#like this entire song is about how art is based on a nude female body

[trollocks-in-my-bollocks]

This Wikipedia article about my favourite Mylene Farmer song is

a wild ride

summarizes why I love her so much rip

[xtinyaurora]

Oh my gosh thank you for doing my ask. Reading Seonghwaart was soooo satisfying. Can you do y/n doesn't believe that they're sexually attractive, so Ateez proves to them that they are (sexually). Please and thank you 😊 ☺ ❤

Ateez reaction: Their Y/N doesn’t believe that they’re {sexually} attractive

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➼ requested?: yes

➼ genre: smut & fluff

➼ pairing: Ateez x female!reader

➼ Word-count: 2k+

➼ Warnings: nsfw content, strong language, cursing, spanking, mentions of scars & stretch marks, pet names, daddy kink / sie kink, nudes, reader kinda puts themself down, anal sex, chocking, oral sex, breeding kink (?)...

➼ Note: This is not based on their real behavior or meant to represent real life. This is simply a fan fiction and is only for the purposes of fun, it’s a hobby, so read at your own risk!

➼ A/N note: I hope I wrote this the way you wanted... Also, if anyone’s interested in a male version, let me know! All gif credits go to their owners!

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Park Seonghwa

You were standing Infront of the mirror, looking at your naked body, which was still a bit wet from the shower you took a few minutes ago. You were ashamed to say the least. You couldn’t understand what exactly Seonghwa found attractive about your body. You wanted to look good for him but you’re just a flat piece of a human being. As you were starting to build tears in your eyes, your boyfriend walked into your shared bedroom. „What’s wrong, baby?” He knew what was up, it’s not the first time he caught you crying over yourself. You shook your head not wanting to talk about it and grabbing your towel to cover yourself up. Hwa breathed out loudly, shaking his head. He then pulled the towel away, ignoring your protests. „Do you see this?” He grabbed your tits, slowly massaging them. „Do you see how perfect these are, how well they fit into my hands.” Then his head made its way to your right breast. He slowly started licking your nipple, it immediately getting hard. Out of nowhere he slapped your left breast with one of his hands. „You like that?” You silently nodded your head, a scoff left Seonghwas mouth. „Fucking shit you’re so hot. You don’t understand how you make me feel. How those pretty little tits could make me cum just from touching and slapping them like that, fuck.” Seonghwa then roughly threw you on the bed and started to undress himself...

Kim Hongjoong

„Say it, baby, come on.” You tried to get your breathing under control but Hongjoongs speed was too fast, the pleasure too much to take. „I - I, agh!” You couldn’t stop screaming moaning. „I know you can do it, come on.” His hips started to move faster than before, making it harder for you. You were so overwhelmed that tears started to form in your eyes. „I can’t-t.” A hard smack landed on your ass. „Yes you can and now say it!” Yelled your boyfriend from behind. He harshly pulled you up by grabbing your throat, making you face both of you in the mirror. „Tell me beautiful, tell me how breathtaking you look, I know you can do that for me, baby. Show daddy how much of a good girl you are.” You squeezed your eyes together, forcing those words out of your mouth. „I am beautiful.” Hongjoongs grip on your throat got stronger. „Open your eyes, princess.” You did what he said and opened your eyes, almost reaching your high. „J-Joong, I think I-.” „No, the fuck not. You’re not going to cum until you do what I asked you to.” You closed your eyes again, god. Hongjoong movements completely stopped, making you whine out loudly. „Look at yourself.” You pulled your eyebrows up, eyes getting rounder. „Do it!” Damn boy, chill out. As your were looking at yourself, Hongjoong slowly pulled out of you. Another whine left your mouth, not going unnoticed by him. „Look at this pretty pussy, all wet and all mine. Men, am I lucky. Oh and... those beautiful tits, this fucking cute ass, my god I am about to lose my shit. How am I so lucky to have all of this? I love you so fucking much Y/N. Don’t worry though, I will show you how beautiful you are. You wanna these tits to be bigger? Oh, don’t worry, can do that for you. I can’t wait to get you pregnant, you will look so beautiful with a round belly, fuck.”

Jeong Yunho

You two were currently play fighting over some food. Both of you thought it would be a good idea to visit the park and have a picnic today, since it’s finally warm and sunny again. You didn’t notice how far your skirt actually went up, when you jumped on your boyfriend. It wasn’t that short of a skirt, it covered more than 60% of your legs but it was loose, so it was easy to raise up. When Yunho gave you a smack on your ass, you were fast to sit back and pull it down again. Yunho looked at you questioning, you only shaking your head, hiding face. „Was that too much?” You immediately assured him that it wasn’t about that slap on your ass. „Then what’s wrong?” Again, you shook your head. The male then grabbed your face, making you look at him. „Baby, tell me.” You moved his hands from your face, lowering your gaze. „I just don’t feel comfortable with showing myself off, you know, my legs could be seen when I jumped on you.” When you looked back up to see his reaction, a smile was placed on his face. „Honey, you’re beautiful. Those pretty legs would turn on every men, no, even girls. You don’t know how much I wanna grab them and pull you over me, so you can ride my hard ass cock.” Your eyes torn open, a blush creeping on your face. A loud laugh left Yunho’s mouth, him staring to eat again as of nothing happened.

Kang Yeosang

When you read the massage your boyfriend sent you just a few seconds ago, you almost spitted out your drink. Now you had an incoming call... „Uhm, hello?” Silence. Then you heard heavy breathing. „Baby, please. I need you to do that for me, I can’t take it anymore, I need to release.” You didn’t know what to say, only blushing more. „Yeosang, you know how I feel about my body, I can’t jus-“ „Baby, don’t you understand that I need that beautiful hot body to cum? That you turn me on that much, that I only need to see you to cum. Fuck, please princess I need you. Please send me some nudes, it hurts. I promise once I get home, I will reward you, hm? How does that sound?” You nodded your head, even tho you knew he couldn’t see you. „Sounds Good.” A load moan left his mouth. „That’s my good little girl, now make daddy happy and take your close off so he can see those beautiful small tits, yea?” You bit bottom lip. „Yes, sir.”

Choi San

A loud whistle was heard when you walked into the living room. When you looked at the male, he bit his lip. „Damn, baby, look at those curves. Shit, come here, I wanna smack that ass.” You only stood there, shocked. San then raised one of his eyebrows. „What? Can’t I touch my girlfriend now?” You shook your head. San looked as if he got offended by that. „Oh? Why is that?” You now shrugged with your shoulders. „Don’t you want to use that pretty mouth of yours, baby? Talk to me.” He now stood up and made his way to you. When he reached you, he slung his arms around you waist, face just a few inches away from yours. „Not listening to me? I guess you wanna use that beautiful mouth of yours for something else’s then, huh?” Now you started smirking, kinda enjoyed where’s this is going. This was way better then going out for a fancy dinner with the boys. Don’t get me wrong, you loved the boys, but you didn’t feel comfortable and confident enough to go out with that dress, San bought you for this dinner. „Look at you, so beautiful. Even my friends want to have you and fuck your pretty pussy. They wanna grab this fat ass and smack it, want to cum on your pretty body. Oh how bad for them that they could never have you, you’re all mine, this pretty body is all mine.”

