#vessel the hairdresser

[kaddyssammlung]

Amsterdam November 2024

[blue-lollipops-and-ice-clouds]

Vessel & III. 😘

Utilita Arena Cardiff November 30th, 2024

(Source - the incredible robbersvhs once again!)

[heathened]

real goibng crazy about hamburg just can't get enough hours

[goldsbitch]

Twelve Grapes

chapter 4 - Cute, sometimes shy

Charles throws a lavish yacht party, dropping hints like confetti, but Max remains blissfully oblivious.

or - Charles’s love language is invitations Max doesn’t know how to read.

9k words warning: minors DNI, oral sex, m/m, hints of cum kink - this is the first time i found myself blushing while writing smut whoops

The weird phone call from Pierre comes just as Max is about to go for a run. He's been locked inside his apartment practically since they came back from Monza, few days at this point. He figures some space and distractions might put a stop to his Charles-related micro obsession.

The last thing Max wants right now is to see racing related people. Jesus, do these people not have anything better to do than see the same seventeen faces all the time? He figures Charles might be there. But, the thought of destroying his hard earned peace of mind, however fragile, was not an appealing one.

Did he need another awkward stare down? Charles doing everything in order to avoid him? No. Plus, he has his hairdresser appointment with Pascale in the morning. He's grown strangely fond of their little meetings. She is a true professional and knows how to talk to people while cutting their hair.

Maybe she is the one Leclerc that is meant to be his friend, and not her erratic son.

Peace. Max wants peace.

So, he ties his running shoes and embraces the lovely Monaco sunset vibe.

//

There is an intrusive thought, that creeps in, just when he is reaching the harbor. Maybe, if he just stops to say hi? He does like boats.

He pauses and stretches. Examines the vessels and searches for the one that might be the place of the celebration.

Nah, he's in running gear anyway. All sweaty and messy, not the proper way to show up to a party. Especially one he has no idea why or who is organizing.

Max happily jogs home. Looking forward to a pleasant, calm evening in.

//

Now, Charles - proud renter of one of the biggest boats in the harbor, for the night at least - is expecting anything but a quiet night in.

He arrives early and sets the place up with Pierre. Wonders when Max will show up.

First people start coming in and Charles is having casual amount of fun. When is Max coming?

He vows not to get drunk tonight, because disasters happen when you're drunk and have a crush. This he knows from past experience. When is Max coming?

Okay, one cocktail is fine. He will limit himself to one cocktail per hour. When is Max coming?

The secret is out and everyone on the yacht now knows he is a confirmed Ferrari driver. When is Max coming?

Is that Max? No, that's just some random guy someone brought as a plus one. When is Max coming?

You must be fucking joking, he swears loudly, when it hits him. He throws a fucking party for him and this asshole stays home. A yacht party.

//

Could Max do a headstand? He, probably could, right. It can't be that hard. He watches many videos and after some time he's nearly got it. Max's evening is consisting of post-run attempts at yoga. He is a simple man, really.

He certainly isn't someone who expecting unannounced visitors at midnight, on a Wednesday. The insistent knocking does not stop even after he shouts that he is coming to the door. He wonders if the concierge has fallen asleep again, while he's trying to put a t-shirt on. He's not gonna open the door shirtless, he has manners.

He is about to encounter a person who has his own, twisted, definition of manners. When he opens the door, none other than Charles Leclerc barges in, disheveled, red-faced, and moving with the frantic energy of a man late for something important. Max winces, processing and checking whether he's actually awake, or if this is another of his weird dreams involving the Monegasque driver.

He is trying to recall of Charles has ever been in his apartment and can't remember that time. He does remember ever giving him his address. Or the apartment number. The concierge must have also fallen to the Leclerc charm. Max is the last person who can blame him. But, by the way how he just waltzes in, one would think Charles is the one living here and Max is just crashing on his couch.

“You!” Charles announces, pointing overly dramatically.

Is this the new normal? “Me?” Max blinks, because what else is there to do. He's not even breathing at this point.

“Yes, you! We need to talk!” Charles gestures wildly, already pacing the small apartment.

Max closes the door slowly, bewildered. “Are you okay? Did you hit your head or something?” Can't help but ask.

Charles spins on his heel, looking genuinely offended. “No, I did not hit my head! This is serious!”

Max figured there is only one way of doing this, and it's the Leclerc way. “Okay, what’s serious?”

Charles looks like he’s going to combust. “You! And the party! And—and my mom’s salon tomorrow!”

Max stares blankly, trying to understand how any of what he stated is connected. “...This is about a party?”

“Yes!” Charles throws his hands up, his frustration boiling over. “You didn’t show up, Max! I threw an entire yacht party! For you!” His gestures are proving the Italian ancestry allegations.

Max is about as confused as they come, taking a second to process that. “What? For me? When?”

Charles ignores the last question, probably considering it a joke, based on his look. “Well, not for you,” Charles backtracks quickly, pacing around. “It was... general. Celebratory. But also, yes, for you!”

So - to sum up. In the last fifteen seconds, Max learns that his crush has organized a party, seemingly for him, without informing him of it, and is now mad that he did not show up. Right. It shouldn't, it really shouldn't, make him feel weirdly warm inside.

Max leans against the kitchen counter, crossing his arms. “Charles, I didn’t even know it was for me. Pierre just said something about a yacht and drinks. How was I supposed to know it was some kind of elaborate scheme to... what, make me talk to you?”

Charles freezes mid-pace, his eyes narrowing. “It wasn’t a scheme.”

Max raises an eyebrow. “You had Pierre invite me. After you mysteriously avoided me the whole race weekend and now you're walking into my home at midnight. How exactly was I supposed to figure this out?” He'd never say it out loud, but Charles Leclerc can make crazy look so hot. Max is aware that it should be a warning sign. But, when is he ever following the rules 100%?

“I didn’t avoid you!” Charles argues, but even as he says it, he winces. “Okay, maybe a little. I'm sorry. But it was Monza! I had to meet almost every person that ever worked in Ferrari! And I did try to apologize....”

Max shakes his head, still baffled. “Just so that we're clear. You threw a yacht party that was kind of for me. But also not for me and now you’re mad that I didn’t... read your mind?”

Charles stares at him, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. “When you say it like that, it sounds ridiculous.”

“That’s because it is ridiculous!” Max exclaims, throwing his hands up. “Charles, I don’t have some psychic connection to understand your cryptic plans!” He wishes he did.

Charles glares at him, crossing his arms. “It wasn’t cryptic. It was obvious.”

Max snorts. “Obvious? Charles, the only thing obvious was Pierre trying to get me drunk on a boat.”

Charles stares out of the window, as if to gain some clarity, his cheeks flushing. “Okay, maybe it wasn’t the best way to go about it.”

“Maybe?” Max repeats, astonished, but amused on the inside.

Charles sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Fine! It was a bad plan. But you still could have shown up!”

Max stares at him for a moment, his expression softening slightly. “Why didn’t you just talk to me directly?”

Charles looks at him, wide-eyed, as if the suggestion is completely foreign. “I wanted to, but when was I suppose to that? I had the busiest weekend of my life, could't do it there. Then, it's like you disappear from the planet, nowhere to be found. So...I just. You know. A yacht. You like those." His accent keeps getting thicker with every sentence and Max is trying his best not get distracted by it.

It has dawned on Max that asking him why didn't he just call or text him to meet up, is completely pointless and wouldn't help at the moment.

Charles pauses, as if to dig a little deeper than basic manic mad, and speaks again. "And because...I didn't know what to say! I wanted to properly apologize, but then it was getting weirder with every missed opportunity and I saw you getting more and more mad at me!”

“I wasn’t mad at you,” Max says, his voice quieter now. “I was... confused. You kissed me and then ran away.”

Charles flinches, his bravado crumbling. “I panicked.”

They stand there in silence for a moment, the tension in the room thick enough to cut with a knife.

“Look,” Max finally says, running a hand over his face. “If you want to talk, just talk. Don’t throw a yacht party. Don’t storm into my apartment like a crazy person. Just... talk to me.”

Charles hesitates, his shoulders sinking. “I don’t know how.”

Max softens, a small, almost invisible smile forming on his lips. “You’re doing it right now.”

Charles looks at him, his eyes searching Max’s face for something he can’t quite name. “I’m sorry. For the kiss. For everything.”

Max shrugs, his voice steady. Here goes nothing. Here goes everything. Time to grow up. “I’m not.”

And just like that, Charles is back to glaring. His chest is rising up and down. Max takes a moment to appreciate just how handsome he looks. Once again, or maybe as ever. There is part of him worried he crossed the line. But Charles has crossed so many today just to get to talking to him. He must care at least a bit. “You’re impossible,” Charles responds finally.

“And you’re exhausting,” Max shoots back, the corner of his mouth quirking up.

Charles groans, throwing his hands up, bringing back the frantic act. “Fine! Tomorrow, at the salon, don’t talk to my mom about any of this.”

Max's back to being fully confused. "Please, tell me how you managed to involve your mom into this." It is only now he is truly becoming scared.

"Me? What have I done? Oh, I don't know," he pauses dramatically to take a deep, deep look at Max. It has the opposite effect of what he's probably intending. Charles is adorable. “You’ve been going to her for months! Months!” Charles throws his hands in the air, chasing flies that don't exist. “And now, with everything that’s been going on, you’re going to walk in there and - what?

“I promise I won’t tell her about the yacht party. Or the kiss.”

Charles points a warning finger at him. “Not funny.”

Max chuckles, leaning against the counter, hands crossed over his chest. “A little funny.”

Charles mutters something in French that Max is pretty sure isn’t complimentary.

Max stares at him, shaking his head in disbelief. “A yacht party,” he mutters, taking a deep breath, touching back on the peace of mind he had when doing his yoga. Something Charles took, crumbled up and threw out of the window. “You're going to kill me.” Who needs peace anyway.

"Do you want me to open some wine and sit on the balcony? So that we can, you know, talk like adults?" He suggests, trying to steer this ship - no pun intended. He is, after all, the older one. Physically, about three weeks. Mentally (in his opinion exclusively) about five years.

//

For all the fuss Max made about "talking like adults", he is now awfully quiet. To say Charles finds it frustrating is an understatement. He is still riding some sort of high, a state of mania that possessed him and had him storming out of his own party that he orchestrated. Max took his time, brought a bottle of red wine, nice glasses, the only thing missing is a candle. Oh yeah. And him saying something!

Charles sits slouched in the comfy chair, one leg tucked under him, staring into his glass like it holds the secrets of the universe. In the corner of his eye, he observing Max, mapping his every move. He leans forward on the edge of his chair, elbows on his knees, staring at the wine bottle like it’s somehow going to save him.

