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#and i've been wanting to do more magazine design

headspace-hotel · 3 months

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How people in the USA loved nature and knew the ways of the plants in the past vs. nowadays

I have been in the stacks at the library, reading a lot of magazine and journal articles, selecting those that are from over fifty years ago.

I do this because I want to see how people thought and the tools they had to come up with their ideas, and see if I can get perspective on the thoughts and ideas of nowadays

I've been looking at the journals and magazines about nature, gardening, plants, and wildlife, focusing on those from 1950-1970 or thereabouts. These are some unstructured observations.

The discourse about spraying poisons on everything in your garden/lawn has been virtually unchanged for the past 70 years; the main thing that's changed is the specific chemicals used, which in the past were chemicals now known to be horribly dangerous and toxic. In many cases, just as today, the people who opposed the poisons were considered as whackos overreacting to something mostly safe with a few risks that could be easily minimized. In short, history is not on the pesticides' side.

Compared with 50-70 years ago, today the "wilderness" areas of the USA are doing much better nowadays, but it actually appears that the areas with lots of human habitation are doing much worse nowadays.

I am especially stricken by references to wildflowers. There has definitely been a MASSIVE disappearance of flowers in the Eastern United States. I can tell this because of what flowers the old magazines reference as common or familiar wildflowers. Many of them are flowers that seem rare to me, which I have only seen in designated preserves.

There are a lot more lepidopterans (butterflies and moths) presumed to be familiar to the reader. And birds.

Yes, land ownership in the USA originated with colonization, but it appears that the preoccupation with who owns every little piece of land on a very nitpicking level has emerged more recently? In the magazines there is a sense of natural places as an unacknowledged commons. It is assumed that a person has access to "The creek," "The woods," "The field," "The pond" for simple rambling or enjoyment without personally owning property or directly asking permission to go onto another person's property.

There is very little talk of hiking and backpacking. I don't think I saw anything in the magazines about hiking or going on hikes, which is strange because nowadays hiking is the main outdoor activity people think of. Nature lovers 50-70 years ago described many more activities that were not very physically active, simply watching the birds or tending to one's garden or going on a nice walk. I feel this HAS to do with the immediately above point.

Gardening seems like it was more common, like in general. The discussion is about gardening without poisons or unsustainable practices, instead of trying to convince people to garden at all.

Overall, the range of animals and plants culturally considered to be common or familiar "backyard" creatures has narrowed significantly, even as the overall conservation status of animals and plants has improved.

This, to me, suggests two things that each may be possible: first, that the soils and environments of our suburbs and houses have sustained such a high level of cumulative damage that the life forms they once supported are no longer able to live, or second, that our way of managing our yards and inhabited areas has become steadily more destructive. Perhaps it may be the case that the minimum "acceptable" standard of lawn management has become more fastidious.

In conclusion, I feel that our relationship with nature has become more distant, even as the number of people who abstractly support the preservation of "wilderness" has increased. In the past, these wilderness preservation initiatives were a harder sell, but somehow, more people were in more direct contact with the more mundane parts of nature like flowers and birds, and had a personal relationship with those things.

And somehow, even with all the DDT and arsenic, the everyday outdoor spaces surrounding people's homes were not as broadly hostile to life even though the people might have FELT more hostile towards life. In 1960, a person hates woodpeckers, snakes and moths and his yard is constantly plagued by them: in 2024, a person enjoys the concept of woodpeckers, snakes and moths but rarely sees them, and is more likely to think of parks and preserves as the place they live and need to be protected. Large animals are mostly doing better in 2024, but the littlest ones, the wildflowers and bugs and birds, have declined steeply. It's not because "wilderness" is less; it seems more because non-wilderness has declined in quality.

#plants #nature #the ways of the plants #save the bees #kill your lawn

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briarrolfe · 6 months

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Recently, I was sent a job listing. It called for a graphic designer "to produce direct response static & video ads for various social media channels, such as Facebook, TikTok, Snapchat, and YouTube." So, even though it was asking for a graphic designer, it wasn't a graphic design job—it was an advertising/social media/videography job. The career I've dedicated eight years of my life to is the bit the ad referred to as 'static'.

Ever since, I've been thinking about this idea that video is the future, and also I have been (not coincidentally) extremely depressed. Not to be all "you kids and your phones," but...

In advertising, your consumer's attention is money. Video is THE most attention-demanding form of advertising and therefore the most bang for your buck. It's why Facebook fudged their own stats for the effectiveness of pivoting to video so aggressively in the first place. If your consumer is reading something—a magazine, a poster, a book, something on their phone—then they're still listening, and if something else demands their attention, they'll just look up. If they're listening—to somebody talking, to music, to a podcast—then their eyes and hands are free to do whatever they like. They can look at the world around them, which involves many forms of competing visual advertising.

Video is a media form that doesn't stop. It keeps talking when your consumer looks up, and then keeps moving to grab their visual attention again. The best method for advertising is one that a consumer has to exert energy to not pay attention to.

(—This is why I hate video so much as somebody with ADHD. When my dopamine and blood sugar are low, focusing past someone playing TikTok audio is hard enough for me that it hurts. I've never had the same problem with radio or with like... idk, billboards. And TV is kind of bad, but at least it makes predictable sounds, whereas every person who films a TikTok with sudden screams or yelling in it is, in my opinion, going to hell.)

This is why the UI for platforms like TikTok and Instagram have autoplay, algorithms that disappear things you've seen so quickly, no scrub bars, and don't have skip or pause buttons. Your consumer has to keep their phone in hand to keep swiping or scrolling to properly engage. If that consumer can't stop a video or go back, then the platform can train them not to look up until the video is over. Anxiety that a user will lose their place or not be able to keep up with what is happening is part of what keeps them from looking away.

This is also a reason to be suspicious of why so many tech companies are obsessed with VR in general. A phone that people have to hold and look at and listen to is pretty good, right? But they can ultimately still put it down when an ad plays. It would be way better if we could put the advertising somewhere that tracks and follows their eye movements so that they literally can't look away.

We all know that text is still a better, faster, and more information-dense delivery system. Sometimes I see people mourning the pivot to video because it's a worse way to consume information. They're right! It is! But social media platforms have NO INTEREST in providing their users with like, actual reliable information. If they did, then social media companies would have no interest in AI.

(—This is also why they have no interest in fighting misinformation on their services. People who get radicalised are very engaged platform users. And the people who radicalise them come with massive budgets for ad spend.)

All social media platforms want is to get consumers hooked on their content so that they'll continue to deliver ad revenue. Video is the best way of achieving that. That's why we're all pivoting to algorithms and video. That's why Tumblr Live exists and Snapchat miraculously has not died.

Anyway. I chose to become a graphic designer.

#graphic design #DON'T pivot to video. Just never do it.#source: I have worked in communications for five years #remind me to post about how Facebook farms what my old comms team called 'rage clicks' sometime #writing essays on tumblr dot com

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fishwithtitz · 4 months

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The Five Times I Hooked Up with Mary Goore (and the One Time I Couldn’t) - Chapter 4

stunning artwork of a scene from chapter 1 by @dominaarts that I've been dying to share!

Summary: A miscommunication between Thomas and Des results in a night of Dahlia and Mary dog sitting together. When a record breaking storm rolls in, Dahlia's faced with the decision on exactly how much vulnerability she wants to reveal. Rating: Explicit, 18+ MDNI Mary Goore x OFC / 15.4k words Warnings: language, thigh-riding, p in v sex, mentions of recreational drug use, alcohol, storms, thunder, slight angst

A/N: Thank you for your patience and support as I've taken the time to write this. This was a difficult chapter to write as it starts building the foundation for the turning point of the story and I wanted to get it just right. Leave a comment if you'd like to be added to the taglist 🥰 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5

ao3 link

Hook-up #4: Thomas’ Room

Codependency was something I tried really, really hard to avoid. I’d long prided myself on my

feral independent streak and would be damned if anyone, man or woman, made me reliant.

But I had to admit, I really missed Des.

This was the shitty part of relationships. It seemed that when the people you love found someone that they wanted to devote themselves to, their time seemed to be sucked along with it. I understood where she was coming from. The novelty of a budding relationship is a unique and addictive feeling. I don’t blame her for chasing the high.

While she tended the fire that she and Thomas were building, she was opting for spurts of lighter fluid rather than bits of soul-sourced kindling. And now her fire was growing and spreading, sometimes out of control, and it seemed like all of her time and resources were devoted to managing it. Which meant that some of her other relationships had to be put on the backburner until the flames could be brought to a dull roar.

As if a sign from the universe, the stars finally aligned (or perhaps just our schedules), and Des and I were able to spend the afternoon together. It was exactly what I needed: some time with my best friend.

After grabbing a couple of iced coffees from the boutique coffee shop downtown (at her insistence, of course, because the higher price was reflected in the quality of the roast, or something like that), we walked to one of our favorite thrift stores to pillage through the inventory. I felt a certain warmth creep through my chest as we entered the store. The smell was a bit musty, perfume-like, a permeating oxymoron of both dirt and cleanliness. It reminded me of our friendship: unlikely, brutally opposite at times, but unique and complimentary.

The shop worker greeted us with a nod and a smile from the front counter and went back to browsing through her magazine as she sat on her high-rise stool, painted fingertips skimming over something about interior design. Des and I beelined to the back racks in the furthest room from the front of the shop. We knew that this was usually where they kept the good stuff.

Thrifting was an exercise of equal parts skill and patience. It was best to go in with zero expectations of both finding anything or looking for a specific piece. My most successful trips had been ones where I’d happened upon things I didn’t even know I’d wanted (or like, for that matter). In fact, I’d long ago learned not to become discouraged when a trip turned out to be a bust. Busts were to be expected. The goldmines, however, outweighed the insolvencies.

“It feels like forever since we’ve gotten to do this,” Des said as she stopped in front of a circular rack of short-sleeve knit shirts. She began sliding the hangers across the scraped metal, pausing to glance over each shirt as she did so.

“It has been,” I replied. It wasn’t said with malice; more so, my tone conveyed a neutral honesty that I knew we’d come to appreciate about each other. Despite this, I could tell I’d struck a cord at the slight fall of her facial features.

Des took a half-step back and turned to me with a sad smile. “I know I haven’t been around as much. I’m sorry.”

“I understand.” And I did. She knew I did. But the morose feeling was still etched into her features in soft hatched lines and so I quickly added, “Not everyone can be a hot musician with Heraculan biceps. I’ll take my spot in line.” I gave her a wink, which seemed to soften her expression.

I turned back to the rack and started thumbing through the medium-sized graphic tees. Quite a few were worn crewnecks of casinos or bars from around the state, though a couple school spirit shirts were peppered in. I nearly shuddered at the smiling beaver mascot that reminded me of puberty.

Des broke my focus. “What about this one?” She held up a small white t-shirt with an image of Strawberry Shortcake on it. “Your muse!”

“One time I tell you about my obsession with Strawberry Shortcake and the Big Apple City as a child…” I mumbled, rolling my eyes as I continued culling through the rack. Des laughed and set the shirt back.

“I don’t think your tits would fit in a small, anyway. Plus, it had a stain.” She pushed a couple more shirts to the side before turning her torso to me. “Speaking of cake, I heard you and Mary had a get together last week.”

A week had passed since I’d last seen Mary. I’d received another text a few days after our night of baking telling me that the cake was killer and his mom was impressed, but it’d been radio silence since. In any other situation with any other person, I’d probably feel irritation or some sort of anger; an inward creeping as to why this guy wasn’t at all interested in seeing me after a weirdly uncharacteristic close-knit evening. But this was Mary. He wasn’t known for punctuality or routine. On the contrary, Mary was a bit of an enigma, coming and going as he pleased, with zero rhyme or reason to his decision making. He seemed to do what felt right to him in the moment — whatever that may be. Or at least that’s how things appeared.

The hanger I was sliding across the rack stilted, the fabric of the shirt still pinched between my fingers. My eyes widened slightly, and I failed to control the blush that crept into my cheeks. I refused to meet her stare, but knowing Des, she was giving me an all-knowing look.

“You know, when I suggested that you make a cake for his mom’s birthday, I didn’t think that meant that you’d be doing it together,” she teased.

“Neither did I!” I said. Although I’d meant for it to come out nonchalantly, I’d sounded more defensive than intended. I tried to brush it off by swirling the iced coffee in my hand, ice cubes clinking and clashing as I brought the straw to my lips to take a sip.

“I didn’t know you and Mary were that close,” she speculated.

I choked on the watery coffee that had been midway down my throat and brought a hand up to wipe at my mouth, coughing a little into my palm.

Before I had a chance to respond, she cut me off, wide-eyed, a smile tugging at her mouth. “Wait, no. Doll, you didn’t!”

I looked over at her with a surprised defensiveness that completely gave away the truth. Shit. Time for damage control. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

Des’ smile only widened. “Dahlia, did you sleep with him?”

I didn’t know how to answer. It wasn’t as if I was ashamed to admit it. Mary was attractive. Sure, his reputation was a bit strange and extreme, but to those in the metal scene, it wasn’t anything too out of the ordinary. But there was something that I liked about keeping Mary and I’s friendship hidden. Or were we friends with benefits? Was it even a friendship?

“You totally did!” Des said in response to my silent rabbit hole. I sighed and started to aimlessly shuffle through some sweaters on the next rack. Des began to laugh and looked at me coyly.

She walked over to the same rack that I was currently stationed at and rested her hand against the metal bar, leaning into it. “I swore I saw you two making out on the couch a while back at Thomas’, but he told me I was seeing shit,” she added, shaking her head in disbelief.

I hummed a noise in response, barely audible. My fingertips traced along a loose thread of a knit sweater and I rolled it between them, trying to focus on the scratchy acrylic yarn instead of the beet red burning in my face.

“That WAS you two! How long has this been going on?” I didn’t think it was possible for her eyes to get any bigger. They reminded me of saucers. Or satellite dishes. Maybe of the middle-aged woman at my work that thrived on office gossip and smelled like cat piss.

I rolled my eyes and pulled a sweater off the rack to pretend to check the tag. “Nothing is going on,” I said. 80% Polyester, 20% Cotton. “We’ve just hooked up a few times. That’s it.”

Des cocked a curious brow. “A few? Wow, add that to my list of shit I didn’t expect.” She brought her half-drank iced coffee to her pink lips and took a slurp of the drink. I couldn’t tell if I was more annoyed at the sound or at her.

“So, what’s he like?” She grabbed a cardigan from the small section and pulled it up to inspect it, holding it to her thin frame to gauge the fit. “I bet he’s into some spooky, dark shit, like bloodletting or autoerotic asphyxiation or something. Oh! Or a piss kink!”

The garment I was holding was slammed back into the rack with more force than I’d meant. “Des! What the fuck?” I whispered loudly, trying to make a point that this was not something I wanted to talk about in public. Sure, no one else was in the back of the store, but that was besides the point.

She held up a hand in defense. “Sorry! He looks like the kind of guy that’d be into that stuff.”

I brought the hand to my face that wasn’t holding the slippery, condensation-covered cup of coffee. With a sigh, I rubbed my left eye. “I am not having this conversation.”

Des brought her hands down and tilted her head with a look of disagreement. “Oh, come on! Why are you always so uptight about talking about this stuff?”

I took a step towards her and lowered my voice just slightly. “Unlike you, I don’t feel the need to advertise my sex life, thank you.”

“I don’t advertise it, I just…reflect on it. It’s what normal girlfriends do — talk about the guys they’re with.” She turned to the next rack that was uncomfortably close to the one we had been rifling through and pulled a pair of corduroys out to give them a look over. “Who else would I talk to about it?”

She had a point. I breathed out a sigh and set my cup on the display atop the circular rack. “I guess you’re right.”

I looked up at her to see her sporting her signature smirk. “I’m always right. Now tell me, what’s he got hiding in those tight jeans?” She waggled her eyebrows for emphasis and I let out a chuckle, shaking my head.

“You are the last person I need to explain the intricacies of the male anatomy to.”

“Come on, Doll. I need details!” She whined, tossing the corduroys back onto the rack.

“Curiosity killed the cat, you know.”

“Good thing cats have nine lives.” She stuck out her tongue at me and I reached over to make a swipe at grabbing it, earning me a chuckle and a shove.

I laughed too, and if I was honest, I felt a semblance of relief that the weight of my secret had been lifted from my shoulders, even if just minutely.

She took another annoyingly loud slurp of her iced coffee, the drink now edging the bottom line of the cup. Peering at me from above the lid, she broke contact with the straw.

“Now, spill.”

🜏🜏🜏

It was early evening on a Friday. I’d managed to get off of work a little earlier than expected — a relief given that I’d worked overtime these past few weeks to try to save up enough money for an unexpected car repair. The extra time turned out to be just what I needed to pack some last minute items in my backpack for the weekend.

Des had asked — practically begged — for me to “do her a solid” and pet sit for her for a couple days over the weekend. My confusion rang heavy in the air when I realized that one, she didn’t have any pets, and two, neither did Thomas.

“It’s his parents’ dog. He’s supposed to watch it this weekend, but he was able to book a couple last minute shows out of town that would be really good for the band,” she’d explained. Then, in almost overly characteristic Des-fashion, she gave me the eyes. The fucking Puss in Boots look.