Song Mingi

„Mingi! You can’t just walk in like that.” His eyes went big. „Why not, I am your boyfriend?” His innocent voice made you melt, he’s so cute. You turned around, hiding your body from him. „I know that, but you know how I feel about myself. I am ashamed.” His eyes got even rounder. „Even if it’s me? I thought you feel comfortable with me. Did I do something wrong? Oh my god I make you uncomfortable. What do I do?! I shoul-„ „No Mingi. It’s not that... it’s just... never mind.” You kept on cleaning yourself, trying to ignore him. You heard the sound of a belt and clothes moving. When you turned to look what he was up to, you directly looked into your boyfriends eyes. He smiled at your surprised expression and leaned further into you. „Mingi, I-“ You got interrupted by a kiss. Soon, the kiss got more intense, both of you starting to touch each other’s body’s. Mingi broke the kiss, giving you time to breath. „You know Y/N, I know it might take some time until you understand that but you’re the most stunning human I’ve ever seen in my entire life. And you know those scars and marks on your body? They are just as beautiful. They make you unique, it’s just like art. I love you, you and every tiny bit of your beautiful 'flaws'. Please never forget that baby.“ You were on the verse of tears, like damn, you love that boy so much. A smile was sitting on both of your faces, you leaning back in to continue your make out session.

Jung Wooyoung

He slowly placed soft his kisses down your tummy. When he bit into one of your belly roles (is that even the correct word? lol), you immediately scolded him for that. „But it’s cute.” You rolled your eyes. „No, Woo, it’s not cute. Please stop.” He chuckled at your reaction, still thinking it’s cute. „Okay, cry baby.“ He then kept on kissing your tummy, started to go further down towards your core. „Woo...” You couldn’t really make out if you were warning him or were asking for more, either way, he kept going and pulled your PJ pants & panties down. Now, he had a perfect look of your stretch marks. You tried to hide them by placing your hands on top of them but Wooyoung slapped them away. „Ouch!” He didn’t gave a fuck, honestly. „Move, I wanna look at those sexy stretch marks. Damn, this is all mine.” You got a hard slap on your left thigh, letting out a moan, your boyfriend only smirking a smirk by that. „Like that, huh? Lemme eat you out then.” He gave you another slap, this time on your clit. I guess, what he wants, he gets?

Choi Jongho

„Jongho, no.” He kept pulling you on himself. „Hey, don’t worry, baby. Did you already forget how strong I am?” He let out a cute chuckle, making you smile but it soon vanished out of your face again. Jongho wanted you to ride his face but you felt uncomfortable with that idea. Your were too heavy, at least in your own opinion. Jongho always told you that you’re beautiful the way you are and that he loved you no matter what. He also always assured you that you aren’t heavy and even if, he could handle it, since he was a strong guy. Still, you were too scared of hurting him. Jongho assured you that he would be fine and would stop if you don’t like it, so you made your way above his face, slowly sinking down. You immediately let out a soft moan when his tongue met your cunt. After some time he told you to move, your fear of hurting him rising again. „Princess, don’t worry. You did so good till now, I know you can do even better. Come on, ride my face, cupcake.” You closed your eyes and started to move slowly. While so, Jongho kept on praising you from time to time, you growing more confided by that. You soon reached your high, making a mess all over your boyfriends face. Jongho licked you clean until every drop was gone. You then stood up and checked on him, he giving you a proud smile. „I knew you could do it, I am so proud of you! We need do this more often tho, that was freaking hot.”

[moonlights-inkwell]

“Be Good to Me.” I Whisper. (And you say, “What?” and I say, “Nothing Dear.”)

Summary: Jaskier’s different in Oxenfurt. It’s not a bad thing at all.

Jaskier x Reader

Word Count: 5,406

A/N: This fic was going to be a super short and indulgent smut fic, but then it took on a life of it’s own and got to be like 5000 words before I even got to the porn, so now it’s gonna be a two parter. Oops. Also, Jaskier’s looking kinda rugged in this fic, mostly cause I was basing his appearence on how Joey looked during the Love Run era and I’m... weak. And yes I gave him glasses. Why? Who knows.

Title taken from That Unwanted Animal

Warnings (for Parts 1 and 2): Smut. cock warming. Oral (female and male receiving). Body worship. Female pronouns used/afab genitals described for the Reader. Light Praise Kink. Dom Jaskier. Professor/Lecturer Jaskier.  

You wake, slowly and without much intent, to the sound of singing.  

It’s not uncommon, these days at least, to be woken by music and laughter. It’s a welcome change of pace from your normal life of travel, fighting and pain, all the laughter and music. Oxenfurt is always so lively and full of music and laughter, even now in the coldest and darkest months of the year. You almost resent that it isn’t a permanent fixture of your life. You've never thought yourself a deeply domestic person, but now in Oxenfurt, you feel... content in a way you've never felt before. 

Not knowing, or caring about, the time, you decide it much too early to even consider opening your eyes, and remain beneath the sheets entangled about you. Fingers curling into the soft, treated furs that cover the mattress, you tug the duvet closer to you, and feel the blankets on top of them shift, weighted and soothing all the while. A lazy grin spreads across your face; it’s so warm, a luxury you know all too well you cannot afford to take for granted. Cracking open an eye ever so slightly, you catch sight of a fire, crackling and popping deep within the arch of the fireplace. Bless Oxenfurt, you think tiredly and close your eye once more. A fireplace in the bedchambers, and the living area. You could get used to luxuries like this.

You never considered that you’d ever spend any period of time in Oxenfurt, never mind be wintering there, and while it’s wonderful you cannot help but feel out of place. You’ve never been the sort of person to be wealthy or talented enough for a University of such high esteem; daughter of a seamstress, former barmaid, barely able to hold a tune or paintbrush. But along came Jaskier, wonderful, beautiful Jaskier. With Geralt returning to Kaer Morhen for the winter, your bard had asked you, soft and sweet, to join him at his old place of education. He only needed to ask you once.  