This was such a mistake, coming here, Charles thinks. He should have just stayed home and drown in the bathtub.

“So,” Charles starts, swirling the wine in his glass. His voice is sharper than he intends, but the silence is unbearable. “This is what adults do? Sit around and stare at things?”

Max glances at him, looking briefly offended. “I’m thinking.”

“You’ve been thinking for twenty minutes.”

"You have no perception of time, it's literally been a minute."

"Shall I set a timer?"

“I’m trying to get it right!" Max snaps, more frustrated than actually angry.

Charles rolls his eyes, taking a sip of wine. “Just say what’s on your mind. You’re not exactly the subtle type, Verstappen. We need to start somewhere...” In his mind, when Max was suggesting "talking", he'd be the one leading it. Why must Charles do everything?

Max snorts, finally sitting back in his chair. “Says the man who threw a yacht party to avoid a conversation.”

Charles groans, running a hand through his hair. Walking in circles, that's what they were doing. “This is not how I imagined this going.”

Max tilts his head, watching him. “How did you imagine it going?”

Charles frowns, the words stuck in his throat. “I don’t know. Easier than this.”

Max’s gaze softens, and for the first time all evening, the tension between them feels less suffocating. He picks up his glass, taking a long sip before speaking.

“You kissed me,” Max says quietly, the words falling between them like a stone.

Charles stiffens, his fingers tightening around the stem of his glass. “I remember.”

“And then you ran.”

“I know,” Charles repeats, his voice barely above a whisper.

Max looks at him, his expression unreadable. “Why?”

Charles exhales shakily, staring out at the water. He’s never been good at this - talking about feelings, admitting vulnerability. He can face a room full of journalists or a track full of competitors, but this? This is terrifying. And also - this is Max Verstappen. His rival, a guy and someone who can ruin his life with few funny words uttered to the right kind of reporters. But then again - Max was in the exact same position.

“I didn’t know what to do,” Charles admits, his voice raw. “I just... panicked.”

Max nods slowly, as if that answer doesn’t surprise him. “And now?”

“Now...” Charles hesitates, meeting Max’s gaze for the first time. “Now I’m here.”

Max studies him, his blue eyes searching, and for a moment, Charles wonders if he’s about to laugh or yell or walk away. Instead, Max leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees again.

“I don’t know what I’m doing either,” Max confesses, his voice low. “But I know I don’t want you to run again.”

The words hang in the air, fragile and honest, and Charles feels something shift inside him. The mania, the frustration, the fear—it all fades into something quieter, softer.

“I won’t,” Charles says, and he means it. He is not quite confident in himself yet, does not trust himself. As he keeps calming down, it dawns on him just how tired he is.

They sit in silence for a moment, the weight of everything finally settling between them. Max picks up the wine bottle, pouring a little more into each of their glasses. He lifts his, raising an eyebrow.

“To not running,” Max says, a small smile tugging at his lips.

Charles laughs, the sound light and genuine, and clinks his glass against Max’s. “To not running.”

There is a brief break from the awkwardness of it all. One would actually think this is sort of nice, sitting on balcony, late summer night covering the shores of Monaco.

Charles's mind goes back to spiraling real quick. Okay, so they got the whole running thing out of the way - and now what? His heart is beating as if he just completed the Singapore GP. Hyperaware of just how close Max is sitting. He wonders if he feels the same magnetic pul as he feels for him. Charles leans back in his chair, one leg propped lazily on the table, pretending to be more relaxed than he feels. Needs to keep moving and shifting, because otherwise, he's just end up staring at Max endlessly.

"Can you not put your leg on my table?" Max groans casually.

Hah. As if Charles is ever going to do what he's asked. Locking eyes with Max, cheeky smile on display, he pops his other leg up the table as well.

"I'm going to tell your mom that you're growing up into a rude person," he threatens, but Charles knows him too well to recognize an empty threat.

"Oh, yeah. She mentioned you ask a lot of questions about me. Anything specific you wanna know?" He figures teasing might be the way to go about this whole thing. He swears there is a slight blush in Max's face. It feels exhilirating, to have the notion of the upper hand. He is dead set on keeping a stern eye contact, the goal being shaking Max of his high "let's talk like adults" horse.

"I only ask her about your racing," he reacts, probably not realizing how mad that makes him sound. Charles is finally having some fun. Watching Max stifen up, so vulnerable, yet still so keen on keeping his closed of image. It makes Charles proud to know he is the one who can crack him.

"Relax a little, Verstappen. We’re not in the paddock."

Max doesn’t bite. "And you’re an expert on relaxing?"

Charles lets out an exaggerated sigh, throwing his arms over the back of his chair. "I’m trying. But it’s hard when I’m sitting next to someone who looks like he’s mentally building a strategy for our next race."

"Maybe I am," Max retorts, the corner of his mouth twitching.

"Ah, see? Always thinking. You’re exhausting just to watch," Charles teases, leaning forward now, elbows on arm of his chair. "I bet you even sleep with your hands at ten and two, ready to steer."

Max’s jaw tightens just slightly, a tell that Charles zeroes in on.

"You’re ridiculous," Max mutters.

Charles grins, sensing an opening. "Ridiculous? Coming from the man who spent months going to my mother, desperate for information? That’s rich." He knows he is dancing very close to the edge of cliff that might result in him getting kicked out of this very nice balcony. But, when has that ever stopped him before.

Max’s lips press into a thin line, and Charles knows he’s pushing it. He knows he should stop, but there’s something electric about nagging Max like this, like tapping on a electric wire just to see the sparks. It’s distracting, exciting - and, most importantly, it keeps his own nerves at bay.

"Careful, Leclerc," Max warns, his voice low as he tilts his head, kind of like a cat would.

Charles leans in further, his grin widening. "Or what? You’ll analyze me to death? Oh no, Max Verstappen is going to give me a stern lecture on fuel consumption. Terrifying."

And then it happens.

Max stands abruptly, the movement so sudden that Charles startles, his grin freezing. Before he can process what’s happening, Max steps closer, his eyes locked onto Charles with an intensity that makes his breath hitch.

"You talk too much," Max mutters, his voice barely more than a growl.

"You were the one dead set on the whole talking thing," the words come out, without any editorial from Charles's brain. It's automatic, because he has other problems to deal with. The proximity of Max being most of them.

"Hm," he hums instead of saying anything, as he stares into Charles eyes, as if he lost his favorite trophy in them. Charles swallows and does not dare to move. Unlike Max, who towers over him and locks him in by putting each of his arms on the arm rests. Instinctively, Charles pulls himself back a bit, his hands now resting on his thighs, eyes mapping Max's moves. He gets all up in his personal space, as if he stopped believing in that concept. How rude, Charles thinks. And extremely hot. He can feel Max's breath mixing with his. Max has one, very specific half-smirk, where he tilts his head a bit and one corner of his lips moves up. It's been haunting Charles for months. And of course, that's exactly this smirk Max pulls out from his arsenal right now. If the Dutch lunatic does not stop with these moves, Charles will lose control again and then they'll have to do the whole "apologize" dance all over. Charles gulps. Max's eyes flash between his lips and his eyes.

I wonder, if you dare. Max wets his lips, gaze locked with Charles's. There is one final spark in his eyes. "Get your running shoes ready," he whispers and then - as if to test how much more flustered Charles can get - he slams his lips onto Charles's. There is no room for doubt, shyness or second-guessing. Max moves with deliberation, something that Charles finds so characteristically him. Max’s mouth is warm, firm, and demanding, moving against Charles’s with a rhythm that is almost overwhelming. It's all new. Nothing compared to the light brush of their Belgium affair. Charles’s breath hitches as Max’s tongue brushes against his bottom lip, teasing, testing, before diving deeper. Their tongues meet and the insides of Charles start to spin out of control. Max slows down a bit, as if giving them both space to catch up with what's happening. Few lazy breaths later, Charles's lips are meddling with Max's again and the sensation of the light brushing, tongue licking and lips squeezing each other is one that he knows would be impossible to burn out of his memory. Max’s hand finds the back of Charles’s neck, his fingers threading into his hair and pulling just enough to send a shiver down Charles’s spine. The other hand presses against the chair’s armrest, anchoring them both in the chaos of the moment. For once, it feels like they’ve found the same rhythm, and for the first time in weeks, Charles feels like he can rest again.

He tilts Charles's head back a bit and as if his mission was to destroy any last hope of dignity, moves his lips over to Charles's neck to kiss, bite and suck.

Charles's mind goes blank immediately, all and any complex throughts exiting the conversation. Charles’s brain short-circuits. His hands fly up, grabbing at Max’s shoulders, the fabric of his shirt twisting between Charles’s fingers as if Max might disappear if he lets go - just like the small moan that leave his mouth, unfiltered.

After few more of those, Max is back on his mouth, his lips wet and suddenly feeling more familiar than before. Oh dear God, it's just so, so, so good to feel their lips brushing over each other. His whole body is on fire, spinning and drowning, all at the same time. There is absolutely no was back for Charles.

“Fuck,” he breathes out when Max pulls back just enough to let them catch a fraction of air. Max’s eyes are dark, stormy, and locked onto him with a ferocity that makes Charles’s chest tighten.

“You started this,” Max mutters, his voice rough and laced with something dangerously close to desperation. Charles finds that ironic, given the fact Max is slowly but effectively ruining anyone else for him. “You don’t get to look at me like that, talk like that, and not expect-”

“Oh, this is my fault?” Charles interrupts, his lips still tingling from the kiss, his voice shaking but defiant. He’s clinging to the last threads of control, but his teasing nature wins out, even now. “You’re the one with the whole ‘let’s talk’ charade. Très adulte, Max.”

Max’s laugh is low and breathy, his thumb brushing over Charles’s jaw. “Yeah, real mature,” he says before diving back in, cutting off whatever retort Charles might have had.

And just like that, they are back where they were. In the middle of a make out session worthy of all of the teenage dreams.

As if Max decided he is not close enough, he puts his legs on each side of Charles, effectively strandling him. The sudden force of it knocks Charles back slightly, his head hitting the chair’s backrest as Max leans further into his space.

Max tongue in Charles's mouth. His hand pressing them together, noses touching and lips dancing the dance of the devil. Charles was aware of what this was doing to his dick few minutes ago, but having Max nearly sitting on him is making the situation probably obvious to the Dutch man as well. Will this freak him out?

Charles pulls away for a moment, but keeps his hands placed on him. "Max, what are we doing here," he asks slowly and immediately regrets it, because the reaction from his kissing partner is exactly what he expects. He leans his foreheads against Charles's and stops all the movements. Sensing sudden hesitation, brush of the ugly reality that exists outside of their little bubble they accidentally created. If Charles managed to fuck this up for him so quickly, he is throwing himself of the balcony. He leans in, with the intention to continue the kissing and distract Max again. But, as always, he sees right through him and it's becoming incresingly more annyoing when he does that.

"I, um. Maybe we don't need to answer all the questions tonight," he speaks weakly, as if he's not proud of himself. That completely contracts Charles, who feels relieved, like he just received a free pass, shot of encouragement and maybe, just maybe, they can finally just kiss and he does not have to think about what Max is thinking about, because frankly - that requires incredible amount of focus and energy.

"Oh, thank God. I've finally worn you down," exclaims, feeling like things are finally going his way. Charles is so proud of himself, his "crazy schemes" working exactly towards the goal he didn't realize he had. "More kissing, less talking, Max Emilian," he sings happily and plans several little pecks on Max's cheeks.

Max groans, dropping his forehead onto Charles’s shoulder, nearly, just almost, hugging him. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” Charles quips, his voice a whisper, “here you are.”

//

They moved inside only because of the colder wind rising. Or at least that's how Max tried to convince himself and has Charles chuckling at the awkwardness of it all. But, Max did hold his hand as he led him in, which worked so much on Charles that he immediately started imagining Max leading him like this into the paddock. Proud and unafraid.

Boy, Charles is going to be wanting to kiss Max every day now. If the hole he dig himself up these past few weeks wasn't deep enough, now he was sitting at the bottom so far down, that if he'd look up, there would be no sign of sunshine. But, that's a problem for future Charles. The currently present Charles is having the time of his life, making out with Max on his bed.

He stopped feeling restrained, not so afraid to touch him anymore. They are lying next to each other, limbs tangled, lips connected and hair messy from all the tossing and pulling.

Charles is horny and couldn't help but notice that Max is too. But so far, they still lie there fully clothed, neither of them confident enough to push further. If it were up to Charles and his decision making only, his hormones-drunk brain would have a very clear vision of what's to happen. But, the fact Max is kissing him back is a blessing enough.

That is until Max, the unpredictable menace he was apparently born to be, slowly sneaks his hand below Charles's shirt and strolls a bit around his stomach, before settling on his hips and squeezing them teasingly. And just like that, Charles is down bad, unhinged again, and tired of being towered by Max. Two can play this game, and if he teases, Charles is going to prove that he is also a force to be reckoned with.

He surprises Max by flipping them over, breaking their kiss and full on sitting up on him. He holds Max's hands somewhere next to his head and examines the surprised and hopefully horny look on his face. It's not exactly easy to make it out in the darkness. Charles does not like that. Charles does take advantage of the fact he has caught Max of guard and looks around, searching for a lamp or anything resembling it. He sees absolutely no reason why they should engage in inappropriate activities in the dark, especially when they are both as handsome as they are. He does, however, have several opinions against Max's interior design choices.

"Max, where do you have lamps?" he asks.

Max blinks up at him, confusion painting his face, keeping him still. "What?"

"Lamps," Charles repeats, gesturing vaguely around the room like he's expecting one to materialize out of thin air. "You know, things that make light? You must have one somewhere."

Max is staring at him. "You're sitting on me, we're like, making out, and you're asking about... lamps?"

Charles does not understand why is he so baffled again. This man really has a strange brain. Must be the Dutch genes.

"Oui," Charles replies, entirely serious. "I want to see your face. It's too dark in here. How do you live like this?"

Max groans and drops his head back against the pillows. "You’re seriously hung up on this right now?"

Charles shrugs, unbothered. "I’m allergic to overhead lighting, okay? It’s too harsh. It makes everything look ugly." He pauses, his fingers brushing Max’s wrist absentmindedly. "You’re not ugly, though. You’re… nice."

Frozen Max looks like he is fighting a teasing comeback. His brain is short-circuiting from the casual, unexpected compliment and the fact that Charles said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. He huffs, trying to regain control of the situation. "Fine. There’s a lamp on the shelf in the living room. Over there."

Charles twists around, squinting in the direction Max vaguely gestured. He sees nothing resembling a lamp. Because of the darkness and Max's obvious lack of talent regarding interior design. But, it's fine. Nobody's perfect. "I don’t see it."

"It’s there!" Max insists. "You just need to...ugh, let me..." He tries to sit up, but Charles pins him back down, grinning.

"Stay," Charles says, a little too smugly. "I’ll find it."

"Unbelievable," Max mutters as Charles quickly climbs off him, moving to the edge of the bed and fumbling around in the dark. Max props himself up on his elbows, watching with equal parts amusement and frustration as Charles feels his way along the shelves.

Finally, Charles finds the perfect spot on the nightstand, and a sharp glow fills the room. He turns back to Max triumphantly. "Much better. But, I am buying you a warmer lightbulb, this is too white for a bedroom." In a second, he is climbing back onto the bed with a self-satisfied smirk. He shakes his head in disbelief, like it's not the most obvious thing in the world. Max is a silly guy. It's more than clear he will need Charles's guidance.

Max raises an eyebrow, his expression half annoyed, half fond. "You paused making out with me for a lamp." He's probably not aware that is mimicking Charles's gestures, brushing his wrist like he did earlier.

"I paused making out with you so I could appreciate how handsome you are," Charles clarifies. "Big difference."

Max rolls his eyes, but the faint blush creeping up his neck gives him away. "You’re ridiculous."

"You keep saying that," Charles replies, settling himself back into Max’s space. "But at least now I can see you blush."

Max doesn’t give him the satisfaction of a retort. Instead, he pulls Charles down by the collar of his shirt, their lips meeting again, and this time, Max’s hands slide back under Charles’s shirt with a little more purpose.

Charles decides the lamp was an excellent investment. And - it's now him who puts his hands on Max's chest and without hesitation starts slowly, cheekily, working on getting his shirt off.

//

Getting devoured by Max feels like having sugar shot directly into Charles's veins. They're both shirtless now, boxers only. They've been like this for a while. Charles does not need to fight his tiredness, not even in that deep dark late hour, because his serotonin levels are keeping him up (just like his dick). His lips are hurting, after Max discoveres that light biting makes him especially weak and has him melting in his arms. Charles is pretty sure he has a hickey on the right side of his neck and is proud of his own creation reflected above Max's collarbone.

Each kiss feels like a tiny claim, a mark of trust that neither of them has fully put into words. But the intensity is starting to overwhelm him. He wants more. Greed and lust driving this car where he's a mere passenger. Max’s hands are everywhere - skimming over his ribs, the small of his back, fingers trailing just enough to make Charles forget his breathing.

Max speaks first. "We should, um..." He avoids looking at Charles and rubs his head, looking bit like a lost puppy.

Charles pauses, anticipating the worst. He tries to search for answers in his face. "Max..." he says, deciding on not adding any particular question.

“Nothing,” he says finally, his cheeks flushing. “I just...I’ve never really…You know, with a guy.” He is bright red all of a sudden, his suave long gone. It is at this point where Charles feels like he's granted the permission to see Max in his rawest form. He remembers feeling this way once. When everything was new, fresh and scary. It's not like he himself has fucked hundreds of guys, but there have been one or two. Max's eyes sparkle and Charles recognizes that look very well. He's seen it many times, staring back at him from a mirror. It's this look that he puts on before he bolts. His mind is racing and he tries to recall what it felt like to be in this situation for the first time. What words would have he wanted to hear. He can't fuck this up.

"Max," he speaks and cups his cheek tenderly. He gives him a deep long look, a soft one, before he continues, carefully picking every word. "Thanks for telling me." The Dutch driver rolls his eyes before Charles can continue - God, he is infuriating. He is about to protest, surely, but Charles is faster. "I want us to both enjoy this, whatever it is. No pretending, no rushing or trying to push away. We can do everything tonight, we don't have to do anything. We can like, figure it out, together. It's not like I'm the Mr. Expert in this either - I know, I know. Surprising, usually I know everything," he adds in the end jokingly, in his typical style, putting his hands up defensively, to lighten the mood. It works. Max reaches for his hand and squeezes it, smile replacing his concerned frown. "My main point is...," he pauses, to make sure it comes out right. "I think this is about having fun? Enjoying it. And we can figure out what that looks like together."

Max seems to be taken back by sudden Charles's maturity. It was written all over his face - his mind was spinning like a wheel caught in a loop, and Charles could almost see the effort behind his silence.

"Okay," Max finally whispers and Charles feels like popping a victory champagne. Their fingers entangle each other and it serves like a nice grounding.

"It's like talking. And you're sooo good at it, remember?" he teases and as a reaction received a playful hit in his chest.

With newfound energy and confidence, Max snaps out of his temporary insecurity and continues on playfully fighting with Charles. The Monegasque is sitting on the Dutch and they fight a bit, until the latter one let's the other win.

When they stop, it's the intense stare down again. Max bites his lip and carefully eyes Charles up and down. They stopped hiding their erections a while ago, but it had gone unacknowledged. Until now. Charles rolls his tongue, watching the interest spread over Max's face.

"I mean, if you’re the expert," Max says, his voice dipping into a teasing tone, but there’s still a flicker of hesitation in his eyes. His hand lingers just above Charles’s waist, as if waiting for permission to move closer. "Maybe you could…show me?" It's not him dive bombing head first and asking questions later. He is careful, still a bit shy. However, the curiosity in Max's eyes is undeniable.

"Show you?" Charles mocks, his voice coming out steadier than he feels. His gaze flicks between Max’s face and where his hand resides. "What exactly are you asking for, Verstappen?" It is maddening, being on edge for hours. Without breaking eye contact, Max's fingers travel just a little bit further, slowly, until he is full on tracing Charles's cock up and down. Charles is doing his absolute best to stay somewhat normal about this, fighting the urge to literally grab his cock and shove it up Max's talkative mouth. Patience. He is patient for the first time ever.

"You said we could figure it out, right?" he says, not even trying to hide that he is trying to push him over the edge. Just like he's testing his limits verbally, he's now adding circular motions at the tip of Charles's dick.

He is pretty sure it's been years since he was this hard. It's almost lame, Max hasn't actually even done anything yet. Talented boy he is, either intentionally or accidentally, he brushes over Charles's sensitive spot. He tries to mask his reaction with a playful scoff. "I didn’t think you’d actually listen to me for once."

Max huffs a laugh, and the sound is warm, elegant. "I listen sometimes," he counters, his grin growing and he bites lip down. "When it’s important," he winks and squeezes Charles for the first time ever. Shives sent through his whole body. Max's nose perks up at his reaction. He puts up the signature "I just won a race" smile and Charles would smack him, if he wasn't so focused on whatever it was his hands were doing.

"Max," he semi-moans, temporarily giving into the effects. He takes a deep breath in and out, desperate to push Max into more action.

"Important?" Charles arches a brow, attempting to deflect the way Max’s touch has his thoughts spiraling. He shifts closer, testing the waters himself now by slowly tracing the lines of Max's lower abs. "So, you’re admitting I’m important?"

Max freezes for half a beat, and Charles sees it—the momentary flicker of panic, like Max didn’t mean to reveal too much. It’s gone just as quickly, replaced by a faint smirk, but the moment stays with Charles, making his chest feel tight.

"You’re not bad company," Max says finally, his tone deliberately light, but his hand tightens just slightly on Charles’s waist, anchoring them together.

It’s not exactly a confession, but it’s enough to make Charles’s melt. He leans in, his breath mingling with Max’s now, the space between them vanishing with every second.

"Not bad company?" Charles echoes, his voice quieter now, but there’s a glint of mischief in his eyes. "I’m flattered, Verstappen. Truly." He literally has his hand on his dick. If this is his definition of "not a bad company" Charles is sure as hell interest what a "good company" entails.

Max chuckles, the sound soft and almost shy again. "Don’t let it go to your head." Chéri, all of the blood has left my brain a while ago. He finally squeezes him properly and Charles hates the fact he's wearing the damn boxers. The air shifts between them, less playful now, more charged.

"If you’re going to do it," Charles whimpers, his own boldness surprising him when he's just about to finally lose it, "stop overthinking it."

Max’s brows furrow, his hesitation cracking. "Do what?"

"Whatever you’re thinking about doing," Charles replies, his voice teasing but edged with something raw. "It's not that different from what you're doing when you're alone, thinking of me," he rolls his lips and hopes he is at least little bit right.

He knows Max well enough to know it might take years for his to admit something like that. But, Charles is winning away. The best way to get through Max is a challenge - and that's how he finally got to say goodbye to boxers.

Charles is now fully naked in front of Max Verstappen. There really is no going back. He is sitting on him, while he lies below him, getting ever-so-more curious about Charles's dick. Being able to watch Max exploring him carefully is something worth dying for. Every touch burns in the best way possible.

Charles sucks in a sharp breath when Max’s fingers wrap around him again, the sensation sending a shiver up his spine. His body responds immediately, heat rushing through him in a way that feels almost overwhelming. Max is watching him, studying him, like he's the data from FP3. Charles is more than happy to be Max's muse. He has the perfect grip, uses right force and touches the right spots. There is a shiver and a loud sigh.

Max freezes, his grip light butting steady, watching Charles intently. “Is this…?”

“Good,” Charles interrupts him breathlessly, his hips swaying forward instinctively. “It’s good. Please don’t stop.”

There is a tiny bit of precum, but Max goes on licking his hand wet before touching him back again. Charles would love to shift his focus fully on Max's hyper-fixed frown, but it's too much to ask of him right now. His dreams are coming true in a way he thought is impossible. The first strokes are slow, exploratory and too careful for Charles's liking. When he feels like can't take this slow teasing anymore, he puts his hand on Max and squeezes three times harder.

"Faster, please. You've teased me so much today," he growls, not even worried about scaring Max away anymore. He asked him for guidance. There it is.

Max looks happy to receive some feedback and delivers exactly on what Charles demands. And it - oh God - it is...

Yeah. It's like that.

Charles's body and mind fly into dimension unexplored by most people and his whole body hardens, every muscle in his body tensing up. He's pretty sure his heavy breathing is turning into moans. But, Jesus, the sensation is just too good. He opens his eyes for a moment to glance at Max, who is fully focused on holding his tempo and the right grip. And he's doing a damn good job at it. Every nerve in Charles's dick is alive, Max's hand sliding up and down with increasing speed. Charles is getting lost in the electric pleasure waves. He reached over for Max's shoulder to support his balance and he's pretty sure he's saying some words, but has no idea which language he's using. Oh, yeah. There is it. He can almost see it, the line leading to the ultimate release. Usually, he has to focus hard to get there, but Max does not give him any moment to hesitate or even remember there are other things in this world than his hand on his dick. The throbbing starts and he knows it's close, because it just feels so heavenly.

"Max, I'm-" he wants to warn him, but before he even gets to that, Max does something, something different that catches Charles of guard and he is losing control over his release. His heartbeat echoing like thunder in his ears as he lost himself completely to the feeling.

Oh. Dear. Jesus. Max. Heaven, ecstasy, rush, pure warmth in every part of his brain. He is hit by a wave of buttery bliss.

He feels Max's movements slowing down and that's when he sort of comes back to Earth and opens his eyes again.

Charles blinks a few times, his breath still coming in short, uneven gasps as he leans back on his hands. The post-orgasm haze wraps around him like a warm blanket, but it lasts only seconds before he catches sight of Max’s chest and - fuck. Oh no. The sight he comes back to is so bizarre he manages to laugh even through the last waves of his orgasm.

"Uh..." Charles starts, his voice still raspy. His gaze darts from the mess on Max’s chest and stomach to the small drops on his forehead and parts of his hair. Oh, how utterly adorable. Sweet summer child. "Max... you missed the part where you’re supposed to block it." He would have expected to feel shameful for shooting himself all over Max. His high is however still so strong, he brushes over that.

Max follows Charles’s line of sight, glancing down at himself. His brows furrow, and then his face breaks into that crooked, infuriating smirk. "What? You didn’t exactly give me instructions."

Charles lets out a breathless laugh, still somewhere between mortified and amused. He can't be blamed, he's still riding his bliss. "You managed to avoid your eyes, right?" he asks, concerned because of his own similar mistake once. That kind of pain is not something he wants Max to associate with their first sexual encounter.

He nods his head and Charles relaxes again. He seems totally unbothered by the situation. Charles reaches over to entangle his sticky fingers with his own. "That was...really amazing, Max. That thing you did at the end-" he wants to continue, but a giggle stops him.

"Yeah, I wanted to see if it works on you too," he interrupts Charles nonchalantly, implying that this is something he himself enjoys. Charles's head was still cloudy, even through his brain fog, he recognized that what is making his blood race again, is the fact, that Max is having fun.

Intrusive thoughts. Charles was never good at suppressing or pushing them down. The sight in front of him is like from a heavenly painting. It's nearly dawn and he's still in his post orgasm high. These will be the excuses he is planning on using in case Max protests against what he's about to do next.

It's feral expression painted over Max's face that is the driving force. Charles has probably never felt this urge to act bordeline deranged for anyone else.

He locks eyes with Max, dead set on not braking the contact. The familiar electricity is back in the room, bouncing between them and Charles is sure. By the look of his face, Max is feeling it too. Only this time, Charles will be driving force. He smirks, wondering if Max already knows he is dealing with a petty, competetive sex partner. Neither of them speaks as Charles leans over to Max's abs and almost theatrically explores the pools of his own cum. He starts with his finger, gently dipping it in, slowly and with his usually touch of dramatiqué. He smirks, as he takes his wet fingers over to his mouth and covers his lips with the residue white liquid. Max's eyes are glued on his moves, he is hard and to Charles's amusement, somewhat hypnotized by his actions. Charles goes on and sucks on his own finger. Then he bends, still sitting on Max, close enough that his wet lips hover just above Max's. He stops just as close as he can without actually touching him. And the he digs real deep into his arsenal of killing smirks and whips out the one he considers to be the most alluring one. Max is tense underneath him, hands gripping his arms with a much bigger force than he used before. He is the one who reaches over to kiss his dirty, wet lips. Charles swears that he heard him grunt before that. The kiss is messy, raspy and aggressive. Their tongues are roaming inside each other's mouths, as if they'd done it thousands of times. No remorse. Cum mixing with saliva. Max grips Charles's face with such a force that he has almost fight him to get him to release it. Charles pulls away again and licks his upper lip. Max's hand reaches back to grip him down, but Charles shifts back and point a warning finger. This stops Max and he lies down, slowly, giving fully into whatever it is Charles is doing. He nods lightly, it's almost desperate. His pupils so enlarged that there is barely any blue left. Charles decides this is how he likes Max the most. Finally, bringing back his signature smirk, he bends down, tongue out, intending on looking as graphic and vulgar as possible. Max has undeniable anticipation written all over his face, which only encourages him more. He places his tongue on the skin just above the shaft of Max's throbbing cock, does a few little circles, mapping his lower abdomen before he looks up and locks eyes with him once again. Then, with the now signature cheeky grin, her grabs Max's hips tight and slides his tongue away from his cock - but towards the little pools on Max's chest. All while making sure not to avert his gaze from Max's face. His moves are quick and determined. Like he can' t get enough of licking his own cum from Max's body. He roams around for a moment and then swallows, making dirty humming noise. His cheeky right hands rolls down over to brush Max's cock. Charles loves being watched by Max. He wants to challenge every part of him. This is just the act one. There are thousands of things he wants to do to him or with him.

He makes a quick move over to Max's hips again. The shiny, precum covered cock staring back at him. He maps it out, explores it, literally stares at the beauty of it. This is it. He finally gets to suck of Max. The word "blessed" does not quite cover it. He kneels down and makes himself comfortable before gripping his cock for real this time. Immediately, there is a flinch from the Dutch man. Charles, drunk on the soft whimper, wants to - no, demands - to hear more.

As he strokes him, ever-so-lightly, he tilts his head down and starts brushing Max's cock on his face. Cheeks, chin, forehead, the whole deal. All while making sure Max can see just how excited he is to do so. There are some words coming out of Max's mouth, but Charles is entirely concerned about his lower body. He quite literally snuggles his dick for a while and then proceeds to get his tongue again and carefully starts to place little pecks. Then he presses the dick so much into his own face, that there is nowhere else to go. It is at that moment he finally opens his mouth and takes him in. He licks him all over, mapping the shape, the veins and the light tilt. Burning it into his brain, like was planning to making a life size drawing after they're done. His hand is working the bottom of the shaft, where it meets the little light hairs covering the skin. Underneath him, Max stiffens, his thighs are arched and he can feel his breathing getting heavier. Before Charles proceeds to bob his head up and down, with the intention of fully destroying anything remaining of their dignity, he reaches over to one of Max's hands and positions it on his own head. Max responds immediately and holds onto Charles's hair. A shot of smugness hits Charles - he is the one who can make Max melt and do exactly what he wants. That is a rare thing to see, he had observed him long enough to know that. With that, he starts moving his head up and town and twirling his tongue around. He keeps a steady, fast rhythm, testing whether this is something Max appreciates. By the whimpering sounds he hears, he figures he is on the right track. It all gets more salty and sticky real quickly. This is not Charles's first rodeo and he is really glad about that, because the way he makes sure to breath through his nose, so that he does not have to pause, is coming in naturally. He can fully immerse himself into the experience that is sucking Max Verstappen off.

"Ah-shit-Charles..." he hears and it sounds like a prayer. Charles keep on moving up and down and opens his eyes to have a quick look at the partner in crime. To his absolute ego-boosting-pleasure, Max's eyes are glued on him, mouth slightly open and he has this look on his face that confirms what Charles figured before. That is the look of someone who is having the time of his life. He does not hesitate and ups his speed. Determined to drive this train into it's destination. He closes his eyes again. For a moment there are only wet sounds cutting the silence of the night. Inevitably, Max's body starts to stiff even more and Charles knows well enough what that means. Max's hand is now nearly pulling his hairs out, that's how much his hand is gripping and he is absentmindedly guiding Charles's moves.

"I'm-Charles," he barely gets out of him, lungs full of air. "Charles, I am," he mumbles and make an attempt on removing himself from Charles's mouth. That crazy man thinks Charles is going to let him cum outside of his mouth. This bizarre idea motivates him to push down on Max's hips and all the strenght in his neck comes in hand. He manages to keep his position. On Max's cock. They share a little look, Max searching consent, while trying to hold himself back. Charles winks at him, hoping he understands, because he would get really mad if he had to stop now and tell Max verbally that he can come. It's unknown whether Max gives in or if he's over run by his own release. The salty liquid gets shot directly into Charles's throat, accompanied by a rather loud moan from Max. He swallows, making sure to catch all of it. Few big gulps and he is there, licking the residue that he didn't manage to catch clean.

He pops up to a seated position and stretches out his neck.

"You taste good," he says as he cleans the corners of his mouth. Almost as if to make a point. Max is lying there, eyes glued to the ceiling, steadying his heavy breath. What a beautiful sights, Charles thinks.

"You can’t just say things like that," Max mutters, his voice cracking in the process.

"Why not?" Charles grins now, swinging his leg over, sitting on his knees next to Max. "It’s the truth."

Charles feels like the king on the world. Sparing one more look at the mess Max is, he pops up and heads over to the bathroom for a towel, walking naked, as God intended anyway.

Don’t move,” he says, smirking like he’s in charge now. “I’ll clean you up. Can’t have you looking so... helpless.”

Max’s face burns red, but he doesn’t argue. Charles flicks the towel at Max’s chest, laughing softly when Max fumbles to catch it. “Relax,” he says, leaning in closer, snatching the towel back before Max even uses it. He swipes at Max’s collarbone with exaggerated care, his grin infuriatingly wide. “You’re terrible at this.”

“I’m not helpless,” Max grumbles, glaring half-heartedly.

“Hmm, sure you’re not,” Charles hums, tilting his head as if examining his handiwork. “You look like you’ve just been through a wind tunnel. A very satisfying one.”

This earns him a very heart-felt eye roll. All of the fatigue from the previous day, the several runs around the town, then the whole party and hours spend at Max's apartment are catching up. He throws the towel somewhere next to the bed and flops himself down.

“And for the record,” Charles adds, ignoring Max's confused looks, “I’m staying over. Too late to head back, and you don’t get a say.”

“You’re staying?” he echoes dumbly, like he’s not entirely sure what just happened. Silly man, he must be still high from the amazing blow job, Charles figures.

"Obviously. Don't worry, I don't snore. And, you can snore however much you like, it won't wake me up," he remarks as he reaches over to shut off the awfully bright lamp he himself put on the nightstand.

"Goodnight, Max Emilian," he announces, ending the night. There is something truly enjoyable in being so confident in his action. It's not often it happens, but when it does, Charles makes the most out of it.

chapter 5

------- @chezmardybum

[if-you-got-a-heart-at-all]

i got my hair cut yesterday and i was scrolling through my phone to show my hairdresser a picture of what i wanted and i laugh saying "sorry! i've got so many pictures of my baby!" as if we haven't just both seen me scroll past vessel's mommy milkers 😶

[senor-plume]

Bob Dylan. Liner Notes. 1968.

There were three kings and a jolly three too. The first one had a broken nose, the second, a broken arm and the third was broke. “Faith is the key!” said the first king. “No, froth is the key!” said the second. “You’re both wrong,” said the third, “the key is Frank!”

It was late in the evening and Frank was sweeping up, preparing the meat and dishing himself out when there came a knock upon the door. “Who is it?” he mused. “It’s us, Frank,” said the three kings in unison, “and we’d like to have a word with you!” Frank opened the door and the three kings crawled in.

Terry Shute was in the midst of prying open a hairdresser when Frank’s wife came in and caught him. “They’re here!” she gasped. Terry dropped his drawer and rubbed the eye. “What do they appear to be like?” “One’s got a broken vessel and that’s the truth, the other two I’m not so sure about.” “Fine, thank you, that’ll be all.” “Good” she turned and puffed. Terry tightened his belt and in an afterthought, stated: “Wait!” “Yes?” “How many of them would you say there were?” Vera smiled, she tapped her toe three times. Terry watched her foot closely. “Three?” he asked, hesitating. Vera nodded.

“Get up off my floor!” shouted Frank. The second king, who was first to rise, mumbled, “Where’s the better half, Frank?” Frank, who was in no mood for jokes, took it lightly, replied, “She’s in the back of the house, flaming it up with an arrogant man, now come on, out with it, what’s on our minds today?” Nobody answered.

Terry Shute then entered the room with a bang, looking the three kings over and fondling his mop. Getting down to the source of things, he proudly boasted: “There is a creeping consumption in the land. It begins with these three fellas and it travels outward. Never in my life have I seen such a motley crew. They ask nothing and they receive nothing. Forgiveness is not in them. The wilderness is rotten all over their foreheads. They scorn the widow and abuse the child but I am afraid that they shall not prevail over the young man’s destiny, not even them!” Frank turned with a blast, “Get out of here, you ragged man! Come ye no more!” Terry left the room willingly.

“What seems to be the problem?” Frank turned back to the three kings who were astonished. The first king cleared his throat. His shoes were too big and his crown was wet and lopsided but nevertheless, he began to speak in the most meaningful way, “Frank,” he began, “Mr. Dylan has come out with a new record. This record of course features none but his own songs and we understand that you’re the key.” “That’s right,” said Frank, “I am.” “Well then,” said the king in a bit of excitement, “could you please open it up for us?”

Frank, who all this time had been reclining with his eyes closed, suddenly opened them both up as wide as a tiger. “And just how far would you like to go in?” he asked and the three kings all looked at each other. “Not too far but just far enough so’s we can say that we’ve been there,” said the first chief. “All right,” said Frank, “I’ll see what I can do,” and he commenced to doing it. First of all, he sat down and crossed his legs, then he sprung up, ripped off his shirt and began waving it in the air. A lightbulb fell from one of his pockets and he stamped it out with his foot. Then he took a deep breath, moaned and punched his fist through the plate-glass window. Settling back in his chair, he pulled out a knife, “Far enough?” he asked. “Yeah, sure, Frank,” said the second king. The third king just shook his head and said he didn’t know. The first king remained silent. The door opened and Vera stepped in. “Terry Shute will be leaving us soon and he desires to know if you kings got any gifts you wanna lay on him.” Nobody answered.

It was just before the break of day and the three kings were tumbling along the road. The first one’s nose had been mysteriously fixed, the second one’s arm had healed and the third one was rich. All three of them were blowing horns. “I’ve never been so happy in all my life!” sang the one with all the money.

“Oh mighty thing!” said Vera to Frank, “Why didn’t you just tell them you were a moderate man and leave it at that instead of goosing yourself all over the room?” “Patience, Vera,” said Frank. Terry Shute, who was sitting over by the curtain cleaning an ax, climbed to his feet, walked over to Vera’s husband and placed his hand on his shoulder. “Yuh didn’t hurt yer hand, didja Frank?” Frank just sat there watching the workmen replace the window. “I don’t believe so,” he said.

Bob Dylan- Liner Notes from John Wesley Harding

[lovedvra]

Hi there! Happy new week lovelies. It is self-care Sunday here on Love Dvra. We are black history, but do we love where we are now? Do we love who we are now? When you look in the mirror do you admire what and who you see? Is your body a loved, protected home or a tired, overly-criticized vessel that gets you through the day? It is a conversation I’ve had with myself several times. Here is what I uncovered. As a young girl and teenager, my natural hair was heavily criticized and rarely complimented. It was “too nappy, too dry, too frizzy, too short, too kinky, or too hard to manage”. In my teen years, I desperately wanted a perm to stop those criticisms and the weight of negative emotions that came after hearing them. In my logical mind, a perm would make it easier to try new hairstyles. My go-to style was three puffs- two in the front and one in the back. I did not know how to take care of my hair. Sometimes dealing with it made me feel powerless. It was a challenge to feel confident in my appearance. There were very few hairdressers who knew how to style my hair. Most of their methods included heat, rough detangling and gel, which led to breakage. Yes, I hated my hair. Even now, I find myself reacting to it in ways others did in the past. It is so ingrained in my psyche that even when I see the beauty of my hair now, sometimes it feels like it’s not enough or should be different to be better. Can we call it hair trauma? Now I wear my hair natural mainly because it is more affordable and I know how to take care of it as is. However, there is still so much I would like to learn to treat it better. If I were to change my hair, I’m at a point where it would be from a place of necessity or curiosity instead of a need to fit in or for others to accept me. This inner dialogue about my body and hair made me question a lot of what I considered to be beautiful. What is beauty to me and how do I want to express that? I am still creating that, but so far I know I want to be healthy. I know I want to remain authentic. Koroba braids, bantu knots, afros, locs, weaves, perms, waves, pin curls- I want to try them all! The versatility black women have created for their hair and the stories that can be told from our style positively intrigues me. Beauty is a holistic experience. It is physical, creative and also spiritual, mental, and emotional to me. A black woman who loves her natural hair and complexion is less likely to perform her blackness and feminity in any space she enters. She simply exists and radiates as is. I can’t deny that the perception of blackness and beauty creates tension at times. We are so accustomed to being treated as spectacles when we show up as ourselves that some of us put up a wall. Like myself, it can be weary to constantly ignore people’s comments on the natural state of your hair, especially around people who we hoped would do better. These days I’ve had to guard myself against comments from a few persons in my life. They have natural hair, but the only way they can accept it is if it is in braids, cornrows or a bun. At times I’d like to ask them if my shrinkage is too black for them. We learned to diminish our natural appearance to appease those in charge of corporate spaces, schools, financial institutions and governance so we could gain access to the important support they offered. Mind you, the state of my hair is merely for my convenience. I will straighten it as long as it is safe and convenient to do so. However, it is so funny how it is perceived as defiance of authority or the status quo in its natural state. Why does the status quo think tightly coiled African hair is a rebellion? If we all were to allow these limitations to stop us, where would we be as a people? Our ancestors fought for freedom, for access to basic needs and for a better tomorrow. Now, we fight for unbiased access to spaces we qualify for, we fight for rest and softness, we fight to be able to express the full range of our emotions without being labelled as threats, and we fight for generational...

[mygainyear2024]

Day 17 Several photographic perspectives on a cruise ship

I woke up this morning and as usual looked out the balcony windows, and did a double take, A huge cruise liner backing in to dock! According to some people I randomly spoke to later in the day, there were two yesterday, but I missed them as I was out of town. Today's plan was to collect my tiles and then there was no plan. I was going to have dinner with Rosie (of Halifax) tonight, but she wasn't feeling well, so we've delayed until tomorrow night.

I decided to go to the Marina to see if I could catch the water taxi across to Ferragudo with no expectations, as there wasn't much info online. Their last post in February saying they were back from their Christmas break. So for a start, I confidently headed in the wrong direction! Luckily I asked a lovely looking man early, as it was heating up outside. Once I got to the point I realised I had to ring to book. The man on the other end of the phone said "it is a taxi!" I'm sure he was thinking "stupid tourist!"

It was a pleasant crossing to Ferragudo (€9 return) and I was warmly met by the lovely Carla, the tile painting teacher. We had a brief chat about her upcoming holiday to Shanghai, she shared more food recommendations with me, gave me a hug and I was on my way.

While I waited for the return ferry I caught a glimpse of the life of the local fishermen. It was fascinating watching their weathered bodies. The men who caught the fish left their small vessel soon after docking and different men then pulled the nets off the boat and untangled the fish. I have no doubt some of that fish would be served locally, the coals were burning on BBQs nearby.

Given the water taxi could drop me off closer to town, my plan was then to try the old world, charming looking, Casa da Isabella for their traditional Portuguese cakes, but sadly they were closed (they were open yesterday, hmmm). I then diverted to find a dress shop I'd been in a few days ago, as I'd noticed a pleated tule skirt that I wanted to try on. And sold!

I then decided an early lunch would be good and went to the highly recommended Churrasqueira Guerreiro for piri piri chicken, but they are still closed for the holidays, omg! Ok, next stop Aqua Mall for the café in the supermarket, which is a thing here. And I wasn't disappointed, I had a pretty delicious amount of smoked salmon in a grain roll and a pastel de nata tarte for €5.19! And then another stop at the discounted section of that supermarket, damn they've run out of the dark chocolate brown rice cakes, so I purchased the dark chocolate oat rice cakes, €1 for 8 in each packet. They're quite addictive.

I spent the next hour or so finding a top and earrings to go with my new tule skirt and pending the weather I may wear it on my date with Rosie tomorrow night or save it for the Michelin star restaurant I've booked in a couple of weeks. The weather is quite warm during the day, ie I felt sweat running down my legs waiting for the water taxi at 10.15am, but then I just had the heaters on!

I've given up on decent coffee in Portimaõ. The best I can do to replicate a latte in Australia is to ask for a cappuccino with no chocolate at 67° and then I even forget my own instructions!

After getting the opening hours of the mercado wrong, I head to Crystal's recommended hairdresser. Crystal was the American woman I met with Brenda last week at The Chicken Tavern. Giselle can fit me in on 4th May and a regrowth is just €29.

Back to the gym, booked into Ricardo's TRX class, but Ricardo is not there, damn that. I will get that photo soon.

I've finished Scoop, now onto The Beautiful Game.

Tomorrow I have my much needed third Portuguese lesson in Alvor. Just to properly pronounce the names of each village in the Algarve would be helpful! Apparently learning new skills is useful as we age. I'm thinking maybe I'll find a language school in Brisbane. After Carla reminded me today that Macau used to be under Portuguese administration until 1999, I googled where Portuguese is spoken and some of these places are on my list....Portuguese is currently the fifth most spoken language in the world and an official language of Portugal, Brazil, Angola, Cabo Verde, Guinea-Bissau, Mozambique, São Tomé and Príncipe and East Timor. It is also used in Macau and in Goa.

Talking about new skills and thrills, I've booked a sea kayak experience next Tuesday at 7am with Filipe Tidy to go into the Benagil Caves. He was another recommendation off a FB post. The woman said her kayak flipped and she lost her phone into the ocean. That's not exactly the experience I'm paying for. I did have some text banter with Filipe today and he thinks, given they are double kayaks "probably you join me". And he said "until now everyone survived" and then he said "I am lifeguard so you lucky". I responded with "I'll probably die from a heart attack first after all the bread and cheese and oil I've eaten".

[drmaqazi]

WHAT TALMUD SAYS ABOUT JESUS, MARY, AND CHRISTIANITY AT LARGE.

'MARY, MOTHER OF JESUS IS A WHORE' - JEWISH HOLY BOOK - TALMUD 

Jews and Gentiles:

The Talmud is one of the most major of all books in Judaism after the Torah. The Talmud covers every aspect of Jewish Life. Everything from what Jews wear and say, to how they act towards others and treat them.

Judaism, all but reform Jews, treat anyone who is not a Jew as a, sorry for lack of a better word I must say, dog.  By the Talmud, if you are not a Jew you are not human! And, if you are not human, then you are equivalent to an animal.

The Talmud is at times a very hate filled book.  

The Ultra-Orthodox and the Orthodox as well as Conservative Jews take it and place it a bit higher than the Torah.  This is also why Judaism for the most part will not allow converts!

Some Teachings of the Talmud:

Erubin 21b. Whosoever disobeys the rabbis deserves death and will be punished by being boiled in hot excrement in hell.

Moed Kattan 17a . If a Jew is tempted to do evil he should go to a city where he is not known and do the evil there.

Non-Jews are Not Human Baba Mezia 114a-114b. Only Jews are human ("Only ye are designated men”).

Also see Kerithoth 6b under the sub-head, "Oil of Anointing" and Berakoth 58a in which Gentile women are designated animals (“she-asses").

Jews are Divine, Sanhedrin 58b. If a heathen (Gentile) hits a Jew, the Gentile must be killed. Hitting a Jew is the same as hitting God.

O.K. to Cheat Non-Jews, Sanhedrin 57a . A Jew need not pay a Gentile ("Cuthean") the wages owed him for work.

Jews Have Superior Legal Status, Baba Kamma 37b. "If an ox of an Israelite gores an ox of a Canaanite there is no liability; but if an ox of a Canaanite gores an ox of an Israelite...the payment is to be in full.”

Jews May Steal from Non-Jews, Baba Mezia 24a . 

If a Jew finds an object lost by a Gentile ("heathen") it does not have to be returned. (Affirmed also in Baba Kamma 113b).

Sanhedrin 76a . God will not spare a Jew who "marries his daughter to an old man or takes a wife for his infant son or returns a lost article to a Cuthean…"

Jews May Rob and Kill Non-Jews, Sanhedrin 57a . 

When a Jew murders a Gentile ("Cuthean"), there will be no death penalty. 

What a Jew steals from a Gentile he may keep.

Baba Kamma 37b. Gentiles are outside the protection of the law and God has "exposed their money to Israel.”

Jews May Lie to Non-Jews, Baba Kamma 113a. Jews may use lies ("subterfuges") to circumvent a Gentile.

Non-Jewish Children Sub-Human, Yebamoth 98a. All Gentile children are animals.

Abodah Zarah 36b . Gentile girls are in a state of niddah (filth) from birth.

Abodah Zarah 22a-22b . Gentiles prefer sex with cows.

Abodah Zarah 67b . "The vessels of Gentiles, do they not impart a worsened flavor to the food cooked in them?”

Insults Against Blessed Mary, 

Sanhedrin 106a . Says Jesus' mother was a whore: "She who was the descendant of princes and governors played the harlot with carpenters." Also in footnote #2 to Shabbath 104b it is stated that in the "uncensored" text of the Talmud it is written that Jesus mother, "Miriam the hairdresser," had sex with many men.

Gloats over Christ Dying Young, A passage from Sanhedrin 106 gloats over the early age at which Jesus died: "Hast thou heard how old Balaam (Jesus) was?--He replied: It is not actually stated but since it is written, Bloody and deceitful men shall not live out half their days it follows that he was thirty-three or thirty-four years old.”

Says Jesus was a Sorcerer, Sanhedrin 43a . Says Jesus ("Yeshu" and in footnote #6, Yeshu "the Nazarene") was executed because he practiced sorcery.

Horrible Blasphemy of Jesus, Gittin 57a . Says Jesus ( see footnote #4) is being boiled in "hot excrement.”

Sanhedrin 43a . Jesus deserved execution: "On the eve of the Passover, Yeshu was hanged...Do you suppose that he was one for whom a defense could be made? Was he not a Mesith (enticer)?”

Attacks Christians and their Books, Rosh Hashanah 17a . Christians ("minim") and others who reject the Talmud will go to hell and be punished there for all generations (see footnote #11 for the definition of minim).

Sanhedrin 90a.Those who read the New Testament ("uncanonical books," see footnote #9) will have no portion in the world to come.

Shabbath 116a (p. 569). Jews must destroy the books of the Christians, i.e. the New Testament. See footnote #6.

Israel Shahak reports that the Zionists burned hundreds of New Testament books in Occupied Palestine on March 23, 1980 (cf. Jewish History, Jewish Religion, p. 21).

Sick and Insane Teachings, Gittin 69a . To heal his flesh a Jew should take dust that lies within the shadow of an outdoor toilet, mix it with honey and eat it.

Shabbath 41a. The law regulating the rule for how to urinate in a holy way is given.

Yebamoth 63a. States that Adam had sexual intercourse with all the animals in the Garden of Eden.

Yebamoth 63a. Declares that agriculture is the lowest of occupations.

Sanhedrin 55b . A Jew may marry a three year old girl (specifically, three years "and a day" old).

Sanhedrin 54b . A Jew may have sex with a child as long as the child is less than nine years old.

Kethuboth 11b . "When a grown-up man has intercourse with a little girl it is nothing.”

Yebamoth 59b . A woman who had intercourse with a beast is eligible to marry a Jewish priest. A woman who has sex with a demon is also eligible to marry a Jewish priest.

Abodah Zarah 17a. States that there is not a whore in the world that Rabbi Eleazar has not had sex with.

Hagigah 27a . States that no rabbi can ever go to hell.

Baba Mezia 59b. A rabbi debates God and defeats Him. God admits the rabbi won the debate.

Gittin 70a . The Rabbis taught: "On coming from a privy (outdoor toilet) a man should not have sexual intercourse till he has waited long enough to walk half a mile, because the demon of the privy is with him for that time; if he does, his children will be epileptic.”

Toilet and excrement obsessions are laced throughout Talmud and were exhibited in Spielberg*s Schindler's List where the Hollywood director shows a Jewish child jumping through a toilet seat in an outhouse and falling into a pool of liquefied excrement. 

There the child meets two other Jewish children partially immersed who inform the interloper that this cesspool is their hiding spot exclusively and that he must find his own. 

These are the kind of disgusting and morbid, psychotic images which Jewish kids are exposed to constantly in the cinematic liturgy of Holocaustianity and for that matter, in the Talmud as well. Gittin 69b (p. 329).  

To heal the disease of pleurisy ("catarrh") a Jew should >take the excrement of a white dog and knead it with balsam, but if he can possibly avoid it he should not eat the dog's excrement as it loosens the limbs.< Pesahim 111a. 

It is forbidden for dogs, women or palm trees to pass between two men, nor may others walk between dogs, women or palm trees. Special dangers are involved if the women are menstruating or sitting at a crossroads. Menahoth 43b-44a . 

A Jewish man is obligated to say the following prayer every day: Thank you God for not making me a Gentile, a woman or a slave.  Shabbath 86a-86b.

Because Jews are holy they do not have sex during the day unless the house can be made dark. A Jewish scholar can have sex during the day if he uses his garment like a tent to make it dark. 

Tall Tales of a Roman Holocaust Here are two early "Holocaust" tales from the Talmud: Gittin 57b. Claims that four billion Jews were killed by the Romans in the city of Bethar. Gittin 58a claims that 16 million Jewish children were wrapped in scrolls and burned alive by the Romans. (Ancient demography indicates that there were not 16 million Jews in the entire world at that time, much less 16 million Jewish children or four billion Jews). A Revealing Admission Abodah Zarah 70a . 

The question was asked of the rabbi whether some wine stolen in Pumbeditha might be used or if it was defiled, due to the fact that the thieves might have been Gentiles (a Gentile touching wine would make the wine unclean). The rabbi says not to worry, that the wine is permissible for Jewish use because the majority of the thieves in Pumbeditha, the place where the wine was stolen, are Jews Pharisaic Rituals Erubin 21b (p. 150). >>Rabbi Akiba said to him, "Give me some water to wash my hands." "It will not suffice for drinking," the other complained, "will it suffice for washing your hands?" "What can I do?' the former replied, "when for neglecting the words of the Rabbis one deserves death? It is better that I myself should die than that I transgress against the opinion of my colleagues." [This is the ritual hand washing condemned by Jesus in Matthew 15: 1-9]. 

Great Rabbi Deceives A Woman Kallah 51a (Soncino Minor Tractates). Teaches that God approves of rabbis who lie: "The elders were once sitting in the gate when two young lads passed by; one covered his head and the other uncovered his head. Of him who uncovered his head Rabbi Eliezer remarked that he is a bastard. 

Rabbi Joshua remarked that he is the son of a niddah (a child conceived during a woman's menstrual period). Rabbi Akiba said that he is both a bastard and a son of a niddah. "They said, 'What induced you to contradict the opinion of your colleagues?' He replied, "I will prove it concerning him." He went to the lad's mother and found her sitting in the market selling beans. "He said to her, 'My daughter, if you will answer the question I will put to you, I will bring you to the world to come.' (eternal life). 

She said to him, 'Swear it to me.' Rabbi Akiba, taking the oath with his lips but annulling it in his heart, said to her, 'What is the status of your son?' She replied, 'When I entered the bridal chamber I was niddah (menstruating) and my husband kept away from me; but my best man had intercourse with me and this son was born to me.' Consequently the child was both a bastard and the son of a niddah. 

It was declared, '..Blessed be the God of Israel Who Revealed His Secret to Rabbi Akiba..." In addition to the theme that God rewards clever liars the preceding discussion is actually about Christ (the lad who 'uncovered his head'). The reference to the lad's mother is of course to the mother of Jesus, Blessed Mary (called Miriam and sometimes, Miriam the hairdresser, in Talmud). 

Genocide Advocated by Talmud Minor Tractates. Soferim 15, Rule 10. This is the saying of Rabbi Simon ben Yohai: Tob shebe goyyim harog ("Even the best of the Gentiles should all be killed"). This passage is not from the Soncino edition but is from the original Hebrew of the Babylonian Talmud as quoted by the 1907 Jewish Encyclopedia, published by Funk and Wagnalls and compiled by Isidore Singer, under the entry, "Gentile," (p. 617). 

This original Talmud passage has been concealed in translation. The Jewish Encyclopedia states that, "...in the various versions the reading has been altered, 'The best among the Egyptians' being generally substituted." In the Soncino version: "the best of the heathens" (Minor Tractates, Soferim 41a-b]. 

* “‘Yashu’ (derogatory for ‘Jesus’) is in Hell being boiled in hot excrement.” (Gittin 57a)

[’Yashu’ is an acronym for the Jewish curse, ‘May his (Jesus) name be wiped out forevermore.’]

* Yashu (Jesus) was sexually immoral and worshiped a brick.” (Sanhedrin 107b)

“Yashu (Jesus) was cut off from the Jewish people for his wickedness and refused to repent.” (Sotah 47a)

* “Christians who reject the Talmud will go to hell and be punished there for all generations.” (Rosh Hashanah 17a)

[kaddyssammlung]

[threadsforewoven]

@secondsovereign asked:

[DRESSING ROOM] - Getting prettied up for the camera is quite the arduous task. It takes a proper team to make these actors look flawless, and with everyone so busy, how about lending a hand?

SOME HABITS are never truly broken, especially those engrained in him mind over 50 years prior, no one really locked twice at him back then, allowing him to slip between occupation to occupation without lingering too long in one place. A fact that lent credence to his skill with a hairbrush and straightener, born from time spent amongst the golden age of Cinema, when every studio was willing to hire those willing to work the long hours required.

Perhaps it was only natural he'd taken one glance at the flier desperate for people to help out with hairstyling before volunteering without a hint of hesitation. The universe, wondrous as it was, remained ever finite, so seeing the women in the chair shocked him less than it should have, merely lending the slightest stumble to his step that was graciously out of view of what he considered to be an unnecessarily large mirror.

Still, he takes it in stride as he ever does, collected footsteps as the cane rhythmically clacks against the tiled floor with every step closer to the Memokeeper sitting ever patiently upon the cushioned stool. "Miss Swan," how awkwardly formal for him, myriad thoughts echoing around his mind amidst a sea of questions he has for the woman he can only assume to be on the level of an Emanator with the stories Caelus had told him about their brief interactions in the dreamscape. He wants to desperately ask if she knew hints of his past with the almost skilful way she'd gently guided a meeting between him and the woman calling herself Acheron, and yet the words fail to reach his lips, as if vehemently refusing to allow him to invoke a history he was afraid to speak of.

A sigh, refusing to allow himself to be trapped in memory as the leather gloves are tucked into his pocket in preparation for the hairstyling he'd been employed to do on the festival organiser's behalf. It's a slow touch to start, a beckoning to muscle memory as the brush gently parts the sea of lilac locks that cascaded further and further down. "I should thank you... I'm not sure if you even knew but..." a sigh, weary and aged like the herrscher had stopped caring for attempting to hide his age. "... Acheron, she was, she is, someone dear to me. It was nice to see the rain clear, even for a moment."

A smile, looking up to face the woman in the mirror like someone who'd had a heavy weight lifted from his shoulders. "So thank you, Black Swan, for whatever part you may have played in that reunion."

A Memetic Entity, such as Black Swan, required no hairdresser.

There was never a need for the tedious act of brushing her hair, of filling her nostrils with the scent of hairspray as it lingered in the air. There was never a need for the deliberation of which dress might suit her best, of adjusting its height and size, that it may fit her in perfection. If she so wanted, a mere snap of her fingers was all she needed to change into appearance of her choosing, swift and effortless. Such was the privilege of having surrendered her physical form into one moulded by ideas and thoughts. Of having become a being—a vessel—of concept and belief.

And yet… time and again, Black Swan found herself indulging in these idle routines. She would observe and take note of what made one human, that perhaps she may emulate it.

An idea does not need to breathe, yet her chest rose and fell in a slow rhythm. A concept needed no food, but she would delight herself every now and then with sweets and pastries. Black Swan was no longer human, no longer mortal, no longer tethered with the fear of living or dying, but in such gestures she could experience the nuances of mortality that she was no longer bound to, of the humanity that she was so strangely drawn toward.

So as Welt’s hands moved carefully through her hair, parting lilac strands with steady, practised care, she let herself savour the moment—eyes fluttering close as she listened to his honest confession.

There was never such a thing as coincidence when it came to the Memokeeper, only the inevitable. His meeting with Acheron was always meant to be, though perhaps it had been destined to happen much later in his life. Still, it was their fate all the same. A mere tug at the threads of their destiny was all that she did, and made what was meant to happen later, sooner. Perhaps she had done it out of pity to the weary man before her, or perhaps it was all done to better suit what she needed to fulfil her own selfish desires.

Time had been cruel to Welt Yang.

In his gaze, she could see both pain and wisdom. Through his memories, she had borne witness to his trials—the silent anguish, the bitter heartbreaks that twisted like thorns around his soul, the fleeting moments of hope that would spark brightly before flickering out, snuffed by fate’s cold hand. She knew of the sorrow that had settled over him like a shadow and of the strength he’d clung to, even when it had seemed so fragile it might shatter.

Hah… Such loss, yet such resilience. What a beautifully tragic trait to have—to press forward despite everything, all for those dear to him.

“You were always meant to meet, one way or another.” She returned his smile with one of her own. “And how glad I am, to hear that your reunion with her had gone well.”

How does it feel, she wondered, to see so many familiar faces, yet find that none shared the same warmth as before?

She let the thought hang in the air for a moment, her eyes meeting his in the mirror. And then, without warning, as though testing the silence between them, she spoke, her voice barely above a whisper.

“How has your journey been, Welt? Has it been worthwhile?”

⠀ ⠀ ⋅ ⋆ — As Goeth One, So Goeth The Other.

[justmelookingbackatme]

Hair

I get complimented on my hair a lot. Such a pretty young girl, with pretty red hair. These compliments have made me want to sink into the floor since before I knew how to verbalize discomfort.

I've had relatives tell me they hoped I never changed my hair. Teachers. Strangers.

But my hair is not for them.

For a long time, I've wanted to be the kind of person to chop off all their hair in one swift motion. Preferably with a dagger. Dramatic, like a movie scene.

Unfortunately, I'm more a vessel of uncertainty than I am a person, and I have too much self doubt to make a decision quite that bold.

My haircuts have always been an inch or two at a time, creeping up my back and shoulders and neck.

A year ago, I got my hair cut to just above shoulder length. If I looked in the mirror, I could see myself as either a girl or a long-haired guy. It was nice. I thought that was the height of gender euphoria. I thought I would stop there.

Since then, I've been cutting it shorter and shorter, cautiously journeying further into the masculinity I've wanted and been afraid to want.

The day before the last school year started, I got it cut shorter. Mid neck.

Shorter that December.

Shorter again in March.

In May, I knew I wanted it even shorter. I was terrified to get it cut shorter. What if my parents didn't like it? What if I didn't like it? What if I liked it a little too much?

When I went to the hairdresser and she asked me what length I wanted, I panicked and said I didn't know.

She asked me how I would get a haircut I liked if I didn't know what to ask for.

I tried again.

I asked her to cut off an inch, two inches in the back.

And she did.

I felt gnawing dread growing in my gut as I watched the hair fall to the floor. That was too much hair. I wouldn't have enough left on my head. I would look... too different. Too masculine. Disappointing.

And then I looked in the mirror, and I didn't care.

I looked different. I looked masculine. I looked disappointing. And I looked like myself. I looked great.

I love to place a hand on the back of my neck, feel the bare skin there. I love to tuck my hair behind my ears and grin when it's not long enough. I love to run my fingers through my hair and feel it stop sooner than I expected.

I love my hair. I don't care if anyone else does.

My hair is not for them.

My hair is mine, and I deserve to feel at home in my reflection.

[jaesincorrectquotes]

(っ◔◡◔)っ ♥ Y/n Incorrect Quotes ♥

Y/n, slamming pots and pans together to the rhythm of "Give it to me, I'm worth it": I didn't get no sleep cause a' y'all! Y'all never gonna sleep cause a' me!

=

Y/n: I’m sorry, I really flew off the handle back there. It was like the handle was a bald guy going really fast, and I was his toupée.

=

Y/n: Don't ask me what I'm talking about. I don't know, okay? I'm just the vessel. The message has been gifted. I've moved on.

=

*watching a fight* Y/n: I came out here to have a good time and I'm honestly feeling so attacked right now.

=

Y/n: I’d like to live through a week that’s not a whole new verse of “We Didn’t Start the Fire.”

=

Y/n: BEHOLD, the field in which I grow my fucks! Lay thine eyes upon it, and thou shalt see that it is barren!

=

Y/n: My ultimate goal is to punch God in the eye, just to spite him one last time.

=

Y/n: I've come to a point in my life where I need a stronger word than fuck

=

Hairdresser: How would you like your hair cut? Y/n: Preferably with scissors, but a sword could be badass.

=

Y/n: I was born for politics. I have great hair and I love lying.

=

Y/n: You can de-escalate any situation by simply saying, 'Are we about to kiss?' Y/n: Doesn't work for getting out of speeding tickets, by the way.

=

Y/n: bitches b like “im baby” but have childhood trauma and neglect like wtf do u know about being baby u were forced to grow up from an early age anyways I’m bitches

=

Y/n: You think I really give a fuck? I can’t even read.

=

Y/n: When someone points at your black clothes and asks whose funeral it is, having a look around the room and saying 'Haven’t decided yet' is typically a good response.

** Please read my rules. DO NOT REBLOG WITHOUT MY PERMISSION. DO NOT POST MY WORK ON OTHER SITES.

[starsistertarot]

This is the inspiration for this following story: The hairdresser gave me accidental baby bangs- 🥲

No warnings needed. Please enjoy :)

Characters: Akashi and Reader 🤌

---

I felt the coldness of the metal contrast with the heat from my forehead.

Snip.

Strands of hair rained down onto the clean floor creating a mess. I smiled, staring into my own reflection.

A smile so sadistic it could belong to the devil itself. Perhaps you'd claim I'm possessed, and I'd say: I'm enjoying myself.

Snip.

And countless more, until my fringe were above my eyebrows. "Beautiful", I whispered, allowing my forehead to touch the mirror my eyes glued themselves to.

"Absolutely beautiful", a warm breath escaped my lips, fogging up parts of the mirror.

I couldn't help myself from chuckling from the thought of my creation. What have I done? What will they say? Will they claim I have lost my mind?

It wouldn't surprise me if insanity has tainted my blood. After all, spontaneity should be the least of our problems. Being spontaneous doesn't mean I quarrel with the devil.

The sound of a creaking door startled me however, forcing my scissors to fall from my hand. I snickered, right on cue. I turned my head to look at the man behind me.

He stood there, surrounded by light with a heavy dark shadow claiming his face. His eyes narrowed, his lips straight. He was not amused, I can tell you that much.

Loud footsteps echoed throughout the room until he found himself before me. His hand guided my body to turn itself to face him.

The yellow light from the hallway mixed itself with the moonlight from the windows. He looked at me with judgement on his mind, yet he dared not speak on it yet.

His fingers gently brushed against my chin, and used force to push it up. He leaned in closer, forcing my breathing to stop from the shock.

His crimson eyes staring at my forehead, and bouncing back up to the mirror behind me. The corners of his lips pulled up, forming an unpleasant smile. His eyes began pouring with the same insanity that earlier tainted my blood.

His fingers danced their way to my cheek, and finally, his lips parted. "Interesting", he said.

My heart exploded with fear, my breathing was as unstable as the man before me. He bent down for a moment only to return with my scissors in hand.

My eyes glued themselves to the sharp blades, triggering my nerves with a familiar sound.

Snip.

My eyes shut close, and thus I begun my prayer. I exhaled the tension, and inhaled the comforting lies of desperation.

Snip.

My breathing grew louder, more desperate and final.

Snip.

I snickered loudly, feeling the heat being created between our vessels. If this was my final day, I am glad it is you, Sei.

Snip.

"They were crooked", I opened my eyes the second I heard loud clinking of metal bouncing on the floor.

His fingers toyed with a few of my strands, studying his correction of what used to be my creation. "They were beautiful", I muttered back at him, catching his eyes back at mine.

"They were. But now they're perfect", he whispered back. "Perfect once you cut them, you mean?", I leaned my head back on the mirror, my fringe slipping through his fingers.

"Perfect", he filled in the space between us, his hand returning to my cheek where they once belonged. "Because we made it together".

His lips hovered above mine for a short moment in time. His eyes that once looked possessed had calmed down with an ask of consent.

Mine were heavy with thoughts yet I could barely think. What is he doing? What is he thinking? Has he lost his mind?

His lips were on mine before I could resist. His hand pushing me in, craving me to fill in the empty gap between our bodies.

For a wealthy man, he's greedy. I chuckled at the thought, for a moments time I swore I felt his eyes judging me.

And as time moved on from when we began, he slowly let himself cut our connection. And I have never been this disappointed to be allowed to breathe again.

His eyes sparkled, followed by heavy breathing and our foreheads uniting. "May I ask why?", my mouth slightly open. His eyes lazily decided to make eyecontact. "I have wanted that for a while", he said. "A long time, actually".

His eyes closed, he looked peaceful where he stood. As if he let himself go, or allowed himself to submit to spontaneity.

All for a moment of eternal bliss.

[alexseanchai]

pre-relationship prompt

Marinette has hated getting her hair cut since she became Ladybug. the process, of necessity, involves someone's hands right up by her ears—often with sharp implements in hand, her anxiety has increasingly been reminding her. she's been going longer and longer between cuts, and the last couple times she traded services with Juleka rather than pay a hairdresser. but much as she wants to trust her friend, Marinette can't get through the haircut without needing to go for a run as Ladybug right after and ask Chat Noir to join her.

but now Ladybug and Chat Noir know who each other are. Marinette can make Adrien cut her hair. Adrien she can trust. (and if it looks weird, she'll call it a deliberate artistic choice, like Alix's hair is. no big.)

…Adrien has no idea what he's doing with any artistic medium that's neither puns nor piano. (and poetry. sort of. unfortunately for his efforts to win Marinette's heart, there is more to poetry than wordplay.)

and he knows a big reason Marinette tries so hard to keep the promises she makes when her mouth runs faster and more ambitiously than her brain is so people don't think badly of her. (it matters to her that people do not think badly of her.) he knows a lot of people set a lot of store by appearances. he is going to fuck up her hair! and also has he mentioned this will involve sharp implements in his hand scary near a couple of her important blood vessels? how can she trust him this much??

[a-skirmish-of-wit-and-lit]

Book Review: Maiden Voyages: Women and the Golden Age of Transatlantic Travel by Siân Evans

Since we live in a predominately "traveling on a jet plane" world these days, it's been easy for me to forget - to overlook, rather - that transatlantic travel was the major and most popular form of exodus transportation for over half of the 20th century. Cary Grant and Deborah Kerr fell in love while on a luxury ocean liner in An Affair to Remember, which is an old film I adore, but I never gave much thought as to why that setting could be or had been culturally significant. Nor did I take adequate time to assess what that said about, how it rolled into, so to speak, the social history of the time period. Similarly, I don't think I was conscious of how profoundly the Golden Age of Ocean Travel affected women in particular. At least, I wasn't prior to reading this. Maiden Voyages helped to broaden my mind in that respect through use of well-researched history and anecdotal exposition. At face value, what I learned from this book is that transatlantic travel from the 1900-1950's altered entire trajectories for women. It changed many of their lives. Evolved gender roles. Set new standards for employment. Going deeper than that, though, the female passengers and crew members who sailed on these vessels were privy to all sorts of opportunities that had never been extended to them before this. Jobs afloat, for one. Some financial independence. Even a semblance of freedom, with the ability to cross seas, to visit countries around the world, whether it was for work or for leisure. Some of these women worked as stewardess, conductresses. Others were nurses or engineers or hairdressers. There were those who survived shipwrecks, like "the Unsinkable Stewardess," Violet Jessop, who lived through three, and more still who lived through torpedo bombings, smuggling incidents, or hurricanes. Picture Brides traveled across oceans to marry men in foreign lands they'd never met, never seen, except in pictures they'd exchanged in letters. Around the time of the Great Wars, there were influxes of migrant and refugee women who were looking for better lives, fleeing persecution, especially from Germany once it fell under Hitler's Nazi regime. Luxury "floating hotel" cruises appealed to the rich and famous, to film stars and aristocrats and other celebrities, many of whom had their favorite ships or scurried onboard to indulge and imbibe during America's Prohibition Era. The author even makes the case that Thelma Furness's sea-borne love affair may have been a catalyst for Prince Edward's eventual abdication from the British royal throne. Amazing! In other words, whether they were passengers or seafarers, all the women who traveled by sea in the Golden Age had their own experiences, motivations, circumstances, or necessities for doing so. This book did a good job of giving voice to that. Telling those untold stories. Informative as well as absorbing! Recommended to those of you who have an interest in women's history. Thank you to NetGalley and Sara Beth over at St. Martin's Press for the ARC.

3/5 stars

**Follow me on Goodreads