And those damn Dreamworks eyes had me hesitantly agreeing to watch the pawned pooch at Thomas’ place.

It didn’t sit well with me. He was supposed to be watching his parents’ dog. But instead, he was having a friend of his girlfriend stay at his place to watch a dog she’d never met. I’d just hoped the dog was nice.

After walking my bike to the back porch to lean it against the siding hidden from view from the street, I rounded back to the front door and gave it a few cursory knocks. As if on cue, loud barks began to sound — distant at first, but louder as the seconds went on — and I could just make out the scuffle of feet and claws against the hard floor.

The door swung open and Des was restraining a black blur of tail and tongue and teeth. He wasn’t overly big, per se, but from what I could tell from his overexcited movements, he had to be at least forty or fifty pounds.

“Hey! Come in—” she strained, holding the excited dog back as it wagged and wiggled in her arms.

I slipped past the dog and kicked off my shoes on the hinged side of the door as she slammed it shut. “Brutus!” Des grunted as she tried to crouch over him and use her body weight as leverage.

I straightened up and watched with choked giggles as she tried, and nearly failed, to keep him from charging me. “He’s — umph — he loves people —” said grumbled as the dog, presumably named Brutus, broke from her grasp and hounded over to me with a tail so violently wagging that I was afraid his hips would fly right off. He knocked into me with surprising force for his size and I toppled over to the ground. A slimy, velvety tongue began to attack my face and neck and I shrieked out in laughter as we rolled around on the floor.

“Brutie! Brutus, off!” Des yelled. I could barely hear her over my screeches and giggles.

A couple of moments passed and the dog calmed, crawling comically into my lap before curling up and looking at me with a panting smile. I ran my hand along the top of its head, scratching behind his pointed black ears.

“Sorry, he really, really likes people. Not much of a watchdog,” Des said.

“It’s fine. He’s cute,” I replied, moving to scratch under his chin. “What breed is he?”

Des snorted. “Fuck if I know. Thomas says he’s a mutt. I think he’s a rescue.”

“Those are always the best ones,” I countered, earning a nuzzle into my hand from the furry canine nearly falling out of my lap.

After a while of chit chat and petting the mammoth-sized wannabe cat splayed in my lap, I peeled my backpack off and set it against the wall and stood up to follow Des into the kitchen. She explained Brutus’ feeding schedule (“He will try to convince you that he’s starving to death. Do not fall for it.”) and his typical routine, then showed me where Thomas’ parents had left the vet info in case of emergencies. It seemed pretty straightforward (easier than I’d expected, honestly), and I felt grateful that Thomas’ backyard was fenced off. A lost dog was the last thing I needed in life right now.

Just as Des was setting the written feeding instructions back down on the counter, the door leading to the garage opened from down the hallway, and a pair of heavy footsteps came thunking toward us.

Thomas came into view. He ran a hand through his hair, pulling at the locks a little as he glanced around the kitchen and dining area, turning a bit in his spot as if running through an imaginary list in his brain. By now, I’d seen Thomas in a variety of moods: ecstatic, embarrassed, exhausted, angry, piss drunk, and of course, the moments where he was absolutely enamored with Des, but I’d never seen him look so stressed before. His eyes looked tired yet his pupils were wide, countering the lines that were settling in around the corners of his eyelids. I’m not sure that he even noticed his shirt was inside out.

“We found the pedalboard at the guys’ apartment. Some asshole put it on top of the fridge,” he sighed and put his hands on his hips as he looked up at the ceiling as if he were trying to visualize what he needed to do next. After a beat, he looked back down and his eyes met Des’ quizzical look.

“Don’t ask. I don’t even fucking know.” He seemed to finally register that it wasn’t just his girlfriend in front of him and his demeanor changed a little. He straightened, almost toughened, and gave me a confused quirk of the eyebrows. “…Dahlia, what are you doing here?”

I mirrored his look. “Uh, Des said you needed me to house sit?”

Thomas looked between myself and Des, his face moving from a look of confusion to a look of what could be argued as annoyance. “Really?” he asked, taking another step closer to Des. “I thought I mentioned I’d figured all that out, babe.”

Desiree looked up at him with an innocent smile and rolled her lips between her teeth. “Whoops. Must have slipped my mind.”

He sized her reaction, clearly unconvinced. “Okay. Sure.” I was certain he was going to add something, but his potential dialogue with Des was cut off when the garage door opened again and the telltale sound of clunking boots against hard flooring cut through the air. I felt my heart simultaneously drop and expand in my chest. I had come to know that sound.

“Everything is tied and tarped. I feel like fucking Patrick Bateman sans nailgun and Huey Lewis and the News.”

I had really come to know that voice.

Mary rounded Thomas and Des and joined the impromptu party in the dining area. I shoved my hands into my pockets and rocked back and forth on my feet as I felt his stare bore into me from feet away. It was clear there had been a mix up, and although I couldn’t be certain that Des had something to do with it, I had a pretty good idea of what had happened.

“What’s going on?” Mary asked as he looked around the uneven circle of his friends. Brutus trotted over and began to sniff at his pant legs and Mary reached down to scratch the hound’s forehead. Mary’s long hair hung around him in strands, the ends clumped together in damp sections as it fell from around his shoulders and back.

“Why is your hair wet?” Des asked him. I was sure it was her way of breaking the awkwardness.

Mary looked at her with an air of obviousness. “Shower,” he replied.

“Oh…weird,” she said, and I had to stifle a giggle by turning it into a cough.

Thomas rolled his eyes. “He’s full of shit. It’s raining outside and he’s been helping me load and tarp equipment in the truck.” Thomas reached out and clasped a hand to Mary’s shoulder, which to be fair, was dotted with what appeared to be wet raindrop marks. “We all know you hate bathing,” he added.

Mary scoffed and shoved Thomas. “Fuck you guys.”

The air turned uncomfortable again, bordering sour, and it was Thomas who broke the silence.

“Well, it looks like there’s been a miscommunication on who’s looking after this asshole,” Thomas started, looking directly at Des as he spoke although it was clear he was referring to the dog. She continued flashing her innocent smile, eyes still large as if concurrently seeking forgiveness and feigning ignorance.

I felt compelled to speak up. I hated awkward silences, and I especially hated being the butt of one. “It’s not a big deal. I can head out if Mary’s got this,” I said with a shrug.

“—It’s pouring out there!” Des quickly countered, looking between Thomas and I.

Her defensive quip caused me to crinkle my eyebrows in response. “Bullshit, I was just outside and it was fine.”

I looked over at the sliding glass door to my left and sure as shit, the glass was coated in fine droplets sliding down to puddle at the deck below. The sky hadn’t been much more than overcast on my ride over, but it now swirled with tones of ash and charcoal. A storm was approaching.

I sighed and rubbed my eyes. “Shit, well…I rode my bike over here.”

I could tell that the cogs were turning in Des’ mind as she tried to decide if she’d respond with comfort and support of her best friend or her boyfriend: the ever present dilemma. I felt a pang of guilt plague my stomach.

“Don’t worry about it. I��ll figure it out. You guys go,” I offered with a small smile. Forced, of course, because now I was stranded at someone else’s house with someone else’s dog and of course a particular…someone else.

“You sure?” she asked. I could see Thomas eyeing me from behind her, his own expression mirroring her words. It was clear this was just as much of a surprise to him as it was to Mary and I.

My gut told me to stay focused on the couple ahead of me, but my impulsiveness won over, and I glanced at Mary. He was watching with a look of amusement, arms crossed over his chest as his head batted to and fro between speakers. I swallowed lightly.

“Yeah, go. Go! It’s fine.” The voice was mine, but the words were clearly not my own.

A few uncomfortable and quick words were shared, and both Des and Thomas grabbed their overnight bags and popped them into the cab of the truck before driving off down the quiet residential street towards the gig a few towns over. And I was stuck in the ranch-style home with Mary Goore, an overexcited rescue dog, and an approaching storm.

🜏🜏🜏

After piling into the car and sloshing down the road en route to the gig a few cities over, Des and Thomas were mid conversation about the situation that had happened just moments before.

“Don’t tell me you’re doing what I think you’re doing.” Thomas started, fingertips tapping against the wheel as they sped down the interstate.

Des rolled her eyes. “They’ve been fucking!” Her voice was defensive. She quickly added, “Did you know that?”

Thomas kept his eyes on the road and drummed his fingers along to the song playing in the background. “No, and I don’t—” he sighed, removing one hand from the wheel to grasp at the back of his neck, “Jesus Christ, Desiree, you can’t play matchmaker on this one.”

Des crossed her arms over her chest. “Why not? Have you seen the way they look at each other?”

Thomas briefly turned his head and gave her a serious look, sternness that nearly reminded her of her father. “Don’t stick your nose in where it doesn’t belong,” he said.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Des shot him a look that dripped in sass. Any other time it would have spurred a different set of emotions in him, but not this time. He held his ground.

“Just — fuck, baby, I’ve known Mary for a long time and he’s not really one to settle.”

Des scoffed. “You think getting with Dahlia would be settling?”

“No, not like that.” Thomas sighed again in frustration. “He’s not big into commitment. Doesn’t like to be tied down. Mary’s…not a relationship kind of guy.”

It was quiet for a few seconds as Des pondered his response. “Well, I’m not saying they need to get married or anything,” she reasoned, “I’m just giving them a little push, is all. A weekend together, alone, no one to barge in and no expectations. It’s the perfect recipe for them to realize what they have going on.”

Another silence filled the cab of the truck. The sound of steady rain pelted against the windshield, only for the squeaky wipers to flick it off rhythmically, creating its own song and dance that counteracted the punk tune on the stereo system.

After a moment, Thomas relented. “Don’t come crawling to me with those big, sad eyes when this ploy of yours blows up in your face.”

“What big eyes?!” Des craned her neck over and stared him down, though it was clear she couldn’t hide the smile bursting through her tough facade.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about, babe.”

Des winked in his direction and the tension seemed to melt away. She reached over to grasp at his hand — the one that had fallen to his lap after drumming on the steering wheel — and laced their fingers together.

He let out a long breath and relaxed into the touch before grumbling, “They better not fuck on my bed.”

🜏🜏🜏

When Des and Thomas left, it was like they sucked what little comfort there had been straight out of the room. Sure, the house was occupied by two people and a dog (which some would even consider to be too crowded; three’s company and four’s a party and all that), but there was a timidness that I felt that seemed to have grown since my other outings with Mary. Maybe it was the unexpectedness of it all. Or perhaps it was my own lack of control in the situation. Regardless, I’d planned on staying a couple of days anyway — what was so bad about waiting out the storm to ride home?

I stood there, hands in my pockets as I continued to rock on my heels, before deciding to break the tension. “I should probably pick up my stuff,” I motioned to the general area my backpack was in and then quickly turned to retrieve my things.

Backpack in hand, I headed to the bathroom to unpack. I’d packed light (because in all honesty, who did I have to impress), but I was searching for any and all excuses to put some distance between myself and the awkward situation I’d been thrust into. I pulled a toothbrush and toothpaste out of a plastic bag I’d jammed into the front pocket of my rucksack, mirroring the action with my face wash, moisturizer, and small bag of makeup essentials. I futzed for too long with the placement of the items, moving them from sinkside to against the wall and back again, before I gave up and sat back against the wall opposite the vanity.

A few minutes went by and I felt a low growl erupt in my stomach. It was nearly six o’clock and I’d had yet to eat anything. I pulled out my phone, deciding to order takeout, and scrolled through the suggested nearby restaurants before settling on a well-rated Chinese place down the street.

I was ready to press send on my order, but I remembered the elephant in the room and groaned, heaving myself up and making my way out to the main area of the home. Mary was nowhere to be seen. I turned around and upon noticing the garage door was ajar, I walked the short distance down the hallway and slipped into the adjoining garage.

Mary was sitting in a camper chair in the empty space, lit cigarette between his fingers, with Brutus at his side. He was tossing a rope toy to the dog somewhat lazily, taking drags of the lit stick every so often. The garage was partially opened, just enough to let in the cool, damp air of the storm, and raindrops pittered in at the edge of the threshold.

As soon as I shut the door to the house, his eyes shot up to meet my own and he nodded in greeting before tossing the toy to the opposite end of the garage for Brutus.

“I’m ordering Chinese — you want anything?” I eventually spoke, body still against the steps connecting the sunken garage to the house.

Mary let out an exhale of smoke and tapped the cigarette into a coffee can on the ground. “Whatever’s fine. I’m easy to please.” His telltale smirk painted his lips and I could see the mischief swirling behind his eyes. “But you already know that,” he added.

I felt my eyes nearly roll out of my head and hopped down off the step, rounding him to sit in another nearby chair. As uncomfortable as his digs were supposed to be, they had the opposite effect. I didn’t do “awkward” with Mary that well. Sexual tension was another story.

I added a few more items to the order and typed in my card information from memory before submitting the order, quickly clicking my phone off and stashing it in my pocket. My focus was broken when Mary interrupted the silence.

“How’d you get roped into this?” he asked, head turning to glance at me.

I sighed and rubbed the side of my face, showing my slight annoyance. “Desiree.”

Mary laughed, a warm chuckle that I’d grown to appreciate, and he ashed the cigarette into the can below him. “You’d think they’d learn to communicate with how they fucking act around each other.”

I stretched out my legs, sinking back into the camper chair. “Oh, I’m sure it was communicated…” I remarked.

Mary looked at me quizzically, head turned towards me again to flash those phthalocyanine eyes that somehow looked brighter in the odd lighting of the garage. I brushed off his look, not wanting to get into the specifics of the conversation I had with Desiree or the fact that she knew about our history. “The dog seems to like you.”

“Brutus and I go way back,” he said.

“Really?” I said with raised brows.

Mary laughed out again in response, that ever-present balmy giggle that pulled at the corners of his lips sending a wave of warmth through my body. “No, I’m just fucking with you. I’m good with animals,” he paused and his lips curled into a grin, ”when I’m not microwaving them, of course.”

My mind raced back to our first encounter together. The streetlights on the walk towards the abandoned warehouse. Paper bags with shaved ice and forties. Shitty gas station snacks. And our conversation about reputation. Namely, his reputation. “Oh, of course.” My tone was one of mock seriousness, and I couldn’t help but giggle at the memory.

I watched as he took another drag from the dwindling cigarette and then turned to look out at the half-closed garage door. The raindrops pelting against the shingled roof and cracked concrete driveway were the only audio that suffused the space, with the occasional exhale of pillowy smoke from the musician next to me.

It was Mary that broke the silence again. He always seemed to be the one to do that. “Thanks again,” he started, hand waving around aimlessly as he spoke, “y’know, for the cake and shit.”

“Yeah, of course. I’m glad your mom liked it.” I spoke earnestly and my expression was one of sincerity. It felt foreign.

“She fucking loved it. She was surprised I had anything to do with making it,” he laughed and tapped his cigarette into the can.

“Oh come on, you can’t be that bad of a cook,” I replied.

He raised an eyebrow at me as he turned to face me. “I’ve burned water.”

My jaw dropped just enough that I was sure it looked like I’d catch flies. “I…didn’t think that was possible.”

He shrugged and turned back to face forward, the cigarette now a stubby, crinkled nub between his middle and pointer fingers. “You should know by now that I’m full of impossible surprises.”

I leaned forward, turning my torso to point towards him while I pulled my legs criss-cross into the camper chair. “How on earth do you woo a woman if you can’t even cook fucking Kraft Mac n’ Cheese?”

“Women aren’t typically after my cooking skills. Or lack thereof,” he flicked the remaining ash of the cigarette down and it missed the can. He didn’t notice. “I’ve got other talents,” he paused, “Wooing isn’t really my style.”

I let his admission ring in the dampened air. It wasn’t surprising. From what I’d heard, he’d never had trouble landing women — particularly after gigs. “The life of a musician…” I trailed off.

Another silence built as the rain colored the absence of our conversation. I could hear Brutus’ slight snores as he lay curled at Mary’s feet, seemingly tired from their earlier game of fetch. A breeze broke through the cracked garage door and swirled around us, bringing a chill into the otherwise comfortable space. I pulled my hoodie a little closer, feeling the cool air dance across my cheeks and the skin peeking through the jacket.

“I think I’m gonna head in. I’ll let you know when the food is here.”

Mary didn’t say anything in response — merely nodding and taking out another cigarette from the worn Marlboro carton — and I made my way back inside with a heavier mind than I’d come out with.

🜏🜏🜏

I’d puttered around the house for what had seemed like ages, but in reality was likely only a handful of minutes. As familiar as I was with some of the rooms at Thomas’, I had to admit that there were areas I’d never been to, namely his room or the basement. As rude as it might have been, I’d given myself a self-directed tour of the place, noting the half-completed projects he seemed to be working on to fix up the house. I wasn’t sure if that was a sign of Des domesticating him or if the house really was a secret pride-and-joy.

Eventually, I found myself in the den, sinking into the worn plaid couch that already held too many memories. I pushed them down and reached for the remote to the TV, opting just to hold it as my thoughts zoomed. I could probably put on a movie to kill some time until dinner arrived. It wouldn’t be long and it would serve as a nice distraction.

I got up and thumbed through the impressive number of DVDs stacked next to the TV. Most of them were action or horror (no surprise there), and I settled on a film I’d never seen before: The Amityville Horror. I told myself that the fact that a young Ryan Reynolds was on the cover had absolutely nothing to do with the choice.

After some cajoling, I figured out how Thomas’ TV and DVD player were set up and popped in the disc, pressing play on the machine before sinking back into the couch. The blue screen transformed to darkness as the credits played and I waited to be taken to the home screen.

Mere seconds into the film, I heard a knock at the door and I paused the movie to jog up and out of the sunken den to the front door. I was met with an absolutely drenched delivery driver holding out a large brown bag in one hand and a soaked receipt and pen in the other. I shot him a look of apology and took the receipt, signing and adding on a much more generous tip than I’d originally intended, before trading him for the food. His eyes lit up when he saw the receipt and he dashed back to his clunker parked out front.

I ended up parking the heavy bag of Chinese on the kitchen table. My thoughts were broken when I heard Mary coming in from the garage, heavy footsteps once again thunking down the hallway. A pitter of claws trotted behind him.

“Food’s here,” I said, already opening the bag to take out the various containers.

We grabbed our respective containers and utensils and made our way to the den, me sitting on the couch while Mary sat on the floor, his back against the edge of the couch with his legs spread out wide. I opened up my container of sweet and sour pork and doused it in sweet and sour sauce, mixing it up with the cheap excuse for chopsticks that they provided before settling into the back corner of the couch and pressing play.

“You’re watching this trash?” Mary said, words muffled by a mouthful of Beijing beef.

I rolled my eyes, though he couldn’t see it from his position on the floor. “I’ve never seen it.”

“It’s a shit remake.”

I grabbed a piece of pork between my chopsticks and lathered it in sauce before popping it into my mouth. “Well,” I said while chewing, “no one’s making you watch it.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve got nothing better to do.”

“Gee, thanks,” I said with a hint of facetiousness.

“Don’t get your panties in a twist,” he all but grumbled, reaching in the container to grab a piece of beef with his fingers.“You knew what I meant.”

I shuddered as I watched him pop the piece of meat into his mouth with his fingers. “Are you…eating that with your bare hands?” I asked with a surprised chuckle.

He shrugged his shoulders again. “Chopsticks are frustrating. Why use those when I have built in chopsticks right here?” He pinched his fingers in the air, just high enough that I could see them from my spot on the sofa.

I paused, reaching into the takeout container to fish around for some sort of accompanying vegetable. “I…don’t know how I feel about that, to be honest.”

“You didn’t seem to mind my fingers the last time you were on that couch,” he retorted, tone dripping with cheekiness that I knew was accompanied by a smirk I couldn’t see from my vantage point.

I sighed, trying to pay no mind to his constant coquettishness. “Well, they weren’t covered in Chinese food when that happened.”

“They could have been.”

I reached over and grabbed one of Thomas’ throw pillows from across the sofa and tossed it down directly at his head. Mary yowled and grabbed at the back of his head.

“Hey, ow- fuck, you almost made me spill!”

I waved my chopstick dismissively. “Shh, I’m missing what’s happening.”

“Not missing much…” he grumbled, grabbing another piece of beef with his fingers. I looked down and dug into my food again, picking at some snow peas, and took a bite to keep me from my desire to respond with something sarcastic.

I watched the screen as the beginning of the movie continued to unfold with the dreary undertone of music and darkened filter plastered over shots of the house and rainfall outside.

I knew that in fiction, rain was often used to signal something darker, uncontrollable, and innately scary. While a gentle storm could symbolize rebirth or the washing away of something unclean to show a new beginning, a thunderstorm was different. Thunderstorms were brash, explosive, and undeniably cacophonous — a symbol of power, wrath, danger, and darkness. As the scene cut to a shot of the rainy setting, I couldn’t help but liken it to the rain pelting the windowpanes of the window behind the couch. They were both intense storms and I wondered what symbolism life could be trying to show me, if any at all.

We watched mostly in silence, with the occasional jolt from me during a poorly timed jumpscare or a shake of the head and grumble from Mary (which after the third shove of my foot into his shoulder, he got the message that he was being obnoxious).

Unbeknownst to me, the movie had a quick sex scene, which with anyone else would have been a non-issue watching. But with Mary, I felt oddly different. I found myself wondering what he was thinking as we watched the main characters move intimately against one another. Because, if my memory served me right, the last movie we watched together had something similar, and he had reacted in very specific—

My thoughts were interrupted by yet another jumpscare and I squeaked in surprise, nearly dropping my empty takeout container. Mary chuckled and turned around with a smug smile.

“Everything okay back there?” he asked.

“Just fine. ‘Surprised me…” I grumbled, pretending to dig around in the empty container for more food. I was sure he could see right through me. I was easy to spook.

Eventually, I set my empty container on the side table and reclined back into the couch again. It felt weirdly quiet, and I noticed that Mary had gotten up at some point and left.

“Seems he found something better to do with his time,” I thought. Not that it mattered, anyway. I hated the kind of people that talked constantly during movies, and I could tell Mary was doing his best not to criticize nearly every piece of dialogue and every scene.

“Here.” The voice snapped me from my thoughts and my eyes refocused to the space in front of me, noticing an uncapped beer just in my line of sight. I took it with a thank you, noticing Mary had one of his own as he decided to sit opposite to me on the edge of the couch instead of on the floor. I tried not to think anything of the change and cast my eyes towards the movie.

“Did….did she just put a whole ass bong into her purse?” I asked after watching the babysitter in the film try to hide her bong after smoking in the bathroom. I took a swig of the beer Mary gifted me and looked over at him.

He laughed. “I’m telling you — this movie is idiotic at best.”

“I hate that I’m invested enough that I want to see how it ends,” I replied after a minute, adjusting my position on the couch to spread out a leg, my foot barely missing the side of Mary’s thigh.

“I’m happy to tell you how it ends,” Mary countered, taking a pull from his own bottle.

I shook my head in reply. “Might as well finish it. In your words, we’ve ‘got nothing better to do,’” I grinned at him with a chuckle and set my eyes back on the screen.

After the movie finished, we both stretched out our limbs, and I stood to collect the empty containers.

“That’s 90 minutes of my life I’ll never get back,” Mary grunted with a sigh.

I rolled my eyes. With how things were going, I’d be surprised if they didn’t roll straight out of my head and onto the shitty shag carpet on the floor. “Oh come on,” I began, “It wasn’t THAT bad…”

“Well, it sure as shit wasn’t good,” he chuckled sarcastically.

I let out a defeated breath. “Okay, I’ll admit that it wasn’t the best movie I’ve seen.”

“Clear from it,” he postured, lounging back a little as he took a swig from his beer “The original does a much better job of staying true to the book and creating that building suspense th—”

His words were cut off by another loud crack of lightning. This one sounded close, and by the looks of the fulmination that painted the windows, it was.

I let out a shriek when the lightning and its ancillary crash cracked through the den and beyond. My hand flew to my mouth in surprise and I soon rubbed it over my eyes bashfully.

“Shit, I didn’t know you could make that noise,” Mary chuckled, eyebrows raised in an expression of slight surprise. I looked over and flashed him the middle finger, a scowl on my face, which only increased his laughter.

“How about we put on another movie,” he suggested, then added quickly “—but I pick.” I thought about it, pondering the many choices of movies that Mary could choose on a night like tonight, and shook my head.

“Maybe music is a better idea?” I replied. I walked to the edge of the den and started up the few stairs that connected it to the hallway. “I’ll toss these while you get it set up,” I called over my shoulder.

When I returned, Mary was finished messing with the stereo system and Sonic Youth’s Daydream Nation was playing softly through the speakers. I took a seat on the floor, copying Mary’s earlier posture with my back against the front of the plush furniture, and spread my legs out and crossed them at the ankles.

“Didn’t take you as a Sonic Youth fan,” I said as I settled into the space.

Mary smiled and turned his head towards me. “I told you I’m full of interesting surprises.”

I suppressed a giggle. “I was thinking of other types of surprises when you said that.”

“What kinds of things were you thinking of?” he asked, brow quirked.

I felt my cheeks flush at the coy look on his face and looked away, trying to figure out a way to change the conversation. Mary just laughed.

“Wow, doll face, I didn’t expect to take up that much real estate in your mind. I’m flattered.” He put a hand to his chest and stared over me with a broad smile.

“Stop it.”

He cast me a look of confusion. “Stop what?”

“That thing you do!” I began. My voice raised a little in volume and pitch. “The thing where you act all smug and ooze sex appeal!”

This seemed to intrigue him and he turned to face me from his spot in front of the entertainment system. I knew that if his shirt was off, I’d be able to see the flexion of the muscles in his abdomen. I mentally kicked myself for even thinking that.

“Sex appeal? I didn’t know you were so pious.”

I felt myself bristle and sat up a little straighter. “What? No, it’s not about piety.” I ran my hand through my hair in frustration. “You just don’t have to make everything an innuendo!”

At this, the crusty metalhead in front of me had the audacity to laugh. “Wow,” he chuckled, “way to act like a total prude.”

“I am not!” My eyes shot daggers at him and I’d hope they’d materialize and hit him straight in his smirking face.

“I’m surprised you made it through that sex scene…” he looked up at me from under a raised brow.

I huffed. “You of all people should know that sex doesn’t bother m—” I cut myself off as I felt fire heat my cheeks.

“You were saying?” he snickered.

“Oh, fuck off Goore.”

“Sure thing. Wanna watch?”

“I’ll leave that to Brutus.”

As soon as his name was said, Brutus’ ears perked up and he let out a whine. I realized it had probably been hours since he’d been outside.

“We should probably let the dog out,” I said. As soon as he heard the word ‘out,’ Brutus sprung up and began trotting to the sliding glass door in the kitchen. I got up with a slight groan, muscles stiff from sitting on the floor, and Mary followed.

“I can take the dog out by myself, y’know,”

“Yeah, but the view is so much better if I come with.”

I felt frustration pool in my chest at this and he seemed to sense it as well, adding, “Chill out, I was just grabbing a couple more beers.”

After coaxing Brutus outside with some choice words said in the nicest voice I could muster (and maybe a push on the bum), I waited at the sliding glass door for him to return from doing his business. A towel was thrown by slider and I grabbed it to wipe down the dog on his re-entry.

I watched through the window as the storm really began to rage. Fat water droplets ricocheted off the glass pane like rubber bullets and thunder rumbled a low death rattle. Mary came up behind me and put the two bottles on the kitchen table. He fished around in his pockets for his bottle opener on his key chain.

A loud, booming sound followed by a high pitched crack and a monstrous thud rattled the foundation of the house. I let out an embarrassingly loud scream and jumped back from the sliding door. My body collided with Mary’s more solid one behind me, and immediately his hands found my upper arms to steady the both of us. I leaned back into him, not caring enough about self-restraint as my head tipped back against his shoulder.

My chest heaved as my adrenaline dissipated, and I could feel Mary’s hands rubbing up and down the lengths of my arms. I swallowed thickly, then clenched my eyes tight. I felt his breath arm against my ear as he leaned in.

“You good, Doll?”

His voice was smooth, oddly soothing, and the reverberations that pulsed through my ear and into my chest were much different than the shaking of the foundation from the subsonic boom moments prior.

I nodded and looked out the window. A mature tree limb, one measuring at least 15 feet long, had fallen to the ground in the backyard from the force of the thunderstorm. My immediate thought went to Brutus and I feared for the worst, but as if on cue, his body came running towards the door like a bullet. His little black body began pawing at the door and yet, I felt frozen in my spot to Mary. His body stayed pressed against the back of mine, hands still rubbing little circles against my triceps. Neither of us moved to open the door.

Brutus’ bark seemed to jolt us both from the haze. I slid the door open and immediately wrapped the medium-sized dog in the towel to dry him off. The little black mutt followed me as I walked back into the wood-paneled den and I sunk down on the couch next to Mary with a sigh.

Mary handed me another beer and I graciously accepted. “You know,” he started after taking a sip of his own, “I’m not used to women screaming around me unless my name is involved somehow.”

“Is it usually preceded by ‘fuck off’ or ‘get the fuck away from me’?”

“I was thinking it comes after ‘harder’ or ‘fuck me,’ actually,” he said, pausing a beat before casting a look of cautious puzzlement. “Who pissed in your Cheerios?”

I chewed on my cheek as I picked at the label of the beer bottle. “I hate storms,” I admitted with a sigh.

“I hadn’t noticed.”

The squall of the storm caused the windows behind the weathered old sofa to vellicate. Stills from the movie of torrential downpour around the boathouse flashed into thought. I recalled the swirling blackened sky from the sliding glass door from moments before and found myself comparing the dread from the film to my stomach sinking the moment the tree limb fell heavy against the hard ground. What if it had fallen on the house, or the dog? What if it had been a consequence of a lightning strike and started a fire?

I shook myself from spiraling. “I’m not afraid of a lot of things,” I pointed out, “but storms...they freak me out. They have ever since I was little. Loud noises and all.”

Mary chuckled at this. “You listen to thrash metal,” he countered.

“That’s different!” I ran my hand through my hair, gripping at the back of my scalp in frustration. “Storms are destructive. One minute it’s a normal day and the next - bam - people lose their homes, their jobs, their communities…decades and centuries of history even. It’s chaotic and terrible and…unpredictable. It’s fucking armageddon.”

Mary had turned to face me from his spot on the couch, one leg semi-crossed over the other. “Big bad metal chick like you afraid of some thunder and lightning? Color me surprised, dollface.”

The asshole had the audacity to smirk at me. So, I reached out and smacked him in the shoulder.

“Ow! I was being serious!” His tone was playful as rubbed at the spot on his shoulder. “You’re not the kind of person to let a lot of emotion show.”

I felt myself bristle. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shrugged. “I dunno…you just don’t seem afraid of anything. Kinda just ‘go with the flow’. It’s weird to see ya all panicked and shit.”

I scoffed and clicked my tongue. “You obviously don’t know me very well.”

“Oh, I know you inside and out, dollface,” he grinned.

My cheeks blushed garnet. “Only some of me,” I grumbled.

“Really? What else you got hiding?” he chided, sitting up a little straighter, a little closer. “Got any secret pockets in those pants?”

Now, it felt like my whole face was on fire. I remembered the cargo pants he made fun of me for on our first excursion, and the tongue-in-cheek wording was absolutely purposeful. I rolled my eyes.

Any other time I would have had a quick quip or nonverbal response lined up to banter with him, but another crackle of thunder roared through the sky, and instead, my body physically flung itself up an inch off the cushions in a reactive jolt. My hands gripped onto whatever was near me — which in this case, was the right arm of the couch and coincidentally, the right arm of Mary.

The sound of the thunder was replaced with the onslaught of water against the windows behind the sofa and I let out a breath I didn’t remember inhaling. I looked down at my hand gripping onto Mary’s forearm, fingers digging into the demon ink staring up at me across otherwise pale flesh, and I quickly retreated.

I cleared my throat. “S-sorry,” I choked, “Reflex.”

Mary didn’t seem phased at all. He turned towards me, his upper torso craning to meet mine perpendicularly, and a hand came to my knee. “What helps?” he asked plainly.

“I…what?”

“What helps?” he repeated, his tone still matter-of-fact.

“Oh. Um…” I swallowed and looked down at his hand resting on my left knee, right over the fabric of my pants. I wracked my brain in a feeble attempt to think of something that had aided my fear in the past.

But I couldn’t think. I couldn’t even breathe properly as the heat from his hand sunk through to my covered skin. I imagined that hand six inches higher, resting on my thigh as he spread them apart on the rooftop all those weeks ago—

“Distraction!” I blurted out. I hardly even recognize my voice as I did so. I finally looked over to meet the stare I’d felt carving into my irrationally fearful form and saw those fucking eyes, green and honey and framed with brows that were pursed in a way that conveyed allure. I finished letting out my caged breath. “Something to keep my mind off things and give me another sense to focus on. My parents used to, uh, read to me. Make up stories. When I was old enough, I’d hum songs or picture scenes from movies…”

Embarrassment flooded my bones. I felt childish, weakened, exposed like a raw nerve or a root scabbing from crisp air. We didn’t talk much about our pasts and he wasn’t somewhat I typically indulged with this kind of vulnerability. But as I searched his eyes for a crinkle of amusement or a flash of judgment, I found none. Instead, I found focused pupils and a heady stare.

He broke the pregnant pause. “Maybe I could distract you with something different.”

I rolled my lips in and stilted the air in my lungs. His hand weighed heavily on my leg.

“We’ve tried music. And movies,” he began, briefly casting his glance towards the middle of the living room where the TV sat against the wall and we’d sat and listened to Sonic Youth. “We drank shitty beer and ate shitty Chinese—”

“—I liked the Chinese—” I interrupted in a murmur, still watching as he soaked in the visual of my legs pressed together, his hand firm and steady.

“—so in my eyes, we’ve used sight, hearing, taste, and by association, scent. Which means, we’re missing one…”

Touch, I thought to myself. A shiver whispered down my spine. While his words trailed off, he mimicked the action with his hand. The firm hand that once sat solid on my knee began to travel up the expanse of my left leg. His fingertips ghosted my inner thigh with just enough pressure to make a point.

I gathered up the courage to look up at him again and this time, the verdant hue of his eyes was overtaken by wide pupils that bore into me like he was clawing his way to comfort.

I’m not exactly sure what happened next. The haze in my brain matched the low visibility from the storm outside. But before I knew it, I could feel the warmth of his proximity, the grip of his hand tightening on my leg as his other one gripped the nape of my neck, tugging and pulling me into him like a life preserver.

His kiss was exactly as I had remembered. Soft yet slightly chapped, starting as a fervent pressing of lips on lips that moved into tilted heads and the drag of a tongue against my own parted mouth. I reveled in the feeling and gripped onto his shirt with both hands, fisting it like he’d float away if I let go.

Had I been more cognizant, I’d have laughed at the fact that his action was much more than touch. It was scent (cheap cologne and leather and musk) and it was taste (cheap beer and filmy cigarette residue that I was surprised I could crave) and sight (technicolor behind my eyelids that erupted against dark) and it was sound (of the smacking of lips on lips and the occasional clang of teeth, the rustle of fabric and the springs of the couch as we shifted to accommodate one another).

And down we fell, my twisted torso mirroring his own as I lay plush against the flat seat of the couch. Mary moved to encapsulate my form with his own, knees brushing the worn plaid upholstery as I parted my legs to gift him space. My hands found the tops of his shoulders and as I gripped, his own hand moved from its entrapment on the nape of my neck to cup my jaw, thumb bruising against bone. I fought the urge to wrap my legs around his body and hold him in like he was to me. Touch. I didn’t care.

But before I could, he slotted one of his legs between my own, the other digging between my left thigh and the seam of the couch. I let out a groan as he pressed the meat of his thigh against my center and he smiled against my lips, nipping at the bottom one.

Touch. I craved that movement as heat built deep within my abdomen and pooled down past my navel. Shamelessly, I rocked my hips against his leg to chase the feeling of pressure, of grazed fabric on fabric. Testing the proverbial waters.

Again, a smirk against my lips. His free hand gripped squarely onto my hip. But instead of a teasing nip or squeeze, he pulled away just barely, breath ghosting against my face.

“That feel good, Doll?”

I couldn’t begin to think of how to respond. Instead, I canted my hips up again, slower this time, enjoying the friction of denim against my own clothed core. I suppose that was enough of an answer, because he held his leg firm and pressed a kiss to the corner of my mouth.

He hummed. “You gonna use me to get yourself off, dollface?” he breathed in question. His voice was lust-dipped and low, barely above a whisper yet it rang so heavy in my chest that I could swear it was deeper than the thunder.

I let out a noise in response (something like a mix between a whimper and a hum) and again rocked up into the muscle of his leg as I pressed my forehead to his, eyes squeezing shut to focus on the sensation blooming between my thighs.

“Use your words,” Mary all but tutted, voice still low in timbre.

“Yes,” I sputtered. Fuck dignity.

He hummed in response and captured my lips with his again, pressing hard as he kissed me with purpose. His hand on my jaw moved to grab my other hip and he let his body fall into mine as he pulled my body up into his leg in time with my own movements. “Keep going,” he murmured against my mouth. Touch. Sound.

Unabashedly, I moved my hips into his thigh with the help of his strong grasp. The friction changed as I felt my own arousal begin to dampen the fabric of my panties and I groaned into the kiss at the feel of the cotton gliding over my clit with each quickening movement.

Mary’s mouth moved across my jaw and down to the crook of my neck and shoulder, and he began to work at the skin there, biting and sucking along the sensitive areas he’d been cataloging since our last time on this couch. My eyes fluttered open half-lidded in the darkness and I raked my hand through his long hair, gripping it against the scalp as I moved senselessly against him, chasing a release I knew he could provide me.

“Fuck, you’re so eager,” he growled out against my skin. I swear I could feel the pounding of his pulse through our mashed chests and his words only increased a need that I’d been suppressing since he’d fucked me breathless against my kitchen countertop.

Mary’s distinct scent clouded me, wet-straw colored hair hung in my peripherals, cigarettes and cheap beer and the taste of his kiss covered my lips and tongue, fabric rubbed against fabric and wet mouths primed heated skin, and every explosion of his body rocked and pulled and ground against mine into a sensory explosion. Smell. Sight. Taste. Sound. Touch.

No more storm. No more thunder. No more rain. We made our own natural disaster.

And I was distracted. Fully distracted in that I didn’t recognize it was my voice that let out a breathy ‘so good’. So successfully distracted that the beeping of the notification on my phone was easily discounted. In fact, the subsequent beeping that followed seconds later was also minimized. And the one after that. I could feel the fuzzy feeling building deep below my navel and I chased it with every movement of my body against Mary’s, and the feeling of his own hardness growing against my thigh made me that much more desperate. He was clearly getting something out of this, too.

“Take what you need,” Mary’s muffled voice sounded against my clavicle. “Take whatever —fuck— take whatever you want, babydoll.”

So, I did. I ground furiously against him and reached for the peak of my climb, oblivious to the buzzing and chiming of my phone on the coffee table beside us. Except, we’d forgotten we weren’t alone, and not everyone was able to ignore the phone’s noises.

Brutus’ deep, loud barking rang through the sunken den unexpectedly, causing both Mary and I to jump in surprise, Mary’s head knocking against the side of my jaw. He rose up on his forearms instantaneously and gripped his forehead with a loud ‘fuck’ and I matched his reaction as I cupped my jaw and let out a slew of expletives.

The light from my screen illuminated the once sleeping dog’s face and I groaned out as I haphazardly reached an arm towards the table to feel for my phone. I unlocked the device and was met with a litany of notifications from Des. I groaned and slammed my head back against the couch cushion. For working so hard to get Mary and I alone together, Desiree sure knew how to cock block.

I brought the phone up and with squinted eyes, I read over the text messages that had gathered over the last hour.

Des: how’s it going over there?

Des: i heard the storm is supposed to get even worse

Des: is brutie doing okay? He gets whiny with loud noises sometimes

Des: shit someone on instagram posted that the power is out for like 5,000 people. you still okay?

Des: wow. okay. don’t answer me. you guys must be really busy 😏

Des: there are condoms in the bedside drawer 😘 cum stains wash out best with cold water ❤

Des: you still never told me about his dick btw

By now, Mary had sat back on his haunches and the pressure of his thigh was completely gone from where I most wanted it to be. “Who is it?” he asked, rubbing at his forehead.

“Desiree,” I replied in a neutral tone.

Mary let out a sarcastic laugh. “What does she want?” He leaned down to try to get a peek at the phone screen and I snapped it to my chest tightly.

“Just checking in to see how we’re faring the storm!” I said a little too quickly. I cleared my throat to try to force down the nervous lump that was forming. “And wanted to see how Brutus is doing with the thunder.”

I expected Mary to eye me suspiciously, but if he had caught on to anything, he surely didn’t show it. I typed out a quick response to Des, explaining that yes, we were okay, and no, Brutus wasn’t being a handful, before adding a quick ‘fuck you’ and an eyeroll emoji to her later comments.

I set the phone down on the table and looked up at the man currently straddling my body. My heart began to speed up again as I took in my surroundings. It was dark in the room, but the light from the storm outside and the glow of the kitchen nearby illuminated him with chiaroscuro that any Renaissance painter would envy. Judging by the bulge in his jeans, the interruption wasn’t enough to sully his erection, and he looked down at me as if he was waiting for me to say the words to continue.

I felt my chest tighten and another crackle of lightning peppered the room in flushed white. What was I doing? This was Mary: resident bad boy, metal enthusiast, best friend of my best friend’s boyfriend, and come to think of it, a guy who never seemed to show up with the same girl at his side. I didn’t sleep around purely from the fact that it was impossible for me to avoid catching feelings. Blame it on the oxytocin release.

But nothing we had done was wrong and nothing had been the result of deeper feelings, right? We were two consenting adults, two friends that enjoyed each other’s company. Couldn’t that be enough? Sex didn’t have to equal commitment or a deeper connection. It could be loose, free, fun. It was what Des always encouraged me to explore, anyway. Right?

Despite my reasoning, I felt a weight pressing on my sternum and threatening to rise up my throat. His stare was piercing, and all I could smell was leather and cologne and cigarettes, and the taste of him on my bottom lip, and his weight on my legs, and my breath felt like it was going to rip my lungs open and—

“We should turn in for the night,” I blurted out.

I searched his face for any sort of reaction and was met with a split second of confusion before his demeanor went calm.

“Sure, if that’s what you want.”

Take what you want rang heavy in my ears from just moments before.

“Y-yeah, it’s getting late and I worked today, so…”

He stood up from his position over me and I sat up against the arm of the sofa. I chewed my lip, battling the decision I’d just made for the both of us.

“I’ll take the couch, you can have Tommy’s bed,” Mary said nonchalantly as he took a swig from the forgotten beer bottle on the coffee table. Oddly chivalrous.

I shook my head almost immediately. “No, I’ll take the couch.” Mary opened his mouth to protest, but I held firm. “I am not sleeping in Thomas’ bed. That sounds like the 7th circle of hell. My best friend is frequently naked in that bed and who knows when those sheets were last washed.”

Mary laughed at this. A deep chuckle and a shake of his head as he motioned towards me with the beer bottle between pointer finger and thumb.

“Oh, don’t tell me you’ve never seen her naked.”

Embarrassed, flustered, and wholly unsatisfied from practically humping the metalhead in front of me, I scoffed. “Not like that and not by choice.”

Mary grinned in enjoyment of my response. “Stay up late and play with each others’ tits after a pillow fight?”

A frustrated groan breached my lips. “You’ve been watching way too much porn, Goore,” I said. I reached for one of the long discarded throw pillows and lobbed it at him, feeling a hint of disappointment when he dodged it easily.

He held up both hands, one still holding the bottle. “Suit yourself,” he began, backing up while still facing me, then adding with a smirk, “don’t get too scared with the storm.”

I watched as he turned and made his way down the hallway, beer in hand as he ventured to Thomas’ room. Leaning back into the cushions of the couch, I sighed.

🜏🜏🜏

My fingers curled around the stiff microfiber blanket that I’d lazily thrown over myself as I’d sunk into Thomas’ well-worn plaid couch.

I tried to coat myself in the scratchy throw to avoid the feeling of the couch cushions on the exposed skin of my legs and arms. It was a touch-memory that brought me back to flying high in the same den, legs straddling the man that now slept peacefully down the hallway in the master bedroom.

As much as I didn’t want to reconcile with the feelings of fear, I was on edge. The movie set my panic into motion, but the worsening storm was what lit the engine. It had progressed from the percussive pelting drops against the windows and siding to roars of wind and sprays of harsh rain that sounded like fire hoses. Thunder boomed every so often and I heard its fallout whip through the trees with horrid whistles — true cries of the damned.

I let out a shaky breath and reached my hand down to pet the dog curled on the bed on the floor. Focus on the fur. Soft. Spindle it between your fingertips. Smooth. Warm. My heartbeat started to calm and my lizard brain crept back into its recesses.

My eyes relaxed in their shut state and I nuzzled a bit harder into the pillow. I felt my exhaustion begin to take hold. And just as I began to float into the downward spiral of sleep, a boisterous crack sliced through the sky. It reminded me of the jet planes that flew at the air shows when I was little - the ones that broke the sound barrier - and my shriek that followed rivaled in volume.

Bright white lightning strobed through the windows of the house. A quick succession of flashes flickered like a searchlight on the fritz. The house went dark again.

The dog's ears perked as he sat up and I followed suit, blanket bunched around my knees and clutched with firm fists to my chest. Just like after a blinding camera flash, my eyes were shot. I could just barely make out the shapes of the furniture and walls.

“You okay?” a voice asked mere feet away from me.

Startled, I let out another quick scream before slamming my palm tight against my mouth. My eyes continued to adjust and I noticed the figure turned from swirling black mass to humanoid to Mary within a split second.

“I’m fine,” I breathed out. I brought my hands down to grip onto the couch cushions. Mary stood before me in his boxers. Messy hair tousled around his shoulders and chest in waves a la 1980s glam rock (though I was certain that bedhead was a more likely culprit) and willed myself not to search through the inky black of the den to determine if he was wearing a shirt or not.

“Do you usually scream like a banshee when you’re fine?” he quipped as he crossed his arms over his chest.

No shirt I noted.

I rubbed my hands against my face, pressing my fingertips into the sockets of my eyes. “Just not a fan of storms.”

“Yeah, so you said.” A moment passed. The only sound in the air was the howling wind from outside until he broke the quiet. “You sure you’re good out here?”

“I’ve got Brutie.”

“Alright,” he sighed. After a moment, I could feel he’d left again, and I willed myself back into the couch cocoon I’d built myself.

I must have fallen asleep. Be it the adrenaline crash or the exhaustion, I wasn’t sure how I’d finally managed. It was in vain, however, when another loud burst of lightning and thunder rumbled through the house. The same strobe of light pulsated briefly, and in the distance, a booming crash. Before I knew it, I was on my feet.

Fuck this fuck this fuck this I whispered to myself as I sped through the house. My hands reached out in front of me as bumpers to the still unfamiliar landscape, and after padding down the hallway in bare feet, I reached around for the doorknob to Thomas’ room.

His room was better lit than the living room. The orange-y glow of the one working street lamp in the distance painted the walls with a near apocalyptic hue and illuminated Mary’s sleeping form on the bed. He was facing away from me, but I could tell he was out (shocking considering the resonance of the lightning and thunder).

I bit my lip and crossed my arms over my shoulders as I shifted my weight from foot to foot. I didn’t even know what I was doing here. I sure as hell didn’t want to sleep in Thomas’ bed, and the thought of sleeping next to Mary made me more anxious than anything. Well, except the storm. What was I thinking? I felt like a child standing at the foot of their parents’ bed after having a nightmare, waiting with fearful eyes and too-small pajamas for them to invite me in for the night.

Duller thunder hummed outside and I was reminded of the fear that had clenched my chest just minutes prior. I suppose it wouldn’t hurt having another person with me, could it? Clearly, the dog wasn’t enough.

I slowly sank onto the opposite edge of the bed, making myself featherlight, and lifted one leg up along the mattress as my other foot held firm against the floor. Mary didn’t move. I swung the other leg up onto the bed and pulled the covers down before sliding under, the shifting sheets whisper silent, and leaned back against the pillow.

I lay board stiff, hand on my chest, and watched as the tree branches dappled the streetlight in whooshing patterns across the ceiling. Like dark sparkles, it lulled me into a sense of calm, and I let my eyes fall shut again. The bed shifted and I felt Mary turn over, arm flopping out towards the middle of the bed to land hand first into my arm. His eyebrows crinkled in his sleep and his eyelids fluttered wearily at the feeling of his skin against my own.

“Doll?” he asked, eyes stained with sleep.

I turned my head to face him, hands still clasped against my chest. “Sorry, I—” I began, taking a moment to let out a shaky breath, “ — I freaked out.”

I braced for a chuckle, eyeroll, anything that was typical of Mary, but it never came. Instead, he lifted up the blankets as if to silently beckon me over. “C’mere,” he croaked, voice clearly still lethargic.

In any other situation, I’d take pause, but this wasn’t any situation. I scrambled over like a child. He tucked his arm around me and brought me to his bare chest. I could smell the fragrance

of the shampoo he used as I rested my head in the crook of his neck (I guess he’d been telling the truth about that shower), and my own arms came up to curl against his skin. An arm flopped around my middle, pulling me impossibly close, and our knees brushed under the blanket.

Surprisingly, I felt calmness wash over me. I likened it to the bear-like embrace, skin-on-skin, some sort of instinctual response to the comfort of another human. But his heartbeat pumped strongly beneath my fingertips and I could feel his steady breath floating across the top of my hair and down my neck, and in that moment, I wondered if it was a little more than just human instinct.

A beat percussed in time. I traced my fingertips along the skin of his arm, ghost-light, dipping down the valleys and peaks of muscle that I knew flexed taut when he strummed his Epiphone SG. Goosebumps appeared under my digits and he shifted under the sheet.

“Tickles,” he murmured atop my head.

“Sorry,” I whispered, bringing my hands back to rest against his torso. Sandwiching them between the cotton of my oversized tee and the smooth skin of his pecs would have to do.

It was quiet — so quiet that I assumed he had fallen asleep again. But his soft breaths were broken by his even softer voice. “You’re cute when you’re scared,” he said.

I let out a chuckle. “Gee, thanks.”

He hummed and although I couldn’t see it, I could hear his tongue wet his lips, jaw pressing against the top of my head from the movement. “It’s different from the typical Dahlia.”

My mind raced back to our earlier conversation, the one where he’d accused me of hiding my emotions. Is this what he meant? Was fear what he considered transparency? I looked up at him quizzically, breaking the connection of his chin using my crown as an actual headrest.

His eyes were open, and despite the foreglow of the streetlights and darkness, I could better feel his stare than see it. His hair was still a step down from a rat’s nest, tangled from sleep, and strands hung down around his angular face. His cheeks were beginning to stubble with five o’clock shadow. Breaths pushed past his lips steadily, even, but beneath the pads of my fingers, I could sense his heart pumping solidly in his chest. Only a hairline fracture separated our faces.

Outside, a whistle of strong wind thwipped against the siding of the house like a widow’s cry and my body instinctively tensed. His arm that had lethargically slung across my waist impulsively tightened and he pulled me even closer.

“Hey…” he soothed. His brows were drawn in concern, and his hand traveled from the c-bout of my waist and up, up, up my tricep. It was less of a greeting and more of a reminder to land back in the present, to focus on my senses (touch, taste, smell, sight, sound), to remember I was right here, right in this moment, and I wasn’t alone.

The mortar holding the bricks built around my heart began to disintegrate. Every block melded in a bond pattern to cage in my overcommitting self, to protect from obsession, from the inevitable swoon that I had felt with Brody and had ripped out from under me — they began to fall, piece by piece.

It was the both of us that drew our mouths to meet. The kiss was lazy, sleepy, languid at first, morphing into prolonged pecks that added a harmony to the pattering rain, gusts of wind, and bouts of thunder rumbling the outside earth. His hand continued to rub against my upper arm and beat by beat, the kiss heightened, and slowly, surely, lips met tongue, and then teeth, and I was angling my neck to the right to keep him from digging into the pillow.

Mary shifted. His fingers gripped my arm as he moved to lay halfway on top of me. Our legs tangled together, and as he slid his own against my calf, barely stilling, I was certain he’d just discovered that my nightwear consisted of only an oversized t-shirt and panties.

I could sense his erection pressing through the thin cotton of his boxers against my thigh. My brain zapped back to hours prior when he had boxed me in on the couch and let me take pleasure from his strong quads. A fire raged within me that rivaled my hair spilling across Thomas’ pillows like a red sea.

Mary’s hand moved to skim under the hem of my shirt, tracing against my hip bone before it, too, went up, up, up, hovering just over the curve of my breast before cupping it. His finger traced the outline of my nipple. Once again, surroundings faded. Nothing else existed at this moment, here, right now.

I exhaled shakily against him. Our lips were still passionately pendulating in a rhythm that the both of us had mastered by now. I took a leap of faith and pressed my thigh to his crotch, earning me a squeeze to my chest and his own shaky exhale.

Releasing my breast, Mary swept his hand to the waistband of my panties. His fingers, rough and calloused from frets and strings, dipped underneath. He sat up slightly and broke the kiss. The smooth cotton was seesawed down my legs in a series of yanks from the free hand, and he quickly repeated the action on his own boxers, tossing them aside before returning his hand back to my chest.

“Mary,” I breathed out.

“What?” he echoed. His eyes searched for something as he drank in my expression.

I swallowed lightly. “I-” I began, not knowing exactly what I was saying.

But he did. “I’ve got you,” he said. His other hand came up to brush a strand of hair from my eyes.

He kissed me again and fully framed my body with his own. I relaxed back into the pillow and he sat back to dip his hands underneath my shirt, pushing it up and off with a temporary break in our lips’ union. As he slotted himself between my legs, I looked up at him, body completely bare. I felt the anxiety creep into my chest and I was certain I looked visibly unsure — not at the prospect of what was to happen, no, but what would follow. How this would, or could, change things.

“So goddamn pretty when you’re spread out like this,” he murmured as his hands roamed up and down my torso. I took the moment to soak up the image in front of me. His lean torso was flexed as he ran his hands along my breasts and stomach, and his cock stood heavy against his pelvis, bobbing with every movement of his touch.

He gripped himself with a soft moan, stroking slowly, methodically, and his eyes raked over my form. This wasn’t our first encounter, no, but I felt truly naked for the first time.

With oddly found confidence, I reached forward to grasp at the junction of his shoulder and neck. I pulled him towards me and his other hand shot out to brace himself against the squeaking mattress. His stroking continued and I jolted when his knuckles came in contact with the ache between my legs. Without any spoken words, he lined himself up and then embraced me, hand on my shoulder as we met chest to chest, covering me like a blanket.

His pause was obvious — an unspoken ask of consent to proceed which I answered with a soft kiss. I trusted him, and I assumed he trusted me. We both craved the connection, to complete the incomplete.

As Mary pushed in, I melted beneath him. His tip pushed past and he groaned and buried his face in the curve of my neck. My hands darted out to grip onto his back and pull him close. I wanted to feel him take up space in my ribs.

Inch by inch he sank before canting steadily. I could feel every bit of him as he rocked in and out, pulling and pushing as my heat gripped him, and for some reason it felt different. Not just raw, but whole. I took in every bit of him physically, but as we moved together in the nightglow, I also consumed the parts he’d been dressing up in leather and denim and metal and dissolved it into my flesh. I took him.

And through my euphoria of connection, I barely registered my small eruptions of noises that highlighted each stroke of his cock to my core. I focused on the sensation of sprinkled electricity spreading from my cunt outwards, and his hot breath on my neck that I drank in like I was oxygen-starved.

Mary’s hips began to stutter as he thrusted a little harder into my own and my legs moved to wrap instinctively around him. I keened out louder, and he lifted his head to look at me again.

The eye contact was searing. Hot. It charred my retinas, but this time, I didn’t care. He must have sensed the vulnerability because his hand cupped my jaw and he ran his thumb across my cheekbone before our foreheads met together.

“I’ve got you,” he repeated, “Fuck, I’ve got you.”

Like his own hail Mary. I believed him. He had me now — I was in his clutches, both literally and figuratively.

His pace increased to match my ever-racing pulse. It was still steadied, sleepily focused, and I dug my fingers into the flesh of his back as I clenched down against the movement of his length, nearly trembling at the pull at my navel as each drag of him spurred fire. It was building, and I let it. My breath began to stutter and I felt tears at my waterline. The sensory overload was rhapsody and the simple, obvious connection was juxtaposed by the chaotic climax lapping at my center. I was so close it almost hurt.

I moaned his name in a half-whimper and he must have felt my urgency and desperation and the increased slick coating our joined union because he crushed his lips to mine. His thumb dug into the side of my chin as he drove firmly into my aching need. But the jerking of his hips was almost too much and I could tell he wasn’t far behind me.

As my thighs began to tremble at his sides, he broke the kiss. I looked at him with desperate longing.

“Let it go, Doll,” he murmured to me.

And unlike every other situation in life where I found myself stubbornly resisting direction, I obeyed. I followed his demand and allowed the fuzzy heat of my release to unfurl around him. I cried out in rapture and he swallowed the sound with an opened mouth kiss at the moment of impact. I tensed around him and my pussy spasmed with every lunge of his hard cock.

“Good girl,” Mary praised as gripped hard onto my shoulder and pressed his head to mine, lips separated, and I was enveloped in a curtain of golden-brown tangled strands. He began to move faster against me and I knew my orgasm had spurred something deep within him as he moaned out, “So good for me, taking me so damn well.”

His thumb brushed the breadth of my lip and dipped into my mouth, pulling down just barely against my tongue and teeth. I looked up at him with full eyes, grey hues drowned by pupils swimming from release, and I inwardly begged him to complete me as aftershocks of a violent orgasm short circuited.

“So tight,” he grunted in response. “Fuck— feel so good around me, babydoll.” His hands moved to grip my hips and with a few more jolts of his hips, his cock twitched and he groaned, features melting as he spilled inside of me. His body jerked with each spurt and his fingers dug into the flesh covering my pelvic bone as he rode out his high.

Mary collapsed into me and I allowed my eyes to close as we savored the aftermath. I’m not sure how long it was, minutes, maybe more, but eventually he pulled his softened dick from me and I let out a long breath of satisfaction. My hand moved to rest against my chest as I digested the gnawing deep within me that questioned what this was.

Mary fell to his side and pressed a quick peck to my lips before rolling onto his back and mimicking my sigh. A brief silence filled the sweat-scented air, and I moved my hand to grasp at his, squeezing it, only to receive a slight squeeze back.

Our ragged breaths eventually calmed and I opened my eyes to the textured plaster of the ceiling.

“You good?” Mary asked after a minute. I rolled my lips inward as I thought about the weight of those two words.

“Yeah, I’m…I’m good— I’m great,” I replied. It was the truth.

He hummed in response and pulled the flat sheet over himself.

“Glad I could distract you,” He said as he nestled into the right side of the bed. Before turning, he added, “get some sleep.”

My eyes searched for patterns in the swirls of the painted gypsum of the ceiling as stillness settled in. Mary’s quiet breathing turned to soft snores. Despite the calm, serene relief from a shared orgasm, my chest was tight from the inward battle of how unbelievably intimate that experience was and how deeply I was freefalling into a mess of adoration for the man next to me.

I wondered how he could so easily turn to the side and fall asleep.

🜏🜏🜏

Despite the after effects of the record-breaking storm, Des and Thomas were able to make it home a couple of days after they’d left, right on schedule.

They greeted Mary with their normal affections (a pat on the back from Thomas and a warm wave from Des), and the conversation immediately turned from a Brutus report to a play-by-play of Thomas’ shows out of town.

Des noted there was no sign of her best friend, which wasn’t a surprise. She’d received my text the day before that I was heading home and that Mary was fine staying the additional time. And despite her prodding, I’d remained tightlipped.

Both she and Thomas were unaware of the telltale morning after where I’d woken up to sunbeams instead of lightning, choosing to pack up my belongings and head out early to check on my own pet at home.

They were also unaware of the brief goodbye between Mary and I as I readied to leave — him, acting cool, aloof, and casual, as if nothing had changed, while I tried my best to mirror his demeanor with little success. Because as much as I tried to build the bricks back up, I’d let him in the night before, and he’d taken root inside the boundaries of my chest.

I suppose that just like a day spent thrifting, I’d gone into every interaction with Mary with no expectations, and each time I’d come out with something I didn’t anticipate. The goldmines outweighed the insolvencies. I didn’t know if I wanted him to be aware of this.

Above all, I was happy for my momentary blissful unawareness (at least until later during a phone call with Des) of Thomas’ outburst upon entering his bedroom after Mary had left. His exclamation of “god damn it!” rang as loud as the thunder two nights previous, causing Des to dart in with a “what?” on her lips and the expectation of disaster.

Thomas sighed, stained top sheet in hand. “They fucked on my bed.”

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harveyguilleniconodelamoda · 19 days

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Thoughts on Fashion & Style from Harvey's Instagram Live with Samantha Rei Crossland

Last night, Harvey Guillén joined fashion designer Samantha Rei Crossland for a chat on Instagram Live to talk about life, style, the entertainment industry, and to answer some fan questions! The full video may be available via Harvey or Samantha's IG eventually, as they saved it at the end, but in the meantime I've compiled some of the questions and answers related to Harvey's relationship with fashion and style here!

This text is taken from the video and has been lightly edited for clarity.

Samantha: Dollie says, "as a fan you can really tell Harvey worked deliberately through fashion and photoshoots to establish his style in person, in front of the camera, and on the red carpet. I'd love to hear more about that journey and additionally if you have any tips for achieving confidence in style and fashion."

Harvey: Wow, good question! I feel like that was an avenue that never was presented to me as an option for the first part of my career. You know everyone's like "oh who dressed you?" I dressed myself! I mean I still do, but I didn't really get any kind of help with anything stylish-wise until recently, when I got the opportunity to work with different designers and stylists who introduced me to those designers. That's really what it is: a stylist will get you into an atelier or someone's house, like Christian Siriano or someone like that. But for the most part, for a long time I just kind of dressed myself, and on a budget.

Knowing Harvey was putting these kinds looks together by himself on a budget in 2017 and 2018, I will never again cut any of the Chrises with their MCU money a single centimeter of slack for showing up year after year, to event after event, in bland black or navy suits.

Harvey (continued): Because stylists are worth every penny, but they're expensive! They are expensive because they do a great job, but you also have to be constantly doing that. I think Zendaya was just talking about this in an interview. There's moments where you want a stylist because you want to look your best and you want the best opportunity and possibility, and there's moments where you're like "I'll dress myself, it's just a small event, I'll make it work. I'll make it work with what I have."

But yeah, I really wanted to put myself in a position where...why can't I like fashion? Why can't I do a photoshoot, and why can't I do a cover? I had a publicist, one of my first publicists...I said "I want to be the first to do something, like be on a cover of something like this!" And they straight out loud said "that's not going to happen." And I was like..."oh well, I mean maybe not overnight, but that should be the goal, we should work toward--"

And they were like "yeah, but we want to be realistic...and that's not gonna happen."

Cannot imagine being the person to tell THIS man he's never going to be on the cover of a magazine.

Harvey (continued): I realized, if people on your team are naysayers or they're not seeing the vision, those people aren't on your team. So unfortunately, I had to let them go, because if there's someone on your team who's already being toxic towards your vision, that's not the vision, that's not the vibe, that's not it. And so I'm glad to report that shortly after that we did get a cover! And then I was able to kind of show that off and be like, "it can be done!" You just have to find the right team and the right people who see your vision.

I think for so long it's just been easy to say no to people who don't fit the mold of Hollywood, and I'm not here to fit a mold. I'm here to break it.

Samantha: You're killin' it! You have no idea how many of these questions were just "when is he starting a fashion line?"

Harvey: I want to! I think right now I'm so focused on my main passion, which is acting, and I'm so grateful and blessed to have opportunities that are coming my way and that I am excited for. And now wrapping something that I'm gonna hold so dear to my heart like Shadows for so long, I'm so grateful. And you know, most actors would kill for just the opportunity to be on a show like Shadows and call it a day, and I would be happy if that's the work that I'm known for, because it's such a great show.

But I'm fortunate that I have all of these other things that are coming up. I'm so excited for the opportunities, and I'm excited for the different characters and different roles and different hats I get to put on.

But eventually that would definitely be an avenue that...I mean, it would definitely be on brand! You know? It would be so on brand to open a plus size line, especially because growing up I didn't see as many options for plus size people, period. But if there were, obviously the lean is for female clothing, and it was never for men at all. Like the options for a plus sized guy was like...screen t-shirts and jeans. And that's it!

Or it was always Big and Tall, where if you weren't tall you got stuck with a really short and stout kind of shirt. The measurements were always catered to "if you're big, you gotta be tall," and well, I don't know if that's true, but there was no in between. So that's a market that I would definitely want to look at. But for the time being I'm focusing on the acting part of it.

Samantha: Kelly wants to ask, "do you like any specific colors or patterns? Where are your tastes when you dress high fashion?"

Harvey: I used to be afraid of color a lot because I was always told if you're plus sized or bigger you'll amplify yourself. But I think you shouldn't be afraid of color. Last year, a year ago next month, at the Meta Gala I wore pink! That was all Christian Siriano from head to toe, and there was a wink there and a story behind it--if you know you know--why he and I chose the color pink for the Met Gala and who they were honoring and all of that. So I'm not afraid of color. I try to be very specific about the dimensions and where my leg cuts off or where it elongates my leg.

Harvey's now-iconic outfit from the 2023 Met Gala--whose theme was honoring Karl Lagerfeld--blended foundational style elements of Lagerfeld's most famous designs for Chanel with all the things Lagerfeld loudly hated throughout his life. Lagerfeld was infamous for making shitty comments about plus sized people, people of color, short men, and a host of other things. He also disliked the color pink. So Harvey showing up as himself and looking stunning wearing that glorious pink number was possibly the classiest shade ever thrown.

Harvey (continued): I've just been like the Christian Siriano poster boy this year! Which is a funny story because when I first approached him over a year ago for the Oscars, he was really busy and he said "I really don't make menswear."

And I was like "well I'm not saying I want you to make completely a tuxedo, I want you to do something in the middle." And he was like "well, I kind of did that with Billy Porter" where he put Billy in this really amazing gown. And I was like "well I don't want to do a gown, I want something between that, you know? Like where it doesn't have to be a traditional, boring, just plain old tuxedo, and it doesn't have to be this amazing, beautiful ball gown that Billy had worn."

Because he doesn't really design for men, he designs for women. And he said "this would be the first I would do this." And I said "then that's great! It'll be the first!" And he definitely had never designed for a plus sized man, so we were checking all these boxes off.

So my idea was if someone in 1920 went to an award show but was trying to wear a vintage Victorian or Edwardian outfit to honor a vintage look. So the hair was 1920s. The hair was done by Connie, who was my hair person in What We Do In the Shadows, who helped me originate the original look for Guillermo.

And Romie--who's my best friend since third grade--is my makeup artist, and she did my makeup for the Oscars and makeup for a lot of the events I go to.

And it was just amazing, you know. That outfit...oh my god. Vogue ran it, they got so many likes, it was on every social [media] outlet, and it did so well that last fall, for the first time, [Christian] had a men's line. And I can't help but wonder if it was a coincidence, if it had anything to do with my "how about we try this experiment!"

This beautiful vintage-inspired look for the Oscars was Harvey's first red carpet collaboration with Christian Siriano and landed him on nearly every best dressed list for the event. The metallic brocade tuxedo gown and bell hem trouser were included in Siriano's Fall 2023 line, and are available to order on his website (for a hefty price) as separate pieces in sizes up to a size 30 (58 bust, 60 waist).

Harvey (continued): Christian's been great, and of course he would make amazing pieces for menswear, of course he would!

We collaborated on a lot of things. For the Critic's Choice award we did a really cool cut, which was like a midriff cut with a peek-a-boo of belly. Because you know, I like my body, and I can show it off! And he did it in a way where I was like "woah!" It elongated my leg and it had a peek-a-boo of a little bit of tummy, and it had a neckline that plunges. So it shows your chest, and it's mesh, and then this giant bow on the side that you can take off or put on.

This red carpet look Harvey wore for the Critic's Choice Awards is one of my personal favorites. It feels like plus size people are always being urged to both cover up as much as possible and make ourselves as small as possible. But this outfit stares those demands in the face and says "Why though? Fuck that! Show yourself off and take up space!"

Harvey (continued): It got so many compliments on the carpet! And it's to a T a Christian look, but also very much me, because we collaborated in what that would look like and how I want that on my body, how it looks on my body, because what looks good on me may not look good on someone else. But it's knowing what your best assets are and what you're showing off, and what you want to show off. Because that's what's going to make you feel the most comfortable, when you're showing off something that you love about yourself.

Samantha: That's literally what I tell my clients! You feel the best you've ever looked in your life when everything just fits you perfectly and shows off the best parts of your body that you like the most. It's not about hiding, it's about amplifying.

Harvey: Yeah, exactly.

---

Thank you so much to both Samantha and Harvey for this wonderful conversation on IG Live! It was truly a joy to witness it and get more insight into Harvey's thoughts on fashion and style.

If you're interested in Samantha's designs (including her OFMD-themed makeup pallets!), check out her website here. And you can find WWDITS-themed Harvey-approved merch at his website here!

#fashion #harvey guillén #christian siriano #plus size fashion #menswear #red carpet looks #samantha rei

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nuzzle · 6 months

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Hi~

I saw your post about how lolita fashion (and ads for it) have changed in the last few years, especially for Angelic Pretty, and I agree completely!

I think the lack of creative ads these days might be b/c Gothic & Lolita Bible isn't around anymore? (cries) and Kera went purely digital ages ago, I don't know if it's even still around (I should have kept my old Kera magazines). But I remember how I always used to look forward to seeing the clothes and layouts that were featured in the new issues of each magazine.

My favorite when I first got into lolita was from the Wedding issue of the English edition of GLB; a model for Baby was wearing a lovely, tulip print skirt (or was it the jsk?) in blue, holding a parasol and sitting at a cafe table. Something about her looked so sweet and simple; I wanted to be a lolita just like that!

The models in the magazines always looked like they were happy or having fun, which I think is part of what made me want certain dresses or blouses. In AP's current ads, the model just looks... kinda sad and pouty and bored. I've noticed that for a lot of their dresses, they've been skimping on the lace, frills, and ribbons, and there's no more cute hair styles either! Meanwhile, wasn't it AP that brought lolita from old school to New School / OTT sweet when they had models wearing pastel pink / blue wigs for their Mermaid Symphony (iirc) photoshoot back in 2007?

On a different, but kinda related note, I've noticed that in the past 5 years or so AP has been making a lot of dresses with ridiculously high waists.... also so many sack dresses (I know they started doing this back in like 2012 or so with that polka-dot M&M print dress)

Sorry for the long rant, I just really miss the old days of lolita fashion

hello there!

i'm always glad to have some feedback when i post rambles and thoughts on things. i never expect it, so thank you for your input! it's also comforting to know others feel the same way.

i agree that without as many publications in general (especially physical) there's less of a reason to put as much effort into details, like the magazine spreads that were commonly done for example. most people get information on releases online these days, making physical catalogs a bit obsolete.. aside from collectors. i greatly miss all of the graphics and how inspirational everything felt back then, especially the little PNG pictures of items in catalogs.

you're completely right about pictures from GLB's and other magazines looking generally "happier" and more like daily life sort of pictures, like the one in the cafe you mention. that aspect of it appealed greatly to lifestyle lolitas! seeing a dress pictured in a "real life" situation rather than just a plain white background photoshoot picture makes a huge difference. it brings it to life, and makes it a lot easier to see yourself wearing it.

i think a big change in marketing is that AP doesn't cater as much to lifestylers.. and lolitas who are very much interested in the fashion beyond a surface level and see them as more than just clothes. all of the photos now actually feel like advertisements, when they used to also be appealing from a photography perspective. like they're only trying to sell you a product and not an experience, even if only visual. for me, that takes away from it a lot.. it almost feels as though that sense of community, and the acknowledgement that lolita is a subculture, is dwindling.

plus, it's definitely more than just presentation that's changed as you said. i feel as though the designs AP offers have been super uninspired compared to old releases. not as many details, not as much custom lace, and the general silhouettes becoming a bit lazy.. tons more, but i could go on for days. even the revamp and progression of the lyrical bunny mascot has felt a bit soulless. very sad to see, because i do agree that they were the brand to introduce OTT sweet in a revolutionary way.

as much as i gripe about old vs new AP changes, the positive side is that we can still look back fondly on the old era!

and no problem at all! it was nice to hear another perspective on this. ^^

#asks

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partyanimal167 · 7 months

Text

How Fitting Pt 2- Crocodile x F!Reader

I've been waiting for requests for my International Spy Event, and I got a few requests for a part two, so I figured why not. I surprised myself with how much I knew about sewing (even though it was the family trade), so I think I can continue to lean into that world more. The first part was going to be more about modeling, and that didn't happen so I think it might here.

Thanks for reading! Part One

You were so well-suited into being a behind-the-scenes person, so all of this was out of your comfort zone. However, you would do anything for your beloved boss, so there was no reason to say no. Just save the day, and no one would know. Right?

The opportunity came that your boss and mentor would be featured in a magazine praising his work and legacy of the shop. You were ecstatic for him and knew that it was well-deserved. He kindly downplayed it all but asked you to come for the photoshoots and assist with the models. He would be bringing out some archived looks as well as those that blended the vintage styles with modern trends. (That is why he's a pro at all of this)

The day of the shoot started with you loading boxes and bags of clothes into a car and going over a detailed checklist. Your boss sat behind the counter drinking coffee and enjoying the Sun. You could only hope to be so relaxed in your future.

Soon, the two of you were in the studio setting up the clothes while photographers ran around checking for equipment and models. There seemed to be multiple designers in the building at once. You assumed that the organizer wanted to get everything done as soon as possible, so there wouldn't be a hold-up when editing.

You pressed ascots, ties, lined up vests and jackets, and paired cotton socks with shoes. Models came and dressed and you boss helped direct them to the sets.

For now your work was done, so you decided to peak to another set that was showing off women's formal gowns. It wasn't your sector, but the familiarity of dresses and heels brought back memories of your family elders. You checked the schedule and noted that there would be a collab shoot between this designer and your boss. You thought that the styles complimented each other.

You continued to stand in the corner watching when a few people frantically ran passed you before talking to a woman sitting in a director's chair. She was gorgeous with tanned skin, black hair, and bright blue eyes. She listened intently but didn't seem too affected by the urgency. For a moment, the two of you locked eyes and she smiled brightly.

You turned away to zone out but that didn't last when your heard heels and saw the woman in front. "Excuse me, are you one of the models for the other designers?"

You gawked for a moment and mentally ran through your outfit: slacks, loafers, messy hair, measuring tape around the shoulders. You shook your head. "Eh not at all. I'm one of the men's fashion assistants." you explained.

"Ah well, I'm sorry to bother you. I'm Robin. I'm doing one of the shoots for the women's line as you can see, and I'm in need of a model that would fit your dimensions." you starred blankly at her. "Do you think you could step in?"

"Me? Model?"

She laughed at your reaction before glancing at her notes. "Ah yes, the photos would be for our collab with Mr. Lewis." Shit, that was your boss. "I would really appreciate it." she beamed kindly at you.

You fidgeted with your fingers a little and nibbled a cheek. "Eh, I wouldn't say I'm model material-,"

"Nonsense. You'd be beautiful on the camera."

The deep timbre made you aware of the others in the room--however too late to notice one specifically. Your face warmed up at the compliment, and you turned slowly at the newcomer.

"You're already stunning in the flesh."

Oh earth come get me now! Your eyes found his, and Sir Crocodile looked down at you with those intimidating gold orbs that were highlighted with mischief.

You hadn't seen the man in awhile, but it was if your body knew the protocol, and your hand reached out gently for him to take--greeting you with a kiss as always.

"You haven't called me."

The air in your lungs rushed out. "I've uh- my apologies." you replied quickly trying to replenish your breath.

Even though the man brought it up, he didn't seem troubled by the fact.

"Well if you're willing to help Robin, I'm sure the matter can be forgiven." you pouted before you could stop yourself. He chuckled.

"Ah you two know each other?" Robin perked.

"I'm a tailor." you simply provided at that.

"A talented one at that. I'm sure she helped produced the clothing that's being featured." Crocodile didn't allow you to downplay yourself at all. "However, it would do her well to step into the light. No need to keep hiding a treasure." he went on but focused on your eyes.

You couldn't find an excuse if you wanted to. The two in front of you seemed like a business power duo and quick to resolve things too. You pinched the bridge of your nose before you sighed. "Okay fine. Some pictures won't hurt."

...

Crocodile waited anxiously for you to step back into the shooting space from the dressing rooms.

He attended to many businesses and trades, but certain things in life he wanted to keep simple. He enjoyed a good outfiIt that fit well and stuck to the same shop that always got it right. He appreciated your attention to detail and care for your craft.

Admittedly, he was also excited to see you in something other than a dress shirt and slacks. He was appreciative all the same, but seeing you in a formal dress would fuel the dreams of taking you out to nice places and enjoying special evenings.

He heard the heels before he saw you, and your entrance into the room seemed to make everyone pause.

It was a dark green dress with a halter neckline, a tasteful slit on the side, and was backless to help fit where your body curved and dipped. It sparkled and was pleasing to the eye.

Crocodile could feel your nervousness, but your stride never faltered. You had done this before, he figured. Everyone turned away from you, and he could see you physically exhale. He watched as you were quickly shuffled into place for some solo shots while assistants gleamed over the hair and makeup of the models already present. Your boss stood by him, and the two men enjoyed the vision of two different brands coming together.

A gentleman stood by you in a black-n-beige suit that definitely made the scene feel like a gala of a Bond movie. Crocodile kept his eyes intently on you. It was like you got into character and followed the instructions on how to express and emote for what was needed. It was captivating.

More photos were taken, and just when you thought things would be wrapping up, Robin clapped her hands and said, "Now, let's have Crocodile join us." You both quickly turned to the woman.

"This isn't an inclusivity issue." Crocodile argued referring to his prosthetic.

Robin only hummed. "It wouldn't be inclusive if we only showed differences on special occasions." she was ready for his retort.

Crocodile grumbled. "I need a suit."

"Actually, that suit is one of mine; I'm sure of it. The color scheme goes well with what's already here." your boss quipped in.

The man reached into his coat and sighed. "Fine, but I'm enjoying myself while I do this." he brought out a cigar.

"I wouldn't want it any other way." Robin went on.

You fidgeted slightly as the man puffed his smoke before joining you. You met his eyes and smiled. Assistants moved props and posed your hands and positioned bodies. Unknowingly, you drifted away from your companion.

Crocodile chuckled as he wrapped his arm around your waist and pulled you closer. He turned away from the camera and whispered into your ear. "Don't run away. You're the star of the show." the gruffness made you gasp. Neither of you even noticed the cameras flashing.

You got a hold of yourself and leaned into the man's touch. "I'm staying." was all you could get out before placing your hand back on his chest.

Robin only wanted a few shots, and with that, the day was finally over. The set-up lamps began to shut off, and you sighed to yourself. It was a fun experience, and you weren't uncomfortable. You were just ready to not have so many eyes on you.

"It was a pleasure seeing you." Crocodile offered while others shuffled around you two.

You nodded and smiled. "Likewise. I'm sure we'll see each other sooner next time."

"How about dinner now?"

You blinked for a moment. "Oh sure, let me just change, and then we-,"

"Why wait? Let's go like this."

You gaped a little. "Huh?"

Crocodile grinned. "Well my dear, the last time I let you go; you hid. You said you wouldn't be running away this time."

You swayed a little. "Ah well, I'm sure I have to return the dress."

"Consider it paid for. It'll be a great addition to your wardrobe." There was never a problem he couldn't solve. "Don't be so nervous around me, love." He brought your hand back to his lips. You expected a kiss but felt a rush through you when the skin was lightly nibbled on, and he winked. "I only bite if you want me to."

~~~

I like this~ I hope Crocodile doesn't seem pushy. I figured he'd be more direct with his intentions since he didn't see you after some subtlety.

Requests are open! And I also have an event going on, so feel free to check that out.

Thanks for reading!

@ririsugotlost

#one piece #one piece x reader #crocodile x reader #sir crocodile #tailor au #model au #prompts #requests #one piece fanfiction #mine #partyanimal167 #seamstress au #modern au

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ladybugkisses · 4 days

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May we please know more about Eleanor? I'm quite curious!

you may!

🌼 the main inspirations for her character consisted of Flapper Fanny Says, La Vie Parisienne magazine covers and.. ...♦️ this song ♦️

🌼 i don't know why but she sounds like Paige O'Hara in my head, with a hint of a southern accent (that goes up to 100% only in certain scenarios)

🌼 after being kicked out and wandering around for a couple months, she eventually arrived in St. Louis and was taken in by a tailor (that i've actually ♦️ named ♦️ before) until she could find her bearings. his boyfriend business partner gave her the job at the boutique!

🌼 currently in her late 20s, slutty and proud- focuses on men but isn't at all opposed to getting with women. not interested in romance, nobody's allowed in her apartment for longer than one night lmao

🌼 despite not being interested in romance for herself, she does love reading about it, listening to love songs, seeing others be in love, etc- and she'll give you great advice on the topic! Rocky and Ari are simultaneously her favorite and most frustrating real life romcom at the moment gdskgds

🌼 her favorite flowers are magnolias

🌼 loves jewelry, designing hats and dressing herself and other people up, always bugging Ari to let her put makeup on or style her hair- she's the one who picked her outfit for ♦️ that one night ♦️ (and as you can see she only allowed a few accessories 🙄 maybe on her wedding day she'll let her doll her up more... ..)

🌼 she's really nosy and can read people so well it's a little scary, but whatever secrets you might have are safe with her! not very appreciative if you try being nosy right back though..

🌼 that friend who's always optimistic and seems to know you like the back of her hand, until you sit down and realize you don't actually know her that well

🌼 ...SPEAKING OF HANDS, hers are never still- unless they're posed somewhere or holding something she's always fidgeting with her jewelry, hair, whatever they can comfortably reach

🌼 and speaking of friends, she became good friends with Zib, Mitzi and most of the band after becoming a Lackadaisy regular somewhere in 1924! unfortunately she hasn't been visiting as much since Atlas' death

🌼 used to do choir and has a nice singing voice that nobody ever must know about

🌼 catholic guilt still eats at her insides sometimes

🌼 other songs i associate with her are The Crane Wives' "Never Love an Anchor" and Dirt Poor Robins' "Enchanté"

🌼 every kid deserves a fun, bougie aunt and she's gonna take that role once Rocky and Ari have kids so help her God

i might've gotten a bit carried away but you have no idea how much i've wanted to share more about her gdskgds thank you for asking!! i hope these are a good read :'^) 💕🩷💕

#also i'm sorry some of these are sad but i can't not give all my OCs some type of tragedy to them wHOOPS #asks #anonymous #hc tag #songs tag

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shuacore · 2 years

Text

no thorns, no roses.

reader (f) x jsh. summary: a modeling gig turns into a test of your patience (and your self-control) — 11.4K words — is enemies with benefits a thing?, basically pwp, semi-public hooking-up?? — warnings: swearing, smut (18+) additional warnings

additional warnings: degradation (lite), unprotected sex, oral (m receiving), probably like a billion red flags lol

"Good news, y/n!" your boss yells over the phone, and you wince as you pull the speaker away from your ear. Mingyu was a nice guy but, Christ, he was fucking loud. You slowly put the phone to your ear again. "You booked the Dior gig!"

Your jaw drops. "No fucking way. You're lying!" Silently you kick your feet in the air, a giddy dizzy feeling buzzing through your whole body. If Mingyu could see you on the other side of the phone he'd be laughing at you, but from the safety of your own apartment, you could act as ridiculous as you wanted. Your boss is yelling something into the phone, but you're not listening as you jump around your couch, pumping your fists in the air like the protagonist of some corny rom-com movie.

"...really liked your stuff. Their girl backed out after getting food poisoning and they need someone else. I know it's extremely short notice, but it's tomorrow afternoon— can you make that work?"

You nod vigorously before remembering you're on the phone and Mingyu can't actually see your face. "Yes!" you reply breathlessly. You can't feel your legs anymore, so you slump on the couch, clutching a pillow to your chest.

"Awesome! I'll get in touch with their creative coordinator right now and forward you the details ASAP. Thanks, y/n," Mingyu says with a short goodbye, and the line dies.

For a moment, all you can do is sit in shock. Dior wanted you. And not only that, but it was for a shoot in Vogue?! You flop onto your back, still speechless. You had to be dreaming. It had been years since your last major shoot, and it had been such a disaster that you had refused to do any luxury shoots since then. Except that when Mingyu had told you that Dior had sent out a notice to all the major modeling agencies looking for new blood for their latest campaign, you knew you had to try.

So you had spent the last few weeks filming and editing your best walks together into a video, compiled with countless headshots, past work, and endless pose references. Your favorite brand was looking for new talent, and there was no way in hell you could pass up the opportunity.

You throw your arm over your eyes, shaking your head in disbelief. The sick thing was that it had actually worked. And now you were going to Vogue's studio tomorrow to work directly with some of the most renowned designers in the world. God, it made you want to pee yourself a little bit.

Somewhere across the room, there's a small ding! from your phone from where you had thrown it and you hastily push yourself off the couch to grab it. A small notification reads "Congrats!" and in your dazed state you clumsily click on it, opening the email from your boss.

Hey, y/n! Here's the information from Kelly, the creative coordinator at Vogue. Let me know if you have any questions.

Congrats again!

Kim Mingyu | Talent Coordinator

AGC Modeling Agency

—--- Forwarded message ------

From: Kelly G. <[email protected]>

Sent: Monday, July 29, 2021 8:56 AM

To: Kim Mingyu <[email protected]>

Subject: VOGUE x Dior 2021 Shoot Replacement

Hey Mingyu!

We've run into an issue with one of our girls and we need a replacement. We really liked the work of y/n and would love to work with them! Here are the details from Dior's creative director, and I've included a few images of the sample pieces they've asked us to shoot. Let me know what you think!

Thanks!

Kelly G. | Creative Coordinator

VOGUE Magazine

Your eyes skim the rest of the email, reading over the shoot info as fast as possible. Well, the clothing is more revealing than you were used to doing, and the colors were, honestly, underwhelming, but your excitement outweighed your trepidation.

If it was just another solo shoot, and it sounded like it was, you were ready to give them your best material. The creative director wouldn’t even know what hit them.

As you climb into bed that night, you can't fight the smile that threatens to take over your whole face, and you slowly drift off to sleep, dreaming of camera flashes and a world painted with unimaginable color.

----

The next morning, however, as you stand outside the Vogue studio door and your stomach threatens to push itself out of your mouth, you wonder if you've truly chosen the right career path.

"Mingyu, I don't know if I can do this," you say, turning to look at your manager. His dark hair is effortlessly tousled, and in the bright morning light, he looks as if he's glowing. You often wonder why Mingyu had never become a model himself, but whenever you asked, he just brushed off the question in the infuriatingly cool way that he did everything. As you watch a few strands of his perfect hair wave in the cool New York morning breeze, dimly, you also wonder why you’ve never asked him out.

"Your stuff was great, y/n," he says, with a goofy little pat on your shoulder. "If anyone can 'serve face' it's you!"

You wrinkle your nose in disgust. It was horrendous how he tried to keep up with the youth, but there was no hope with Mingyu. So you simply nod and let him lead you through the door, trying your best not to vomit all over yourself.

The door shuts behind you with a horrible clunk, and as you follow your manager through the catacombs of Vogue's creative spaces, you try your very best to feel excited.

No! You tell yourself. You are excited! Except you're also impossibly worried about making a fool of yourself in front of the top fashion magazine in the world, and possibly affecting the rest of your career forever.

"Ok," you say nervously, "Snap out of it!" Miles of beige drywall seem to pass by you. Why the hell is this hallway so long? You swear you’ve been walking for eons now, and the longer the hallway stretches on, the smaller you shrink.

By the time you reach the end of the hallway, you can't be more than a few centimeters tall. Mingyu chooses an unassuming beige door and allows you to enter the room before him. Some of the photographers are already in the room, and they wave politely as you enter. The backdrops are set up and ready, with a few more options draped across support beams and tables. There's a chair centered under a few lights and you see your clothing rack, already adorned with a few of the flimsy, delicate pieces you'd be wearing. Being in the space has an immediate effect, and you can't help but feel a jolt of excitement in your stomach.

After setting your bag on a chair in the back, you catch sight of a bed tucked behind one of the backdrops. Had you read anything about a bed being used on set? You couldn't quite remember, and you were about to ask Mingyu about it, but he had already disappeared into the growing throng of designers, off doing his managerial thing. You take a quick look around. No one seems to be watching you, and besides, it’s your set so why not get used to it?

You approach the bed, curiosity and confusion battling in your brain. It didn’t seem to really fit with the strange and spunky summer theme, but maybe it was for some kind of boudoir moment the art directors had in mind? There had definitely been some gauzy things mixed in with Dior’s array of pieces.

Honestly, the longer you look at it, the more delightful the bed looks. The pillows are squishy and adorned in soft, shiny silk, and there are a few blankets strewn artfully across the comforters. Man, you really wanted to jump onto it like a little kid, but you also wanted to appear professional— so that meant no jumping. For now at least.

You turn to walk back to your seat, barely looking where you’re going when you crash headfirst into someone else. Papers go flying, coffee splatters everywhere, and in the sudden flurry of motion, there’s a cacophony of swearing.

“Shit, I’m so sorry, I totally wasn’t looking where I was going. I can pay for your dry cleaning, or run and grab you a new shirt. God, I am so, so sorry,” you babble, suddenly sweating profusely. In a panic, you kneel down to gather the papers as fast as possible, shoving them into a haphazard pile and offering them to the other person with as apologetic of a face as you could possibly make.

And then you make eye contact with them.

Fuck. Your heart drops into your stomach.

The man you just ran into wrinkles his nose. “Oh. It’s you.” His dark eyes are flat with disdain.

You fight the urge to throw a punch (and also throw up). It’s been years since you last saw him, and yet, you seem to be having some sort of Pavlovian response to his voice.

“Joshua Hong,” you say through gritted teeth. The other creatives are watching the two of you with poorly disguised interest, so you attempt to actively suppress the rage gurgling uncomfortably in your stomach by forcing a smile onto your lips. It doesn't work, but they don't need to know that.

Joshua takes the forgotten papers from your hands, offering you a dry smile before stalking away without another word.

Wow. He really has not changed at all. Still just as insufferable and impossible as the last time you worked with him.

Vague memories of getting drunk and hooking up with Joshua swim to the front of your mind. You hadn’t known you were going to be working with him the next day. He had just been some hot guy at a bar who you had chatted with briefly. All you can really recall is singing (extremely drunk) karaoke with him, making out with him in his car after a particularly raunchy song, and waking up in his bed the next morning. You wonder if he remembers how he held you like you were glass, whispered empty promises in your ear, and made you feel like a princess. He had made you feel like you were unforgettable. And then he hadn’t even acknowledged your damn presence at the shoot later the same day.

After all these years, even after all the effort it had taken you to forget the heartbreak you had felt, one glimpse of him was all it took to send you back to the very beginning of it all. With a particularly large jolt in your chest, you’re horrified that your body still craves him so badly.

“Y/N?” Mingyu’s voice calls out to you, breaking you out of your reverie. “Are you okay?”

You realize your nails had been biting into your palms and you release your fists, trying to relax the tension in your shoulders and your jaw. You plant the most reassuring smile you can on your face and nod.

"Perfect, actually," you say, doing your best to ignore your roiling stomach. The smile on your face feels more like a grimace the longer you hold it.

"Do you... do you need to go to the bathroom?" your manager asks, quirking an eyebrow and throwing a thumb over his shoulder. He looks a little afraid of you and you can only imagine how insane you look to Mingyu. You brush him off.

"No, I'll be fine." Yes, go now! Get out of here! Run! You smile again before shuffling quickly back to your bag amid the whispers that continue to follow you across the studio.

You hadn't seen Joshua Hong in years, and somehow you still couldn't look at him without feeling an explosion of confusing emotions. He had completely humiliated you, belittling you until you had run out of the room and cried in the bathroom for twenty minutes. He made you look like a fool. He had made you feel like shit. Mingyu knew your history with him, but Vogue must have not told him that Joshua was working on this shoot, because you know your sweet, but dense, manager surely would not have booked you for this if they had.

Professionalism be damned. You wanted to throw (another) cup of hot coffee in Joshua Hong's perfectly chiseled face.

You look up from your shaking hands for a moment to see that the bastard has already disappeared. You're not sure if that fills you with dread or relief. Ok, you can't ignore this.

"Mingyu!" you whisper loudly, pulling your manager aside. "You didn't tell me Joshua Hong was going to be here!"

Mingyu looks defensive. "They never told me he would be here!" He wrings his hands for a moment. "Y/n, I swear, I never knew he was working this shoot or I would've never booked this gig for you."

You take a deep breath, forcing your erratic heartbeat to slow until you think you're capable of speaking rationally. "I'm sorry, but I can’t do this."

Mingyu looks even more apologetic, and he runs a hand through his dark hair in frustration. "I'm sorry, but at this point, you have to. We don't have any backups nearly as good as you, and backing out would be a huge hit to your career."

You were expecting the bad news, but hearing it directly from Mingyu felt like a huge blow. Suddenly your stomach feels like it's going to eject from your body.

"I lied," you say, clapping a hand to your belly, "Where's the bathroom?"

"Turn to the left and it'll be at the end of the hall," Mingyu replies, concern in his eyes. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yep! Perfect!" you mumble hastily before walking as quickly out of the room as you could without running. The nervous energy in your body was building until you felt you could climb walls. Clinging to the ceiling surely would be less strenuous than the rest of today.

In your state of mild hysteria, you shove the door to the bathroom open without knocking, only to see Joshua standing over the sink, holding his soiled shirt in his hands. He whips his head around in surprise. And you only just barely see the muscles of his shoulders rippling under his honeyed skin before your eyes are the size of dinner plates.

You might now hold the record for reddest face in two seconds.

"I'm so sorry!" you squeak, yanking the door shut. Your heart is racing a million miles a second. You had just seen Joshua Hong shirtless. (Sober.) And even though you had before, something about this felt worse. Fuck. Fuck! Your luck was unbelievable, and there's absolutely no way you could get through this shoot amiably with this man. Not after you ruined his shirt and certainly not after you invaded his privacy in the span of fifteen minutes.

You lean your back on the wall for a moment, holding your head in your hands, heart pounding so heavily you think you might faint. The darkness of the back of your eyelids is somewhat soothing and you stay like that for a while, wallowing in your despair. But then you hear what sounds like the doorknob turning, and walk back towards the studio as quickly as you possibly can.

"Two minutes!" you hear someone call, and the feeling in your stomach only gets worse. Somehow you were going to have to wear skimpy lingerie next to the man that had made you feel ridiculous and sell the illusion of sex! Luxury! Your stomach gives a particularly robust gurgle.

"Y/N!" one of the stylists calls as you enter the room again. "Let's do wardrobe!" She takes you over to the racks, pulling out a few pieces rapidly, scanning them and your body before settling on a silky black slip dress, which is far more sheer than you had hoped. In any other situation you would have fallen head over heels, but knowing the man closest to being your arch-enemy was going to see you in it suddenly made it extremely unappetizing. The stylist hands you the hanger, showing you to a row of make-shift dressing rooms.

Behind the curtain you slip into the dress, and the silk is smooth and cool against your burning skin. It really is quite pretty, and here by yourself you enjoy the way it clings to your body in all the right places. Unprompted, your brain floods with the image of Joshua's back— broad and tan and toned with muscle.

Imagine him seeing you in this dress...imagine his hands on your body—

"Ok! That's enough!" you interject, crushing the thoughts before they can fully form and liquefy your brain. You take a breath, staring at yourself in the tiny mirror taped to a support beam.

"You got this. It's just another job. Do it for the check." You flash yourself a quick thumbs up.

After opening the curtain, you're whisked away to makeup and hair, where you're accosted by a few more stylists who fuss over your appearance even more. They end up deciding on a bold smoky eye and some simple lip gloss and fluff your hair until it looks effortlessly tousled.

But all too soon you're done with prep, and the only thing left is to start the shoot. Awkwardly you stand off to the side of the studio, waiting for the director to give you instructions. You still haven't seen Joshua, which just sets you on edge even more.

"Y/N!" the director says, appearing by your side. "We're going to start with your solo shots, just for some variety." You smile, allowing your shoulders to relax. Solo shots you could do. A stylist leads you over to the chair and instructs you to sit.

And it goes flawlessly. It's like once you're in front of a camera your body takes over and you know exactly what to do with your arms, what facial expressions to make. The space becomes your own. The director takes your photos, pausing every few minutes or so to instruct you on a new pose or to fix your hair, but the first half of your shoot goes by without a hitch. You feel alive, happy even, as you work, as Joshua fades to the background. When it's just you, you can focus.

"Fantastic work, Y/N!" the director says, as she flicks through a few shots on her camera. You do look great. "The editors have a bunch of really great material to work with." Ok, so maybe this wouldn't be completely terrible. As long as you focused on yourself and on giving your best material, everything would be fine.

As if on cue... he appears and all your resolve crumbles.

Except— he's still not wearing a shirt. Well, he's kind of wearing a shirt, except that it's completely unbuttoned and exposing his entire chest. He's also wearing a pair of simple black dress pants, but to be honest, you're a little distracted by his perfect abs to really notice. Ok, you didn't know this was part of the plan. You feel the heat rising in your cheeks, and wrench your gaze away, trying to discreetly fan your face as Joshua walks over. Desperately, you hope that he won't mention your little mishap.

Oh my god, he was still hot. Did this change anything? No... you still hated him. Except now you just felt even more conflicted internally. Your body was telling you one thing, but your head was telling you another and you hoped your awful shoot partner being hot didn't suddenly alter your entire perception of him, but you couldn't even—

"Y/N?" Joshua's voice cuts across your inner monologue like a knife, dry and without humor. "The director is speaking." You shoot a panicked glance at him, withering slightly when you see the same unfaltering gaze looking back. He looks so unamused, it's incredible. You wrench your head back towards the director, hoping you look apologetic enough.

She gives you a nonchalant smile and continues on without issue. "You know Dior. Everyone knows Dior. I want you to look sexy, suave, effortless. I know you're both seasoned professionals so I'm not worried, but try and make it as electric as possible."

Sexy. Suave. Electric. Yeah, no worries. You shove your heart back down your throat, trying your damn best not to let your trepidation show. Electricity between you and Joshua. Well, there'd certainly be something.

You try to catch Joshua's eye, to gauge his temperament, but he seems content with ignoring your presence like always. As he sits in the chair, one of the panels of his shirt falls open, flashing the slight curve of his waist again. Despite gritting your teeth in annoyance, your heart does a very confusing loop-de-loop in your chest that makes you feel mildly ill.

After Joshua has settled in the chair, the director motions for a camera. "Ok, for this first shot, Y/N, I want you to place your left foot on his knee so you're facing him. Joshua, let's have you put your hand on Y/N's calf— yeah, exactly like that."

You've forced yourself to look away from Joshua, acutely aware of how short your dress is and how much it's riding up your thigh. Seriously, this is your first shoot and you're already sweating. Joshua places his hand on your leg like it's nothing, but it's taking everything in you not to cringe away. He smells good, too. Fuck! You're trying to remember that you hate him and yet his presence has shaken you to the bone.

"Lean in a little more, Y/N," the photographer says, "You're a little stiff." You nod, and shift so you're even closer to Joshua that you'd like, your chest uncomfortably close to his face.

Jesus. And this was only the first set. You breathe deeply through your nose, trying to ignore your pulse racing heavily through your body. Joshua seems unfazed as always, perfect and unruffled.

Right, because you're supposed to be professionals. Heat flushes up your neck in shame. He hadn't said much and yet you were the one acting childish. You try to distance yourself from the man next to you, telling yourself he's just another model doing his job. And for a while it works. You take a few different shots from different positions— you in front of him, then behind the chair, then next to him, somehow managing to incorporate your leg every time. The director has Joshua inching his hand farther and farther up your thigh until his fingers are practically playing with the hem of your dress, and you are desperately trying to keep your cool. Joshua has a tendency to dig his fingers into your skin every time he moves his hand, and it is doing confusing things to your brain. Then—

"You want him to what?" you say incredulously, eyes wide. You know you shouldn't be reacting like this if you want to keep your job, but Joshua is throwing you off your game.

The director smiles. "I'm going to have you sitting in the chair this time, and I want Joshua on the floor."

You slowly sit in the chair, back stiff as Joshua crouches on the floor next to you.

He briefly looks at you and mutters, "Is it okay if I touch you?" but it's more of a formality than a courtesy. You stare at him, mouth agape and swallow thickly.

"Uh— yeah. No, yeah, that's fine."

He places his hand on your thigh again, fingers gripping the soft flesh ever so slightly, and you desperately hope he doesn't notice the slight shiver that runs through your body. If he does, at least he's civil enough not to mention it.

The photographer is frowning. Oh no. "The energy is still dead. Joshua can you sit in between Y/N's legs?"

You freeze. Even Joshua seems slightly put out. But the look in his eyes fades as quickly as it appeared and he dips his head in acknowledgement. Then he turns to you.

God, you've never wanted to fade out of existence more than you did right now. Having his head right next to your— you-know-where?! Your legs seem to be glued together with the effort it takes to pry them apart. Joshua awkwardly climbs in between your knees, trying to pose as nonchalantly as possible. It's as if your spine is glued to the backrest of the chair; you're completely immobilized. You don't want Joshua there. In fact, you don't want him anywhere near you.

The director frowns. "Lean back! Relax! Loop your arm under her leg, too. You could even lean your face against her thigh if you feel so inclined."

Your eyes have to be so wide right now. Joshua, even though he's clearly uncomfortable, wraps his hand around your thigh again, and leans his head towards your skin. His mouth ever-so-slightly brushes against the inside of your thigh, his breath warm against your burning skin. Goosebumps erupt across your body, and you feel the ghost of a smile on the corner of his lips.

You, however, cannot relax. You can't make this look natural no matter how hard you try, and Joshua being so close to your womanhood is certainly not helping. The camera clicks echo through the room as the photographers take a few shots of the two of you.

But after a few minutes, the director still looks unhappy, and you have a sinking feeling it's your fault.

"No... this still isn't right. I like the vision, but this still feels a little forced. Let's try something else."

Isn't it all forced? you think, disgruntled. Joshua shifts his grip on your thigh ever slightly.

The director turns the chair to the side, telling Joshua to sit on it again. She squints for a moment, walking around him a few times and muttering quietly to herself. After a few more minutes, she steps back. Then she looks at you.

"Sit in his lap."

Excuse me?

You don't move. Every bone in your body seems to be made of lead, every muscle completely froze. Joshua stares at you, an unreadable expression in his eyes. You swear he discreetly raises an eyebrow, as if in challenge, but you blink and it's gone. Even your throat feels like it's closing up. But who are you to challenge the director?

Awkwardly, you throw one leg over Joshua's lap, settling yourself as casually as you possibly can. Your heartbeat is screaming in your ears, and you're terrified he'll feel it against his chest. The silky fabric of your dress is offering absolutely no comfort as it shifts over your skin. Joshua's shirt is gaping, your own skin dangerously close to his.

Joshua places his large hands on your back, and the heat from his palms seeps through the delicate silk as if there was no dress at all. You can't even look him in the eyes. You know you're supposed to be acting like you're in lust, but right now you're simply immobile. His cologne wafts tantalizingly off of his skin, and you bite your lip, trying your best to ignore the way his breath washes over your collarbones, the way the heat in your core seems to be intensifying every second you spend flush against him.

"That's a little better," the director says, before whispering something to her colleague. They start to take pictures as they flit around you.

Unconsciously, you've been squirming around on Joshua's lap to get comfortable, and you start when you feel his fingers press into your skin, his breath hot against your throat.

"Stop doing that," he hisses under his breath, and then you realize... the thing underneath you that you thought was maybe his phone... is definitely something else. Heat rushes to your face and you freeze as best as you can. His chest is heaving just imperceptibly. There's definitely arousal slowly pooling in your barely-there underwear, and you are quite literally praying to God that Joshua won't say anything.

"Sorry," you squeak, turning your head so you don't have to look at him. He's probably embarrassed, so you'll do your best to be as professional as possible. It happens to everyone.

Except Joshua seems less mortified than you. He slides his hands down your spine until they're just barely resting on your ass. You swear he squeezes.

"Are you though?" he murmurs, pulling you centimeters forward on his lap, so for a hint of a second there is a moment of delicious friction and a rush of pleasure, and your eyes widen. But then you clear your throat, looking to the director for more instruction. There's an unreachable itch building under your skin, making you feel antsy.

She still looks unsatisfied, shaking her head.

"Ok, I don't know what the issue is here, so let's take a break." She frowns at the two of you as you hurriedly clamber off of Joshua's lap, pulling your dress down as far as it can possibly go. He looks unbothered, cooly crossing his legs and sitting back. The flush in your cheeks won't go away and you fan your face, knowing you look ridiculous in the frigid studio.

"I need you two to figure out what the deal is," the director says, fixing the two of you under a firm stare. "You're two of the best I've worked with, but you're not giving me what you promised. I don't know what happened between you two or if anything did at all, but don't bring this tension into the studio. Use lunch to figure it out." She looks disappointed and you feel your heart sink. They were never going to hire you again!

The director points at Joshua. "We'll take your solo shots after lunch." She turns away to make the same announcement to the crew, and they start to file out of the room, hardly sparing the two of you a second glance.

You're frozen in place, not trusting yourself to walk to your chair in the corner. The last of the crew leave the room, and the door closes with an air of finality.

The silence is suffocating, and you are, to put it in so many words, insanely turned on now. You turn to Joshua, looking everywhere but him. You wonder if he's equally as on edge.

You open your mouth to speak when his voice cuts through the tension.

"Ok, why don't we just deal with this like adults?"

You raise your eyebrows in disbelief.

"Well, I wasn't going to scream and cry, if that's what you thought," you retort, frowning. There he is again with his irritating know-it-all behavior.

The hint of a smirk flits across his face as he toys with one of the thick silver rings on his fingers. "Maybe not." Joshua looks amused by something, but if there is something humorous he gives no hint as to what it is. Frustration flares in your stomach.

Your frown only deepens. "Spit it out, then." Your patience is wearing thin.

Joshua suddenly fixes his dark eyes on you and you're taken aback by the shift in the room. "Do you want me to say it? Do you want me to get on my knees and beg?"

"I—I have no idea what you're talking about," you say helplessly, pulling on the hem of your dress. There is not enough fucking fabric in the world that would make you feel covered under his stare.

Joshua looks unconvinced. "Are you sure? There's nothing you... need help with?" He's taunting you.

Heat rushes to your face. "If I needed help with something, it certainly would not be from you." You wrench your eyes from his face, suddenly feeling rather small. You're thankful he's far enough away right now— if he came any closer, you certainly would not be able to hold up as well.

Joshua raises an eyebrow. God, you are so tired of this man and his mind games. A sudden burst of irritation replaces the timidity in your voice.

“What is your fucking deal?” you spit, hands balling into fists in frustration. Joshua's little comments have you riled up far more than you care to admit. How could he say that to you? In the middle of working?

To your surprise, Joshua doesn’t snap back like you thought he would. Instead, a cocky smile slides across his lips, and he pins you under his gaze, dark eyes shining with vicious gloating.

“Did you think I wouldn’t notice?” he says, sitting casually on the chair. His easy demeanor has you on edge.

"I—" You falter, put out. “Notice what?”

Joshua pauses for a moment to examine his nails. “The heat quite literally radiating from you.” His eyes slide back to you, lingering on the strap of your dress fallen off your shoulder (and suddenly said heat in your core increases tenfold). Fuck.

This is actually the worst possible thing that could be happening to you right now. Like, literally ever. You seem to be trying to make up for all the confessional you missed over the last couple decades because you shoot a couple more prayers God’s way, hoping for a miracle.

“I don’t— I don’t know what you’re talking about," you say again. You know exactly what he's talking about. All moisture in your mouth vanishes.

Joshua stands, slowly walking towards you. Instinctively, you back away, eyes glued to his face as he approaches. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t completely turned on right now, and you know Joshua can tell. As your back hits the wall, you let out a small gasp.

Joshua is impossibly close— somehow even closer than when you were posing, and you know you’re supposed to hate him, and you know there’s supposed to be some kind of thought process repelling him from you, but the same deep, woody scent of his cologne is clogging your senses and you're finding it extremely difficult to remember exactly what it was that you loathed about his stupidly handsome face.

“What are you doing?” you choke out.

“Don’t play stupid,” Joshua murmurs, eyes roaming unabashedly over your body. The silk dress is pointless as if he could simply see right through the flimsy fabric. "They put you in this. How was I supposed to concentrate?"

“You’re the one being stupid right now,” you shoot back, hoping and praying that you can control the tremor in your voice. Joshua is close enough that you can count the faint blemishes across his skin and see his eyes sizing you up. “Do ever think with anything other than your dick?”

Joshua cocks a perfectly manicured eyebrow. He looks bored. “Sometimes yes.” Suddenly he’s all up on you, boxing you in against the wall in between his arms. Hot breath fans across your face, but you’re frozen. You can’t look away as your heart hammers in your chest. Shit, you can’t stop looking at his chest.

He flashes that same infuriating shit-eating grin. “Other times... no.”

Joshua's sudden change in demeanor is making your head swim, but there's no point in pretending you don't want him anymore.

There's no going back now.

“Fuck, Joshua,” you breathe before crashing your mouth to his, pulling him into a heated embrace. As soon as he looked at you with those ridiculous eyes of his, any and all of your restraint flew out the window.

His hands are on your body, hot and heavy, as they roam your skin, giving away his poorly concealed restraint. By the way he holds you so fiercely, he had clearly been waiting to ravish you. Fingers catch on the hem of your dress but you can't even get yourself to stop him. The thin silky fabric is doing nothing to keep the heat from his body out. It's like you're already naked.

Joshua, ever the show-off, catches your bottom lip in his teeth, coaxing a soft moan from your mouth. He looks smug as he pulls away, delighted at finding one of your weaknesses. You don't have half the mind to play games with him. Your mind is in shambles, and your body might be, too, as he plants his mouth on your neck, nipping at the delicate skin with poorly disguised enjoyment. He clearly likes seeing you squirm. His fingers tangle in your hair. Your knees are weak. Air is already so sparse.

Joshua's fingers dig into your hips. "You're moving too much," he says lowly, the sound vibrating against your jaw. God, when was the last time someone kissed you like this? Your last hook-up had been (quite literally) so dry and so unimaginative that you had sworn off casual sex for a while.

But kissing Joshua... the way he moaned softly into your mouth, tightened his grip on your body, pulled you towards him. Even though you knew how he was romantically, he kissed you like he needed you.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. You fought to keep your eyes open, to see the dark hair brushing against your cheekbones, to map the spots dusting his skin hidden ever so slightly under his makeup, to see how the flush on his skin burned and deepened with every single second you two stayed locked together. But it's taking every ounce of self-control in you not to crumple to the ground that you let your eyes fall closed. You know when to pick and choose your battles.

Except that then he pushes a knee between your legs and there's already so little fabric between you and this man that you freeze. Your eyes fly back open. Joshua boldly presses his thigh up against your body, right against the ache building in your core. You bite down on your lip to stifle the pitiful little sounds trying to escape from your mouth, refusing to give in to Joshua that easily. He shifts his knee, the fabric of your panties catching on his pantleg. You swallow a quiet moan.

You are suddenly very aware of how... hot you actually are. Joshua breaks away from the kiss, a lewd string of spit connecting your mouths together. Your arousal has spread to your chest, and you think you might faint.

"Oh dear," Joshua murmurs, as one hand trails down your waist and over your thigh. His eyes seem to dismantle the last of your composure the longer they rake across your bare skin. You let out a shaky breath as he wraps a hand around your thigh, drawing it up near his hip with startling swiftness. Your heart is thumping so wildly that you're amazed you can even hear him over it at all.

"You doing okay?" He smiles wickedly.

It’s all you can do to gape stupidly at him, the words dying in your throat before they're even fully formed. It's infuriating how Joshua is able to so easily render you speechless. Every word that falls from his cruel mouth is just another reason not to sleep with him, but the taunts just sound so damn pretty that there's little stopping you from fucking him right here, right now.

Except that you're at work. On a lunch break. Hooking up with your enemy. His nails bite into your skin.

Joshua smirks with some sort of sick amusement. "You were so talkative... what happened?" He asks, leaning in until his lips are mere centimeters from yours. You want to kick yourself for how badly you want him. How badly your body needs him.

You open your mouth to retort when he catches your lips in another searing kiss, this time with more tongue than teeth. You spineless sucker! The last of your dignity is just barely hanging on by a thread. Joshua kisses you fiercely, even groaning slightly as he kneads your thigh with his fingers. You’re about to completely lose your head.

"Joshua," you moan quietly, hands clumsily tugging his shirt off his shoulders. (Thankfully half the work had already been done for you.) He hardly breaks the kiss before tossing the shirt somewhere in the room with impatience. "They're gonna come back s-soon." Oh, but you can't even get yourself to care.

Not with the way his hands grip your ass, not with the way his mouth keeps leaving dirty little surprises across your skin. God, you're going to hell.

“Let them find us,” he pants before lifting you into the air, arms holding you up by your thighs. You barely even register where he’s taking you until you roughly hit the mattress with a loud huff! of air. The pillows are just as soft as you had imagined.

Joshua stands over you, shamelessly drinking in your body. You feel a little silly, like a doll splayed across the bed.

Joshua licks his lips. “You are simply wearing too many layers, my dear.” You’re pleased to hear a rasp in his voice that hadn’t been there before.

“And what are you going to do about it?” you ask him, tipping your chin back in challenge. The heat is positively radiating through your body, pulsing so strongly you’re amazed he hasn’t made another comment. The tension is so palpable that it’s become a game of who’s going to snap first.

And lucky for you, Joshua takes the bait without a second thought.

He mashes his mouth back to yours, roughly pushing the straps of your silly little dress off your shoulders and down your hips, fully exposing your décolletage. Joshua plants his mouth on your throat, sucking less-than-delicate hickies along the line of your collarbones; barely waiting for the contusions to bloom before he’s nipping at them again. The carelessness of his teeth, the crude sensuality of his touches— it’s enough to strip you down into a writhing mess beneath him.

Barely a second passes after Joshua decides he’s done marking your neck that he suddenly licks a messy line up your chest, attaching his mouth to one of your nipples and slurping with obscene moans. Oh my God, was he trying to kill you?! Your mouth falls open in surprise, fingers gripping the sheets as you writhe underneath him.

“Joshua—“ you start to say but he just laughs, cutting you off. It's not a sound of comfort, but derision.

“We’ve barely done anything, and already my name seems to be stuck on your tongue,” he remarks, sitting back to admire his handiwork. This man truly is shameless with the way he looks at your body with pride. Covering up the clusterfuck of bites across your chest is going to be no easy feat.

Your tongue seems to be stuck in your mouth. Truly you can’t even form words. And what’s even worse is that he’s right, because the most you’ve done is make out for a while. Oh God, he’s going to absolutely ruin you.

His tongue trails down your stomach, leaving a few kisses here and there, stopping right above the waistband of your underwear. Joshua smirks, as his fingers brush over your panties. They're completely soaked and the embarrassment has you hiding your face in your hands.

"All for me?" he asks, before pressing a few kisses along the inside of your thigh. His hair tickles your skin as his fingers playfully pull aside your panties.

"Don't flatter yourself," you say, breathlessly. Joshua simply hums in response, his fingers dangerously close to your crotch.

He draws himself up, leaning over you. A few dark strands of hair fall in his eyes.

"Can I?" he whispers, just above your mouth. You simply nod, afraid of the things that will come out of your mouth if you speak.

And then he's pressing two long fingers into you, watching with rapt attention as you toss your head back in pleasure, stuffing your hand in your mouth to stifle the sounds threatening to spill out. His fingers curl in that wicked "come here" motion that has you winded, clutching the sheets, squeezing your eyes shut. The longer you clench down on your jaw, the more difficult Joshua seems to be making it, scissoring and twisting his fingers until you think you might just scream. You're in a fucking studio for God's sake, but Joshua seems hellbent on breaking you as he pushes his fingers even deeper, to the knuckle, inside you. The icy cold metal of his rings presses against your skin, boiling hot.

Joshua smirks as he toys with you, even leaning over to recapture one of your nipples in his teeth.

"Joshua—mmph," you moan, and Joshua actually places a hand over your mouth, smiling condescendingly.

"If you're too loud I won't keep going," he says, as you roll your eyes. Didn't he know you were doing your best? It's not your fault his fingers are stuffed in your pussy and he expects you to stay silent. Plus there's something kind of thrilling about hooking up in such a public space. But when you don't respond, he stills his hand, leaving you clenching around his fingers desperately.

So you nod, eyes fluttering shut as he begins pumping his fingers in and out of you again, each time a little bit faster. Joshua's hand explores all parts of you while his mouth explores your neck, never leaving you a moment to breathe. There's something about the way he moves his fingers that has you curving your back into him, fingers weaving into the hair on the nape of his neck as if to pull him into a desperate embrace. But Joshua turns his head before you can kiss him, instead paralyzing you under a disapproving glare.

"I told you to stop moving, didn't I?" he says with mock sympathy, pressing a large hand against your pelvis to pin you to the bed. The pressure on your stomach only further increases your arousal, and you hold back a groan as Joshua attaches his mouth to the pulse point in your neck.

It only takes a few more measly minutes before you're falling apart, fingers digging into Joshua's arms as he brings you over the edge. Warmth pulses through your body and you flop back onto the bed, completely speechless.

Joshua looks satisfied at your dazed expression as he slowly drags his fingers out of you. You watch as he places them on his tongue, messily licking your arousal from his hand, never once taking his eyes off of you. