#Coffee House Writers Magazine

[ivors20]

The Road East, is in this week’s Coffee House Writers Magazine edition.

Hello dear readers and followers, I am a writer for “Coffee House Writers magazine” (USA), on a fortnightly basis, and my poem “The Road East”, is in this week’s edition of Coffee House Writers Magazine. …To Read my poem, please click on the link below to visit the article, at Coffee House Writers Magazine.>> https://coffeehousewriters.com/the-road-east/ All Books. Now Available At:Creative…

[anne-bsd-bibliophile]

The Beggar Student by Dazai Osamu

"I could feel the hands of fate upon me. I'd been caught. In his heart of hearts, the student is a thirty-two-year-old drunken poet."

"Not even the wisest reader knows the anguish of the writer who has sent a truly awful piece of writing to a magazine in order to survive. Here goes nothing, I told myself, pushing that heavy envelope into the mailbox. It hit the bottom with a thunk. And that was that. Another crummy story. On the surface, it pretends to be a mirror to my soul, although I know as well as anyone the slimy worms of compromise are wriggling in the muck at the bottom. It's a work in which the work is far from done. ... It makes me so ashamed I want to scream and run around in circles. I promise you, it's terrible. A lousy piece of trash. I have no right to call myself a writer. Such is my ignorance. No insights to impart. No illuminating views."

"I wish I could just cut my belly open and let all of the words come spilling out. No matter if it's gibberish, as long as it's my flesh and blood doing the talking."

"My work will disgrace bookstore windows all across the land. Critics will sneer; readers will give up. That hack writer has outdone himself again, they'll say, setting a low bar for writers everywhere. Tough to beat."

"I'll have you know, I may look like an ass, but I'm not a total moron, and when I say I lack conviction, I only mean it relative to my own high standards."

"You ought to try this out sometime, dear reader. Sit yourself down on the sofa of a coffee shop or bar, facing the fireplace beside the madam of the house, so that both of you are staring at the flames, and talk as if you're speaking to the fire - I promise, up against even the dullest mind, you'll be able to sustain a lively conversation for hour after hour. But take heed, reader: you must not look into each other's eyes, not even once."

"I couldn't shut up if I tried. The only way I can stand being alive is if I'm playing the buffoon."

"One might call reason the glue that holds society together. In that sense, the order we enjoy is artificial, but we need this artifice if we want to go on living."

"Even if I feel bad for a person, I'm certain of the cold hard fact that I can't do anything for them, which leaves me feeling even worse."

"Growing up, I found the name incredibly embarrassing, so despite being a string bean, I've been publishing as Osamu Dazai, a name that makes me sound like a street fighter who might break your neck."

"...This guy's a good person. Not egotistical like you." "Hold on," I said, bristling at being labeled a good person. "I'm plenty egotistical..."

"When something pushes me over the brink of fear, I have a nasty tendency to begin laughing like an idiot. A disturbing, wild laugh. I lose control, can't hold it in. An expression not of brazenness, but extreme cowardice that takes me to the limits of delirium."

"Truth is that grownups are the same as kids, except a little worse for wear. Kids ask a lot from grownups, but grownups ask at least as much from kids. It's a real mess. But it's the truth. We count on you to hold it all together. ...To put it gently, we're always one step away from being overwhelmed. To put it harshly, we're all babies who cant' take a word of criticism."

"Next time life gets you down, curl up in a blanket in your rented room and open a good book."

[librarycards]

I love your recommendations, you find a lot of good books I've never heard about!. Where do you learn about books?

great question, and ty! as a writer, I get 'sneak peeks' into a lot of newish books via blurb/review requests, as well as my relationship with independent presses and magazines. but it's pretty easy for the average reader to keep abreast of cool new books by signing up for press newsletters/checking their sites - some worth following are featherproof (my press!), Tin House, Feminist Press, Kernpunkt, McSweeney's, Split/Lip [I'm a first reader for them!], Coffee House, Fitzcarraldo Editions, Ugly Duckling Presse, AK Press, Arsenal Pulp, 11:11 Press, Sarabande Books, Black Lawrence...I could go on, but I'll spare you. But yeah, sign up for these folks' newsletters!

Also, speaking of newsletters, I get emails from a bunch of outlets that talk about books and/or review them and interview authors. Some that I recommend are LitHub, Electric Lit, Split Lip Magazine, Book Riot (hit or miss, but worth at least peeking at), Barrelhouse, Book.Marks, and Tor/Reactor.

I'm also active on Goodreads, where I friend/follow people whose recommendations I trust. (Feel free to add/follow me!) I also have tons of writing/reading/small press friends I share book recs with, and I go recreationally browsing at indie stores whose curation I trust. If you ever want a rec, go to your local indie and ask what they've been reading!!!

tl;dr get your recs from a variety of sources, keep track of what you like and dislike, make bookish friends, and sometimes try something new!

[jazzthatonewriterchick]

Prove Your Worth to Me (Brat-tamer!CEO!Nanami x Bratty!Black!Fem!Reader 18+ One Shot)

“If you wish to leave, you can, but if you stay, you need to prove to me your worth. I’m not a man who gives things out so easily.” 

Pairing: Nanami Kento x Black!Fem!Reader

Synopsis: In which you apply for a sectorial job, but the interview process is a lot more intense than you bargained for. 

Warnings: Smutty Smut; 18+ (MINORS GTFO); Dom!Nanami; sub!Reader; Black-coded!Reader (but anyone can still read this); Dubcon; Coercion; Brat-taming; Mild BDSM; Bondage; Degradation & Praise; Semi-Clothed Sex; Deepthroating; Hair-Pulling; Spitting; Mutual Oral; Doggystyle Over the Desk; Nanami Talks on the Phone While He F*cks You; Edge Play; Namecalling; Unprotected Creampie; Facial; PLOT TWIST

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters mentioned in this fic. However, as this is my writing, I do not give permission for my work to be reposted on any other sites that are not from my own accounts. Thank you!

Writer’s Note: This is how I'm coping. Rest in peace, Kento. You were the best man & the best baby daddy ever. Imma come & help you build that house on the beach -Jazz 💋💋

********

You sit in the waiting room in the pristine office, your fingers clutching your bag to stop your hands from shaking. 

You're so nervous. Job interviews always seem to do damage to your nerves and confidence, even though you’ve done them many, many times before. 

‘This is no different,’ you think to yourself, practicing the mantra you’ve had in your head for a week preparing for this interview. ‘It’s just an interview. He’s just a person. You are confident, intelligent, and a boss ass bitch, whether you get this job or not.’ 

But fuck, you hope you get it. It’s a really good position: a secretarial/assistant position for Kento Nanami, the CEO of Nanami Enterprises which specializes in human resources, charitable work, and citywide issues. Mr. Nanami is well-known throughout Japan as an entrepreneur and a very generous man, rich in intelligence and skills as well as money.

Seriously, the man is loaded. He is in every magazine, including Forbes, and has traveled all across the world closing business deals. 

He is also extremely handsome. You’ve seen his face many times in the media with his sharp jaw, intense eyes, and neatly-cut blonde hair. You’ve heard he is taller in person (and bigger at that). You’ve seen him at press conferences and dinner parties, photographed in his expensive suits or even coming off of a private jet in his sunglasses, a permanent, stoic expression on his face. You’ve wondered many times what he looks like out of his designer clothes as any woman would to an attractive man. 

But now that you’re about to meet him, all of this hits you much differently. Now that you’re sitting here in his pristine waiting room with its coffee machines and packaged snacks for clients and hearing the buzz of work activity–phones ringing; heels clicking across the floor, etc.–makes your heart scatter in your chest. Your palms sweat so frequently that you have to wipe them off on your pencil skirt every five minutes. You don’t know if you can handle any of this. 

And you hate feeling this way. You know how good you are with job interviews. Every one you’ve sat for after applying, you’ve received. You take pride in the way you’re perceived, especially when it comes to appearance. Though your interview is at 10am today, you woke up at damn near the ass crack of dawn and primped yourself. You ironed your outfit, choosing a cream-colored blouse that you tucked into your pencil skirt, nylon stockings, and heels. You curled your hair. You spritzed on sweet-smelling perfume. You even planned your makeup look several days beforehand which has been executed well. 

You look good…but you don't feel good. How are you possibly supposed to nail this interview if you can’t even stop your hands from shaking? “Stop it,” you hiss to yourself, glad that you’re the only one in the waiting room. “You will get this job. You deserve this job.” 

And it sounds like a good job position. Like, one that any person would strive to possess in this materialistic world where capitalism rules the earth. You found it on Glassdoor and as soon as you read the description and qualifications (a college degree, certain skills, attitude, etc.), you applied.

As a secretary working here, you would be working closely with Nanami as his personal assistant to help him take care of his work and anything he doesn’t have a chance to get to, such as scheduling appointments and meetings for him, and attending them in some cases, making and taking calls, and other office and secretarial work. The pay is much better than your current job that you desperately want to leave.

You’re tired of working underneath an asshole who only cares about his money and could give less of a shit about his employees or their issues. 

Were you expecting Maki, one of Nanami’s assistants, to reach out to you? Definitely not. But here you are, sitting primped, polished, and positively terrified two weeks later after receiving that joyous email for an interview. You just hope you can hold onto your wits and– 

“Ms. L/N?” You startle at the sound of your last name and look up into the eyes of Maki from behind her glasses. She stands at the threshold of the waiting room in a black turtleneck and slacks that hug her toned frame. You can already tell she has every man in here simping for her. “Mr. Nanami is ready for you now,” she says. Though she doesn’t smile, her tone is warm. “I have to deliver something, so one of his other assistants will walk you to his office.” 

“T-Thank you,” you say, cringing slightly at your stutter. If Maki notices, she doesn’t act as if she does and doesn’t mention it. She leads you halfway across the hallway to introduce you to Mai, a shorter version of Maki with no glasses, short hair, and wearing a low-cut red blouse that probably would drive any guy crazy. “Gosh, you are gorgeous!” She gushes as soon as she sees you. “And your hair looks fabulous. You’d definitely turn heads here.” 

You smile bashfully while Maki rolls her eyes. “Can you please just take her to Nanami’s office for her interview?” she sighs. “You know he hates lateness.” She gives you a nod then, her eyes kind despite how intense they seem. “Good luck, Ms. L/N,” she says before heading off to do her work, her hips swaying in her slacks. 

“She’s something, isn’t she?” Mai giggles as she presses a button to one of the elevators next to you. “That’s my sister. She’s always that sweet and bubbly.” She gives you a wink. You giggle to yourself, deciding you like both of them and you wonder what the rest of the team here is like. 

Mai presses the elevator button to the upper floor and leads you inside the damning doors that automatically shut once you are both inside. Silence swells around the tiny box and you can hear your heart pumping madly in your head. You see Mai look at you out of your peripheral version. “Nervous?” she asks. You give her a sheepish smile. “Does it show?” you chuckle. 

“He really isn’t a tough guy,” Mai says, contrary to what you think. “He just likes everything to be perfect and detailed, right down to the T. Judging by your resume, I think you’re fit for the job!” She gives you a bright, comforting smile that is impossible to ignore or not feel. You thank her for the compliment, feeling somewhat better. One the elevator doors open on the floor, she walks you down the pristine hallway with marble walls and grey carpeting until you come to two oak double doors. 

Mai smiles at you despite you wanting to book it. “Right this way,” she says, motioning to the door. “This is his office right here.” She knocks for you three times, loud and clear. “Come in,” a deep, clear voice calls out. It sends shivers down your spine. Maki opens the door then and it’s like the gates of Hell opening for you. 

You are met with a gorgeous, spacious office that is fit for a CEO. On one side is a lounging space with a flat-screened TV, black leathered seats, and a bookcase filled with books of all genres and kinds. On the other is a kitchenette with all stainless steel appliances, including a fridge, freezer, microwave, dishwasher and dryer, and a mini bar where a bottle of scotch and a wine rack sit. In the middle sits a wide, polished, oak desk with a large glass window overlooking the city where a man sits behind his laptop and a mug of coffee. 

A very handsome man at that. His jaw is sharp, his face slim, not a stitch of facial hair anywhere on his face. His blonde hair is combed and styled perfectly almost if he purposely styled each strand. When he looks up, you’re taken aback by not only his looks but the aura he gives off. It is powerful and intimidating despite his calm and cool demeanor. It’s only intensified by the gray suit jacket he wears over a crisp blue button-up shirt that he’s paired with matching slacks, red bottom shoes, and a yellow, leopard-printed tie. You nearly giggle at the way the tie stands out against the rest of his outfit, giving him a hint of personality. 

When his green eyes meet yours from across the room, you feel all of the air in your body leave you. A current of electricity courses from your body to his, making the room feel tense despite the coolness of the office. He gives you a stoic expression as if he is irritated that he was interrupted. “Your 10 o’clock is here, sir!” Mai brightly announces. “For Y/N L/N?” 

Nanami’s eyebrows raise slightly. “Ah, yes,” he replies. He stands from his desk, giving you a chance to see how tall he is. The man is nearly six foot! You swear that you nearly fall out right there. “My interview. Thank you, Mai, that will be all.” 

Mai respectfully bows before turning on her heel to face you. “Good luck,” she whispers with a wink before closing the door behind you. Then it’s just you and him. You stand near the door while Nanami comes around the front of the desk, still keeping that same cool, blank expression. You feel like a deer who is being sized up for dinner by a lion. “So you’re here,” he says. “And only two minutes late.” 

You feel embarrassment flood you, making you hot all over you. You know he’s testing you, trying to make you break right off the bat…but you won’t let him. You clear your throat and meet him halfway, putting your hand out for a shake. “Mr. Nanami,” you calmly say. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I arrived here ten minutes early than my scheduled time, but one of your assistants had to leave me for work duties.” You give him a smile as the cherry on top. ‘See? I’m good.’

Nanami’s eyebrows raise slightly, obviously impressed by your quick-wittedness and ability to read the room. “Not bad,” he praises you. “The pleasure is all mine, Ms. L/N.” His larger hand meets yours, giving you a chance to feel his calloused palm and thick fingers. You try to avoid thinking about them around your neck. “Please, have a seat.” 

He motions to the cushioned seats in front of you while he takes his seat behind his desk, shutting his laptop. "You’ll have to forgive me for my tartness. I had a no-show earlier for an 8 o’clock meeting and I’m not a man of those.” You nod understandably. “It’s okay,” you say. “I can understand that. I’ve never been a fan of no-shows either.” You cross your legs as you sit, folding your hands in your lap. 

“Are you referring to your current job as a research assistant?” he questions. The corner of his lips twitch at the look of shock you give him. You damn near forgot where you work at! “I did my studying for today. Your resume is very interesting.” Interesting. You don’t know whether to be happy with that statement or nervous. “Oh…thank you. I actually have it here with me as a copy.” 

You go into your bag where you retrieve a folder and several copies of your resume. You pass one to Nanami who barely cracks a smile at the fact that you are prepared. He must be trying to size you up, see if you’re fit for the position. You watch him read over the paper, his index finger dragging over each section.

“So you graduated with a 3.8 GPA with a Bachelor’s Degree in marketing and communications,” he points out. You nod, trying to calm your rapidly beating heart. “Yes, originally, I was studying political science, but I changed my major during my sophomore year.” 

“May I ask why?” he asks, raising a curious eyebrow. You’re more than happy to give him an answer. “Politics can become too messy in my opinion, not to mention that the major was extremely competitive. I was also working as an intern at the time and on the–“ 

“Cheerleading team,” he finishes. “Yes, that’s listed here in your extra curriculum activities, but you left the team during your senior year, it appears.” He gives you a sharp look that is pushing you to give him an explanation. Your brain grasps for straws. “Um…senior year is a busy time for all students,” you quickly explain. “At the time, I was just trying to finish school so I could graduate on time, which I accomplished, fortunately.” 

Nanami only gives a “huh” at this which isn’t the response you are looking for. “Huh” as in “oh, that’s interesting” or “huh” as in “this bitch isn’t reliable and can’t handle shit when shit gives tough”? 

“Let’s talk about your current position.” He folds his big, calloused hands on top of his desk, on your resume. “It seems like a promising position. Why do you want to leave there and come work here?” 

You sit up straight, happy that you practiced for this exact question. “Well, I just believe it’s time for me to move onto something new; preferably onto a new company that has a diverse team and benefits for its employees. I believe that your company does so.” Nanami leans forward slightly, peering deep into the recesses of your soul behind his spectacles. “So what exactly do you think you can offer this company, Ms. L/N?” he asks. “Or more specifically, what can you offer me?” 

Your stomach drops. You didn’t practice for this question. “U-Um…I’m a quick learner,” you reply, forcing yourself to keep eye contact. “I’m not afraid to ask questions if I’m unsure, but I’m also not afraid to lean on myself for answers. I work well independently as well as in a team. I’m hardworking, determined, and detail-oriented. I’m also willing to do whatever work is necessary to succeed.” 

Nanami’s eyebrows raise once more. “Whatever work necessary?” he parrots, quiet interest in his tone. “Elaborate on that for me. What kind of work or things would you be willing to do in order to succeed at this company, Ms. L/N?” 

Your brain begins to jump from place to place, grabbing at whatever. “Staying longer hours,” you decide. “I know this is a 9-5 position, but if you ever needed me to stay longer to get a head start on work or complete something, I’d be willing to do so. I’m also good at creating Powerpoint presentations for meetings. A-And I’m well-organized.” Now you’re stuttering. Stumbling over your answers. You’re fucking up! He’s going to see your nervous and unconfident and put you on the chopping block! 

Nanami stares you down for a moment longer, making you feel like you’re on trial and he’s a judge, before leaning back in his seat. He places his hands in his lap, ever poised and sexy. “Hm,” he hums. “As much as I appreciate your willingness to stay longer hours, Ms. L/N, I will be honest with you: you’re not the first person who I’ve interviewed who gave me all of this jargon in hopes of getting the position and then didn’t deliver on any of their promises or skills.” 

You nervously gnaw on your bottom lip, gripping your hands to force them to stop shaking. “I’m sure you have,” you quietly reply, “but I’m also sure I can change your mind and prove that I’m worthy of this position, Mr. Nanami.” 

Something sparkles in Nanami’s forest-green eyes and the corner of his mouth twitches. “Worthy?” he questions. “That’s a new one: worthy.” He tests it out on his tongue as if it’s a new kind of food. Something foreign to him. He leans towards you once more, placing his hands on the desk. “Well, let me ask you this: do you think that you’re confident enough to work beside me if you do happen to get this position? Because from what I’m seeing, you’re not.” 

You’re so busy thinking about how handsome he is that you nearly miss his criticism. But when you catch it, you feel cold like you were just dunked in a pool of ice. You stare at him, dumbfounded. “Excuse me?” you ask, squinting at him. 

Nanami barely reacts to your reaction. “You stutter a lot,” he bluntly points out. “Whether out of habit or because you’re nervous which shows the employer, which is me, that you’re not confident in your words or thoughts. Then it’s in your body language: your shoulders are up by your ears and obviously tense, your skin is flushed, and your hands are shaking.” 

And he’s right. You can feel how tense and hot you are; how shaky and unbalanced you feel. You feel like crawling under the chair you’re sitting in and hiding from his scrutiny. But you also won’t allow him to expose you like this. “Well, I would think that nervousness is a common human emotion,” you retort. 

He nods, giving you a point for your fairness. “It is…but judging by your resume, I’m sure you’ve sat through many job interviews, and got the jobs as I’m seeing here.” He takes his glasses off, revealing his naked eyes to you. “So what makes this one so different? Why are you so nervous to be here with me today?” 

You can tell he’s trying hard to make you crack. He’s trying to see if you’re able to handle the pressure. Though you feel nervous and embarrassed, you also feel incredibly pissed. How dare you try to grill you like this? You can’t let him win this. You won’t. “Mr. Nanami,” you carefully say, your tone calm yet firm, “I understand what you’re trying to do here, but I’m not really appreciating it. It seems like more of a grilling session than a job interview. Aren’t we supposed to be talking about the job?” 

Nanami barely even blinks. “We have,” he replies. “And now I’m trying to decide if you are seriously fit for such a position. I take my work very seriously, Ms. L/N, and I need to be sure that you will take my work, as well yours, seriously as well. I can’t have you cracking under pressure or second-guessing things. Those are all signs of being unconfident.” He leans forward, squinting his eyes at you. “Now, do you think you can handle it?” he questions. 

You want to say yes, but you know he’ll argue with you. He’ll come up with all kinds of logic to tell you why you aren’t qualified for this position. So you keep quiet instead, just staring him down and forcing yourself to not look away. The more you stare, the hotter you get until you realize that it’s not out of embarrassment. This heat is out of attraction. Despite your anger, he’s just so goddamn fine! So you look down at your shoes, too afraid for him to see your true feelings under the anger.

Finally, Nanami heaves a sigh and shakes his head. “I’m sorry, but I don’t see it,” he sighs. “I’m afraid this is where we–“ 

“What?” you snap, causing him to stop short. You glare at him, enraged. “That’s it? You bring me in here for an interview just to tell me you’re not hiring me because you don’t think I’m confident?” You square your jaw at him and put a hand to your chest. “I am confident,” you hiss. “If you let me show you, I can prove it to you, Mr. Nanami.” 

Now, Nanami smirks. It's rousing and mocking, angering you even more. “Oh,” he nearly chuckles. “So now you want to look at me. And your emotions are easily roused which could complicate your work if you were to work here.” 

The room has gotten too hot. Too tense. You can’t handle this. If you’re here any longer, you’ll surely jump over this desk and wring his thick neck. “You know what?” you scoff haughtily. “I don’t need to sit here and be criticized like this. I may want this job, but I don’t want it that much to allow myself to be grilled like this.” You abruptly stand from your chair, nearly knocking it over. He looks up at you, his expression cool. 

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Nanami,” you nearly growl. “Have a good day.” You then whip around to storm out of the office, prepared to leave and never return.  

“Stop.” The command cuts through the air along with Nanami’s deep voice. You do so and turn to face him, confused. He is still sitting down, his steely eyes glaring at you from across the room. “Sit down,” he orders. You gawk at him. Is he serious right now? “Why?” you cackle. “So you can go and grill me some more on why I’m not a good candidate for this position? Thanks, but no–“ 

“I said.” The sound of his chair squeaking across the floor stops you short. He stands behind his desk, blocking the window with his big, tall frame. His expression is dark and intimidating, his eyes daring you to argue with him again. “Sit. Down. Y/N.” His tone is hard as steel with a slight undercurrent of a growl underneath. 

You stand there, taken aback at his change in demeanor. And even more so in the way it makes you feel. You feel tingly and hot, specially between your legs. Nanami continues to stare at you, silently daring you to disobey his order. Against your better judgement, you slowly walk back over to his desk on legs that feel like Jell-O and sit down. Your eyes find your shoes again, afraid to look into his as he sits back down behind his desk. 

“You really think you got it like that?” he asks. “You really think that you have what it takes to work for me? With me?” Your heart flips wildly at his questions and the roughness to his tone. He seems so calm and collected. Who the fuck is this? “Answer the question,” he demands. 

You swallow roughly before opening your mouth. “Yes,” you breathlessly reply. 

That is all Nanami needs to hear. He stands again, coming around the desk to stand beside you. You tremble, harshly biting your lip. “You said you’d prove to me your confidence and other assets that you can bring to this position if I let you.” 

Zzzzip. The familiar sound of a zipper coming down stops you short. You turn your head toward him in time to see his hips and crotch in your face and his hands working his belt off. “Well, now I’m letting you.” Your eyes follow his hands as he shrugs his pants down his waist before reaching into his Armani briefs to reveal his throbbing, hard, veiny cock to you. “Show me what you mean, Ms. L/N. Prove to me your worth.” 

Your eyes widen and your mouth falls open. This can’t be…he isn’t…he can’t… “W-What is this?” you gasp. “Mr. Nanami, you can’t–“ 

“Can’t what?” he asks. You look up at him, seeing nothing but molten lust in his eyes. “Don’t act as if you weren't hoping I’d do this to you. You wore that skirt and those heels for an obvious reason than to just seem presentable.” He nods at your outfit, making you feel ashamed. “And don't think I didn’t catch the way you looked at me when you walked in or the way you kept crossing and uncrossing your legs under the table. You’re fucking feening right now, aren't you, brat?” 

Brat. The name and the sharpness of his tone makes your stomach flip. “What?” you squeak. “I’m not a–“ 

“Talking back too?” he tsks. He places a hand on the back of your hair, near your scalp. “That just won’t do. A girl like you needs to be put in her place, don’t you agree?” He places his other hand on his cock, slowly pumping the hardened shaft in your face. “This is your decision, Y/N,” he huskily says. “If you wish to leave, you can, but if you stay, you need to prove to me your worth. I’m not a man who gives things out so easily.” 

Your eyes tick from him to his cock, back and forth like ping pong balls. You weigh your options carefully: if you say no, you’re out of a really good job and will be forced to return to the dreaded application process, but if you say yes, you’ll be nothing but a cock-sucking slut. What if he doesn’t even give you the job? 

“So what’s it gonna be, little girl?” Nanami hums. Looking back down at his cock, you take your chances. You wrap one tentative hand around the base of his dick, causing him to shimmy closer to you so he’s closer to your mouth. You then begin pressing light kisses around the head and length of his cock, feeling how warm his skin is against your lips. “There we are,” he softly moans. “Good girl.” 

The praise causes your pussy to twitch in delight and you find yourself beginning to lick up and down his long cock while your hands pump the base. He feels so heavy and thick in your hand. As you do this, soft moans drip from Nanami’s lips, deep and arousing. Your tongue and soft hands on him cause him to reach into his briefs to pull out his heavy balls, letting them hang as you continue to pump him. Your mind is racing, your eyes moving to the door ever so often.

Nanami catches you and chuckles to himself. “Don’t worry; my door has an automatic lock. Maki was only able to open it because I left it unlocked in the case of an appointment….or in the case of visits from horny little sluts like you.” 

You whimper at his degrading words, still slobbering along his cock and wetting it with your saliva. Finally, Nanami stops you and takes your chin into his hand, forcing you to look up at him. “So if I were to tell you that I was stressed and in need of relieving, what would you say to that?” he asks. The question would sound random to anyone else, but you know what he means right off the bat. 

So you give him the answer he is searching for: “I’d ask if I could help you,” you softly reply, your voice breathy and soft. Nanami’s cock twitches in response. “Then show me,” he demands, taking his cock and gently smacking the head against your chin. “Open your mouth for me, brat.”  

And you do so. As soon as your open your mouth, Nanami is hypnotized by your tongue and thick, juicy lips spread open for him. He angles his hips towards your mouth and slowly pushes inside, groaning as he does. “Christ!” he grunts, gripping the back of your head. “Your mouth is so tight and wet, darling.” 

Your moans are muffled as his cock slides into your mouth, stretching out your jaw. Your eyes, stinging with tears, widen at how large he is. You’ve never had a cock this big in your mouth before. Your eyes tick up at Nanami, watching as he strips himself of his suit jacket before unbuttoning his shirt. He reveals his bare, toned chest and hard, pink nipples as he begins to roll his hips against your mouth, forcing you to take more of him. “Come on, brat,” he demands. “Take my cock. Isn’t this what you were after?” 

His shaft slides against your tongue, filling your mouth and senses with nothing but the salty taste of his pre-cum, the scent of his cologne in your nostrils, and the feeling of his hand gripping the back of your head. He pushes you down onto his cock, forcing himself into your throat. A gargled moan leaves your lips as he throws his head back and groans at the feeling of being trapped inside your hot, tight throat. “I’ll go nice and slow, okay?” he coos. 

He then begins to slowly roll his hips against your mouth, causing his cock to plunge in and out of your throat, getting deeper each time. His heavy balls swing against your chin, becoming wet with the spit that has begun to pool and drip over your lips. Nanami tuts at the sight of you being a slobbery, sloppy mess for him as he fucks your face. “Such a mess,” he sighs. “Just a dirty, bratty little slut, doesn’t even know how to keep herself clean.” 

He wraps a hand around your braids and forces your head back, yanking his cock out of your mouth. You gasp at the sharp sting coming from your scalp. “You want this?” he murmurs, staring down at you. “You want this cock? Tell me no and I’ll stop.” Your eyes stare at the cock, now shining in your saliva, bobbing in front of you. Your pussy clenches impatiently in your panties, gushing all in the cotton article of clothing. You want this. You want him. “Yes,” you whisper. “Yes, I want your cock. Please give it to me, sir.” 

Nanami closes his eyes and inhales as if your words are a drug that he just got a hit of. “Call me Kento, darling,” he says as he plunges his cock back into your mouth. “Though ‘sir’ does sound quite nice.” He begins to thrust his hips roughly into your mouth, fucking your throat like it is his own personal toy. “It’d be a…fuck…a joy to hear you call me that every single day I…shit, darling…come in here. Even better to hear you moan it. Wouldn’t that be nice?” 

Your words are a garbled, mumbling mess around his cock, your voice taken from the sound the lewd, sloppy sounds leaving your lips as he mercilessly fucks your throat. You gag and spit around his shaft, earning praise by his orgasmic moans and grunts. The more he fucks your mouth, the harder his grip on your hair gets until you can feel your scalp burning. But you endure it. You also find yourself enjoying the bite of pain along with the feeling of being used. This is so degrading: being used as a fuck toy in such a way. 

And you love every second of it. 

“Fuck!” Nanami growls, finally pulling his throbbing cock out of your mouth. It bobs against your lips before he pulls away, slowly pumping the appendage in your face. You gasp, finally free to breathe. You are a complete mess, saliva dripping down your chin and staining your blouse; hair askew; makeup ruined. The blonde man stares down at you, your hair still wrapped in his fist. “Look at you,” he huffs. “You’re a fucking mess. Came in here all pretty just to get ruined by me, didn’t you?” 

You whimper at his words, your pussy tingling. His thumb moves across your plump lower lip, spreading the saliva across your lips. “Oh…does my little brat love being degraded?” Hot embarrassment makes you flush. “N-No, I–“ 

You’re silenced by Nanami’s hand squeezing your cheeks, causing your lips to pucker. “Lying?” he sharply asks, his gaze dark. “You have the nerve to fix your mouth to say that shit to me yet your body betrays you.” He nods down at your thighs that clench together and your hardened nipples that have begun to poke through the mesh fabric of your bra. “I guess you need some attention too,” he sighs. “I just can’t decide whether you really deserve my touch.” 

He unhands you then, stepping away from you and leaving you feeling empty. The stinging sensation coming from your scalp and throat are all that remain of him. You feel like you’re burning up. There’s an all-consuming fire eating at your body and between your legs. You need him. You bend down to press your head to his shoes, your trembling hands grasping his pant legs. “Please, sir,” you beg. “Please touch me. You can’t leave me like this!” 

An aloof chuckle leaves Nanami’s lips. “Oh, I can’t?” he asks. “I can’t let you walk out of here with that pussy gushing for me and that mascara running?” You desperately whimper and babble pleas for more, the aching of your sobbing, wet pussy too much to bare. Fortunately, it’s enough for Nanami to give in.

“Oh, alright,” he pitifully sighs, "but only because you look so oh-so pathetic. And you did such a good job sucking my cock just now. Stand up.” You immediately rise to your wobbly feet as soon as the order is uttered. Nanami gives you a hot stare as his hand trails up the front of your blouse. “Let’s get these fucking clothes off,” he growls impatiently. “Oh, and I almost forgot.” 

Suddenly, his lips are on yours, rough and wanton. You moan into the kiss as his hot, wet tongue begins to explore yours, swirling around your mouth and tasting himself off of your tongue. His kiss is hungry and hard; not at all soft or romantic. He is desperate for you. Breathy groans and gasps leaves his lips as his hands begin to quickly unbutton each button to your pretty silk blouse. Soon, he becomes impatient and ends up tearing the thing off of you, resulting in a button flying off. 

You gasp, pulling away from the sloppy kiss as he flings your top open to reveal your lacy black bra. “Sir!” you shout in protest. “Kento, please! You’ll ruin it!” He tears the rest of the top off of you, pulling it off of your arms and tossing it to the side like it didn’t cost you a pretty penny. Nanami rolls his eyes at your dramatics. “You can rest assure you’ll be receiving the money for new clothing…if you do a good job for me now, that is.” 

As his lips and tongue find yours again, his veiny hands then begin to slide up and down your chest, fondling your breasts over your bra cups. You softly moan at his touch into his mouth, the tingling sensation you’re feeling between your thighs quickly growing. He pulls away from the kiss, gently tugging on your bottom lip with his teeth. “Mmm, such gorgeous breasts you have, darling,” he groans. “Too bad they belong to such a slutty brat.” 

Without warning, he slides your bra straps down your shoulders and slides the bra cups down to reveal your breasts and hard, brown nipples, pebbled by the cold and your arousal. A crazed look crosses Nanami’s eyes before he ducks down to capture a nipple into his mouth. “Shit,” you gasp, your hands finding his hair. His tongue wraps around your nipple, lapping at the tiny bud as his hand works your other breast, fondling it. 

Your mouth falls open and your eyes flutter closed at the new sensations you’re feeling. He then switches to the other, sucking and tugging on the nipple with his teeth, smirking at your sharp intake of breath. He alternates between each nipple, sucking, lapping, and licking at each like a hungered man desperate for water. With each torturous second, the tingling and ache in your cunt grow, making you go nearly insane. “A-Ah,” you moan. “K-Kento…fuck, sir, please!” You arch your back, pushing your breasts further into Nanami’s mouth. 

He chuckles, pulling away from your nipple with a string of saliva dripping from his bottom lip. He looks up at you, his eyes shimmering with lust. “Getting worked up over having your nipples sucked? Such a sensitive little thing you are, Ms. L/N. Now bend over.” You blink at him, momentarily confused and still recovering from the foreplay. “W-What?” you nimbly ask. 

Nanami gives you a stern look, a darkness coming over his gaze. “I didn’t stutter, brat,” he growls. “If I tell you to do something, you do it. How else will I be able to depend on you for this job?” He peels himself away from your naked breasts and nods at his desk. “Now bend over my desk now before I do it for you.” He then cracks one of his hands at his sides, the sound of his knuckle cracking making you gulp (and cream in your panties). 

You do as he says and bend over his desk, being careful to not knock over his laptop, mug, or papers. You brace your hands against the oakwood surface, biting your lip when you feel Nanami’s presence behind you. You’re a wreck before he even touches you, but when he finally slides his hands up your skirt to grip your thighs, you’re shaking. His hands move all across your thighs and backside, gripping your ass over your skirt. “Damn this skirt,” he growls. “Damn this ass of yours. Apologies, darling, but I have to spank you. After all, you deserve punishment for such naughty behavior.” 

He leans down toward you, his minty breath in your face and lips at your ear. “Do you want your punishment, slut?” he questions barely above a whisper. Pathetically, you nod, arching your back and presenting your ass to him. “Y-Yes, sir,” you reply. “Please punish me. Make me your good girl.” 

That answer pleases Nanami. He slides your skirt up to reveal your ass––and the lace, black panties underneath your nylon stockings. “Brace yourself, darling; my hands are rough.” 

Spank! The moment Nanami’s hand makes contact with your asscheek, you jump and gasp at the stinging sensation. His hands really are rough. Nanami chuckles at your reaction. “Yeah, you like that, naughty girl?” He does it again invoking a low, desperate moan from the deepest depths of you. Spank! “Y’know, I saw you staring at my hands earlier.”

Spank! “I bet all you thought about in that dumb little brain of yours is me bending you over and doing this to you.”

Spank! “I bet you want someone to come in and find us like this, your pretty ass bent over my desk.”

Spank! Spank! Spank! 

He does this again and again, punishing your ass until it is stinging and possibly red with his handprints on each cheek. Though it hurts and brings tears to your eyes, it also makes you wetter. The pain mixed with your pleasure is one intoxicating cocktail that you can't get enough of. Soon, your pussy has a heartbeat and it throbs impatiently, ready for something to be inside of it.

“Sir, please!” you whine, gripping the desk for dear life. “I can’t take it anymore! I’m sorry for being such a brat!” 

“Mmm-hmm,” Nanami hums, pleased with your confession. You feel him begin to yank at your stockings, pulling the waistband down your hips. “I bet that pussy is too,” he murmurs as he quickly pulls your stockings down your legs. He is rough and ends up putting a tear in one of them, but you’re way too horny to care. He then reaches your panties and pulls them down, groaning at the way your pussy lips stick to the cotton fabric. “And she is. Just look at how she’s crying for me.” 

You can feel how wet you are judging by the way your pussy tingles in the cold. Nanami bends down and gently blows on it, causing you to tense and softly whimper at the tiny bit of contact. “Such a beautiful pussy you have,” he coos. “And all for me.” Before you can even take a breath, he is gently prying your asscheeks apart and spitting on your pussy before digging in and slurping his saliva back up. 

As he does this, his tongue swirls along your clit and his pillowy-soft lips cushion your pussy, running along your slit as he plays with your cunt with his mouth. You gasp, moan, and sob into the desk, wanting to dig your nails into the oakwood with how good he is. He eats your pussy like it’s a profession of his, taking his time getting to know the ins and outs of you. He even slides his hand up to gently run his thumb over your puckered asshole while he tongue fucks you, groaning appreciatively at your taste. 

Your toes curl inside your heels and your hands grasp to grab for something only to get polished wood beneath you. You’ve never gotten so close so quickly before. Usually, it takes a while for a man to get you even a mile from cumming, but not with Nanami. He moves his mouth and tongue with precision against your clit, moving between fast and slow depending on how your body reacts.

But when his thumb begins to caress your asshole, you just about lose it. “Oh, God,” you sob, tears of pleasure pricking your eyes. “Kento, just fuck me. I need you to fuck me!” 

Then…nothing. The feeling of your nearing orgasm fades. Nanami stops eating you out immediately and you’re left wondering what happened. His hand suddenly finds your hair and roughly yanks it back, causing you to release a strangled gasp. It hurts way more than earlier, his grip tight and merciless.

He bends his face down to meet yours, his eyes dark and almost frightening. “You don't tell me what the fuck to do, brat,” he growls. “I decide what to do to your body. Me. Understand?” 

His grip tightens more and the stinging in your scalp of your braids being yanked nearly makes you see God early. “Yes!” you sob. “Yes, sir, I’m sorry! This pussy just needs you so bad!” Finally, he loosens his grip and releases your hair, emitting a weak moan of pain from you. 

“Alright, brat,” he cooly says. “I’ll fuck you…but we’ll do it my way. Put your hands behind your back, wrists crossed.” 

You do as you’re told, putting your hands behind your back and crossing them over one another. You then feel Nanami’s funny-looking tie wrap around your wrists, tightening them and securing them behind your back.

You softly gasp at the sensations of being restricted to which Nanami pauses. “Good?” he asks. You nod and he proceeds to continue to tie your wrists until he is finally satisfied. “There we go,” he proudly says. “Now you can’t squirm or make a fuss when I plunge my cock deep inside of you.” 

And you can’t. Your arms are completely restricted from movement, as is the rest of you as you stand between the desk and Nanami mounted behind you. He ruts his hips against your ass for a few minutes, sliding his cock between your slit and over your throbbing clit, relishing the sounds you make as you lay splayed out against his desk.

“Here I come, baby,” he whispers before sliding all the way home inside you. You gasp in unison as his thick cock stretches out your wet pussy walls, filling you up the way you’ve been waiting for. 

He starts slow at first, grabbing your hips and slowly rolling his hips so you can get used to his length and girth. Your hand flies to your mouth to cover it, muffling your moans. Nanami doesn’t like that. He tears your hand away from your face, pinning it back down on the desk. “My walls are soundproof,” he grunts. “You have no need to worry. Come on, baby; give me those slutty sounds I know you can make.” 

He begins to fuck you harder against the desk, one hand gripping your hip while the other lays flat on the middle of your back, keeping you pressed flat against the oakwood surface. As soon as he hits that spot inside you, you can’t keep quiet. You begin wailing in pleasure, overcome with the feeling he is giving you. “O-Oh, fuck!” you gasp. “Fuck, sir!” 

Nanami draws more of these moans and wails of pleasure out of you the more he fucks you until he is pounding your pussy against the desk. “God, you’re so tight!” he groans. “You’re much better than the fleshlight I keep under my desk. You’d be a much better addition to my office for stress.” He gives your ass a smack before lifting your leg up and fucking into you at a faster pace that is making you see the entire galaxy. 

“Take it,” he demands. “Take this cock. You wanted it so bad and now you’ve got it.” Yes, you do have it…but you don’t know if you can take it. Every rough thrust of his cock sends you into orbit. It shakes the desk with you bent over it, making your titties bounce against the surface and your ass jiggle against his hips. “Wait, sir!” you plea. “Go slow! Can’t…handle…it!” Your words are broken by the force of how hard he is fucking you, taking you very breath away. 

Nanami cackles like a villain straight out of a Disney movie as he looks over your plump ass pressed against him, his cock nestled deep in your ushy, gushy pussy. “Ohhh, is this cock too much for that poor pussy?” he teasingly asks. “Is it too big and thick for that slutty little hole to take? I believe I missed the part where I gave a fuck.” 

He continues to turn you all the way out, making the desk rock and causing his balls to swing against your clit, throwing you deeper into pleasure. “This is what you get for being a brat,” he grunts. “This is what you get for disobeying me. What you get for wearing that skirt and those heels. This is what–“ 

Rrrring! Rrrring! 

Nanami doesn’t slow his pace or stop his rough fucking into your cunt despite his work phone ringing. You weakly look up at the black telephone sitting by his laptop. “This is a call from Satoru Gojo,” the automated voice announces from the phone. 

“Shit!” Nanami hisses. He bends down toward you then, his nose nearly centimeters from yours. “I’ve gotta take this, but don’t you dare say a single thing. Don’t make a sound.”

You weakly nod, covering your mouth as he goes to pick up the phone. After a moment of composing himself, he clears his throat and answers. “Yes, Satoru?” he asks, keeping his voice steady and cool as if he isn’t fucking your brains out over his desk. “This had better be important. I’m busy at the moment.” 

“You’re always busy!” Gojo shouts into the phone, causing Nanami to flinch. “It’s what you always say when I ask for you to come out with me on the weekends…which you never do!”

Nanami sighs and you picture him rolling his eyes from behind you as he grips one of your asscheeks, no doubt leaving bruises. “That’s because all you do is hang out at clubs to fuck strangers and drink yourself into a stupor.” 

“Yeah!” Gojo agrees. “And it’s fun! You ever heard of that before? Fun? You ever try it? I think it’d do you good one of these days to have it some time, Keni.” 

This “Satoru” guy must really work Nanami’s nerves because you can feel the tension radiating off of him. He finds your hair and he grips it, continuing to pound into you at a faster pace than before. “What do you want?” He asks, becoming impatient. He yanks on your hair a little too rough and you whimper from behind your hand, your body tensing. Nanami quickly loosens his grip, looking down upon you with worry. ”Too rough?” he whispers. 

You look back at him and shake your head though your scalp burns. But you want it to burn. You want to take every single of ounce of pain and pleasure he gives you. “No,” you whisper. “I’m okay.” You begin to fuck back into him, tossing your ass back to fuck his cock, watching his face contort in pleasure. “Fuck me harder, sir,” you purr. “Take your stress out on this pussy. Make this little slut yours.” 

Nanami’s eyes widen like he can’t believe you’re really real. “Fucking hell,” he whispers. Suddenly realizing he’s still on the phone, he puts the phone back to his ear while he roughly pins you back down to the desk. “Sorry, what?” he questions. 

“I was telling you about the meeting we’re supposed to have at the end of the week,” Gojo repeats. “Were you listening to me at all?” You groan as Nanami’s cock sinks deeper inside you and your hand finds your slit, rubbing it in time with his thrusts. “Sorry, I got…distracted.” You giggle behind your hand. “Is this about the brand deal with the Human Rights Campaign? I told them we get 50% of proceeds.” 

“Not just them, but the New York Times too!” Gojo excitedly states. “I pulled some strings for us, man! They want to do a story on both of our departments! Say, ain’t it weird that we’re both a part of the same company but my department is all the way in the fucking US?” 

Nanami rails you harder; deeper; faster. Pushing you further and further towards an explosive orgasm. “Gojo, I told you already,” he grunts. “You’re part of the American branch while I’m part of–“

His words are quickly interrupted by a sharp gasp when you begin tossing your ass back into him, looking back at him as you do it. He glares down at you like he is one second away from ruining you. “You fucking brat,” he snarls. “You’re gonna get it later.” 

“Who’s gonna get it later?” Gojo asks curiously. “Nanami, you good? You’re acting kinda off. Are you with somebody right now?” Your heart lurches into your throat, but your pussy also clenches at the idea of being caught. “No,” Nanami sharply replies, yanking on your hair. “No, it was just a bug I saw. Listen, I’ve gotta go.” 

You thank God for that because you don’t think you can keep quiet anymore. You have to clamp your hand over your mouth and bite your palm to keep from screaming at the deep dicking you’re receiving. “So we’re on meeting both HRC and NYT on Friday?” Gojo asks. “It starts at 1PM to about 3, but I’ll be bringing wine along so that might turn into about 5.” 

“Yes, yes, that’s fine,” Nanami impatiently huffs. “Just keep me informed.” Without a goodbye, he hangs up and tosses the phone on the ground. “Now back to you,” he growls. He takes your hips and pounds into you with the force of a thousand men, wrecking you on his cock. “Don’t run from it now, brat. You were so desperate to fuck yourself on it minutes before.” 

Your tits swing beneath you and your ass claps against him every time he thrusts, creating a symphony of sounds mingling with your desperate whines and the squelching of your wet pussy being fucked by his cock. You can’t take it anymore. Your body is wet with sweat and your knees are buckling, tired from this and desperate for rest, just as your pussy is desperate to cum. “K-Kento!” you whine. “Keni, I’m so close! I need to cum!” 

And like an asshole, Nanami slows down, purposely rolling his hips in a way that is agonizing given that he isn’t moving any quicker. “Prove it,” he demands. “Make me make you cum. Beg for it, brat.” 

The slower he gets, the crazier you become until you’re pleading for him to just make you cum. “Please make me cum, sir,” you sob in desperation. “Make me cream all over your cock! Please, I need it! Your little brat needs to cum on that dick and have you fill her up.”

You turn to face him, peering up at him through thick lashes and big, brown eyes that have Nanami wanting to nut all over you just so everyone can know you are his now. “Please, Keni,” you whisper. “Gimme that dick. Gimme that cum. Your little office sluts needs it so much.” 

That does it for Nanami. He speeds up immediately, pounding your wet pussy into his desk until neither one of you are quiet and both of you are soon tumbling over the edge. “Fuck!” he groans. “I’m gonna cum! I can’t stop!” 

Your moans are signs of encouragement to cum deep inside of you and he does so. With a primal grunt of your first name, he pours his cum inside of your aching, twitching pussy. You cum right with him, your walls gripping onto him tighter than a vice as your body tenses. With a loud moan, you cum all over his dick, making his balls drip with your cream because there is so much of it. You can feel him drip down your thighs, staining your pretty nylon stockings. You can’t even recover from the orgasm yet. Nanami quickly pulls his semi-hard cock out of you, emitting a weak moan from the emptiness you feel. 

“Not done yet,” he snarls. He pumps his cock, wet with your and his cum, hard and fast, his handsome face red with a light sheen of sweat on his forehead. “Turn the fuck around and show me that face. Stick out your tongue.” You do as he says, though wobbly and soaked with sweat and cum. 

You get on your knees and look up at him, admiring his God-like body. You then open your mouth, sticking out your pink tongue, hot, needy pants leaving your lips the more he pumps his cock against your lips. “Gonna paint this pretty face,” he moans. “Gonna make you wish you listened to me.”

You watch his toned body tense and writhe as he finally cums again, shooting ropes of cum into your mouth and onto your face, destroying your makeup. You gasp as each warm drop hits your skin, coating you in all of his sticky nut. You feel used. Owned. 

Nanami staggers away from you, panting heavily, his toned body soaked in sweat. He swipes his blonde strands from his flushed forehead, still coming down from his high. He then looks down at you with his cum dripping down your face, your pretty interview outfit ruined, and your braids askew. “Consider yourself hired,” he says, a rasp in his voice. 

You giggle at his words despite his cum beginning to drip over your eyes. You shut them, not wanting to go blind. “Shit, I needed that,” Nanami sighs. You weakly moan, bringing him back to reality. “Shit, hang on a sec,” he says, panicking slightly as the cum begins to drip lower and lower down to your breasts. “Don’t worry, I’ve got you.” You hear him walk around you to his desk before returning with some tissues. 

He carefully dabs at your face, cleaning you up. “Sorry about your makeup, honey,” he says. “It’s all over these tissues now.” He goes down to your chest, cleaning between your breasts and neck. Finally, he finishes. “There now. All clean.” You open your eyes to stare into his, feeling like you’re wandering through a deep, wild wilderness in those green orbs. “Let’s get these off of you,” he says, moving behind you to untie your wrists. 

When you’re finally free, you twist your wrists around and wiggle your fingers, getting the blood flowing back through your bones. “So how do you feel?” he softly asks. You take a moment to assess yourself. Though your body aches, your throat is raw, and your pussy is feeling sore, you feel oh-so good. It’s so hard to explain. To be used up by him has made you feel better than you have in months. “I-I feel…good,” you decide. “Better than good. I don’t think I’ve ever cum that hard before. Thank God for your soundproof walls.” 

A slight blush paints Nanami’s face. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does, it’s so endearing and makes you wanna make him cum over and over again. “So I did okay?” he sheepishly asks. 

You wrap your arms around him, “Baby, you did more than okay,” you giggle, pecking his lips. “But you always do…but I’d be lying if I said that seeing your Dom side isn’t a turn-on.” Nanami beams at you, happy that he could make your dreams come true. “I’m glad you enjoyed it,” he chuckles. “We’ll have to make these lunch visits more of a frequent thing for us. Including the role-play.” 

You giggle in agreement and take his hands, allowing him to help you stand on your wobbly feet and weak knees. He then begins to fix his pants and adjust himself, putting his cock back in his briefs while you pull up your panties over your twitching, soaked pussy. “Oh, which reminds me!” you chirp. “The sandwich rolls are still downstairs in the employee fridge. I left them there in case our meeting got, um…lengthy.” 

Nanami smirks and curls his arm around your waist, pulling you closer to him. “Such a smart and sexy girl I’ve got,” he coos. “How was I so lucky to end up with you?” You place your hands on his bare chest, feeling his heart beat against your palms. “Guess it was just fate,” you reply, hopelessly in love with the man standing before you. Nanami smiles, silently agreeing with your statement. 

You then part and continue to get dressed, adjusting your clothes as to not make any of the employees aware that you two fucked in their boss’s office just now. “And you’re sure that Maki and Mai don’t suspect a thing?” you curiously ask as you fix your blouse, pouting at the two buttons that popped off. 

Nanami looks at you as he fixes his button-up, only fixing the first button before moving toward you. “No one knows I’m even dating anyone, Y/N,” he assures you with a kiss to your jawline. “I barely tell my team anything about what goes on outside this building. Don’t worry, no one knows that we’re–“ 

“Fucking!” Mai screams from outside the door, scaring the shit out of you. “They’re totally fucking, Maki! I told you!” 

“Mai, get away from the door!” Maki criticizes her sister. “That’s an invasion of privacy!” 

You turn to Nanami and beg him with your eyes to kill you if you don’t die of embarrassment first. He takes one look at the door before turning to you, his hands on his narrow hips. “Well, guess I’ll be looking for another assistant,” he sighs. “And a soundproofed door.” 

THE END.

[gabessquishytum]

Devil Wears Prada Dreamling AU

Dream is the ice king editor of Homme magazine; Hob is the charming 'Just a Guy'TM real journalist who doesn't really care about fashion, but needs a job (he's a career change older new journalist.)

But we all know that when Hob starts putting in the effort, he looks all kinds of head turning good in the clothes from the closet; he's amazing getting Orpheus that rare sheet music he wants; he makes sure Dream eats on time; and he effortlessly works as Dream's right hand.

The break comes when Hob rushes to Dream to tell him that Cori and Burgess are scheming to oust him from the magazine and Dream is all you didn’t have to come to my defense/everyone wants to be us speech,,,, and Hob counters with no we're friends, you are my friend and I protect my friends; to which Dream is all you dare?! You are just using (me/)people and enjoying the perks of the job, don't mistake that for friendship.

Hob is the one who leaves (walks out of the limo & pitches his phone in the fountain), because Dream isn't ready for them yet. But, Hob promises (himself) he'll be back.

I'm such a sucker for Ice King Dream. Just the frostiest, rudest bastard you've ever met. And by god he is soooooo sexy.

When Hob turns up for his first day of work in beige trousers and a polo shirt, Dream nearly fires him on the spot just for the audacity. But, Hob is a really good writer and reporter and general assistant to Dream so he is allowed to stay. Begrudgingly. Only because he got Dream’s coffee order right the very first time.

Hob makes friends and allies in the office, like Lucienne (who is immune to Dream’s bullshit) and even Cori, who is Dream’s other assistant. At first Cori is a fun guy, jokingly scathing about Hob’s fashion choices, but as Hob starts to learn how to dress and obviously becomes Dream’s favourite, jealousy begins to bloom. Whenever Hob goes over to Dream’s house to drop stuff off, Dream always breaks into a tired, relieved smile because Hob just makes him feel good. And when Dream takes Hob to Paris instead of Cori, it's the final straw for Cori to snap and start working with Burgess. Hob is immediately sure that something fishy is up, and he puts in a huge effort to snoop on what Cori is up to... putting his own safety on the line in the process. Of course Dream is an ungrateful bastard and completely ices Hob out, basically saying that eventually Hob will betray him too, it's only a matter of time, they are most certainly not friends... Hob knows his own worth and he pretty much says okay, I quit. Dream is totally blindsided.

Hob has enough experience working for Dream and a great reference from Lucienne, so he's immediately snapped up for a new job at a national newspaper. Dream is still fuming, especially when he sees that Hob is still dressing like an absolute snack, using all the little things that Dream taught him to put together cute outfits.

Then at a big gala event, Dream’s brand new assistant Matthew kind of fumbles the whole thing (he didn't memorise the entire file of gala guests so he can't tell Dream who the people are and make the whole thing run smoothly). Hob steps out of nowhere with a wink and a smile, and starts whispering the information to Dream so that he can talk to each guest perfectly. Dream can't decide whether a kiss or a slap would be more appropriate... so he settles for holding Hob’s hand for the rest of the evening. Maybe, just maybe, they can make it work.

[kirstoons]

SDV Sebastian x Female Farmer (Yandere)

Author: Me (Kirstoons)

Editor and Queef: @gayrahim

Content Warning: Smut, profanity, smoking, foreplay, fingering, praise kink, yandere, plus other kinky smutty stuff, iykyk

Uses Y/n for your enjoyment. I’m not a writer so please be nice. I did this during a manic episode so I was pretty damn hyped

Chapter 1.1

Summary: You eagerly go to see Robin to discuss plans to renovate your house and end up running into Sebastian. When you’re left alone with him, things start getting weird but you kinda like it.

After tending to the farm on a cool, crisp Autumn morning, you make your way to the mountains. You’re excited to have finally saved enough money and supplies for renovations on your old farm house. You’ve worked hard and put in so much effort to make this farm and house a home. You’ve come to adore it. You’re ready to finally have it truly reflect the vision you’ve had in mind since day 1.

Even though you’re excited to see Robin and beginning planning all the renovations, you feel a tinge of nervousness knowing that you’re likely to run into him. Sure, he’s been nice enough to you and you both share the same friend circle, but there’s always been some uncertainty you have about him. You catch him staring at you when he is with Sam and Abigail. Instead of turning away when you catch him, he continues staring relentlessly. You always end up turning away, red in the cheeks, cause seriously, what the FUCK is staring at?! You feel like you can never escape his gaze. No matter when or where the group hangs out he will always position himself in perfect view of you. He once made Sam move seats just so he could have a better view! Of course, he played it off as it being too drafty over there, which I knew was total bullshit, but it was enough for Sam.

It seems like he takes any opportunity to touch you. Sitting on the couch, your knees will touch. Walking around town, his hand will brush against yours. Sometimes, when he talks directly to you, he’ll place his hand on the small of your back. It gives you goosebumps just thinking about it. What really takes the cake is how he talks to you when no one is listening. The first time it happened, you brought over a round of drinks at the Stardrop Saloon. As you handed him the frosty glass of beer he looked at you lazily but gave a coy smirk and softly purred “Good girl”. Honestly, you didn’t need a mirror to know how red your cheeks were.

It was confirmed by Abby’s concerned look and commenting, “Uh Y/n, I think you’ve had a little too much to drink. You look pretty flushed.” Of course it made him snicker since he was well aware of the reason my cheeks were beaming red like the tail lights of a truck. Abby’s comment, combined with his laugh and Sam’s stupid, oblivious expression only made the glowing redness worse.

He also said something similar after they walked you home that night, and he hung back just to whisper, “Be a good girl, and go straight to bed. I’ll know if you disobey me and there will be consequences.” I chalked it up to being wasted cause there’s no way I heard him right.

With all these instances and all your evidence, you’ve still convinced yourself that you’re just reading too far into it. Maybe it’s a joke or his own little game or maybe it’s just all in your head. You shake off those memories and try to ignore the feeling in your gut that’s screaming at you to avoid him at all costs. Instead, you focus on the excitement you have for your future house plans.

When you enter the large cottage, you’re greeted by Robin’s warm smile. “Hi Y/n! How can I help you?”

Unable to hide the eagerness in your voice, you reply “I’m ready to upgrade!”. You pull out a binder filled with drawings, magazine cut outs and other references for your vision, and place it on the counter between you two. Robin clearly looks taken aback seeing how much time and detail you’ve put into this.

“How bout we go over this over coffee?” she offers. “Plus, we can spread out more on the kitchen table.” You feel that tug in your gut telling you not to venture further into the house. But you push it aside and merrily agree, following Robin into the kitchen. She kindly pulls out a chair for you which you nervously sit in knowing that this seat has its back to the door of the basement. Fuck, you think to yourself. Robin starts preparing the coffee so you take the opportunity to look over your shoulder at the door. I’m here pretty early and the door is shut so I’d hear him if he comes up here… hopefully he’s still asleep. Even if he’s awake, he doesn’t typically leave the basement much. You let out a small sigh of relief at the reassuring thoughts and turn back towards Robin as she places the steamy cup of coffee in front of you. She definitely noticed you looking at the basement door.

“Sebastian is here if you wanna go say hi. I’m sure he’d be alright with you going down there to say hey. He’d chew my head off though if I went down there”, she lightly giggled at her last comment.

“I’m alright!”, you respond a little too fast. You quickly change the subject to your house plans and you and Robin both start diving into the binder.

Robin seems pretty impressed by the time, effort and research you put into your house plans and even gives a little praise. It fills you with a sense of pride mixed with embarrassment. You both continue discussing your ideas when you comment, “I really love the lightness of the birch wood, but I would love to see some examples of the wood stains you have in stock before I make my final decision.” As the sentence flows from your mouth you hear the steps creak and approaching footsteps. A shiver runs up your spine knowing that he’s ascending the basement stairs.

You try to retain your composure while Robin responds to your last comment, “Sure! I’ll go grab them from my work room.” Shit! You should offer to go with her just so you can avoid him, but you’re too late. She’s already out of the room and he’s already turning the door knob.

*click*

The door gives a soft, brief creak as it swings open. You freeze in place, your grip on the mug tightening along with pressure in your chest. The basement door shuts gently with the same click noise it opened with, then everything falls silent. You don’t dare move or look back at him. You’re then hit with an overwhelming and familiar feeling. You haven’t turned to him to check, but you can feel him staring. It makes you feel vulnerable, self conscious… dirty. After what feels like forever, he finally moves to walk past you to the kitchen counter, making certain he brushes against your arm as he passes.

Tilting your gaze up slightly, you take in the full scene before you. Sebastian’s back was to you. His jet black hair glinting in the sunlight streaming from the kitchen window was a complete mess, as if he had just woken up. This theory was supported by the loose hanging pajama bottoms that revealed the top hem of his underwear. He also wasn’t wearing a shirt. His pale skin looked even paler against his dark hair and pants and he was surprisingly more sculpted than you imagined for a tall, lanky programmer. While his body was fairly slim, his muscles were well trimmed. You had to admit to yourself that he definitely looked damn good.

He continued fixing himself a cup of coffee with his back to you and you secretly prayed he wouldn’t turn around till Robin got back. No such luck. He turns to you, while stirring his coffee with a metal spoon, and flatly asks, “Top off your coffee?”

You look down at the mug which is now nearly empty from the unconscious, nervous sipping you were doing. You glance back up at Sebastian who’s waiting for your answer and you try to form the words but don’t even know which words to form. Finally you squeak out a barely coherent “yes”. His expression remains disinterested as he walks over and places his hand on your mug to grab it, but he pauses.

“Yes… what?”, he coos, forming a sly smile. What the hell does he want you to say? Are you not minding your manners or something? You can only think of one reasonable response.

“Yes… please?” Your clear confusion makes him grin wider as he takes your mug over to the counter.

Robin pops around the door frame and a wave of relief washes over you. “Hey Seb, have you seen the stain swatch board I had in my workshop? I could’ve sworn it was at the end of my work bench but I can’t find it anywhere.” Oh no.

“Nope. Did you check your wood shed? You always put random stuff in there.” Sebastian said casually, not looking in her direction.

“Yeah, I’ll go look out there, and… hey!” She playfully points a finger at him. “Be a good host”, she teases and then disappears back behind the corner.

He continues to pour coffee into your mug and grabs a small bottle of “Sweet Cream” creamer from the fridge. He adds a fair amount of cream to your coffee, making sure you can see exactly how much he adds. He makes sure you’re watching as he begins gently stirring your coffee with his index finger. “No clean spoons.” he lies. He pulls his finger out and fully inserts it in his mouth, wrapping his lips tightly around it as he slowly pulls it back out before reinserting it in the coffee. However, this time he added his middle finger. He does a few more swirls with the two fingers before he opens his mouth to lay the fingers on his tongue. He closes his mouth around them and spreads the fingers to opposite sides of his jaw, allowing his tongue to penetrate the gap between the two. He then confidently waltzes over to you, setting the warm mug of heavily-fingered, caramel-colored coffee in front of you. “Drink up” he purrs.

Uncertain of what the hell just happened, you take the mug in your hands and take a small sip. If you hadn’t just watched Sebastian finger-fuck your coffee, you’d be inclined to ask how he knew how you take your coffee. It’s your absolute perfect ratio of cream and coffee, which is surprising considering you tend to like more cream than the average coffee consumer.

You’re about to place the mug back on the table when Sebastian firmly commands, “All of it.”

You sheepishly look up at his face as he stands above you, watching and waiting for your next move.

He’s joking, right? Just goofing with me…

You continue to look at him hoping to call his bluff but his expression remains stern and unyielding.

Oh Yoba, he’s not joking… This has to be a nightmare.

You meet his gaze one more time hoping this is just some sort of elaborate prank. With every passing second Sebastian seems to be growing more impatient. With a small tremble, you lift the mug back up to your lips and drink. You’ve barely made a dent in the warm beverage when you feel Sebastian cup your chin and tilt your head back further. The hot liquid careening through your mouth and down your throat. In your stunned state, you let out a small moan to try to keep yourself from choking on a large amount of liquid gushing into you. You blink away the little tears at the corners of your eyes as you try to take it all in. The whole time Sebastian is looming above you with a menacing smile, making sure you get every drop.

When the cup empties, you gasp desperately for air. You only manage a few inhales before Sebastian forcefully pushes his lips against your open mouth and begins exploring every crevice of warm, coffee-flavored mouth with his tongue.

This… am I dreaming? This can’t possibly be real.

You remain frozen as he continues to forcefully yet passionately kiss you. Your mind is spinning with disbelief making you incapable of response. He finally releases your lips still leaving you questioning your sanity. As he turns to head for the basement door he leans down to whisper in your ear “Such a good, obedient girl. I’ll have to reward my girl later for behaving so well”.

You’re left in a daze not knowing what to think or feel. You don’t know if you want to scream or cry or run away. You finally are able to regain control of your body and shift uncomfortably in the chair attempting to readjust.

Shit.

You didn’t even realize it till you started moving that you soaked through your panties. You feel the all too familiar redness burn your cheeks and you contemplate what to do next. You completely forgot about Robin until she proudly marches in with the pine swatch board. You try your best to compose yourself and not think about the last ten minutes or however long it was.

As you and Robin continue talking it gets easier and easier to focus on the plans rather than the small mess in your panties. Thankfully Robin is so consumed by the house plans, she doesn’t notice your rosy, pink cheeks or your still clearly flustered speech. You can feel your cheeks and state of mind returning to normal until you hear a text notification on the phone. You pull your phone from your pocket and glance at the notification on screen.

-Sebastian-

You could feel your hair stand on end as you anxiously opened the message.

-Go with the birch. Natural-

You quickly turn your screen off and shove your phone back in your pocket trying to refocus on Robin and cabinetry for your kitchen. The rest of your conversation goes without a hitch and the previous excitement you had is finally starting to return.

“Okay, so I think the only thing left is the wood choice and color. Have you made a decision?” Robin smiled at you, awaiting your answer.

“I think I’ll go with the birch wood. Natural, please”, you reply.

Robin beamed excitedly as I took some final notes in her notebook. You both gathered and organized the binder you brought over and headed to her store counter. As you ironed out the details of payment and scheduling, Robin added, “There will be one night where you can’t stay in the house. Between the construction, dust and paint fumes, it’s just not a safe environment to sleep in. I know it’s kind of short notice, so, if you can’t find somewhere else to stay, you’re more than welcome to spend the night here.” She gave a warm, genuine smile when extending the invitation, making it far more difficult to turn her down.

“I really appreciate it but I’ll probably end up staying with Leah,” you politely declined.

“Well, if you change your mind or things don’t work out, the offer still stands.” The voice sent a cold chill down your spine. You turn to see Sebastian has re-emerged from the basement and had clearly been listening to your conversation.

“Of course,” Robin agreed with her son. “In the meantime, I’ll get started with the blueprints and head over tomorrow morning.” You mustered the best smile you could for Robin and avoided eye contact with Sebastian as you quickly departed. Part of you was glad to take the long walk back to give yourself time to process all the crazy shit that happened.

Was it a dream?

As you walk, you’re reminded of the wetness in your panties.

A wet dream?

You scold yourself for being turned on by something insane and continue to sit with that self-contempt as you trudge your way home. You hated what he did to you, but more than anything, you hated that you enjoyed it.

[immeasurablesaladagere]

can u write about Wilson reminding little House of drinking and eating and generally taking care of himself? cuz I struggle with that

- @tummy-rubs-for-wilson-pup

One self-care fic coming right up!

-----

Word Count: 977

Summery: To encourage House to do the self-care tasks he neglects or forgets about, Wilson pulls an idea from a parenting magazine. A sticker chart.

-----

“…And where did you hear about this again?” House asked, unenthusiastically leafing through the packs of colourful stickers. “It better not have been one of those shitty parenting magazines.”

“It was! They’re very helpful actually. 20 Tips for Raising Kind Kids, 10 Ways to Curb Temper Tantrums, Experts Recommend 13 Healthy Meals for Snacktime, it’s thrilling stuff.” Wilson said. He grabbed a package of markers and tossed them into the basket. “You like any of these?”

The particular article that brought them to the dollar store that day had been Making Self-Care Fun! 5 Ideas for Your Reluctant Child, and as he watched House drag his feet through the store, reluctant certainly was one of the words that came to mind. Everyone in House’s personal life knew that he didn’t subscribe to the “farce” that was self-care. He stayed awake for days on end, he rarely ate anything of substance, constantly chugged coffee and energy drinks to keep himself going, and oh yes, the Vicodin. 

At work he had an excuse, even if it was a lazy one. He had a job to do. But when he was regressed it was different. It was less that House didn’t want to look after himself so much as he didn’t want to be told what to do, or just forgot to completely. So when he came across an article praising the wonders of a self-care sticker chart he figured it couldn’t hurt to give it a try.

House scoffed. “How did we ever survive as a species without tabloid parenting advice?” He pulled a packet of cartoon fairy princess stickers off their hook. “What about these? I think they match my personality.”

Before he could put them back Wilson snatched them from his hand and dropped them in the basket. “I agree. Anything else?”

House gave him a searching look, then smirked and scanned the rack again. He picked out two more sticker packs; one farm animals and the other space-themed and added them to the basket. “Just those. Oh, and one Hot Wheels. I think they’re in the next isle.”

Wilson rolled his eyes. “Yes, my liege.” And off to the next isle they went.

-

Once they got back to the apartment they set to work on the chart. Or rather, Wilson set to work on the chart and House “helped” by stealing the markers he needed to doodle. The design was simple; a large flip booklet of paper with the same drawn chart template of tasks with little pictures for each one. Eat a snack, drink water, brush teeth, and take a shower or bath. 

The idea, according to the article, was to encourage your child to do chores or tasks with small rewards like stickers. After filling up a row of the chart with stickers, the child would earn a promised big reward like ice cream or a trip to the zoo. In turn, the child would want to do the tasks to earn the rewards and would be more willing to do them. Of course the writers of the article had never met House, but he was willing to test their hypothesis.

Speaking of House, he seemed to be either regressed or regressing actively. His doodles, which he was intensely focused on, were becoming less detailed, his grip on the marker clumsy and awkward, and his good leg was swinging back and forth under his chair. With the chart complete, Wilson got up and propped it up on the counter and opened the cupboard.

“Do you want to earn a sticker?” 

House looked up at him, one eyebrow cocked. Instead of unimpressed, his expression looked genuinely curious. Definitely little. Wilson tossed him a granola bar, which he unwrapped and slowly took a bite of, watching him like it was a test and he wanted to make sure he was getting the answer right.

Wilson grabbed the package of fairy stickers, peeled off a magic wand, and stuck it in the first “Eat a Snack” box. “There. Once you get five of each, we can do something big.”

Now House was intrigued. “Like what?”

“Well, what do you want to do?”

“Mmm… museum.” He said, mouth full of granola.

“I think we can make that happen.”

-

Over the next few weeks, the sticker chart had become a regular part of Little-House’s day. Of course because it was House there were some kinks to work out along the way. He had almost immediately began trying to find loopholes in the system, first by placing stickers on the chart while Wilson wasn't looking and then by trying to do the tasks five times all at once to catch Wilson on a technicality, which he had only found out about after catching House brushing his teeth for the fourth time in an hour. They’d had to make two rules: One sticker per task per day, and Wilson got control of the stickers. But after that, he caught on quickly. After a week, Wilson hardly needed to prompt tasks anymore. House would just get a snack, or ask for a sippy cup of water, or Wilson’s personal favourite, walk past him and breathe minty-fresh morning breath into his face and ask for a sticker. The only task he still needed to prompt were baths, but he expected that. House was like a cat when it came to baths.

Until one morning when a House practically shook him awake, and Wilson opened his eyes blearily to House’s face just centimetres from his.

“Make a bath.” He demanded, then added a quick, “Please.”

Wilson blinked at him. “…What? House, what time is it?”

“Morning, and time for a bath. I only need one more sticker, c’mon Wilson!” He pouted, shaking him again.

Wilson groaned and sat up to stretch. “Alright, alright… Go get your bath toys, I’ll be there in a second.”

House was already off the bed and making his way to the bathroom. “Hurry up! We gotta museum to go to!”

Wilson chuckled. Thank you, shitty parenting magazines.

[violetasteracademic]

List 5 things that make you happy, then put this in the askbox for the last 10 people who liked or reblogged something from you! Get to know your mutuals and followers ❤️

@intairnwetrust thank you for this! What a sweet way to get to know everyone!

Hmmm five things that make me happy...

1) Walking. I love being outside and putting on some music or audiobooks and just being out in the world. It is really grounding to me. I have finally moved out of the suburbs and into a walkable neighborhood with coffee shops and groceries and parks nearby and it has been incredible for my mental health. Walkable communities should be a priority in development, in my opinion!

2) Writing. My career began as an actress, but even as I was earning my performing arts degree I was always filling my extra curriculars with writing classes (even though I didn't need to since I tested out with AP. In the States, that's basically a class you take in high school and if you test at a certain level, it fulfills your college credit! I'm in my thirties now so not sure if this is still a thing.) Screenwriting, creative writing, poetry, ECT.

I really started writing aggressively while pursuing my acting career. I was frustrated and struggling to find pieces that felt like a perfect fit for auditions, so I started writing my own and it really took off. A short sci-fi film I wrote for fun wound up turning into my first 120k word novel with plans for a trilogy! So the move from on stage/screen to the page was really organic. And fun fact- my first published prose piece is coming out in a literary magazine this May! I have no idea if I'll ever forge an actual "career" as a writer, but it is my dream and joy and fills up all my free time. I've been loving writing fic for you guys. So much. Having readers enjoy my work is so meaningful to me 😭

3) Thrifting and vintage shopping. I have a very nerdy obsession with 1940's tweeds and jackets.

4) Pittie babies. I lost my fur baby to Degenerative Myelopathy last year and hope when I am settled in my new city to rescue as many pits as possible. They are wonderful dogs and I am very passionate about this since I experienced so much renters discrimination. There are sweet, gentle staffies and pits filling up shelters and no one can rescue them because they will be blocked out of housing. I spent most of my "growing up years" in a city that only recently lifted the pit ban!

5) Elriel. Duh 🤣

[fiercynn]

palestinian poets: fargo nissim tbakhi

fargo nissim tbakhi is a queer palestinian performance artist, a taurus, and a cool breeze.

or, for a longer version: fargo nissim tbakhi is a queer palestinian-american performance artist and writer. he is the winner of the ghassan kanafani resistance arts prize, a pushcart and best of the net nominee, and a taurus. he has received fellowships from rhizome dc, visarts, desert nights rising stars, halcyon arts kab, mosaic theater, and RAWI. his writing appears in foglifter, mizna, peach mag, apex magazine, strange horizons, the shallow ends, prolit, and select bags of nomadic grounds coffee. his performance work has been programmed at OUTsider fest, INTER-SECTION solo fest, the rachel corrie foundation’s shuruq festival, the alwun house monster’s ball, mosaic theater, and has been supported by the arizona commission on the arts.

you also learn more about his work by reading his artist statement, which to me is a work of art itself.

IF YOU READ ONLY ONE POEM BY FARBO NISSIM TBAKHI, MAKE IT THIS ONE

"captain's log" was originally published by fiyah literary magazine in the palestine special issue, which was curated, edited, illustrated and comprised entirely of palestinian creators, in december 2021. the collection was edited by guests nadia shammas and summer Farah, and featured cover art by leila aboutaleb.

if you have the means, you can purchase the e-book of the fiyah lit palestine special issue for USD $5.99, the proceeds of which go to medical aid for palestinians.

OTHER POEMS ONLINE THAT I LOVE BY FARGO NISSIM TBAKHI

PALESTINE IS A FUTURISM: THE DREAM at strange horizons

The Wise American Poet Brings Peace to the Middle East at prolit

Craft Talk at jewish currents

OF at protean

PALESTINE IS A FUTURISM: NEOLOGISMS at bahr // بحر

antigone at the border fence at baest journal

Image of a dabke at the Great March of Return at peach mag

american-Palestinian incantation at poetry daily

On learning Palestine does not exist at the rachel corrie foundation for peace & justice

[inklores]

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐌𝐏𝐀𝐆𝐍𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐁𝐋𝐄𝐌𝐒.

pairing: henry!sherlock holmes x fem!oc

summary: sherlock holmes needs to find his intrepid little sister. clara bedi wants to keep his sharp nose off her trail. (word count: 3.1k)

content contains: fluff, sherlock being bad with women, slight strangers to lovers but they're both smart idiots

author's note: made originally for a class assignment but i'm too proud of it to keep it hidden away in my google docs!! enjoy

FUMES OF SMOKE lifting from the corners of his lips, he thumbed the lapis silk tie the pamphlet was bound by. The rhythmic movement was a rehearsed habit of his, charting keen thoughts that were falling into place.

Tea in the Parlor

Magazine of Modern Womanhood

25 April 1884

“A Problem With No Name. I’ve first heard that uttered so solemnly beneath the breath of a mother amid other mothers over the scent of teacakes and the English brew that her hands had surely processed the week before. Another cried. As your humble magazine writer, there have been women beyond our teatime who had answers to my questions. Those who sort matchsticks in factories, who raise children, who nurse other children. Those who live in the fine estates of Westminster, lodging houses along Greater London, and flats bordering Whitechapel, all have the same problem. The groping truths to their lamentations, brought into light when the children were away and their husbands attended to important business over a glass of sherry at their gentleman’s clubs,—”

Something more than a scoff and less than a laugh escaped Holmes.

“—were provoking. Just what was this nameless problem? A whisper that refuses to be said. The bond of pain, of womanhood, of the searing feeling that something great shall arrive to our fair England.”

— C.E. Babbington.

“Mr. Holmes, I hope you’re not mistaking me as someone with whom you are at odds with.”

Clara wore burgundy today.

Or indigo to a sharp eye, moreso if she sat in the dusky shade rather than by the window where sunlight was allowed to stream through the frosted glass tiles. The heat of the afternoon, Clara could tolerate. The brisk cold, the musk of tobacco, pomade, and fine English leather that filled her office—all mingling together to create one scent that floated around the man who stood in front of her— she virtually could not.

Well, “office” may have been a playful nudge to her ego. It was more of a closet with a pen, a hook to hang her coat when there was a chill, a canister of her favorite tea matched with her precious teapot, and a small sideboard that she used to stash her extra paper. Clara had spent enough time in that little closet to learn its quirks and commodities. The shutters would not close in blustery weather unless they were bound by a scarf. The gentleman who would take his Saturday morning coffee and eggs always found something to guffaw about in the newspaper. Clara knew because she could hear the fervor of his chortles from one story up. The fifth floorboard from the door creaked with the slightest movement and she had garnered the will to purchase a rug that softened footsteps over the parquet.

Now if only she could purchase a rug to wrap around the man filling her tiny corner with the fumes of… man.

A tall man. Haughty by the way he stood. He looked strong and sturdy, weaned on the finest food money could buy. Clara wondered if he teethed on crumpets and caviar as a baby. His clothing may have been picked to feign oneness with the people of England, but she noticed a grain on his breasted black coat. His crisp white shirt boasted no wrinkle, cinched around his neck by a silk ascot the color of charcoal. Chestnut curls spilled across his head—sharing no unified form—and fighting to be free of the pomade that gleamed in the dimness of the lamplight. She imagined an artless tumble of locks when he was nose-deep in a case. An errant strand fell over his brow, softening his countenance where his tone failed to.

“Have you anticipated me, Miss Bedi?”

It was Clara’s mistake for stopping short of her movements. Her fingers froze on the handle of her teapot and it was then she realized the incriminating ink stains that blotched her bronzed fingers.

She did not. He knew that. He likely knew what she had for breakfast as well. Hence the cloying pride that laced his query.

A tickle caught in her throat and she swallowed tightly to preserve her pride as she arched a dark brow. “No, I have not, but I applaud your effort. Nobody contemplates and makes a theater out of their face quite like you.”

Looking up from the tea she was pouring, Clara barely caught the indignant twitch in his face, even as his mountainous posture was unrelenting. For a man who was presumed to be discreet, he was quite eye-catching.

He dropped his gaze down to the lonely armchair and side table Clara would enjoy her tea in. It was the one perpetually surrounded by her basket of stained pen tips and folded newspapers— Clara had the habit of saving old prints—bits of thread, scraps of silk in cooler hues, linen from occasional embroiders, and stacks of books from Edith that never make it back to the shelf, being moved around constantly on the empty promise of being read to completion.

It was a detective’s heaven.

“The name ‘Holmes’ is beginning to mean quite a deal in this country,” her eyebrows slanted, copper eyes filled with constellations, “and do you think I would be in my position if I did not know?”

“Precisely why you flinched when I used your name and not your pen name.” His voice was rich as a fine velvet she let her hands graze over at a textile stand, but detached. “Deceit. To hide the plain truth, just as frills and elegant coifs do. Yes, it may dress you like a powder puff—” she parted her lips in protest but his eyes glimmered like opals, he was clearly not done—“but the man holding the pen is entirely different. In that…”

Her grip on her teacup could not get any tighter, for one tremor to rattle the porcelain would have him arriving quicker to the deduction he savored for last.

“He is not a man at all, is he?”

She watched in bated, almost nonexistent, breath—wondering how quickly she could get her hands on the cake spade lying unfashionably by the crumbs of a Dundee cake she had scarfed down the night before—as he fished a blue silk tie that bookmarked the yellowed book she just realized he held.

“How does a C.E. Babbington become… the elusive Clara Eashwar Bedi?”

A wave of cold took her from head to toe. If Clara wasn’t gripping the edge of her desk, knuckles quickly whitening, she was sure her knees would’ve given out. She stared down at the pretty silk tie, and then at the folded pamphlet he slid over the varnished surface, the black ink script almost snickering at her in mockery.

His words came as fluidly as water, uttered with a stone-cold expression she figured was his mask for his famous deductions.

“Four separate purchases of pens and paper from three different vendors.”

Spreading her tracks. No writer who desired anonymity would so foolishly expose herself by making a reputation with one seller.

He was studying her closet-office now. A satin kerchief protected his hand as he chose a stained pen to scrutinize. “Bills from Whitechapel. Cheaper ink—a shadowy writer such as yourself would not earn her dues to spend carelessly on finer supplies than supper for the night. Or silk ties to make her mark. To create a name.”

Cheaper ink bleeds easier. Her fingers, a blatant victim.

“Bedi.” He tasted her last name on his tongue for a moment, eyebrows pinched as if he was trying to paint a map in his acute mind. “When did your father leave India?”

Her throat was dry but she swallowed down her apprehension and managed out, “Fifteen years ago.”

“Does he work on the docks?”

“Worked.”

A flash of humanity lightened his eyes and the man of a chilly, pragmatic acumen faltered. “Apologies.”

The sound that tumbled from Clara’s lips could only be described as something between a shaking sigh and an aggravated grumble. “What is it you want, Mr. Holmes?”

“You write for the Magazine of Modern Womanhood,” he continued, making Clara bite back an exhausted groan. “Yet you affect a pseudonym. Why?”

“I don’t write for the magazine, I write alongside it,” Clara mumbled. Why was she entertaining him? “I don’t have the means to print my pieces independently— as you so cleverly deduced by my purchases of ink.”

“Your pieces… and other submissions, I’d bet.”

“Are you a betting man?” She lifted a brow curiously, daring him to stop this frivolous quadrille of tongues and get to the point.

“A cipher with the fingerprints of my sister was published in the personal advertisements column of your magazine, The Pall Mall Gazette, and The Journal of Dress Reform. It’s our mother’s interest she hopes to attract and with the choice of your publication, she has a good start.”

“God, there’s more of you?” she asked, feigning horror. “Is the world ready for that?”

(But where the name Mycroft Holmes was etched in cold stone and proud, old money, she had the sense the name Sherlock meant something else. Something whisper quiet like a dusty novel on crumpled velvet. Elegant with solitude.)

Sherlock took a step forward, his fingers still thumbing the fraying corner of the book. “Have you any idea where she might be?” He tilted his head. “I’m afraid our mutual acquaintance Edith had more to say of my “ostrich-like” nature than my sister.”

Clara couldn’t help the kick in her voice as she responded, “Appropriate.”

He smiled at her, a Private Investigator brand of Smile that Clara knew well enough from the numerous times a constable had approached the magazine for its inflammatory words, and which only deserved a Young Journalist Smile.

But what he said snagged her attention as well as a good story. Eudoria’s daughter. Little Enola. 

Edith had mentioned her once or twice. Clara might have seen a glimpse of a little brown-headed girl with quick feet, dashing about Ferndell Hall when ladies of a particular ilk huddled around a table, bearing swords on their tongues and determination in their hearts. Clara typically stood behind her bolder friend, Edith, clutching a pen that barely made a scratch against her worn pocketbook. She knew little for the illustrious Sherlock Holmes to knock on her door… but little was more than enough to be cunningly dissected and deduced by him.

“Enola’s missing?” she asked slowly, hoping to stall but Sherlock Holmes was not a man for idle chatter. Her head shook in a disappointing, deceiving refusal. “I’m sorry, but I have the faintest idea as to where she’s gone and why.”

“I find that highly improbable,” said Holmes in a tone that suggested he too was done with this waltz. “You’re protective of your name, or, names —”

“And what will you do if I use your name, Mr. Holmes?” Clara countered rigidly, her heart leaping into her throat. “Loudly? With proper dictation? Letting everyone know your business more than you’d like?”

“Then you’d also find yourself and Edith in a very difficult position, one that I’ve made clear to her and will to you if I must,” Sherlock warned, dropping his voice to a decibel that made a chill rattle her spine. A hint of vague frustration was tangled within his dull humor. 

Clara stilled, watching as he turned over the book and leafed through toward the back cover. Stuffed in the spine was a folded napkin and he paired it with the newspaper clipping for her viewing displeasure. Wrinkled and white and stamped with the crumbs of a pastry, her eyes were naturally drawn to the hasty scrawl in ink:

“C.E.B.

Matter of Bill —

Tea Rooms”

The same dismayed expression from when he dissected her alter ego took ahold of her face once more, even if she tried to disguise it by a clench of her jaw. 

“Macaroons could do with some attention but Edith has enough to worry about,” said Holmes. “She’ll notice the missing book from her seditious collection but not the message hidden inside— a message written to Babbington, who I understand is an intrepid young woman, so I’m sure you’re aware of what the proper connections can do for a man.” The distant, icy blue of his eyes warmed. “I asked of your father— a man who likely worked too hard for too little a reward and you, his daughter, silently fighting in favor of a bill that will help the men and women like him.”

“My,” Clara gasped, “Mr. Holmes, I didn’t take you for a man of politics.”

The stray little curl swished across his brow as he shook his head. “Oh, I’m far from it.”

She hummed curiously. “Then, what do you fancy? People? Poetry? Probably not. It’s your cases that keep you warm at night, which is why you hunt your own sister in blind circles like a dog chasing his tail.” She leaned forward, lowering her voice, “If Edith tells you nothing, I will say even less. Trust your sister… and the future. Good day, Mr. Holmes.”

She made to go around him, ignoring the way her stomach fluttered as she did, until a bleak and dare she say, concerned mutter caught her ear.

“She’s a child.”

“By my understanding, you’ve abandoned her once, Mr. Holmes. In the pursuit of where your mind takes you and little of your heart,” Clara said, more sharply than was her wont. 

“I beg your pardon.”

The anger in his voice flared like a bleeding heart. A man who was a fire next to gunpowder, ready to speak his mind and snatch the rug beneath a pair of unsuspecting feet. She could loathe him for being so perceptive and intelligent, yet plainly missing the changes of the world. But that tone… He was no longer a brilliant mind or a pleasantly distant man. He was a brother who wanted to know where his sister was.

And if there was ever a case that Sherlock Holmes would encounter, it would leave no secrets he could not crack.

Clara turned around, stained fingers toying with each other, teeth worrying her lower lip to a reddening bruise. Amusement danced in her eyes, quenching the frustration that twisted his sharply cut features.

“You have it,” she admitted after a pause, cheeks growing warm. “Because I’m a woman who believes in second chances… and the calling of her heart rather than her mind. And a desolate, hopeless bachelor tugs at that heart, I’m afraid.”

Sherlock’s face contorted incrementally, the corners of his lips curling up just a tad. It was not a smile. Another part of her would have thought so but not the smart part. Still, it was an odd expression that made Clara think it was gracious.

“I’m not aware of such a reputation.” Fond.

“Figures,” she sighed, eliciting a huff of laughter from him. The sound was enough to make her face crack with a smile. “Enola’s sixteen. And if she’s anything like her mother and brother, she won’t go down with a fight nor will she be drawn away from it. And the real fight is coming. I advise you to start there.”

He squinted at her. Then at the napkin. Then at the clipping signed by C.E. Babbington. The fight.

“A problem with no name,” he murmured.

“It has a name, Mr. Holmes. Whether it will be spoken is decided by men like you and your older brother,” she added, rightly hopeful. “Perhaps that will change.”

Silence settled comfortably between them until the pounding of her heart became too loud for her ears to bear. She cleared her throat and pulled the knob to her door, returning her gaze to Sherlock.

“Until next time, Mr. Holmes.” She smiled. “I hope your game finds its feet. My best to your sister.”

He tilted his chin in an understanding nod, hand pressing against the curly blue tie that still sat next to his evidence, her pamphlet. To her surprise, he waited. One hand disappeared in the flap of his jacket and came out holding a fine black pen shot with gold trimming. To a man like Holmes, it was a pen to write some very useful reckonings of the mind but to Clara, it looked more valuable than what she earned in a week. It clinked as he set it on her desk, accompanied by that slight, mysterious smile.

“Trust a bill won’t be made,” Sherlock assured, amused as he approached her. He extended the blue ribbon to her.

“And a secret will be kept,” she enforced, fixing him with a look as she curled her fingers over the forbidden silk tie, folding it into his palm.

His hand was cold, callused like the reward of cracking cases. Yet it managed to send a surge of heat swirling in her chest, akin to lightning crossing a black sky.

(And did she intend the other thing she did too? The split-second brush of her fingertips over his palm and the way the ball of his throat was disturbed by a tight swallow. Savoring the softness of the lapis silk strand against his pale flesh and her copper skin.)

He lingered by the doorframe for more than a second. Sherlock looked at her— perhaps a more bewitching case with the narrowest twists and the sharpest of turns. A shadow of a smile graced his prim lips and he let out a delectable, ruminative hum. “Is that a promise I would be foolish to break, Miss Babbington?”

“Indeed it is, Mr. Holmes.” She watched him depart, a puzzling black figure who had more to his voice than what he decided to speak. 

“Oh, on the subject of hearts…”

Sherlock paused and turned around. He studied the meticulous way she swept her indigo skirt behind her and made him wait until she finally, painstakingly met his gaze. Only then she made him realize how beholden he was to her unfinished prose.

“While surely hopeless for a… perspicacious man with such a baffling pigheadedness,” Clara murmured, smiling lopsidedly, “do keep yours open.”

Before he left with another curt, reserved nod, Sherlock ruminated on her words. Her tone— he barely noticed the way he wondered how all of her other pretty, printed words would sound if they were turned from ink to… to… that voice.

No… she was not a case. She was a quandary. An unsolved riddle that he cracked with the full assumption that the winning hand was in his, only to turn over his cards and see that it was she who had the royal flush.

What fresh hell was this?

[ivors20]

Wandering In My Universe, is in this week’s Coffee House Writers Magazine edition.

Hello, dear readers and followers. I write for Coffee House Writers magazine (USA) fortnightly, and my poem “Wandering In My Universe” is in this week’s edition. …To Read my poem, please click on the link below to visit the article, at Coffee House Writers Magazine.>> https://coffeehousewriters.com/wandering-in-my-universe/ Until Eyes Hear SoundLulu Books >>  Until Eyes Hear Sound…

[corndoggod]

Summer Storm Gumbo

“Have you heard of Meyer v Nebraska,” Charles asked. “It was a Supreme Court case from about 100 years ago….No. Ok. So shortly after World War I…”

Charles loves to talk so let me interrupt to tell you about Charles -- the best-dressed, most cosmopolitan man in all the Midwest. Whereas Cale prides himself on wearing the same shirt every day until it disintegrates, Charles is almost always immaculately dressed in a three-piece suit. The only time I didn’t see him in a suit I was horrified. Ghostly stalks emerged from his shorts as he emerged from the car, sunglasses and lotioned to replace me on a kayak trip on the Elkhorn river. (I was on deadline and panicking, and had to rush back to finish a cover story). Charles is a worldly man and has a working knowledge of many languages, has visited more countries than I could name, and has a nuanced command of world history and international politics, not to mention local politics. He has opinions, too, and loads of recommendations for wherever you might set foot, specializing in Portugal and Brazil. (he once described the Portugese diet as a drunk man let loose in a kitchen dead set on giving himself a delicious heart attack.) I never understood what he did or how he financed his lifestyle, but he was a globetrotting Cadillac of a man, reminding me of a time when writers lived in hotels for months on end.

Anyway, in Charles fashion he went on to explain how a Nebraska teacher plaintiff of German descent challenged a school policy directing teachers to teach exclusively in English. But the Supreme Court found it unconstitutional because there’s no national language and you can’t compel speech.

This anecdote capped off a conversation about language and identity in the courts. We’d been talking about pastagate, a scandal in Quebec involving an Italian restaurant that used the English word for pasta on their menu rather than the French pâtes.

Graham had invited me and half the town over for a cookout, and we congregated on the porch with dollar beers and bowls of gumbo. Graham could be president if he wasn’t so cynical and glued to the bar stool. Everybody loved him and every time I went to his place there was someone new in attendance. He was generous to a fault, inviting random people he saw on the street to come over, especially if they looked like they needed a friend. And this sometimes got him and us in trouble. Like when he invited a guy from a halfway house over and handed him a beer only to learn after he took a long gulp that he was in recovery. Graham laughed and said, “Well shit, you want another?”

The rain glittered in and out of the jaundiced street lights and lightning knifed through the night sky. Aside from gumbo, there was also cheeseburgers, though we arrived too late to taste, and perfectly crisped sweet potato fries and chicken wings my brother seasoned with his grubby fingers.  

Three summers ago I moved back home to live on the lam and get serious about the writing thing. And by serious, I mean I woke up when I wanted, read magazines for an hour, pecked at my computer for a while at the coffee shop and then biked to Love Library to peck some more before going to climb with my brother and then sit at the bar waiting for anyone I knew to show up. That never took long. But after a few weeks, I lost faith in my novel and started writing personal essays instead. It was one of the happiest, most carefree, least productive periods of my life. I biked through England, France and Spain with my brother. I met Celina. I wrote the best, most personal thing I’ve ever written.

Anyway, within the first week of moving into Max and Cat’s extra bedroom a tornado warning sounded. I ran over to the gas station to buy some Modelo’s and plopped down on the porch swing to wait for the wind and for Max and Cat to get home from work. But first came a full trash can flying down the alley, which spooked me enough to crawl down into the basement.

Back at Graham’s, we drank all the beers, like we always do. But it was Sunday and most people headed home to work the next day. I had work too and it was stressing me out, but I stayed to drink a twisted tea and talk about Graham’s cyst he got kayaking the entire length of the Missouri River last summer. “I either gotta lay flat on my belly for a couple of weeks or they’re gonna sew up my cheeks,” he said. “But how would you shit?” “I don’t know.”

He also told me he was on the chopping block at his job where he’d worked for thirteen years. The day before he was up in Omaha orchestrating a protest outside the Berkshire Hathaway shareholders meeting to pressure Warren Buffett, “the oracle of Omaha,” and his worshipers to eliminate their investments in coal.

Then we went to the basement where I played the two best ping pong games of my life. I won’t the first against Janelle and lost the second against Josh, who won a tournament at the Hot Mess earlier that day.

Days like these I feel like everything is worth writing because I finally feel like I know something. My friends are famous and I know as much trivia as any super fan, but no one else knows about them. I also know these burnt skies, this deep thirst and the smells of clipped grass and upturned soil and manure.  

[msfbgraves]

Tag Game

Got tagged by @amorphousgenderlesscryptid and @puella-peanut in two tag games with some overlapping questions, so I am sharing the two. Thank you and excuse the delay; the reasons I take very long to answer tag games is that I almost exclusively use Tumblr on mobile and that isn't ideal for things like this. But I enjoy them so I've started up the laptop!

First ever ship: I was so conventional when I first started shipping at thirteen or so. I took the ships that were given me and what fodder the magazines would give me to indulge them with. I never even considered alternatives, honestly, we had dial-up internet that was hella expensive to use, what was I going to do, read fanfic and explain the bill? Yeah, no. So my first ship was: Romeo & Juliet, from the Baz Luhrmann movie. "My only love sprung from my only hate", gah, in English I did not understand even with the subtitles, which I also didn't understand, it was deliciously complicated, which I had no idea would become something I am attracted to.

Last song: It's All Coming Back to Me Now, Celine Dion

Last film: Knives Out, to better appreciate the Glass Onion on my dash. Good film that took an hour to get interesting to me, so if not for Tumblr, I would have stopped. That one's on you.

Currently watching: I'd watch Slow Horses series 2, if getting a better vpn to pirate with wasn't still on my to do list.

Currently consuming: Tea, I think it is ceylon?

Currently craving: I just ate, so not food, though, very deep, direction in my life.

Currently reading: A backlog of so many Saturday editions of De Volkskrant newspaper. You do learn new things, although why people need a 5 page article to come to the conclusion that young people without prospects, going to underfunded schools, living in bad houses and getting discriminated every time they are trying to get out of these conditions are gasp more prone to radicalisation and the violence that comes with it is, I mean - sometimes I really feel that people are emotional morons. How is this possibly news. Everyone who cares even a little must sense this, if they haven't yet had it confirmed? The Science page is cool though, if hard for me to get through, I understand so little of it. Also the book tips.

3 ships

Cherik

Underrated little thing I love about sweet Cherik: they're so European! I can lampoon all my German and British relatives through them, indulge writing a little German that is critically not about Germany (because I do not live there, actually). Why are there no Dutch mutants, though. Really why. I need to write somebody from either the Holland region who feels right at home with the supposedly rude New Yorkers or someone from Twente who is critically out of their depth in America and curls up with Kurt to watch football although Kurt is German and that has some trauma attached but at least they know at what time you are supposed to serve coffee, and not that Starbucks stuff. (Which is not to say many people from Twente would not love city life. Yet, people who stay to make a life in Twente often do so because metropolitan life is the antithesis of what they value and enjoy).

Silverusso

I started 2022 with the words "Hold up, new fucked up ship just dropped!" It has been a ride, and it introduced me to the potentially even more fucked up - though I do hope for everyone involved never actually realised! - 'ship' that is Cuba and his Teddy Bear. But oh, Terry. I am just so incredibly in awe of how he came to Cobra Kai and made everything about it fit him. If you know how much of the OG cast struggles with the writers' takes on the material, and not only did Thomas make the evolution of Terry from TKK3 to Cobra Kai seamless, Silverusso gives Cobra Kai, and especially Daniel in Cobra Kai, the hook to even make sense: Daniel/Amanda, Daniel's visceral reaction to Cobra Kai, Daniel's darker side (always on display), and of course Ralph has played that since the beginning but you need a knowledge of Terry to completely see what they have been building up to. And then of course the rapport between the Cobra Husbands, giving Marty a new angle as Kreese. Thank you, thank you Sir!

Gradence

Can be this:

Or this:

Even murkier than Silverusso when I want darkness and messed up dynamics, but gives you licence to go adorable with them without the danger of oocness because you have complete freedom to decide who the character of Percival Graves actually is. The only one we spend time with in the movie, after all, is his impersonator. Also, no new canon to mess things up anymore, which is great for me as I lack the ability to ignore canon. It always has to come back into my fic some way, which is very bothersome when, again, the canon writers do not actually care about anything but status and money.

[fahrni]

Saturday Morning Coffee

Good morning from Charlottesville, Virginia! ☕️

Our grandkids are with us this weekend and for some reason that always throws off Ms. Gracie’s sleep cycle. Her usual 6:30 wake-up came at 5:30 this morning. I suppose that gives me more time to write before the kids wake up. 😁

It’s been a pretty average week this week. I did switch to a different team mid-week. Still on the same application just a different feature set and this time I’m embedded with a team from our client. It’s gonna be fun and I’m excited for it.

Weve had a giant wasp of some kind buzzing around the back door. We think it may be a Cicada Killer. Whatever it was, it was big. I say was because Kolby decided to swat it out of the air and was stung my it. The wasp didn’t last long after that. Kolby is now limping around the house. Poor guy. 😔

The kids are awake. This will be an abbreviated post. 😁

Stephanie K. Baer • The San Francisco Standard

Steve Silberman, writer on the Grateful Dead and autism, dies at 66

R.I.P.

Ryan Smith • AnandTech

It is with great sadness that I find myself penning the hardest news post I’ve ever needed to write here at AnandTech. After over 27 years of covering the wide – and wild – word of computing hardware, today is AnandTech’s final day of publication.

It’s sad to see tech magazines/blogs disappear. How many more will fall over the next year?

WordPress Blog

Since Automattic acquired Tumblr we’ve made it more efficient, grown its revenue, and worked to improve the platform. But there’s one part of the plan that we haven’t yet started, which is to run Tumblr on WordPress. I’m pleased to say we’re kicking off that project now!

[They’re hiring to help with this effort!(https://automattic.com/work-with-us/tumblr-migration/) If I were a backend type I think I’d throw my hat in the ring. What an amazing effort to be a part of!

Alex Kladov

People complain about Rust syntax. I think that most of the time when people think they have an issue with Rust’s syntax, they actually object to Rust’s semantics. In this slightly whimsical post, I’ll try to disentangle the two.

This is a pretty neat look at Rust syntax and why certain choices were made for the standard library.

Tim Hardwick • MacRumors

Apple Lays Off Around 100 Services Staff Across Apple Books and News

I wonder how big the Books and News organization is? Is this a big layoff? It seems like it know how lean Apple tends to run.

Asahi Lina

A subset of C kernel developers just seem determined to make the lives of the Rust maintainers as difficult as possible. They don’t see Rust as having value and would rather it just goes away.

You’d think the C kernel developers would embrace this effort in hopes of improving kernel memory safety. I’m down with the idea.

Toby Christie • Sports Illustrated

Kyle Busch Chose to Race the Right Way on Final Lap at Daytona

With all the attention Richard Childress Racing is getting from the number 3 wrecking Joey Logano and Denny Hamlin to secure a win at Richmond, Bush did the right thing.

[measuringbliss]

Spider-Man Read-Through 072 Silvermane Dies (SSM 69-71)

MASTERPOST

Hehe, 69...

In this post, we some some guests back, and I analyze Peter Parker's mindset post-first Clone Saga (=after Conway's run).

Also, I get really, really tired of Debra Whitman.

Hey, that's a cool cover!

And a gorgeous top half of the first page.

And the trend continues.

So the Cloak and Dagger investigate drugs, which apparently come from Silvermane...

I'm sorry but this issue is so gorgeous!

Peter reminisces about Uncle Ben in his old house, which May wants to refurbish to make into a "boarding house for oldsters".

Nathan Lubenski notices Spidey leaving the house and is curious about that. He also has a plan to get money and make of May's dream a reality.

After an unproductive encounter with our mysterious duo, Peter's back in class, having trouble following what Dr Sloan's teaching.

He's a dick to each one of his colleagues, particularly to Debra, who knows his secret...

But I do love his outfit so I forgive him.

I think it's pretty clear that Peter's downright avoiding any sort of social interaction by pretexting he needs to be Spider-Man and arrest some goons any time he feels stressed. It's a coping mecanism, and we see more and more how terrible it is. He doesn't have any actual friendship with any of his colleague; his old friends are nowhere to be seen. Ever since the clone debacle, Peter has had no solid relationship.

You could almost write meta about it, because it's been a constant thing for what, 6 years of publication now? Some of it may be accidental, some of it may just be the writer's impression of how Peter behaved before, but I feel like it's been much worse for a while now.

Peter Parker has been depressed ever since Gwen's death, the clone saga seriously messed him up, and developing relationships has probably felt (unconsciously?) impossible.

Like sure, Wein's run was mostly action. Wolfman's run wasn't much better. Meanwhile, Spectacular has been quite flat, static, and uninteresting. I'm latching onto any social aspect, but it's far from fascinating like the Coffee Bean Gang could be.

Stern, you CAN do something about it. But I'm not sure you plan to. And Bill Mantlo's SSM issues so far aren't stellar.

I don't know, I feel like at this point, it's been a phase of his life, where Peter's meandering and mostly fights unconsequential fights.

...

Anyway.

To find Silvermane, Jean DeWolff tells Spidey he has to go talk to the Kingpin, whose adress is no secret.

Hello, handsome.

The Kingpin gladly gives him the address. He's likeable now! I like him. I'm not asking for more Kingpin, but if "more Kingpin" = "more Kingpin like this", I won't mind!

Anyway, Silvermane's in a pretty sorry state, and the Dagger ends up killing him.

Blood, again! (See last post.)

Spidey's getting GRUESOME. Edgy? I don't know, it still feels weird.

In #70, Silvermane's doctor attempts to revive him and Peter has to escape.

Alright, I'll accept it.

That's a great expression.

Anyway, what happened with Saruman?

This is frankly disgusting.

Could Peter's teachers stop being assholes? I know it's give exposition, but there's a moment where constant reminding of some things throughout some characters really sounds awful.

However, he calls Biff "preppy" and I'll take that as another confirmation of his bisexuality.

Anyway...

This is miserable. These characters are miserable and that storyline is miserable. I can't imagine following the magazine at the time of publication. 6+ years of pushing poor Debra around with little to no progress. Jeez.

Apparently, she leaves in SSM 74, and to be honest, I can't wait because this whole thing has been sad to witness.

Anyway, Silvermane "dies" "again" ("probably") and everything ends well.

She has a teddy bear, which is great, but goddamnit girl, get a hold of yourself!

Alright, 71 time.

During a robbery, the victim shoots a thief dead while Spidey attempts to resolve the situation.

Then: a discussion on gun violence.

Quick, someone tell Robbie 1980 is not happening anytime soon because Gwen died, like, two years ago at this point.

The discussion reads like baby's first "guns in the US" debate, it lacks subtlety but at the same time, I welcome the message. It's a shame things are no different 4 decades later.

The subject is upfront throughout the entire issue. Very upfront. I think the shocking aspect works, at the very least.

Anyway, the weapons are found.

I just like seeing angsty Peter.

[thorntonkrell-blog-blog]

It looks like the beginning of another health story.

sorta

I just finished a consult with another docto

sorta

I didn't have any symptoms sorta.

Let's sort out the sortas.

Lynn recognized the symptoms and I rejected her recognition.

She said that I was losing it or perhaps had already lost it.

We scheduled an appointment to make sure.

The appointment was with an audiologist.

Hearing counts as health don't it?

I was pretty sure that my hearing was fine, I just couldn't understand what people were saying and I was getting older and for an old guy, I heard pretty damned well.

Lynn insisted that she was sick and tired of repeating things and reading text at the bottom of our teevee screens and answering my phone when I didn't.

I said that the only things that I was sick and tired of her repeating was the broken record that I had ruined my hearing by playing in bands and attending concerts.

As far as the texts on teevee, well I have a fondnes for the printed word and will take it where I can get it.

We both wanted to shut each other up.

Lynn did some research and found a place where I could get my hearing checked and use the benefit of our health plan. The place was near Starbuck's. She said when we go there we can get a coffee if that day ever comes.

The day came. We stopped at Starbucks. We made our way to the hearing center. The parking lot was empty. Lynn put together one of her most remarkable parking jobs somehow placing the vehicle in two spots at once with one of the white separating lines dividing the car into approximate halves and coming nowhere near the curb in front thus sticking way out into the parking lot in the rear.

"Nice parking"

"Hey there's nobody here"

Somehow this epsisode reminded me of my career as a writer so I didn't make further comment as we walked toward the aural reckoning spot. We were taking my hearing to a hearing.

We entered the center and it struck me as a very cool place especially since to get there we had completed the fifteen yard walk from the "parked car" in sweltering, 98 degree Carolina heat. The receptionist looked propotionately calm and collected and exuded Southern charm as we checked in and she checked us in as arrived for our scheduled appointment. She invited us to take a seat and "he'd be with us in a moment".

The wait wasn't long. As we sat there, I noticed a few copies of unusual magazines including one called Guns and Gardens and another called Great American Road Trips. I chose GART and read about a trip from Rochester to Niagra Falls. A great trip that we had taken many times before coming South. The trip described also included a meander into Toronto which made it an international GRAT but who was I to complain?

After I finished reading about the George Eastman house and Nick Tahou's famous garbage plate the audiologist called us in. He was a thin, neatly dressed middle-aged man with a warm smile and a reassuring demeanor. "Let's see what we can find out today," he said, guiding me towards his inner sanctum.

Lynn was still reading. I said "C'mon let's go." while glancing sidelong at the audiologist to make sure it was all right with him for Lynn to accompany us which it was so in we went.

He invited me to take a seat. He extended his hand for a shake and said "I'm David Bowie."

He could see the surprise, stardust and Martian spiders in my eyes while I listened for Major Tom.

"David Bowie?"

"No, I'm David Bowles"

I got the feeling that during this introductory exchange we both got some clarity as to what I was doing there in the first place. I couldn't see Lynn but pretty sure she was nodding "there's a perfect example" kind of nod.

I took a seat. He asked me a few generic questions about my hearing. He wondered how I would describe my own hearing. I told him that I didn't have a problem with it other then having to say "huh" a little too much in conversation particularly with Lynn with whom I have 90% of my conversations. As far as my sesnsitivity to my own hearing loss? I told him that I wasn't aware of any but of course I wouldn't be able to identify any hearing loss if I hadn't heard it in the first place. Once again I repeated my mantra that I could hear everything that people were saying, I just couldn't distinguish all of the words as everything arrived in a big blob of conglomerated sound.

DB understood every thing that I said as he remained silent but nodded.

He said, "Let's do some testing."

"Bring it on"

That's when I noticed what looked like a confessional/isolation booth a few feet from where I was sitting. I nodded towards the booth. DB nodded back.

We both rose from our seats. DB told me to watch my step which I did and with that watchful step I assumed my position in the testing booth.

DB attached an earplug in each ear and handed me a signalling device. He told me that once the test began every time that I heard a tone no matter how soft, I should press the button on the top of the signalling device.

"Just like in Jeopardy"

"Yeah, exept you're not gonna win any money.

And with that, the testing began.

Every time I heard a beep, I pressed the signalling device. I kind of picked up the rhythm of the signals which made me a bit more sensitive towards "hearing" tones that I might not have heard outside the chamber.

After the beeping part of the test concluded, DB instructed me to repeat words that he would say with the condition that I didn't look at him while he was saying the words.

No prob

And then voila the test was concluded and I returned to my seat next to his desk.

I'm not wha anyone would call a moderate man so I was surprised when DB gave me the reults of the test which revealed I had a moderate level of hearing loss and not only was it moderate level but it was a moderate range within the moderate level. He assured me that a hearing aid would be of great benefit to me. He reviewed what I had said before the actual exam and let me know that my description of how and what I heard was typical of what he had heard from many other folks who had come to him wanting to hear what he had to say about their hearing.

He also told me that I'd been working on this hearing loss for about five years. I said I was glad to hear that because Lynn had been saying that I hadn't done a lick of work in the last five years also he added that the loss had nothing to do with loud music. The condition was probably hereditary. As far as age went, that wasn't the main factor as DB had clients who were okder with better hearing and other patients who were younger with worse hearing.

The hearing aid would help me not only in conversations with Lynn but also in conversation in rooms with large groups of people. He said the effect of the hearing aid would be eye opening. I said that I hope that it would be ear opening as well and that I was already very capable of hearing what was being said in a group of large people.

He smiled at the ear opening bit and cracked back at the group of large people with "well large people have a tendency to speak loudly."

Yep DB was guy I could trust.

He showed us a catalogue of hearing aids. He made recommendations. We took his advice and made an order. The order will be ready in two-three weeks.

On the wya back to the parking lot...DB said a few words to the receptionist who would be ordering the device. I heard him say "Silver winter".

I asked him what he meant by "silver winter". DB said "so that the aid willl blend into the color of your hair."

I like that. Going forward I migh switch from Ice Rivers to Silver Winters. Time will tell.

As the tests began, a mix of beeps and words filling the headphones on my ears, I couldn't help but think about all the loud music, the concerts, the rehearsals. Maybe Lynn had a point. But there was also that stubborn part of me clinging to the belief that I was just fine.

When the tests were over, the audiologist reviewed the results. "You have some hearing loss," he said, looking at me kindly. "It's not unusual for someone with your history and age. The good news is, there are ways we can help."

I glanced at Lynn. Her face softened, the worry lines easing. "See? It wasn't so bad," she said, reaching for my hand.

I sighed, a mix of relief and resignation washing over me. "Okay, okay. I guess you were right."

She smiled. "I usually am."

We left the office, the cool air still a pleasant contrast to the heat outside. With a stop at Starbucks for that promised coffee, we headed home, ready to face this new chapter together, sorta.