#30 Ways to Learn English Effortlessly

[goddessofvalyria]

SUPERMODEL | Modern!Aemond Targaryen x fem!reader

Summary: Aemond Targaryen is a famous supermodel. However, he treats his assistant so badly that they reach a breaking point. She leaves him and he, for the first time realize how much he needs her. Not only in works but in his life too.

TW: 18+, MINORS DNI, She/Her pronouns, kissing, sexual themes, oral (f receiving), fingering, SMUT, sex, squirting, age gap (Aemond is in his early 30s and she is in her early 20s). This is a modern Aemond in modern AU, he doesn’t have his disability (his eye).

English is not my first language, be kind and enjoy the fic <3

This is my Masterlist

Words: 5800

Aemond Targaryen strides through the glass doors of the high-rise studio, exuding confidence. His tall frame is perfectly complemented by the tailored designer suit hugging his form, his silver-blonde hair slicked back impeccably. His assistant, a young woman trails behind him, her eyes downcast and her steps hurried to keep up. She clutches a clipboard close to her chest, filled with Aemond's schedule for the day.

"Assistant!" Aemond barks, not bothering to look back at her. "Have you confirmed the Vogue shoot for next Tuesday?"

"Yes, Mr.Targaryen" she replies quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.

"And what about the interview with Vanity Fair?" he demands, his tone sharp and impatient.

"It's been moved to Thursday afternoon, as per your request" she answers, her gaze fixed on the ground.

Aemond clicks his tongue in annoyance. "I hate Thursdays" he mutters, more to himself than to her. He finally glances back at her, his expression one of disdain. "Why do you always sound so meek? Speak up! Or do you think my time isn’t valuable enough for you to bother?"

Her assistant swallows hard but doesn't respond to the insult. She knows better than to defend herself. Her job is to keep his life running smoothly, not to make waves. She simply nods, making a note on her clipboard.

They arrive at the studio, and the room buzzes with activity. Photographers, makeup artists, and stylists swarm around, all eager to cater to Aemond's whims. He thrives in this environment, basking in the attention, his arrogance palpable.

"Do they have my preferred brand of water here?" Aemond asks loudly, looking around with an air of superiority.

She nods quickly. "Yes, I made sure to have it stocked" she replies, already anticipating his needs.

Aemond scoffs. "You better. Last time, I had to suffer with that cheap swill they dared to offer me." He rolls his eyes dramatically before striding over to the makeup chair.

She moves to stand in the corner, her presence almost ghostly. She knows her place—always in the background, always silent. The makeup artist begins to work on Aemond, who lounges back, closing his eyes.

"You know, assistant" Aemond says suddenly, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "You could learn a thing or two from these people. They know how to do their jobs properly. Maybe then, you wouldn’t be such a disappointment."

Her cheeks burn with humiliation, but she nods again, keeping her expression neutral. She can’t afford to lose this job, not now, not ever. She watches as Aemond is transformed, his features highlighted and contoured to perfection, ready for the camera. The photographer signals that they're ready, and Aemond stands, adjusting his suit jacket.

"Stay out of the way" he hisses to her as he walks past, not even sparing her a glance.

She steps back, blending into the shadows, her eyes following his every move. She can see the allure he has, the way he commands the room, but she also sees the cruelty that lurks just beneath the surface.

The photoshoot begins, and Aemond is in his element. He poses effortlessly, each click of the camera capturing his sharp features and confident stance. The photographer shouts directions, and Aemond complies with a fluid grace, his every movement calculated and precise.

During a brief break, Aemond saunters over to her assistant, a smug smile playing on his lips. "I hope you're taking notes" he says mockingly. "This is how a real professional operates. Not that you'd know anything about that."

Her fingers tighten around the clipboard, but she nods once more. "Of course, Mr.Targaryen" she replies softly.

The day drags on with more of the same—Aemond’s arrogance, his cutting remarks, his constant demands. She endures it all in silence, her face a mask of calm. She organizes his meals, prepared by his personal chef, making sure they’re exactly to his liking. She liaises with journalists, manages his social media, arranges his travel—all while bearing the brunt of his contempt.

Finally, the photoshoot wraps up, and Aemond is ushered to a private room for an exclusive interview. She follows closely behind, ensuring everything is in order. As they enter the room, Aemond turns to her, his expression icy.

"Make sure you don’t embarrass me during this interview" he snaps. "I don’t need you messing things up like you always do."

She nods, standing just outside the frame of the camera, ready to jump in should anything be needed. She watches as Aemond slips effortlessly into his charming persona for the interviewer, his smile charismatic and his voice smooth.

The next day she stands outside Aemond Targaryen's lavish penthouse, the morning sun barely peeking over the horizon. She checks her phone, her breath visible in the cool air. He should have been up an hour ago. She takes a deep breath and rings the doorbell, waiting for a response. Silence. She presses it again, more insistently this time. Finally, she hears the faint sound of footsteps approaching.

The door swings open to reveal Aemond, shirtless, his hair disheveled and eyes heavy with sleep. He looks at her with an annoyed expression, clearly displeased to see her so early. "What the hell are you doing here so early?" he grumbles.

"You're late" she says firmly, not backing down from his glare. "You were supposed to be at the Versace photoshoot an hour ago." She pushes past him, entering the penthouse. The place is a mess, bottles from last night’s party littering the floor.

Aemond runs a hand through his hair, looking irritated. "I wasn’t aware you became my alarm clock" he snaps, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

She ignores the remark and heads straight to his bedroom. As she pushes open the door, she spots a young woman in his bed, her red hair sprawled across the pillow. Her full lips press into a thin line. Another one of his conquests, no doubt. Probably someone he met at that Vogue party last night.

"Get up!" she says sharply, her patience wearing thin. "You’re late, and I’m not covering for you again. If you don’t move, someone else will take your place." Her voice is louder now, more insistent.

Aemond smirks, clearly amused by her boldness. "Relax. I’m Aemond Targaryen. No one is taking my place," he replies arrogantly, but he gets out of bed anyway, stretching as he does.

"Where’s the chef?" he asks, referring to his private chef, as he pulls on a pair of pants. She sighs, already anticipating his reaction. "Andre has the day off" she replies. "I’ll make you breakfast."

Aemond rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue, too tired to put up much of a fight. "Fine. Just hurry up," he mutters.

She heads to the kitchen, quickly whipping up a simple breakfast— toasted bread with Nutella and coffee. She works with practiced efficiency, her movements quick and precise. As she cooks, the girl in his bed stirs awake, realizing where she is. The young woman gets dressed quietly and slips out of the bedroom, clearly embarrassed. She avoids Elara’s gaze as she leaves the apartment.

Aemond strolls into the kitchen, yawning. "Again?" he complains, though he sits down at the counter and starts eating. "Couldn’t you have managed something more… sophisticated?"

She clenches her jaw but doesn’t respond to the jab. She’s used to his criticism by now. "You need to eat fast and I'm not your chef" she says instead, her tone neutral. "You’re already running late."

He finishes his breakfast leisurely, seeming to take pleasure in making her wait. Finally, he grabs his jacket, and they head out. By the time they arrive at the studio, Aemond is over an hour late. The crew is waiting, the tension palpable. The Versace representative looks irritated but relieved when he finally arrives.

Despite being late, Aemond still manages to charm his way through the photoshoot. His arrogance seems to evaporate in front of the camera, replaced by that effortless confidence that has made him a star. The photographers and stylists gush over him, forgiving his tardiness in exchange for his flawless performance.

As the shoot wraps up, she stands off to the side, making notes for the next appointment. She glances up and notices a young man, tall with curly black hair and green eyes standing near her, looking nervous. He introduces himself, and her face lights up. She laughs, a rare, genuine sound, and nods as he talks. It's clear they’re making plans—he’s asking her on a date, and for the first time in a long time, she looks truly happy.

Aemond catches sight of the exchange, his expression darkening. As they leave the studio, he confronts her in the car. "What the hell was that?" he demands, his tone harsh.

She blinks, taken aback. "What do you mean, Mr.Targaryen?"

"That pathetic guy" Aemond snaps. "You were all smiles and giggles. You do realize you're supposed to be working, not flirting with some random kid."

Her face hardens. "His name is Kai."

Aemond scoffs. "Don’t make me laugh. You don’t have friends. You have a job. My job."

They arrive back at his apartment, and Aemond storms inside, clearly in a foul mood. She follows, her patience finally wearing thin. "You know" she says, her voice trembling with anger. "Just because you have everything handed to you doesn’t mean you can treat everyone around you like garbage."

Aemond turns on her, his face twisted with rage. "You’re just a fucking virgin, unsatisfied with your fucking life!" he yells, his words cutting deep.

She flinches as if slapped. Her eyes flash with hurt and anger. "At least I have a life, Aemond. All you have is this—your fame, your arrogance. But none of it makes you happy, does it?"

Aemond’s face contorts with fury, and in a blind moment of rage, he raises his hand and slaps her hard across the face. The sound echoes through the apartment, and his hand flies to her cheek, her eyes wide with shock.

Silence hangs heavy in the air. Aemond’s chest heaves, his breath ragged, as if realizing what he’s done. She, however, doesn't wait for an apology. She takes a deep breath, her decision clear in her mind. She walks over to her bag, pulls out a folder, and slams it down on the kitchen island.

"What’s this?" Aemond asks, his voice uncertain now.

"My resignation" she says quietly, her voice steady despite the tears in her eyes. "I’m done, Aemond. I’m fucking done with you."

She turns on her heel and walks out of the apartment, leaving Aemond standing there, stunned and alone. The door slams shut behind her, the finality of the sound echoing in the empty room. For the first time, Aemond is left alone with the weight of his actions, the silence of the apartment deafening in her absence.

Aemond Targaryen has had a miserable week without her. His new assistant, a well-meaning but utterly incompetent woman named Lisa, tries her best, but she’s no her. She fumbles over simple tasks, double-books his appointments, and worst of all, she can't anticipate his needs like her always did. Aemond finds himself snapping at her constantly, frustration boiling over.

“Lisa, for the last time” he growls on the fourth day, “I said black coffee with no sugar, not some fancy vanilla latte nonsense. Can’t you get anything right?”

“I-I’m sorry, Mr. Targaryen�� Lisa stammers, her face flushed with embarrassment. “I’ll get it fixed right away.”

Aemond waves her off, already regretting his outburst. But the truth is, he's angry because he misses jer. He misses how she could keep everything in order, how she never made mistakes, how she seemed to know what he needed before he even did. He hates to admit it, but he misses her presence—the silent, steady strength she always carried.

By the end of the week, his patience is worn thin. Exhausted and frustrated, he decides to drown his stress in a drink. He heads to a dimly lit bar, tucked away in one of the city’s quieter neighborhoods. As he steps inside, the familiar hum of low conversation and clinking glasses greets him. He heads to the bar and orders a whiskey, neat.

As he sips his drink, he spots a familiar face across the room. His breath catches in his throat when he sees her, sitting at a small table with that boy named Kai. The sight of her laughing, her face lit up in a way he rarely saw when she was with him, sends a surge of jealousy through his veins. Kai leans in closer, saying something that makes her laugh again, her hand brushing against his. Aemond’s grip tightens around his glass. She is wearing a silver slip dress, loose hair and seems to be... happy.

Without thinking, he gets up and makes his way over to their table. She looks up, her smile fading the moment she sees him. “Aemond” she says, her tone flat. “What are you doing here?”

“Just out for a drink,” Aemond replies smoothly, his eyes flicking to Kai. “Didn’t expect to see you here, though.”

Kai shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “Uh, maybe I should—”

“No” she interrupts, her gaze never leaving Aemond. “You don’t have to leave, Kai.”

But Kai is already standing, sensing the tension in the air. “It’s fine” he says awkwardly. “I’ll call you later.” He shoots Aemond a wary glance before quickly leaving the bar.

She watches him go, her face hardening as she turns back to Aemond. “What the hell is wrong with you?” she demands, her voice low but seething with anger. “You can’t stand to see me happy, can you?”

Aemond smirks, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I was just saying hello” he says innocently. “No need to get so worked up.”

She stands abruptly, grabbing her coat. “I’m leaving” she snaps. “And for the last time, I’m not working for you anymore. Find someone else to boss around.”

Aemond follows her out of the bar, his expression darkening. “Wait!” he calls after her. “You still need to pick up your last paycheck.”

“Make me a wire transfer” she retorts over her shoulder, not bothering to stop. “I don’t want to see you again.”

But Aemond isn’t willing to let her go just yet. He watches her storm off down the street, her pace quick and determined. He knows she lives somewhere near the Flea Bottom district, a rougher part of town on the outskirts. Without thinking, he jumps into his car and starts following her, keeping a careful distance as she navigates through the winding, narrow streets.

She finally reaches her building, a run-down apartment complex with flickering lights and peeling paint. Aemond pulls up and gets out of the car, his heart pounding. He watches her disappear inside, and for a moment, he considers leaving. But something pushes him forward, an inexplicable need to see her, to talk to her.

He takes a deep breath and presses the buzzer for her apartment. It takes a few moments, but eventually, the door buzzes open. He heads up the creaky stairs to her floor, where she’s waiting, her arms crossed and her expression furious.

“What do you want, Aemond?” she snaps. “Say whatever you need to say and then get the hell out. I have work tomorrow.”

He steps inside, the space small and cluttered but cozy, filled with personal touches—a stark contrast to his own sterile, minimalist apartment. He takes a moment to gather his thoughts, his eyes searching hers. “I—” he starts, but the words catch in his throat. He doesn’t know what he wants to say.

“You’ve said enough already” she cuts him off. “You’ve insulted me, belittled me, hit me—what more could you possibly have to say?”

“I’m sorry” he blurts out, the words surprising even himself. “I’m sorry for everything.”

She narrows her eyes, crossing her arms tighter. “Is that it? You think an apology makes up for how you’ve treated me?”

Aemond takes a step closer, his voice softening. “I miss you. I miss the way you always managed everything, the way you put work before anything else—before your own life. I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness, but I can’t stand seeing you with… with someone else.”

She laughs bitterly. “Of course, it’s about you, isn’t it? You don’t care about me—you just don’t want anyone else to have me. You’re jealous, Aemond. That’s all this is.”

“Maybe I am” he admits, his eyes intense. “Maybe I can’t stand the thought of you with him because I—”

“Because what?” she challenges, her voice rising. “Because you think you own me? You don’t, Aemond. I’m not your possession.”

“Because I care about you!” he shouts, his frustration boiling over. “Because I can’t stop thinking about you, even when you’re not around. Because I—”

Before he can finish, he closes the distance between them, his hands gripping her arms. He kisses her roughly, desperately, his lips crashing against hers with a force that steals her breath away. For a moment, she resists, her hands pushing against his chest, but then something breaks inside her, and she gives in.

The kiss is fiery, filled with all the pent-up emotions between them—anger, frustration, longing. Aemond pulls her closer, his hands moving to her back, and her fingers curl into his hair, pulling him even deeper into the kiss.

When they finally break apart, both of them are breathing heavily, their foreheads pressed together. Her eyes are filled with confusion and anger, but also something else—a flicker of desire, of something she’s been trying to deny for too long.

“Get out” she whispers, her voice trembling.

Aemond’s grip on her tightens. “No, I—”

“Get out!” she yells, pushing him away. “I don’t want you here. I don’t want this… I don’t want you.”

Aemond takes a step back, his heart pounding in his chest. He knows she doesn’t mean it—at least, he hopes she doesn’t. But he can see the determination in her eyes, the resolve. He nods slowly, backing away towards the door.

“I’ll leave” he says quietly. “But this isn’t over. Not by a long shot.”

She doesn’t respond, just stands there, her arms wrapped around herself, her gaze distant. Aemond turns and leaves, the door closing behind him with a soft click. He stands outside for a moment, his heart racing, trying to process what just happened.

Inside, she sinks to the floor, her head in her hands. She’s exhausted—physically, emotionally. She doesn’t know what to do, what to think. But one thing is clear: nothing will ever be the same between them again.

Another week passes, and Aemond is nearing his breaking point. He’s more irritable than ever, snapping at everyone around him. His new assistant, Lisa, has quit after a particularly harsh comment about her incompetence, and he’s cycled through two more assistants since. No one can seem to fill the void she left behind. The thought of her is always at the edge of his mind, a constant, nagging presence.

Everywhere he looks, he’s reminded of her. The perfect organization of his closet, her sharp but efficient handwriting on his schedule, the way she always knew how to calm him down when he was in one of his moods. He’s tried to forget, tried to move on, but nothing works. He’s come to a stark realization: he doesn’t just miss her work ethic or her efficiency. He misses her. He needs her.

She, meanwhile, is struggling in her new job. She’s started working at a small startup as an assistant, but the pay is a fraction of what she earned with Aemond. Her first paycheck is a harsh reality check—only $400 for month. It doesn't covers her groceries, let alone rent or bills. She’s been wearing layers to bed to keep warm, unable to afford proper heating. She misses the stability, the security of her old job ($4000 for month)—even if it came with Aemond’s impossible attitude.

