “There shouldn’t be any secrets between us, honey.”

You scoffed. Lying doesn't work with Lloyd."I despised him."

Lloyd thought so.

“It’s difficult to break the engagement. Since both families benefit from this.”

At that time, L/N company with Wielder Construction needed to work together to remodel the train station in New York. 

“They basically sold you.”

“It’s a normal thing in my family.” Your uncles and aunties got married not by their choice, except by your parents.

“Ethan was sweet and respectful. He visited me when I studied at Oxford. He left a great impression. I thought why not give it a try? On the semester break, I went to his place to surprise him. But what I found was, he had a sex party, and he made out with my cousin. Turned out she went to the university with him.” You felt betrayed when you saw the vulgar scene. 

“You told your grandfather?”

You nodded. “And he saw the video but he told me to stay silent. That’s when I realized he needed this marriage too.”

“I almost gave up and accepted my fate to have a lifeless marriage. But then I remembered grandfather hated people who lost his money. He will toss anyone who he thinks is useless."

"So when Ethan asked to invest in his new business, I gave him 500 million dollars and I told my grandfather. He appreciated that I gave Ethan a chance."

Lloyd coughed. Every time you mention money, it is always an outrageous amount. Your ex is an idiot. 

“It was your scheme from the beginning, you know he will lose it.” 

He learned you are also a risk taker since you don't mind losing that money to get what you want. 

You chuckled. “It was big news and the media loved to see the downfall of rich kids.But the most important part is my grandfather who was really mad. He didn’t want a stupid grandson-in-law. And he cut the engagement."

Lloyd learned that you are pretty manipulative when he heard the whole story. He could probably finish all his missions faster if you work with him. 

"Do you want me to handle him? He seems like trouble like your relatives."

You shook your head and made a cross with both of your arms. “I don't want to get in any trouble since Ethan’s father is Robert Wielder.”

That last name was familiar. Lloyd's expression was enough to tell that he knew. You nodded. “Ethan's uncle is the President, Nolan Wielder. I don’t want to deal with the Secret Service, FBI and CIA.”

Lloyd agreed in his line of work; he knew some people he couldn't touch. "You're right it's a pain in the ass."

"What does it mean you will miss a good life?"

“I didn't follow his update after the engagement broke. But it seems like he has started joining politics."

“Him?” Lloyd didn't believe it when you said that, but when he looked down from your office window. There's a billboard with Ethan's campaign photo.

“Wielder has a long history in politics but only for the male heir. Nolan only has a daughter, and the only male heir to continue their tradition is Ethan. Robert is ambitious to make his son a President.”

He gathered all the dots and could figure out that Ethan came here to check on you. And want to marry you since he still single. 

Voters prefer married candidates.

You sighed heavily. “I miscalculated the bad outcome. I'm sure his father will call me.”

Your guess was correct, after a minute your secretary knocked on your door. 

"Miss, there's some,-"

You move closer to your table and pick up the phone. "Hello?"

“Ah, my dear Y/N. How are you?” The older man's voice sounds friendly but vicious at the same time. 

“I’m good.”

“I hear what happened with your family. It’s tragic but necessary to get rid of the rotten parts.”

You didn't say anything because he didn't help you when you struggled.

“I'm inviting you to the gala dinner. I insist. I heard you also got married. I’m sad you didn’t invite me. I want to get to know him.” The other side seemed to know you didn't want to talk, so he cut to the chase. 

“Yes, Robert.”

You lowered your head and sighed heavily. "Do you have suits, Lloyd?"

“Why?”

"We got invited to the gala dinner.”

Lloyd was bored and decided to walk around at your company. Jimmy stood before him, lifted his left palm and pointed his fourth finger. 

Lloyd raised his eyebrows. “I don’t understand sign language, old man.”

Jimmy rolled his eyes. “This generation…" He sighed heavily. "What I meant was you should give Y/N a ring.”

