#fashion statement all over spirale

[iznsfw]

The Devil's Telephone

IVE's An Yujin x Male Reader Smut

6969 words

Categories | model!Yujin x photojournalist!you, rough sex

Barely edited. Who cares, I did great.

"Is it true? What they say about you?" 

You're nervous, fidgeting  in the king-sized bed with your arm leaning against the mattress. It feels odd to be in a rich and attractive girl's place without being naked. Not that it's something you've experienced before anyway, but it's like breaking an unspoken law everyone but you was oriented to. But you have your manners, and so does she. Supposedly.

She's still beside you, her expensive clothes hiding not her shapely form. And to think it looks beautiful without the need for oil painting all around it or nakedness. That pretty smile, that also intimidates you a little, is the cherry on top of the cake that is An Yujin.

Speaking of, there's one right now between her lips. She's toying with its strand of a twig, tracing the cherry she got from the bowl beside her bed along the pink hills of her luscious mouth.

"After everything I did," Yujin says, "what do you think?" 

"I don't really…" Struggle to find your words. "I, I don't really dwell on—"

"If I'm a slut or not?" Yujin finishes for you, smiling teasingly. 

This conversation's a mistake, now that she's using words about a subject you tried to tread on lightly. "Look, I'm not trying to be rude or anything, I'm sorry."

"No offense taken. I get it."

Yujin lifts herself off her comfortable lounge position on her bed and instead sits on the backsides of her legs. Her hands are on your lap rather than her own. Should've been a sign for you that this is going nowhere but in a downward spiral. 

"You want to know if the rumors are true? If nepo model An Yujin's really a slut, like they all say?"

"Uh… sure?" 

Yujin gestures her chin to your crotch. "Whip out your dick. Then you'll see."

-

"You've got to be fucking kidding me."

"I'm not," says Gaeul. "Say that one more time and your career's over. No going back."

The small smile that's an everyday accessory to her features is gone. That tells you that what she says is what there is to her statement. What you hear is what you get. There's no underlying tone to it; she's completely serious, and besides, when has Gaeul ever lied?

Wring the looped lace of your camera over your head and place it and the device that can make or break your career on her desk. "Nope," you say. "I'm not doing it."

"You will," Gaeul says. "Nobody else will do it."

"Can't you get Jiwon to show up there?" It's worth a try, right?

"Like I said, no chance. Rei's with her on vacation. And Yunjin is out of the question."

"God fucking dammit." 

Looks like this day can actually get worse. First, you miss the taxi going to the studio, ending up being about an hour late to your meeting. And then the nervous intern almost spilled coffee all over your camera. Luckily, the scalding liquid only ended up mostly on your pressed shirt. It's like the day is toying with your feelings, trying to see how far you can get without breaking down.

Your eye twitches. The day might see your breaking point after all. 

"Gaeul," you say, "I'm a photojournalist, not a fucking Seattle professional."

"And so are a quarter of the people who go to the fashion week," she counters. Gaeul exhales through her nostrils, then leans forward on her desk, hands folded. "All you have to do is stand in for Chaewon and take the photos for each model. Don't worry about the caption."

"How'll I know what they're wearing?" 

"I can do that for you. I'm quite the fashion enthusiast, if I do say so myself."

You don't see the sense in it, like, at all. "Then why don't you go take the photos?"

"Because I don't want to, newbie," replies Gaeul simply. She swings her legs over the table and places her palms behind her neck. "You can sit here all day whining about I'm-a-photojourn-this and I-can't-do-it-that, but you're still going to go through." 

Gaeul's a rather straightforward girl, yet she can still make her blunt words sound frightening. You have to show that you can hold your own, too, and that you're not going to back up. Ever.

"And why do you think I'll give in so easily?" you challenge. 

She smiles. "Because An Yujin's going to be there, and unless you live under a fucking rock, you'd know she's the main attraction."

-

You aren't dumb. Of course you know her. It’s impossible not to know of her when the magazines all scream her name and the camera flashes crave her presence. It’s hard to navigate life without at least seeing a Yujin standee for one of the brands she sponsors or her face on soju labels. She’s become a household name that, even if you somehow wished it to be the other way, she's become an inescapable force in every Korean’s life. That’s just how it works. It’s been like that for as long as you remember.

She rose up in the industry at a young age. Being her age, you can remember the buzz she creates among your classmates, from head-over-heels, hopeless romantic boys and adoring girls (and a few girls who'd die to be able to touch her, too.) She's on their phone wallpapers, in another cutesie pose, and on the photocards in the back of clear cases. She's here, she's there, she's everything everywhere. 

You're familiar with her, but nothing about her except the usual: she's a model, she's an idol, she's a—

Ah, how should it go?

The girl beside you at the event, who's rather tall and if circumstances were different should be on the runway herself, tells you it goes like this: "She's an international free-use backstabbing slut."

Well, you didn't expect Kazuha to say that so easily (she told you her name earlier just so you had something to call her during the mandatory small talk),  but you know what she's talking about. However, you have no right to say Yujin's a slut when you're dressed… well, dressed like this. Your whole outfit is an embarrassing array of rainbow colors. Even your tie's pulled into passiveness by the colorful dress code. If this is what those high fashion enthusiasts call "fashion," you're glad you're not a part of them. You'll be glad to keep shopping at your local thrift store. 

Hence, "I wouldn't put it that way," you say.

Kazuha smirks. "How would you say it?" she asks. 

Why is she so interested in what you think about her? You suspect Kazuha's one of those girls who's rather jealous of the stick-figure models strutting the runway but would deny it with all her soul. Maybe that's it. She's jealous that she sits there in the audience while perfection after perfection makes themselves known to the public. 

"She's…" You snap a pic of another eighty-pound model walking down the runway. "Uh, promiscuous. That's all."

Kazuha grins. She purses her lips and writes down on her notepad, probably intending to use your statement as a headline pun. "Maybe we should switch jobs," she says. "You can be the devil's advocate journalist, and I can be the white knight photographer." 

Exhale loudly. For fuck's sake, you want to tell her, I'm only here to do the job I didn't want in the first place. Why has she chosen you to play with to fulfill her boredom? Whatever game she's set, you're not joining. 

"Look, what is it about Yujin that you hate?" you ask. 

"She fucked Jang Wonyoung, those MCs she used to partner up with, that actress from the period drama who was on Produce, too… everybody."

"Okay." You look at her pointedly. "Source?" 

Kazuha gestures a rude index to the runway. "Look at her. Look at her and tell me she isn't a slut. I dare you."

You look up from the lens of your camera for once, and as much as you'd like to come to Yujin’s defense, seeing as there’s no evidence to all those allegations and being a public figure with all the criticism must be the deepest ring of hell, you see what Kazuha means. 

You hate to say it, and you’d love to pass no judgment, but the prodding journalist is right. Yujin isn't skin and bones like the other models, nor does she wear light makeup. However, her confident gaze that not once settles on the floor immediately makes you think, wow, now that is a model. She only looks forward, stepping onto the smooth floor in heels that make her much taller than she already is. Her eyes are lined with this sharp, blaring dark that makes her brown contacts stand out and makes her look like a black cat. So much for Jiwon’s nickname.

But that isn’t all. It’s far from done, because it’s not Yujin’s arrogant smile that drips of sultriness that confirms Kazuha's allegations for you, nor is it her makeup. It’s what she’s wearing. Her chest nearly spills out of the oddly-cut neckline of her blouse, and it’s see-through, meaning that even if her busty figure is in some way contained by the clothing, you can still see everything. For example, her tummy lined with her abs and a small tattoo (barely noticeable, but enough to cause a few tabloids to freak out); her wide hips, and of course; the bare flesh of her breasts. The fabric tape does nothing to hide them when her brown nipples beg to be seen through the fabric. Each bounce coerced by her confident strut is out there for all to see, and so are the jiggles of her full thighs. 

Which part of everything do you have to immortalize in a photograph? You don’t know. You just keep taking pictures. There’s plenty enough to create a video of her walk without actually having to record one. 

Seeing your dropped jaw, Kazuha grins satisfactorily. “Told you,” she says.

You aren’t done looking, though. As the press and audience scream her name, (they all know her name—she’s bagged so many brand deals, shot more than enough magazine covers, and performed songs you couldn’t count on two hands just so that any type of audience can recognize her), Yujin steps up to the end of the catwalk. She smiles at all the attention, setting a hand on her waist before blowing several kisses to the audience. 

And, of course, she finishes off her umpteenth walk with another scandal:

Shredding her blouse into pieces. Yujin rips it clean from the seams, letting the lost dangle of fabric finally reveal the whole of her chest. Her skimpy shorts are the only thing remaining complete on herself. 

The viewers gasp, and you do, too. But you're hypocrites, the lot of you, for you remain interested in scanning every bit of her enviable body. Secretly, you all know that some part of you were looking there even before her blouse ripped.

You haven’t seen a model do that before, but then again, she’s not just a model. She’s plenty of things: a singer, an idol, an ambassador—

A slut. A full-on, shameless, lives-up-to-her-name slut.

-

“So.”

“So,” you say, resentfully. Your camera’s in your bag, and Gaeul is on the phone with you. You’re proceeding out of the vicinity like everybody else. It's eight p.m.; someone’s bound to be hungry at this hour, and that someone is you.

You can hear the giggle in her voice as she asks you, “What do you think?”

“What do I think?” you say, flabbergasted. Zip up your satchel bag and walk through the rain. “Gaeul, the girl just ripped her shirt off in front of everyone! This isn’t what I signed up for!”

What should you get tonight? Minute Burger? Maybe McDonald’s or some sushi? You’d take anything—you’re pretty hungry after the long show. If this is how hunger hits after shows, you’re glad you don’t have to go through the whole fashion week. By Saturday, you’d be as dead as everyone was after the stunt Yujin pulled.

“I thought you knew about her, newbie,” replies Gaeul. She’s clearly poking fun at your reaction. What’s also clear is the obvious fact that she picked you out for this job just to see how you’d handle it. Would you go crazy? Treat Yujin as a Victorian man who’d just seen a lady’s ankles would? Oh, she’d love to find out.

“I didn’t know she was…"

"Yeah?"

"B-bold.”

“Oh, please be normal about it. You’re a photojournalist. You handled the dead guy who was stabbed alright, but a woman showing her tits is where you cross the line?”

“It’s not that,” you say tiredly. Your stomach is really growling now. “I guess… I think…”

"Hey."

Your phone drops to the wet cement road. Like a haunting phantom, Yujin appears out of nowhere. It's like she suddenly materialized from the fog of the storm.

You don't know where to look. Yujin's still dressed, (somewhat), in her ruined blouse. The thing is even more transparent as the rain beats down on it. Still, she looks perfect. She is perfect. You know that without having to be a fan of her. 

The light from a camera hidden in a beaten bush makes you flinch. If the crouched man in black taking photos of Yujin isn't there, you'd have accepted your fate to get struck by lightning. Yujin raises her eyebrows questioningly, and you're forced to compose yourself once more.

"Uh, hi," you stammer. Bend down to pick your sodden phone up. Darn it, it's dead. How will you contact Gaeul now?

"You're one of the photographers, right?" asks Yujin. Unlike you, she doesn't care that your phone has met its end, or mind that her boobs are out in the open. 

You mutter something of agreement, but you're still tinkering with your phone. The battery's probably broken, which's a pity when your late mother gifted it to you on the last birthday you had together.

"Damn, must be nice to snap photos of a half-naked chick, huh? You liked seeing me up there?" 

That makes you stop fiddling with your destroyed gadget. "I," you say, cornered into confession but still trying to gather a burst of energy to escape, "I'm not—"

"An Yujin," she says, as if the whole world doesn't scream her name. As if she were just another girl out there who's a little too friendly. She doesn't offer her hand; she grasps yours and shakes it firmly. 

You have no other choice but to be acquainted with her there and then. You tell her your name, albeit nervously, as you slip your phone into your pocket. What is she planning? Why is she out here with you? 

Yujin grins. "Nice to meet you. Want to come to a party at my house? Starts when we get there."

Now you understand what she's planning. What else would you expect from her?

First things first, though: where should you look? Her chest is a dangerous option. To look or not to look? That is the question—you choose the second option. Note the dim stars in the foggy sky. Look down at the road blotted with raindrops. Remark inwardly about the state of your shoes and how they're too expensive to be dragged through a weather like this.

Second, should you go? Gaeul would be looking for you. She'd want the pics immediately so she could put them in the magazine and on your company blog site. But you haven't had fun in years, and for a girl with the wealth and status of Yujin, it might be a new beginning.

Work, however, comes first.

"I'm sorry," you tell her. You really are. Yujin seems like a fun girl outside of her wildness. "I don't think I—"

"Great! Come on, I'll drive you!" 

That's how you end up in a limousine for the first time in your life and learn that An Yujin doesn't take no for an answer. 

The seats are dark and soft, and there's two long aisles of it for thirty pax max to occupy. However, despite the spaciousness, Yujin still chooses to sit snugly beside you. Should you feel flattered? Intimidated? You struggle to choose for this question.

You wonder where you're headed. The infamous Jang Hills where celebrities like singer Son Seungwan and model and humanitarian Jang Wonyoung, who owns the place, reside? The rain is too strong for you to be able to see where the vehicle's headed, but you suspect that's the destination. There's no other. 

"So," says Yujin. She's still sitting comfortably beside you. Her smile dimples her cheeks, and it just doesn't match the boldness of her ripped blouse. When she wears that smile, she looks like a girl who's too cheerful and innocent to be… the way she is. "Would I have to pay you to see my photos?"

"For god's sake, Miss An, put on some clothes before you scare the guy," chuckles the driver, shaking his head. He's a tall, dark man with the typical shades and a rosary on his rearview mirror. You wonder if he prays for Yujin sometimes. 

"But that's no fun," she says, the pout on her face growing wider when her driver tosses her a black fur coat (that still reminds you of her when you note how the chest part is gone) and sleeveless innerwear. Seems like he keeps clothes in his car for situations like these. "Clothes are so big and boring, you know. Totally outdated.

"Anyway, about the photos…?" 

"Oh, you don't have to pay," you tell her. But you know that money isn't a problem with Yujin—she can buy you and your whole life if she chose to. 

"Gimme then." She makes grabby hands, and your camera eventually ends up in them. Her eyes sparkle with narcissistic adoration. "Oh damn, I look hot. Delete this, though. Bad angle."

"I– okay." 

"My tits look amazing, don't you think? Come on, say my tits look fantastic."

"Ms. An," says the driver firmly, albeit his tone holds some of the amusement in it still. "Put on some clothes."

Yujin rolls her eyes, but she does. And you watch as she strips, painfully slow. She pulls the soaked blouse above her wet body, showing her bare, beautiful arms and pits. Even her soft midriff is perfect. And, try as you may (must),  you can't stop looking. Several snaps and pinches would be too weak to pull you back into reality, because there's the goddess that she is to look at. You figure out now why your former classmates were and still are obsessed with her. She may be a wild little thing, but she's got an amazing body, an amazing fashion sense. Everything about her, even her boldness, is enviable. Desirable. Unreachable.

The clothes mold to her beautiful shape. The damp, slightly messy hair only adds to her beauty. You can feel yourself getting warm. 

"We're here," says Yujin cheerfully, oblivious to the way your eyes are raking down her perfect body. "Here's your camera. Wouldn't want it to break like your phone. Pity."

Getting up to open the car door isn't part of a wealthy girl's everyday life. Yujin isn’t an exception—she has her driver to do that plus assist her out of the limo, and when he does, you're welcomed into a whole new world.

The rain has halted. Signs of its earlier presence, however, can be seen on the drops on the maze of bushes. There's statues of Eros, gray and mighty with his strong arms and arrows, perched on pedestals to the entrance of the mansion. Through the gate, you catch sight of a large pool, where heiresses and friends of Yujin laugh and swim. It's no land for lowlives. You are the exception, somehow. 

"This… this is your house?" 

"Yep!” She nods positively. “Daddy gave it to me after he died from a heart attack."

"My condolences," you say. As the guards open the gate to Yujin's mansion, you admire the place. It looks like a temple for cupids. Perhaps it’s Yujin they’re worshiping.  "Did he have heart conditions before that?"

"No." She shakes her head then waves happily to one of her friends at the pool. "He just saw me wearing a bra over my crop top, and he dropped dead."

You snort. Yujin looks at you weirdly. That's how you realize she isn't kidding. 

"You're serious?"

She opens her mouth to say something, but forgets it. It's a long story that doesn't need more sequels. 

-

Just the second drink of the night and you’ve met more celebrities than an average person would see personally in their whole life. As the dazzling disco ball shimmers rainbow colors all over the place, you catch sight of more than plenty of pretty and handsome faces. Over there is Jang Wonyoung, one of the models who walked earlier, and Miyawaki Sakura, a famous CEO of more beauty lines than you can count on ten fingers. Whether their beauties are handcrafted or God-given, they all have something in common: they’re all A-listers—they’re relevant, popular, used to this wild lifestyle. Camera flashes have trained them not to flinch at the gliding lights. This is an everyday routine in their book.

However, you’re used to being behind the camera, not in front of it. You’re overstimulated by the sea of laughing, moving bodies and the loud music. While Yujin happily screams and downs several shots, you stand idly beside her, dizzy and tired. 

“I don’t think I can handle more.”

“Past your bedtime?” asks Yujin, grinning. She waves at Wonyoung and points at you, mouthing something to her, to which the model winks in response. You wonder what kind of exchange the two models had that granted an unusually smug look on Wonyoung’s face. You’re certain it’s about you, but you don’t know what it’s about. You’re not even sure if you want to discover it.

“It’s not that,” you say embarrassedly. “I’m… I’m not a party person. I get lightheaded easily.”

“Wanna take a break? Go to my room?”

Now that’s a red flag. It doesn't even try to hide its true color; it waves proudly in front of you. You’re the bull who went straight for it. 

Yujin’s bedroom is the size of your living room, with a large bed to match. Curtained pillars stand on each end while posters hang off the walls. You suppose that the people on them are the ones Yujin looks up to: IU, known as Lee Jieun whenever she ventures out of singing and into acting; Marilyn Monroe (no explanation needed), and a few other nameless models and actresses. A lot are old posters of seventies’ pornographic films. Lights frame the mirror on the dresser table. 

“You’re a privileged girl, miss An,” you say. It’s the only way you can respectfully say that she’s kind of a spoiled brat. But maybe that’s your jealousy talking.

“I know, right?” replies Yujin, twirling around. “And please, call me Yujin. You can sit on the bed if you want to.”

Your mind toys with the idea of the posters on her wall debating if you’re the hundredth person to have come over or the thousandth. Nevertheless, you want to stay neutral; it’s none of your business anyway. So you take a seat on the edge of the softest mattress you’ve ever felt while Yujin does so, too. She kicks her boots off on the carpeted floor. 

“Hey,” says Yujin, “want to play a game before you doze off?”

Just how many red flags does this girl have? “Er, sure.” You shrug. Maybe it’s just a game, nothing more, like she said. 

“Since we barely know each other, let’s take turns asking each other questions. Dibs on the first question.

“I haven’t seen you in shows before. How did you end up there?”

A safe start. “One of my coworkers was sick,” you explain. “I had to fill in for her. My turn.”

“Hit me.”

“Did you take modeling classes?”

Yujin laughs as if it was the funniest thing she’s ever heard. “God, no,” she says. “Classes and workshops are scams. All I had to do was ask my daddy to ask for a spot for me.”

“Must be nice.”

“Right? Did you take classes for photography?”

“I took one of the scams, yeah,” you say, earning a giggle from Yujin. “I’m a journalist first. It’s all I know.”

Meaningful silence fills the air. You remain hooked on your sentence, realizing how true it is. Photojournalism is the only thing you’re good at. It’s sheltered you and brought you so many opportunities at the same time. You don’t know how to find other hobbies to make your forte when you’re stuck in its bubble, and its bubble only. Without your camera, you’re nothing. Without people like Yujin to take photos of, you’re nothing, too. 

You suppose you should break the heavy silence. But you’re unsure if your question should be asked; it might trigger a violent response from her, although she’s been nothing but laid-back with you. And you don’t particularly want a rich girl to ruin your career. You’ve gone so far that the only direction to look at is forward.

But you must learn to take risks.

"Is it true? What they say about you?" 

You're nervous, fidgeting  in the king-sized bed with your arm leaning against the mattress. It feels odd to be in a rich and attractive girl's place without being naked. Not that it's something you've experienced before anyway, but it's like breaking an unspoken law everyone but you was oriented to. But you have your manners, and so does she. Supposedly.

She's still beside you, her expensive clothes hiding not her shapely form. And to think it looks beautiful without the need for oil painting all around it or nakedness. That pretty smile, that also intimidates you a little, is the cherry on top of the cake that is An Yujin.

Speaking of, there's one right now between her lips. She's toying with its strand of a twig, tracing the cherry she got from the bowl beside her bed along the pink hills of her luscious mouth.

"After everything I did," Yujin says, "what do you think?" 

"I don't really…" Struggle to find your words. "I, I don't really dwell on—"

"If I'm a slut or not?" Yujin finishes for you, smiling teasingly. 

This conversation's a mistake, now that she's using words about a subject you tried to tread on lightly. "Look, I'm not trying to be rude or anything, I'm sorry."

"No offense taken. I get it."

Yujin lifts herself off her comfortable lounge position on her bed and instead sits on the backsides of her legs. Her hands are on your lap rather than her own. Should've been a sign for you that this is going nowhere but in a downward spiral. 

"You want to know if the rumors are true? If nepo model An Yujin's really a slut, like they all say?"

"Uh… sure?" 

Yujin gestures her chin to your crotch. "Whip out your dick. Then you'll see."

You’re flustered. Did Yujin—this tall, alluring model that’s got her whole life ahead of her yet nothing to lose, this irritatingly attractive Yujin—really say that to you? Or was it something lost in the swarms of shouts and music from outside of the room? Maybe you’ve misheard. Maybe you’ll keep playing safe tonight. 

But those are just mere maybes with no connection at all to what’s about to happen.

“Can’t do it yourself, pretty boy? Let me help you.”

Yujin lifts your satchel bag from your shoulders. You find yourself raising your arms to help her. It’s like the what and tension in the air have infected you and made you into this heated, lustful character far from the real you, because if this were truly your own self, you’d say you had a career. You’d say this shouldn’t be happening. You’d leave the room instead of helping her unbuckle your belt. You’d do anything but this.

Perhaps she’s changed you.

Yujin slips a tongue along the path of her luscious lips at the sight of your bare thighs and cock. “Our friend here,” she says, “needs a little help from me, no?”

“Yujin…” you moan, and it’s humiliating, especially when barely anything sexual has happened yet. At least, anything sexually physical. 

Luckily for you, she curls her fist around your dick and gives justification to your breathy sounds. Maybe the rumors about how she likes to get around are true; Yujin knows how to work her way with a cock. Her warm fingers jerk your flesh at just the right timing, letting the hardness build up before doing that too with the pace. She’s looking at you with this wild desire in her eyes that grows bigger when your erection does, too. Oh, and that smile—if looks could kill, An Yujin would already be arrested for your murder.

“Now that’s not so bad, is it?” she remarks. She spits on your cock. Her wet saliva coats your length with just enough to let her smooth palm slide along itself pleasurably. “You like this? Just wait until you feel my pussy. Or maybe my lips would do first? The higher ones, I mean.” 

Yujin’s lips descend onto your shaft, welcoming it into an impossibly soft and wet heaven. Yujin’s little tongue flicks at your base gently, even daring to lick at a little part of your balls before working their way up. It deliciously slides upwards at your veins.

“Fuck, Yujin. Your mouth—fuck, it feels so good.”

“Mmm.” Yujin engages in an open-mouthed, sloppy kiss with your tip. “I know. I’d fuck me, too, if I could, but I have you to do that.”

“Right,” you say breathily, because she is. If she’s sucking your cock this well and her cheek’s painfully stimulating as your cockhead brushes it, how much better would her pussy be? You’re definitely fucking her, even if your experience in this is zero. Yes, that’s also right: you’re a virgin. Zero experience, no bitches.

But, if it means anything, it’s the other way around. It’s Yujin making you her bitch. She may be serving you with the lips and kisses of a good girl, but her eyes tell you that there’s more to it than you think. You’re hers, see, for this night, and that’s all you ever will be. You’re no photojournalist anymore—you’re Yujin’s one night stand, and that’s the only achievement people will ever remember to your name.

“These’re so fucking full,” murmurs Yujin as she admires your heavy balls. Sucking on them lightly before smiling up at you, she adds, “Make sure to blow all of it in my face, ‘kay? Promise me.”

“Think you can handle it, Yujin?” you ask, and it’s another embarrassing moment you’ll relive forever, for your cockiness will never get on the level she has. Your voice shakes too hard and your cock drips too much—it’s clear who owns who at this point.

“I’m a big girl.” Unfazed, she smiles. “I can handle myself.”

“Y-you sure?”

“Oh, don’t play hard to get it, baby,” Yujin coos. She pleases you with one hand and glides her fingers on your thigh with the other. It’s deadly. She’s deadly. “Let your guard down. It’s just me.”

“And you’ve said that to how many people?” you shoot back.

“More than you’re worth,” she quips. She winks at you. “Now cum for me.”

Ouch, but it doesn’t matter when her lips provide a great suction to cool the burn. It’s making your cock feel the heat instead, forming the tightness in your stomach more. Her hands massaging your thighs causes your sensitivity to reach an all-time high. Yujin’s covered your shaft in such an amountful that just one lick sends your toes curling. She licks, she sucks, she laps at your weak spots and delights in the upward push of your hips, but her hands keep your legs down. Can’t have her meal escaping. She wants all of your cum, and when Yujin wants (no, needs) something, she gets it. It’s how she’s navigated life, having everything her heart could ever want brought to her by whim. But if she has to work for your cum, then so be it. Either-which-way, she’s not giving up until she gets it.

She kisses your cock deeply, almost making your lips jealous. She sucks on each sensitive side and your dripping tip. What takes the cake, though, is how she downs the whole thing so suddenly, slipping itself inside her tight throat and letting you fuck it. Gasps can’t be contained by your pursed lips, and their cycle of repetition continues because of her. Because of Yujin, Yujin and her stupidly desirable mouth.

“Fuck,” you whine. When she hears that, she pulls away. Like rain, drops of semen make slick landings on her face. You keep expelling several shots of the thing she so desperately wants, and you realize that, even with your own pleasure being fulfilled, you’re still serving Yujin. You’re still giving her what she wants: your cum on her face. The fact that she’s playing with you remains stoic.

“Ah, this is the best.” Yujin licks her cumstained lips. “I could have swallowed it all like I did with these cherries here, but I can’t let it spoil the main course.”

“W-which is?” you inquire, still panting. Can you handle more? 

You find out through Yujin taking off her black vest. Then, she slips out of her jean skirt. It hugs her lower figure so nicely that it nearly makes you mourn their departure, but you find a better thing to gawk at, and it’s Yujin’s ass and thighs. She may have dressed earlier, but the panties were off. She cares not for modesty, even outside of the modeling industry.  It’s just not who she is. 

For that, you’re glad. If Yujin were modest, you wouldn’t have had the chance to see her fat ass and shaven pussy up close. You wouldn’t get to see her sway her hips side to side, letting you see from behind how her ass ripples and bounces, or let you peer at her dripping thighs. 

"You're weaker than all the others," Yujin notes. "I like it."

Should you be offended? Probably, but you aren't, because there's her approval. There's her saying that she likes how easily you break. There's her on the bed with her pussy spread by her fingers, revealing her tiny hole and needy clit.

There's a lot to look at is what you're saying, and a lot to take in consideration. For example—

"Ohhhh, fuck," moans Yujin. She rubs her core and gets a feel of how wet she is. "I'm so wet, see? I'm so, fuck, wet from blowing you."

Yujin leans against one of the pillars of her bed. What makes the sight of her masturbating hotter is that she's still covered in the face with cum that soon drips down her neck and onto her collarbone. She looks like she's been used incessantly, to the point where no amount of cock or finger can help her reach a good enough high. Although you're still sensitive, you begin to jack yourself off to her.

"Shit. Ohhh." Her head tosses backwards and she shuts her eyes. "This feels so good. Make me feel even better. Use your mouth."

It's all about what she wants, but you find out that you also want to put your mouth on her. Stop jerking off to kneel on the floor and place your hands on her thick thighs. You have no idea how to do this except from porn, but she moans loudly when you flick your tongue upwards, so you must be doing well.

Yujin's so wet that she dribbles on her expensive sheets. The feminine scent of her drives you crazy. Due to that, you pick up the pace of eating Yujin out. She's delicious. Better than any expensive meal you got going out. 

"Oh, fuck," mewls Yujin. She grinds her clit down on the flat of your tongue. "That's it. Eat me out like that."

Next, guide your tongue to her slit, catching the juices she has. Push it inside, make her thighs suddenly clamp around your head. Painful, but worth it, because as useful as her makeshift earmuffs are, you can still make out her heavy moans.

“G-good, god, so good. Don’t you stop, don’t you fucking stop.” 

“I won’t.”

The force of your mouth holds nothing back as it holds Yujin’s nub captive. She pulses in your mouth, and you can sense that she’s close because she’s screaming. She's squirming, she's writhing, she's—

“Stop.”

“But I, I thought you said—” You were having such a good time, too. Why did she have to ruin it?

Yujin giggles. “I wanted to cum on your cock,” she confesses. Sweat rolls down the sides of her face. “Let me?”

She’s subtly assertive like that, asking you first before making you do it anyway. She’s so used to getting her way, so used to letting people bend reality into the form she wants. And you’re becoming one of those people, as you lie down on the bed and let her mount you. You don’t suppose anyone would refuse either—her splayed lips rubbing your tip seems like a good thing to have in exchange for being under her ownership.

“Fuck,” you curse. Maybe this is better, in hindsight. Her hole grasps for you, but she teases it by only letting her clit glide along your cock. “Miss An, ah, Yujin, you’re so—”

“Pretty? Successful? Tight?” She sinks down on your dick with a smirk that differs from your weakened look of bliss. “Yeah, I’ve heard that before.”

