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#... i wish we had more artists here

stackslip · 2 months

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actually i do have something to say about this chapter and it's quite critical of it but also i'm tired tonight and i've been talking about it long and hard on discord already and putting it all together in a coherent post feels like too much of a task tonight. all i'm gonna say is that part 2 was very obviously going in a certain direction from the start, and i loved that direction, and to an extent it is still going in that direction but now very obviously missing a huge chunk of what stirred it in that direction. and i'm hesitant to simply say it's fujimoto that's dropped the ball on this (though it might the idealization, who's to say) because from the actual shape of the writing + slump in paneling/art + recent bitter interview by fujimoto + japanese audience is apparently vocally not a fan of asa + my own cursed knowledge of shounen jump and shueisha editors and how they react to a fall in sales = i think the lack of focus on asa has really hurt the themes of part 2 when she was an integral part of it + i think this wasn't entirely fujimoto's doing and it's very likely because she is apparently strongly disliked in japan and there's good reason to believe that fujimoto was told to not focus on her nearly as much bc sales slump and people complain as soon as she shows up. which sucks. becaue what made part 2 work as well as it did was the synergy and parallel between the two protagonists' paths, and the absence of asa's path in the past few months (both in universe and by real time in the comic) feels like a genuine writing and thematic and emotional hole in the comic that to me shows that she WAS supposed to be there. fujimoto had fully intended to write her in there bc there's a hole in the shape of her where she is very obviously supposed to fit. it isn't simply a question of "author forgets his female character" it's a question of "this crucial part of the manga is missing and the author is painfully aware of it and bitter about it too"

#eli talks #csm #this is still not coherent i'll make a more coherent version at one point.#anyhow this still worked for me even during the denji megafocus #bc it felt like the boomerang was gonna return and asa was gonna be back in her place #and we were gonna see the counterbalance to denji's focus #her own rise to fame and emotions during this and growth with yoru #her absorption into the church and its horrors; the love bombing and adulation she finally got #the emotions about chainsaw man as a character and growing more reliant on yoru #the bitter and dramatic fall and its immediate aftermath; reacting to losing her arm #instead we get a character who until now had been an intensely emotion-driven and passive character IMMEDIATELY thrust into action #and given v little insight into her thoughts and interiority #something is missing!#it's not like fujimoto had nothing planned for her. she was written so intently and well #and suddenly it's like she dropped out of existence #and suddenly the paneling got worse and the art got worse and the hiatuses worse #and we get an interview from fjmt where he talks bitterly about commercial expectations interfering with artistic intentions #and how he wishes he didn't have to draw aymore #a guy who talked about how he was obsessed with drawing!#idk maybe it's idealization but i feel like it's not hard to put two and two together here

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2kiran · 2 months

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FRANCIS MOSSES 交易 ── `` DARK CONTENT﹕monsterfucking. top amab reader. doppelgänger francis. handjob. no protection + preparation. overstimulation. ✶ IN WHICH you unknowingly let the wrong francis inside.

the prospect of you being fired—or worse, being put in a cell—was incredibly likely. enthusiasm of the milkman’s arrival being your final entry request for the day lead to your upcoming demise.

it shouldn’t be on you, both the blame and responsibility. the given identity document had indistinguishable information, merely an artist’s mistake as you finally realize that his eyebrows were just a tad thicker. his eyes were a bit too lively for the real francis.

realization dawned on you a second too late as you feel cold, but strangely simultaneously familiar and unfamiliar hands grab you from behind. before you could reach the rotary phone to contact the D.D.D., he grabbed your wrist and spun your chair around to face him.

francis, or so you thought, had a gentle smile plastered on his face but you knew better to tell that his intentions were far from truly kind. “don’t tell me you were actually going to let them kill me,” your jaw tightened, gaze hardening into a glare. he chuckled, hands landing on the armrests, so dangerously close to yours that were balled in fists to prevent yourself from punching his face.

when you didn’t respond, he continued. leaning in as he shook his head with a scoff, “aw, c’mon. . .we both know that you’re too much of a good sweetheart, yeah? please don’t try that again.” his saccharine voice was improbable, a subtle take of a threat behind his tone.

“you’re gullible enough to think i’d do that for you.” the tension between you was palpable, a thin thread that threatened to break at the tip of his finger. his lips pouted, sadness in his untrue eyes. “me? but you’re the one who let me in here,” he laughed, tone rather arrogant, “and i should thank you for that.”

if he were the real francis, you probably would have been making out with him by now. this doppelgänger was awfully confident, you wish you could break him. see tears fall down to his round cheeks, lips trembling as pleas tumbled out of his pretty lips.

these thoughts were idiotic. but fuck, he was near enough to the milkman, the clueless neighbor who could care less about it all. “want me to spare you? or—” you cut him off, lips connecting with his. francis was surprised, but welcomed it nonetheless. his hand came up to your neck, sliding towards your hair. groaning as he gently, almost experimentally, tugged at it. tongue met tongue, a clash of saliva and mess. you bit onto his bottom lip, eliciting a soft moan.

“mmph, and here i thought you hated me.” he grinned, panting, “what gave you that idea?” you place a kiss on his chin, “because you tried to get rid of me, and the fact that. . .i’m not him.” grabbing his hips, he let out a yelp. he scrambled to hold onto your shoulders for dear life, gasping when he felt your teeth graze against his neck. “seems like i’ve struck a nerve, hu—haah, fuck!”

a lewd moan had escaped him, your teeth sinking into his flesh. it was far from gentle, biting him like you wanted to see him bleed. he was simply a doppelgänger that you stupidly let in, after all.

the pink muscle settled in your mouth lapped at the bite, cueing francis to whimper at the sensation. he moved closer on your lap, grinding against your crotch. the action could’ve been mistaken for something relating to a dog; for he seemed like a bitch in heat. quite uncharacteristic for his kind. “you’re pathetic, mosses.”

francis, beyond belief, was affected by the use of the stolen surname more than you anticipated. his hips trembled, “that’s, haah, not my fault. you made me like this. fucking a– ah! doppelgänger, really? they’d surely co– come for you next.” his cock twitched, spilling pre-cum that formed a wet patch on his boxers. you were a lowly human, another one to get rid of, so why does he feel this way?

silence was met with his words. not until you pull down his pants, taking off what was left until his lower half was bare to you. “oh yeah? you’re letting me fuck you,” your fingers wrapped around the base of his dick, giving a single stroke, “you’re not even trying to fight back against me, honey.”

he whined, beginning to selfishly rut into your palm. “what were you going to say?” francis doesn’t respond and you twist your wrist, a cry slipping from him. you asked on a whim, wishing to hear what he planned besides allowing you to carry on with your life. “i-i don’t know!” your thumb presses down on his slit, causing him to wrack his brain to remember. “ah, ah, i meant to ask if you wa- want me to kill you right he— hmmng!” his voice wobbled as if he was fearful, tears in his eyes and he’s suddenly ethereal.

“do you still want to do that? to end my life?”

“no, no, please, i didn’t mean it.”

you tease the vein that ran on his shaft, never failing to witness the face he makes when he’s within the depths of pleasure; of that high he never dared to reach. oh, if only if it was francis mosses. the real one, the one you’re so curious about, the one who your eyes like to linger on a bit too long for comfort. your pace picks up, palm slick with his pre-cum and the room’s sinful with his sobs and arousal.

francis moans under his breath, “i’m cumming-!” he warns a second too late, hips bucking as the familiar fluid splatters across your fingers. the doppelgänger was your very own legendary mona lisa with how his face is painted with all shades of red.

when you swipe your thumb over his tip, he swore he had a glimpse of the deity he didn’t have the conscience to worship.

beliefs were foolish; it was his opinion. with that, he thought you were the one insane. doppelgängers aren’t flawed with such imperfections like humans are. he didn’t need to be prepared for situations similar to this, and you used his inhumanity for your pleasure.

“ughm, agh!” you had wordlessly given your cock a few pumps, no more than that before slipping inside of his tight hole. the tiniest beginning of guilt threatened to engulf you with shame, but why should you allow it? his mere purpose and intention was to murder.

his hole spasmed around you, freely welcoming the intrusion. maybe they were quite useful after all. he whined, his insides tingling with the stretch. the doppelgänger has never felt so full, or genuinely anything, for that matter. “please—fuck, move already, damnit.” he, himself, was breathless.

how could you deny him?

your hands grasped his hips tightly, like you wanted to indent a marking into his flesh. cold emanated from your palms, contrasting to the heat licking at his cheeks. he’s lighter than you’d expect, hole gripping you as if he was a fleshlight. lifting him up, your tip was held onto. heavenly; as the way he wrapped around you was undeniably heavenly.

sensing his apparent impatience, you let him crash down on you. a broken gasp-of-a-moan occupied the air, globs of pre-cum building on his slit. “yeah, fuck me like that,” he breathed, instructions hazily clear to your sex-deprived brain. his ass slapped, slapped, slapped against you. shit, the D.D.D. surely ought to give you a punishment worse than death for this.

he clung onto you, both with his arms and entrance. you don’t think you could really get enough—as vague as this memory could get. your tip brushes against his prostate with each harsh thrust, slick sounds adding onto the cotton pressed into his little head, forming static and nothing else to focus on besides your cock pounding into him. “you’re liking this- ahngm! right? like how good i feel? haa, needed your dick in me s’ bad. . .”

he pushed his hips forward, grinding on your cock as he purposely clenched. “thaaaat’s it, sweetheart. think ‘m gonna keep you.”

yeah, let’s hope your neighbors forgive you for indulging in him.

masterlist﹒divider﹒artist kaworinx

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glow-worms-are-believers · 17 days

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Alley Chat (Dp x dc)

Danny leaned on the dirty alleyway walls, his head down, as he tried to stave off tears. Taking one more shaky breath, he did his best to let it out slowly.

“You’re fine,” he gasped.

Then, one more gulp, “You’re safe.”

And then, “Breathe.”

“C’mon just-“ he heaved in a breath, “breathe goddammit.”

Then he tilted his head backwards as his eyes slid shut. He inhaled through his nose and exhaled through his mouth, his heart-rate finally slowing down.

He brushed away the wet of his cheeks with the rag he’d shoved in his barista apron earlier. Figuring it was already ruined as it was he blowed his nose in it as well. Now if he could just splash his face with cold water, he’d be almost as new.

He reached for the stick of gum he knew he’d left in the bigger pocket only to freeze as he felt something smoother under his fingers. The card from earlier.

“This is for you,” his father had said, looking more unsure of himself than Danny had ever seen him. “Danny-o…”

“We’re sorry, Danny,” his mother had taken over, and there had been tears in her eyes. “We’re so sorry, we didn’t know-“

“You can’t be here,” Danny had said calmly enough, though his hand had been shaking.

“Danny-“ his mom had started, as she had reached towards him and Danny just couldn’t do this.

He had felt his pulse in his ear, his chest constricting and he hadn’t been able to think past the need to get out, out, out.

There’d been bright light, and then he had been away from the noise, and he had ran until he couldn’t breathe.

And here he was getting pushed to the precipice by a fucking card.

“No,” he told himself but his eyes were already watering. “No,” he choked out, fruitlessly.

“Goddamit,” he hiccuped as tears began to fall. And then it was as if the dam had broken. Every single tear he’d managed to repress were now coming back twofold. His whole body was wrecked by big heaving sobs and he had a moment to be glad he’d found himself a secluded place to have his fit in peace.

“Oh, buddy,” he heard from behind just as the thought registered.

He turned around to find a guy in a skintight red suit looking at him.

“Are you ok?” The guy said before rallying. “That’s a dumb question, isn't it.”

The halfa just looked at the man.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Danny shook his head. He was actively trying not to think about it.

“Is it ok if I stay here ?”

Danny was too drained to care about a stranger witnessing this, so he raised his shoulders.

“I can talk if you don’t want to, I’ve been told I’m quite the motormouth.”

The man let a bit of silence pass before apparently he decided that was an agreement and he started blathering on about- rainbows was it?”

“-sure if compared against the big fishes, Rainbow Raider is far from the worst but I just can’t get over how petty his reason to turn to crime is. I’m not saying being colour blind would make being an artist easy but it doesn’t make impossible. Beethoven was deaf and look at him now! Ok that was poorly phrased, but you get what I meant-“

And on he went, talking about anything that was going through his head it seemed.

As it went on, Danny realized his hands had stopped shaking and there was a tugging at his lips that was ever so slight, but near miraculous so soon after his cry session.

“-where does the iron even come from? Like do spinach plants just make it? What does a spinach plant look like for that matter? I’m picturing like a salad plant but where do the stalks come from then,” the man hummed before there was a sound like a TV’s white noise and the man straightened. After a moment, he turned towards Danny and gave him a smile.

“I’m gonna have to run,” he said. “I’m not often in the neighborhood, so we might not meet again, so I wish you best of luck, bud.”

Another brilliant smile and he turned away.

Danny jumped forward in time to stop the man’s immediate departure. Said man turned to give Danny a quizzical look.

“Thank you,” said Danny painfully sincere.

The man’s face softened in a smile for a moment and then he was gone.

#dc x dp #dp x dc #the flash #barry allen #Danny fenton #Fenton parents #roxpox #roxpoxwrote

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too-much-tma-stuff · 3 months

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Finally Getting Help (prt 7)

Masterpost

Danny was very happy to be dragged around by Damian being introduced to all of his pets, first outside to the barn to meet Bat Cow and his ducks, and the giant weird dragon creature which was so cute!! It was all over Danny too, obviously liked him. Danny had a feeling if he woke up from nightmares or couldn’t sleep he would end up finding his way back to the barn to cuddle up with these animals. At this time of year it would probably be a bit cold and night but the cold never really bothered him and Goliath was warm.

Then back into the house to meet all of the pets, the dogs, and snakes, and Alfred the cat, and finally a second cat and her kittens.

“This one is just a foster,” Damian said, sitting on the bed with his legs crossed in a half lotus as Danny sat on the floor next to the box the mama cat was in with her four little ones. Danny felt like he might cry, it was so cute! The mama was a little wary of him but he was easing her way into her trust and good graces.

“Mhm?” Danny sounded, he was listening but he was scared to move since the mama cat was sniffling his fingers.

“I found her while she was heavily pregnant, feral cats usually have kittens in spring, at this time of year they would have been too vulnerable outside. I’ll rehome them when they’re old enough,” Damian explained. “I was glad I got her to trust me enough that I could be present and make sure nothing went wrong while she had the babies.”

Danny held his breath as he tried to pet the cat. The quiet stretching between them until he felt ready to talk without scaring the cat. “Am I your next pregnant stray,” Danny joked.

Damian gave him a guarded look over. “... I have been told humans don’t like being compared to animals,” He said bluntly, and Danny laughed.

“Ya most don’t. But you take very good care of your animals, when you’re making this comparison, I’m guessing what you’re trying to say is that you’ll do what you can do be here for me and make sure I have what I need for me and the babies to be healthy and safe?” Danny said, giving Damian a fond smile.

“Yes,” Damian said stiffly. This was why he usually preferred animals, they could read his intentions and didn’t require him to say such embarrassingly vulnerable things. At least Danny was saying them for him so he just had to agree.

Danny finished petting the cat and moved to sit next to Damian on the bed. “It’s okay Damian, I really appreciate that. I know handling these emotions can be hard, they feel too big for our bodies and they’re hard to express. I’ll let you in on a secret though, they’re more easy to express physically, and I’m not made of glass just because I’m pregnant. We should spar later.”

“Are you formally trained?” Damian asked stiffly.

“My mother was an expert martial artist and she taught me, but I’m very strong too. I promise you won’t hurt me Damian,” He promised, bumping his shoulder against the kid’s and giving him a smile.

“Alright, I will go easy on you.” Damian promised, just as stiffly.

“Until I prove you can’t afford to,” Danny joked and Damian scoffed and shoved Danny’s shoulder. “But really, thank you Damian. It means a lot that you and your family are willing to stick your necks out for me like this.” He sighed, if he didn’t know better he might have wished his parents had been the ones to protect and support him like this, but wishes were dangerous things.

“This family is made entirely of strays, tragedy is a prerequisite. You’ll fit right in,” Damian promised before getting up from the bed, apparently that was enough emotion. “Do you want to train now?” he asked looking back at Danny.

“Sure, I assume this being the home of the bats and birds there’s some sort of training space?” Danny asked getting up from the bed.

“Yes. This way,” Damian agreed and trotted out of the room with Danny on his heels, making sure to close the door behind him so none of the kittens could wander out.

--------

Jason took off his helmet and dropped it on the couch with a sigh of relief before wandering back into the kitchen to grab a drink. So what if he was technically still too young for it? He’d done a lot worse just in the last 24 hours then half a glass of scotch. He had been off grid for a couple of days on a mission and had just gotten home. He was exhausted and half of him wanted to have his drink and go to bed, leaving his phone off for another day so he could get a proper rest.

But he had responsibilities, both to his gang, his turf, and more recently even to his family, so he turned it back on and grimaced when more than a dozen notifications popped up in a row. Damn, something big must have happened while he was gone. Why could there never be just a quiet day around here?!

He opened the most recent message from Bruce that just said; ‘can you call me when you have the chance?’ which made him sigh. But at the same time, it wasn’t urgent, it was ‘when he had a chance’ not immediately or anger about him not answering sooner. So knowing that he scrolled back down to the oldest message so he could get a feel of what was going on.

Cas, 28 hours ago: New brother! 🤗

Oh, well that was a very good start to the context, it seemed that Bruce was in the process of adopting some other poor schmuck. Well, hopefully they’d do better by it then Jason had. And explained why Bruce wanted him to call, he always worried now how Jason would react to new siblings, as if he wasn’t well over that. He’d only been mad about Tim at first but he wasn’t even Really mad at Tim anymore! Ya he felt the urge to attack him regularly, but only the same way Jason did with everyone else in the family now.

Tim 22 hours ago: I’ve got a favour to ask, or maybe a tip for you depending on how much you want to kill someone right now. Vlad Masters brought a pregnant 16 year old to the gala last night. Apparently he’s the baby daddy.

Oh that had Jason seeing green, his lips pulling back in a silent snarl. That man was good as dead, especially when Jason paused to google him and saw someone who must have been old enough to be the kids Father, if not even grandfather judging by the gray hair!

Tim 19 hours ago: Don’t rush in! Turns out he’s got superpowers of the magical variety. You’re going to have to prepare for this one, and talk to Danny.

Danny must be the new kid then, the pregnant 16 year old Bruce was no doubt making quick steps to at least foster. Where were the kid’s parents in this?

Tana 16 hours ago: Please make sure your wards are set up and you have that anti-possession charm we gave you. There is a situation still developing.

Huh, well, good to know both that she was involved and what sort of powers they might be dealing with.

Tim 8 hours ago: We have the parents in custody but didn’t have the resources to hold Masters. Danny and his sister are staying at the manor for now. You’ll like her, tough-as-nails red head.

Jason rolled his eyes, he dated one amazon and now everyone thinks the only people he’s into are tough ladies! He likes tough boys too god damn it! Why doesn’t no one get after Dickie about this?! (He knows they do.)

The last text from the family before Bruce’s was one from Damian, which was rare.

Damian: Hello Todd, you should know before you meet him that Danny has also previously died and come back. I believe you and he are quite similar and I do not know if that will mean you get along well or if you will repel one another. You should know that if you hurt him there will be consequences.

Well wasn’t that just the cutest! Demon brat didn’t usually get attached to new people so soon.

He texted Bruce back: No I will Not call you. But I can be bribed to come for dinner tomorrow if Alfred makes lasagna.

He checked the messages he had from his lieutenants about business and replied to the ones that needed it. Then the ones from his friends. He was just about to turn his phone off again when he got a text back from Bruce.

Bruce: Done, we’ll see you tomorrow. I’m sorry Jay.

Well that was ominous. Jason sighed and turned off his phone, setting it down on the coffee table and heading to bed. He needed to fucking sleep. Whatever the hell Bruce was sorry for could wait until tomorrow.

--------

Bruce had asked Jasmine for a copy of her slideshow, and Tim for a copy of his notes and updated the files on Danny, Jasmin, Damian, and Jason. He always felt a bit odd about the files he had on his own children, but they were important! Both because his memory wasn’t infallible and he needed to remember all this, and because if he needed to tell someone about his children quickly it was good to have all that already typed out and ready.

Not he was just sitting at the Bat-Computer, staring at the cover picture of the slide show. All of them were so young, and all dead or irrevocably changed by the actions of adults around them. His goal, all their goals, had always been to make a safer world for children, and everyone but especially children. And every time he was confronted with the abject failure to protect a child it tore at his heart. If he found who had blocked them from contacting the JL he was going to have very strong words with them.

“You can’t save every child Master Bruce,” Alfred said making Bruce jump. He must have been staring at the computer for longer then he realized, to not notice the butler’s approach. “There are billions of people on the planet, you cannot catch every single one, especially the clever ones who hide it well. They’re responsible for the harm they cause, not you for not being able to stop it.”

They’d had this conversation before when Bruce got too hanged up on the people he’d failed. He knew that wallowing didn’t do any good, and depression got in the way of action, but he couldn’t always help it. As hyper-logical as he tried to be to compensate, he was still human, and seeing these things would always hurt.

“It’s not just Danny and Jazz,” Bruce said, rubbing his face. “It’s Jason too, I’m trying to figure out how… how what Jazz said about liminals and ghost changes how I feel about him. She says they can look like their immoral but it’s always amoral, following their obsession. I feel like I failed him that this is how he came back. And I blamed him so much, and put him down so much. She said their obsessions have to be supported, if they don’t indulge in their obsessions they die.

“No wonder he’s reacted so negatively every time I talked to him about this revenge quest, this thing that he’s doing. Now that I know I wonder if we can compromise, if we can’t then what? I don’t know if I can blame him at all for what he’s doing, but I know what he’s doing is wrong. I don’t know what to do Alfred.” Bruce said, rubbing his face hard.

“Well, it sounds to me you’re putting the cart before the horse Master Bruce. You haven’t even spoken to him about it yet, and you haven’t slept in more than 24 hours. Sleep, then talk to him, then you’ll know how worried to actually be,” Alfred advised.

“You’re right, as usual,” Bruce chuckled and got up, shutting down the bat computer. “What would I do without you,” He chuckled, patting Alfred’s shoulder affectionately.

“I’m sure you’d be just fine,” Alfred said, in a tone that made it clear he was just being polite and a playful twinkle in his eyes that made Bruce laugh.

“Thank you Alfie. Let’s all get some rest.”

#alfred pennyworth #bruce wayne #danny phantom #jasmine fenton #dc x dp #fanfiction #finally getting help au #trans!danny #Danny is pregnant #damian wayne #casandra cain #implied sa #the fentons are bad parents #jason todd #eventual dead on main

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ryo-maybe · 2 years

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can u explain why AI art is bad without fearmongering, moralizing or bootlicking lol

I'm going to answer in good faith, even though the tone you're using sounds like you're harboring anything but. The issue with AI art isn't specifically inherent to the tools used to produce it, because, ultimately, a tool is merely that: something devoid of will which, in the hands of a human, can produce a specific outcome. It's the human element that taints what we could otherwise enjoy for the unquestioningly fascinating topic that is AI art and, by extension, AI software as a whole.

Now, the problem isn't people, period, but the kind of people that are responsible for giving AI the bad rep it's been getting, along with the intent that goes into both the development of AI tools and the things produced by dint of said tools. I'm talking about the tech bros happily rubbing their hands, waiting to provide business moguls with a brand new means to commodify and mass-produce what artists stake their entire livelihoods upon, because when you have enough zeroes lined up in your bank account, your eyes are utterly blinded to the soul and personality that human beings put into their handiwork, and which a machine won't ever be able to reproduce no matter how much stolen art you feed it. Oh yeah, by the way, that's how AI art tools have been making the rounds: by chewing on thousands upon thousands of stolen pictures made by actual people so that they may learn how to ape someone's style and spit out absolutely soulless derivatives, while the original authors don't see a lick of recognition or monetary retribution for any of it. Do I need to tell you why stealing and parading someone else's art as your own is a terrible, vile thing to do?

But sure, you did ask me to refrain from "fearmongering, moralizing or bootlicking", which I guess I've already done. So since you'd rather I skipped straight to the point in a concise manner, lemme offer some quick examples of why the culture surrounding AI art has already developed into one of the most abysmally disappointing displays of how greed and an utter lack of human decency can ruin something objectively brimming with possibilities:

Less than a week after the sudden death of Korean artist Kim Jung-gi, someone trained an AI model to mimic his artstyle, having the audacity of asking for credits if anyone wished to use it. I sincerely hope I don't have to explain to you why this is a ghoulish example of the kind of tone-deafness sported by tech bros who buy wholesale into the AI art craze.

A piece of AI art was submitted to an art contest and won. The "artist"'s work amounted to little more than picking a series of prompts and letting the machine do the work. It's as much art as googling a smattering of terms and making a collage of pictures taken from Pinterest (and even then, you would have put more work into it than this person did). That they won at all says a whole damn lot about how abysmal the respect given to artists - real artists - nowadays is.

There are a multitude of people out there already selling prints of AI-generated art. I could link some of them here, but honestly, type "ai art prints" on a search engine and you'll get inundated by them. I've seen and personally know artists who have had to undersell their works because commissions were the only thin, frayed string they could hang on in hopes of making it through the week without fucking starving themselves, but here we are: any random asshole can now yell "MASSIVE BREASTS, THIN WAIST, COCKTAIL DRESS, HUGE BADONGAS" at a computer, let it mash together a trillion of other people's hard work, and print it for easy bucks that the actual authors of the basic ingredients of their insipid soup will never, ever see a dime of.

It really bothers me that you mentioned "no bootlicking". Whose fucking boots is this side of the debate supposedly tasting? That of the artists who post every day about how angry, sad and terrified they are by the prospects of what the development of AI art will entail for their livelihood and passion? What kind of gall did your mother birth you with that you have the spiteful spunk to type that word, when you've got shit like an artist who had their sketch stolen while they were drawing it on stream, then fed to an AI and posted by someone passing it off as their own art? How does that not ignite your indignation? "Bootlicking". Like anyone's tongues have been tasting leather but those of the same tech bro chodes who kept trying oh so hard to convince us NFTs were the future while ruining the environment to make the absolute stupidest point ever made in the history of humanity.

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astraystayyh · 18 days

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han x reader. domestic morning where they also remember snippets of their (enemies) past. they’re very cute and i might write a full fic for their backstory.. stay tuned (also one suggestive joke)

if you wish to request a drabble as well, you can donate to our gaza fundraiser here! there are many writers participating as well hehe <3

10:02 a.m.

“wake up,” you whisper, your nose nuzzling against the slate of han’s neck. his eyes remain closed, but a delicate smile unfurls across his lips. you pretend not to notice.

“come on,” you murmur, your lips brushing his exposed collarbone, your hand slipping around his waist. “i miss you, hannie.”

his arms suddenly envelop you, drawing you into an impossibly tight embrace. “sorry baby, hannie is asleep.”

“is that so?” you giggle, resting your cheek against his bare chest. your face warms as you sense his heart racing unusually fast for a tranquil saturday morning.

“what’s this?” you pout, your fingers grazing the skin that shields the world's most precious organ. “do i still fluster you this much?”

“i literally have the sun in my arms, leave me be,” he grumbles, pulling the covers over you both.

you chuckle, pinching his side gently. “but wasn’t i your volcano?” you ask, referencing the song han wrote about you, for you, to you.

“yaaah,” he drawls out, a gleam of excitement shining in his eyes. “do you remember how we were before i confessed?”

“we hated each other,” you both giggle at the memory, months that now feel like a lifetime ago washing over you. it’s a sweet remembrance, akin to the last ripples of a wave caressing the shore.

“you were the most gorgeous producer I’d ever seen,” he sighs exaggeratedly, “and the most infuriating too.”

“it’s not my fault my genius was too much for you,” you tease, and he leaps away, waving a hand in the air in true han fashion.

“it wasn’t too much, we just had different artistic visions,” his voice grows increasingly high-pitched, “AND you were too prideful to collaborate.”

you shrug nonchalantly, “because you seemed too full of yourself.”

“and yesterday you were too full of m—“ your hand swiftly covers his mouth as raucous giggles erupt from him.

“you’re an actual idiot. i can’t believe I’m dating you now,” you say as his lips meet your forehead tenderly, his hands weaving through your hair as if crafting silent confessions of love.

“how could you resist the world’s best love song, hm?”

memories of listening to han’s Volcano in the rain flood your being. you recall the shiver that overtook your bones, the realization that dawned suddenly upon you, just like a striking bolt— you had never known the line between love and hate was this thin until, you too, experienced it.

“you know, it’s crazy how romantic the lyrics are, yet you never say 'i love you' once in them.”

“but you knew.”

“but i know.”

the smiles that bloom across your faces are serene, peaceful, like the calm that follows a storm, painting the world in hues of stillness.

“hi, baby,” he whispers, and you giggle, cupping his cheek with your palm. “hi, hannie.”

“i’m so happy we moved past the screaming matches.”

“i’m so happy i get to love you.”

“well, I love you more.”

“well, actually, that can’t be true because—“ the rest of your protest is silenced by han’s lips finally pressing atop yours. your words melting like sugar at the tip of your tongue.

#i missed writing for han oh my god #skz x reader #stray kids x reader #skz imagines #stray kids imagines #stray kids scenarios #skz scenarios #skz fluff #stray kids fluff #han x reader #han fluff #han imagines #skz fanfic #skz au

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edwardslvrr · 2 months

Text

GIRLDAD MAX 𐙚 max verstappen

౨ৎ max verstappen x single mum!reader

the one where reader had been invited by red bull racing to the silverstone grand prix and max takes an interest towards her.

taglist if you'd like to be added to my taglist, message me privately or comment on this post

warning this is all fake and just for fun, no hate to any of the people mentioned. Just a reminder that this is pure for entertainment хохо

main masterlist 𐙚 max masterlist

━━ 𝓙ULY 9TH, 2023

౨ৎ yourinstagram posted on their stories

viewed by yourbestfriend and 10.378 others

౨ৎ maxverstappen1 silverstone

liked by danielricciardo and 372.792 others

maxverstappen1 thank you silverstone 🇬🇧

view all 1.218 comments

username the living legend fr

username bro’s playing angry birds in the car atp, he’s got all the time in the world

username easy win

username “lando norris leads the british grand prix!”

username bro got my smiling goofy at the tv screen every time

౨ৎ messages daniel/max

౨ৎ yourinstagram silverstone

liked by maxverstappen1 and 5.849 others

yourinstagram went matching with Julie to the Silverstone grand prix, thank you for the invite @/redbullracing 💙

view all 201 comments

username the matching shirts omg so adorable

username what’s max doing in the likes-

username he probs met her in the garage ig

yourbestfriend how adorable, still jealous but hope you had the best time!🤍

yourinstagram we definitely did, think Julie missed her auntie today tho

yourbestfriend stop it, immediately coming to your place rn for some julie hugs

yourinstagram she can’t wait

username wish i could just be casually invited by red bull to go to a gp life is so unfair

━━ 𝓙ULY 10TH, 2023

౨ৎ instagram DM maxverstappen1/yourinstagram

౨ৎ yourinstagram london, united kingdom

liked by maxverstappen1 and 6.108 others

yourinstagram day in @ home with julie 💞

view all 124 comments

username julie is the cutest omg

username what’s max doing here again

username he follows her?

maxverstappen1 new upcoming artist?

yourinstagram julie’s paintings in a museum near you soon!

username um hi?

username i’m interrupting, right?

username i love your sweater omg

username wish max would casually reply to my posts

౨ৎ yourinstagram posted on their stories

viewed by maxverstappen1 and 11.628 others

replies to your story

yourbestfriend missing my julie cuddles

yourinstagram julie said come over

maxverstappen1 how adorable ☺️

yourinstagram i’ll be your tour guide soon ;)

━━ 𝓙ULY 12TH, 2023

౨ৎ yourinstagram posted on their stories

౨ৎ f1fan twitter

౨ৎ messages max/yn

━━ 𝓙ULY 30TH, 2023

౨ৎ maxverstappen1 circuit de spa-francorchamps

liked by yourinstagram and 501.792 others

maxverstappen1 A perfect weekend in Spa 🇧🇪 #belgiangp

view all 1.693 comments

username i just always love a lestappen podium

username we’re just gonna ignore the kiss?

username no bcs the way i screamed

username i’ve never gasped so loud

username what kiss?

username go on twitter

yourinstagram 😍 ⋅ ♡ 𝖻𝗒 𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗋

username giggling abt you two

౨ৎ f1fan twitter

౨ৎ yourinstagram circuit de spa-francorchamps

liked by maxverstappen1 and 29.793 others

yourinstagram got himself a win and a girlfriend in spa

view all 5.938 comments

username caption is iconic

username your daughter is adorable

maxverstappen1 the girlfriend part is more important

yourinstagram you big sap

danielricciardo credits to me

maxverstappen1 never

౨ৎ maxverstappen1 posted on their stories

taglist - @louvrepool @italyrryx @buendiabebeta @janeholt3 @privatemythss @lightdragonrayne @namgification @aquangxl @sammyam @americanbluebirdrb @poppyflower-22 @c-losur3 @nxrrislando

#formula one #f1 fanfic #max verstappen #max verstappen smau #max verstappen fluff #max verstappen fanfic #max verstappen x you #max verstappen x reader #red bull racing #f1 x reader #f1 #mv1 x reader

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moonstruckme · 14 days

Note

hi mae, if its not too much trouble could you do something with james and r where r has to deal with likr a creep on a train or smth. ive just had a real weird experience rn and its just.hm

Ugh I'm so sorry babe, I wish we each had a James with us all the time

cw: man being creepy (no sa or harassment, just gross behavior)

James Potter x fem!reader ♡ 934 words

You clock the danger long before your boyfriend does, but you suppose it’s a lot more drilled into one of you than the other.

The man gets on a few stops after you do, and his gaze seems aimless until it lands on you. It’s not a busy time; the bus is nearly empty, but of course he goes and stands next to you as if there are no open seats. You should have known better than to sit by the aisle.

James’ chatter fades into the background as your mind starts to whirl with possibilities. What if this man grabs you? What if he tries to keep you from getting off at your stop? What if he waits until you get off, and then follows you home?

“Hey.” James is looking at you quizzically. He reaches for your opposite arm, scrubbing up and down lightly. “You okay?”

You use the touch as an excuse to lean into his side, murmuring so the man can’t hear you. “If that guy’s still here when it’s my stop, will you get off with me? Or I could ride to yours, if that’s better.”

James looks past you, noticing the man for the first time, and you see clarity dawn on his expression as he does the same math you had. You can feel the man’s stare burning into the side of your head; he’s not even being subtle about it. James pulls you closer to his side.

“Hey, mate,” he says, tension underlying his jovial tone. “Do you wanna take a seat? There are plenty open.”

You chance a look over, and the man’s eyes lock with yours like it’s the opportunity he’s been waiting for. You feel James’ arm tense.

“You have pretty hair,” the man says.

You smile tersely. Polite, carefully unfriendly. “Thanks.”

That seems to satisfy him; the man does take a seat. The one directly behind you. Anxiety prickles over your skin at not being able to see him.

You at least feel better now that James is aware, too. He keeps his face turned to you, one eye on the seat behind you, as he picks up your conversation about the film you’ve just seen. Remus and Sirius were the ones who wanted to see it in the cinema; they thought it was artistic and meaningful, whereas you and James are in agreement it was dull and pretentious. Odd, aimless dialogue, experimental camera angles, hardly any plot. James thinks if you can get Sirius away from Remus he’ll agree. Competitive thing that he is, he’s hatching a plan to do so when the man leans forward and pushes his nose into your hair.

The sound of his inhale sends goosebumps racing down every inch of your skin. You go rigid, attempting subtly to lean forward while all the nerves in your body scream at you to run.

“Hey, what the fuck?” James doesn’t take care to lower his voice.

As though you’d been waiting for permission, you jump away, getting as far out of reach as possible before turning around. James’ arm has barred across the back of your seat, his hand gripping the pole on the opposite side and the muscles in his forearm strained with tension.

“What makes you think you can do that to someone?” he asks, equal parts incredulous and irate.

People in the bus have turned to look. The bus slows as you approach the next stop.

“Let’s get off,” you tell James.

“What?” He turns to you for a second before seeming to remember he should be keeping an eye on the man. Who has been silent, but for what he said to you. He looks entertained by James’ outburst, which almost scares you worse than anything that’s happened thus far. You know James is very fit, but you don’t want to get him in a fight. “Why should we get off? We haven’t done anything wrong!”

The doors open, and people start to file off. “James,” you say, grabbing a fistful of his shirt and giving a slight tug. “Please.”

He hesitates a second longer, looking somewhere between bewildered and outraged, before he says, “Fine, okay,” and grabs your bag. You tug him into the aisle, careful to keep both of you out of reach of the man. Once you’re off the bus, you start walking quickly, pulling James along and casting glances over your shoulder to be sure the man from the bus doesn’t follow. It’s only when the bus pulls away and he hasn’t gotten off that you stop.

“Ugh.” You heave a tremendous sigh, hugging James around the middle and dropping your forehead to his chest. “Sorry.”

“That was fucking insane,” he says, cupping the back of your head protectively. “Does that happen to you often?”

You let out a little laugh. “That specifically? No. But I know better than to talk to guys like that.”

“Sorry.” James kisses your hairline. Lets his lips rest there. “I thought it was going to help.”

“It’s not your fault, he was going to be weird either way. I’m really glad you were there.”

He squeezes you tighter. It helps you release the tension from your shoulders, giving in to him. “That was fucking disgusting,” he says. “I’m sorry I’m ever not there.”

You shudder. “Is it weird that I feel like I need to shower?”

“Nope. But do it at mine. I’m not going to be able to stop thinking about that guy finding your place for the next several days.”

“How would he do that, James?”

“Dunno. But just to be safe.”

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pacifierbby · 1 month

Text

CHICKEN SHOP DATE ✧ ; - LN4

Taglist 𐙚 masterlist

* ੈ✩‧₊ Amelia knew you loved f1 and when she had the chance to interview Lando Norris for the chicken shop date she knew you had to do it. So when she made up a lame excuse about how she didn't feel well and that you need to cover her. But one thing she didn't tell you is that you will be interviewing the Lando Norris

: ̗̀➛ pairing ln4 x youtuber social media

: ̗̀➛ warning none

: ̗̀➛ Word count 802

Walking inside the chicken shop, the crew already set the table up and everything Amelia Pa walked up to you. "Do you know who you are interviewing today, Chloe?" you shook your head letting the hairstylist and makeup artist do some small touch ups looking down at her clipboard "Oh I thought Amelia said something to you" shaking your head "no she just asked me to step in for this one" the pa nodded "well you're doing the dinner date with the formula one driver lando norris" looking back at her twice to see if she was joking "um okay" the nerves quickly coming in grabbing your phone out of your pocket texting amelia quickly

She knew exactly what she was doing she knew the fact that you loved Formula One. However, you just never told her that you liked Lando slightly pissed that she lied to you but you have her for that after but slightly grateful that she even let you have your moments Mr norris.

"Alright Chloe Lando will be here soon you want to sit in the booth and we'll bring him to you" nodding slightly walking towards the booth the food already placed a capri sun on the other side. Take a photo of the setup quickly posting it on your Instagram

Chloeinsta

Liked by amelia,ln4 and 12,384 others

@chloelol wonder who will be my date this time 👀

@amelia @chloelol someone who dearly likes capri Suns

Liked by chloelol

Looking over towards the door, seeing Lando stepping in, the pa quickly rushed towards his side nerves, coming back to the bottom of your stomach. Watching Lando and Pa walking towards you "Lando this is Chloe and Chloe. This is Lando she will be doing your interview today." Lando holding out his hand for you to shake which you quickly accepted. His warmth makes you feel something inside. "Shall we begin?" the pa interrupted. You and Lando agree.

Lando taking a seat infront of you placing his straw inside the capri sun.

"So let's start with something easy." Looking down at your cards and then back at Lando, "How many cars do you have, and which one is your favourite?" Lando grabbing a chip "I have like maybe 16 cars but my favourite is the Jolly Just Cruising around Monaco with the roof down with your friends is fun" You nodded sipping your coke "Right would you have a passenger princesses?" Lando laughed a little ."I would love to have a passenger princess" Giving you a slight smile leaning in towards you ," taking a chip from the box. "Are you a big spoon or a small spoon?" Wanting to hear the answer more so for myself leaning in towards Lando "Um never really tried to be a small spoon, but a big spoon is what I prefer, taking a drink from his capri sun and smiling at you slight

Looking up at Lando, licking your lips slightly, "I heard it hot in the McLaren. Is that true?" Lando laughed slightly making you fall for him even more " Um yeah it's really hot the lads have to remind me to always take my water" looking down at the table "be more hotter with me" making him slightly blush a little grabbing a chip "do you have a crush on any singers or movie actors?" making him shake his head "no not really, but you're turning into one, " making you blush a little. You knew it's for the content, and the cameras but you just wished it was slightly true. "Are you a romantic type?" Picking up your drink and bringing it to your lips, taking a slight slip, before placing it back on the table "You can say I am well I hope I am" questioning himself a little making you smile "Well ill be the judge of that" looking down at your notes looking back at lando finding him fixing his jumper slightly "do you share your clothes with your girlfriends?" Making him nod instantly."I love it when girls wear my clothes. "Well, maybe you will let me borrow one of your jumpers, " you quickly replied, taking another chip, then back at lando, watching him give you a little wink. "Maybe I shall"

Alright lady and gents that's a wrap the producer cut us off stopping the cameras "well that was fun" You said looking at lando once again "yeah yeah maybe we should do it next time just without the cameras" making you blush once again giving him a nod.

Amelia producer walking towards your table "thank you so much for doing this use too sorry Amelia didn't tell you Chloe and Lando were pleased to have you" shaking his hand giving her fair well

walking out of the chicken shop you and Lando stood outside "Can I have your number" Lando asked "Er um yes of course" Shocked that he asked you telling him your number "Right'll see you again yeah?" nodding your head lingering for a second watching Lando walk to his car smiling slightly you could kill Amelia but that women sure does know what's she playing at

Maybe he is your forever chicken shop date.

#*ੈ✩‧₊˚pacifierbbyworks #formula one #f1 fanfic #f1 x reader #f1 #lando norris #lando norris x reader #lando norris smau #lando norris x you #lando norris fanfic #lando norris imagine #mclaren #f1 smau #ln4 fluff #ln4 #ln4 imagine #ln4 x y/n #ln4 x you #lando norris imagines

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precious-little-scoundrel · 5 months

Text

Masters of the Air Fanfic

As requested by sweet @arianatheangel-girl and the subsequent poll for a “Buck Cleven Fic before the series comes out” -and I, being a madwoman with no impulse control and a faint recollection of the book, have delivered…this…whatever this is

Song Challenge: i was challenged by dear @the-ugly-swan for a twenty favored songs challenge and I’m gonna go ahead and make this part of it. August by Taylor Swift informed some of the bittersweet timeline here, with infidelity not being the enemy but rather the lack of possessing oneself fully during wartime to give to another

Spoilers: historical accuracy and inaccuracy abound here so, beware there are some biographical facts about Cleven in here that might count as spoilers to those who wish to watch the series with a blank slate. While to the history purists I must beg for a substantial amount of artistic license to be granted me, and obviously I’ve not seen the show yet and I crunched the timeline to my own will

Reader insert but without the use of “y/n” -I’m utterly fudging a bit on the likelihood of a WAAF lady being part of the American ground crew, however, I had in my minds eye the vision of a greasy mechanic and a glamorous flyboy and it wouldn’t budge, so shhh, go with the vibe

Warnings: mature, 18+. Fluffy smut was requested and while it is very brief and mild in here, not very explicit in phrasing, it’s quite present and a plot point so beware. Also, Virgin!Gale has my heart so we went with that. No shade to dear Marjorie irl, I’ll probably end up writing fics about her once the show gives me Inspo. Some angst due to war, POW’s, etc, mild language

Word count: a monstrous 12k

They came in like locusts at the height of summer, long prayed for, oft cursed in moments of perilous isolation, those ever so intriguingly shiny Americans.

Swarming with a metal buzz over the flatlands of East Anglia, big hulking beasts touched down on fresh tarmacs with more grace than anything that size ought to have, flashing the most bizarre and suggestive paintings on their gleaming fuselages. Flying Fortresses, they were called, and deserved the name. Nothing but the biggest, the loudest, the most alarming machinery would do for the American war effort, and now all this mighty strength was Britain’s too, no longer alone, no longer enduring.

Now the fight could be taken to the enemy in earnest. Out of their flying ships poured the most alarmingly young looking faces, jaunty hats and leather jackets, they looked every bit the sort of fellows war was advertised to.

Farmers in their tractors, mothers with daughters still under their command and RAF veterans all looked askance at such pristine warriors. Had their fertile fields been paved into airfields just for this? Were these gum chewing boys the long expected aid? It wasn’t anti-climactic, nothing American could ever be, it was all just alarmingly fresh. It was understandable then, the initial tentativeness the locals felt towards their new occupants, the way the boys took up such space in the rural villages, made such a racket in the pubs, chased every skirt that swished in the rainy summer breeze, stuck hands out for a shake no matter the introduction. They were a warm, boisterous and confident lot, all much needed attributes in wartime Britain, and soon, the initial distrust of the citizenry thawed, hands were shaken in return and invitations made. An amiable amalgamation eventually occurred, Norfolk never to recover or return to whatever placidity had been her’s before the arrival of the 100th.

Personally, you couldn’t wait to get your hands on them. The planes, that is.

Amalgamation was less a choice for yourself and your service members than a duty. It was abnormal, having a mixed ground crew, British and American servicemen too often clashing in hierarchy disputes for it to be standard, but with deployment rates so high and casualties mounting, ground crew became a case of whichever skilled individuals could be called upon to keep the operation running, the pilots up and the enemy bombed.

You were just glad to be near home, first time back since ‘39 when you’d signed up in the Women's Auxiliary Air Force -even if your rural hometown was now overrun with Americans. They weren’t a bad lot at all, at least not the ones you’d encountered so far on base. Amiable and unexpectedly eager, undeterred by veterans’ grim looks and tales of the woodchipper across the channel, that line of anti-aircraft that shredded anything trying to penetrate the continent.

“Better get crackin’ then.” Was the common response followed by a grin.

Your crew chief sergeant, Ken Lemmons, an American with a forelock of sandy ringlets and the patience of a saint, made the job easier even as every ounce of expertise was exacted from each man -or woman- under him. Feeding a fiery chain of bullets into the turret gun under a hot July sun, you thought your papa may have had the right of it when he tried to dissuade you from choosing the harsher duties of the Auxiliary Force. You could’ve been pouring over a map in the cool of the boardroom right now, or passing on radio messages, even shuttling planes would’ve been more relaxing, but no, you’d spent your life passing him tools in his garage, your papa had been building flying machines when most for these boys were still in diapers, and that path called to you, too. So for you it was grueling maintenance work and the ever present grime of grease on your hands and the awkward reach of twisted metal repairs. Gratefully, after their first mission, there were plenty of them back safe, however riddled their fortresses might’ve been.

It was interesting, the way certain of the flight crew treated the ships. Some were endeared but indifferent to their repairs while others hovered at each hole and tear, like over protective mothers, while you and your mates tried to do your jobs.

Why, one plane in the five assigned to your care was even named “Our Baby”. With such a moniker it made sense that its porcelain faced pilot would caress the shredded wing with a misty eyed frown at each wound, like it were a breathing thing, a race horse, a friend. You didn’t judge it, and he didn’t seem aware of his audience, he’d be back out there doing his own check up after debriefing. Never interrupting your work, always quick to step aside or duck out of the way of a ground crewman’s path, it wasn’t time to chatter or make introductions, although sometimes when the work took long and his reports longer, he’d be there to bid goodnight to you all, soft, American drawl saying “Goodnight, thank ya, goodnight, good work, thank ya” again and again to each.

You grew to recognize them, the ones each mission spared, there were so many and under hats and bundled in leather jackets they tended to blend together, but there were those who made their mark, if not on you then on Dorace in cartography and Eileen at the Red Cross. There was much tittering and speculation, after all, spread thin as their time was, there was also plenty of off time, made all the more charged and anxious as it came in the form of waiting for new orders. The men would be vibrating with nervous energy and generous in the flush of a recent victory and they took it out on the little villagers who in good British fashion took it on the chin and challenged them to a contest of good spirits.

Those were happy days, less anxious than the preceding ones and less heavy than those making up the year after. You dared be roped into the multiple pub crawls, often choosing the most sensible and quiet of the group as your victim and attaching yourself to their side for the evening. This tactic had its fallibility, sometimes those moderates were such a bore as to be unsupportable or hadn’t enough verve to make a full night of it and retired early like respectable, curfew-abiding saps. That’s how you found yourself one night ensconced in a beer pungent corner of Flaggen’s, green leather seats sticky under your palms, with Major Egan fanning out a wad of cash in front of you. It was a blatant attempt to bribe you to clear his aircraft sooner than the last inspection suggested.

“Suggestions” was Egan’s term for regulations.

If you were less tipsy you wouldn’t have giggled at the man’s idiocy, but his arm was heavy around your shoulders and this very cash had bought you one too many gin and tonics. “These regulations keep you alive!” You chided him, shaking your head and feeling the room tip as you did. Truly these Americans could hold their liquor, almost as well as the Polish Squadron when it came to a binge.

“A little flack isn’t gonna keep her down.” he scoffed, “I’ve been grounded for a week now-“

“-I don’t have the authority-“

“-and I’m not gonna sit here while Buck goes up and racks up his number!” Eagen was vehemently slurring and your drunken mind tried to process who Buck was, if not Egan himself.

“Aren’t you Bucky?” you asked, bewildered.

-Americans and their nicknames.

“Yeah.”

“So who’s Buck?” you concentrated very hard on the ancient coaster beneath your latest pint.

“It’s Buck! It’s Gale, Cleven, Major Gale Cleven!” Egan waxed louder and more dramatic with each addition. “You keep clearing his plane! But not mine! Why’s that, huh?”

“How do you know that?” you asked, dubious and only in the raucous of this little pub would his loud voice go unheeded. Compared to the ongoing dart game to the left behind the half wall, an elephant’s trumpeting would be considered bashful.

“ ‘Cause he tells me?” he replied, bewildered at your slowness, “Says you and your crew are little fairies, crawlin’ all over his plane and patching it up better than ever after each mission. And then you clear him. Simple as that.”

“I don’t have authority to clear anyone.” you repeated.

“Huh,” Egan grunted, “how’does he mean then?”

“I don’t know.” you replied firmly, “I doubt I’ve even got your plane, i don’t see you around.”

“I don’t stay around, that’s your job, patching up. I just fly the damn thing.”

“Oh, well.” you shrugged, “I’ve had five, it’s down to three after last mission.” Three years ago the mention of that ratio of losses would’ve sank your mood to the floorboards, by now it’s horrifically routine. “What’s yours called?”

“Mugwump.” he grinned proudly, a flash of white beneath his dark mustache, the man’s face positively shimmered with sweat.

“Serial?” you asked demurely, just to be difficult.

He squinted his eyes shut briefly, head tilted back as if to ask the heavens for help and the recited in a drill master’s staccato “42-30066, ma’am, yes ma’am.”

You giggled again and Egan’s arm jostled your shoulders, smushing you further into him. They were good fun, these boys, didn’t even mind your horrifyingly unflattering uniform with its bulging pockets adding bulk where your curves should take center stage and your stupid pleated cap making you look to be half baker, half doll. You preferred your plain navy coveralls but you’d hardly be let into an establishment in them. Egan’s warm arm didn’t seem to mind the excess poof of the material, he smashed it right down with his hand’s firm grip, he was fun, you decided, no harm in good fun. “Alas, not one of mine.” you sighed, focusing hard on the serial number.

“Damn.” he swore, playing at dejection.

“No,” you went on, “but I’ve got this one, a very spoiled one, maybe you know whose it is. They named it ‘Our Baby’!”

Poor manners and personnel etiquette though it was, you couldn’t say it without tittering.

Egan didn’t laugh, he just looked at you like you’d proved his point. “Yeah,” he replied vehemently, “That’s Buck Cleven’s!”

“Oooh.” -So it was him, the fighting cherub, the walking doughboy, toothpick, baby at wings: there were a dozen or more nicknames you and the ground crew gave the wing-petting Major behind his back. “He always says goodnight to us.” you said instead.

“Is that where he is when I wanna go for a drink?” Egan exclaimed, “Ha! You’d think he was married to the ole ship.”

“He handles her beautifully.” You feel oddly compelled to defend, he’s a master at flight and as someone who must repair each fault of his landings and his leavings and his missions, you feel some loyalty to his finesse. “He handles her so well.” you repeat in the tone of a woman who’s seen some aviation in her time, young though you may be.

“Well let me let you into a lil secret,” Egan smirks and you brace without knowing why, he is, after all, not the respectable and dull men you choose to go out with, he is the dangerous sort you bring those dullards along to deter, “shes the only ‘she’ that boy has ever ‘handled’ -if ya get my drift.”

The sleazy wag of his eyebrows leaves no room for ignorance, you feel your face heat up, wether in prudery for the topic or second hand embarrassment for his friend’s sake, you don’t know.

“Nothing wrong with that.” you reply coldy, only to distance yourself from the road his body language seemed to be hurtling you both down.

“Quite right. Nothin’ at all!” Egan agrees vehemently, his smile easy and his eyes clever “But I’d be a poor friend if I didn't try to remedy his predicament.”

“Telling me is somehow part of this remedy?” you were suspicious, rightfully so.

“Maybe.” Egan drawls it out, shifting in his seat to no longer corner you, his attention drawn to the nearby dart game. The man of the moment, the subject, the handler of planes and none else, was not here. He had such a luminous head of golden hair, it would be a beacon amongst the muddy haired crowd flinging darts. “The thing of it is, dear,” Egan confided, “I've had an absolutely marvelous time since I got here. And I think that’s rather essential, for sanity and for international relations, don’t you? I’ve gotten to know all sorts of wonderful people, lovely people like yourself-“

“-word is, you’ve known them a little too biblically, no wonder Cleven avoids your outings.” You could not help but temper him. “Half of Great Britain has had the privilege, if some are to be believed.”

“And so what if I have? I love dancin’!” he laughed quite happily at your barb and you didn’t have it in you to pull down any further a man who was sacrificing so much day in and out. “Getting to know Great Britain is a better occupation than pettin’ plane wings under the moonlight.”

You tittered again at his words and the oddly endearing memories you had of watching Major Ceven petting and whispering to his plane like she was his long-standing beloved, loitering ground crew unheeded. “He does do that.” you agreed.