Lloyd pinched the bridge of his nose. Both of you forgot the most important thing to make acting as husband and wife more believable. No wonder Ethan doesn't believe you when you tell him you got married. A woman like you needs to wear a beautiful ring. 

Lloyd picks up his phone. “Find me the most expensive wedding ring, size 13.”

Lloyd entered your room and saw you dressed in a gown. You look elegant and mature in the evening dress. 

You also saw him looking good. He was dressed in a perfectly fitting black suit. He seems like a gentleman. 

He knelt near you and pulled a red velvet box from his pocket. “Y/N L/N, I swear on the 3 billion dollars I will never betray and let you get hurt. Because you're the greatest asset that I ever had.”

Your heart skipped a beat for a moment. You knew it was only for an act. “I do. From now on, let’s get along."

Lloyd didn't know why, but he thought the proposal was real for a moment. He must keep his head clear and remember this is just a contract.

He stood up and sat on the side of your bed. "Is this a good idea to show my face at the gala?"

"It's perfect timing. All the guests know me. If I introduce you as my husband. No one will bother me anymore."

At the gala.

Everyone gasped and whispered when they saw you walk into the room.

You force the corners of your mouth to curl up when you greet other guests.

You whispered to your partner, "I just came back 2 days ago, and it seems they knew everything."

Lloyd chuckled.

One of the most effective weapons is gossip. "Walls have ears, my dear." Lloyd played his part well. 

Too well. He stroked your hair and kissed your temple. 

In other people's eyes, both of you look close and intimate. And with the ring on your fingers, they believe you are already married.

The host of the party sees it too. Ethan and his father, Robert, saw you and Lloyd look like newlyweds. 

Ethan tried to fake a smile, but it was seen through. Robert notices his son wants to cry. He whispered, "If you didn't invest in that fake start-up, both of you are married now. Now look, she chose a mercenary to be her husband."

You gripped Lloyd's arm tighter when you greeted Robert and Ethan. The older man seems friendly and welcoming, but his conversation always leads to gaslighting.

Robert gave a quick kiss on both of your cheeks. "Welcome Y/N." Then he moved to Lloyd. He didn't bother to offer a handshake, "Mr. Hansen. I heard about your work in Prague. It was impressive but such a mess."

Lloyd doesn't bother when someone underestimates him. In his line of work, he already used too with harsh words.

You must keep the act longer since you got seated at the same table as the host party. They changed it at the last minute. 

After everyone got seated and talked, Robert broke the mood by asking, “When will you get divorced? You signed prenup right? My lawyers will help you.”

You raised your voice. “Excuse me?”

“You picked a dangerous man to be your husband, Y/N. His hands had taken out hundreds of lives. You deserved better."

You crossed your arms; you decided not to be friendly with him anymore. “Not so different from us. There’s no big business without the blood of innocent people.”

What you meant was you weren't that innocent too. You knew the company your grandfather was built with real tears and blood.

"I think this conversation will only disrespect my husband. So I think we will leave." You start to move from your seat.

"We're not done yet."

"L/N company won't stop donating to your brother next year election campaign."

"My brother will be forever grateful. What I want to ask is the 500 billion dollar project. Your uncle promised me I would be part of it, and I got 20%."

“Then your project will get into trouble, my dear.”

"You need my connection. Without my help, you won't get it easy, Y/N. Remember, I've been playing this game longer than you."

"That's bullshit. Your company doesn't take part. And it was my uncle who promised you, not me. I'm not your business partner."

You clenched your fist holding out any anger. The audacity of this old man. He didn't do anything to get this mega project. For those 4 years of running and hiding, you are still reaching out to a potential business partner. 

You were lucky; you found your grandfather's old notebook before you got cast out. 

Inside he wrote some contacts of business partnerships that he worked with. 

"I will be straight to the point, Mr Wielder. My answer is No." You lift yourself from the chair.

“If you leave, you will miss a chance to be the 1st lady.”

Before you could say anything, Lloyd had already stabbed the table knife between Robert's fingers to the table. 

It made everyone near the table gasp and get scared. Even the musicians stop playing their instruments. Lloyd waves his hand to signal everyone to look the other way. He already controls the rooms. 

He smiled but sounded displeased. "I've been reading about your son's campaign situation. His name doesn't have a strong brand. He will lose the election if he doesn't have L/N company to back him up."

"Now, I will give two choices." Loyd is pissed; these people not just disrespect him but you too. 

"I will stab your son's eyes or slit his throat with this knife?"

Lloyd said with a calm smile. But everyone at the table felt fear. Ethan wants to move, but his father makes an eye signal not to stay in his position.

Robert keeps his composure. "Both of them don't give me any benefits."

"Exactly."

Robert noticed you didn't tell Lloyd to stop, which means you supported his doing. "I see; we couldn't reach the same point of view. And I apologise."

"That's great.” Lloyd pulled the knife from the table.”You've known my line of work. Keep your hands away from my wife." 

He stood up and linked your arms to him, and put his hand on your back. Both of you left the party. 

Ethan could only watch your back before he asked his father, “Do you want me to give him a lesson?”

Robert snapped, “No, stay here and play with your dick.” He is pissed that they wouldn't be humiliated like this if his son were good and could tame Y/N; they wouldn't be humiliated like this. 

Inside the car on the way home, both of you were silent. It made Lloyd restless. "Y/N, did I make a mistake?" 

His act could ruin your good image and business for having a lunatic husband. 

This is the first time you saw him lose confidence. You shook. "You didn't do anything wrong."

He didn’t believe it.

You smiled and held his hand. "It’s true, Lloyd. Everyone will know I have a husband who is not a coward and doesn't take shit if someone underestimates him."

After you said that, he finally felt relieved. He is grateful for the nighttime; if it was daylight, you could see his blushed cheeks.

'Growl.' 

"Sorry, I couldn't eat anything at that party." You pick up a phone and start typing to order food, "I'm craving a cheeseburger; what about you?"

"Same."

Back at your shared apartment.

After the two sets of cheeseburgers and 3 bottles of wine, both of you felt comfortable with each other.

Lloyd saw you were already drunk because you kept playing with a fork. He asked, "Is Wielder superior to your family?"

You felt dizzy and moved your chair closer to Lloyd. You nodded your head multiple times and opened your arms. "He gets along with the mafia; he even blocked the importer ship that belongs to my grandfather. Since then, Grandpa has chosen to keep his enemy close."

Lloyd chuckled, seeing you being dramatic at explaining things. "Did you forget that you are a reliable husband now?"

That’s right; you have someone to rely on. You don’t know if it’s because of the alcohol, but you want to kiss him. 

Your gaze didn’t move from his lips.

“Can I kiss you?”

Lloyd didn’t expect your question. 

Don’t need any answer. 

Soon both lips collided, and a tongue entered your parted mouth. You could feel a strong hand wrapped around the back of your neck. Lloyd bit and sucked your lips several times, then smirked. “Are you sure you want to do this?

Your heart was beating fast as if it could pop out of your chest at any moment. “Maybe?” You have a long giggle before you pass out. 

Lloyd catches your head before it hits the table. He sighed heavily since you woke up the fire inside of him.

The next day, when you wake up, you feel a headache. You didn’t remember what happened after you finished the third bottle of wine. When you want to get another sleep, your phone rings.

‘RING’

You weren’t ready to accept any call, but it was your secretary. He never called in the morning unless it was important.

When you listened to what he said, the hangover you had immediately went and jumped off the bed. 

Lloyd, an early riser, was sitting in the living room. He was enjoying the morning coffee while looking at your door. 

Your door suddenly opened.

“Morning.” He noticed you were already wearing an outdoor outfit, not the usual one. “Where are you going?”

You were fixing your jacket. “There’s an accident at one project site. I must check before the media comes and talk with the project safety manager.” You didn't want this accident to stop the progress. 

This will be your first time handling the project independently without your grandfather's guidance. 

While preparing all your stuff, Lloyd hopes for something different. 

“You didn’t remember what happened last night?"

“No.”

He made a mental note not to let you drink because you don’t remember.

At the construction site

Lloyd didn’t have a good feeling when both of you arrived at the location. "I don't like this."

"Me too. But I have to be responsible."

"That's not what I meant. Something doesn't seem right."

When you visited the site, a group surrounded you and brought you to the location. In just a second, you got separated from Lloyd.

“Y/N!”

You couldn’t hear his scream. One of the employees said, “Miss Y/N, over there is where the accident happened.”

When you followed him, you felt pain in your back. Before your hand could touch it, your head was covered with black cloth.

You got kidnapped again.

Lloyd wasn’t fast enough this time because the kidnapper used a helicopter. 

"Fuck."

He took his phone. "Find out which idiot used a helicopter in the daylight to kidnap my wife!!!"

Somewhere in an unknown location, 

"Urghh." Your eyes are still closed because of the dizziness.

With the hangover and the headache you got from the back hit made you puke.

"Geez, Y/N this is an Italian leather shoe."

That familiar voice made you open your eyelids. "Ethan, what the fuck? Not you too."

"Y/N, I'm sorry. This is the only way I could talk to you."

"This is an idiot move, you idiot."

"Stop talking like that. Y/N, let's just say this is intervention."

"For what?"

"Your husband. Y/N please leave him. He's not good enough for you."

You rolled your eyes. "You just want my money."

"Uh, you make this difficult Y/N. Seems like I can't have a conversation with you."

He snapped his fingers and someone appeared holding a gun. 

He heavily sighed, if you just give him another chance, both of you could have a happy life. 

"Get rid of her." He said that before he left the cottage.

'That's it?' 

You were shocked with how your ex-fiance negotiated. He didn't even try and just gave up. 

This is the biggest of the red flags you see in him. Giving up quickly and not wanting to admit his own mistakes. 

You know the hitman getting closer. "Wait, wait. I could give you more money. 4 billion dollars."

The killer laughed mockingly, thinking you would never have that much money. "Yeah, like I could be a billionaire in one day."

Based on his voice you realised he's not American no wonder why he didn't believe you. 

He aimed the gun closer to your forehead.

You closed your eyes, accepting your fate.

'BANG.'

At the loud gunshot, something warm and damp splashed on your face. You inhaled the fishy smell. 

"ARGH!!"

You were shocked; you weren’t ready. 

Blood splatters on your face. 

That was the first time you had someone die in front of your eyes. 

Since you became the target of your relatives, there was a time you got into a dangerous moment. 

"You should've accepted the money." Lloyd's voice made you feel safe. 

You were on adrenaline; your eyes kept seeing the hitman who had a bullet pierced into his forehead. 

Lloyd took off his jacket to cover your face.

"Send the dead body to Wielder house." He gave instructions to his subordinates. 

"Did he hurt you?" Lloyd ran to you and then cut the rope around your hands. You immediately wrapped his shoulder with his arms, rested your head on his neck, and cried.

"No. Take me home. Please." Your crying made him feel more guilty. He holds you tighter. 

When he found who it was, he immediately drove to the hidden cottage while his team ruined the Wielder building. That old man Robert will get another stroke. His stupid son tried to kidnap his wife. 

You went home and took a shower for the 5th time. No matter how much soap you put on your body, you could still smell the blood. You want it to disappear. 

It's the first time you got covered with blood from head to toe. And you hope this is the last time. 

In the end, you can handle it and sit on the floor. “ARGH!!!” To let out your frustration. 

“You were stressed and scared, didn’t you?”

“Isn't it obvious?"

“Y/N.”

You saw him already taken off his shirt; he only wore his brief. You didn't have the energy to ask him why. 

“I gave you my permission to use my body.”