The campus is beautiful, warm and comfortable and full of lively, excited youths, so bewitched by their art and school. You understand it, it’s difficult not to be taken in by the beauty of it all, but one thing keeps you weary; the fact that it’s a place of such overwhelming privilege, the likes of which you’ve had next to no interaction with. You’ve always known Jaskier is a man of luxury: his accent, embroidered doublets and silk chemises advertise it in a way that is out of place on the road traveling with Geralt but are common as muck on campus. Everyone here is like him, rich but seemingly playing at slumming as students, as if they too will be traveling bohemian bards rather than what will undoubtedly actually happen, being taken in by whatever court will have them. He’s different in Oxenfurt, too. Not a bad sort of different, but... unusual. Jaskier, your bard, lover and traveling partner, is wonderful, a giddy and excitable fool, who spends much of your time together teasing and goading, is strangely absent. In his place is... someone else. A professor and an adult. It’s hard to believe your bard, a man who sings often of masturbation and hand-jobs with a smug grin, is a professor. A teacher. He’s smart, you’ve always known that, but it’s easy to forget how bloody intelligent he is.

He plays the fool all too well, well enough that it’s what you think of when you consider him. It’s strange to see him acting so maturely, planning lectures and grading compositions, walking about and advising students, talking about writing and singing techniques. They adore him, it’s written across their faces when you see them together, and the adoration and admiration of him is transferred onto you too. They gape and gawk at you, talking quietly and singing lines from songs that Jaskier had written about you. When you walk together around the halls and cobblestone roads, they rush to you both, mouths full of questions about travel and monsters as well as whatever the hell a cleft or bridge are. It’s so strange. You don’t know how you’re to feel about being watched by these aristocratic students, caught somewhere between hero worship and sideshow attraction. Even in tiny taverns and villages, people look at you as just a girl, aided usually by Geralt’s intimidating frame outshining the various knives you have adorning your figure. The only person who normally stares at you is Jaskier, always in this shocked sort of adoration, as if he can never quite believe that you are real and beside him. It’s sweet and never invasive, always looking but never prying.

You purr softly at the thought of Jaskier, in this delicate daze of being half-asleep, this is perfection, a comfortable, engulfing warmth and softness, resting on top of soft fur with the love of your life in bed beside you. But something isn’t quite right. Jaskier always touches you, something you silently think must come from a lack of human contact as a child, he always has a hand on your bare skin especially while in bed, on your hip, curled about you like you could be snatched away, forehead pressed into your back, or fingers threaded through your hair. But right now? There’s not any such contact, and it makes you roll over in bed, eyes suddenly wide with realisation. Empty.  

It’s expected, but disappointing none the less. During the week he has lectures in the morning, and leaves you to rest as long as you wish before doing whatever you want until his classes end, usually resulting in your traveling about the campus town, meandering by the market and bakery often. It feels childish, but you hate it, you’re too used to waking in his arms and turning about to kiss him awake. It’s horrible to wake without the comforting weight of his arms around you and the combination of warmth and tickling hair from his chest hair against your back.  

“What in the fuck... is that a scale? In the middle of... what is that?” An oh so familiar voice says loudly, which makes you grin. He’s here, even if not in bed with you, there’s no need to wait about for him to return. He sounds scandalised, you can see him in your head, hunched over a pile of papers, brows furrowed into a look of confusion and annoyance. Adorable. You shift up and attempt to get to your feet, faltering slightly at the comfortable warmth of your sex and the dried fluid on your thighs; eyes slide down to take in your naked form. Bed clothes have never been a necessity with someone as insatiable as Jaskier, hell, even normal clothes are barely necessary.  

“What the fuck?” He mutters, the sound of his voice draws you towards the door, but you stop as quickly as you start. There seems something overly presumptuous about walking to him nude, even if you have been in a relationship for years and have seen each other naked more times than you can remember. Stepping forward once more, your eyes slide across the sight of one of Jaskier’s shirts balled up on the floor where it had been tossed to last night. It’s scooped up without much of a second thought and tugged on before turning to look at a mirror; it’s beautiful, silk and embroidered with bluebells, with a high collar, and is left open to expose the inner curves of your breast, the expanse of your stomach and almost all of your legs. It, combined with the slight swell of your lips from relentless kissing last night and sleep tousled hair, makes you feel strangely beautiful. You don’t often feel beautiful, especially having just woken up, so when you rub your face gently with the fabric and breath in the smell of your lover, you feel your nipples stiffen slightly. Lavender and musk and something so entirely Jaskier fill your senses, and you walk out of the bed chambers, smiling softly as the material grazes your thighs as you do so.

Gods above, he’s beautiful. Always is, always has been, but still no matter how long you’ve known him he manages to take your breath away. He’s always had such a boyish face, handsome but soft, fitting easily with the childishness he exudes, but winter has seen that change. With him not performing for the season, and needing to look older than his students, his need to shave and keep up appearances has dissipated somewhat. He’s sitting there in an armchair in front of a desk, all curtains drawn and leaving him illuminated by the fire roaring across from him and the candles littered about the table in front of him, shirtless and resting his now stubbled chin on his hand while his hair, longer than you’ve ever known it, frames his face. You like it longer, and he seems too as well, letting you twist and braid it during the evenings while he strums at his lute in front of the fire and tells stories you don’t believe to be entirely true. He doesn’t look older, but instead more mature, like he had responsibilities that aren’t trying to earn as many coins as possible between stolen kisses and avoiding being swatted at by Geralt. His skin is almost glowing in the candlelight and reflects from the delicate spectacles that rest on the bridge of his nose. It’s alien and familiar all at once, and you smile to yourself at it. He had told you he was full of surprises the first night he kissed you, but this was a surprise you doubt even he could have ever anticipated. You’ve taken to referring to this more grown-up Jaskier as Julian in your mind, just to try and separate the two for your own peace of mind, but it doesn’t seem right now. It’s like looking at another side of a coin or hearing a song and finally paying attention to what the lyrics mean; it’s the same but not, and you worry that maybe you’ve spent your entire relationship with the man before you underestimating him. Reducing him down to beautiful fool and verbose romantic, when he’s always been mature, but felt no need to show it. You know from first-hand experience that being serious in the presence of Geralt always makes the air cold and uncomfortable, but now, away from the Witcher and his overwhelming stoicism, Jaskier can be as serious as he wants without souring anything. It’s refreshing. You never thought you could love him more than you already do; but right now? Bathed in golden light, relaxed and without pretention or any semblance of performance? You could marry him on the spot. You’re hardly a creative like he is, but you could write epics about him; verses about his eyes, sonnets about his cupid's bow, songs about the colour of his hair. He curses in what you assume is elder before pushing his hair away from his eyes, and you have to fight back the urge to run to him and tug it back with a ribbon to keep it from annoying him, and so you stay.

Leaning back against the door, you take him in as best you can and try to dedicate this image of him to memory. Him, soft and comfortable, looking like a real professor, surrounded by the warm brown of the furniture and the golden glow of fire that crackles and pops under the quiet music of him humming whatever is written on the pages, that’s the sort of Jaskier you want to remember. Content. It's a habit you have gotten into since you began courting, trying to keep the most delicate and domestic memories for nights when the traveling gets the most of you, and you wish you could just go home. It’s normally simple things, like when he sleeps in after you, hair haloing around him, long lashes fanning out on his cheeks, or the day when he took you to a field of wild flowers to unwind, and had laughed so loudly the skin about his eyes and bridge of his nose had crinkled like silk moved too quickly, a crown of dandelions and bluebells about his head. He’s so beautiful, and when you’re both old and grey you want to be able to remember just how gorgeous he is. He never truly believes it when you tell him it, as you never believe him when he says how much he believes you to be beautiful. Perhaps it’s why the two of you fit together so well. Insecure fools, finding security in the other’s arms. It takes him a moment or two to glance up from the papers, but as soon as he does, he gapes at you, lips parted and eyes raking across your frame and back up to your face once more. It’s quiet, but you clearly hear the soft gasp that comes from him, which makes you smile sweetly to him and tilt your head to the side.  

“Good Morning, Dandelion.” Your voice is low and scratchy with sleep, pet name rolling easily from your tongue. It feels like a foolish thing to say, but every other thing that had come to mind was hardly better. “What are you doing?” The bard says nothing but grins and pushes himself back into the seat, opening his arms wide gesturing you onto his lap. It’s all the encouragement you need to walk over and clamber onto his lap, his arms wrap about you and tugs you closer still, burying his face into the crook of your neck.

“Afternoon, Dear Heart. It’s mid-afternoon.” He murmurs into your skin. “You looked so peaceful; I couldn’t be responsible for waking you when you were so blissful. Besides, I had compositions to overlook.” Squirming, you try to turn to look at the sheet music, but Jaskier holds you tighter still, face burrowing even further into the curve where your throat meets shoulder, his words make his lips brush against the sensitive skin, like kisses aborted before truly meeting their destination. “This chemise looks awfully familiar-”

“It looks better on me, Dandelion. Don’t you think?”  

“Everything looks amazing on you, Darling Dear.” He says softly and presses a teasing kiss to the corner of your mouth, and then one to the tip of your nose. “I’m quite sure you could wear rags and still be the most beautiful woman to have ever walked the earth.”  

“Flatterer.” You grin and rest your hands on the thick, downy fluff that covers his chest.

“I thought it sounded nicer than saying everything looks beautiful on you, but...”  

“But what?” You ask when his sentence dawdles to a stop without ending.  

“But I prefer you in nothing at all.” He grins, and despite all the ways his appearance has changed since the two of you arrive, you see your playful, boyish bard once more, all too proud of himself for having found a complimentary way of saying he wants you nude once more. It’s flattering, always will be flattering, that Jaskier loves your body in ways that you never have but you slap his arm playfully, more for your own sake than his; so you can pretend that you didn’t just consider stripping the shirt off to make his grin turn to the same flustered smile it always turns to when you exert any modicum of control over your bedroom activities. For all his experience, and your lack thereof, all it takes is you acting like you know what it is you’re doing to turn your Dandelion into a blushing, nervous mess of a man. The thought of his pink cheeks makes your own flush, and you try to distract yourself.

“What’s the time?”  

“Doesn’t matter in the slightest, Dear Heart. It’s a weekend, and you were so peaceful. I assumed after last night you would need all the rest you could possibly get.” The smug little grin that breaks across his face makes you blush harder. It had been a long night, and the thought of it sends a rush of heat to your sex.  

“O-oh.” You laugh weakly. Jaskier cups your cheek and pulls you into a soft, chaste kiss, the kind that makes your heart stop entirely for a second or two. His lips are softer here, not chapped and chafed by wind and travel, just plush and inviting. Just as you start to melt against him, and a hand travels up to grip his shoulder, he pulls back to glance back at the paper once more, “...Sorry. I must be distracting you-”  

“My favourite kind of distraction, My Love.” He squeezes your hips softly and tilts his head, “And I will never be too busy for you,” He pulls you closer still, chest pressed to chest, to rest his chin on your shoulder, looking to the papers once more. You’re sure it’s accidental, but he drags your bare cunt along his thigh, and you bite back a moan. “Especially seeing as you’re so bloody warm, like a little bed-warmer.”  

“A bed-warmer that you’re ignoring for music?” You tease, and one of his hands slips under the shirt to rest on the warm flesh of your waist as he shakes his head, sending chestnut hair brushing against your cheek, your own hand threading through the hair of his chest.  

“I’m not ignoring you. Gods, no one could ignore you if they tried. I just... I simply have to look over these compositions.” His voice is distant and distracted, he’s a thousand miles away, and you decide to try to be a good little bed-warmer, as he so eloquently put it, trying to stay still and keep him warm. You aren’t sure how long passes before you begin to shift, could be a second or an hour, but Jaskier’s thighs are not the most comfortable resting place you can imagine, so you shift up onto your knees for a second, using the added leverage of height to shift closer towards him, accidentally brushing your hips against his in your search for comfort, but instead only feel a familiar stiffness against your sex. The shock draws a soft gasp from you, and that makes Jaskier chuckle lowly.  

“Oh. I... You. You’re hard.” The words come out breathy and virginal, as if the idea of the man you’re sat atop of being attracted to you is some sort of strange impossibility rather than being obvious. He spends his nights with either his tongue or his cock buried inside you, but were someone to have heard that weak little statement, they would have assumed that You had never been so much as touched before in your life. Jaskier appreciates the absurdity if the chuckle he breathes out is anything to go by at all, you feel him turn his head and then the heat of open-mouthed kisses being pressed to the crook of your neck. Kisses there have always made you feel vulnerable, made worse by seeing what beasts could do if they got their teeth that close to your jugular, but Jaskier isn’t a beast. He’s barely like a man, more like a dream you’ve created for yourself, and he always kisses you there. He must like the vulnerability it makes you feel for the frequency he kisses it.  

“Have been since I saw you in my shirt.” He murmurs, quiet as though it’s a confession of sorts, head shifting slightly to brush his nose across the column of your throat. “It’s quite difficult to not be hard when you look so... Debauched.”  

“Debauched?”  

“As sin, My Love. Fucking... hair wild, neck bruised, tits barely covered... And in my clothes? Melitele, I cannot imagine anything more debauched.”  

“Your cum is dried on my thighs too.” You all but sing out. The reminder is all the encouragement he needs to reach down and trace lute-calloused fingers across the crust of spunk at the top of your legs. They don’t remain there for long, however, travelling up to trace across your slit.  

“And your soaked cunt too.” He says lightly, digits trailing across the seam and gathering as much of the wetness as he can, stopping just above the place where you need him most to bring up the fingers and slot them into his mouth, sucking on them with a purpose. The whine that escapes your mouth isn’t dignified in the slightest, but neither was the way he was dangling exactly what you want in front of you without letting you indulge.

“Don’t tease, Jask-”  

“I’d hardly call this teasing, especially compared to your coming out here in nothing but my shirt-”

“Julian~” You whine weakly. Using his birth name is so uncommon to you that you almost trip over the word, but it achieves some sort of reaction from him. He pulls back and stares at you, a hunger in his eyes as his pupils grow wider and trail down your body, lingering on your cunt for a second longer than the rest of you, then looking up to meet your gaze again. You know his usual lust filled gaze, light and flirtatious and appreciative but this is... hungry. Ravenous, as if he’s been denied you rather than staring at his own handiwork, littered across your body and encouraging his staring.

“No, Dear Heart. I have such a lot of music to review and grade. My students will be disappointed if I don’t do it quickly. So disappointed.” His voice is pointed but you know from the look on his face that he’s playing, with you and himself. A game to see who cracks first, one you have no interest in playing. You have absolutely no interest in making him beg for you, or begging for him, you just want to feel the blissful drag of his cock in and out of you. “Don’t be selfish. You get to have me all year, and these poor things only have my genius to consult for the winter.” Genius. You aren’t entirely sure about that, but watching him speak, all you can think of is him putting his clever mouth to work on you.  

He moves quickly, hands removing themselves from your skin to pick up the papers while his chin returns to your shoulder once more. It's infuriating, so you tug at his chest hair like a petulant child.  

“But you’re hard!” You whine out in utter indignation.  

“I know, Dear Heart. Your cunt is against my cock, of course I’m hard.” Jaskier says slowly, as if talking to a small child. “But, I’m also a professor who needs to overlook my student’s work.” He’s right, you know that he’s right, and it’s hardly as if Jaskier is some brute who leaves your needs ignored but, Gods, you’ve been wet since you saw him, and the thick ridge of his cock against you is hardly helping your situation. “You can feel how much I want to fuck you, Darling. Gods above and below, the things I want to do...” He sounds defeated, and you turn your head to gently peck his cheek. “But, truly, I do need to look at these.” You nod quickly and gnaw at your lip; you aren’t being fair, and you know it.

“Then look at them, Buttercup. I’ll just... keep you warm.” You smile sweetly and he nods then pecks your cheek.  

He’s busy. You know he’s busy, but he's still hard and it isn’t helping your situation. Memories of last night, specifically of how it had felt to sink down on him while his mouth worked about your nipple, comes to mind too which causes your hips to rut against his subconsciously, drawing a growl from the bard. It’s not a noise you know well, coming out when he feels slighted or is especially engrossed in a song, but it sends a rush of heat to your cunt once more and you desperately grind your hips into his again. This is not keeping him warm, your mind chides you, but the feeling of the lacing pressed upward by his tenting trousers rubbing against your clit is enough for you not to care about how you had promised to keep him warm. The only thing you care about right now is chasing the feeling of overwhelming pleasure.

“You... are toying with things beyond your control, Dear Heart.” He murmurs darkly, pulling back to stare at you once more and only serves to intensify the blush that is spread across your cheeks. Beyond your control? Jaskier? The thought makes you giggle.

“I am... I’m just trying to... warm you up.” The words come out stilted and gasped between each circling movement of your hips against his. “You. You said you... were cold. I’m trying to be a good... bed warmer.”  

A good bed warmer? Not at all. You want to be a good partner, a good woman-desperate to feel your lover's cock buried to the hilt inside of you; the blissful stretch that it causes, his hands guiding you gently in your ministrations. Even without his prick being free, you move against him as if it is, hips gyrating and tits bouncing with each movement, you try and pretend that the feeling of coarse lacing against your clitoris is all you need. In all honesty, it almost is, especially when Jaskier gives up all pretence of working and allows his hips to buck up and grips your hips tightly enough to bruise, guiding each circling motion that your hips make. You can almost feel the ridge of his cockhead through his undergarments, and sink down on it enough that the fabric covered tip almost sinks inside of you before you pull back and return to rubbing your sensitive nub against the fabric. All too soon, you feel yourself lifted onto the table and whine, trying to grab at him but stop when you see Jaskier scrabbling with the ties of his under clothes, finally pulling them loose and shoving them to just beneath the delicate curve of his bottom. It’s seldom you get to see him so desperate he can barely undress himself, but you don’t allow yourself to admire that for as long as you should like to, because of what catches your eye. His cock stands freely, the base framed by dark curls that creep up onto his stomach and into the thicket of hair across his chest, which makes your mouth water in a way you don’t understand and never want to. You just know that the thickness and slight curve of his member makes you want to sink to your knees to wrap your lips about the leaking, pink head and listen to the breathless moans that doing so always draws from him, prettier than any song that you’ve ever heard him sing. Without second thought, you try to push yourself off of the table to settle on the floor and take him in your mouth but are tugged unceremoniously back onto Jaskier's lap.  

“But-" You start, only to have Jaskier cut you off before you can voice your complaint.

“Hush.” The firmness of his voice silences you immediately, his hands guide you up to his member before one slides down to the puffy lips of your sex, spreading them before tugging you down onto him. The manoeuvre is hardly ceremonious, but it’s worth it to finally have that which it feels like you’ve been wanting for hours. The sensation of him splitting you open makes you moan loudly, hips returning to their frenzied bucking to try and reach climax, but your enjoyment is short lives seeing as your desperate canting is stopped by the tight grip on your thighs holding you in place.

“Jaskier?”  

“I thought you wanted to be a good bed warmer, Dear Heart.” His voice trills and you still. The way he says good is enough to make your breath hitch and heart falter.  

“I do-" You’d go to the end of the world for the slightest praise from the Bard, and the way you admit to it makes him grin, and cup your cheeks in both hands, trusting you enough not to move simply because you want to be good for him.

“Then be a good little darling and stay still for me, if you would.” All previous dark hunger that had edged his voice is gone, replaced with his usual childishness once more. You almost wouldn’t realise he was doing anything sexual at all were it not for him having just speared you onto himself. The strangeness of the situation makes you clench around him, drawing a moaned out curse from his lips.  

“But you're inside of me-"  

“You just said you wanted to keep me warm, Pet.” He says slowly, as if speaking to an untrained dog, and the newfound pet name is hardly doing much to dissuade that thought from your mind. “But we aren't in bed, and seeing as you made this mess, I suppose being a cock warmer rather than a bed warmer will have to do.” The candidacy with which he says the term makes you blink. Sometimes, you think, Jaskier forgets that he’s the only man you've ever been intimate with, so terms like... cock warmer, that he throws about like they’re nothing brings a nervousness about you. You don’t know what that even means, but it distracts you from the fact he had just implied that him being aroused by you is a ‘mess’.  

“A... cock... warmer.” You say, leaving a good few seconds gap between each word. The uncertainty in your voice is obvious, and the man inside you chuckles slightly and mumbles something to himself that you can’t quite make out, but sounds like ‘corrupting her’.  

“Sorry Darling. Look at me, throwing about terms you don’t know and acting as if you should.” He sounds genuinely apologetic, but there’s a level of something patronising to his words that you’re not sure he even knows is there, yet intrinsically sets off a need to argue within yourself that you’re barely capable of choking back. “I want you to sit here, looking as radiant as you always do... Debauched and in my clothes, my cum dried on you, with my cock inside of you. But. You cannot move.” He says it simply, as if it's a term people should already be acquainted with; factual, like he’s trying to teach you something new, and your core tightens around him. You wonder, dazed, if that is the tone of voice he uses when teaching his pupils about music.  

If so, you might have to sit in on a lecture. Or have him teach you about music in the privacy of your shared chambers, where you can shove a finger or two inside of yourself to alleviate the want that is developing between your thighs.  

“I can't move? But why?” You wanted it to sound inquisitive, but instead your voice comes out as a whine, and Jaskier grins at that.  

“Think of it as a game, Darling. To show who has more resilience to the other. Who will... fall victim to the carnality of being so close, but still not... fully intimate.” He's so confident that it is almost infuriating, made more angering still by the way he gently brushes his lips along yours as he speaks, refusing to fill the gaps and just kiss you. It’s already almost more than you can bare, hand slipping down to rub at the swollen bud not two inches from where his dick is resting inside of you, but feel it pinned to your thigh before you can so much as brush a finger across it.  

“No, no, no, Dear Heart. If this is a game, then that is cheating, no?” You want to slap the smug smile off of his face, or force your tongue into his mouth, either would please you. “You cum from me, or not at all.” And with that, his earlier predatory smile is back in full force, making you shiver. “If you can stay still for me while I mark these compositions then I'll fuck you the way you want me to. That seems a fair deal to me, don’t you think?” He grins, toothy and wide, and you nod wordlessly.  

“Good girl.”  

[ill-be-istj-if-no-one-else-is]

The (indie) Kids Are(n’t) Alright.

[piece by Nick Southall of Stylus Magazine which has sadly been defunct since 2007; I’m reposting it here because I had to dig through the internet archive to find it]

The following was posted by one of our readers in the comments section of our recent Top 50 Singles of 2005 article. 

Posted 12/09/2005 - 08:07:34 AM by tintin1000: i hate this list. but before i get into a rant, i shall tell you all the "rules" which i relied upon to come to the conclusion that this list is a pile of steaming bullshit. (a) this is a snobby list (b) i understand that this is a list of singles, so it cannot include bands like deerhoof or anything because they don't HAVE singles, but ... (c) this is a lame attempt at justifying why you guys like top 40 chart songs ... a shoddly constructed "logical" justification of listening to top 40 songs, with the "indie mag," stylus, as a sort of buffer ... "oh -- we're really into indie music, so that means we can accept pop music from an "elevated" plane of existence or some bullshit like that. okay -- who the hell thinks that the friggin' backstreet boys write "better" songs than the mountain goats?! than the futureheads!? uh ... and sure -- the concept of r. kelly's trapt in the closet is cool, i think, but how in the hell do you distinguish which gwen stefani single is the "best" on the album? is it the originality of the song? nope? is it in the creativity? nope. is it the craftmanship? nope. is it the songwriting? nope. as far as i can tell, you guys compiled a list that should be dubbed "best singles that will get you crunked in 2005," but since you worded everything so perfectly, it sounds like there is an actual intellectual, logical reason behind the creation of the fucking whisper song. the whisper song is about fucking. since when has fucking merited any artistic credibilty? just plain, raw, primitive sex? if you guys like to dance to this shit, cool ... but don't be dumbasses and pretend that you listen to this shit because you actually think it actually has a true artistic quality to it ... damn. 

I usually try and avoid responding directly to people in the comments boxes, unless they ask a specific question about a piece or raise a factual error, because I think it’s slightly unbecoming for writers to be trawling their own work looking for flame wars, but I couldn’t help but respond to our friend tintin1000, initially with a couple of short notes in the comments box, and now here, in more length and with more thought. 

tintin1000 isn’t alone in his indi(e)gnation (I’m sorry, that’s a terrible forced pun)—you can see dozens, if not hundreds of other people spilling outraged bile into the comments boxes every week in protest at our temerity in choosing to review a country record favourably (and I’m not talking about Lambchop or Uncle Tupelo) or vote Kelly Clarkson as our single of the year ahead of, say, the latest 7” by The Ambivalent Corduroy Medical Students on Squirrel Records which features nine Canadian college graduates banging ukuleles and broken harpsichords and singing about their guinea pig’s gravestone. What’s wrong with us? Why are we pretending to like such manipulative top 40 pop shit? How could we possibly be so short-sighted as to not see the genius inherent in something like Pig On A Stick’s masterful limited edition EP, I’m Ugly, I’m Lonely, All My Friends Are Dead?!Especially when we lavish such shallow, fetishistic praise on hollow, manufactured acts. 

The thing is that Stylus has always loved pop, hip-hop and r’n’b singles, consistently voting them highly in the end-of-year singles lists over the last three years. Just look at the Singles Jukebox articles from the last 9 months—pop music is something we love and something we cover—we’ve never claimed to be an indie website any more than we’ve claimed to be an IDM website (something we used to get accused of every so often when we began). If you’re still not convinced, take a look at the Mission Statement; all we’ve ever been bothered about covering is music, not specific genres. 

So why are indieboys still so vehemently disgusted by our (un)surprising pop-centricity, our schizeclecticism, by the fact that some of us like country records and others like pop records and yet others really do enjoy Clap Your Hands Say Yeah (I’m still not entirely convinced that that particular band isn’t a complex hoax perpetrated by Derek Miller)? I’d wager, for a start, that the majority of our most vocal indieboy naysayers are probably in their late teens rather than their mid-to-late 20s, and that the music they like isn’t just a sonic preference based on what tickles the hairs in their ears in a pleasant way, but that it is a much more deep-seated culture-aesthetic choice. A choice as much about identity as music, perhaps. 

Which is fine, because adolescent cultural choices—hell, adult cultural choices too—are about identity. They’re about peer groups and aspirations and association. The music you like may well help determine the clothes you wear, the friends you keep, how you cut your hair—it’ll certainly determine which clubs or gigs you go to, and who you go with. It’s a chicken / egg conundrum, though, as to which comes first—the music or the identity. Do you like this music because of who you are, or are you making a definite effort to determine who you are and using the music as a tool to do so? Because like it or not, and whether you’re aware of it or not, your cultural choices are a signifier pointing towards who you are. 

Here are a handful of bands and what liking them says about you: 

Interpol - “I am deep, moody, urban and edgy, given to pathos and bad poetry. Please have sex with me, but don’t expect an orgasm.” 

Bright Eyes - “I have read a book about true love and am too scared to treat you badly. Please don’t have sex with me, as I will cry.” 

Embrace - “I really am in it for the music, because the public perception of my favourite band is terrible. Please have sex with me in a slightly dull, monogamous way.” 