“Hey, everyone’s got their method.” Egan insisted in his friend’s defense, “But I have told him, it’s good for the morale to mingle, even if he hates drinkin’.“

You pucker your face at that. “I know he mingles, Violet says he’s a doll when he goes to market.” you point out, small town chatter gets around and while you can’t say you know Cleven, you know he’s mild mannered and precious. And a terribly pretty face too, which isn’t fair, he oughta be an ass which a face that cute. “And he got a tan from somewhere last week.“

“Oh, so ya noticed!” Egan is triumphant, “A bunch of us used our day passes to go messin’ around in boats on the canals.”

“Good for you.” you didn’t know what else to say. “Why are we talking about him? What’s your point? I can ask for your plane to be transferred to my crew, but it won’t get you a sloppy clearance. And if your friend is so socially awkward he can’t even manage a pub night, you can hardly expect me to be flattered that you consider me prime material to throw at him.”

“He’s not awkward.” Egan cut to the chase quite serious, in mission mode, “Buck just had his hopes tangled up back home, and now he’s here he’s finding it hard to accept that hopes were all they were. She’s real moved on.” Well that had hurt, you winced in sympathy. “I warned him, everything during this war has got to be taken as a bit inpermanent. Don’t fall in love with Texas girls when you’re headed to England -via: Louisiana, Indiana, hell, by New York she’d stopped writing.”

“And now the texas girl has-“

“-found a Texan, I guess.” He shrugged and chugged the last of his pint. “She’s gettin’ married, it's really over. So, -“ he made a broad gesture as if to explain his reasoning for this entire segue. “-you like projects, you wouldn’t be in the line of work you’re in if ya didn’t, so whaddya say?”

You looked around the dimly lit pub in search of two things, sunny blonde hair and a clock to tell you how badly you were going to regret this night, come morning. “He’s not even here.” you balked.

“Well, no-“

“-what I say is,” you grinned at him disbelieving, “you owe me another gin and tonic for subjecting me to such inane chatter.”

His grin should have served as warning enough that he would neither drop the subject nor let you off free this evening. In fact, the ticking clock and its late curfew breaking hours became the least of your concerns come morning. The cool wash of bitter juniper blended into the pungent flow of beer, it blurred everything, soon there was a great swelling of pride for your native village, a pub crawl was on, all three visited and drank from, an army Jeep was requisitioned without authority, there was some incident regarding a policeman‘s helmet. The latter being the reason why you found yourself in “jail” the next morning, nursing a raging headache and questioning life decisions while glaring at John Egan’s polished boots.

There was very little talk about bail or Air Force hours being exceptioned, the more pressing concern to the Bobbies who had nabbed you was the coed holding cell. Thorpe Abbotts was a small place, after all, and you liked it that way. If this overly indulgent night could be kept away from the military police, all would be well.

You had one hope: Harry Crosby was sensibly absent from the holding cell, having a keen sense of when to depart from the raucous joyride at the precise moment to save himself a demerit. It was an extreme embarrassment to you that you’d not had the same sense. In fact, fond as you were of a bit of a knees up, you couldn’t quite credit the fact you had allowed yourself such free reign, or accomplished such foolishness. Glowering at Major Egan’s face now, animated with delighted chagrin at your shared plight as it was, you vowed to never again hook your fortunes to his, as it were.

Your resolve, and humiliation, was about to be compounded, exponentially.

There was a bustle of a visitor entering the precinct, easily heard in the small space, followed by the low hum of mild mannered conversation. It went on for sometime, and no amount of straining at the bars and cocking of ears would allow you, Egan or your fellow misfortunates to ascertain the gist of it. Violet’s husband was the main constable, and you were quite certain he’d be moderate in his sentence, he had his helmet back, after all. It was the Air Force penalty of not being on base in time this morning that you feared, a growing nausea that compounded the misery of your aching head. They’d not discharge Egan, they’d probably not even demote him, he was too crucial and he’d done this one too many times for it to be grace alone saving him. When he was needed, really needed, he was there. That’s what counted. The same could be said of you, but that hardly mattered given your low rank.

Violet’s husband, also known as constable Herbert, came in sight and with a jangle of keys and a tap to the side of his nose, swung open the bars of infamy and gestured for you and your fellow inmates to file out.

“All sorted.” He declared. His gaze lingered on you as it had many times in your life when you’d been caught jumping in puddles after church, “Let this be a lesson and a warning to you.”

You tried your best at both obeisance and penitence, both of which were rather natural feelings at the present time, while hurrying past as fast as was respectful, your approaching shift hours making your heart thump in panic.

On the steps outside, your savior was loitering against the wrought iron fence, thumbing at the petunias in the nearby window box. Gale Cleven was a mile long of lanky body in perfectly pressed and tailored Air Force greens, fresh faced as the good conscienced are, hair combed without his cap and a smile on his soft face that was composedly long suffering, rather than endeared, as he watched you miscreants pour out of the modest brick building.

You stumbled to a halt on the first step at the sight of him and allowed your instincts to take over, hands smoothing down hair and skirt with frantic self consciousness. You must’ve looked a rumple.

“I hope last night was worth it.” Cleven drawled in that voice of his, so oddly deep for so fresh a face, his placid smile growing into something more genuinely mirthful as Egan smooched at him in gratitude and swore that he knew his Buck wouldn’t abandon them, that his Buck would pull through for them. “I order a round of toothpaste for everyone and cold showers, you stink.” Gale shied away without any real effort, nodding in greeting to the boys he recognized.

Then, as if in the most painfully slow motion with all the strong string accompaniment of a silver screen scene, his eyes landed on you and an odd ache formed in your chest at the anticipation of his disapproval.

It made you tense and draw yourself up to your full height, looking about as regal as a drenched bantam in your disheveled dignity, but you weren’t about to be relegated to another tier than these boys he so amusedly indulged.

“Y’all know what time it is?” he asked mildy, those azure orbs with their batting dark fringe didn’t waver and you realized he indeed had more guts than you’d given him credit for.

There was a chorus of “no”s and various guesses based on the fast evaporating fog and the lightening sky.

“Zero five thirty.” he ended the suspense with the cock of an eyebrow at you.

“Shit!” Egan was suddenly animated, “Shit, shit-“

“Hey, you keep your swearin’ away from my sweet lil corporal.” Cleven chided, and it took you a brief moment to startle upon realizing he meant you. And he thought you sweet? “C’mon Miss,” he waved you down the steps and for some inexplicable reason you felt very compelled to obey and suddenly stood beneath his gaze like a dutiful child awaiting deliverance or censure, “I’ve only got this bike, petrol allotment ran out when we went to the canals last week. But it’ll get ya back faster than this lot. Reckon you can manage on the handlebar?”

“Wha-?“ you glanced sideways at the bike with its large, sweeping handlebars and second guessed his meaning until he himself was straddling it. His legs required the seat to be hiked up impossibly high and the narrow nip of his waist was accentuated by the posture. Those padded, fleece puffed jackets you had seen him in had done no credit to his form, a toothpick he may have been with how terribly lean he was, but he was firm in all the right places. He was also waiting on you to answer while you ogled him.

“Gosh yes, I can, if you’re sure? Awfully kind of you.” you blathered and moved in a hurry to make up for your stalling, keenly conscious of his eyes on your back as you shimmied your backside up onto his handlebars, feeling the warm press of his hand as he helped steady you from tipping all the way back. You wiggled on the thin metal bar, spreading your legs on either side of the front wheel and doing your best to ignore the raucous commentary of the still tipsy audience of your fellow inmates swaying on the precinct steps. “Y’all just be glad there’s no mission scheduled today.” he snarked to them instead and they chimed up that last night’s idiocy was calculated with that in mind.

“Huh.” Cleven uttered, unimpressed, behind you and it made you shiver, worse than if your father caught wind of this stunt. “Darlin’ put your hands over mine, s’gonna get wobbly takin’ off.” he directed next and you did as you were told, looking back over your shoulder at him with a grateful smile that you were relieved to see returned, pink lips stretching and a freckled nose bunching up sweetly when all of the sudden a rush caught you by surprise and the bike was in motion and you whipped your head back to view the street as it rushed up ahead of you. “See ya boys!” he hollered out as a mutinous babble rose from his friends at being left to jog back.

The young man could put some speed on a bike, uphill too. Or, as much of a hill as could be found this far East. You could hear him chuckle when you squeaked at the first jolt of a pothole, your thumbs hooking under his hands and curling into his palms. They were warm and calloused, dry from the cool breeze and you may have imagined the way he squeezed them in assaurance but you did not imagine the way his voice piped up again, smooth and conversational: “Harry told me if I was quick I could get you out in time, I think we’re gonna make it. S’dont worry, even if Sergeant Lemmons gives ya trouble, I’ll insist.”

“That’s really too kind of you.” The chill of windburn and a substantial amount of remorse made your cheeks glow scarlet. “All of it is. I’m rather ashamed.”

“I didn’t take you for an all nighter sort.” he agreed but followed it with a soothing compliment, “You’ve always been nothin’ but perfect. P-p-perfectly punctual, I mean, and there’s no reason to let Egan’s idea of fun ruin your record.”

“Wasn’t his fault. Not wholly.” you sighed, giving Violet a bashful wave as you passed her opening the shop, a wave which Cleven mirrored behind you and between the two of you letting go the bike, it nearly dumped you both. It was luck and sheer persistence that righted you and kept your balance. “I’m afraid it’s a bit of a bad habit, picked it up at Northolt.”

“Where’s that?” he asked.

“South, by the coast.” you said, unsure why you felt the need to explain your debauchery away, “I was working a ground crew down there for a bunch of Polish Pilots. Spitfires mainly. That squadron nabbed the most kills of any in the RAF back in ‘40. Why, even Churchill visited more times than I can count, he found them good fun. Too much fun, they never went to bed without downing half a barrel. There was dice built into the bottom of the pints at the Black Bull, rather addictive, rolling to see who would buy the next round. —There was always a next.” You added upon reflection.

That was also the year you had lost your brother. The correlation between the habit and the loss wasn’t to be dwelt on.

“Huh,” Cleven let out one of him contemplative hums, “and how do we compare?” he asked surprisingly.

“How?” you laughed, daring to crane your neck back to see him in the early morning sunshine, pretty and sweet and arch in his expression. Dusk had not done his mama’s work on his face any justice, it made you want to pant he was so pretty.

“I dunno, in any way,” he laughed in turn, not even breathless as he sped the bike over the cobblestones, the village barely awake and mostly quiet, “how do we compare?”

“To the Poles?”

“Or the French. Or your own, the RAF ain’t no joke.” he amended, “Whoever is our competition.”

“So it is a competition.” you smirked -how very American of him. “Depends,” you hedged playfully, “Our boys are so very nice, familiar, they never run out the right coinage during a date either. But the French are better flirts while the Dutch are better dancers. But the Poles, they know how to romance. Lots of hand kissing and flowers, so many flowers there had to be rules made for overstocking the billet.”

“Sounds like we gotta step up our game.” he decided.

“Is that what you meant? How you compare? First impressions?”

“I-I- guess, yeah.” he now sounded confused, “I mean, what else? You got scores for aircraft?”

“I do.” you replied, as it was true, “But that’s unfair, you’ve only just arrived. I thought maybe you wanted to know something more -salacious.”

“Like?” His tone behind you was guarded and you doubted if the alcohol of last night were not still buzzing and fortifying your brazenness, that you’d ever go through with what you said next.

“Other performances. For instance, in bed.”

You felt his fingers flutter around the bars beneath your own, you gripped them tighter, not just because the stretch of old road before the air base was ancient and pitted but because you were in an agony of suspense as to how he’d take your forwardness.

“There’s a record of that somewhere?” he asked at last, a beat too long, too delayed for casualness, too morose for flippancy.

“In fact there is.” you responded carefully. “A little diary of rankings, actually, there’s multiple and whenever there’s a grand assembly of the WAAF or the WACs, they’re passed about and tallied.”

“Sweet Jesus.” he swore behind you, “And here I’ve been chalkin’ up railways and munition dump targets like they’re some achievement.”

“Oh it’s all a bit of silliness.” You assured, not intending to make him glum.

“Do-“ he hesitated and you prayed for strength for him to spit it out as the airfield came in sight on the flat plain ahead. He didn’t.

“-Do I what?” you prodded softly.

“Are one of these little tallies yours?” he asked miserably.

You grinned to yourself and felt the sunshine seemed brighter and the air crisper than ever before as it rushed in your face with the slowing speed of his bike. “No, not in the least. I merely keep track of Sally’s ledger. It’s all a bit too -messy, for me.”

You dared peak behind you again and he looked relieved, then blushed furiously at your observance of him. “Well, who does Sally say is winning?” he dared.

“Romania.” you chortled and he did too, in shock if nothing else. “But Egan’s caught wind of it, he’s quite determined to save your country’s dominance, you don’t need to sweat it.”

His frown was back and you had to focus on not falling off as he slowed the bike to a halt, momentum precarious as his long legs kicked out and walked it the last yard to the segregated barracks, you felt his hand again on your waist to steady you. “Does that bother you?” he asked earnestly, sorrow in his blue eyes.

He offered a hand for you as you hopped down and it was you who held onto it long after it was needed. “Bother me?”

“Yeah, him -consortin’…with Sally?” he pressed, hands quite engulfing your one, “Does it hurt you? Bucky, see, he doesn’t mean to hurt, he’s just so-“

“-Blimey, you are a dear.” you marveled and then amended your interruption as your amusement only further creased that sweet face, “If I am ever again in Major Egan’s company, it will only be to escape it just as quickly. I’ve had quite enough of…consorting.”

“That so?” The lackadaisical confidence he exhibited outside of the precinct was back again, a not unattractive smirk plastered on his vulnerable face, a scheme in his guileless eyes. “Had enough of holding cells?”

“Quite.” you smirked back. “A quiet family dinner is more my style, the occasional picnic, even a zip round Oxford as one must show the foreigners about.” you paused and squeezed his hand once more, “And I do enjoy a bike ride.”