They’re all perfect adjectives to describe her, but you weigh in the most on the last. Her soaked slit swallows you without time to properly take it in. She just keeps bouncing on you, a millisecond going unspared, as if she’d die if your cock weren’t ramming in her all times of the day. By her desperate moans, you think you’re right. They’re heavy, hanging onto your mind for too long that it just makes you throb harder inside. 

You reach up to grab her tits. The bra-like innerwear she dons blocks you from experiencing the whole of it, and Yujin takes that into consideration, through which she pulls it up her arms and off herself. Her bust now moves up and down freely, looped in your mind like a constant reminder of how lucky you are to have Yujin fuck you. She may get around a lot, but whoever she fucks is like her: a hell of a catch.

 You lift yourself up to suck on their brown nipples. She moans ferally. Her pushing your head deeper into her tits is how you realize you’ve wanted to do this, to suck and play and slap her chest, ever since you saw them be set free on the runway. It’s funny how two mounds of flesh can hypnotize you just like that. You’re trying to defeat the impulse actions they convince you to do, as if they were spiritual entities on your shoulder each to twist your decisions. But both are devils—even from their source, it’s clear that An Yujin is no angel.

“Yes, so good!” she screams. Her eyes are shut as she rides you with an impulse and speed that surely can’t be human. The pleasure she unleashes onto your cock as her pussy clings and gropes it must be the embodiment of the deadly sin of lust itself. It was written before in holy books, preached as a warning in churches. There’s no explanation for how angrily she impales herself with your cock. “Your cock’s too fucking big, I’m going to cum all over it!”

You spank her ass, and the plentiful skin wiggles right back into your hand. Seeing her face twist up into this pained yet blissful reaction inspires you to continue. That and your cock entering and exiting her hole, plus your kisses following the path of her neck makes Yujin go crazy. 

“Fuck me!” She’s fully unhinged when she cums. Her short yet sharp, alliterate downward thrusts of her core leaves red on your thighs. She’s kissing you with this hunger that’s been fulfilled, in a way, but with which comes gluttony. She can’t have enough. She can’t have enough of your dick. It starts to scare you how she’s like the girls your pastor warned you about in Sunday school—she’s a gluttonous nymphomaniac greedy for things that aren’t good for her. Aren’t good for you.

Having sex with An Yujin makes you debate if you should go back to your religious roots and pray again. You’ve heard about the devil hiding behind human faces, and she completely fits the criteria: charming, deceiving, gorgeous beyond human comprehension. However, her divine body also can be something holy. It’s something that’s more than worth worshiping.

Which is which: evil or good? Angel or demon? A goddess who descended to earth or something far, far more dangerous? 

Whichever, you just busted a load inside exactly that. 

-

“So.”

“Hm?”

“Come on, tell me,” you say. Yujin’s teasing banter piques your curiosity to higher levels. “Did you really fuck all those people, or is it just,” shrug, as if you couldn’t care less when you do, “you know, hearsay?”

Yujin strokes your chest thoughtfully. The aftermath of the rough sex has left her almost invalid, but after a shower, she’s good to go. You followed suit after.

“The devil’s telephone,” she whispers.

“Huh?”

“Here. You know where to call me.”

[defectivehero]

home where

"Are those single-use plastic bags?" The villain huffs, leaning forward from the hero's open windowsill. The hero's heart leaps out of their chest and they stumble backwards, very nearly falling over in bewilderment.

They place a hand over their chest as they regain their breath. "What the hell are you doing here?" The hero demands, staring at the villain casually sitting in their window.

"You really shouldn't leave your window open unless you want visitors," the villain sighs in lieu of an answer. "Practically asking me to break in." They tap their fingers along the frame of the window.

"Wow, okay, blaming the victim," the hero huffs, their mind spinning. They are somewhat convinced that they're dreaming—and that they'll wake up in a few hours, sweat-soaked and gasping for breath underneath their linen sheets. "And what was that about the bags?" They ask.

"Look at that bag of bags," the villain points at the clever contraption hanging on one of the drawers of their kitchen, turning their nose up at it. "Disgusting. And everyone thinks I'm the villain." The hero tries to process that statement for a moment.

"You are," the hero responds, staring at them in disbelief. "You kill people. All the time." Hence their appearance on several old-fashioned "wanted" posters and more modern newscasts.

"At least I'm not killing the entire earth," the villain gestures flippantly. "Get some reusable bags, you monster."

The hero promptly ignores the latter half of their statement, instead focusing on their accusation. "That's a huge exaggeration," the hero sighs.

"Okay." The villain shrugs. "Don't say I didn't warn you. Complacency is very dangerous when it comes to protecting the environment."

"You're such a fucking hypocrite," the hero responds, crossing their arms over their chest. "Your invention last week probably created enough nuclear waste to sink this entire city."

"Okay, rude," the villain scoffs. "I use sustainable energy sources, of course. Nuclear power is a no-no."

The hero blinks at them once, twice. "This is so weird." They remark aloud, bringing a hand to their arm and pinching at it hard. Surprisingly, nothing happens. Either this is a very vivid lucid dream... or it's reality. The hero isn't sure which would be worse.

"Your dreaming mind isn't nearly quick enough to predict me, dear," the villain says, swinging out of the window and landing on the floor noiselessly. "Besides, knowing you... your dreams are probably plagued with memories of the people you couldn't save."

A ragged breath is torn out of the hero's lips at the unexpected remark. The reminder is entirely unwelcome. They don't want to think of all the victims they failed—all the families they ruined. The hero desperately tries to suppress their quickly spiraling thoughts. "Why are you here?" Their voice is slightly more breathless; the villain is quick to notice.

"Do I need a reason to visit my enemy?" The villain grins, leaning closer. The hero doesn't bother hiding their discomfort, stepping to the side to enforce the distance between them.

"When you visit my home, yes," the hero remembers to answer in a few seconds. The villain's grin morphs into a dangerous smirk, and the hero is suddenly assaulted with the inexplicable conviction that they've made a grave mistake.

"Oh, you don't have to pretend this is the first time I've visited," the villain remarks casually, rhythmically tapping their fingers against the counter. "I've always known where you lived. You should know that by now."

Everything—the dull hum of their kitchen appliances, the traffic outside—descends to a tense silence. The hero's stomach churns as they think back to the inexplicable occurrences that have taken place throughout the past months: their water bill going up without reason; groceries going missing; takeout food appearing when they don't remember buying it. They had dismissed them as slips in their memory—they've been busy at the agency. But now that they really think about it...

"That was you," the hero chokes. Their heart is suddenly racing in their chest. They have never truly had privacy, have they? They suddenly feel very vulnerable. "Why do you keep sneaking in here?!"

"Well," the villain drawls, as if the answer is obvious. "It's easy, for one. You don't even have locks on these windows." The villain laughs as their eyes find the several windows in the room. "It's closer, sometimes. You have a lot more first aid materials than I do... You get the idea." They shrug nonchalantly.

The hero stares at them in shocked silence. "You've practically been living here," they breathe, a note of frustration leaking into their voice. Their head is spinning. Pain is starting to stretch through their temple and down their jaw from from how hard they've been gritting their teeth.

"Okay, now you're the one exaggerating," the villain says. "I'd hardly associate a few house visits with living here." They pick at their nails, as if entirely unbothered by this turn in conversation. It's clear they're entirely unapologetic about invading the hero's space.

The hero still feels the visceral need to convince the villain of the gravity of their invasive actions. "You used my shower," the hero accuses, with equal sentiments of embarrassment and irritation.

"I was bloody," the villain shrugs. "And your shampoo is nicer than mine."

The hero frowns. The farther they look back, the more they realize just how long the villain has been visiting. The villain's visits explain everything: things left in slightly different places than the hero remembers; doors unlocked when they should be locked; and... "Oh my gods, that's why my fucking washer hasn't been working! You broke it, you asshole!" They exclaim.

"I didn't break it!" The villain immediately argues, having the audacity to look offended. A guilty expression rises on their face as they avert their eyes. "I just... didn't know how to use it." They trail off, a sheepish grimace on their face.

The hero focuses on taking a deep breath in, exhaling slowly. When they speak again, their voice is deceptively calm. "Get out." They point to the window from which the villain entered.

The villain doesn't look surprised by the sudden dismissal, and somehow, they are agreeable enough to head over to the window to leave. "I'll be back," the villain says when they reach the windowsill, glancing over their shoulder and sending the hero an unreadable look.

"I know." The hero says defeatedly, letting out a long-suffering sigh. A hint of fondness escapes their voice and they hope their enemy doesn't notice. They know there's no convincing their enemy: it would be a futile effort. They have never been able to persuade the villain to do anything—and the hero doubts that will change now.

"Oh," the villain responds, staring at them in mild surprise, as if they hadn't expected them to admit it. "Okay then. Bye." They send an awkward wave over their shoulder and disappear. The hero stares at the empty window for longer than they should, before closing it and locking it. They're not sure why they're bothering to lock it—a simple lock won't keep the villain away.

Sure enough, three days later, the hero wakes up and walks out to their kitchen to find a pile of reusable bags on their counter. "You really need to get your priorities in order." The hero says. There is no one in sight—yet, somehow, they know the villain is listening.

©2024, @defectivehero | @defectivevillain, All Rights Reserved. Reblogs are greatly appreciated—just don't steal or share outside of Tumblr, please.

_______

me, unloading the groceries this morning: damn it, i forgot to buy reusable bags. i've been meaning to buy those. me, an hour later, sitting in front of my computer: what the fuck did I just write. and why did I write it.

did I overdo it with the banter? probably. do I care? ......only a little.

is the title from the sir chloe song? ....i plead the fifth.

thanks for reading!

tag list: @lateuplight @wit-is-wisdom @greengableswriting @whump-me-all-night-long @noawhite @rekhyt-of-arcadia @the-blind-one-speaks @sufferfictionalcharacters @basically-psyduck @alexkolax @subval01 @emerald-blade @felicia609 @surplus-of-sarcasm @ilickedanenvelopeandilikedit @a-chaotic-gremlin @unknownogre @prompt-fills-and-writing-spills @whatwhumpcomments @excusemeasibangmyheadonawall @agayprince @starsick1979 @a-lonely-little-ghost @agayprince @plum-tello @miashico @pleaseenterbloghere @c4xcocoa

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[anthurak]

Consider the following:

If Weiss and Yang as a pairing have ‘divorced married couple’ energy,

Then Ruby and Blake as a pairing have ‘Tragic Anime Yuri’ energy.

The kind where they absolutely love each other, yet also unwittingly enable the fuck out of each other’s self-destructive tendencies.

Like in the early volumes, particularly volume 2, I think it’s all too easy to imagine Ruby going right along with Blake’s self-destructive spiral chasing Torchwick and the White Fang if she was more in the loop. Rather than giving Blake the intervention she actually needed like Yang did.

Likewise in later volumes, if we’re looking to single out the teammate who most unwittingly enabled Ruby’s self-destructive hero-complex, I think we should be looking at Blake.

I mean just look at Blake’s heart-to-heart to Ruby in Volume 8. Sure, in the moment it’s cute and heartwarming and Blake is clearly trying her hardest to help Ruby and give her support.

But in hindsight, ESPECIALLY after Volume 9? Yeah, Blake was unknowingly playing right into Ruby’s hero-complex. As in, putting Ruby up on a pedestal with that ‘I look up to you’ statement and generally putting more pressure on Ruby to BE that ‘perfect hero’ that’s eventually going to break her.

It’s subtle, but it’s pretty clear that from Volume 6 on, Blake is absolutely Ride or Die for Ruby, possibly the MOST out of any of Ruby’s friends and teammates. Whether it’s subtle moments like Blake’s ‘We’ll follow your lead, Ruby’ at the start of Volume 7, or more obvious points like Blake siding with RUBY over Yang when the team splits at the start of Volume 8.

And I can’t help but think that this dynamic could lead to any potential romance between Ruby and Blake to burn out in truly tragic and angst-filled fashion.

Like Ladybug is the kind of couple where Ruby makes some big, tragic heroic sacrifice to save the world, and Blake proceeds to burn the whole damn world down for just a CHANCE to bring her back.

As in, I’m talking BIG MadoHomu energy. Or Salem energy for something more show-specific.

As in, Blake going “I will never forgive this world for taking someone so pure and perfect.”

So yeah, I’m certainly not saying any of this makes Ladybug a bad ship.

Kinda the opposite really XD

[itsjustsemantics]

Love, Javier - Chpt: 7

Pairing: Javier Peña x F!Reader/OFC (no y/n, no physical description, established backstory, no clear age gap mentioned)

Content/warnings: alcohol consumption, smoking/nicotine habit, lil hurt/comfort, overall quite tame but very very fluffy! Movie nights!! MOVIE NIGHTS!!!

Ps- 70s disco has been the vibe the last couple of weeks

Series masterlist - Previous chapter

Chapter 7: The VHS Player

The specks of rain danced down from the peaceful grey sky, one of them landing on Javier’s neatly trimmed moustache. His deep brown eyes twinkled and his face angled upwards breathing it all in. 

Even in this miserable weather, Javier was clad in his usual linen button-up and jeans, looking like a hot drink on a chilly day; wrapped up in a flecked cashmere scarf and a button-up jacket.

You had just crossed the street, skittering onto the sidewalk just as another cab zipped past. Waking up the orange-hued maple leaves and sending them into a spiralling frenzy of eddies in the air. 

“Whoo, that was close.” You raised your eyebrows, waiting for Javier to saunter over. 

“Where was this place again?” He asked, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans. You had come to notice, after spending an increasing amount with the man that not knowing, made Javier uneasy. 

“Just around this corner.” You gestured with your neck, slowing your pace as he caught up. 

“Don’t be so impatient.” You scolded playfully after a beat, pushing your shoulder into his warm arm. “We’re here.” You stopped in front of a toasty-toned cafe, yellow light spilling out through the glass. 

“Cafe Luxembourg.” Javier read the white letters off of the red sign then ducked down slightly peeking at its interiors. “Looks ordinary to me.” He turned to you and you rolled your eyes. 

“They have a speakeasy below ” You retorted. “It’s very you.” You grabbed his elbow and dragged him inside, knowingly leaving him stumped with your ambiguous statement. 

~ 

Javier eyed you, a mischievous glint in your eye as you made your way downstairs. The faint melody of ‘Night Fever’ by the Bee Gees floated through the old-fashioned glass doors of the speakeasy. 

“You’re kidding-” Javier huffed, his brows scrunched up in the middle as he gave the place a once over. 

Glistening miniature disco balls hung like elegant chandeliers from the ceiling. The wall behind the register was adorned with a vibrant mosaic of hot pink and electric blue tiles. A wall piece consisting of glossy vinyl CDs, the inside bands painted with a neon colour glinted in the background.

“What?” You turned to Javier with an innocent shrug. His hands immediately went to his hips, his brows raised expectantly as he stood akimbo. 

“What?” You said again, barely keeping your grin under wraps as your eyes grazed his outfit, “I thought you’d like this place.” 

“Uh huh.” he raised his eyebrows as ‘Hot Stuff’ by Donna Summer started playing. 

“You fit right in.” 

A convulsive breath left his shapely lips, as he unwrapped his scarf from his neck. You could tell that he was trying to look annoyed, but his small smile gave him away, the way it tugged at the sides of his mouth. 

He followed you to the counter and rested his forearm on it as you watched him. 

“Their arabica roast margherita is heavenly,” You said, cocking your head towards the employee waiting to take your order. “I have a feeling you’ll love it.” You smiled up at him. 