“...”

“To release some stress. It’s my fault you got kidnapped.”

He shamelessly looked up and down your body. “I’m dying to touch your body, and I haven’t shown you my night duty as your husband.”

There was silence; your brain couldn’t think at all. You only have two choices, go to a psychiatrist to talk about your problem that ended without any solution or fucked Lloyd to release the stress you’ve been holding for years.

“Fuck it.” You kissed him, which surprised him for a while, but he didn’t want to miss the chance.

Lloyd's hands grasped your breasts and gently twisted your nipples. You gasped, and your heart beat faster and faster. 

He licked your pink nipples and tugged at them lightly with his teeth. You saw his perfectly toned body was breathtakingly hot. You hold his shoulder. 

“Can we continue this in the bedroom?”

“Yes, wife.”

He lifted your body while you hugged him by his neck. When he found the bed, he put you down gently. You spread your legs apart and wrapped your legs around his waist. You are already wet. His manhood pushed in. 

It felt so good. 

Your body trembled, and Lloyd enjoyed you watching your face. At the climax, he shoved his penis deep inside you. You felt the blood of your body rush down. 

He slowly pulled out his manhood, rested beside you, and gently caressed your cheek. 

Your finger sweeps his messy hair. “This is,-”

He left small kisses on your shoulders, lay beside you, and pulled you into his arms. “Don’t say anything, both of us need this.”

He was right; you were exhausted. You closed your eyes and burrowed in his arms. 

Lloyd pressed his lips to the top of your head. “Sweet dream, sweetheart.”

'RING'

"Urgh", The grumble voice came from Lloyd, who woke up because of the annoying ringtone. 

"Sunshine, if it's another accident, just send Jimmy."

You also didn't want to pick up the phone, but the only people who knew this number were the people you trusted. 

You couldn't turn your body to the nightstand since you were still trapped in Lloyd cuddled. Only one of your arms could reach the phone beside you. 

"Hello."

"Y/N, in another 5 minutes there will be another call. You have to answer it."

"Wait a-"

Jimmy had hung up the phone before you could ask.

Lloyd, who still closed his eyes, kissed your temple.

 "Whose that?"

"Jimmy, he told me to answer the next call."

"Hmm, you should."

You became fully awake and curious about what Lloyd and Jimmy knew that you didn't.

'RING.'

You immediately answer, "Hello."

"Miss L/N."

You hold your breath for a second when you hear the voice. You only know it from the television. 

You pushed yourself from Lloyd's firm grip, which made him whine. There's no way you answer the phone while looking at the naked man. 

You cleared your throat "Mr. President."

"I received a package from you. This is useful to stop my brother's ambition. There is no way I would let my spoiled nephew enter politics, and ruin my hard work."

You agree with what he said. You didn't like Robert. If you have to choose, you prefer to work with his older brother, Nolan, because of his work ethic. He loves his country and tries to make it better. 

Nolan knew his nephew didn't have the guts to enter politics. He prefers to choose anyone smarter than his nephew. 

So this is what Lloyd's doing. You caressed his hair. "Glad to help."

"And…"

“Your husband has a quiet reputation. Perhaps sooner I will need his skills.”

“I really recommend his service sir.”  Your reply made the other line laugh. Both of you made small talk before the call ended. 

You put down the phone and grab his head to kiss Lloyd.

He pulled you back into his arms again."You seem happy.”

“Yup." Of course, you were delighted; the country's leader called you personally. You giggled. "I got a new friend and a potential client for Hansen Security.”

Lloyd could only enjoy this peaceful morning. Not just you get rid of the stupid ex-fiance, but he also receives a powerful client. 

He thought if this was married life, it was not that bad. Lloyd can't explain for some reason but wishes this fake marriage would last forever. 

Thank you for reading, besties. 💓🥹

A/N: All mistakes are on me. I will fix it when I get more inspiration.

The next part will be the aftermath of their divorce.

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