You did not know if he cataloged your preferences for an ideal date or not, life was busy, after all, and the momentary frolics in the July sunshine and banter on the tarmac and evenings in the pub were the exception. Time went on. Most of life was spent in the air, in his case, and in yours, beneath the belly of his beast, wrench in hand. But ever after his gallant rescue of you, there was more than the passing “goodnight” paid to you, there were cheerful smiles on his exhausted face when he returned from a mission, as if you were the one face he was coming back to. With an old familiar dread you noticed the way you begin to take each hole and dent and damage to his plane personally, as if it had been exacted on something precious to you. You have begun to care, for him and for his men, and your tired heart could barely do more than dread what that might lead to.

Good fun. That’s what these boys were supposed to be.

Gale Cleven hadn’t proven much fun. And somehow that was worse. It was worse and also unbearably honoring to be the last face he saw before taking it off, flags in your hands waving in front of his hulking bomber, giving the old familiar directions for a perfect takeoff, one he executed sublimely time and again. His sober, purposeful nods to you before he engaged and taxied out for a mission of death was more intense and intimate than any bouquet or even, your thought, a kiss. It was true the donut dollies on the sidelines were often the last faces of home that many of those boys would see. But in the his cockpit, looking down at your shrimp sized figure on the tarmac, both Major Cleven and you knew that for him, it was yours.

Once, there was a scare, in the first days of august. More than a scare if you were being honest, your heartbeat about stopped and didn’t pick back up for a few hours until word came in. The rest of the base wasn’t much better.

Ten planes had not come back. -Among them, Our Baby. And Mugwump. For two officers, so crucial, so senior, idolized and beloved as they were, to not return, was a blow like none other. You weren’t alone in hovering around the control shack, taking license of your friendship with Dorace to get a play by play of any news. When news came, such as it was, it was both relieving and exasperating.

It would seem there was some problem, a defect or too great of a hit. Orders to land in enemy territory were ignored, however, by Cleven no less. He had doggedly pushed on, safely landing them in allied Africa, of all places. It took almost a day for this information to finally be pasted together, by the end of it you were sad, haggard and half useless in your coveralls, stupendously relieved for a man you were supposed to feel professionally about.

Instead, that night, tucked in your own bed after a meal with your parents and little brother, you thanked God for keeping him -them, all of them- safe. And found yourself pondering the tan on him when he got back from his African foray. Some jealous part of you feared he might be kept there but a week later the thunderous hum of approaching bombers buzzed the air overhead of Thorpe Abbotts and the satisfying thwump of wheels touching down brought them back. There was a frenzy of greetings, flight and ground crew eager to welcome them back, the radio operators, too, and even the civilians who’d managed to get on base.

Your little brother among them. Donald wanted to see them back safe and it wasn’t dangerous, and it wasn’t dire, not returning from a mission the planes wouldn’t be in such poor shape. They’d been repaired in Africa, enough to fly them all the way back to England. So little Donald was nearby and when the crowd parted and a bee-line for Cleven became apparent, he took advantage and gave the young man a firm handshake in greeting.

“Hey buddy, thank ya, who do you belong to?” Buck laughed while returning the firm grip.

“I’m her brother.” Donald pointed you out proudly among the dispersing crowd and you rolled your eyes at his expectancy for Gale to know or care about you, more than your most pertinent work on base.

“Oh are ya now, hers, huh?” he grinned at you, “Been talkin’ about me?” he greeted, there was a still healing scrape on his left temple that your fingers itched to soothe. How badly had he hit his head?

“Of course I have.” you defended, happiness bubbling under your lips and threatening to make you smile more than was professional, you could see Sergeant Lemmons observing you from the side and tried to keep some decorum. “We thought you’d died.” You stated plainly, it wasn’t any secret to Donald, as soon as the plane had gone missing and before radio contact had been reestablished, you’d rushed home and made the family pray over supper.

“We’ve been praying for you.” Donald agreed, and you saw Cleven startle, a gasped intake of breath between those lush lips and his eyes seemed to water as he searched first your brother’s face and then your own.

“You have?” he choked out, raspy and touched.

“Yes.” you whispered, mouth twisting in a ugly grimace to hold back your own emotion. It was of little use, something beyond War Effort investment in his well being had been admitted. “We thought you might be dea-“

-you didn’t finish your reiteration of your dread. Your face, a greasy and mist spattered face, was suddenly smushed into the padded leather of his bomber jacket, nose tucked right into the fleece apex where his pale blue scarf always rested on his throat.

He was hugging you, you realized with delayed surprise.

“-even though it made the potatoes cold, Da insisted on prayin’ every night after she told us-“ Donald was waxing eloquent on his own sacrifices of having one added prayer request lengthening his mealtime but you were oblivious to more than the firm press of Cleven’s still gloved hand to the back of your scarf wrapped head, some strong emotion shuddering through his body against your own. A tremor of terror and pain, you suspected, emotions he’d been suppressing all week.

After all, the saved weren’t supposed to be shaken up. They’d been saved, what was there to be off about? You’d seen enough pilots after a close call to know it was every bit as bad or worse than actual disaster. They’d send him right back up again in days, and that was what was expected, demanded, required. He was tremoring against you and you gripped him tighter, sympathetic and aching to cure it somehow. Even for a moment.

“We’ll keep praying.” you assured, and you heard him clear his throat, snotty and rough. “Oh, blast, I’ve positively greased your jacket.” you mourned as he let you go, finally, and you caught sight of the mess your filthy hands and face had imprinted on it during the embrace.

He chuckled as he looked down at the imprint, “S’fine.”

After such an exchange of emotion the air felt charged between you two, without privacy or precedence, it felt unthinkable to linger in that mood. You turned to his plane and pet the fuselage with unstudied fondness, it had been horrid having the old bird absent. You were not above having favorites and the love he poured into his ship, somehow, like some old fairytale truism, made the hulking metal beast lovable, in turn. “How’s our baby, hmm?” you asked him, giving him a sly smile and he took your proffered out seamlessly, joining you in cataloging the damage that had not been deemed severe enough to hamper his return.

“Don’t crawl under here, sir!” you protested as you wiggled under the belly only to find him beside you in the plane’s shadow, “You’ll be a mess!”

“I’ve already got stains.” he brushed your worries off, and you knew it was true. Bloodstains in fact. He had lost a man, the report said, and apparently, judging by his trousers, Buck had held the poor fellow as he bled out. “And I wanna show you the spot I’m worried ‘bout.”

“Alright.” you conceded, allowing him to direct you to the nose. “Watch it Donald!” you had to reprimand your little brother who predictably followed after, “You’ll burn yourself if you touch that, this thing was just running.”

“Careful buddy.” Gale echoed gently beside you and pushed his little head down, more into a crawl. You refused to allow the gentle way he treated the brat to warm you, you refused. Or at least, you refused to let it show, the tingle and heat you felt being all too consuming to be denied.

He was lovely. But you already knew that. He was even more lovely when, upon crawling out from under Our Baby, he took his scarf from around his neck, silk decadently soft, flesh warmed and smelling strongly of his exertions, and swiped it across your greased cheek.

“You’ve got just a lil more…” he practically mumbled and wiped down to your chin, firm, gentle little rubs of the silk which required his other hand to grasp your chin to steady you. You weren’t sure when he’d taken off his gloves, but the feel of his skin on yours was heady.

“It’ll take a couple days.” You predicted regarding the repairs, “Which means you’ll have a few days free, if they don’t drown you in reports.”

“Oh they will.” he laughed, “But s’long as my days are free, means yours aren’t.” he pointed out.

“I guess that’s true.”

“We shoulda thought of that when we chose this line of work.” he joked and your cheeks flamed at the realization he wished to spend time with you. “But you’ll have your nights still, yeah?”

Coming from anyone else, the request for your nights to be reserved would strike you as suggestive indeed. But this was Buck, and when he mentioned nights you imagined nothing but taking him home for a tepid potato and rationed powdered milk supper and the warm reception of your family. His weary eyes suggested how badly he needed that. You could give it to him, and it made your heart glow.

“Yes, I’ll have my nights.” you agreed, “And you can have them, too.”

Sergeant Lemmons agreed with your estimation of Our Baby’s damage the following day and four long days after were spent patching up damage that suggested what a hellish ride that must’ve been. Someone else hosed the blood out of the bay but it turned the puddle on the concrete beside you sickly pink.

To and fro from office to barracks to observation tower, Cleven would stop by to see his ‘baby’ on these occasions. The heckling the ground crew gave you regarding this potential double meaning was agonizing and almost made his attentions not worth it. But then he’d be dropping to a squat to chat with you as you soldered metal, heedless of the sparks, or else bringing scones from the mess to refresh you and, again, wiping your face often with his fancy scarves despite your protests that it was futile.

And at night, on the second day, you made good on yours and Donald’s word and brought him to dinner. It was a quiet walk from the base to the end of the long main road, right to the outskirts of the village, where your family’s unassuming little thatched cottage nestled amongst mama’s victory garden, daddy’s aeroplane hanger and repair shop loomed ugly and dark behind.

The look on Buck’s face when you met him outside the base’s gate at seven in the evening in a dress and heels was worth capturing. But you hadn’t a camera with you and it wasn’t like you were liable to forget. His pure look of awe and appreciation for your cleaned up and girlish state was nearly comic if it weren’t so flattering.

“Darlin-“ he began in a rush but did not finish, only taking you lightly by the fingertips and spinning you slowly, his eyes wide like he was seeing a marvel, which, maybe he was, -your womanly form finally liberated from puffy uniforms and ugly coveralls. Wholesome as your intentions were for the evening, and indeed for him in general, it was some relief and delight to know he was capable of getting hot under the collar. His mama’s well drilled manners soon caught up to his unbridled appreciation and a deluge of charmingly proper compliments rained down on you next until you had to put a stop to his babble by tugging him down the road with the reminder of dinner as incentive.

“You’re sure they won’t mind?” he began his worries again, nervous to meet your parents.

If he’d been like the rest of the boys he’d know just how much mingling was already common. It wasn’t remotely odd to bring him home, not when you lived so near. “Don’t be silly, they’ve been begging to meet you and Donald has plans of torturing you with his plane models and Papa wants to show you his shop and mama thinks you're much too skinny, I’m sure she’s gone to the black market to grab something to fatten you-“

“-how’s she know that?” he interrupted in shock.

“Oh,” you flushed, realizing your misstep, “I’ve talked of you. And she recognized you, she and Violet are thick as thieves and -it’s not like you’re unremarkable. A physical description is rather easy to give when you, well, when you look like…you.”

“What do I look like?” he cried out but his cheeks were smiling despite his outrage, “Malnourished?”

“Like a lanky cherub.” you refuted and were pleased that the late summer sun was still bright enough at this long hour to show his pretty blush.

“A cherub.” he repeated in disbelief.

“Yes.” you were firm, both in tone and the press of your hand in the crook of his offered elbow, “And as we’ve been commended to entertain angels unaware, how much more when we are certain of one?”

“Oh shut up.” he begged you and you two staggered into each other as you laughed your hearts out. It felt good to laugh, for the both of you, and a little too foreign, as well. It left a hollow melancholy in its wake that was soothed by the near and swaying proximity of each other’s body.

“They’ll be glad to have you at the table.” you dared go on, feeling you should prepare him, should the subject arise, “I’ve a brother, you see, an older brother. Rafe, he was stationed in Burma. We’ve not heard of him in over two years. There’s an empty seat at our table, it takes a certain sort of soul to fill it without it feeling like a sacrilege. But you fit the bill nicely, I think.”

“Burma.” he repeated with all the gravity of a man who understood, who knew the ache of almost hoping a dear brother, a beloved son, was dead rather than enduring the slow hell of a Japanese internment camp. How awful to almost wish for a decisive end for one so loved. “No word at all?”

“None.”

“I’m terribly sorry.”

“Thank you.” you whispered, “And thanks for making it back, yourself.” you squeezed his arm jovially and felt his other hand fall atop yours there in the crook of his elbow and a sweetness filled you at the gesture, such as you’d never known before. It was peaceful and lovely and your little village suddenly looked as pretty and idyllic again as it was always supposed to, the routine route home was seen through his eyes, the eyes of a homesick boy with a soft girl on his arm, bound to meet her parents and inspect Donald’s plane models.

Your mother and father loved him, little surprise there, he was a darling and homesick and yours was a happy home, humble and wounded though it may be. Your mother was obnoxious in her delight the moment father took him out back to see where your expertise for welding first began, the little aerodrome, no longer fitted with pleasure craft but now fitted to scrap the more useless casualties. Mother pestered you as you helped clear the table, asking after him and whatever this thing was between you. When you assured her it was only dinner to fill that chair and some unfathomable knowledge that had grown each time you stood before his propeller and waved him off to death, she knew it for what it is.

War and the urgency of living that goes with it, shrinks long emotions into fast passion and steady hearts into foolish daring. Neither of you were the sort to tumble into the passing vogue passions that had seized hold of your friends and comrades. Yours was a quieter path. Even so, after the fourth evening of dinner rations and quiet fireside chatter and the patter of late summer rain on the roof, there was a kiss as he walked you back to base, his jacket over your shoulders, his shirt clinging to him and the sweetest intent etched on his misted features as his lips descended to yours.

“Thank you,” he had said so passionately yet so subdued, a wall of wisteria at your back and his honey blonde hair dripping into his eyes, “I’ve needed this bad.”

His words suggested the family dinners, his scorching lips suggested the molded flesh of your body in his large palms.

“So you’ve wanted this?” your breathed mixed, a hazy little cloud between you in the damp evening air, your little alcove of shelter from the rain under old Mosley’s shed was like another little world entirely, fauna filled and peaceful, even the ever present drone of machinery was drowned out by the downpour.

Your mother had been right, you should've waited longer till the clouds passed but you had both cited curfew -and maybe even subconsciously sought just such a predicament as the one that had you necking Gale Cleven in a wisteria claimed tool shed.