~

As summer neared, you and Javier found yourselves meeting at any chance. An unknown force pulling you towards each other. 

The two of you had found that the ‘ordinary’ Luxembourg cafe served really good non-alcoholic versions of your favourite drinks below stairs and they made a mean breakfast platter, which you and Javier had come to share as part of your easy routine get-togethers. 

He would take the maple bacon and waffles because it was too greasy for your liking and you would take the pancakes because everything came on the side. You would end the meal by sharing the berry bowl and some coffee. 

Movie nights at his place had become another commonplace as you had found out how much movie knowledge the man lacked as a result of his stay in Columbia for the past decade. 

It happened one day as the two of you walked side by side along a strip mall, Javier was discussing his upcoming classes and what he had planned for each lesson. There was a hint of a sparkle in his eyes as he passionately tumbled on. 

The conversation trailed off as you found yourself stopping in front of one of those movie rental stores. You were rifling through the VCDs enthusiastically looking for a copy of ‘Independence Day’, the one Marie would not stop raving about. You had guessed it was because of Jeff Goldblum, Marie had a huge thing for him. 

“Is this one any good?” Your thoughts scattered like marbles and you looked up towards Javier holding up a copy of ‘Silence of the Lambs’. He was reading the back of it intently, squinting his eyes ever so slightly. 

“You haven’t seen it?” You exclaimed, slotting the VCD in your hand back into the rack and walking towards him. He shook his head, bottom lip jutting out. Your hands found your hips, curiously and you narrowed your eyes. 

“I didn’t really have the luxury of dropping by the theatre on my every whim and fancy.” Javier rolled his eyes at your reaction.

“We’ll watch it together.” You decided after a beat. “We have a lot of catching up to do.” 

Although impassive at the store, Javier had bought a VHS player for his new apartment the very same day and invited you over for the feature, much to your pleasant surprise. 

You had come to realise that you were not quite as tight-lipped as Javier. Your movie nights together had flipped the switch and you were given glances at his past - a past which you had never talked about before. 

While watching Silence of the Lambs Javier revealed to you that he had preferred his psychology undergrad course to sociology. The entire movie had him encapsulated and he would nod in agreement to your excited quips about Anthony Hopkins's incredible acting. 

Schindler’s List was the first tear-jerker for you. Javier had nudged you closer and rubbed your shoulder softly after the scene with the exhumed bodies, later telling you about some of the similar horrors he had witnessed in Medellin. Although his exterior was rough and hardened, you were touched to see that he had a few soft spots that he was willing to share. 

Ordinary people had you tearing up yet again. Through your sniffles, you had glanced over at Javier, his eyes glassy in the blue light of the scene where Conrad breaks down in front of Dr. Berger over the guilt of his brother’s death. It was your turn to rub his shoulder. He had paused the movie but never met your eyes as he revealed his own mother’s battle with mental health and the tragic end she had met. 

He had excused himself to the bathroom before shedding a tear and returned a few minutes later, with no further mention of the topic. He had let you hold his hand softly for the rest of the movie. 

Tootsie was a change of pace that both of you had enjoyed thoroughly. The apartment scene had Javier stifling giggle after giggle until he could no longer. You had found that he had one of the most delightfully contagious laughs you heard. 

The more you started spending time with Javier the more nosy your friends had become. So much so that they had convinced you to bring him over for dinner one Saturday night. 

~ 

"When do your friends want to meet me again?"

Javier's voice interrupted the quiet hum of the VHS machine in the dimly lit living room, where the anticipation of another movie night filled the air. His attention was divided between preparing the VHS player and stealing glances at you in the adjacent kitchen, which had practically become an extension of your recurring presence in his home. A warm chuckle escaped you as you answered his sudden inquiry.

"Saturday night, next week," you confirmed, carrying two bottles of beer to the small oak coffee table. "You already know Marie. There’s just two others,” you said, settling onto your familiar side of the couch. 

"You don't have to, you know." You added softly after a minute.  

He paused, his hands still hovering over the VHS machine’s rewind button. "No, I want to," he replied. "I think it'll be nice, having more people that I know.” 

Your thoughts meandered as you watched him rewind the movie tape, your mind dipping into a rare pool of misgivings. In truth, a small part of you hesitated at the prospect of sharing Javier. He had seamlessly become an indispensable part of your life, and the idea of Marie's (although you loved her fiercely) exuberance or Dexter's blunt demeanour potentially disrupting your newfound simplicity and contentment was unsettling. 

"Javi," you mused after a couple of beats, drawing your attention away from your lingering thoughts drawing his attention.

"Hmm?" he responded, still focused on the task at hand. 

"Did you ever go furniture shopping after you moved in?" You asked and he turned around, taking a seat on the couch. He shook his head, a wry smile playing on his lips as he picked up a slice of pizza. "I haven't had the chance."

 “You need to get yourself a new rug, some decor maybe.” You looked around his living room, taking in the spartan surroundings. “Like maybe a painting, lamps…” You made a full circle, back to his face. “It's just a bit - bare?” You offered carefully.

A thoughtful look crossed his features “I could do with some new curtains.” He bit into the pizza, huffing some air out at its heat. 

“Yeah,” You agreed, “Sheer blinds could work.” 

Javier looked over at you and by the look in your eyes, he was certain that you were already conjuring up carefully curated images of how his living room would look post-spruce. 

“Shall I start it?” He asked, settling deeper into the cushions and you nodded. 

The opening scene of Independence Day buzzed across the screen.

~

“Does he drink wine?” 

You were more nervous about the dinner than you would’ve liked to admit. glueing your attention onto slicing the cherry tomatoes into halves had been working for the most part. 

“I think so.” You guessed. You had never seen him drink it.

“Actually, I think he prefers something harder.” You turned around and looked at Marie, her grey, sleeveless mini dress, covered by a blue checked apron. She stood on the other side of the open kitchen, setting down the bottle of white wine next to the bowl of fruit. 

“Whiskey?” She cocked an eyebrow. Too strong for tonight, You thought and shook your head. 

“I think some beer should do.” You responded after a beat, throwing in the tomatoes into a large bowl.

“I think there’s some in the fridge.” She tittered over to the refrigerator, mumbling. ’Or I can just ask Jess to pick up some on his-”

*riiing* 

“That would be Jess.” You eyed her with a chuckle as you walked around the kitchen island. 

You had barely opened the door when Marie shouted out from the kitchen. 

“Jess! Beer?” One side of your face scrunched up at the noise as you let Jess in. 

“Work ran late, I’m sorry.” He said, taking off his jacket, ignoring Marie. You nodded, glancing at the carton of beverage in his hand. “Is he here yet?”

“Bathroom.” You followed him to the kitchen as he set down an 8-pack of Heineken on the counter. Feeding them one by one into the refrigerator. 

“Dexter is watching the game.” You passed him the last of the bottles. 

“I got beer.” Jess greeted Marie with a quick peck on the cheek as you entered the living room and then threw himself down beside Dexter.

“Jess, this is Javier,” Marie said brightly as Javier entered the living room. 

“Oh, hey.” He half got up shaking the man’s hand. “Delighted to meet you.” 

“Likewise.” Javier smiled, giving Jess’s hand a firm shake, glancing at you for a fleeting moment. 

“Beer?” Marie asked with a clap.   

“I’d love one,” Javier said and Marie dragged you to the kitchen as the men made small talk over the game. 

“You haven’t slept with him, have you?” She halted by the counter. Your eyes swept up to hers, rolling ever so slightly.

“That is a cheap question and the answer is of course, no.” You said, reaching for the bottle opener on the top shelf, shaking your head. “We’re just friends.” 

“That means ‘yes’.” Marie shot excitedly. 

“No, it doesn't.” You shot back, handing her the bottle opener slicing through the enthusiasm in her voice. 

“Do you ever masturbate?” 

*pop*

The cap flew off and rolled around in little circles. Your mouth hung open. “Marie! No!” You scooped up the bottle cap off the counter with a quick swipe, aghast.  

“I’m sorry,” She shrugged. “But, have you seen him?” 

You rolled your eyes letting out another heavy breath. “You’re unbelievable, you know that?” 

~ 

The alarm on the oven went off with a sharp *ding* and Javier watched you get up from your seat, declaring that the lasagna was done. 

“I’ll help you out.” He set his beer down on a coaster and followed you to the kitchen. You smiled a small ‘thank you’. 

“Can you get the plates?” You asked, squatting in front of the oven, pointing to a shelf on your right. 

Javier obliged, walking around your figure as you placed the large white dish onto the counter with a content ‘ahh’. 

“Smells good.” He nodded, watching you leave your post beside the pasta dish, avoiding his feet, and into some corner, fishing out serving spoons. 

“Yeah, I think it’s going to be good this time.” You said excitedly. “Can you bring it over?” 

Without giving the steaming dish a second glance he grasped the side with his bare hand. A sharp bolt of searing pain made its way across his fingers and he jumped back holding his scorched hand. 

“Fuck.” The words sizzled out of his mouth like his rugged fingers. 

“Shit! Are you okay?” He heard the spoons clatter against the counter. “Shit I should've warned you.” You scuttered off to the freezer, rambling on about ice. 

“No, it’s alright.” He bit back, shaking his hand back and forth. You grabbed the ice tray from the depths of the freezer and rattled it around till a few cubes came free before wrapping them into a thin napkin and rushing over to him. 

Javier's gaze followed you from the freezer to the counter, where you handed him the bundle of ice delicately and instructed him to keep it on his injured fingers. It was so simple, yet for him, it felt like the most domiciliary act he had witnessed in years.

A strange, unfamiliar ache began to bloom in his chest, a sensation he couldn’t quite place. He ran his free hand over his torso, attempting to recall the last time he had smoked, chalking up his peculiar emotions and brushing them off as a mere consequence of his nicotine addiction.

"I really hate it when this happens," you remarked, your eyes holding a gentle warmth, accompanied by a soft smile. It sent another unexpected pang through his chest. His gaze drifted down to his hands and he mumbled a small ‘yeah.’ 

“All okay in there?” Marie’s voice sounded through the walls. 

“All good.” You called back, stepping away from him and gathering up the lasagna dish with a mitten and holding it close to your person. 

“Ready to go?” You asked. He nodded, picking up the plates.

~

Your cheerful voice resonated through the telephone line. "How's Laredo?" you inquired, "Oh, and your dad?" You added quickly.

"It's good," Javier replied, a warm smile gracing his lips. "He's good."

"I wish I could say the same about Miami," you lamented. "There's always someone there, ready to tell you they can do your job better. And if there isn't, you're probably not doing your job well enough in the first place, and someone else is already covering for you."

Javier settled into his bed, the phone cradled to his ear. "So, which one is it?" he inquired. 

"Both," you sighed, a hint of frustration in your voice. "But that's not entirely what's bothering me," you confessed, and Javier patiently waited for you to continue. "I mean, it's silly." 

"No it’s not, tell me," he encouraged. 

"Am I high maintenance?" you asked and your voice dropped slightly. 

Javier took a moment to consider, the weight of your question sinking in. One glance at you might lead someone to think you were, but a few more revealed that you were observant, challenging, and even amusing at times. 

"I'm sorry. That was a stupid question, wasn't it?" you chuckled before he could respond, dismissing your own concerns.

Javier tilted his head to the side, frowning. He hated when you did that when you belittled your own feelings. The thing was, he never spoke without careful thought, and this question had him momentarily stumped. 

"I like it," he finally hummed after a thoughtful pause. "You keep people on their toes."

So, it's a good thing, then?" you sought confirmation. The best thing, he thought

Javier hummed firmly in response, and your voice softened in relief. Most of the time, he had found that simply listening and validating your feelings was the most effective approach when it came to you. You were pretty good at the rest. 

"Thanks, Javi," you said his name with a breathy sigh, and a rush of warmth enveloped him, causing his heart to swell.

The familiar pang in his chest resurfaced, and he took a deep breath, sitting up and murmuring an "always". 

“I think I’m going to start quitting.” He grunted as he took you along and rummaged around his room for the freshly procured box of Nicorettes. 

~

DUN DUN DUN!

Okay, so what do we think? Honestly, I'm just proud of getting this one out T-T

I had so much trouble deciding what music would be playing in the speakeasy. It turned into a 3-hour Bee Gees/Elton John jam sesh at home. (my mom loves 'how deep is your love' I played it at least 4 times)

Also, I vote for Meg Ryan fall all year around. I just want to live in a Nora Ephron movie and wear cute sweaters.

Thank you for all the love and the notes! I love each and every one of you who has stuck around. Reblog, leave a note and comment!

Ps- I'm new to beta reading/readers but I can totally get on board. I just need to understand how it all works :')

Love, hugs and kisses :**

-itsjustsemantics

Tag list:

@angelofsmalldeath-codeine

@julkaamazing

[starkerhowlter]

Princess Parker -- 8

Rating: M Ship: starker (tony stark / peter parker) Tags: Minor Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Alternate Universe - College/University, Fashion Designer Peter Parker, Engineer Student Tony Stark, slow burn, stolen moments Summary: Tony Stark’s in love.

But not with the conventional. Instead, his soulmate is known for temper tantrums about pink lemonades that are too sour and scuffs on the toe of his Louboutin shoes. He’s materialistic, superficial, and cares way too much about his face.

So why can’t Tony stay away?

Read below or on AO3

As Always, this fic was beta'd by my favorite human in the world: @cozysafechaotic and I couldn't be more thankful! A special shout out as well to my sprinting goblins in the Super Starkers Discord for their believing in this fic and helping me through writing it and nailing down these crazy kids into their lovely selves. Thanks so much, guys.

I apologize for the lack of posting!! It's my last four weeks of university!! :o

8-- Advice Comes From Strange Places

        As soon as the door clicks shut, Tony’s mind is spiralling. "Fucking shit." He looks at the poster of Freddie Mercury, "What the hell was that? What did I just do? Did Peter fucking Parker come into my dorm and make out with me against the wall for..." He glances at the clock, "Forty-five minutes? Is it possible to hallucinate something that realistic while hungover?" He stares at the poster, hoping the rock god will reply with answers to the universe. "Fuck I'm not hungover, he's right. Which means... Peter fucking Parker came into my room and made out with me against the wall. Holy shit." He closes his eyes and the memories of the last hour replay in his head. One of his machines whirrs around, providing something for his brain to latch to as he thinks. 

He lays back on his bed, hands running through his hair. "March 8th, I called Peter art. March 9th, Peter comes to my dorm and calls me out on my feelings." March 9th, Peter Parker kisses me for forty-five minutes against the wall." he rolls over and looks at the wall, "Now what?" When he meets Freddy's eye again, he glares, "You are no use, y’know that?" He smiles. He is well and truly fucked.

Peter glances back at Tony's seat for the sixth time. By this point, Bucky is raising his eyebrow and giving him a "Can I help you?" expression. He blushes, turns back to his textbook and continues highlighting his notes in pink highlighter. Tony never came to class at all. Gwen, Nat, and Pepper keep glancing at their friend, what happened in the last hour? 

At the lunch table, Peter sips his pink berry smoothie, texting quickly. His manicured nails tap against the screen as he texts, they pause briefly and he sets his Starkphone down, the back of the crystal case glittering in the sun. "What was that about?" Loki asks, sitting their panini down in its container, "Is Harley giving you shit again?"