Despite everything, she can’t help but think about him too. She remembers their last encounter, the way he’d looked at her, the desperation in his eyes. And that kiss. She’d tried to forget the way his lips had felt on hers, tried to convince herself it meant nothing. But she can’t. The memory lingers, making her restless.

One evening, as she’s sitting at her small, wobbly kitchen table, trying to figure out how to stretch her last few dollars, there’s a knock at her door. She freezes, heart pounding. No one ever visits her here.

She opens the door to find Aemond standing there, looking worn and tired. For a moment, they just stare at each other, the silence heavy between them. He says her name, his voice rough. “Can I come in?”

She steps aside, letting him enter. He’s holding a folder, and she knows immediately what it is—a contract. “What do you want, Aemond?” she asks, her voice guarded.

“I want you to come back” he says simply, handing her the folder. “I’ve drawn up a new contract. Better pay, more benefits. And I promise, I swear, I’ll treat you better. No more… no more of what happened before.”

She hesitates, her fingers brushing the edge of the folder. “Why now?” she asks quietly. “Why come back now, after everything?”

Aemond sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Because I can’t do this without you,” he admits. “Because I’ve realized that I… I care about you. More than I should, maybe. More than I’ve ever cared about anyone.”

Her heart skips a beat at his confession. She looks down at the contract, flipping through the pages. The terms are better than before—much better. But it’s not just about the money. It’s the way he’s looking at her, with a vulnerability she’s never seen before.

“I don’t know” she says softly. “I don’t know if I can trust you.”

“Please” he says, his voice almost breaking. “Just give me one more chance. I promise I’ll make it right.”

She studies his face, searching for any hint of insincerity, but all she sees is a man who looks lost without her. Against her better judgment, she finds herself nodding. “Okay” she whispers. “I’ll come back but only because my payment is good.”

Aemond lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, relief flooding his features. “Thank you” he breathes. “Thank you”

The next evening, Aemond invites her to his apartment for dinner. He insists it’s to make peace, to start fresh. She’s hesitant at first, unsure if she should put herself in that position again, but eventually, she agrees. Part of her misses him too, misses the life she had working for him, even with all its complications.

When she arrives, the apartment is dimly lit, a soft, warm glow emanating from the candles placed around the room. It’s surprisingly intimate, and she feels a flutter of nerves in her stomach. Aemond greets her with a tentative smile, gesturing for her to sit at the elegantly set dining table.

Dinner is a quiet affair, the tension between them palpable. Aemond is uncharacteristically quiet, his usual bravado subdued. He serves a simple meal, one he’s prepared himself, and she’s surprised at the effort he’s gone to. As they eat, they talk—cautiously at first, then more freely, memories and old jokes breaking through the awkwardness.

“I’m sorry” Aemond says suddenly, his voice breaking the silence. “For everything. For how I treated you. I was… I was a complete asshole.”

Elara looks up, meeting his gaze. “Yes, you were” she agrees, but there’s a hint of a smile on her lips. “But I’m not exactly innocent either. I should have said something sooner, stood up for myself.”

Aemond nods, reaching across the table to take her hand. “You’re right. But I’m glad you’re here now.”

There’s a moment of silence, the air between them thick with unspoken words. Then, Aemond stands, moving around the table to kneel beside her chair. He takes her face in his hands, his touch gentle but firm take off her glasses with thin montature. "I cant'.... I can't see" she whispers, but Aemond doesn't care.

“I’ve missed you” he murmurs, his breath warm against her lips. “I’ve missed you so fucking much.”

Before she can respond, he leans in and kisses her. It’s softer than their last kiss, but just as intense, filled with a longing that’s been building for weeks. She melts into him, her hands sliding up his chest, pulling him closer. He deepens the kiss, his fingers tangling in her hair, and she gasps against his mouth.

He pulls her up from the chair, guiding her backward until they’re against the wall. “I want you” he breathes, his lips moving to her neck, kissing a trail down to her collarbone. “I want you so fucking much.”

She moans softly, her fingers curling into his shirt. “Aemond…”

He cuts her off with another kiss, his hands moving to the hem of her dress, lifting it slowly. She can feel the heat radiating off his body, his touch sending shivers down her spine. He breaks the kiss just long enough to whisper, “Tell me you want this too.”

“I—” She hesitates for a moment, her mind racing, but then she looks into his eyes and sees the raw, desperate need there. “Yes” she breathes. “I want this. I want you.”

That’s all the encouragement he needs. He lifts her into his arms, carrying her to the bedroom. The room is dark, the only light coming from the city outside. He lays her down on the bed, his lips never leaving hers, his hands roaming over her body, exploring, claiming.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” he murmurs against her skin, his voice rough with desire. “I’ve tried to deny it, but I can’t anymore.”

He begins to undress her slowly, reverently, as if she’s something precious, something he’s afraid to break. His hands are gentle but firm, his touch electrifying. She arches into him, her body responding to his every movement.

As he presses her into the mattress, his body warm and solid against hers, she realizes that maybe—just maybe—this is where she’s meant to be. Here, with him, despite everything that’s happened. And as their bodies come together, the last of her reservations melt away, replaced by a deep, all-consuming need for the man holding her so tightly.

Aemond’s hands move over her body with a newfound tenderness, as if he’s discovering her for the first time. He slowly undresses her, his fingers deftly unzipping her dress, until it falls open. He slides the fabric down her shoulders, his lips following the path of his hands, kissing the exposed skin. She shivers under his touch, a soft gasp escaping her lips.

“God, you’re so beautiful” he murmurs against her neck, his breath hot on her skin. His hands move to her back, expertly unclasping her bra and tossing it aside. He takes a moment to look at her, his eyes dark with desire, before leaning in to capture her lips in a deep, passionate kiss. His tongue brushes against hers, and she responds eagerly, her fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.

He pulls back slightly, his lips hovering just above hers. “You're so pretty” he whispers, his voice rough with need. He lowers his head, trailing kisses down her neck, to her collarbone, and then lower still. His lips find her breasts, his mouth hot against her skin as he takes one nipple into his mouth, sucking gently. She moans, her back arching off the bed, her hands clutching at his shoulders.

Aemond moves lower, kissing a path down her stomach, his hands sliding on her tights. He pulls her lace panties down in one swift motion, leaving her completely exposed. He takes a moment to admire her, his eyes drinking her in. Then, without warning, he lowers his head between her thighs, his tongue flicking out to taste her.

She cries out, her hands flying to his hair, her fingers twisting in the silvery strands. His tongue moves skillfully, licking and teasing her clit, his fingers pressing into her thighs to keep her still. She feels a wave of pleasure building, her body tensing with anticipation. Aemond groans against her, the vibrations sending shockwaves through her.

He flicks his tongue faster, his fingers joining in, sliding inside her with a slow, deliberate rhythm. She’s close, so close. He seems to sense it, increasing his pace, his tongue moving in circles, his fingers curling inside her, hitting just the right spot.

“Oh, God, Aemond—” she gasps, her voice breaking. Her hips buck against his face, her body trembling. He doesn’t let up, driving her higher, pushing her closer to the edge. She feels the tension coil tighter, tighter, until she cries out, her body spasming as she squirts, the intense pleasure ripping through her. Aemond doesn’t stop, his tongue and fingers continuing their relentless assault, milking every last drop of pleasure from her. She’s panting, her body slick with sweat, her mind hazy with bliss.

"I—I'm sorry" she whispers, trembling. "It—it was the first time... I don't know..."

Aemond finally pulls back, his face glistening, a satisfied grin on his lips. He crawls back up her body, kissing her deeply, letting her taste herself on his lips. “You’re incredible, fuck” he murmurs against her mouth. “You don't have to apologize”

Without breaking the kiss, he positions himself above her, his hard length pressing against her slick entrance. "Aemond" she stops him.

"You were right, I'm a fucking virgin"

He holds her gaze, his eyes filled with a mix of desire and something deeper, something almost tender. “Are you sure?” he asks, his voice a low, gravelly whisper.

She nods, her hands gripping his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin. “Yes” she breathes. “I’m sure but... I...don't know, I'm not your type... I—” she is worried and Aemond notice that.

"I'll be gentle, now kiss me"

With a slow, deliberate motion, he pushes into her, filling her wet pussy completely. She moans, her head falling back, her eyes closing as he stretches her, filling her in a way that feels both new and familiar. He sets a slow, steady rhythm, his hips rolling against hers, his movements deep and controlled.

He leans down, capturing her lips in another kiss, his tongue exploring her mouth as he thrusts into her. She wraps her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, her body moving in perfect sync with his. Every thrust, every movement, is a delicious friction that sends waves of pleasure coursing through her.

Aemond increases his pace, his breath ragged against her ear, his hands gripping her hips tightly. “You feel so fucking good,” he groans, his voice strained with effort. “I can’t get enough of you.”

She moans in response, her fingers digging into his back, her body arching up to meet his every thrust. She’s close again, the pleasure building once more, and she can tell he is too, his movements becoming more urgent, more desperate.

“Come for me” he whispers, his lips brushing against her ear. “I want to feel you come around me”

His words send her over the edge. She cries out his name as she comes, her body tightening around him, pulling him deeper. Aemond follows moments later, a guttural moan escaping his lips as he spills into her, his body shuddering with the force of his release.

“Don't worry” she whispers. “I'm on the pill”

They collapse together, a tangle of limbs and heavy breaths, their bodies slick with sweat. Aemond holds her close, his arms wrapped tightly around her, his face buried in her neck. For a moment, they just lie there, catching their breath, their bodies still trembling from the intensity of their lovemaking.

She feels a strange sense of calm wash over her, a feeling of contentment she hasn’t felt in a long time. She turns her head, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. “What now?” she whispers, her voice barely audible.

Aemond lifts his head, his eyes meeting hers. There’s a softness there, a vulnerability she’s never seen before. “Now...” he says softly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “You're mine....and....”

Fuck, he is hard agin.

Before she can catch her breath, Aemond lifts her effortlessly, pulling her onto his lap. He positions her over him, his hard length pressing against her slick entrance. She wraps her arms around his neck, her body still buzzing from her orgasm, her mind hazy with desire.

“Ride me” he growls, his hands gripping her hips, guiding her down onto him. She gasps as he fills her, stretching her, the sensation sending a new wave of pleasure coursing through her. She moves slowly at first, her hips rolling against his, finding a rhythm that makes them both moan.

Aemond’s hands roam over her body, gripping her hips, her ass, guiding her movements as she rides him. He leans in, capturing her lips in a rough, hungry kiss, his tongue plunging into her mouth, matching the rhythm of their bodies. She moans into his mouth, her hands gripping his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he groans against her lips, his hands tightening on her hips. “You feel so fucking good.”

She moves faster, her hips grinding against his, her body moving in perfect sync with his. “I...I feel... everything.” The pleasure builds again, the tension coiling tighter and tighter with every thrust, every roll of her hips. Aemond’s head falls back, his eyes closing, a deep, guttural moan escaping his lips.

She feels the edge approaching again, her body straining, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She rides him harder, faster, her body desperate for release, her mind lost in the pleasure. Aemond’s grip on her tightens, his hips thrusting up to meet hers, driving deeper, harder.

“Yes, just like that" he groans, his voice strained with pleasure. “Come for me again.”

His words send her over the edge. She cries out, her body tightening around him, her orgasm crashing over her, a wave of pure, unadulterated bliss. Aemond follows her over the edge moments later, his body shuddering as he comes deep inside her, his release hot and intense.

They collapse agin together, their bodies slick with sweat, their breaths mingling in the quiet of the room. Aemond holds her close, his arms wrapped around her. For a moment, they just lie there, their bodies still trembling from the intensity of their lovemaking.

Elara’s heart pounds in her chest, her mind spinning, her body spent but satisfied. She turns her head, pressing a soft kiss to his temple.

Aemond lifts his head, his eyes meeting hers. There’s a softness there, a vulnerability she’s never seen before. “Now” he says softly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Together.”

She nods, a small smile playing on her lips. Despite everything, she feels a flicker of hope. Maybe this is the start of something new, something real. And as they lie there, tangled together, she lets herself believe that maybe, just maybe, they can make it work.

[eviesessays]

30. Who is the wisest person you've known? What have you learned from them?

I began this story thinking about all the brilliant people I would like to emulate.  Then I realized the question was actually concerning people I knew who inspired me.  The first person who came to mind was my friend, David.  He was so intellectually superior to me that it actually seems strange that we have remained friends for more than 30 years.  We met when we were coworkers at McLean Hospital, a psychiatric institution that had a very large research department and was Harvard’s teaching facility.  He was incredibly patient with the clients.  I never acquired that level of patience that seemed to come effortlessly to David.  I never acquired his understanding or appreciation on classical music. Despite the fact that he is legally blind enough to have had a Boston T pass he completed Medical School at Harvard.  He is currently head of a neuro oncology in a large teaching hospital.  He never flaunted his wisdom and if I learned anything from David, it was that I could be a much better, kinder and contemplative person.  His two little daughters leave him and his wife little notes about where they  fall short as parents.  I cannot believe that.

I always admired my brother, Kip who never complained about his illness.  He seldom told people about it.  He was a very funny person.  Although we have related congenital heart defects, mine only became apparent later in life.  I can only strive to accept the inevitable with the grace and humor with which Kip dealt with life.

I always admired my classmate and friend, Betty. She always did and said the right thing and she did so with a slight British accent.  She came by this very honestly as both her parents were born in England and retained much of their accents.  Betty had a German Shepherd Dog she named Otto Von Bismark and we called Otto, for brevity.  Her sense of propriety was inspirational.

I think I am inspired daily by my children, grandchildren and now my great grandchildren.  Heather has retired from a career in accounting. Jaylyn writes beautifully and I hope will begin writing a book now that she is retiring from a successful career in the editorial Department of MIT’s Lincoln Lab.  She is currently very busy being a grandmother.  Robin made a successful move from San Raphael CA to Myrtle Beach, SC.  Her eye for decorating is wonderful and her new home reflects that.  Peter has had an interesting career in Engineering and as I write is on his way home from a business trip to Arizona. He inspires me to keep moving, sometimes to my chagrin.  

I did not smoke in high school or Nursing school but when I married a smoker I took up the filthy habit. My children all knew better.  They acquired pictures and posters from the American Cancer Society.  One poster pictured a haggard, wrinkled woman with a cigarette hanging from the far left corner of her mouth.  The caption said, “Smoking is Debonair”.  This hung by the kitchen door where it could not be missed or ignored.  I foolishly continued this filthy habit into my late 30’s until one day when Peter asked me how badly I would feel if one of my children had cancer because I smoked.  That was it.  I threw my cigarettes into the trash with the coffee grounds and never smoked again. 

My grandchildren, without exception, are all intellectually enviable.  Hillary and Harry both graduated in the top 10 in their class of 400 plus.  Both have successful careers.  Anne reads as she breaths. She is very creative and this is displayed in her home she is decorating. Diggs, teaches school in England after several years teaching English in Japan. Will has a command of nature that I envy. He knows the names of all the varieties of moss that once was my lawn.  He asks if I saw the yellow rumped warbler that flew by.  I would not likely recognize it again if I did see it.  Kalote finished her degree i teaching and after a year of challenging student teaching and a year of teaching in New York at a challenging salary, she is back in the Boston area with a lucrative position in real estate.  I would never in my wildest dreams, thought of writing stories of my life.  She has inspired me at the age of 87 to tell her those stories that I hope she will share long after I am gone.  Kalote also once inspired me to help her make a pillow for her boyfriend.  It was to be in the shape of his favorite cassette tape.  Not only did I have trouble visualizing this, I was certain it could not be done.  We made the pillow.  This inspiration is in the same category as Anne needing 18 costumes for the play she had written and was presenting two days hence.  

Joan Clementine is five years old now and after the most frightening and inauspicious start in life at Tufts Neonatal Nursery  she is a delight.  She has exceeded all prognostications of her progress.  She swims like a fish.  She now reads to her little sister, Lolli.  Everett is four now and named after me.  He is a very sweet little boy who still has a lisp.  He announced in a face time phone call yesterday that they are having a new baby in September.  What joyous news.  Lolli (Laura) is two and a half now.  She loves being read to and listens attentively  She is clear in all her instructions and gives them freely.  She likes having tea parties even with imaginary tea.  Murphy, at age two  sings songs from her favorite movie, “Frozen”.  Today she sent me a text message.  It was six lines of emojis.  I look forward to continually be inspired by all these wonderful people in my life.

[reading-head-start]

Reading Head Start REVIEW 2023

Reading books is a good habit you can help your child to cop up with. And as parents, we are all aware of the importance of reading in our child’s life. However, it is not easy and rather difficult for your child to develop such a habit. And forcing your kid might just get things worse. This is why Reading Head Start is created to help you and your child to learn and love reading. Reading Head Start is an incredible reading program that came into existence to make sure that your child can easily perceive new words and read them effortlessly. Whether you want to teach your child to read from scratch or help a struggling reader, this program aims to help. It is an easy yet well-built approach that is quite unique from other learning resources for children. It is not like a typical school syllabus that attracts a particular mindset of children depending upon their interests. In fact, it is a well-researched program that creates a thirst for knowledge and reading new and different things at an early stage of life.