“I’ve wanted you.” he clarified, firm grip on the base of your neck punctuating his turmoil, his lips met yours again and whatever oath of abstinence he had chosen, it did not seem to include kissing. He was soft and persistent and all consuming, those restless hands migrating in an ever mapping caress, making every part of you thrum with butterflies. “Wanted you for a long while.” he spoke into your lips, “I think you’re just great.” And there was happiness then, untinged with anything temporal beyond the feel of warm flesh beneath cold, rain soaked cloth and lips that tasted of honeyed biscuits.

It was impossible to maintain the stoic propriety of behavior you’d once managed before, on base, after that. You knew now how he sounded when he moaned into your mouth and he his stare alone could make you blush, you had spoken to his mother on the phone and he had seen your childhood bedroom. He learned once, laying amongst sea grass on the beach during a cloudy Sunday, the silky moist feel of you beneath your swimsuit, his long, bashful fingers that were ever so fond of petting anything and everything, finally finding a place that responded to his swipes with jolts and gasps and sighs and pleasure. You peaked three times on that sand dune, Buck none the wiser as he had nothing to compare your little deaths to, you kept a firm grip on his forearm and told him he was doing marvelous and that’s all it took for him to be persistent. Persistent beyond what you imagined any other man could be due to cramp. He was getting freckles from so much sunshine, but it was well, the rains would be here soon come autumn.

These happy days had you risking your life to pause your work and watch his pretty form swagger across the asphalt to his next destination and he, ever so right and proper and by the book, became devil enough to lie in wait for you and catch you by the waist when you least suspected it and drag you into some abandoned corner.

Only to kiss you.

To kiss and to ask after your day, as if your evening was not to be spent sat beside him at table or the movies, lying on a picnic blanket with him near or in the back of a jeep on top of Mayberry Rise, the tallest point around where the stars ran into the sea on the horizon.

One of the first days of September, you made good on your promise to Harry and drove with him to muck about Oxford for a day and see the college, the library, too. It was a long ride and as you were at the wheel, Harry was gem enough to allow Gale along, too, and by the end of it, driving back late and in a rush before the headlights would be needed, you were quoting favorite literary passages to each other. As if you were all students, not misplaced youths in the business of killing.

You said as much and in the burgeoning gloom Gale’s rich voice asked if you knew any Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

“Not Wordsworth!” Harry clarified.

“No, I don’t.” You admitted, for all your chiding today of their not being cultured enough, you didn’t know your American writers as you should.

“He’s got a poem for that.” Gale said, “For what you said. Or at least, it makes me think of today -that verse, ‘member Crosby?- the one it goes:

-I remember the gleams and glooms that dart across the school-boy's brain; The song and the silence in the heart, That in part are prophecies, and in part, Are longings wild and vain. And the voice of that fitful song, Sings on, and is never still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

The deafening silence for the rest of the car ride was filled with truth and your own heart was heavy when you bid them both goodnight that evening, headed to your seperate billets. You paused in you departure to turn back once more at the door and holler to Buck in the chilled September air, “That poem, is there more of it?”

“Lots more.” he’d spun round on his heel, pleasantly surprised at your inquiry.

“What’s it called?” you intended to search it out, though it was doubtful that a copy would be found near this remote place.

“How about I write it out for ya?” he suggested as if thinking the same.

“You’ve got a whole damn poem memorized?” you balked, incredulity warring with amusement that you should’ve guessed he’d be the sort.

“I-I-I might.” he stuttered before laughing.

“Then please do.” you grinned and threw him a kiss across the distance which he jumped up and caught from the air in a grand show of dedication. “Goodnight, cherub.” you wished him, “Sleep tight.” He had a mission in the morning, a daylight one.

“Goodnight old Bean.” He teased your accent and the door swung shut behind you blocking out the cold and the retreating sound of his footsteps.

If you’d have known that was the last time you’d hear them you’d have stayed an age out in the cold night listening to him go, memorizing the cadence of his gait, the sway of his shoulders disappearing into the twilight, the turn of his head as he’d throw a glance back at you, sweet and handsome and cheerful despite his ominous itinerary.

If you’d have only known.

It wasn’t like last time, like Africa. There had been no loss of contact. Dorace had heard every awful minute until the clock ran out. They’d been shredded, their precious ship turned into a raging inferno and Major Cleven’s gritted and garbled transmissions left only one hope that some at least had jumped out. Jumped out only to land in Nazi occupied Europe, it was a faint mercy to cling to.

The empty chair sat next to you again at the table and mocked you all. Mocked your hope and your resilience to dare love again. How foolish to bring home a man who belonged to a group they were calling “Bloody”, and not as a curse but an epithet.

The losses had been staggering all summer and now in September they hit close. You were confident that Crosby and Egan were every bit as dismal inside as you felt, Egan’s warm hand had clasped your shoulder like you were a fellow officer and told you he was sorry. You took the condolences and gave them back, a stupid little exchange that only highlighted how unspeakable some pain is.

Three weeks later, Egan’s plane didn’t come back either.

In your more fanciful moments you allowed yourself to imagine Egan and Cleven alive, somewhat whole and reunited. You could almost hear Cleven’s joking welcome, “What took you so long, Bucky?”

You’d indulged these fancies for Rafe, too, until years of silence suggested the worst.

However, this time, well into October and with an entirely new set of planes under your care, word came at last through the Red Cross, and the truth was exactly as you’d dreamed. There was only the paltriest letter back to command but it said they were well, they were alive, together indeed and being moved to the Polish border. Away from their own comrades' bombs. It was more than most ever got, and your family celebrated the news with the gratitude it deserved.

As October turned to November and your gloved fingertips froze as you worked, every sharp needle of chill reminded you of him, how much more awful it must be that far north, snow piled deep and muck everywhere and lice covered blankets and illness left untreated. As the holidays hurtled nearer, days of peace and goodwill you had planned to be spent with him, you were consumed by the dread of losing him to the elements since war had proven too clement. At night you lay abed and reread the one bit of handwriting you had from him, that damned poem he had written out, left under your door in the early dawn that had taken him from you.

My lost youth. That was the title of the thing. It cut like glass every time you read it, but Buck had touched that paper and looped those letters and dotted those i’s and it was precious to you. It became a prayer of sorts.

“There are things of which I may not speak;

There are dreams that cannot die;

There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak,

And bring a pallor into the cheek,

And a mist before the eye.

And the words of that fatal song

Come over me like a chill:—

“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

Strange to me now are the forms I meet

When I visit the dear old town;

But the native air is pure and sweet,

And the trees that o’ershadow each well-known street,

As they balance up and down,

Are singing the beautiful song,

Are sighing and whispering still:—

“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

Then, in January, as if prayers got heard, the most unexpected happened.

Major Gale Cleven, what was left of him after cold, starvation, murder and a treck across Europe, had returned. Things like this, seeing your lost beloved ride up to your workplace in the shotgun seat of a jeep, was the stuff of movies, hopeful propaganda or a woman’s mind that had finally cracked. You just stood there, welding helmet in hand, frozen rain spitting down at you, watching him jump out, watching Harry tear down from the observation tower to embrace him.

Dully, you could hear behind you Segreant Lemmons kind cheer of “so it was true, he got away from the bastards!” and a congratulatory thump between your shoulder blades. It was a moment of truth, to realize how far your faith had dwindled when the very answer to your prayers stood steaming with life in the cold air and yet you still could not accept it as reality.

“Baby.” his hands were warm compared to your damp cheeks and the span of them, so familiar and large, cupping your jaw with the calloused thumbs swiping at your temples, that was reminiscent of August and of happier days. Yet still, you had dreamed of him doing this, dreamed of a million different embraces and each time you woke up. “Baby, I’m back, I came to ya.” his voice was wrecked, from disuse and illness and whatever misery that had subjected him to. That, that was real enough, the rattling cough more so, you’d imagined his suffering in your worst nightmares too, this was something you could believe.

Familiar flesh was gaunt under your touch, gray cheeks where once there’d been freckles and the sinful pout of his once ruby red mouth was a dull violet, as if the vitality had been leached out of him. “What’d they do to my cherub?” you mourned, worst nightmares and wildest hopes blending into this one moment.

“Don’t cry, don’t cry f’me, I’m back. I came back.” he cooed to you, rough and sad himself, and your face was buried again in the placard of his coat, a great woolen overcoat this time, no fleece or any vestige of the swanky finery that got the flyboys ribbed for being soft, fancy, spoiled.

Nothing soft about these men, nothing gentle about their lot, nothing glamorous about being hurled down from the skies in a ball of fire.

“We kept praying for you.” you realized, it seemed important to tell him that however hopeless you all had felt, you’d gone through the motions anyway.

That was faith, wasn’t it? The hope of things not seen?

“I felt ‘em.” he said. “How else you think I managed it?”

It. -had managed it, that tiny word represented a host of terrors and miseries and unforgettable incidents that ricocheted in his brain like the lead fired into his boys head’s when they couldn’t manage a forced march, barefoot and underfed, in the snow.

Christmas had passed but January was not so very advanced, that evening your family turned back the clock and it was a matter of guessing as to who was celebrated more, baby Jesus or Buck Cleven. The two seemed intertwined at this point and in the warm glow of gas lamps and rationed toddy, with Buck’s hollow cheeks beginning to bloom and his dull eyes starting to animate, some part of you finally understood why so many felt worshipful on the holiday. The shit war rations felt like a feast, mama’s canned vegetables being the freshest thing he’d eaten in ages and with him sat at table again, empty chair filled, his hand creeping into your lap to lace with your own, there was peace.

Even the airforce, hard driving and high demanding though it was, took one look at his battered condition and admitted a period of conveyance was due. It wouldn’t do to send up a shoddy pilot, lose another plane, yet another crew or a hero of the hundredth. It’s not every day one of your squadron leaders escapes a POW camp and marches over occupied Europe and fordes the Channel to get back home.

A month was set aside. And you took as many weekday passes as you could during that month, happier than anything that he had been permitted to stay in town, to lodge with one of the locals. Rafe’s room was now occupied by him and mama’s broth was poured down Gale’s throat twice daily and his days kept busy with paperwork and Donald’s math problems. The ticking clock, the passing days, like the evil crocodile gobbling up time, was politely and britishly ignored in favor of enjoying what was. You no longer slept with the tear stained and crumpled poem clasped to your throat but his head lay there often enough instead. The thump of your heart helping him sleep, because exhausted and sick as he was, sleep and solitude were not comforts.

He was wracked with guilt for leaving Egan and his men behind, it had been every man for himself during that brutal forced march, he knew that and yet he’d left a friend behind. Buck waited for news of Egan like you’d waited for news of him. Nameless and senseless guilt ruining much of his own success and peace.

“He’d have expected nothing less of you.” you had taken to reminding him, “He’d be angry if you hadn’t taken the opportunity like you did.”

“I know.” he agreed miserably.

You admitted to him then, the horrid guilt of feeling that somehow, some missed defect or some lousy flaw had been the reason he’d been downed. Your work somehow not sufficient to keep him in the skies. When you’d admitted as much, Sergeant Lemmons had looked at you with all the censure such moronic introspection deserved: “Cleven got bombed to hell. He expected it, daytime raid and all. Blame the Nazis.”

“Blame the Nazis.” you suggested now to Gale as he lay sprawled in your arms, sweaty and feverish but his color was back and he looked pretty as anything so alive and near.

He looked ready to dare something, his face hovering nearer yours and the heavy weight of his limbs suddenly feeling full of intent but then his sparkling eye caught sight of something in the doorway and his lips quirked and his body shifted away.

“Whatcha doin’ sulkin’ out there Donny?” he addressed your brother and sure enough the little scamp emerged from the shadow of the doorway and joined you two on the bed, comic book clutched in his hands. They had a routine, apparently, Papa was no longer the chosen one for bedtime stories. It made you want to wince in anticipation for when Buck would move back to base and things would become full of dread again.

That day came sooner than you’d counted on. A month is not so very long, after all, and it was filled with so much work and business, stolen moments at home hardly being the norm.

“It’s an easy mission.” he’d said at dinner, as if arguing the point to you all. You knew he was trying to convince himself more than anything and so you all let him specify just how easy, how routine, how utterly unworrying tomorrow's flight would -should- be.

If it’s hard to get back into the saddle after being bucked off, how much worse to climb back into a plane after being tossed from the skies.

That evening he lounged on your bed instead of Rafe’s, the house emptied as your mother and father took Donny to the movies, the appeal of a new film finally showing cited as being too alluring to resist. He was lost in his thoughts, watching you go about your little evening routines that you tried to maintain when at home. It was domestic and cozy, warm where the world outside was cold and then there was Buck, golden as anything in the low lamp light, utterly unaware of the figure he cut lying on his side.

“I’ve missed it.” he told you, “Flying, I’ve missed it.”

“Of course you have. You were born for it.” you murmured.

“Ya know,” he reflected, “I signed up for the Air Force before it all got hot, before Pearl Harbor. I was gonna fly no matter what. I remember grittin’ my teeth durin’ training and tellin’ myself it would all be worth it. Just hang in there and it would pay off. I just felt something important would need me. Hell, guess I got more than I ever bargained for, didn’t I?”

“I guess you did.” you agreed.

“I couldn’t do this if I didn’t believe in it.” He insisted and you knew he was talking to himself again, until his face turned towards yours and the softest look of fondness crossed features turning them almost pained when he said next, “I couldn’t do it, get back up there, if it weren’t for love. The rightness of it but -love, for my boys, my family. For you.”

“I know, and we’re terribly lucky to have your devotion. -And…and I love you, too.” you vowed earnestly, then giggled at the absurdity of this being the first time to admit it.

“I’d had my suspicions.” he grinned back, some of that old cockiness returning along with his vigor as he snagged your wrist and pulled you down beside him.

“Do you know why my parents have gone?” you asked him pointedly, turning on your side to face him.