"No, no nothing like--" The phone chirps again, and without finishing the statement, Peter is absorbed in the phone once again. 

"Surely you're not texting--" Loki pushes.

"No. It's just my aunt." As if to prove itself, the offender chirps four more times in succession. He continues typing, smoothie melting on the table. "My collection just arrived. She was asking how I wanted it delivered." 

"Okay. I was just checking on you, you've been so secretive, Peter." Loki stands and hugs Peter, smiling softly, "I will come to see you later if you want to talk?"

"Yes," he whispers back, "Please do." 

"Bye, guys! Love your faces, see you for dinner?"

"I have a date!" Gwen shouts, "But raincheck! I will tell you guys about him tomorrow at brunch!" 

"Good luck, darling!" Peter cheers as he walks off the patio and to the sidewalk. He waves at his friends and heads to his dorm. He needs to think.

Tony's losing his ever-loving mind. Since Peter left, all he can seem to smell is Peter's cologne, and hear the echo of his gasps. He feels pathetic, trying desperately to wipe the feeling of Peter under his hands from his mind. 

Bucky is going to have to kill his friend. It's going to happen and no one will find his body. He shakes his head, opening the door to their dorm hall to hear Tony blasting rock from his room. "T!! Open up, it's Bucky!!" He smiles, hearing Tony's music shut off as he opens the door.

"Hey." he smiles, allowing the brunette into the now messy room.'

"Tony, when I said put on clothes, I meant real clothes. Not a tank and jeans." 

"I had on a shirt earlier. I took it off when I started soldering! I swear! It's literally on the chair!" Tony holds up the shirt, and smiles, "I was wearing a shirt!" 

"Why didn't you show up for class earlier?" 

"I was... Uh--"

"Don't you dare lie to me, Stark." Bucky only uses last names when he's serious, "I mean it." 

"Okay... fuck. You can't tell the guys." 

"Scout's honour. What's wrong?" He leans forward from his place on the bed and stares at Tony.

Tony takes a deep breath and the words start flowing, "Petercameoverandtoldmehelovedmeandthenwemadeoutandnowmylifeisfuckingruined, okay?"

"One more time, honey. I didn't get any of that."

Tony sighs deeper this time and tries again, "Peter came over and told me he loved me and then we made out and now my life is fucking ruined and I can never leave this room ever again." 

"Okay, I need you to breathe before you panic worse than you already are." He breathes along with the scientist, smiling gently. "Did you try that thing your therapist taught you?" Tony nods and shows him the paper, "And did that help?" He shakes his head. "No. Okay, um... can you walk me through your thought process as to why you can't leave your room ever again?" 

"Peter Parker. That's why. Weren't you listening?" 

"I am. But why can't you leave anymore, and don't just say Peter again." 

"Because if I see him again, I can't guarantee that I won't just jump the poor kid right then and there! You saw how I was at the party, I can't fucking do this anymore, Bucky. I can't just admire him from afar, I need him up close. I need him to be mine! I fucking love him, Bucky!" His heart is pounding as those words leave his mouth, "And I don't mean it in the "one and done" hookup way, I mean it in the "I want to wake up next to you and drink coffee and have mind-blowing sex on the counter way."

"Right. Remind me never to eat anything from your breakfast bar." 

"This is serious! I never felt this for Bethany, Pepper, Joan, Kenneth, or any of the others."

"I'm impressed you remember the one night stands."

"Of course I do, Bucky, I'm not an oaf." 

"I never said you were. But with the way this whole Peter thing is happening, I wonder if you have more than one brain cell. There is something there, and clearly, you two need to face it. Now, I have one question for you: Do I rent a hotel room for you or Do you want to suffer your whole life." 

Tony sighs, "Can I sleep on that?" 

"No. I need an answer now, you can't use your tricks on me." Tony sighs in defeat, flopping down on the bed next to Bucky. 

"Fuck. Um... Not yet but I will address it. It's only fair to him." Tony rises, replacing his tank with the t-shirt and heading to the door, "I will talk to him, Bucky. It might not create a relationship but it would be nice to have some connection with him or something."

"I will be back tomorrow. Go." His phone rings, proving his statement. "Hey, Stevie, I'm on my way out of the building. Yes, he's fine. I will see you shortly. Love you too." He hangs up the phone and smiles at Tony, "I will see you later. Talk to him, T. Please."

"I will." 

A soft knock at Peter's door startles him a few hours later. "Who is it?" He asks, slipping on his robe over his oversize t-shirt and shorts. 

"It's Loki!" they reply, "Can I come in?"

"Just a second!" He pauses his movie and unlocks the door, allowing his friend into the room, and inviting them to sit on the white chaise in the corner. "Sorry, I was watching a film." 

"It's alright. Sorry to interrupt. I just wanted to make sure you were okay earlier. You said you needed to talk?" 

"Yes." He sighs, the events of the last 24 hours pouring out into the lap of his best friend. 

The black-haired fashion god sighs and squeezes Peter's knee, "You're gonna be okay. I know it's overwhelming. That's a lot to have happen to you in a 24-hour period. What are you going to do now?"

"I don't know, Loki, but I need to see him again. I can't do this. If I see him again, I can't guarantee all of my feelings won't rush out into the space between us and ruin what we have built together. I don't think I can do this longing from a distance thing. I need to see him again, Lo. Can you help?" 

"Let me see what I can do." They smile, hugging Peter, "I will make it work for you guys and protect your social status. I know you worry that it'll be social suicide for anyone to see you. I don't think that's true. We're in college, Peter. No one cares." 

"I know but I just don't want people to ruin this. I want to have Tony but I don't want to ruin this magic that exists between us. It's a secret, like crossing enemy lines. I just want it to stay pure." 

"That's fair. I mean, I understand that. I know when Tony's friend Steve and Bucky first started dating, everyone wanted to know all the details."

"They hooked up in a bedroom at a party," Peter says, disinterestedly.

"That's true. But everyone was asking Bucky what Steve did to make him scream so loud."

"Like it matters." 

"That's fair. But in all seriousness, I will figure out how to arrange for you to  see each other in private." 

"Thank you, Loki." 

"No problem, Peter. It's what friends are for." They hug Peter, before heading towards the door, "I'll see you tomorrow." 

"Bye, Loki. I really do owe you one." 

  Peter smiles, shutting the door and turning the lights off. His movie watches from the TV as he flops on the couch and picks up his phone. Why didn't he think to add Tony's number to his phone? 

"I wonder..." Peter smiles and opens Instagram, hoping that typing the boy's name in will show his page. "Tony... Stark..." He presses search and a few moments later Tony's page appears in the results. He rolls his eyes at the bio 'Legacy is for losers' and scrolls through the different photos and snapshots from Tony's life. He clicks on one picture of Tony underneath a car and finds himself staring for longer than he'd like to admit. He sighs and shuts his movie off, crawling into bed. 

--

Thank you so much for reading!!! Likes, Comments, and Reblogs are MUCH appreciated!

[fleeting-sanity]

Subjective Visuals

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"Greetings. I would like to present myself in a performance worthy of your heart."

Spoken like a star, the man raised a hand to signal the lights by a finger click. The headlight illuminating him disappeared to be replaced by a dim setting. The stage was a humble size just enough for this performance, decorated with an old fashioned theme. There was nobody in the audience except the woman it was meant for.

He started singing acoustic. A silky, deep, and classically trained voice enveloped the hall. The voice that she only heard once structured in a song, yet remained in her heart. Two by two, small headlights appeared to display the backup singers acting as dancers. Their soprano voices contrasted the baritone lead vocal harmoniously. A dance number inspired by a fusion of lepi hop and classic jizz perfected the cabaret.

The woman felt like a teenager again. Swooning and writing mental fictions about the performance. No holocam to capture, though, as she preferred to live in the moment.

My love, your ion-like glittering heart sparks all, Higher than the Spire, chemicals of the mind conspire, Every waking minute is a sweet, endless spiral, oh, These eyes awestruck, all the change you inspire!

As he hit the crescendo, the lights went out again, followed shortly by quietness. Steps were heard as the dancers dispersed, while a calm one approached the woman. She could feel his hand caressing her face in the dark. Then, his hand cupped her chin, making not only the hair on her neck stand up, but her body as well. His breathing traveled across her head, stopping on her ear for an alluring whisper. “You’re the only woman I found enticing… irresistible… beautiful…”

But the one failing to resist was her. She wrapped her arms around him, kissing hungrily and scraping his crimson hair. When she pulled away, the dream sadly ended.

Jaesa’s head was heavy. Twisting vision and parched throat barred her from instantly getting up. It was dark, but the scent of morning mist indicated the time for her. When she finally managed to pull herself up, she noticed that the room was Rionnic’s. The bed smelled like him. 

But he was not there.

Reverting time back to the light of day, Rian was still in a joyful mood as he ate lunch with Rionnic in the cantina. A few minutes in, he slowed his eating down while staring at his father, in which the Sith noticed. “Is something wrong?”

“Father, you're so handsome.”

Those words made Rionnic choke on his food a little. His face quickly became a similar shade to his crimson hair, unsure on what response to give to that statement. He blabbered his next words like a fool. 

“Um... uhm, t-thank you? I think you’re even better looking than I am,”

Rian nodded. “I’ve been told that Sith are scary. But you’re not.”

“Hmm… but you’ve met the golden-haired lady? Miss Lana? Don’t you think she looks fine?”

“She does,” as Rian raised an eyebrow, taking a bite before continuing. “But, do you think she’s prettier than mother?”

Truly, Rionnic was finding parenthood quite difficult. Being reduced to acting like a fool was something he relatively expected, but actually experiencing it was a different story. Still, he wanted this to be a teachable moment. His head whipped left and right, trying to gauge if the people around were listening. “I… I think your mother is very beautiful. So much so that she still captivates me to this day. No other person can manage that with me.”

The answer seemed to satisfy Rian. “But there’s something I want you to understand,” continued Rionnic. His eyes fell to the table for a moment, mulling over his next words. Would this be about the truth of the relationship with his wife? How would Rian take it?

“Visual appearance can be deceiving. I’m not sure if they told you with the intent of protection–which is reasonable–but there’s one more aspect that can be learned here,” as Rionnic tentatively held his son’s hand. “Some people are quite conscious of their looks. So much so that without confirmation, they can feel it from how others behave around them. From both perspectives, the way they feel is hard to manage. The receiver for being upset and insecure, the people around them for… being taken aback. Now, while both of them can improve on those mindsets, only one of them shouldn’t be feeling that way at the start.” 

Rionnic slotted his other hand in his hair and sighed. “I apologize, this turned out long. But my point is… try not to judge others by how they look. It’s not easy to do, but possible. There are some out there that do not deserve to be judged by their circumstances.”

Rian was quiet, intently gazing at Rionnic. 

“Yes, father.” 

Deep down, Rionnic was having doubts if Rian fully understood what he was saying. He expected something more out of his reaction. When it was getting uncomfortably silent with those eyes trained on him, he gave his son a sheepish smile.

“Does that mean you’re not handsome, father?”

That made Rionnic laugh. It was such a sight that only happened once in a thousand years that every other eye in the cantina was looking at him. While it felt good to have a genuine laugh in a long time, he abruptly stopped to maintain his image . Something contradictory to what he preached just then. 

“I’m not sure about that? B-but, if you think I’m not anymore, that’s perfectly fine.”

“Don’t worry, I still think you are. I’m just messing with you.”

Which made the Sith laugh again, but quieter this time. His heart was just bursting with overflowing love for his son, evident by a hair ruffling. He then suggested they both finish their meal, as he regrettably had to resume work soon. The padawan remarked on excitably using the new shoto for his practice. Before splitting up outside of the cantina, Rionnic knelt down and kissed Rian’s temple. If only he could spend all of his life with his son! 

“Father, thank you for the advice. I will keep that in mind.”

It reassured Rionnic to hear that. Once Rian was out of his sight, Jaesa appeared in his mind. He sighed for having the decency to check on her, preparing essentials for when she’d wake up, and staring at her unsettled closed eyes seemingly having quite the dream. Even in slumber, her beauty still captivated him. But he quickly snapped out of his fantasy–because ungrateful Zakuul awaited him. 

Try as he might to focus on fixing the instability for both the infrastructures and citizens, the issue with the Knights could not be delayed any longer. He arrived at a training session, waving a dismissive hand when the Paladins and Exarchs bowed. The Knight Captain explained the conflict being the usage of the Force; the recent influx of newly recruited Knights consisting of non-Zakuulans presented them with a clash of ideologies and techniques. Rionnic frowned. He was the least qualified person to give opinions on this. 

“You know I’m not… one of you, correct?”

“We follow the Emperor’s decree.”

To which Rionnic rubbed his eyes shut, wondering why this would be an issue at all. He requested a few matches between the original Knights against the newer ones. Upon reviewing their backgrounds and fighting styles, it was undeniable that the Knights possessed more variations in Force powers and were better at weaponry. Whereas the new recruits lean heavily on either light or dark side powers, but were more situationally aware. He saw the potential in both sides.

"I'll show each of you on how to improve," as Rionnic pulled a lightsaber and a pike to arm himself. "I can't claim to know it all but I know enough for this instance."

"Dueling them? Are you sure, Your Majesty?" 

But Rionnic did not wait. He jumped to strike from the balcony, shocking everyone at the training ground. His target, a senior Knight, managed to barely evade his attack. His upwards arching slash was also evaded, while the Knights nearby hurriedly distanced themselves. As the fight progressed, Rionnic gave pointers on how to effectively counter his strategy and improve theirs. The fight didn’t stop until he felt that his lessons were thoroughly learned. He was almost fatigued over several long combat rounds, but confident of a new future for the Knights.

"Your strengths will improve if you combine them and act as a team. Dismissed."

He was followed by an Exarch and a Paladin while making his exit. The Paladin rained gratitude and praises which he took as an obvious brown nosing, while the Exarch talked about adjusting the training method. Skittering footsteps were heard from behind them, revealing his royal attendant, good old Indo Zal. He entered Rionnic’s chambers and started to list the upcoming events for him. Meetings, banquets, delegations, and so on. 

Banquets, in the middle of a crisis.

As much as he hated those, fundings and connections are the basic needs of running a nation. All of the events would mean that he’d have to stay two more days in Zakuul. Two days too long away from Rian! He sent a quick message to let his son know of this.

As soon as he heard his holoreceiver beep, Rian felt the same upon reading his father’s words. He wanted to spar with him as soon as he was able. There would be no lesson to tell both parents today either, as mother’s still out cold. What actually happened to mother? His young mind wondered, but not for long. An acolyte friend asked him for a sparring match and he eagerly accepted.

The two children started fighting near a cave, real lightsabers in hand. With renewed confidence, Rian outmaneuvered the acolyte who defeated him not too long ago, utilizing both nature and wit to his advantage. The twi'lek girl fell, but Rian quickly helped her up. 

"Hyl'sha! Are you hurt?"

But the girl pushed him with the Force, reigniting her lightsaber to strike. Rian swiftly ducked then rolled away to a defensive stance. His heightened senses correctly anticipated her next move, and how to counter it. A precise kick to her wrist targeting the bottom of her lightsaber to safely disarm, then his left arm kept her down the ground with the Force. Finally, he had to point his lightsaber inches away from her face to make her stop.