According to their website, the Reading Head Start Program was created by an English teacher, Sarah Shepard, who says that her program is based on a reading method “the education system does not want you to know.” This system is described as being completely effective, no matter what level or learning experience your child is starting at. She’s a wife, mother, and English tutor for the past 14 years. She got the idea for the program after seeing that the lessons her children were receiving at school were outdated. After studying what was being taught in schools, she saw that kindergartners were struggling in reading. So, she decided to come up with a different way of doing things. After a few months, she developed the program and tested it on her own child. Within a month of trying the program, her son went from the bottom of his English class to the top. She started testing the program on her own students and saw an improvement. Other teachers started trying it and parents noted the improvement of their children’s reading skills. Fast forward to today, the Reading Head Start program is being used by parents everywhere.

This program helps your child to read because you know the necessity of reading plays in the future success of your child’s whole life.This system will make your child’s reading method different from everything else. Reading Head Start will show you how important it is to work with your child for just fifteen minutes per night and three nights each week. It helps you move forward at every level. All around the world, the massive number of children using this Reading Head Start and getting amazing grades on the report cards. By using this system, your 18-month child can read better than five years old in just 30 days. The program itself is engaging, helping children overcome any fear or boredom associated with reading. Once lessons are completed, they receive a digital certificate, boosting their self-esteem. Although this system offers a new approach, offering sounds to make reading easier, it is the design that makes it so rewarding. Parents can get involved, supporting their child’s learning process. The best part of the program is you get to be the teacher of your child. You can get recognize as a parent in shaping your child. In addition, it promises to help any child with the ability to sound out words even with zero reading experience or interest. Also, one license of the program is for an entire family with 1 year money back guarantee.

Click here to get The Reading Head Start from the Official Website.

[wily-one24]

This is interesting so far. Apparently, I am a mystery to the lot of you.

Descriptions under the cut.

SHOGUN - My elder cousin lent me this book when I was in my early/mid teens. It fast became a favourite. He died not long after and I still remember him when I read it. The classic story of a 16th Centure English Sailor crashing into Japanese territory. Fish out of water. He lands right in the middle of political turmoil and a deadly fight for the Shogunate. Contains the classic scene, pre-learning language, that never quite made it to the recent TV screen, in which Mariko and the other Japanese lords are talking and trying to figure out what Anjin may want.

"That guy is grumpy AF, he needs to get laid, let's give him a girl." ... some time later... "Well, he didn't want the girl, maybe he doesn't like girls." "Weird, he didn't want to immediately bed a trembling woman scared to death of having to sleep with a barbarian? Okay, go give him a boy. See what he does." ... some time later... "Whew, man he got MAD at the suggestion he might want a boy." "Well, if he doesn't like women and doesn' t like boys, what the fuck does he want? "I've heard of men who find pleasure in ducks. Maybe we can give him a duck?" "The hell you say. Maybe YOU can give him a duck. If he got mad at a boy, I am not giving him a duck." "Maybe just... like... let the duck roam free near his room... see what he does with it?"

IT'S RAINING IN MANGO - A book on my set reading list in University. Thea Astley is a noted Australian writer. It is probably the least recognisable to those outside of Australia, or those who are younger than, say, 30. This book traverses one family from 1860s to 1980s, leaving affluent Sydney to join the Gold Rush in QLD and getting on the wrong side of society by publicizing the atrocities of the treatment of Aboriginal people. It covers generational abuse, healing, strength, and reconnecting with historical roots with an amazing kind of wit and pathos. It is described as "effortlessly lyrical".

TWELFTH NIGHT - literally my favourite Shakespeare play.

Honestly, it's funny AF. The miscommunications, the yearnings, the mixups. Humour and a little bawdiness at it's finest. What else can you say about Shakespeare?

The love triangle between Viola, Orsino, and Olivia? Viola loves Orsino, Orisino loves Olivia, Olivia loves Viola (believing her to be a man). Olivia marrying Sebastian believing him to be his sister?

Let's not forget poor Malvolio. Though a man cannot be made a fool without his help.

THE GOD OF SMALL THINGS - Classic book, also from the late 90s, also a University set read. Set in India in 1960s and later 1990s. Time jumps. Arhundati plays with language in a way that makes my brain happy. She is very skilled and details and her writing is lyrical.

This quote sums it up: "It didn't matter that the story had begun, because Kathakali discovered long ago that the secret of the Great Stories is that they have no secrets. The Great Stories are the ones you have heard and want to hear again. The ones you can enter anywhere and inhabit comfortably. They don't deceive you with thrills and trick endings." - The God of Small Things.

"And the air was full of Thoughts and Things to Say. But at times like this only the Small Things are ever said. The Big Things lurk unsaid inside." - The God of Small Things.

BEFORE WOMEN HAD WINGS - Okay, I admit it. I got sucked into this one by Oprah. I cannot ever say no to baby Tina Majorino, nor Julia Stiles. I saw the movie first and bought the book second. But the book (wow, really, no! You don't say!) has a lot more detail.

I am a sucker for angst (wow, really, no! You don't say!) and this one hits a few of those nails on the head.

Books We Read

Taking this from @thisismehappy, 'cause it looks fun.

If you are reading this, I tag you!!!

[live-infographic]

30 Ways to Learn English Effortlessly via @ http://www.liveinfographic.com/ QueryFloor, March 29, 2019 at 12:28PM

[awesomerextyphoon]

Madripoor Musings

Summary: You’re undercover as Zemo’s Sugar Baby while you’re with the team in Madripoor. You seem to like the position a little too much and Sam gets jealous.

Parings: Sam Wilson x Black Female Reader, slight Zemo x Black Female Reader

Word Count: 1,685

Rating: 18+ / Explicit

Warnings: FATWS Spoilers, Smut, Oral (f receiving), Light Choking, Angst, Semi-Public Smut,  Daddy Kink, and Slight Emotional Manipulation

A/N: Ran into another writer’s block so I’m using prompts from this list to get myself out of it. Enjoy!

Back to Masterlist

“So, are we good to go, everyone?”

The four of you were jet-setting in Zemo’s private plane to Madripoor to get info on this new version of super solider serums. Zemo came up with the idea of having Sam go undercover as the West African weapons dealer/smuggler, Smiling Tiger. Bucky returned to his ‘Winter Soldier’ mode and you were to become ‘Miss Erina’, Zemo’s new arm candy/Sugar Baby.

Your backstory was simple: you’ve been with Zemo since before he went to prison living in his many estates and luxurious apartments.

It took some time for everyone to get into character. Sam tried and failed to pull off a Nigerian accent while Bucky kept up his hard glare and glower routine. You and Zemo put on the perfect couple facade with the both of you placing semi-sensual touches on each other’s bodies and showering each other with (sometimes lewd) compliments.

“Oh, thank you for the necklace, Daddy!” you gushed loving the way Sam was fuming. Bucky almost broke his character trying not to snicker.

“Nothing’s too much for you, котёнок/kotyonok (kitten).” Zemo mused as he offered you a coy smirk and leaned in for a kiss.

You giggled as he placed kisses along your jawline, neck, and collarbone.

“We’ll continue this later, киса,” Zemo whispered while winking at Sam.

 ––––

 Madripoor was amazing, to say the least. It was a cyberpunk wet dream with bright lights at various angles and two distinct levels giving off a Black Lagoon/Blade Runner/Ghost in Shell vibe.

It felt like your kind of town.

It’s been like this since the Snap. Your older sister died in a car crash right after Thanos’ victory. Your father and uncle were blipped into the ocean dying instantly. Nowadays, your mother could barely talk to you without crying.

Natasha was dead and Steve fucked off to the 1940s to crush English pussy. Sharon got branded an enemy of the US Government and was forced to run. Some dumbass cracker (you will NEVER acknowledge his name) was given Sam’s rightful shield and mantle of Captain America by the craven, racist US government and had the NERVE to tell you to stay out of his way.

To top it all off, you found out that the US military tortured a man for 30 YEARS in order to ‘make the perfect soldier’.

You were finally in a place that matched how you felt.

“We’re heading into Low Town. Be on your guard, everyone.” Zemo warned as he lifted your chin and kissed you again. He insisted on walking towards your escort.

“Why do I have to wear this again? I look like a pimp!” Sam whined while looking sexy AF in his Ankara (I’m saying it’s Ankara) suit.

“Don’t mind him, Daddy. Sam has no sense of style.” You joked snuggling closer to Zemo.

“We’re not at the club yet.” Sam pointed out, vexed at the way you were clinging onto Zemo.

“We cannot let our guard down, Wilson. Selby has eyes everywhere.”

Sam relented and tried not to look your way. It was tempting due to you wearing an amazing Burgundy Fashion Nova Sugar Free Mini Dress with Black Bow Whoa Pumps. Your curves were out, but not in a shameless manner.

You had class, yet you were a tease.

 ––––

 The ride to Selby’s was nothing short of thrilling.

You were right about the overall aesthetic. Madripoor definitely has the ‘dystopian punk’ feel on lock.

“You look radiant, котёнок.” Zemo cooed as you kissed his neck liking how smiled at Sam and inwardly cackled at Sam’s glower.

 –––––

 Several men and some women moved to make a pass at you on the way to the club. A few audacious men learned that you were Zemo’s the hard way, Bucky made sure of it.

You had to mask your displeasure at how many people were shooting appreciative glances at Sam.

You just hoped this escapade would end soon.

 ––––––

 Zemo advised everyone to aim straight for the bar wrapping his arm around your waist as he strode into the club. Sam and Bucky followed suit slipping into their Apex and Winter modes respectively.

The bartender licked his lips as he looked you over, “Thought Selby told ya you ain’t welcomed here, Zemo.”

Zemo raised an eyebrow, “I know, but this is important,” he eyed several bouncers making their way towards your group. Their moves did not faze the baron. He simply turned to Bucky and whispered in his ear.

It didn’t take long for Bucky to let loose. You could’ve sworn a couple of people were ready to shit themselves.

 –––––

 Selby was...interesting. She/They gave off a pretentious ‘I’m always ten steps ahead’ aura with a bit of fake whimsy. She/They wanted to give you to one of her best clients and keep Bucky for herself/themselves (probably for sexual reasons, didn’t want to pry).

The conversation was going well...until Sam’s phone went off.

Insert facepalm.

You’ve told him time and time again to put his phone on silent and get rid of vibrate. Now he was gonna get y’all killed, but you said,” Fuck it!” and shot her/them and the #2.

The group had to book it and you cursed yourself for wearing non-running heels.

 _____

 Your asses were saved by a guardian sniper, Sharon. You were glad to see her again missing your bi-weekly movie nights and sporadic weekend brunches.

“It’s good to see you, Sharon.” You greeted as you hugged Sharon at the entrance of her High Town pad.

“It’s great to see you, too, even after you’ve destroyed my work.” Sharon lowered her voice while pressing her lips together in frustration and then lust at the sight of Sam’s deliciously thicc upper body.

You couldn’t blame her as you wanted to run your hands and tongue along his planes of muscle.

You listened in on the group’s conversation as you changed clothes seeing Sam’s distress at Sharon and Zemo’s words. They did have a point about how being a hero does ring hollow, but it still hurt to see Sam’s sadness and hurt.

 ––––––

 You found Zemo, bless his heart, dancing like a lost dad on the dance floor and started grinding against him while shooting Sam a sexy pout accentuating your sensually full lips.

Sam, for his part, was trying to look interested talking to a waitress with killer legs. He almost lost it when he put his arms around your waist.

“Let’s see if we can get a reaction out of him,” you whispered wrapping your arms around his neck. He knew that Sam hasn’t been giving it lately.

 ––––––

 Your little stunt lasted for about ten minutes before Sam stomped over grabbing your arm and dragging you into one of Sharon’s ‘private rooms’ after another man got too close to what was his.

“Why did you drag me away like that?!” you shouted secretly turned on by the raging fire in his eyes.

“So you like calling your men ‘Daddy’?” Sam demanded as he backed you into the wall.

“I’m your ‘daddy’ now, vixen.” Sam breathed while lightly dragging his finger up your thighs only to find no panties.

“No panties, huh?” he smirked as he twirled his forefinger around your clit causing you to moan.

“Fuck, I love hearing you moan. Say my name, vixen. Don’t care if Sharon finds out.” Sam murmured against your lips. He effortlessly lifted you in such a way to make you wonder if he got some SS serum. It didn’t hurt that you got to see his muscles bulge underneath his turtleneck as he landed your blessed backside onto one of the tables.

“Eyes on me, kitten,” Sam ordered as he forced open your legs and made his way your slit leaving open-mouthed kisses and love bites in his wake. “You're already soaking for me, baby.” he mused as he gave your slit a long lick.

You could barely keep yourself from moaning.

“Who's your daddy, baby?”

“You are!”

“I’m your ONLY daddy!” Sam shouted and dove in.

You were drowning in ecstasy.

Sam was hitting all the right notes with your pussy. He was always a G at eating you out. Sam swatted your hand away from your mouth, “I want everyone to know who your real daddy is,!”

He kept you on edge for nine excruciating minutes before he finally let you orgasm.

“No time for rest, vixen.” Sam chided as he flipped you on the table ass up with your dress bunched up around your chest,” Are you a good little vixen?” Sam breathed in your ear as he placed kisses along your ear, neck, and collarbone.

“Yes, daddy.”

“You’re damn right I am!” He sheaved himself into you in one swift motion. You moaned in delight at the sensation. He didn’t move no matter how much you begged him, “Tell the world who your daddy is,” he instructed as he slapped your plump ass.

You screamed out his name and Sam started thrusting. He gently wrapped his hand around your neck while demanding you to shout his name. Sam pounded into you at a relentless pace constantly hitting your ‘Cum Dizzy Sector’ turning you into a delightfully orgasmic mess.

Sam was reaching his limit so he played with your clit to make you finish first. You came with what felt like an earth-shattering orgasm with Sam coming with a primal roar not too long afterward.

Both of you were so wrapped up in orgasmic bliss that you didn’t notice Sharon, Zemo, Bucky, and a few other partygoers at the door.

“So, how did go?” Sharon teased as you tried to cover yourself up.

“How much did you see?”

“Hmm,” Sharon hummed while tapping her chin, “Enough for me to close a $19.8M art deal.”

“We’re getting a 10% cut.” Sam barked annoyed with the rest of the group reigning in on his smash time.

“Fine. Get dressed, I got a lead.” Sharon announced while smirking all the way to her quarters.

You smirked at Zemo as you made your way to the exit.

Worth it.

[13uswntimagines]

Loser Buys Dinner (Lindsey x Reader)

Request: team goes to an ice rink and the reader is really good at ice skating and the team didn't know. you can add a pairing if you want

Author’s Note: Special Thanks to @literaryhedgehog​!!! Also this one has a slightly awkward ending, but we thought it fit. 

You stared at the sign as Kelley brought the car to a park. Ice Town skating rink blazed in neon letters as the outline of a skate seemed to circle around them. Around you, you heard the chattering of your teammates as they registered where you had come for today’s team bonding activity. They at least were excited. You unbuckled your seatbelt and followed Rose out of the car, still not taking your eyes off the neon image circling around your vision. It was fine. Today would be fun. 

“Hey fun size, you excited?” Lindsey bounced up to walk at your side. You flicked your head slightly to clear your thoughts and turned to smile quickly at her.

“I guess. It’s definitely been a while since I’ve ice skated.” 

“Don’t worry,” Lindsey said grinning, “I’ll stay with you the whole time if you’re worried about falling.”

“I won’t fall,” you said matter of factly. Lindsey raised an eyebrow. Before she could challenge you to a competition that she would lose, you said “if anything I’m worried about you. If you fall you’ll get frostbite.”

If Lindsey was concerned about the cold, she didn’t show it. She was from Colorado and was quite used to the terrible temperature. While Kelley had instructed everyone to wear layers, Lindsey was only wearing a jacket and flannel over a pair of skinny jeans. She grinned at your comment and shrugged. “I’ll be fine. What’s it going to be, like 30 degrees?”

“Yes. That is literally the temperature ice freezes at.”

“It’s just your California blood that makes you chill faster,” she smirked, elbowing your side. 

You rolled your eyes at her and entered the building. As the smell of the ice rink washed over you you inhaled deeply through your nose and exhaled through your mouth, intentionally relaxing the muscles that had tensed up at the memories the smell elicited. You still felt your spine straighten from habit, but chose to ignore it. 

“Are we sure this is a good team bonding activity. Like what if we break our legs before the game?” Rose asked, strapping a skate on her foot. She had always been the clumsier of the team. 

“We ran it by the coaches and they signed off on it so long as we’re all willing to be serious. Looking at you Sonnett. No fooling around on the ice. There are walls to hold onto if you feel unbalanced Rosie, but it’s a good chance to practice our flops if you feel like you’re going to fall. Remember- fall back and protect your head.” Carlie said with a grin.

“And then you want us to roll on the ice for the pretend ref?” Lindsey asked, quirking her eyebrow up at the ludicrous implication. There weren’t going to be any hands going near any skate paths. 