“To see a movie.” His face was so innocently perplexed you almost lost control of yourself and ruined the game right then with something terribly forward.

“My parents aren’t in the habit of seeing movies.” you corrected him soberly.

“No?”

“No.”

“So where’d they go?” Buck asked.

“Oh they’re at the movies.” you smirked, “But they’ve gone for us.”

Gale’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, if not of you then of his own naïveté. “For us.” he repeated and his voice had dropped an octave in the interim.

“Yes. Something about wanting us to have a goodbye.” you quoted.

“I’m not dying tomorrow.” he pointed his finger firmly in your face and it made you smile to see him so fiesty again.

“No,” you agreed with his prophecy, “but I wanted to give you some incentive to hurry back.”

“Oh?” those lips of his puckered again in confusion before his smarts caught up with him and the pink corner tugged up in mischief, “Ooooh.” he repeated, suddenly very close, his energy, his body, his heart, inches from being one with you. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, oh yes.” you confirmed, slotting your lips against his gently only to be met with eager, desperate need in his own kisses.

Your childhood bed was narrow and the counterpane below you familiar and dear, stitched by your mother in colors you’d once wished to update upon entering maturity. Now, laid out in perfect security and familiarity, you watched Buck Cleven dangle a toe off the abyss before diving in, pausing to caress the blanket beside your hip, smiling to himself.

“What?” you were breathless to know every thought in that dear head.

“My mama made me one, looks lots like this.” his eyes were watery soft yet his smile was glad, his hips narrow and sharp in the cradle of your own, stark hipbones not yet padded by your mother’s cooking pressed you down into the bedding, grounded and right. “You’ve made me real at home here.” he whispered and it pleased you ever so much. “Do I dare take this last liberty?” he muttered as if to himself, even as those blue orbs bore into your own, his fingers fiddling with the hem of your skirt and you ached from need long deferred and the weight of remedy lying heavy between your thighs.

“It’s no liberty,” you whispered, catching his dog tags and bringing his face to yours, the size of the man so very apparent now he was hovering above you, “it’s yours.” you watched his pupils blow out at the statement, his ragged breath fanned minty across your face, even angels wield swords. “I’m yours.”

“And I’m yours.” he concluded.

With that exchange of truths something snapped between you, like a ribbon cut, gone was the hesitant cordiality and deference that had marked your courtship. Here now was fierce possession and the gloated satisfaction of those who possess something cherished and are no longer kept from partaking of it, buckles and garters snapped in the quiet room and the rustle of sheets and shirts wafting to the floor made your breaths hitch with anticipation. Precious flesh came into touch with every brush and it was enough for many minutes merely to cling and grasp, imprinting desire into the back and the arms and the throat of each other, like an armor of love against the decay of death.

“Yours, yours.” you swore as his finger played you once more, his breathing hard and rough in your ear, harsh commands for you to say it again and again, reminding you he was fearsome when he wanted to be.

“Don’t look,” he begged when you realized through a haze of joy what he was about, pressing in with all the finesse of a cricket bat knocking at the wicket, hoarse and doe eyed above you, there was only the whine, “please, darlin’ don’t look, just, my eyes, please.”

It was a fumbling entry but nature and pleasure prevailed, as it had since the first couple. And dear boy that he was, he knew you had indulged in a leg up, one or two at least, before he came along but still, he could not bear it for you to see more, not this time. He wanted it just to be the kisses and the sight of your precious face contorting at the fullness of your belly and the force of his hunger for you. All the rest were vulgar details left somewhere under your skirts, and, unbeknownst to him, reflected in your childhood mirror situated on the wall behind his plump arse.

“Oh god.” he had choked out, winded and in awe as his body shook at the feel of you accepting him deep, “You’re a slice of heaven, heaven that’s-that’s what you fee- oh god, oh god.”

He had giggled at the absurdity of this dance and then broke off with a moan that made you giggle in turn and back and forth it went as his body jerked into yours as if he’d no control over it, led quite literally by the part of himself buried inside you. He knew it was foal-like and a poor showing as a lover and he also knew you didn’t care a bit, your eyes wide at the size of the intrusion and captivated by the sight of his newly enlightened face.

“You alright?” he asked urgently, as a sudden and familiar feeling took over his body. The feeling of his brakes giving out, his flaps malfunctioning, the hydraulics failing -it took over him, his spine tingling and his vision beginning to blur and only your punched out gasps and sweet smile wavering on his horizon as the frantic, masculine, natural need to drive in deep enough to puncture your heart seized him and propelled him in you, against you, above you with such force you forgot to breath. For all Egan’s teasing of Buck’s hatred for athletics, the man wasn’t shabby when it came down to it, even after months of internment, or maybe due to that stolen time, his life force seemed to pour out in a torrent and your belly buzzed at the sweet abuse.

“I’m perfect.” you managed at some point, “You’re perfect, so perfect.”

He shuddered at the praise and as if terror struck him then, he was suddenly pulling away and moaning “I should- I shouldn’t -I’m gonna, darlin, I’m gonna lose it-“ and young and sweet and clumsy as anything he rutted against your slick frantically, mouth pressed to yours until the hot gush of his satisfaction spilled out and added to the mind fuzzing feel of him sliding against your little pearl.

You encouraged his shaky limbs to collapse on you, the lanky frame of him a sweet weight, sweaty cheek pressed to your breast, you could feel the dopey curve of his smile against your plump flesh. His hair curled at the nape from the sweat of his exertions, all winter chill forgotten in this bed. War and missions and bombs, too. You petted each other for a while before he raised his head and, gazing at you adoringly, he murmured “thank you.” his nose nudging yours and the steadiest of kisses lingering in the tingly aftermath.

“Darlin?” he broached the subject a while later, cheek again pressed to your chest and his fingers sliding in a hypnotic caress over your thigh.

“Yeah, Buck?”

“Later,” he prefaced, tentative and raw, “when -when the war’s over, and when, well, when I can make my own promises…”

Your heart hammered beneath his ear and you squeezed your legs around him, as if to shore him up enough to say what you wanted him to say so very badly. “Yes?”

“Would you marry me then?” he begged and somehow you knew this, what you had just indulged in, was never going to happen without that hope for him.

Perhaps that’s why it felt so strong, like a communion of souls more than anything else. “I’ve half a mind to make you wait and get my answer when you come back tomorrow.” you teased and his head reared up with a dangerous glint in his eye.

“Don’t you dare.” he warned, grin breaking out despite himself.

The sound of the front latch grating on the door startled you both but he pressed you down when you went to scamper and clothe yourself. “The door’s closed anyway,” he argued in a whisper but you knew he felt as nervous as you at being caught, if not more so, yet still he was a stubborn one. His hand was firm and large clasping your cheek, expression arch and expectant. “Promise you’ll be a good little girl and say yes when I do ask.”

You laughed at his gall, to make you wait, to make you promise when he wasn’t even proposing. But then again -you had said you were his, and he was yours. It had already been done. Sometimes life was as simple as Gale Cleven made it out to be.

“I promise.” you whispered happily, bringing him back down to your embrace and willing away thoughts of tomorrow and flagging him out to danger.

One day he’d come back for good. One you could make promises again. Until then, there was hope.

Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed. Feedback is a writers lifeblood, I’d adore hearing your thoughts. 💋

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green-swan · 24 days

Text

cigarette or zoot? (pt. 1) | joost klein x f1! driver (fem!reader)

in which london and smoking are synonymous with meeting a cute dutch artist

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when AVROTROS approached her about eurovision, she thought they made a mistake. max was dutch. she wasn't. her lithuanian roots were deeper than any other identity she could've carved for herself. in the end she agreed; going in their cars with max around the city of malmö, visiting a few eurovision parties and most importantly, interact with joost klein (whom she didn't know, mind you) and teach him how to use an F1 simulator. this was going to be a heavy week. thank god it was in a month, right now she had a race to win.

first came the party - london was a welcome destination for the young driver. she thrived under the busy nature of it even in what some would call late, and others early, hours. she couldn't say the same for crowds though, the moving mosh of strangers all too close to each other and trying to show their superiority (the latter was aimed at men to be fair). she did see silvester, and the two had a lengthy conversation that didn't come to a conclusion but rather stayed at "what the fuck, let's make lithuania internationally famous!" she had hoped for a good place in eurovision, if not victory, while silvester (silvestras sounded more like home) had voiced his wish for her to win the upcoming miami grand prix and not only become the first female to do so, but also the first from lithuania. the pressure was on.

unfortunately, she lost silvester after getting a drink, so what really was the point of staying in the now airless room? she grabbed her drink and went to the rooftop that really should've been closed. her short frame slumped against a railing and she lit a cigarette, making it a point to hold it between her thumb and index finger. it was quiet, and london shimmered in different shades of yellow and white. so many people, some praying, some arguing, some alone. it felt peaceful despite the harsh wind that threatened to put out her cigarette.

"cigarette or zoot?" an accented voice sounded out, breaking the howls of wind. she turned around, spotting a man in what would've been a formal outfit had it not been for the pyramid-shaped shoulder pads on his blazer. joost klein, the man she was meant to interact with in front of cameras later that month. "cigarette," she answered, "though they call them something else here," she finished with an unsure smile. "i thought we couldn't bring tobacco in here?" he questioned, with a miscievous undertone in his voice. "they didn't check me, so it's on them," the driver shrugged, "why? you want one?"

"god, yes please!"

she took out another one from her pack, put it in between her glossed lips (joost thought that the gloss suited her) and lit it before giving it to the dutch man. "you know, i once tried eating a cigarette," he started, earning an incredulous look from the shorter girl. "what? did it taste good?" her curiosity was cute, "what do you think?"

"i once nearly swallowed jet fuel," she said with sympathy, "i get it."

joost knew who she was, well vaguely. the only female formula 1 driver and the only lithuanian on the grid. so why did AVROTROS want him to interact with her in addition to her dutch teammate? by that point, the wind had calmed down, an eery silence on brink of errupting had it not been for the music blasting from downstairs. she hummed a few lyrics before he spoke up, startling her heart as if she'd forgotten that he was indeed still there.

"can i take a picture of you right now?"

"why?"

"you're pretty. you look really beautiful in this moment, and i want to capture it."

she thought for a moment. "okay, if you let me take one of you after." he smiled. (he was so going to convince her to be on the cover of his next album)

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note: jumping on the joost klein bandwagon (hehe been a fan for a while! got tickets for his europapa tour so i've been riding on cloud 9). i also love formula 1 and so thought why not combine them?

as the first paragraph indicates there will be (probably short and sweet) chapters and maybe extra ones after if this goes well <3

#joost klein #justice for joost #eurovision #f1 #joost klein x reader #joost klein imagine #esc 2024

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jamminvroomvroom · 9 months

Note

4 with lando :)))

flashing lights - kanye west (respect the art not the artist!)

LN4 x reader

tysm for the request xoxo!! finally continuing my requests (sorry it took ages whoops) flipped my list and went from the bottom for this bc otherwise we were gonna have some repeats lol

images below from pinterest - i claim no ownership 🙃

warnings: none! some swearing, some fluff, lando being a funny little camera shy pr machine - but fr minors pls just dni with my work okay tysm!!!

lando was frantically pacing your apartment when you walked in, eyes wild, as if he hadn’t slept, and hair an absolute disheveled state. his usually sun-kissed skin seemed to get even paler when he heard the door shut behind you, coming to a halt in your kitchen and staring at you as though he’d seen a ghost.

“lando?” you questioned, confused as to, a) why he was here so early, and b) why he looked like he was about to confess that he had killed your entire bloodline.

“baby, i’m so sorry.” your blood ran cold. what had he done? he closed the space between you, tentatively taking your hands.

“lando… what’s going on?” you tilted your head, starting to sweat in your oversized leather jacket. you’d just been out running errands, picking up bits for the dinner you were supposed to be sharing with the mclaren driver, much later in the day.

“i didn’t think anyone had seen us but then i had my assistant, the entire pr department and my mother phoning me, and then max called and said that him and pietra wanted to see if we were okay, before i could call anyone else back which confused the fuck outta me, so i finally checked twitter and there it was and i just got in the car and came here but god, i’m so sorry.” lando finally exhaled, looking like he was about to pass out, with creases so deep on his forehead that you thought they’d stay there permanently.

“okay, lando? sweetheart? yeah, okay i’m gonna need a bit more info.” you over enunciated each word, stressing that you were still in the absolute dark about whatever was on the verge of sending him into cardiac arrest.

“there’s photos. of us. kissing.” he finally said, quietly, and after a good ten seconds of staring at you in utter fear.

“fucking hell, i thought something terrible had happened. jesus christ, lando.” you exhaled, eyes wide. he stared at you like you’d grown a second head, stepping forward to mockingly rest his hand against your forehead as if he was checking your temperature.

“are you… are you… okay?” lando asked, eyebrow quirked. he was shocked at how calm you were.

you’d both agreed to keep your relationship private, and over the last five months, that had gone swimmingly well. but some low quality photos taken, as you waited for some friends outside a restaurant in the outskirts of london, had fucking launched the cat out of the bag.

“how bad are the pictures? are we naked or something?” you scoffed at him and now lando was truly confused.

“no, but- but i thought we were gonna keep this quiet.” he murmured.

“i know, baby, but okay, it’s out. is that really so bad? it was bound to happen eventually.” you reasoned, and lando finally saw your point.

“i just want to protect you, from all of the lights and the flashing cameras. love you too much to lose you to those vultures.” lando dipped his forehead against yours as he spoke, eyes locked on yours. you couldn’t help but smile at him, the loveliest man you could have wished for.

“oh, my sweet, sweet boy,” you crooned, pecking his lips. “you know i love to show off.” he laughed at that, a low rumbling in his chest.

you pulled away, stepping around him and walking further into your apartment, dropping all of your stuff down in your kitchen.

“anyways, i already saw the pictures. we look hot.” you ignored his incredulous ‘what?’, waving him off. “now, come here and help me make dinner.”