"Please, let's just stop. Um… I'm sorry."

"Hmph!" as Hyl'sha bitterly walked away while pulling her lightsaber back, leaving Rian feeling bad. The little padawan decided to return to the base, hanging out with the rest of his friends. None of his parents were there when he needed them, but fortunately his uncle and aunt were.

Fast forward to the mother’s waking hours, the physical ailments weren’t nearly as discomforting as the shame she felt for her behavior. Earlier, Vyria came up to check on her and apologized for that night, to which she refused. Nobody was at fault, and they were just unwinding from life’s hectic scenarios. Immediately after Ria left, she sought out her son despite still being light-headed. When asked about her condition, she bluffed about being sick, admonishing herself for lying to her son. 

The two days went by fast, and Rionnic eagerly returned to Odessen. 

All the work felt worth it if it meant coming back home to his son greeting him with such joy. The little padawan babbled about his classes, sparring sessions, spelunking, and lastly, mother’s condition. He could only fake a smile when told about how sick she was. 

After a few hours in his office, the door beeped, showing Jaesa at the other side of it. He braced himself for another difficult conversation–as indicated by her head pointing down while approaching him. It took a minute for Jaesa to utter the first word after sitting in front of him wordlessly.

“I… I want to sincerely apologize for… that day.”

He kept his silence. 

“I get it if you don’t want to forgive me. I’m sorry for being such an embarrassment. No such thing will repeat in the future, I swear.”

Rionnic wanted to scream about how he was not humiliated at all and how she was never an embarrassment. But his pride acted like a shield bouncing his words back inside his closed mouth. Jaesa let out an exasperated sigh after not receiving any feedback, proceeding to leave the room. But she stopped just shy from the door.

“I’m going-I’m going to… slowly let Rian know about us. I’m going to ease him into it… I’m sure he’ll take it well.”

Those words sunk like a vibroblade into his chest. As soon as his wife disappeared, he slowly got up from his seat, eyes wide, breaths heavier, and ears ringing from replaying what just happened over and again. He couldn’t pinpoint the exact source of the pain. Was it because that image of a happy family would finally crumble? Was it because he was in risk of losing Jaesa? Was it because of how Rian would react? Or was it because of a deadly combination of them all?

But one thing was for sure. He was not ready for this.

[doctorbrown]

The last place Clarissa expected to be spending her Christmas season was stuck in 1980s America, Earth. If she had her way, the holiday would have come and gone without her having even noticed its passing before all the cheesy lights and corny commercialised holo-ads—designed to tug on easy hearts to encourage the careless opening of wallets—were disappearing into far away pricks on the Thunderbird’s rear viewing screens.

Speaking of the Thunderbird, Clarissa still has yet to locate her missing mech. Its whereabouts still a mystery, since the day a fierce slipstream dragged her machine off of its Voidspace trajectory...shoved both it and its pilot through time and space. As physics crumpled and haemorrhaged around them, Clarissa doesn't know when or where that it was that she had phase shifted through her cockpit like a bad video game collision glitch, falling through the sickening rainbow slick of the void and waking in a ditch beneath the glow of Earth's moon. No Thunderbird in sight. One would think that a 12-metre-tall shining metal bird falling onto Eighties California would cause a bit of a public panic and/or media sensation, making the silence on the airwaves and the era's primitive, skeletal internet, deafening in the same sick manner as waking up from an accident unable to feel one of your limbs.

Until she tracks down her machine, figures out how to make any needed repairs in this backwater century, and figures out how to get the thing back into Voidspace, and from Voidspace, back to the future, Clarissa is fucking stuck here. She’s an outlier here in this little time capsule of retro Americana. Her mere out-of-townness, the unplaceable accent, her otherness as an East Asian in this blindingly white little town, her avant-garde mode of dress (her pilot suit)...oh and, of course, her long deep natural blue hair, which loud and nosy onlookers have concluded amongst themselves to be some kind of garish fashion statement (definitely some manner of party wig. To go with her fancy dress outfit, obviously). The only person not to look at her with boggling eyes like she’s some kind of mutated animal that wandered into their peaceful little town is the one other person Hill Valley seems to have condemned as some kind of freak. The very person whom one of the first people bold enough to actually strike up some excuse for a conversation with her, asked if she were a visiting friend of his. Of course Clarissa had sought such a person out.

Doctor Brown has been a valuable aid in her situation…with no mech, no money, and no roof over her head to speak of. Clarissa is wary to receive help, however needed—yet the older man’s assistance had been easy to accept, perhaps because she recognised the scientific vigour in his eyes once he realised she were more than just the sort of wandering vagabond her ripped clothing might suggest.

She’s less sold on the hypothesis of his younger acquaintance who periodically stops by, that falling in step with the current holiday will help her stick out any less. Perhaps there was at least a point to be had about her wandering around in the snow with her jacket hung wide open and a wide-necked shirt that exposes her collar beneath. Clarissa finds herself in an itchy old sweater, a hand me down that she’s uncertain whether it was Brown’s originally, sitting cross legged on the cold garage floor while gingerly pulling knots out of strings of Christmas lights. As unenthusiastic Clarissa feels to be stranded, she’s at least eager to do something with her hands. Aiding Brown on his own scientific tinkering, tidying the garage space, detangling lights, sure. Whatever. Anything to keep her from wanting to rip her kindly host’s entire place apart. Her chest hurts and her head starts spinning any time she stops working on the Thunderbird Problem and spirals instead into fretting over what might have become of her prized machine…to think of Thunderbird lost out there, who knows where in America or even the world, perhaps smashed in the desert or sunk into the Atlantic.

The wall plug to the Christmas lights lays visibly, conspicuously, un-plugged at the centre of the floor, yet the bundle of lights strewn about the concrete, threading through Clarissa’s fingers and draped across her knees begin to glow, each shining in their colourful rainbow hues. Clarissa looks not to notice, her brows furrowed as she works at a particularly stubborn collision of bulbs that have become twisted together. She thinks of Thunderbird’s onboard AI sending distress messages nobody will be able to hear. Wonders whether the on-board computer is panicking to realise that its pilot is missing from its locked cockpit. The bulbs glow to an eye-searing brightness that burns the retina.

“Gh—!” There’s a tight, hot little popping noise. Clarissa flinches as shards of green glass spray over her face and the backs of her hands. As the string of lights all fade out. “Shit. Say that this crapped out old box has a couple spare bulbs...”

He'd promised Marty that this year, he would have the garage decorated in a timely fashion. Last year, he'd only missed Christmas by two days, and when Marty commented that the lights were supposed to be up well before this, he had to make the apparently blasphemous confession that he hadn't owned any lights, prompting an almost immediate trip into town and a very enthusiastic explanation as to why he needed them.

Rather than argue, he'd acquiesced, and even let the kid pick out the lights he preferred most.

Colours bounce off every available surface, and he whips around just in time for the lights to get so blindingly bright that he's forced to screw his eyes shut. He expects a much more violent blast, a string of bulbs to blow in quick succession from that surge of energy, not just a single pop there and gone in the span it takes him to breathe.

Einstein bolts up off the couch, hackles raised, looking around for an intruder that doesn't exist. Emmett shuffles over to his companion, patting him thrice on the head comfortingly. ❝There, there, Einie. It's just a blown bulb, nothing to worry about. You should be used to these sudden loud noises by now.❞

Einstein looks sceptically between his master and his master's new friend but seems to accept that. As he sits down, still watching the pair, Emmett walks over to Clarissa.

It doesn't escape his notice that the lights, each glowing like miniature suns only a moment ago, are not plugged into anything. They're lying in a mostly untangled heap across her legs, and when he follows them back to the plug, it's there, three feet away from her, forgotten in the centre of the room.

No power. No outlet whose wiring may have been damaged and caused a surge that overloaded the lights.

Just her.

That's something he can tackle later.

❝How's your face? Your hand?❞ Emmett asks, sweeping his gaze across the broken glass strewn about around her. There are shards caught in the fabric of that old sweater and he presses his lips together, running through a quick inventory of spare clothes he can offer rather than concern himself with whether or not she'll cut herself on the small shards still caught in there.

❝There should be spares. These lights may be relatively new compared to a lot of other things in the lab❞—and he has Marty to thank for their existence here at all—❝but that isn't the first time they've broken. They're in the box over there.❞ He gestures toward a box that has seen better days.

❝I'll get a broom, too, hold on.❞

[spirallingintothevoid71]

Her art work was titled Hypnotic.

Of course I had to go see the gallery show.

I had been staring at a piece for quite some time, when I realized she was standing next to me.

"Do you like my work?" she asked casually.

"I do. It's quite hypnotic," I replied. I flushed a bit with embarrassment at my choice of words. I hadn't really thought about them. "Sorry," I said sheepishly, "I wasn't really thinking."

"That's okay," she said. "That's exactly what I want my work to do. Just pull away thoughts so you can truly enjoy the work. The way the colors swirl. How they draw the eyes in." She went on a bit longer, when I realized I was just staring again.

She smiled and laughed a bit. A beautiful sound like small bells.

"Sorry," I said again, a bit flustered. "Is that why you're all in white? To contrast your work?" I was grasping for words. Partially because I felt a bit silly, and partially because I didn't want the conversation to end.

"You noticed?" she said. "Most everyone here just thought it was a fashion statement. You have a good eye."

She smiled broadly.

I felt a bit giddy.

More words spilled out of me. "Except for your heels." I noted. "They match the colors of some of your work."

"You noticed that, too? Why don't you stay later and we can discuss my full body of work." she said with a gleam in her eyes.

Of course I agreed. She wanted to talk about her work with me? I was dumbfounded.

After everyone departed, she took me over to a particular piece of a woman lounging on a couch. She told me it was her favorite piece. There were even swirling lights on it to go with the painting, making small spirals along the canvas.

I realized the heels the painted woman wore matched hers. She took her time describing it. In intricate detail. Telling me all about the lines, the curves, the colors, the spirals...

My thoughts drifted away as she spoke. I felt like I was falling into the painting. Into the colors. Into her words. Into the spirals. Into her...

She gently led me over to the bench. She sat, placing me at her feet. I stared at her, unable to look away, captivated, needing... more.

She told me there was only one thing missing from that piece. And that now, she'd found it.

She smiled.

I fell.

It was Hypnotic.

I spiraled into the void.

[camillahex]

something i’ve been turning over in my head lately is that i don’t fully believe john gaius actually gave alecto her name.

i think with the way he only ever refers to her as A.L./Annabel Lee or First, (and now whenever i hear that i can’t help but think of gothicenjoyer‘s, post connecting john gaius’s assertion of the lyctors as children of alecto’s First to a rather disturbing passage in lolita of humbert calling dolores haze his Lolita the First) – which are names that attempt to put alecto in an obviously subjugative position under/in deference him – along with how angry he seems at anyone even mentioning the fact that she has a name that is not annabel lee, john does actually want her name to truly be annabel lee and hates the fact that it is alecto.

in his and harrow’s tea time, he tells harrow annabel lee is not alecto’s real name and says specifically “she had a real name, but I buried it with her.” to me statement has always had an undercurrent of anger to it, and when connected to the idea that alecto’s name was self-chosen, suggests the anger is directed at the name itself and he is trying to erase it to erase who she was/her autonomy/her actions that were not controlled by or in deference to him by burying her real name, and then constructing an image/story of alecto that he can control. he did the same story construction with the ending of the world in nona and wiping everyone’s memories of it, and he seems to have taken and changed the lyctors’ and their cavaliers’ old names and renamed them in his preference (see: U– and T– to ulysses and titania) all to inextricably connect them to him and make them dependent on him

a lot of people have taken the existence of alecto in greek mythology as the fury of anger to mean that john pointedly named her after her anger (or potentially his anger) at the destruction of the earth (or the abandonment of the earth by the trillionaires if it’s actually john’s rage). john has already said that anger was her mortal sin (and we have also seen that it seems to be his as well), but i think that who that anger is directed at and what it is in response to is also very important. we know from the nona’s final chapter and epilogue that alecto thinks of her body as ugly/disgusting/monstorous. this isn’t just because it’s a natural distase for a human body, as she is the embodiment of the earth, because, as nona, she thought harrow body was beautiful and wonderful and liked living in it. but yet alecto’s body, the body that john fashioned to be “perfect” (a literal barbie), is so revolting that in the epilogue from alecto’s point of view, she only ever calls it “the body” not her body.

all of this to say, i think alecto named herself after her own rage at john’s violation of her very existence by killing the earth (her), consuming the earth’s (her) soul, and then forcing the earth’s (her) soul into a “perfect” body constructed literally from his ribs and his subsequent binding of her to him in a position of subjugation that he would then go on to build an entire empire around

(and throughout the entirety of nona, john presented his story as an unavoidable downward spiral where he was always forced by outside actors to keep doubling down on his actions. it’s told with a very “what else could you do” attitude that tries to efface john’s accountability for his actions, and i think if alecto specifically chose her name to represent her own rage at the position and circumstances of her new existence, it would be a direct confrontation for john of his role as the root of her anger, and a constant reminder of the direct responsibility he holds for the real death of the earth, which would also present a threat to the story he created of it that he told to his lyctors)

[tmisaccidentreportbook]

MAG003, Across The Street

Case #0070107, Amy Patel Release date: 27 March 2016 First listen: 13th Oct 2020 I think, I think I was on the grounds duty, listening before guests got in.

Ok, so the headache’s still here, maybe it is a little bit of a concussion. Amy Patel, same hat? Same bumped hat.

- The statement giver and set up to this one felt like quite the change in pace. We’ve had 2 statements from a student and a recent graduate respectively, trying to enjoy life and cut loose a little. Amy is trying to enjoy life as well, but she’s turning back to education to do so. I don’t think there’s any indication of her studying in order to better herself and her situation, this is for personal fulfilment rather than career progression. But it struck me that in this instance, her encounter, and it’s a long set up so bear with me, it feels like almost she’s being targeted for her curiosity. Her desire to learn and expand her knowledge.

- I don’t know about other folks, but when lock down kicked in, I signed up for online learning courses. I was still working, but the rotas were pared right back to minimise contact and on the days I wasn’t in work I had sat on my bed and spiralled. Until I had written myself out a timetable for the day in order to give myself some structure. Yay… probable undiagnosed neurodiversity… Anyway, I did a course on the history of royal fashion. Absolutely nothing to do with my line of work, but it was grounding and gave me something to do when we were all needed to isolate. So, yeah, I get it.

- I found it interesting that she mentions the alternative was ‘become and alcoholic’ and Graham was a ‘chain smoker’. And then her watching him day to day. In a lot of ways, The Magnus Archives could be used as a tool to examine addiction in a lot of different forms. I’m given to believe that this was examined in the final season, with some unpleasantness being the fall out leading to Jonny disclosing his own history with addiction. I’d like to explore it, but I highly doubt I have the tools to do it justice and with the care the topic deserves.

- Anyone who can and does take good notes during a lecture, impresses and frightens me in equal measure. I always preferred workshops and discussions over lectures. Although lab hours can bite me. I don’t know if it’s the dyslexia, but I’ve typically been an auditory learner. Possibly another reason why podcasts and audiobooks have such a grip on me…

- Ah, the ordeal of being a single woman trying to use public transport… At night… In London… been there. It’s incredible how many people will see you in a situation where you literally can not run, and think it’s a good time to interact with you.