Kompakt-style techno - “I transcend the body-mind divide by being intellectually into dancing. Please have sex with me on drugs.” 

Bloc Party - “I am very cool but not as alternative as I’d like to think, and I wish I knew more black people. Please have sex with me, but be careful not to mess-up my hair.” 

Girls Aloud - “I am a shallow pop whore. Let’s fuck! But it will be without true, meaningful emotion.” 

Arcade Fire - “I am into way more cool and obscure stuff than anyone else. Please let me say I had sex with you ages ago, before anyone else.” 

Oasis - “I am a piss-throwing troglodyte misogynist. I am going to date-rape you.”

Each of these assumptions says as much about the inferer as the inferred, if not more so. Each one is a value judgement based on cultural baggage, and everyone’s cultural baggage is different. Most internet-based discussion of music that I’ve come across deals not with what people like, but with what people dislike. What people like is a matter of assumption, some kind of unspoken test to see whether someone is cool enough to be spoken to, to be let into the secret club. You wouldn’t want someone uncool hanging around with the cool kids (on a messageboard, natch) and making them uncool by association because they like, heaven forbid, “The Whisper Song”, would you? 

Ah, “The Whisper Song.” Here’s what tintin1000 said about it: it sounds like there is an actual intellectual, logical reason behind the creation of the fucking whisper song. the whisper song is about fucking. since when has fucking merited any artistic credibilty? just plain, raw, primitive sex? This raises a whole other issue that indieboys can’t stand. Sex. It’s often been stated that indieboys are afraid to dance because they have an intrinsic “fear of the middle of the body,” a post-Victorian-era Catholic / Freudian guilt / paranoia about all things sexual which dates back, perhaps, to Morrissey’s fiercely foppish stance of asexuality and beyond, to Keats or Wordsworth or whoever, and the myth of the sexually-frustrated romantic, the idea that one’s art will be somehow purer if untainted by the dirty touch of lust. But go beyond that, go to Michelangelo sculpting David’s sensuous masculine frame; or all those countless portraits of St. Sebastian, pierced with arrows like an S&M; stunt gone awry, loincloth barely covering his genitals; all those pre-Raphaelite female nudes; every film to ever reveal more flesh than grandmother would like; to Led Zeppelin wailing about plain, raw, primitive sex and John Lennon trying to make the end of “A Day In The Life” sound like a great big musical orgasm. Very few people would question Björk’s artistic credibility, and she’s written countless songs about sex. People are rushing to proclaim Kate Bush’s Aerial a work of genius, and it’s positively dripping with eroticism. Sex is not the be-all-and-end-all of human existence, and to get too caught up in its alluring juices and scents can screw with your head (just ask Michael Douglas or any random Tory politician) but to claim that plain, raw, primitive sex has never inspired any worthwhile art is the folly of the hungry, short-sighted virgin. Pop music in particular (and The Mountain Goats and Deerhoof are as much pop music as Charlotte Church or Sisqo) is about sex. 

And of course sex is key to identity—as if I needed to say that after the assumptions about bands above. Anyone who ever wore skinny jeans or dyed their hair black did so because they wanted some of their idol’s allure by proxy, because they thought that listening to this record and wearing those shoes would get them laid. Everyone. Except me, of course, because I’m above it all. 

The problem with our intrepid hero tintin1000 is that he’s finding his identity, and is thus vulnerable to having the fragile foundations of that identity shaken. And so he sees Mountain Goats, an act he loves for their literate, melodic music made in the cottage-industry style, unadorned by commercial trappings but instead blessed with deep insight into the human condition, at number 50 on our list and is pleased, thinking, hoping and assuming that the rest of the list will continue to reaffirm his identity. Because he trusts Stylus, possibly, as someone he can talk to about these things. And there’s the fucking Ying Yang Twinz, wtf? And Gwen Stefani? And other music that is liked by the people he sees at college or in town and takes an instant dislike to for their shallow natures and unthinking ways, and it jars his assumptions about what it means to like Mountain Goats, about what it says about him when he realises what he thinks liking Kelly Clarkson says about other people. 

The thing is that once you stop worrying about what owning (and more importantly liking) a Girls Aloud record says about you, you can start taking it on its own merits, which are (generally) pretty plentiful. Something like Die Hard is a great film because it knows what it is and what it does and it executes its plan with zero faffing around—there’s no narrative fat in that film (unlike, say, the odious Goodfellas), every single event is a plot device, and there’s joy to be found in such craftsmanship, never mind the actual tangible visceral thrill of the finished article once we get past ontological rumination on the efficiency of the screenplay. Likewise Girls Aloud’s records are faultless exercises in meta-pop constructivism, not so much songs as processions of hooks and choruses with the boring, fatty verses left over for the likes of Okkervil River instead. And, of course, as with Die Hard there is the sheer physical joy of listening to them, of dancing to them, getting caught up in the beats and the insidious melodic hooks, which outweighs even the music-journalistic catnip attraction of playing spot-the-reference. 

And once you’re past the stage of crushing insecurity and aspirational identity positing, the idiocy inherent in statements like how in the hell do you distinguish which gwen stefani single is the "best" on the album? becomes clear. You distinguish your favourite (no such thing as objectivity, kids) Gwen Stefani song on Love Angel Music Baby in exactly the same manner as you would your favourite song on The Sunset Tree—by listening to the record and choosing the song that you like most, for whatever reason(s) it is that you ever like any song. Until your superego stops screaming at you that it’s bad to like Gwen Stefani though, that’s not going to happen. 

It works in stages though, this music / identity nexus. As a child one likes simple things, the multi-coloured hues of pop music perhaps, but once one senses the transition to adulthood one puts away childish things. By writing off whole areas of music for the simple reason that “it’s not the kind of thing someone like me listens to” you are, quite simply, denying yourself a whole lot of pleasures, both frivolous and profound. Malcolm X said in his autobiography that “children have a lesson adults should learn, to not be ashamed of failing, but to get up and try again. Most of us adults are so afraid, so cautious, so 'safe,' and therefore so shrinking and rigid and afraid that it is why so many humans fail. Most middle-aged adults have resigned themselves to failure.” It’s not just failing that we shouldn’t be ashamed of. A major finding in neuroscience in recent years is the extent to which our brains display advanced levels of ‘neural plasticity.’ We are not forever ‘hardwired’ for rigid modes of behaviour; we are not static ‘slaves’ to our DNA. There is a remarkable degree to which we can change ingrained patterns of thought, intention and practice. Our identities are not fixed, are not immutable—admitting that you enjoy a Britney record unironically will not destroy your future character. And that goes for an awful lot of things besides music. 

Of course this is all blatant assumption, and doesn’t mean anything at all. Except, perhaps, that you should give in to your ids, indie kids. 

[losdesnudoscas-blog]

La Pantalla Negra

           Growing up, everybody is introduced to ‘rules’ of society that are constructed based on an endless list of things from gender to social class. Just like any other set of rules, the neglect to follow them result in consequences. In the Nicaraguan film La Pantalla Negra (directed by Florence Jaugey), Esperanza’s private steers from societal expectations become publicized in a turn of events unexpected based on the character's role. She unintentionally goes against gendered standards. Technology is used to not only record her having sex with her boyfriend, Alex, but is also to publically spread the video on the internet. It is spread by Alex’s friend, Octavio. Throughout the movie, we see the negative effects the video has on Esperanza’s daily life in a rural city of Northern Nicaragua.  Rebecca is a Guatemalan artist who speaks of similar issues in her song “Bandera Negra”. This song talks about the generalization made about women and the part they play in society, which include the expectations they should live up to. The song and movie connect in the way in which women are treated based on standards produced by the society they are surrounded in. They convey the idea of social oppression faced by women through their realistic art. Jaugey uses the father-son confrontation scene, the rape scene, and phone destruction scene to show how technology amplifies gender role gaps in some correlation with Lane’s song.

           The already obvious gender gap is amplified by Alex’s dad, Alejandro, when the viral video of Esperanza and Alex reaches the plantation in which his father owns. He walks into work to find employees huddled around a computer watching the video sent via email, even to him. He leaves the plantation and stops when he runs into Alex. Although he claims it to be his own fault, Alejandro blames Esperanza backing up his reasoning with “esos dicen todas, se cagen en nosotros.” She is quickly judged for expressing her sexuality, especially on camera, while he calls her a whore and makes her seem less of what she is. He doesn’t understand his son’s actions if “al fin acabado ni te vas a casar con ella.” She no longer carries a “pure” reputation which has been damaged through the use of technology in everyday life such as work, school, and even free time. The video is also later watched at a Fotografia shop in which her mother owns. Had computers not been so essential in everyday life, Esperanza wouldn’t have gone through such suffering in the community she lives in where her sex tape spread like wildfire.

           Technology also becomes very critical in the event of Esperanza’s life outside of her home. She is constantly being sexualized by not only her peers, but random men on the streets. She is first encountered at a club where some men recognize her from the video but they are in too public of a place for anything other than an attempt to happen. Later on, she is tricked by Octavio and expected to meet Alex at a gas station. When Alex doesn’t show, two men notice her from the video. “Esas la chava del video...la que sale culiando, siguela“.They then put her into a car where one of them attempts to rape her in the back seat. In the car, the driver says “calma esa perra” referring to her as less of a person.  After fighting her way out, she is thrown out of the car and left on the floor like garbage. She is left feeling alone and no longer wants anyone even trying to help her. She is greatly affected by this unfortunate series of events at this point. Not once do we see Alex being so much as being bullied, let alone sexually harassed, for being in the video. Technology has increased the barrier between gender roles as we see through the different ways in which Alex and Esperanza are treated.

           The roles men and women play in society are very different, especially in a rural part of Nicaragua. Not only are their roles different, but the way they're treated when not living up to these standards is different. Esperanza is mocked in the bathroom when a girl says “ya ya yaaaa”, the same way she did in the video. Later on, we also see the same words spray painted onto her mother’s shop. While Esperanza is going through social suicide for a video she didn’t even want taken in the first place, Octavio, the technological mastermind behind the leak, is hidden in his room on laptop that doesn’t even belong to him. He is using it to leak a video from a phone that doesn’t even belong to him. In the end, he faced no consequences, not even from his mother who he disrespected constantly. She finds out of what he has done and calms down then proceeds to destroy the phone and tell him that “aqui no ha pasado nada“ and that she will take care of him. She is covering up for her son’s bad decisions. He is able to wipe his hands clean of anything that may have gotten him into major trouble. He takes advantage of the technological resources around him to exploit his best friend and his girlfriend. Esperanza is both the only female and only victim of this leaked video.

           The song brings a lot of attention to the way women are unappreciated and seen as objects rather than people. They are sexually objectified. The are ignored. They are seen as only useful for the stereotypical female duties such as nursing, raising children, and being a loyal wife. Rebecca Lane wants to be recognized for her music, which is considered an art. She has talent and shouldn't have to dress to impress in order to be recognized and valued as an artist. She makes this clear in her line “reconoce una poeta cuando la escuches”. Rebecca Lane uses this song alone which her music video uploaded to the internet in order to get her message out. Her music video is filled with women from different ages dressed in different ways. She uses imagery to show that she sees what’s wrong with society, as do many other women, and that it’s something that needs to change. At one point, she shows a picture of women’s nude butt “sin fronteras”. Lane does this to show that the borders keeping her body from men are uncovered. She is sexualizing a woman in order to show the way men see women. She also brings up examples of women being realized in her lines “en tarima can tacones no es porque sea culito” and “no me juzguen nada mas por mi bonito estuche”. Here, she shows exactly how women are seen by not only men, but sometimes even society as a whole. Through her art, Lane wants to change the gender roles by using their source of amplification: technology. If technology can increase the gap in gender standards, it can also shut it down.

           Technology is used in society to amplify the huge gap between gender roles. Males and females are given a separate set of standards in which they are expected in follow to be seen as a “good member of society”. In the Florence Jaugey film and Rebecca Lane’s song, it is clear they they are treated differently in the sense that they not only have different roles but are also punished differently for going against these norms. Women are objectified for no other reason than being born a female. In the film, the demand for technological usage for something as simple as school work set off a wave of social and reputational destruction for one girl. If Octavio had never needed to borrow Alex’s computer, he may have not had any other means of leaking the video. Alex was only being trying to be a good friend but instead had to take the fall using technology to record himself having sex with Esperanza. It was a private moment he recorded in order to look back at but I’m sure he never imagined it getting out. He never really got told anything bad by anybody but his father. Esperanza was looked down upon by everybody but her mother. She couldn’t go to school, a gas station, a club, or anywhere public without being noticed as the “chava del video”. Her entire life changed in an instance. Rebecca Lane makes it clear that her music is looked at differently because of her gender. She uses technology to bring awareness to the objectification that comes with unequal gender identities, as seen in La Pantalla Negra. Next time you see a women, think of the way you see her and ask yourself if you contribute to the unequal barrier between gender roles.

           In the pictures shown, it is seen how women are objectified. They, along with other objects, are the only colored things in a black and white picture. This is what society sees them in everyday life: objects with some sort of place in society.  Throughout the three pictures, less and less objects are in color. When reaching the last image, there is nothing but the woman in color. This is here to show that women should not been seen as objects. They stand out but not in a positive way. Women should be entitled to create their own image based on standards that apply to both them and men.

                         References:

●      The Naked Screen. Florence Jaugey. Frank Pineda. November 5, 2014. Media.

●      “Bandera Negra”, Rebecca Lane