“The pretend ref would assume you were throwing a temper tantrum if you did since NO ONE will be skating at each other,” Beckey said, looking up from tightening her skate to catch the eye of each troublemaker on the team. 

Emily frowned, there went her idea of trying to joust with their umbrellas. 

“You alright?” Lindsey asked, sliding her hand along your lower back. 

“Yeah,” you said, looking at the rink logo imprinted in the center of the ice. 

“Well you’re kinda blocking the entrance to the rink,” Lindsey said very close to your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. When did she get so close to you?

You blinked away the feeling of a spotlight and thousands of eyes in your back to look back at her. Then you grinned slowly, “Just… creating some anticipation.” 

“I know you Californians probably don’t know much about moving on the ice, but you’re not supposed to just stand and stare at it,” she said, kissing your cheek. “just remember that I won’t let you fall,”  

You raised your eyebrows at her, then turned around fully to face her, still blocking the entrance intentionally. “Wanna make a bet Linessie? Because I think you’ll fall more than I do today.”

“In your dreams short stuff,” she snorted, refraining from saying that she had fallen for you already. 

“You taking the bet or not?” You said, a little louder this time so that you caught the attention of Emily and the rest of the youngins.

Linsey’s grin grew to match your own, “I’m always game, you know that,”

“Loser has to eat like Carlie for a week?” You proposed, sticking out your hand for her to shake.

“Hm, those stakes aren’t high enough. Loser has to eat Alex’s weird vegan shit for a week,” Lindsey said, her lips ticking up at your scrunched nose. 

“That would be cruel. I’m not doing that to you. Loser pays for winner’s Costco run?” 

“I think you’re just scared you won’t be able to eat ice cream for a week,” Lindsey scoffed, crossing her arms. 

“Okay, I tried to go easy on you,” you said, shaking your head dramatically. “If you’re willing to eat like Alex for a week, I’ll take that bet.”

“You’re on pipsqueak,” Lindsey shook your outstretched hand, squeezing it a little too tightly. 

You grinned at her and holding her gaze stepped backward onto the ice, crossing one foot over the other to gain speed as you glided to the center of the floor. 

It felt natural, as though the last 12 years had only been 2. You did a quick counter turn, letting the muscle memory carry you over the ice. You did a twizzle and grinned. Not too shabby. 

“Holy fuck,” Lindsey said, her jaw dropped as you glided effortlessly across the ice. So much for her plan to be your hero on the ice. Your protector from the cold. 

“Shoulda pretended you were the terrified one,” Emily snickered, bumping her lightly as she passed her. You may be oblivious to Lindsey’s feelings, but the rest of the team was not. 

Lindsey shook her head and skated off after you, not as smooth on the ice as you were, but pretty damn close. She had always preferred hockey over figure anyway. She easily caught up with you, skating relatively close behind you. 

You saw her and turned, arabesqueing a leg into the air behind you. Then you leaned into a tight camel spin so you looped around Lindsey as she moved. 

“You forwards are always such show-offs,” Lindsey rolled her eyes, catching your outstretched hand once both feet were back on the ice and pulling you close to her. 

“Cause diving headers and Bicycle Kicks are totally not showing off either,” you said, scrunching your nose at her. 

“How did a Cali girl like you learn to skate?” She asked, moving so she was behind you again, holding your waist as you skated. 

“Some way most girls who don’t live in a frozen wasteland do,” you said, shrugging. “I took lessons.”

“Wasn’t action-packed enough for our little firecracker?” Lindsey questioned and you could practically hear her eyebrow ticking up. 

You fought to keep your smile normal. “Believe it or not, there was a time when I wasn’t a firecracker and didn’t like being the center of attention.”

“Not a firecracker, impossible. I’m pretty sure most defenses are terrified of you, especially after you made that English defender pee her pants when she went after Mal,” Lindsey carefully pulled you into her chest resting her head on your shoulder, mindful that you two were still hurtling along the ice. 

You grinned. “Well, she deserved it.” You leaned out to the side then in again, pulling you both into a gentle spin. “But yeah, around middle school I dropped out of skating. My partner for pairs skating broke his ankle skateboarding and,” you paused, trying to find the words to explain, “I just really didn’t like singles.”

“Is it bad that I’m glad he got hurt? Cause now I get to be your pairs partner and you never have to be single again if you don’t want…” Lindsey mumbled, glad that you weren’t facing each other. She wasn’t sure she could have looked you in the eye and finally shot her shot. 

“Well, I am known for being a damn good team player, even if I am a showoff,” you nudged Lindsey playfully. “But I refuse to eat vegan for a week. I need my chocolate icecream.”

“Well,” said Lindsey with a dramatic sigh, “how about we amend the bet. Loser pays for dinner on the first date?”

Lindsey waited just a second for your agreement, enjoying the feeling of you in her arms, and then she gently pushed you away. You slid easily across the ice, turning just in time to see Lindsey “trip” and fall to her knees. 

“Guess I’m buying,” she said smirking up at you, her blond hair framing her face. 

“It’s a date loser,” You smiled so wide, your pink cheeks started to hurt. 

“You’re supposed to flop backward, Linds,” Carlie called across the ice.

[ezgithechaotic]

The Parent Trap | Chapter Six; to love someone else

pairing: Harry Styles x Reader

AU: The Parent Trap,  dad!harry

series summary:  Identical twins Benjamin and Edward, separated at birth and each raised by one of their biological parents, later discover each other for the first time at summer camp and make a plan to bring their wayward parents back together.

chapter summary; There are so many thing to say, but so little time for Harry and Y\N. 

author note; well hello there, ı’m back. It’s been really long and I’m so soryy about it. But I guess you guys are used to it. I will try to write the next chapter soon! Don’t be shy to send me a message if you would like to talk and be friends. I don’t bite, I promise! 

I’m sorry in advance if I have any fault. English is not my first language. My askbox is always open if you want to talk. Please leave a comment about what you think, love you.  

Taglist is open. Please send me an ask or comment if you want to be tagged! (22\30)

The Parent Trap Masterlist,  main masterlist 

Life had a funny way of bringing people together, and it had no interest in their desires. Sitting on one of the blue couches, a coffee in her hand, the only thing Y\N wanted to do was run away and never look back. But she wasn't eighteen anymore; she had learned that running from your problems only circled you back to them. So, she did what every reasonable person would do, stayed put. But now, seeing her hand shaking while holding the silver spoon, Y\N was questioning every decision she ever made that brought her to this point. 

So much for getting over him Y\N, well done. 

"You look good." 

The moment words left his mouth Harry cursed himself silently. You look good. Of course, she did. Is that what he all had? After almost nine years, Y\N still made him tongue-tied. He wasn't the Harry who stood in front of thousands of people to perform; he was a boy again, and he hated it. He was eighteen again, seeing his producer's sister and thinking, maybe he is capable of love. Despite feeling like it was yesterday, Harry wasn't eighteen anymore. He didn't have the opportunities to be stupid and in love. It had been a long time since Harry had lost that chance. Wishing he could say sorry and explain anything wasn't going to solve anything, and it surely wasn't going to bring him his old Y\N, who was naive enough to fall in love with a worldwide star. She knew better now. So, maybe the only thing he could come up with was you look good. 

Even though a moment of sadness passed her face, Y\N was quick to pull herself together. She put a kind smile on her face, the way she did when one of her customers made her feel tired, but she still had to keep going. Harry had seen that smile before when he told her he had to cancel one of their dates, again or when he told her that they couldn't be seen together in public.

"You look good too." 

There it was again, her velvet-like voice. Y\N had always amazed Harry; she could be kind to everyone no matter what, even when the person across her was the reason for her broken heart. Neither of them dared to ask about their sons and each other. How would you ask about someone you chose to leave behind? 

"Can I..." Y\N could feel her anxiety riling up. She took a deep breath and tried sitting more straight. "How is he?" 

Harry's heart almost skipped a beat. He couldn't decide if he was stupid to send him away. Would it be less awkward if Benjamin was there, or would it be a dread to explain to him why his mother was standing in the middle of their guest room? 

"Look, I know we had an agreement." Y\N sighed. Harry didn't realize how much time it took him to come up with an answer until she spoke. "I only want to know how he is."

"He's... Well, he's good." 

Harry apparently lost his ability to form any good sentences that day, but it looked like he was talking to a brick wall. Y\N left her cup on the coffee table, now leaning and resting her elbows on her knees. 

"I feel like I'm doing a terrible job." Eyes fixed on the ground and watery, head between her hands, Harry couldn't remember the last time he had seen Y\N so vulnerable. "Edward is the sweetest boy, I swear. He's the perfect kid any parent could ask for. And I feel like I'm the worst mother for tearing him apart from his brother, for not giving him the life he deserves. And the only thing I can think of is would he be happier if he were with you." She was up suddenly, pacing around the room. 

"And how much I missed from Benjamin's life. Will, he ever know me, or Edward ever know you? Will they ever know each other? Will they ever forgive us for what we did?" She stopped, looking at Harry.  She couldn't remember how long it had been since she looked into his green eyes. She wanted to keep going. Scream, shout, cry. But she stood there, looking at him, waiting like he could give her an answer. 

Will I ever forgive myself for letting you go?

Y\N wanted to keep asking, but there was no point. She stopped a tear before it could reach her jaw, quickly. "God, I don't know how long I've been holding that in." 

Harry was dying to apologize, to ask if she was missing him as much as he was missing her. He was dying to fall at her feet and beg for forgiveness. Instead, he sat there, like an idiot.

"We were young, Y\N. We did what we thought was best. Wrong or right, there is no undoing it right now." 

Hearing her name roll off his sweet mouth woke something inside Y\N. She had so many things she wanted to say but didn't know where to begin. Her mouth was frantically opening and closing back again, but nothing came out. 

-

Sarah and Mitch were just outside the room, trying to listen to the conversation. "I swear he's so stupid," Mitch whispered. "Just say something!" 

"Hey, be quiet. I'm trying to listen." 

Before Mitch could say anything, he heard key sounds coming from the front door. He quickly turned to Sarah. "Camille wasn't visiting today, right?" He was praying that it wasn't Camille, but there wasn't anyone outside them who had keys to Harry's house. 

"Shit." 

-

"I know you're a great mother, Y\N; I know that. And I know we did wrong things, but that doesn't mean you're failing."

"I feel like I am." Y\N was still standing there, her fingers fidgeting with her white shirt. She wanted to yell, how could he possibly know what kind of mother she was? He was never there. Harry stood up with a purpose to walk to Y\N and maybe to hold her. But his actions stopped when the door to the guest room opened.  

And there she was, Camille Rowe with all her glory. Blonde hair sitting on her shoulders, red-colored lips, and long lashes, she looked like she came straight from a runway. And Y\N tried with all her might, but she couldn't hate her. Even though her pants were horrible, even though she always used her beauty to get away with her cruelty. And, true, the diamond ring sitting on her finger was no help, but still, she had no hate for her. It wasn't Camille's fault that she was at his feet, basically asking Harry to fix everything because she was too vulnerable.

How Y\N wished she could love somebody else that wasn't Harry. She wished she could move on as he did. But it was stuck, her whole life was stuck since he left her without any explanation. Sometimes she would feel so ready to love someone else, to find anybody willing to take her this broken. She tried so hard, lying to herself, making everyone believe she got over him. She didn't listen to any of his songs, watch anything that could be related to him.  She was running away for the last nine years, not once stopping and looking back. Well, look where it brought her to now, sitting in the same room with him and his fiancee, who had no idea how much history they had. 

"I honestly love everything piece you do." Did she? Y\N couldn't tell if Camille knew everything or not. But if she did, she was a damn good actress. And Y\N was terrified of what could come after this if she didn't leave that house right now. "I would love it if you worked on my wedding dress." 

Y\N's whole world was upside down at that moment. Her hair on her neck stood on end. Her whole body was shivering; she didn't know if it was rage or hurt. Still, the smile came up again. 

"I'm afraid I'm too busy with my new collection." 

"Well, I will have to find someone else, I guess." Camille laughed, her hand sneaking up Harry's leg. Y\N was burning, her blood felt like it was boiling inside her veins. She needed to get out of there, quick. "But I'm so glad Harry could reach somebody. He had been looking for that cardigan for days, now. I thought he was going crazy." She laughed again, unlike everyone else in the room but, apparently she didn't care. 

"It was no problem, honestly. Jonathan is a dear friend of mine; I was just doing a favor." Y\N couldn't believe how calm she sounded. Maybe she should have chosen to be an actress. 

"I'm sure you're very busy, but we would love to see you at the wedding. Right, honey?" Camille turned to Harry, waiting for his approval. Harry quickly nodded as if he was waiting to agree to everything she was saying. "Of course." 

"I'll have to see, I guess." Y\N didn't know how much longer she could pretend like everything bathed in sunlight. So, she got up, ignoring the shaking in her legs. "I should go, my team is probably waiting for me."

"It was lovely to meet you." Camille held her hand out. Her grasp was hard like she was telling Y\N to start running and never look back again. Still, Y\N stood her ground, firmly taking her handshake and smiling. Her eyes meet Harry's for a second. There were so many things she wanted to say, but she didn't think anything that she could say would turn this around. So, she lied instead. 

"Congratulation on the engagement. You two make a lovely couple." 

Y\N couldn't believe she could lie so effortlessly, without any trembling in her voice. Still, shaking Camille's warm hand and seeing her next to Harry with a diamond on her hand made her want to get in her car and run away to somewhere very far away that she could throw up. So, she did that. 

TAGLIST: @yllwtaxi @meredithhuntt @soullessbabee @xoxoellll @2kayla64 @sometrueaffection @fromthedt @angelbabyivy @kennedywxlsh​​ @harrymarvel @kisskillstudio @pouge-h @sunsetcurve-h​ @odetostep​ @yhound​ @chubby-dumpling​ @swtxel​ @moonstarrnghtsky​ @blackfarrahfawcett​ @deeppoetryface @butterflycloss​ @revise-it-all 

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[brightly-painted-canvas]

How does it feel? (drabble, The Old Guard - Andy & Nicky)

I had this vignette sitting in my heart for a few days and I figured out I should write it down before I ended up losing its warmth. I am a sucker for fics about Andy’s and Nicky’s relationship and this is somehow a small attempt at describing how they communicate, even over a difficult topic like mortality.

.

It’s morning. Early and quiet.

Andy is sneaking inside the safehouse from the back door, sure she’d be the only one up at this hour until she rounds the corner and sees Nicky at the kitchen table, kneading bread with swift but vigorous movements.

She quickly considers her options: Nicky has for sure noticed her already, so heading toward her room without saying ‘hello’ doesn’t sit right. She also had wanted a cup of coffee to wash down the stale taste of alcohol sitting under her tongue after a long night of cheap drinks, so the kitchen had to be a brief stop before hitting the bed.

 She quietly steps inside, scanning the situation: flour stains are all around the main surfaces, the oven is already turned on and a fragrant smell of sweet baking cookies is filling the air of the small room.

Nicky doesn’t even lift his head, he just fixes his big, pale eyes on her and smiles that minute smile of his.

“Coffee?” he asks, his deep soothing voice still rough with sleep.

Andy nods once and Nicky is already moving, briefly wiping his hands on a clean dishrag before reaching the cupboard for a mug. The family-size moka he insists on keeping in almost all the safehouses they use more frequently is already filled with blessedly warm, bitter coffee.

She sits on one of the kitchen table’s chairs, near the momentarily abandoned bread dough.

Once he has placed the mug in front of her, she grins and says: “You’re a saint.”

He snorts.

It’s an inside joke between them: she doesn’t believe in anything holy. He doesn’t anymore (maybe).

But if there ever was anything worth calling sainted in Andy’s long life, it would always somehow be related to her Nicolò.

He wouldn’t agree, of course.

  Nicky gets back to his task of kneading bread to perfection, quiet and precise, like all of his movements.

Andy sips her coffee and enjoys the silence, the brief interruptions dictated by the oven’s ticking and the bread’s slamming over and over on the table’s board.

She observes Nicky’s profile like she has done so many times before, noticing his somehow always disheveled hair having grown a bit too long, the dark circles under his eyes having deepened in the last months, enhancing the tiny white scar under his left eye, the one connected to the cut on his mesophrium and over his right brow.

He was never specific about his life before his first death, but Andy somehow knows the story behind that long scar. She remembers the feelings she had in reaction to that lighthearted confession he uttered: disbelief and outrage.

After all her years wandering the Earth, that tiny information still had her despair about humanity, its obstinacy in bringing suffering to its own, repressing and oppressing what is pure and good and beautiful.

What she hates the most has always been feeling powerless in the face of injustice.

But if Nicolò may once have been a scared, vulnerable boy, he wasn’t anymore.

Andy’s gaze lingers on his strong arms, his wide shoulders, the set of his angular jaw, the muscles moving under his pale skin: he is a remarkably powerful man now, her brother. A forever 30 years old warrior who died in his prime, never to be seen aging and wilted if not for many, many years to this day. And not by her, it seems.

“Couldn’t sleep?” she asks, breaking their prolonged silence.

Nicky hums, a singular small sound, affirmative.

“What’s on your mind?” she follows, knowing all too well it’s pointless: Nicky never answers these questions if he can avoid it, if it’s someone else other than Joe asking, if Joe somehow doesn’t know already.

This time as well, he shifts his gaze to meet hers and smiles, tiredly but reassuringly.

Andy prides herself to be able to read all her brother’s tiny reactions, unsaid truths, hidden emotions: Nicolò may be the hardest one to read, but she has always managed.

She doesn’t know it as deeply as Yusuf, but she understands his core in her own way.

She uncurls her hand from around the mug’s handle and places it upon Nicky’s dusted with flour’s one, which immediately stills over soft bread dough.

Their eyes are still locked and Andy thinks back at all the times she had read deep into these pools of grey mist and green waters, threading out his emotions like a Moira spinning a seafoam yarn.

When he’s this particular type of quiet, unguarded and open, she can read him like a well-known piece of poetry, an ancient song.

“How does it feel?” he asks, and Andy feels like flinching, but he already has his warm hand turned, cupping her smaller one, resting the tips of his fingers on her wrist like it’s a casual position, not a subtle way to feel her life pulsing.

Oh, she thinks. Oh, my sweet one.

They hadn’t had time yet to talk about any of it.

They had to run and hide and let the dust settle, had to decide over the consequence of Booker’s actions, had to figure out Copley, had to wait for her to heal for the first time in forever, had to care about Nile.

Nicky had only had time to exhale a tiny sigh while still strapped on a medical bed, give his wise speech over immortality (wasted on the obtuse mind of an already dead man), ask her if she felt like facing yet another tiring battle.

He had accepted everything that came after with his usual grace, his absolute faith: trusted her leadership without faltering once over almost one thousand years, shielded her with his body like it was meant to be used that way, sacrificed yet some more pain, another death, to survival.

They had yet to talk about it, like they always do somehow in some way at some point, the two of them.

In their long, silent moments shared, just like this one, they always end up talking about what matters the most.

“I feel finite.” she replies, smiling privately at her beloved little brother.

He smiles back and Andy knows he has tricked her once again: he has let her in only to be able to see her in return, to gaze into her soul. Her clever, smart little brother.

She truly envies how effortlessly he manages to do that.

“It’s good.” she adds. She lifts her hand from his soft grip, caressing up his arm to his shoulder, the side of his face, the tip of his too long ash brown hair.

He lets her touch him gently, strokes the skin under his eye with her thumb, and holds the side of his head in her palm.

You are mine: my kin, my family, she tells him, through her silence. I will leave you, but you’ll always have me. I am right here.

“Finally.” she sighs, contentedly, conveying her calmness with her touch, the long awaited peace to her eternal inner turmoil now right there, close to the surface: she has a time now.

She doesn’t have to long for an end that never comes, anymore.

�� His smile is a blessed thing, once again: a brief glance at unfiltered grace, the purity of a cherished soul she saw growing, learning, mending, finding its purpose and balance.

She is old and tired, but her love for this one will always bring her back to her primitive emotions, her loyalty, her animal instinct of offering and receiving protection.

She often recalls with amusement having been worshipped as a god, in the past: she had with Nile, right after meeting her. She sometimes thinks about what those ancient, forgotten people would had said and done for her Quỳnh, her Yusuf, her Nicolò. Her Sébastien and her Nile.

She’s sure they would have fallen for this remarkable man’s eyes like they did with hers, with his secret smiles and gentle voice. Worshipped his proud profile and handsome body in a manner that would have made Yusuf bristle with jealousy, exactly like he did back in the Renaissance, when a bit too many artists had their greedy eyes on the classical features of the other half of his soul.

She chuckles low, lost in her silly thoughts. Nicky doesn’t ask, but looks glad to see mirth on her face.

  The oven rings and Andy lets her baby brother go with a last stroke of his soft hair. He moves his head just enough to place a small, grateful kiss on the skin of her fingers.

“Let me get you those biscotti, they should be perfect with coffee.” he says, turning around to open the oven: warmth engulfs the tiny kitchen and Andy is sure it won’t take long for Joe and Nile to wake up now, following the sweet scent of food with rumbling stomachs, like the puppies they not-so-secretly are.

It means her quiet time shared with Nicky is coming to an end.

She accepts a plate of still hot cookies with a satisfied hum that turns into a shameless moan once she tastes the first one: “You’re my favourite!” she exclaims, like she often does in these cases.

“You don’t have favourites, remember?” he smirks, getting back to his softened bread dough.

“That doesn’t sound like me at all.” she smiles with mischief, gulping down some more coffee, as heavy steps start resounding from the floor above them, down the stairs, and Joe’s voice calling for his husband heralds his appearance at the kitchen’s door.

.

Hope you enjoyed! Sorry for any mistake, English is not my first language.

I’m on Ko-fi!

[rebeccalouisaferguson]

"I always just rode the waves,” Rebecca Ferguson says with a shrug. The comment hangs in the air, as if the Anglo-Swedish 37-year-old is only now processing that a combination of currents and tides has led her not just to an acting career but to the brink of big-screen stardom.

“I’ve never been ambitious,” she says. “I’ve always thought that that was a bad thing.” She’s seen others in the industry consumed by constant striving and asked herself why she hasn’t hungered for fame since childhood, slept in cars outside castings, barged into directors’ offices or thrown herself in the path of a producer. “But should I not be burning for this? Out meeting people and networking for the next job?” says Ferguson, who has chosen the sort of quiet, private life outside the big city that so many actors claim to crave. “My life just took another turn. But I’ve always thought: Am I where I should be?”

At the moment, on this late July day, Ferguson is slumped in the backseat of a Mercedes-Benz sedan, crawling through rush-hour traffic on the M4 out of London. She is capping off a hectic week during a particularly busy period. Most immediately, she’s coming from a table read for Wool, the Apple TV+ adaptation of Hugh Howey’s bestselling postapocalyptic trilogy. Ferguson is both the star and, for the first time, an executive producer. “I’m sitting in all the different rooms, listening and learning like the students,” she says. She’s filming Mission: Impossible 7, her third tour of duty in the long-running series that first brought her widespread recognition. She’s also promoting the film Reminiscence, the sci-fi noir written and directed by Westworld co-creator Lisa Joy in which Ferguson stars opposite Hugh Jackman. And now she is starting a press push and festival prep for her role as Lady Jessica ahead of the much-delayed release of Dune (in theaters October 22), director Denis Villeneuve’s reimagining of Frank Herbert’s novel. “After this film, I think everyone will see what I see in her,” the filmmaker says. “She has a beautiful, regal, aristocratic presence, elegance. But that was not the main thing: The most important thing for me was that depth.”

After tracing a long, meandering path, Ferguson has landed in a rare and rarified position: ascendant in her late 30s (still an anomaly for women in the film industry) and sought after by some of the biggest names in the business. “When you meet Rebecca, you just see it. She’s very open, candid, collaborative, hardworking, funny—and not pretentious,” says Tom Cruise, who handpicked Ferguson to star opposite him in the Mission: Impossiblefilms, which are known for their demanding shoots. “She just rose to the occasion every single time.”

In February 2020, when the pandemic began, Ferguson left Venice, where she’d been shooting Mission: Impossible 7, and hunkered down with her husband, their 3-year-old daughter and Ferguson’s 14-year-old son from a previous relationship at their farm in Sweden. After four months, Ferguson returned to the M:I set and basically hasn’t stopped working since.

Dune has sat idle for far longer. By the time the movie premieres, more than two years will have passed since it wrapped. Ferguson recently asked to screen the film again: “I miss it,” she says. She ended up bringing along her Mission: Impossible co-star Simon Pegg. After the credits rolled, Pegg broke into a smile and wrapped her in a congratulatory bear hug. “That’s all I needed,” she says.

Despite being a sci-fi epic based on a novel from 1965, Dune feels “very timely,” Ferguson says, pointing to its handling of environmental issues, religious zealotry, colonialism and Indigenous rights. The plot of the film, which cost an estimated $165 million, centers on occupying powers battling for the right to exploit a people and their planet, named Arrakis, for melange (or spice)—the most valuable commodity in Herbert’s fictional universe, a substance that provides transcendental thought, extends life and enables instantaneous interstellar travel. “Spice,” Ferguson says, “is equally about the poppy and oil fields.”

Ferguson’s Lady Jessica is a member of the Bene Gesserit, a powerful secretive sisterhood with superhuman mental abilities. She defies her order by giving birth to a son, Paul (played by Timothée Chalamet), who may be a messianic figure. “She basically just f—s up the entire universe by having a son out of love,” says Ferguson. In her hands, Jessica is equal parts caring parent, protector and pedagogue. Among the skills she wields and teaches Paul is “the Voice”—a modulated tone that allows the speaker to control others.

The movie was shot in Norway, Hungary, Jordan and Abu Dhabi, whose desert landscape stood in for Arrakis. Filming there was particularly arduous, as temperatures exceeded 120 degrees Fahrenheit, limiting the shoot window to only an hour and a half each day at 5 a.m. and again at dusk. “We were running across the sand in our steel suits being chased by nonexistent but humongous worms,” Ferguson recalls, referring to the sand-beasts later rendered in CGI. “To be honest, it was one of the best moments ever. It was the most beautiful location I’ve ever seen.”

Back in London, Ferguson is approaching home. She leaves the following day for a small town on the coast of England, where she plans to spend her first vacation in two years and to do some surfing. “Let’s hope it’s good weather,” she says. “If not, I’ll surf in the rain.” Not that she’s the sort to paddle out into storm swells. “I think I’ve managed to stand on a board once in my entire life,” she says. “But it was quite a high. Complete surrender to the waves and total control all at once.”

Born Rebecca Louisa Ferguson Sundström to an English mother and Swedish father, Ferguson grew up bilingual in Stockholm. She immersed herself in dance from a young age, enjoying ballet, jazz, street funk and tango. Despite being shy and prone to blushing and breaking out when forced to speak publicly, Ferguson found she was at ease in front of the camera. She dabbled in modeling and then, at 15, attended a TV casting call at her mother’s urging. Ferguson ended up getting the lead role in Nya Tider (New Times), a soap opera that became wildly popular, splashing Ferguson’s face into Swedish homes five times a week.

When her role ended about two years later, Ferguson was adrift. She had no formal acting training to fall back on, no clear sense of how to steer a career and no major connections to the industry. She had a short run on another soap and appeared in a slasher flick and a couple of independent shorts, then…nothing. “I was famous in Sweden, but I didn’t really have an income anymore,” she says. “So I went and I worked in whatever job I could get.” That meant stints at a daycare center and as a nanny, in a jewelry shop and a shoe store, as well as teaching tango, cleaning hotel rooms and waitressing at a Korean restaurant. She eventually landed in a small coastal town named Simrishamn, where she lived with her then-partner and their toddler son, content to be a where-are-they-now celebrity.

When fame again came calling, Ferguson ran away. She was at the flea market when she recognized the acclaimed Swedish director Richard Hobert, and he saw her. As he shouted her name, Ferguson grabbed her son, who lost his shoes and sausage, and fled. “I panicked,” she says. “I don’t know why.” When Hobert eventually caught up to her, Ferguson tried to act nonchalant as he proceeded to tell her he’d admired her work and pitched her on the lead role in his next movie: “I’ve written this role, and I think I have written it for you. Do you want to read the script?”

Her work in Hobert’s A One-Way Trip to Antibes earned her a Rising Star nomination at the Stockholm International Film Festival. She quickly got an agent in Scandinavia, then one in Britain. On her first trip to take meetings in London, she read for the lead in The White Queen, the BBC adaptation of Philippa Gregory’s historical novels about the women behind the Wars of the Roses. Ferguson got the part, and her portrayal of Elizabeth Woodville, queen consort of England, earned her a Golden Globe nomination and the admiration of at least one Hollywood heavyweight.

Ferguson was in the Moroccan desert filming the Lifetime biblical miniseries The Red Tentwhen the assistant director whisked her off her camel. “We’re going to have to pause shooting,” he said as he asked her to dismount. “Tom Cruise wants to meet you for Mission: Impossible. We’re going to fly you off today.”

Cruise had seen Ferguson’s work in The White Queen and her audition tape and couldn’t believe she wasn’t already a major star. “What? Where has this woman been?” Cruise recalls exclaiming to his new Mission: Impossible director Christopher McQuarrie. “She’s incredibly skilled,” Cruise says, “very charismatic, very expressive. As you can tell, the camera loves her.” Ferguson landed a multi-picture deal to star opposite Cruise in the multibillion-dollar franchise. He and McQuarrie built out the role of Ilsa Faust for Ferguson, creating the anti-Bond girl, an equal to Cruise’s Ethan Hunt. “We could just see the impact she could have,” he says. “She’s a dancer. She has great control of her body, of her movements. She has the same ability to move through emotions effortlessly.”

Ferguson threw herself into the films and quickly found a shorthand with the cast and crew. “There was a dynamic that worked very well with all of us,” she says. “One of the things I absolutely love is doing all the stunts.” That physicality has given her a reputation as an action-minded actor. “It doesn’t matter that I’ve done 20 other films where I don’t kick ass,” Ferguson says. “Mission comes with such an enormous following. That was what made my career.”

Ferguson’s M: I movies bracket a number of films in which she played opposite marquee names: Florence Foster Jenkins, with Meryl Streep and Hugh Grant; The Girl on the Train, with Emily Blunt; The Greatest Showman, with Hugh Jackman and Michelle Williams; Life, with Jake Gyllenhaal and Ryan Reynolds; Men in Black: International, with Chris Hemsworth and Tessa Thompson; The Snowman, with Michael Fassbender; Doctor Sleep, with Ewan McGregor. And now Dune, opposite Oscar Isaac, Javier Bardem, Zendaya and Chalamet, whom she calls “one of the best actors, if not the best actor of his generation—of this time.” She was similarly impressed by Zendaya, who plays the native Fremen warrior Chani. “She’s quite raw and naughty and fun,” says Ferguson. “She has an enormous f— off attitude.”

When Ferguson first spoke to Villeneuve about appearing in the movie, “he started telling me about this woman who was a protector, and a mother, and a lover, and a concubine,” she recalls. “I was like, ‘I’m sorry. You want me to play a queen and a bodyguard? And you want me to kick ass and walk regally?’ I was like, ‘Denis, why would I want to do that? That’s the last thing I want to do.’ ”

After the call, Ferguson says, “I went downstairs to my hubby and said, Oh, my God, he’s amazing, but I’m not going to get the job. I just criticized the character.” Ferguson worried she was being cast as a stereotypical “strong female character,” where “it’s constantly, ‘She looks good, and she can kick.’ That is not what I want to portray.”

Ferguson hasn’t always been able to work with collaborators who’ve given her the space to question or opine. “I’ve been bashed down. I’ve been bullied,” she says, though she opts not to say by whom. That was never a concern with Villeneuve, who welcomed her critique. He and his co-writers had already decided from the start to make women the focus of their screenplay adaptation, and he promptly offered her the part.

“I want Lady Jessica to be at the center, the forefront. For me, she’s the architect of the story,” Villeneuve says. “I needed someone who will convey the mystery and the dark side of the film in a very elegant and profound way. Rebecca was everything I was hoping for. She’s so precise. She brought a beautiful, controlled vulnerability—it becomes very visceral on-screen.”

Ferguson vaguely recalls trying to watch the 1984 version of Dune, directed by David Lynch, in her youth, but she fell asleep. And she had never opened Herbert’s novel until being offered the part in the new adaptation. As she dug into the book, she says, she learned that her character was subservient and far more like a concubine, forced to eat alone in her bedroom, not spoken to and not allowed to speak. Ferguson ended up relying primarily on Villeneuve for her research and prep—his notes and comments, his references and the pages in the book he suggested she focus on. “I would feel ignorant not to have read Frank’s book at all,” Ferguson says, though she admits there are parts of the sprawling novel (which Villeneuve is splitting into two films) she’s only skimmed. “I have to finish it.” That will not happen on her upcoming vacation, however. “Absolutely not,” she says “I am surfing.”

By the way, if you saw, I am snaking on the ground, snaking around my room to get good Wi-Fi—it’s not some dance or yoga thing,” Ferguson says. “You have to do that in this old house.” It’s a week and a half after our first meeting, and Ferguson is at her new home, a more than 500-year-old property southwest of London that has, over the years, been home to numerous English Royals. It’s more spartan than stately now. “Empty except for a rock star,” she says, turning her phone’s camera to reveal a framed duotone poster of Mick Jagger that’s leaning against the wall. “We haven’t even started renovating.

Ferguson has returned from her holiday fortified and with renewed confidence, thanks in part to her success on the surfboard. “I went up nearly every time,” she says cheerfully, “but the waves weren’t very high.” She shrugs. “I was proud. I was up. I rode them, not the other way around.”

After years of going with the flow, Ferguson is eager to replicate that sense of control in her career. She values her role as an executive producer on Wool, she says, “because I am, for the first time, a part of it from the beginning.” She relishes weighing in on every aspect, from casting (the show recently added Tim Robbins) to cinematography to her character—which has not always been easy for her. “Why do I feel it’s difficult to speak up? I still battle with these things,” she says. Alluding to those times she was pushed around in the past, Ferguson says, “I was angry, but it was more me getting off at ‘How can I let that happen? Why am I letting myself react this way?’ And I take it with me to the next thing where I go, ‘OK, how do I stop that from happening?’ ”

She is learning that she can ride on top of waves without giving up her agency or maybe just let them break against her. “I want to feel I can go home and think, That was a hard day or that pissed me off—and that’s OK,” Ferguson says, with a nod and tight smile. “Because I still stood there as Rebecca. I didn’t shift.”

[jeontaehui]

nananananana (210331 VLIVE)

taehee bites back a grin as fans enter the live. “hello everyoneeee,” she greets softly, her cheekbones lifting into a soft smile. “i’m in the practice room once again.”

“i was just learning a dance actually, it’s my break right now so this’ll probably be short,” she mentions. “and then i turned on vlive without asking permission— well, i did ask permission after i... turned it on,” she giggles. “she’s gonna say yes anyways. no one can say no to me,” the comments section blows up after she sent a sly wink to the viewers. she knew her effect on them one way or another. 

mark lee i love you HELLO THE TITLE?? IS THIS A SPOILER???

lee donghyuck’s long hair i only entered the live but i feel like crying T—T why must she be so cute

taeyongbub taehee in the practice room is so attractive??? wth???

taehee tucks a few strands behind her ear asking, “did you guys have dinner already? have you guys eaten?”

mataechan what did taehee eat today?

hyuckschurros PIZZA !!!!

“aw, pizza? i’m craving now,” she shortly puts on a pout before a smile shows itself once again. “i haven’t eaten but i think i’ll have........ um,” taehee seems to think for a moment as she looks up the ceiling, trying to remember what jungwoo said she’d have at the dorms.

“i can’t remember,” she shrugs, proceeding to continue reading the comments.

jungwoo tehet are you going to dance again?

aussiechan TAEHEEEE !!! come home to australia :(

svtzen DREAM SPOILERS PLEASEE

“the dance that me and my teacher did today was to party favors by tinashe! i have to practice some more to get it right but i’m,” she stands up and dusts off her track pants, placing the phone on the floor in front of the mirror, “going to show you guys the part where i’m most confident in.”

she disappears as she goes to the side to play the music, and the strong beats of tinashe’s party favors fills the practice room. she adjusts her pants around her waist and runs a hand through her black hair, ruffling her bangs for a moment before getting into position.

she dances. no matter how hard-hitting the choreography is, taehee knew well how to control her own body, and gracefully yet powerfully sync her movements to the beats.

taehee marry me she’s so hot what the heck do i do

markcity i’m single for this reason only

fullsunnn THIS IS WHY WE NEED A TAEHEE SOLO ASAP !!!

from the corner of her eye, taehee sees her dance instructor imitate the part where she got the dance wrong during their practice, causing her to lose focus and burst into laughter.

ncityinthehouse everyone, the duality of miss jeon taehee

“unnie is laughing at me right now!” taehee giggles. her eyes glance to the side then back to the screen. “yes so, until there did i memorize the dance. i’ll try to post on instagram the full version of it. oh!” she claps her hands excitedly, a habit nctzens took note of before she says an idea.

“since it’s a wednesday today and! the end of the month, you guys can comment whatever you guys want me to do or any question you want to ask and i’ll answer them.”

“i’m going to scroll with my eyes closed and whatever my finger lands on will be picked,” she cutely asks if the viewers got it before briefly explaining what she just said in english.

“i’ll give you guys maybe 30 seconds? is 30 seconds enough? okay, ready and start!”

taehee bobbed her head as she counted the numbers in her head. “30! okay, i’ll close my eyes now.”

juhfahm skincare routine?

merrymark give us a phone tour :D

twiceyeon please watch switch to me by dahyun and chaeyoung !!!! <3

“from twiceyeon,” taehee reads, putting her emcee mode on. “please watch switch to me by dahyun and chaeyoung! ohh i think i’ve seen this on my recommended but i haven’t had the time to watch it— sorry, chaeyoung-ah,” she winces.

you can hear keys being tapped on taehee’s phone screen as she typed the title on youtube’s search bar. the music video appears a few seconds later and she immediately clicks on it.

“oooo dahyun-ssi is very pretty,” taehee says. her expression quickly changes when she sees the twice member use her foot as she played the piano, her hand going up to cover the giggles that escaped out of her. “this is so cool,” she beamed.

“oh sexy!” taehee exclaims after chaeyoung appeared. “i really like chaengie’s short hair.”

she compliments the set when the scene changes, a summer pool vibe replacing the vintage set-up at the intro. “the dance is cute too,” she mumbles.

she smiles at chaeyoung and dahyun’s playfulness in the music video before moving on to compliment her best friend again. “chaeyoung is seriously so pretty... whaaat!”

taehee continues to watch the rest of the video as she moves to the beat, occasionally letting out a chuckle or two at the adorableness of the duo.

“hold on,” she grabs her earphones and plugs them into her phone. “(it’s) to avoid copyright,” she smirks.

taehee finishes the music video with a grin on her face, “the music video was very cute! did they perform this on stage? i think the stage set and the fits would’ve been pretty.”

“speaking of music videos, baekhyun hyung’s new album just dropped yesterday! have you guys watched the music video?” taehee shuffles closer to the camera to read the comments. almost everyone was saying that they did, in fact, watch the music video and really enjoyed it.

“i never said this directly to him but i really am a fan of his, seriously,” she dictates. taehee breaks into a grin as she giggles again, the viewers watching how her eyes twinkled while she talked. “‘bambi’ is really great— it’s immaculate. you guys should stream the whole album and recommend it to your family and friends. baekhyunie hyung never fails to deliver (good songs).”

bbhubblegum taehee promoting baekhyun and other artists better than sm pt. 74628392

going on her phone, she mumbles, “and i really like the choreography of his songs.” there was an adorable pout to her lips as she spoke, much to the amusement of the viewers.

then she looks up from the device in her hands and her eyes hold a certain glint in them before she playfully squints. “just be quiet about this though. i am never gonna hear the end of this from him,” she shakes her head with an amused chuckle, recalling all the times baekhyun teased her and the ‘admiration’ she has for him.

“you’re my only bambi bambi,” taehee sang effortlessly. “it’s a perfect night for you,” her tone was a little softer this time.

“okay so that was our first request? dare? of the live, let’s get to the next one right away!”

taeheeroar do you listen to the neighborhood?

wooyoungification do you want to collab with anyone? if so, who?

“the next one is.... wooyoungification! ooo wooyoung-ah hello,” taehee says, prolonging the last syllable of her sentence. “they asked, “do you want to collab with anyone? if so, who?”

“well,” she clears her throat, furrowing her eyebrows as if she were in thought. “there are a lot of great artists out there. taylor swift is already my answer by default but,” she giggles again, “if i have to think of people outside sm, i think it’d be nice to have a collab with stray kids’ 3racha. they’re their producing unit if i’m not mistaken. it’d be fun to work with them.”

“i also had this dream of having a collaboration stage with the other dancers outside nct, like blackpink’s lisa or seulgi unnie. would you guys want that?”

midzyseason this isnt good for my gay ass

reveluvbar can taehee just take over sm

taehee hums, “i think i never mentioned it before but i wanna try doing drama ost’s too. i don’t watch as much dramas as i do before, but when i was still learning korean, they helped me so much.”

“i watched ‘guardian: the lonely and great god’ a lot and i really liked ‘stay with me’. hopefully, i can collab with punch too.”

taehee unconsciously moves her lips to the side, forming another pout and thinks again. “from sm, i think kai hyung? not counting superm, okay?” she beams.

“kai hyung and,” then a snort escapes taehee before she could even stop it, “baekhyun hyung.”

she puts a hand to her chest once she recovers from her mini-giggling fit before holding it up and swearing it was the truth. “these two were the ones that came to the top of my head, seriously.”

beansprout lolll remember when kai used to “complain” about taehee ever only talking about sehun cause he was the one she was closest to in exo when they first met ?

sodangerous it’s so touching how taehee looked up to exo while she was still a trainee and now they’re like family

taehee nods and bites her bottom lip, asking herself, “why do i feel like a youtuber?”

she smiles to someone off screen and quickly glances back to the camera, “next question!”

asteroidsung what did you get for renjun’s birthday?

“what did i get for renjun’s birthday? i just gave mine literally yesterday. i know it’s summer but i gave him a hoodie that i thought would look cute on him,” she smiles. “it was pink.”

“i was with haechanie when i bought it.”

chenlezoned hyuck said he’s gonna marry daegal next month

“hyuck’s gonna marry who now?!” taehee exclaims, “DAEGAL’S A MINOR!!!”

dreamtopia BYEEEEEEE

themissingpuzzlepiece everyone at haechan marrying daegal:❓❓meanwhile taehee: 🌋🌋⁉️

boohoohyuck sending my prayers to lee haechan

just then, taehee’s phone suddenly rings and her eyes widen at the caller id displayed on the screen. “wow, this dude’s timing is really! spot-on.”

she puts the speaker on, “donghyuck-ah, what’s this i’m hearing that you’re marrying daegal?? are you leaving me and chubs already?! oh and you’re on speaker.”

fullseun don’t you just cry on the inside when markhee calls hyuck by his real name or fullsun

you hear haechan’s boisterous laughter first before he could answer taehee’s question. “i talked about that on vlive,” he said, “where are you?”

“i’m doing vlive.”

“but it’s almost midnight.”

when taehee makes no move to answer, haechan goes, “are you in the practice room again?”

“so?” taehee answers sassily, causing the boy on the other end of the line to groan.

“noona, we talked about this already,” haechan whines. “then we can talk about it again later!” taehee shrugs exasperatedly. “noona....” the former warns, as if he was scolding a child. “i’m just on a break,” she gives in, “i’ll go home soon.”

“promise?” taehee rolls her eyes, though it was clear that she was grateful for haechan’s concern by the soft smile she held on her face. “i promise.”

taehyuckles i know i wished for a taehyuck live but this will suffice Gosh they are so cute !!!!!!

“you haven’t said hello to czennie,” taehee reminds him. “czennie, hello!!” he greets sweetly.

“anyways, i just called you because you agreed to playing a few rounds with me but i’ll just wait for you until you get home,” taehee winces at his statement. she might have forgotten. “oh right, i’m sorry. just a few more minutes?” haechan hums affirmatively from the other end.

“get home safely, noonaaa,” after they exchanged their goodbyes, taehee hangs up the call.

“yes, okay! everyone that was lee haechan on the phone with me and i think i can do,” she turns her back to look at the wall clock in the practice room, “three more comments.”

yangqied taehee’s an idol in the day, pro-gamer by night

“okay, so our next question is: are you friends with aespa? yes! i am friends with aespa,” she beamed.

“i actually saw them the day before their debut stage. my time slot in the practice room was after theirs and so we met there,” taehee recalls. “they’re very pretty! and they look cool when they danced to ‘black mamba’. i wished them luck on their debut stage,” she chuckles.

taehee closes her eyes and proceeds to swipe at the screen, “next question is... oh! i dare you to post on instagram. okay, let me find some photos and show you guys so we can all vote.”

“i’ll send them on bubble but i’ll show it here too in case you guys don’t have a subscription. that’s okay.”

markerlee tb to when taehee sent her pcs to bubble... she really said fuck capitalism !!!!

“okay, option 1: this one,” she brings her phone up to the screen, showing a picture of her with the bird filter on mac.

jisungbye I LIKE THIS ONEEE

kunniekunkun this one’s cute!!!

moloism markhee pls post ur photos with the mac filters im begging you

“orrrr this one,” she faces her phone towards the camera once more. she was sitting on the pavement with the view of the orange-pink sunset behind her, a mask concealing half of her face.

the127thsense everything just screams girlfriend material to me

deryqueen taehee, i am free this friday. i repeat, i am free this friday.

solhyuck i think you should post these as a set on instagram!

“what should i post on instagram? everyone choose between 1 or 2!” taehee tells them in korean, before switching to english. “you guys pick between the first one and the second one, and i’ll post it on instagram.”

oncezenni 2

flamboyanthyuck the second one!

ohmajesus i like the first one

iamjeno second pleaseee

“mm okay, most of you are voting for the second one so i’ll be posting that first thing tomorrow! and then i’ll just send the other one on bubble,” taehee puts her pinky finger up as she speaks, making a promise to the viewers.

“how many was that? two already?” a pout subtly makes its way on taehee’s lips and a few of her hair strands fell in front of her face, causing her to push them back as she huffed. nctzens found it adorable!

takeoffbesttrack can i kiss you.

“can you kiss me?” taehee presses her lips on the tips of her fingers before lightly tapping them on the screen. “i,” one of the corners of her mouth raises to a smirk, “kissed you.”

mahaecries GODDDD

tenvely you will be the death of me

deryqueen AGAIN TAEHEE I AM FREE THIS FRIDAY NIGHT !!!!!!!!!!

taehee giggles after seeing the comment section blow up and her dimples peek out from her cheeks.

“i’m gonna have to end this soon, guys. this is the last one, okay?”

haecity can you go live with markhyuck?

snoopyscoop do you have any more funny stories with jungwoo?

taromilktea did you see sungchan when he debuted as an emcee?

“did i go see sungchan when he debuted as emcee? nooo,” she frowns, “but i did call him on facetime.”

“he said he was nervous but i told him he’d do great! and he did, right?” taehee’s frown was quickly turned into a proud grin. “i watched a replay of it on youtube the day after. he was very cute.”

“i told him to just think of it like he was talking to us so he’s more comfortable, and he told me it helped a lot so i’m relieved,” she nods. “i sent him churros too!”

taehee shuffles closer to the camera and brings her knees close to her chest while she talks, “please support him! i know sungchanie’s glad to have received this opportunity that’s why he’s been practicing diligently.”

taehee reads a few more comments and smiles at the funny ones. the humor of nctzens never fail to make her smile. the memes they send during menpas are so hilarious that she can’t help but reply to most of them.

taeheespresident i guess she’s gonna end the live now? :(

jungwootehet it’s nearing 1 am and i still have school tomorrow...... whoops!

“i’ll have to go now guys, it was nice doing all this with you,” taehee softly mumbles.

“i like this idea of having you guys comment what you would want me to do ‘cause i’m able to connect with you guys more, i’ll try to do a live again soon.”

“the weather’s nice here in korea— well at least for me,” she chuckles, “it rained recently but it might be hot? in other places so please remember to stay hydrated and drink lots of water.”

“also wear your masks and keep social distancing! we’re not only trying to protect ourselves but we have to stop the spreading of it all so,” taehee gives another small smile at the camera as she reminds the people to be careful, “stay safe.”

after a few beats of silence, taehee speaks again. “okay so, until here is taehee’s nananananana live!” she sings while doing the infamous choreo of ‘go’.

empathy127 I KNEW IT WAS FROM GO !!!!

“good night! or good morning to those who are starting their day right now,” she adds, “goodnight! we’ll see you guys soon.”

taehee does her infamous ily hand gesture and winks at the camera before waving bye and ending the livestream.

[blackswaneuroparedux]

Anonymous asked: Your cool literary takes on James Bond made me want to ask you this. I have to wear a tuxedo for a special occasion, can you give me some advice? I would welcome some style pointers from you as I respect your refined taste. What are your thoughts on men wearing the tuxedo? I think it’s a dying tradition because here in the US, where the tux was invented, it has all but disappeared as the choice of evening wear for any social events. Great blog posts but I only wish you would post more.

Thank you for your kind words about my most recent posts on Ian Fleming’s James Bond and also generally liking what I post. I too wish I could post more but unfortunately my time is taken up with the reality of work and other things even during these tough times of the Covid pandemic. But when I get a moment to myself I do enjoy posting as a way to detox from the pressures of work. I appreciate your continued support.

I got this question before Christmas so the thought had occurred to me that you were asking because you had a decision to make over the festive period. If so, I am sorry for tardy lateness of my response. But I trust what little advice I can give will help you in the future. 

I always remember the maxim by the fashion designer, Tom Ford, who said, “Dressing well is a form of good manners.”

To me, for a man to wear black tie (or tuxedo) is the height of good manners. It used to be the case that every gentleman had one and it was perhaps the first suit to pack into a suitcase. Perhaps one of the few times I was ever envious of my older brothers as men was accompanying them with my father the first time they went to get fitted for a bespoke black tie at Henry Poole & Co - the Savile Row tailors that had been the regular choice of my grandfather and father for their clothing attire. Although both siblings later gravitated to other Savile Row bespoke tailors as they got older, that first Henry Poole black tie lasted them for a long time. The whole ritual around taking measurements took on a hushed sacred tone of a liturgy. Looking back it felt like a rite of passage for them as they passed from boyhood to adulthood.

The choice of wearing a tuxedo epitomises the desire - among people of means and social standing - to be fresh, clean and as attractive as possible when meeting on evening social events and attending high spirits affairs. This tradition was maintained also with the beginning of the use of the automobile, when there was no practical justification.

Before the Second World War, tuxedos and tails were still considered the only appropriate clothing for all the elegant social evenings. However, after the war, the traditional suit, or the work suit, began to be accepted more on informal evening and daytime occasions, and so the use of the tuxedo was limited to just formal evening gatherings only.

The tuxedo was completely remade in disco's image by the 1970s. A young, revolutionary generation looked at the conservative styling of the tuxedo and threw out nearly everything, keeping only the vague silhouette. Huge, floppy bow ties, colourful patterned jackets, shirts with ruffles and lace, and trousers that looked more like bell-bottoms became much more prevalent. The typical tuxedo in the '70s usually had at least two of these elements, if not all of them.

By the 1980s, a return to classic styling had thankfully re-emerged and tuxedos started looking more conservative.

By the late 2000s, as dress codes became diluted and misunderstood, formal-wear took another hit. Business-casual was the predominate dress code of the workplace and shiny black suits with matching ties had nearly supplanted traditional black-tie. Coloured dress shirts also began to trend in this era.  Those who continued to wear traditional black-tie made it as simple as possible to match the casual aesthetic that a new generation preferred.

These days I think more and more young men are adopting the black-tie styles of the '30s and '40s. Midnight blue tuxedos have even made a comeback. I think high quality period dramas like "Mad Men" are at least part of the reason for the shift, with men growing nostalgic for a bygone era of neater, more crisp look.  

People forget, as often as they do, that the original purpose of this elegant clothing was to replace the suit worn all day, allowing men to leave behind the dirt and smell of a day spent on horseback, not to bring it around the dining table.

These days the emphasis on informality has made it easier to make excuses for men (and women) to dress down to a street level of casual indifference (laziness) that I find aesthetically displeasing.

Moreover I find it a tad disrespectful to the sense of occasion and also an unkind ingratitude to the efforts made by the host or hostess in organising such an event. For those who think wearing black tie is a sign of social superiority, then respectfully they have not understood its true purpose. In following the dress code, it is in effect a sign of respect towards your fellow guests, as it has been put in place to ensure attendees are on the same level.

The origin of the tuxedo is a controversial subject of conversation in some circles. I know in the US it’s common to assume the tux was invented there but many have pointed out it was in England that its origins lie. Some fashion historians trace it back to the 17th Century as a tailless ‘smoking jacket’. In England during the 17th century, after dinner the gentlemen might put on a smoking jacket and retreat to a den or smoking room. Indeed in the beginning it was believed that the purpose of the ’smoking jacket’ ensured that their evening coat would not be burned by ashes nor absorb the smell of tobacco which the women found distasteful.

However these days there remain two theories about the first ever proper tuxedo that we would recognise today. In the first theory the tuxedo was invented by Pierre Lorillard IV of New York City according to one school of thought. Pierre Lorillard's family were wealthy tobacco magnates who owned country property in Tuxedo Park, just outside of New York City. At a formal ball, held at the Tuxedo Club in October 1886, the young Lorillard wore a new style of formal wear for men that he designed himself. He named his tailless black jacket the tuxedo after Tuxedo Park. The tuxedo caught on and became fashionable as formal wear for men.

The second theory, according to English clothing historian James Laver, has it that the idea of wearing black for evening wear was first introduced by the 19th Century British writer, Edward Bulwer-Lyttonn who wrote in 1828 that "people must be very distinguished to look well in black." It was only until later in the century that a village resident of Tuxedo Park, New York, James Brown Potter vacationed in England in the summer of 1886. Potter and his wife, Cora were introduced to the Prince of Wales {who later became King Edward VII} at a court ball in London. Potter asked the Prince for advice on formal dress. The Prince sent Potter to his own Saville Row tailor, Henry Poole & Co. Potter was fitted with a short black jacket and black tie that was unlike the formal tails with white tie that was worn in the United States for formal occasions.

The new tailless formal wear was said to have been designed by the Prince of Wales. It was Edward VII who in 1865 commissioned to his tailor Henry Poole to create a short blue evening jacket (midnight blue), to be used for informal evenings in his country estate of Sandringham. The Prince and his tailor drew inspiration from the British military uniforms of the time, which used short jackets with black ties.

This is where the two origins meet. James Brown Potter took the design back to the Tuxedo Club, where Pierre Lorillard modified it, named it, and made it popular during the Autumn ball. And so from that blessed bespoke collaboration between the Prince and Henry Poole & Co was born the ancestor of what everyone call today as tuxedos, the English ‘dinner jacket’ and the Americans ‘tuxedo’ - because of its original word spread starting from the homonymous village of Tuxedo Park.

Whatever the exact truth of its origin, black tie remains the evening attire par excellence. I’m flattered that anyone should ask me for style tips, especially regarding grooming and clothing for men.

I like to think that the true purpose of a man wearing black tie was to help the man show the humility to be an unassuming gentleman in effortlessly blending into the background so that his female companion could shine more by his side. A man in black tie was a gentleman who stood steadfastly there with an outstretched arm to make women feel more beautiful, but also to reassure them that all is right in the world.

If you get the opportunity to wear black tie then do please take it. The fact that you desire to wear one is already a great choice that makes you stand out from the loud bling-bling hoi polloi. But please don’t confuse wearing a black tie with snobbery. It isn’t, it’s just good manners. Manners maketh man as they say and so it’s not something one is born with but can only be learned. And don’t confuse fashion for style. The two are very different. Fashion is what you copy from others and style is what you express about yourself. Don’t conform to the passing fancies of the day (the loud, the garish, the attention seeking), or as Coco Chanel put it, ‘elegance is refusal’.

Always remember that style is a way to say who you are without having to speak.  

In theory, the elegance of the tuxedo stems from its simplicity - it’s an ultimate classic, the one outfit one doesn’t mess around with. In practice, many men find the rules governing this suit and its accoutrements to be annoyingly complex and complexly annoying.

My basic rule for men is ‘kiss’ - Keep It Simple, Stupid. 

Rule 1: Buy, don’t rent

It’s better if the black tie that you have is yours, and not rented. For one thing it’s a question of comfortability. You’ll be comfortable in your skin if you’re more comfortable in a suit that actually fits. Secondly, a rental doesn’t mean it’s good quality. The fabric is an important consideration.

In an ideal world you should get a bespoke tailored black tie made - ideally from any of the excellent tailors on Savile Row. But not all tailors are equal. Henry Poole & Co would be the traditional choice. I know for my older brothers they prefer Gieves & Hawkes and Huntsman because they have a more military draped cut, traditional but not stuffy.

In the long run it’s a once in a lifetime worthy investment if you take in consideration the cost of each potential rental along with how many times you would be wearing one throughout the coming years.

But I understand for many that may be an impossible proposition. The next best thing is to get a less expensive ‘made-to-measure’ black tie which is an increasing and welcome avenue for men to still have a suit or black tie made to fit them.

I would hesitate recommending buying off the peg because many high street brands have a rather relaxed attitude to tailoring and quality. If you must buy off the peg or rent then make sure the fabric is wool.

Rule 2: Black or Midnight blue and no other colour

Your black tie should be, to state the obvious, black. Not only is it the correct choice, it is the stylish choice. You can never go wrong with black. But if you’re feeling a tad adventurous go with Midnight blue. Midnight blue, being blacker than black, is not merely an exception to the rule but an exceptional choice for shimmering with distinction under the moonlight.

But what about white dinner jacket so beloved of James Bond or Indiana Jones? Yes, quite.

Traditionally, white was worn in place of a traditional black suit to deflect heat. This made it the perfect alternative for black-tie events that were held in the afternoon, during the Summer or at sea. The white jacket variation of black tie began was adopted in the early 1930s as a way for well-heeled vacationers to dress formally in the tropical heat without having to endure the heavy and dark-coloured fabrics that were standard for evening wear at the time. 

While dinner suits have become much more lightweight since then, the light-coloured jacket has remained a popular warm-weather alternative to its ebony progenitor. However, without a proper understanding of its form and function, the white dinner jacket easily becomes a flashy gimmick.  Subtlety and restraint are the keys to the successful execution of this classic variation.

Avoid other colours like the plague. I do notice from time to time in the shop windows here in Paris (as well as London and elsewhere) that some menswear boutiques display bright coloured dinner jackets.

Usually it’s the Italians (like Canali and Brunello Cucinelli who give in to their worst Italian impulses to show off their peacock flair) and others who really should know better (yes, the wine red velvet dinner jacket is very fetching but it belongs by log side fire, a cigar, and a cognac, so thank you Tom Ford). I even think some of them look nice and charming but it’s not black tie.

Besides a non-traditional black tie will be much more vulnerable to the whims of passing fashion where as traditional unfussy black tie can give peace of mind that it will never go out of style and thus will last longer.

Rule 3: Put yourself in a straight jacket

The first thing to decide is single or double-breasted and number of buttons. A safe and elegant option is one-button single breast which is both timeless and classical. Two buttons are fine, worn with the lower button undone. Double-breasted styles of any button configuration are also appropriate, but keep in mind that double-breasted jackets add some ‘bulk’ to the body. So take a hard look at your body type before you decide which one best flows off your shoulders. The buttons should be fabric-covered.

Hand in hand with the button style goes the lapel. The classic, formal option is peak lapel. Shawl lapel is somewhat less formal, but perfectly suitable. Shawl has become very popular, especially in slim versions. Notch lapels are frequently seen on off-the-rack tuxedos, but this is a more casual style, which should be reserved for suits. My preference would be to go for the peak lapel but make them sufficiently wide and not too slim.

The jacket was traditionally without vents, to keep seams (i.e. details) to a minimum, but double vents are also acceptable, providing comfort and movement. The pockets should be straight piped (slit without flap) and there should be a breast pocket.

Rule 4: Trousers, brace yourself

The trousers are ideally made without pleats or cuffs, with straight pockets following the side seam, in order to make them less visible. Black tie attire should never be worn with belts, so skip the belt loops. Traditionally one would use suspenders (braces) as it straightens the body shape as well as holds up the trousers. Choose black or white braces in fabric, rather than in leather, or in any case they should be matching the colour of the tuxedo. But I should note that side-fasteners are also a convenient option for some flexibility in the waist. The front closure should be clip-only, avoiding the button. Classically, the trousers will have a satin silk stripe covering the outer side seam on each leg, matching the lapel facing. This is a lovely detail, but nowadays sometimes considered old-fashioned. For this reason alone I would insist on it.

Rule 5: Don’t get shirty

The shirt should be plain white cotton, with a few distinct features. It should always have a ‘bib’ running down to front, which provides starchy stiffness (i.e. a higher level of formality). I’ve seen shirts in which vertical pleats in matching fabric are designed. I think they look plain and boring. Similarly if someone suggests to you a fly-front placket panel that covers the buttons and leaves a clean look then walk away immediately. Both these kind of shirts are for the lazy because they both want to avoid having to deal with those troublesome studs where the buttons would be.

I would advise always make sure your shirt has a starch like ‘bib’ that is attached made up of a textured pique fabric (pin dots), usually called Marcella. They look so much more elegant and classy.

Many would say that collar can be a normal Kent variety or a wing collar, which has little points turned down where the collar wings would be, but otherwise exposing the collar band. I personally think a wing collar is subject to whims of fashion and something best left in a 1920s set movie. Some can wear them very well (see Paul Newman in The Sting) but it depends on the girth of your neck. I think the wing collar can portray a man’s neck in an unflattering way.

I think the normal Kent collar is cleaner and classical, and it will never go out of style. The Duke of Windsor made the Kent collar hugely popular in his prime.

The cuffs should be double (French cuff), to accommodate cufflinks.

Many people also forego the buttons on evening shirts, instead leaving holes where you can attach studs (often matched with the cufflinks). If you are going to do that make sure that they’re mother of pearl studs.

Rule 6: Accessories are in the details

The shirt should not be visible at the waist, which calls for a something covering the gap between trousers and jacket, unless you opted for a double-breasted jacket. Traditionally, this is non-negotiable, but these days you often see people wearing no waist covering. My advice is unless you’re wearing a double breasted black tie (for which there is no need to wear a cummerbund) then always wear a cummerbund with a single breasted black tie.

You either use a cummerbund matching the bow tie (a cummerbund folds upwards, for convenient opera ticket storage) or a waistcoat. Please don’t commit the faux pas of making your cummerbund a colour other than black. Often people match their bow ties to their cummerbunds in garish bright colours which just defeats the object of why one wears black tie in the first place.

For the waistcoat, there are a few style options. Often, black tie waistcoats will have a rounded (horseshoe) cut with shawl lapels but a regular cut waistcoat is also acceptable. The key is to go simple and match the jacket fabric, facing and buttons. The back can be wool or lining, where we’d recommend the latter, to make the ensemble cooler. A stylish fob watch with chain would be a nice little detail that one can drop without telegraphing it loudly.

Consider having a white silk pocket square. You can fold it any way you like, but the so-called straight presidential fold is simple and sharp looking.

Socks must be knee length. Make them black. Again, the principle is one of clean lines and elegance. Disruptions below the trouser leg - stripes, shins, whatever - threaten to ruin the whole effect.

Shoes. Your shoes must always shine. This is one detail many men neglect. The shoes should be black patent leather. My preference would be for high quality Oxfords. I know some purists would insist that only opera pumps walk the one true path, but it is obvious on its face that those precious ribboned things, also called court shoes, are not completely in step with modern life. I know too that bit-toe loafers (thank you Tom Ford) are also more of the modern rage but I find them a little effeminate. So while I don’t see it as a style concession I do think Oxfords shined to a high sheen is the modern and best choice I would opt for a gentleman to go for. To me being comfortable in your shoes is also an equal and valid consideration.

Cufflinks and studs should be simple and classic, luxury metals and mother-of-pearl or onyx insets are nice touches. I know some punt for more personalised cuff links - like their regimental or college or some other institutional affiliation - and there is nothing wrong with that but I am on the fence about this. Generally I would leave that for your day time business suits. Showing off defeats the ethos of wearing the black tie in the first place. 

Rule 7: ‘Sprezzatura’ up your bow tie

‘Sprezzatura’ is a gorgeous Italian word - first appearing in Baldassare Castiglione's The Book of the Courtier in 1528 - that means a disheveled elegance by way of studied carelessness. This perfectly sums up how one should wear the centre piece of the black tie - the bow tie.

Don’t be taken in by the very modern fad - thank you Hollywood and modern music pop stars - of wearing long neck ties (even if they are in black) as part of your black tie attire. Just don’t. It doesn’t matter how swish you may look you still are a prat for not dressing in real black tie.

Plain black silk and entirely self-tied. That’s a real bow tie.

Anyone and his dog can always identify a pre-tied bow tie by the fact that it's just a little too studied. Perfectly straight, perfectly symmetrical, and perfectly balanced. Just like plastic surgery, clip-on bow ties just look too perfect to be real. It is one of the most obvious signs that you're a style amateur.

Avoid pre-tied bow ties (and its ugly sibling the stick-on bow tie) like the plague....unless you’re a child who is unable to tie his own bow tie. But what if you don’t know how to tie a real bow tie? It’s never too late to learn. It’s the same level of difficulty as tying your shoes. If you don’t know ask someone who does know. If you’re buying a bespoke tailored black tie the tailor would most definitely show you how to do it. Easy peasy.

Remember bow ties are supposed to be imperfect and worn. That’s what makes the wearer authentic.

Perfect symmetry is not a goal worth pursuing here. Being an elegant gentleman is.

And that’s it. Those would be my informal rules for any man wanting to be a gentleman wearing black tie for a special occasion.

Thanks for your question.

[catbountry]

Glancing over some of my older essays on politics, I’m kind of struck how, despite them not being written that long ago, I feel like I come across as a dumbass, or at least like somebody who thinks they’re much smarter than they actually are. And it’s weird, because most of my views are roughly the same; rather, it’s that I feel the way that they’re articulated comes across as too... I don’t know, smarmy? Smug, maybe? Lacking nuance. Blunt. Like I’m talking down to people. Obviously, this was never my intention, but it’s weird how something that was written while in my early 30′s somehow makes me wince a little... as I rapidly approach being smack-dab in the middle of my 30′s. God, I’ve been in my 30′s for almost 5 whole years now, fuck, where does the time go?

I think being able to come out of the other side of the Trump presidency in one piece has kind of helped add some much-needed perspective, at least for myself. I think the hypothesis that a lot of people who voted for Trump were desperate for some kind of change was proven correct when he failed to be re-elected due to his bungling of COVID, which, funnily (or not) enough, he almost could have looked like he was doing the right thing when he initially wanted to close the U.S. borders... except he’d been trying to restrict travel and close borders so often that of course nobody took such a suggestion seriously. And even if they had? Rich people still would have brought it over, because as we all know, rich people can just get away with all kinds of shit. Of course, once it actually hit, Trump really couldn’t handle the idea of looking weak at all, so instead, it was downplayed, joked about, not taken seriously, even though he’d been briefed that it was going to be really, really bad. And when he got it, and in private thought he was going to die? Well, once he beat it, of course he had to say it wasn’t so bad... even though it killed almost a thousand times more people than the 9/11 terrorist attacks. Most of them were seniors. I think that, as well as a general fatigue and disappointment over the lack of swamp-draining from those who weren’t fanatical devotees, probably sealed his fate. I admit, I wasn’t very sure Biden really had much of a chance for a long time... until COVID happened. But hey, at least we got our stimmy from Trump, right lads?

I’m still fully convinced that Trump never intended to win, and that his run was done purely for ego and financial gain, but his ability to effortlessly bait the media, as well as his unexpected exposing of the sham we all knew presidential elections to be, wound up rocketing him to success. Trump will no doubt go down as one of the most successful conmen in American history, one so slick he wound up conning his way all the way into the White House. The whole thing was like if The Producers was a presidential campaign, fascism included. Granted, I don’t think Trump was ever a true fascist; I think he wanted to be a dictator, but the actual job of being President was a drag. The cult of personality he accrued, however, was the biggest source of narcissistic supply that he’d ever experienced in his entire life. Hell, just being the literal President, the most important person in the entire fucking world, is a hell of a high that I don’t think he’ll ever really be able to reclaim. Trump’s going to be chasing that dragon for the rest of his life. Having “President” in front of your name is a lot nicer than actually, you know, having to be the President. I mean, look at how quickly Obama went gray. A lot of people are convinced Trump will run again in 2024, and I don’t doubt it, but unless something happens that completely throws us for a loop, I don’t see him being able to recreate the, er, “magic” of 2016. Everyone getting to see that, not only was his fanbase capable of having embarrassing public meltdowns just like the le epic triggered snowflake lib Hilary supporters, but that their meltdowns were even more embarrassing, and that they all looked like a bunch of fucking English soccer hooligans during the Capitol siege... well, I think that’s going to put off the swing voters, as well as the moderate Republicans.

Also, that Twitter knock-off founded by Trump’s aide, Gettr, being flooded by gay furries posting Sonic the Hedgehog foot porn? Feels like classic 4chan-style raiding. I approve. It almost feels like we’re healing, even if it’s just a little bit.

But what the fuck did we even learn from all this? What did I learn from this?

I don’t know. It feels like over the time I’ve been on Tumblr, what was once SJW became woke, and being woke has become very normal; so normal, in fact, that fucking massive corporations that use slave labor overseas will change their Twitter icons to rainbow every June because The Gays have become a safe, marketable demographic. On one hand, it’s nice to know that, at least in what I guess is considered the western world, LGBT people are more accepted now than they ever have been. On the other... god, it feels so cynical, doesn’t it? This is all very stream of consciousness, here. I don’t write very much on here since, surprise surprise, Tumblr’s been kind of dead since the porn ban. I still see people post, but it used to be that I couldn’t refresh my dash without seeing dozens of new posts. Now it feels like I refresh my dash and I’d be lucky to see a new post there an hour later. This is why I’m on Discord more. It feels like I have more productive conversations than I ever could on Tumblr or Twitter. Twitter is just... god. It’s like all the worst parts of Tumblr without the parts that made it fun aside from a few memes.

Sorry, I got off track there. The point I was going to make before is that, while I am still very firmly anti-censorship, I’ve managed to put myself in a position where it no longer feels like the stakes are so high. I can relax. I don’t have to feel like I’m on the defense the whole time as somebody grills me over some slip-up. I don’t use Twitter that much. When I do post something in response to somebody, I feel like I instantly regret it. I posted in response to some dumbass spreading a rumor that 4chan’s favorite Simpson’s meme about Sneed’s Feed and Seed is secretly ableist, and I got a response from some dude with an Umaru-chan avatar telling me how he’s proudly racist because he and his friends call each other slurs? Like bro, you’re posting cringe, you’re going to lose subscriber-

I don’t know what I’ve learned yet. Maybe that social media sucks and that chatrooms with friends are the superior way to communicate online. I tried out Telnet recently to go into some random IRC, that was neat. It just feels nice to not have to get into a fucking argument every fucking day over shit that doesn’t matter as much as people thinks it does, to not have to hear about every fucking time the President sneezes or farts. It’s not that there’s no longer anything to worry about; there is. I’d really like to see fellow lefties go after the handful of massive corporations that control the majority of the online experience, who censor not just all the racist white dude grifters in suits who all look suspiciously similar to one another, but us as well. I want to see us raise a bigger stink about the web being santized, sterlized, and gentrified to be friendlier to corporations who only want your precious data and eyeballs. Maybe without the constant distraction of Bad Orange Man, we could make that happen. Maybe.

Or maybe fucking Dream will breathe again and all the fucking children will piss their pants and clog up Twitter, fuck these kids, get off my internet, GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT REEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

[desertwiind]

ORIGINS & FAMILY:

Full Name: Zeferino Tomás Ayala Díaz

Reason for name: named after a great uncle who died before Zef was born, Zeferino Tomás Ayala Pacheco

Nickname(s): Zef; Zefi; Zefa; Zefe; Z; Zefito

Date of Birth: 3 March 1991

Age: 30

Gender + Pronouns: cis male, he/him

Place of birth: Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, USA

Parents: Esperanza Díaz Ayala (mother); Osvaldo Ayala Velázquez (father)

Siblings: Luz Ayala Díaz, sister, 35

Relationship with family (close? estranged?): pretty close with a good amount of family, including large extended family. best friends with sister

Pets: none, though he’s interested in adopting a rescue

PHYSICAL:

Height: 5′9″/175cm

Build: athletic, muscular

Nationality: American

Ethnicity: Mexican, Puerto Rican, Spanish

Distinguishing Facial Features: long eye lashes; mole on right cheekbone; strong dark eyebrows that droop downward on the outside like his eyes; cleft chin

Hair Color: dark brown

Usual Hair Style: kept short on the sides, just a little longer on top

Eye Color: olive green

Complexion (freckles, acne, skin tone, birthmarks, scars): olive skin that is quick to tan; mole on right cheekbone; oily skin that is prone to acne although he is diligent with skincare

Disabilities (physical or mental, including mental illnesses): attention deficit disorder; panic disorder; possible obsessive compulsive disorder

What do they consider their best feature?: eyes; butt

Worst they’ve ever been injured (what, how did it happen)?: Broke his right wrist jumping out of a tree in high school. Re-broke that same wrist at 21 when he fell out of a boat whilst drunk.

APPEARANCE:

Favorite outfit: go-to is a short sleeve button-down, with half the buttons undone, and jeans or shorts

Glasses? Contacts?: contacts; glasses while lounging at home

Personal Hygiene: possibly excessive in his cleanliness

Jewelry? Tattoos? Piercings?: often wears an analog watch; occasional chain necklace and an old ring on his right hand

What does their voice sound like?: clear, animated, easily betrays emotion, a little higher in pitch than you might expect, excitable

Style of speech (loud, mumbler, articulate, etc.): articulate, sometimes fast in social settings; often quieter in one-on-one social situations to save his voice for TV 

Accent?: “midwestern”–no real discernable accent most of the time, though sometimes leans Texan

Unique mannerisms/physical habits: when he’s nervous, he rubs the second knuckle on his left middle finger; runs his hands through his hair a lot

Left handed or right?: effectively ambidextrous; he was originally right-handed but he's broken his right wrist twice within a few years, so he learned how to do tasks left-handed. he now no longer has a preferred dominant side.

Do they work out/exercise?: yes, frequently

BELIEFS & INTELLECT:

Known Languages: English; Spanish

Zodiac: pisces, though he does not subscribe to this belief

Gifts/talents: Solving Rubik’s cubs quickly; rollerblading backwards; multitasking effortlessly; advanced calculus; lovely singing voice

Religious stance: presently anti-theist and humanist; raised Catholic

Political stance: far left

Pet peeves: people pretending to listen; his last name being mispronounced (especially if he’s already corrected once); shoes being worn in the house

Optimist or pessimist: pragmatist, leaning pessimistic

Extrovert or introvert: Extrovert

INTIMACY & RELATIONSHPS:

Relationship status: single, though he does have eyes for someone

Sexual orientation: homoromantic, demisexual

Ideal mate/qualities they look for in mate: funny, passionate, affectionate, curious

Ever been in love?: no

What’s their love language?: words of affirmation; quality time; physical touch

Most important person in their life?: sister, Luz; and paternal grandmother

VOCATION:

Level of education: bachelor’s degree

Profession: broadcast meteorologist 

Past occupations: waiter; Target associate

Dream occupation: meteorologist on The Weather Channel; or host/presenter of his own show on The Weather Channel or The Science Channel

Passions: astronomy; climatology; music

Attitude towards current job: he loves the job itself but desires a larger audience

Spender or Saver? Why?: saver–grew up with tight money

Which is more important – money or doing something they love?: ¿por qué no los dos?

SECRETS:

Phobias: claustrophobia; autophobia; atychiphobia 

Life goals: fall in love and get married and be happy

Greatest fears: being alone forever

Most embarrassing thing ever to happen to him/her: thought a guy was going in for a kiss, when it was just supposed to be an awkward hug

Something they’ve never told anyone: he doesn’t know if he’s worthy of love, because he feels selfish and like a liar, and that he’s fucked himself up too much to be any good in a meaningful relationship

Biggest regret: denying his sexuality for so long

Compulsions: long-winded rants with no real point

Police/Criminal/Legal record: a few speeding tickets here and there

Vices: indecision; extensive daydreaming

PREFERENCES:

Hobbies: playing guitar; singing; cooking; tornado chasing

Favorite color: sea green; tyrian purple; peacock blue; verdigris; coral pink

Favorite smell: ocean air; sunscreen; pomegranate; cinnamon sugar

Favorite food: tamales; carnitas

Favorite book: he can’t remember the last time he actually sat down and enjoyed reading

Favorite movie:  he can’t remember the last time he actually sat down and enjoyed watching a movie all the way through

Favorite song: it changes, but currently “If You’re Too Shy (Let Me Know)” by the 1975

Coffee or tea?: neither–caffeine is a very bad idea. the most he’ll do is hot tea with honey and lemon juice for his voice, but the tea must be uncaffeinated

Favorite type of weather: sunny, clear, 75-80 degrees

Most prized possession: his weather prophet; a ring belonging to his maternal grandfather

Most used word or phrase?: pero like

@rocketfm ​

[nighttimepixels]

Night.... I am weak for Dusk and Dawn, I love them oh so very much,, they cater right to my weak little gay heart. Do you,,, mayhaps,,,, have anything vaguely romantic about Dawn?? Or like, if you haven't talked about it already, what would happen if she wound up being dragged into the girls' timeline by the machine?? Your work is absolutely fantastic, I hope you know!! You make my gay little heart go bADUMP

Oh man, this is a trickier one... because the answer is yes, absolutely, I have that sort of thing - buuut it’ll also involve revealing something about Dawn that is a ‘development’... hmm...

Ah well, I can’t count on getting to include them in the lilytale fic proper, so...

:)c

See... Dawn did come through via the machine the same time Dusk did.

Full-size.

(the rest below the cut <3)

But you see - Dawn’s on a different level these days. As was touched on here, she absorbed two human souls - she’s her, but also more than just her. She’d effectively become a sentinel for her and Dusk’s Snowdin Forest. It had become wild and overgrown, truly a massive fantasy forest, big enough for even her to not quite reach the tops of all the trees... Magic ran wild there, and things were so terribly different, so instinctual and nigh-feral.

... When the machine activated, when she was dragged through... it knocked her out. And when she came to, on her back in a mountain forest, on rather than in a mountain...

She was staring at the wide open sky.

She laid there, for a long time. Staring. Part of her was registering, vaguely, that she wasn’t... underground. Something had happened. But she wasn’t all there, wasn’t all-conscious, either-

-and without the impending threat of their Dyne’s dangerous magic, without the dangerous Intent of monsters seeking to harm her and more importantly those she cared about -

... she basically... stopped moving.

It was kind of like going into a hibernation mode- and thankfully, luck against luck, she was dropped in the mountain range between where the lilytale crew had settled, and where the guys were - sort of averaging the distance - and leaving her in a place that was far too difficult to get to, far from any humans or trails or anything else.

She just laid there, staring at the sky, regardless of the weather, feeling... wrong, but right.

... It takes the girls nearly half a year to find her.

Theoretically, they’d figured at the start their usual magic-tracking for other versions of themselves they’d developed should have blipped if she was out there - but eventually, they began to speculate that might not be the case, thanks to the souls she’d absorbed... Long story short, after a lot of hashing things out, a lot of hikes and patrols later, it was actually one of Alpha’s drones that found her.

...

I’ll skip over the intermediary for now, but let’s just say it’s a heartbreaking ordeal - Dawn doesn’t... Dawn didn’t react, not really... not until they were finally able to get Dusk out there. She was the only one that managed to get Dawn to stir beyond the slightest adjustments. But it was dangerous to move her - she’s some 30 feet tall, after all. In the end, they built a basic cabin there, at the edge of Dawn’s clearing, where Dusk refused to leave and abandon her sister again - and so at least one of the lilytale crew was always with her, too, keeping her company...

and so were you.

Let’s just say there were a lot of protests- and you were frequently picked up and brought home for at least a day once a week - but you weren’t taking no for an answer, wanting to help for at least a bit. After all Dusk had done to try and look out for you after you’d freed her from her bear trap and you’d both been badly injured... you wanted to help. And to help Dusk re-learn English, too, if she wanted.

And, to further simplify things... by the end of the month, you’d noticed a few things - not only was Dawn reacting more to more varied input...

She was also... a little smaller. Just a little, but...

And so, armed with this reassuring hope and potential - the crew congregating and theorizing that perhaps, perhaps Dawn’s body was adjusting to the needs of her environment... or rather, the reduced needs. Slowly but surely, you were able to help Dusk come back to proper life. By the end of the season, a few months later, she still hadn’t said a word, but she appeared to be paying attention to whoever was interacting with her. She’d even interact, depending on the situation - 

-and rather than be 30 feet tall, she was 20 feet.

Still enormous, of course, but it was far more manageable. After a lot of agonizing and strategizing the girls figured out how to transport her safely and discretely back to their house on their own mountainside.

In the end, Dawn only shrunk a few more feet, and she kept her general stature, tail and antlers and all - but she was somewhere in the 16 or 17 foot range, at least, and she wasn’t just paying attention - she was outright attentive. She still didn’t talk, but she also didn’t make much sound at all - you’re not sure if it’s an ability she lost, or it’s just yet another matter of time and readjustment and slow, patient work... but she’s her. A new her, to be sure, but... she does more than watch, and she even seems to have quite the abstract but undeniable sense of humor - even if catching her smiling is a rare treat.

===

Dawn’s favorite time of the week is the night you spend in or around Blade and Twist’s cottage. It’s partially her and Dusk’s, now, too; but they’ve got their own side cottage - if it can be called that. Dusk is even bigger than Blade after all, and Dawn, though nearly half the size she once was, is still a mark above even Twist. The main living area was adjusted to allow Dusk and Dawn to come and spend communal time there, but they sleep in a separate, new dome that Dusk built with Dawn’s help.

See, sometimes on those once-a-week nights you stay in Blade and Twist’s cottage - often in the communal space, so theoretically they could all be there - and well, instead, sometimes you came to their little dome.

It’s just one big room, lined with some plants, some shiny things, countless carvings, lots of soft furs... and with a massive sky-window that started two-thirds of the way up. Dawn honestly didn’t mind sleeping outside, or being in the elements, but she rather liked the way you liked feeling safe in there - in their space. Dusk liked the same thing too, Dawn knew - but sometimes Dusk’s marrow was too restless, too full of awareness of a danger now many universes away that she nonetheless felt the urge to patrol against. Or perhaps, she was just trying to outwalk the ghosts of their mutual past... regardless, when that happened, and you were already asleep in the massive sleeping space in the room that she and Dawn shared... it was just you - you, and Dawn.

Dawn liked that.

She liked the way you would sigh a little in your sleep, soft lips pouting as you turned over, subconsciously aware that one of the enormous bodies that had been a source of heat and safety wasn’t there. You would always turn over in your sleep, hand seeking...

And Dawn would get to lower her hand - practically the size of your torso - and effortlessly scoop you closer to her lap. She would always put extra blankets there - enticement for your soft, small form to seek comfort her bones couldn’t always provide -

-and the way you’d just... immediately settle, that cute furrow in your brow smoothing out as you nuzzled into her form, looking so safe and content in your most vulnerable state...

...

... she always liked to trace a phalange against your skin, feather light, far more controlled than she used to be able to manage. In a gentle sweep, she brush the hair that tickled your face, catching your eyes in the moonlight streaming in from the windowed top of the dome.

...

... and if you were too deeply resting to notice when your sentinel might bow down and shadow your form for a few moments, glowing sockets going dark as she closed her sockets and brushed a gentle kiss to your forehead while lifting you closer for a stolen moment if need allowed...

... well.

With any luck, you’d forgive her as readily as you’d helped her sister bring her back to her own mind.

[live-infographic]

30 Ways to Learn English Effortlessly via @ http://www.liveinfographic.com/ QueryFloor, April 11, 2019 at 06:35PM