- Amy may have been a good one for The Eye? Studying, looking to expand her knowledge, people watching, making observations, watching her Graham out of her flat window. Maybe it’s the need to be aware of your surroundings. Maybe it’s not.

- ‘Liked the guy fine, but I still didn’t like the idea of him knowing where I lived.’ Once again, the back ground radiation of ‘the experience’. (I’m hesitant to call it the ‘female experience’ because, exclusionary. Anyone got a better phrase? Y’know, the ‘I don’t have the protection of being a cis/het/white/man’ experience?) But that need for privacy, even if there is a lack of a threat. Just, the knowledge in the safety of being unknown. Wait, this is a statement of The Stranger, OK, makes a bit of sense now that I’m writing it out.

- And cue head injury. The vanishing ‘window box’. And the table.

- The table was an interesting one to me as I started to learn about the Entities and looking back, I think I thought it was possibly and artefact of The Spiral rather than The Web. The intricate carved pattern, the hole in the middle could have easily been a door as the vacated space of a spider at the centre of a web.

- Now that I’m thinking about it, at some points there is a very fine line between the deceit and the manipulation.

- She mentions, months later, how she’d not spoken to him since the head injury. She had been busy with work and had to drop out of the course, and beyond work, she doesn’t mention any social contact. Graham ‘may have had a rich fulfilling life outside of the flat’ but if it mirrored his existence within it at all, it was a solitary one. I think I heard somewhere that after giving their statements, a lot of folks fell prey to The Lonely, isolated by having experienced things that no one ought to. I think I heard that Elias was telling Peter where to go, but so many folks were ripe for The Lonely before they came to the Institute. Many before they even had their brush with the Entities. I wonder if the other Entities could sense it, could smell them out. Knew that fear could take such a firm root if there was no support system to help weed it out.

- I wonder what about a person decides if they can recognise the Not!Them. Is it something about the observer themselves? Is it a predisposition? Is it random? Or is it selected by when would sew the most fear? After all, the Not!Them is recognised by an acquaintance, Amy with Not!Graham, a one time meeting, Melanie with Not!Sasha, and the daughter of The Kindly Mother. All very different levels of relationship, but all have ripples that spread wide.

- The observer becomes the observed and The Eye stirs.

- ‘I moved out soon after and never saw him again.’ … My dear, are you sure? Because, we already have a president of Entities not really needing to be given an address to find people and that thing can change everything about itself.

- ‘Tim came through with this one.’ Yeah he did! ‘He better not be using institute funds to woo filing clerks again.’ ‘Institute funds’ is an odd name to potentially have for one’s dick but I’ve heard odder.

- ‘Keep watching.’ I’m 3 episodes in. And I don’t think I could do anything else.

[kennieswrld]

bad hair-good hair, long hair-short hair

All my life I've wanted long hair. I've never been shamed into hating my hair length or anything, it just felt like the "prettiest" girls in my classes in elementary school had long, straightened hair. Hair that fell and rested upon their backs and waists, and god did I fucking want some.

There's this run on joke between my mother and I about my desperate need for a ponytail when I started the 3rd grade. My very black family decided to uproot themselves from the peachy state that is Georgia to the rainy depressing state that is Washington state. This caused an unknown issue my parent's didn't consider would happen to me, a culture shock of whiteness (mind you this culture shock is still under effect around 13 years later). I had never seen so many white people before, and I was obsessed with their best and most common hairstyle. The ponytail. With its sleek look and sporty nature, a buck toothed 8 year old Kenji wanted to have that hairy fashion statement atop my head. While on the other side of the story, my mother had no clue how to tell me my curly naps would never be able to just naturally slick down and straight for a simple ponytail. For a few weeks she would put my messy hair up into a puffball, but as soon as I saw her "ponytail" I would cry and cry, repeating how this is NOT the ponytail I was looking for.

I guess it's funny now, but it wasn't then. But it's funny to think how much something as trivial as that spiraled into a sort of self hatred I crafted for myself. I hated my hair for years. I wished it were longer, I wished it had a looser curl pattern and I just wished the hair on my head wouldn't be my own. My mother never allowed me to dye or relax my hair while living under her roof which made the entire hair hatred problem even worse as there was no way to escape the hate other than obtaining heat damage for a couple of years in middle school.

But as soon as I got into highschool, something changed. Seeing the same sleek and sporty ponytails whipping side to side as they ran to class just became boring. I had seen it so many times that even if I were to join the club, I would be one of the millions of members. Also during this time I began experimenting with my own hair. Creating different hairstyles for myself via braiding or funky up-do's with all my natural hair. And it was the first time in my entire life that I had ever felt so comfortable in my own skin. Being able to wear my big kinky afro amongst the sea of ponytails finally felt as normal as wearing a ponytail myself.

But after a while. I felt off. My hair was finally exactly where I wanted it to be. I had just grown into loving my hair for who she is instead of trying to make her someone else, until I realized how I was allowing my hair to dictate how other's felt about me. Everything was for others and not me. The validation I felt over the afro I wore wasn't about it being in its afro state, it was over it being the biggest afro. If I wore braids they had to be in for more months of the year than my natural hair could be out. So after some feeling of inadequacies over my hair, I watched video essay after video essay where I listened to multiple black women explain how shrinkage is beautiful, having long hair that hits your butt is not the end all be all and to just be happy with you. So I shaved all my hair off.

Since shaving my head, I have been constantly thinking about that little girl who wanted a ponytail. Now she really cant get a ponytail, and I think she likes it better this way.

[goldhain]

Chain Models for Men: Exploring the Latest Trends in New Model Gold Chains

Chains have long been a staple in men's fashion, symbolizing status, style, and sophistication. From classic designs to contemporary trends, the variety of chain models for men is vast and ever-evolving. In this blog post, we'll delve into the world of men's chains, highlighting the latest new model gold chains that are making waves in the fashion industry.

The Evolution of Men's Chains

Men's chains have a rich history that spans various cultures and eras. Initially worn as a sign of power and wealth, these accessories have transitioned into essential fashion statements. Ancient civilizations like the Egyptians and Romans adorned themselves with gold chains, showcasing their societal standing. Over time, chains have evolved in design, catering to modern tastes while still retaining their timeless appeal.

Popular Chain Models for Men

When it comes to selecting a chain, men have a plethora of options to choose from. Here are some of the most popular chain models that have stood the test of time:

1. Curb Chain

The curb chain is a classic design characterized by its interlocking, uniform links that lie flat when worn. Known for its durability and simplicity, the curb chain is a versatile piece that complements both casual and formal outfits. Its timeless appeal makes it a favorite among men of all ages.

2. Figaro Chain

The Figaro chain features a distinct pattern of three small circular links followed by one elongated link. Originating from Italy, this chain model is renowned for its intricate design and elegance. Figaro chains are often thicker and heavier, making them a bold statement piece.

3. Rope Chain

Rope chains are crafted to resemble a twisted rope, with links woven together in a spiral pattern. This design gives the chain a unique texture and a luxurious look. Rope chains are versatile and can be worn alone or paired with pendants, making them a popular choice for men seeking a sophisticated accessory.

4. Box Chain

Box chains consist of square links connected to form a smooth, sleek chain. This design offers a modern and minimalist aesthetic, making it perfect for men who prefer a subtle yet stylish accessory. Box chains are also known for their strength and durability.

5. Snake Chain

The snake chain is characterized by its closely linked rings that form a flexible, smooth chain resembling a snake's skin. This chain model is lightweight and has a sleek appearance, making it an excellent choice for everyday wear. Its unique design ensures it stands out without being overly flashy.

The Rise of New Model Gold Chains

In recent years, the fashion industry has seen a surge in the popularity of new model gold chains. These contemporary designs blend traditional craftsmanship with modern aesthetics, catering to the evolving tastes of fashion-forward men. Here are some of the latest trends in new model gold chains:

1. Hollow Gold Chains

Hollow gold chains are designed to offer the look and feel of solid gold chains without the hefty price tag. These chains are lightweight, making them comfortable for daily wear while still exuding a luxurious appearance. Advances in manufacturing techniques have allowed for intricate designs, making hollow gold chains a popular choice for men seeking affordability and style.

2. Two-Tone Gold Chains

Two-tone gold chains combine different shades of gold, such as white gold and yellow gold, to create a striking contrast. This design adds a contemporary twist to traditional gold chains, making them a trendy accessory. Two-tone gold chains are versatile and can be paired with a variety of outfits, enhancing their appeal.

3. Textured Gold Chains

Textured gold chains feature intricate patterns and finishes that add depth and dimension to the chain. Techniques such as engraving, embossing, and hammering are used to create unique textures, resulting in a chain that stands out. Textured gold chains are perfect for men who want a distinctive accessory that showcases their individuality.

4. Layered Gold Chains

Layered gold chains involve wearing multiple chains of varying lengths and styles together. This trend has gained popularity for its ability to create a bold and dynamic look. Layered chains allow men to experiment with different combinations, adding a touch of creativity to their style.

5. Customizable Gold Chains

Customizable gold chains offer the opportunity to create a personalized accessory. From selecting the type of gold and chain model to adding engravings or pendants, the options are endless. Customizable chains are a great way to showcase personal style and make a unique fashion statement.

How to Choose the Right Chain Model

Selecting the right chain model involves considering several factors, including personal style, occasion, and budget. Here are some tips to help you choose the perfect chain:

1. Consider Your Style

Think about your wardrobe and personal style. If you prefer a minimalist look, opt for sleek designs like the box or snake chain. For a bolder statement, consider thicker chains like the curb or Figaro chain.

2. Determine the Occasion

Consider where and when you'll be wearing the chain. For everyday wear, lightweight and durable chains like the rope or hollow gold chain are ideal. For special occasions, you might want to choose a more intricate design or a layered chain look.

3. Set a Budget

Chains come in a wide range of prices, so it's essential to set a budget before making a purchase. Hollow gold chains and customizable options can offer affordability without compromising on style.

4. Check the Quality

Ensure that the chain is made from high-quality materials and craftsmanship. Look for reputable jewelers who provide certificates of authenticity for their gold chains.

Caring for Your Gold Chain

Proper care and maintenance are crucial to keep your gold chain looking its best. Here are some tips to help you care for your gold chain:

1. Regular Cleaning

Clean your gold chain regularly to remove dirt and oils that can dull its shine. Use a soft cloth and mild soapy water to gently clean the chain, and dry it thoroughly before storing.

2. Safe Storage

Store your gold chain in a soft pouch or a jewelry box to prevent scratches and tangling. Keep it away from harsh chemicals and extreme temperatures.

3. Professional Inspection

Take your gold chain to a professional jeweler for regular inspections. They can check for any signs of wear or damage and perform necessary repairs to ensure the chain's longevity.

Conclusion

Men's chains are more than just accessories; they are symbols of style and sophistication. With a wide range of chain models available, from classic designs to new model gold chains, there is something to suit every man's taste. By understanding the different chain models and staying updated on the latest trends, you can find the perfect chain that complements your style and personality. Remember to choose high-quality pieces and care for them properly to enjoy their beauty for years to come.

[secondbookofthesoftera]

It Tastes Good

Content tags: nsfw, fluff, oral sex, sweetness and stupidity, praise {be kind and heed the tags}

Wordcount: 1.2k

Written with love for █████ x

In the sidemirror I watch a churn of brick red-dust kick up behind the car; a shiny green pebble skating across desert. The road spools out underneath the wheels, and not the other way around, here you can go anywhere. When I roll down the window and put out my hand the air cuts warm and smooth around it like a surfboard cutting through a wave.

You brought me here because I said it looked so sunny. At three pm it still seems like noon this time of the year – or maybe it’s not the season, just the place, or the idea of the place. For us the sun stays still.

I look over at you and smile. Your hands rest with ease on the old-fashioned steering wheel. You look more at ease than I have seen you look in a long while, there’s nothing much for your hands to do. It takes you a second to notice me looking. You smile.

Put the window up sweetheart.

I do it without hesitation. Your left hand rests on my knee, tucking up slightly under the light blue hem of my sundress. I think less, I know almost nothing but the light grip of your touch. I like being this way. Your grip tightens just a little. I can feel the strength in your hands, see the way the muscle in your forearm flexes.

I have even less thoughts. A paper bag is kicked up in the breeze on the side of the highway. We are the same.

Are you hungry?

Yes. I can only manage the word, enthusiastic, singular and stupid. That makes you laugh, not unkindly. Your smile is another sun on me.

Let’s get you something to eat.

*

You open the car door for me, the parking lot is huge. The diner is a cool teal dot on the red landscape. I run ahead of you across the tarmac. My trainers are springy and I feel easy, like I weigh nothing.

When I push open the shiny glass door and skip inside, I don’t think about it like I would have before – I don’t think about people and protocol and what a person is or isn’t supposed to do in a restaurant. That’s all gone from me. The bar is the same colour as the exterior, curved and shiny. To my left a row of low booths sit flush to the big plate glass window.

There are two other people in here, one at the bar and another down the far end. The sound of something quiet and melodious hovers around in the airy interior. It seemed smaller from the outside: Inside, the soft sun slices through the plate glass, falling across the pale formica tables, rendering them expansive. It smells like coffee.

No one looks at me as I jump into a booth. The warm faux leather creaks. No one finds my exuberance strange or noteworthy. I watch you cross the parking lot and open the door, looking at me with that smile.

You sit opposite me. I’m fascinated by how the table feels under my palms. Every nerve is interested. Your fingers brush over mine and I turn my own to catch them, leaning down to rub my face on your hand. That makes you laugh. The fingers of your free hand run through my hair while you read.

How hungry are you?

Very.

You know I always say that. You go up to the bar to order without asking me. I don’t need to worry about it. You know best. All I know is touch, smell. The absolute benevolence of sensation. The lady behind the counter with the pretty apron and red lipstick is writing down what you say on a little spiral bound notepad.

The straps of my dress rub tightly but gently over my shoulder blades, the booth is warm against my back. My mouth feels wet. I giggle.

What are you laughing at stupid?

The statement is soft. I look across the booth at you, still smirking.

I feel nice. I’m hungry.

Food is coming.

I drum my fingers on the tabletop, eyeline drifting out over the vacant parking lot.

Can we go back to the car?

I ask it furtively.

…Why?

I’m hungry.

…We can’t do that in the car.

Why not?

Do you remember we talked about this?

No.

For some reason that makes you snort a laugh particularly. You pour coke into a glass from a bottle I don’t remember you bringing to the table. I see you looking at my mouth, it’s slick from where I’ve been chewing my lip. You take a sip from the glass, set it down, cast your gaze around the diner.

You step out of the booth, holding your hand out to me. I fold mine into it. No one looks up when the men’s room door swings shut behind us.

*

The floor is a chessboard of blue-green tiles, and it’s cool under my knees. In the stall you cradle the back of my head easily in your hands. My mouth is a slick, wet, easy hole. I don’t need my hands; they lay folded loose and naïve as a pair of lovebirds in my lap.

Good girl, is that nice?

I nod with my eyes half shut. I don’t know anything but the warmth and fullness of you. Spit begins to string from my bottom lip onto my sternum.

Are you hungry?

You know the answer, you don’t need to wait for it. But I still nod as you grip my jaw with one hand, the other wrapping the back of my head.

Good girl…Good girl…

The world goes bleary as you pump in and out of my mouth, dipping into my throat. Your cock sliding over my bottom lip makes something deep and honeyed creep all the way down my throat to the soles of my feet.

Water streams from my eyes and my gag reflex jumps but my hands never move; all I want is more, more, more. You. I start to moan loudly.

Shh. Shh. Here you go, good girl.

When you flood my mouth I gulp unthinkingly. Warm, syrupy. You hold me there to keep me from flopping onto the floor. In this moment my body has never known tension. All I do is swallow, and swallow, and swallow.

*

I push open the bathroom door and half run the little corridor back to our booth. The food arrived while we were gone.

There’s a bowl of golden french fries and a sundae on my side of the table. I pick up my fork and spear a mouthful, ravenous. My mouth fills with the crunching, humming taste of salt and oil.

I don’t notice you smirking at the stain on the neckline of my dress. You don’t mention it, taking out the toothpick which holds your burger together.

The record changes on the jukebox at the far end of the diner with a plastic click. The sun has still not moved in the sky.

After a minute I stop with my fork downward and look at you across the table. The bubbles still glimmer in the half bottle of coke by your elbow.

My eyes are dilated pools that want everything, because everything is good, and tastes good, and feels like love. Especially you.

[system-startup]

How I'm supposed to feel like myself when I can't help anyone. Not even myself. That's the only thing I've ever been—someone who helps. For the past several years I've helped people, sure, but the vast majority of the time I watched people cry and beg and reach out for help I could theoretically offer while I was powerless to actually do or say anything.

I tried, believe me I tried. I'd agonize for hours trying to send messages, spiral in to hysteria because my health was too fucking bad to actually spit out what they needed no matter how hard I tried. I still have nothing. I feel an empty shell. I used to be able to parkour, now I can barely walk. I liked to dress well, now I can barely wear clothes. If I could have anything at all to feel like myself, that'd be nice. I can't be anyone but me, I'm set in, it's too late—I don't want advice. It's rhetorical.

I can't be anyone but me and I'm sick of advice that ignores that.

I'm fighting the temptation to disappear from a lot of people's lives again. Not everyone, of course, certainly nobody who could see this. I don't think they'd notice anyway, though, since I already became a ghost against my will ages ago and stayed there. I've disappointed their image of me. And I'm not feeding it, and I'm already gone.

I'm barely alive still no matter what I do. I can only enter the next phase of our life—the one where my mind is so separate I can't agonize like this anymore. But it's taking so fucking long to figure out how. We spent all that time integrating only to realise that not even that was ever actually ideal for our health but moreso someonelses fantasy of what we need to be, phrased like a truth. Well we function better when we're blind to one another.

I've seen it myself—when we were completely out of control, we made a thought journal. We felt like every line was unrelated to the last as we wrote. We couldn't read it for the first several months of it's existence, only move forward. That was the rule—just keep writing. Don't worry about it.

When retrospect came, they were all far from irrelevant. Scattered, sure, but our stream of consciousness had far, far, far more direction than we anticipated. Frankly if we could have had the health to read it whilst shit was happening—and we didn't not because our methods sucked but because beyond our control our brain remained close to failure as in brain failure as in like heart failure (aka, not an opinion just a medical statement)—if we'd been able to or had someone competent that could have helped us, what was going on would have been abundantly clear.

We've always been smarter when we aren't looking but after a lifetime of being convinced to not trust your brain, taking the leap of faith in yourself is more like a lot of increasingly terrifying leaps of faith that you keep deliberating over.

Not a child anymore so it's never as simple as just working up to it. There's a whole ritual of trying to figure out why you're not running, questioning if you don't actually want this, remembering who you are—someone who never used to question that before they broke you. Months of agonizing until you find the right wires in your head to pull out, the right code to write over, and then when you finally jump off the ledge you stumble. You're horribly out of practice. You make it to the other side, but at a cost due to your hesitance.

And then you have to do it again.

And again.

I want to trust my brain so fully that if it told me I'd be safe jumping off this cliff to whatever was below, and it couldn't explain how it knew, and we didn't have time to check, I'd leap because I trusted that at some point it had seen or heard or otherwise learned something that let it know this.

And this isn't an advice I'm dishing out—its only mine. Trusting your brain is everything but the journey of fashioning a trustworthy brain isn't something I can offer and in the process of being convinced to stop trusting mine I noticed, it manifested all the problems until it genuinely wasn't safe to.

But I know better now, and I don't stomp out his function just because it's scary and I don't understand it. Not anymore. Never again.

If I have to never be capable of knowing the words leaving my mouth, to remember what I'm saying, in order to say competent things—if that's the cost, than I'll accept that.

I'm smarter when I'm not looking.

So I'll figure out how to stop looking.

[gloriabomfim]

Part 1: Bumpy and Cutiey in Cutiey's Cute Places

Bumpy and Cutiey visit Cutiey's adorable pastel-colored home. Bumpy accidentally trips over a cute, plush unicorn, causing it to tumble onto him.

They go to the candy store in Cutieland. Bumpy slips on a rainbow candy wrapper and crashes into a mountain of cotton candy.

Bumpy and Cutiey have a picnic in a field filled with fluffy bunnies. Bumpy's sandwich squishes into his face when he tries to take a bite.

They visit a cute-themed amusement park. Bumpy gets stuck in a spinning teacup ride, and Cutiey's laughter is infectious.

Cutiey takes Bumpy to a kitten cafe, where he ends up covered in adorable kittens, causing him to sneeze.

They explore a garden full of blooming flowers and butterflies. Bumpy gets tangled in a web of flowers and falls headfirst into a pile of petals.

Bumpy tries to help Cutiey decorate her room with cute plushies but accidentally knocks them all over.

At a cute bakery, Bumpy attempts to carry a tray of cupcakes but slips on a spilled sprinkle and creates a cupcake explosion.

Bumpy and Cutiey go to a charming tea party with teddy bears. Bumpy spills tea everywhere and ends up in a cupcake hat.

Cutiey and Bumpy visit a cute-themed spa. Bumpy gets tangled in a fluffy robe and slips on a banana peel.

Bumpy joins Cutiey for a cute dance-off in Cutieland, but his clumsy moves lead to a pileup of cuteness.

They spend a day at a cheerful carnival with colorful rides. Bumpy accidentally sends a giant plush duck into a spinning frenzy.

Bumpy and Cutiey go to a photo booth to capture cute memories. Bumpy gets his foot stuck in the curtain and tumbles out.

In a cute crafting session, Bumpy's glue mishap leads to a sticky situation involving googly eyes and pom-poms.

They have a playdate with adorable puppies in a park, where Bumpy ends up buried in a pile of puppies.

Cutiey takes Bumpy to a cute-themed fashion show, and Bumpy stumbles on the runway, creating a unique fashion statement.

Bumpy and Cutiey visit a cute-themed cafe with heart-shaped pancakes. Bumpy's syrup spill turns into a pancake slip-and-slide.

Bumpy tries to help Cutiey pick out cute outfits at a boutique but ends up tangled in a tulle dress.

They explore a cute toy store, where Bumpy's attempt to reach for a high shelf results in a cascade of toy boxes.

Bumpy and Cutiey have a fun day at the adorable amusement park, riding the carousel, and Bumpy hilariously ends up on the wrong horse.

At a cute art class, Bumpy's paintbrush mishap leads to a colorful mess on the canvas and his face.

They go on a cute-themed nature hike, and Bumpy's attempt to hug a giant, stuffed tree ends in a tumble.

Bumpy tries to help Cutiey bake cookies, but flour clouds and dough mishaps create a kitchen mess.

Bumpy and Cutiey visit a cute-themed ice cream parlor, and Bumpy's triple-scoop cone topples over.

They attend a cute-themed costume party, and Bumpy's cute costume keeps falling apart as he tries to dance.

Bumpy and Cutiey visit a cute playground, where Bumpy's attempt to use the slide sends him spiraling into a sandbox.

Bumpy and Cutiey have a bubble bath adventure, and Bumpy's attempt to make cute bubble animals results in a bubbly blunder.

They go to a cute-themed movie night, and Bumpy's clumsy popcorn spill leads to giggles and popcorn showers.

Bumpy tries to help Cutiey with her cute garden, but his attempts to water the flowers end up in a floral fiasco.

Bumpy and Cutiey share a heartwarming hug after their day of cute adventures, despite all of Bumpy's slapstick mishaps.

Part 2: Bumpy and Spookie in Spookie's Scary Places

Bumpy and Spookie venture into a haunted mansion, where Bumpy's attempts to escape from ghosts lead to comedic chase scenes.

They explore a dark, eerie forest filled with spooky sounds. Bumpy gets spooked and jumps into a mud puddle.

Bumpy and Spookie visit a creepy, abandoned carnival. Bumpy's encounter with a malfunctioning roller coaster leaves him disheveled.

In a spooky graveyard, Bumpy accidentally topples over a tombstone, thinking it was a decorative prop.

Bumpy and Spookie enter a spooky laboratory, where Bumpy's mishandling of bubbling potions results in comically changing forms.

They take a trip to a haunted house attraction, and Bumpy's exaggerated reactions to jump scares keep Spookie entertained.

Bumpy and Spookie dare to enter a creepy cave with glowing eyes. Bumpy's fear-induced clumsiness causes a cave-in.

At a spooky-themed restaurant, Bumpy's struggle to use utensils leads to food flying everywhere.

They visit a haunted shipwreck, and Bumpy accidentally releases a bunch of ghostly seagulls, creating chaos.

Bumpy and Spookie explore a spooky maze, where Bumpy's wrong turns and panic lead to hilarious encounters with costumed creatures.

Bumpy and Spookie enter a spooky art gallery, and Bumpy's clumsy attempt to admire a painting ends in a comedic mess.

They investigate a haunted library, where Bumpy's fright leads to him knocking over shelves of books.

Bumpy and Spookie take a ride on a haunted Ferris wheel, and Bumpy's wild reactions have Spookie in stitches.

Bumpy and Spookie go on a spooky-themed ghost tour, and Bumpy's over-the-top fear responses entertain the tour guide.

They visit a spooky-themed escape room, and Bumpy's inability to solve puzzles results in amusing outcomes.

Bumpy and Spookie enter a creepy doll shop, where Bumpy's accidental bumping causes a cascade of creepy dolls.

Bumpy and Spookie explore a spooky cave with glowing crystals. Bumpy's attempt to collect one ends with him covered in crystals.

They dare to enter a haunted mirror maze, and Bumpy's reflections cause him to trip over his own feet.

Bumpy and Spookie take a spooky boat ride through a haunted swamp, where Bumpy's exaggerated fear sends them off course.

Bumpy and Spookie visit a spooky-themed amusement park, where Bumpy's encounters with spooky animatronics lead to laughter.

Bumpy and Spookie explore a spooky-themed hotel, and Bumpy's mishap with the revolving door becomes a running gag.

They enter a haunted mine, and Bumpy's mishandling of a pickaxe results in a humorous rockslide.

Bumpy and Spookie attend a spooky costume party, and Bumpy's attempt to dance in a scary costume leads to funny moments.

Bumpy and Spookie visit a spooky-themed arcade, where Bumpy's gaming skills (or lack thereof) provide entertainment.

Bumpy and Spookie dare to enter a creepy circus tent, where Bumpy's encounters with clowns become comedic highlights.

They explore a spooky-themed escape room, and Bumpy's creative but wrong solutions lead to amusing consequences.

Bumpy and Spookie visit a spooky-themed haunted village, where Bumpy's antics with scarecrow props cause laughter.

Bumpy and Spookie enter a spooky-themed restaurant, where Bumpy's fear of menu items results in quirky food orders.

Bumpy and Spookie have a spooky movie night, and Bumpy's jump scares make Spookie laugh throughout the film.

Bumpy and Spookie share a spooky, yet humorous, adventure, with Bumpy's slapstick antics making even the scariest situations amusing.

[botanichaircare]

The Essential Guide to Hair Care Accessories: Elevate Your Hair Game

When it comes to maintaining healthy and stylish hair, the right hair care accessories can make all the difference. From brushes and combs to clips and headbands, these tools are more than just fashion statements – they play a crucial role in keeping your locks in prime condition. In this comprehensive guide, we will delve into the world of hair care accessories, exploring their benefits and how to use them effectively.

The Role of Hair Care Accessories in Daily Routine

Brushes and Combs: Untangling the Myth

Brushes and combs are the backbone of any hair care routine. A wide-tooth comb is perfect for detangling wet hair, preventing unnecessary breakage. On the other hand, a boar bristle brush is excellent for distributing natural oils from the scalp to the ends, promoting shine and overall hair health. It's crucial to choose the right brush or comb based on your hair type – fine, thick, curly, or straight – for the best results.

Hair Clips: Sectioning Like a Pro

Hair clips aren't just for hairstylists; they can be incredibly helpful in your daily routine as well. Sectioning your hair while styling allows for more control and precision. Whether you're straightening, curling, or just applying treatments, using clips to divide your hair into manageable sections ensures that each strand gets the attention it deserves.

Headbands and Scarves: Function Meets Style

Headbands and scarves are versatile accessories that can effortlessly elevate your look. They serve the dual purpose of keeping hair off your face and adding a stylish element to your outfit. Opt for silk scarves to minimise friction and reduce frizz, while wide headbands can help keep flyaways in check, especially in windy conditions.

Specialized Accessories for Specific Needs

Wide-Tooth Combs: Navigating Curly Hair

Curly hair requires extra care due to its tendency to tangle and break easily. Wide-tooth combs are a curly-haired individual's best friend. They gently detangle without disrupting the natural curl pattern, keeping frizz at bay and maintaining those beautiful coils.

Heat-Resistant Brushes: Styling with Safety

If you frequently use heat styling tools like hairdryers and straighteners, investing in heat-resistant brushes is a smart move. These brushes can withstand high temperatures without melting, preventing damage to your hair and ensuring a smoother styling process.

Elastic-Free Hair Ties: Preventing Breakage

Traditional elastic hair ties can cause hair breakage and creasing due to their tight grip. Opt for elastic-free alternatives like spiral hair ties or fabric scrunchies. These options provide a secure hold without putting excessive pressure on your hair, making them a must-have for those who tie their hair frequently.

Caring for Your Hair Accessories

Proper care of your hair care accessories prolongs their lifespan and ensures optimal performance:

Regular Cleaning: Brushes and combs can accumulate oils, dust, and hair products over time. Clean them weekly with mild shampoo and lukewarm water to maintain their hygiene.

Storage: Keep your accessories in a clean, dry place to prevent dust buildup and damage. Use pouches or containers to avoid tangling and breakage.

Washing Hair Accessories: Items like headbands and scarves can also accumulate oils and sweat. Hand wash or follow care instructions to maintain their freshness.

Conclusion

In the realm of hair care, accessories are the unsung heroes that contribute to healthier, more stunning locks. From detangling and styling to maintaining hair health, these tools play a significant role in our daily routines. Whether you have straight, wavy, or curly hair, there's an array of accessories designed to cater to your specific needs. By integrating these tools into your routine and caring for them diligently, you can unlock the true potential of your hair and showcase its natural beauty. So, embrace the world of hair care accessories and give your hair the love it deserves.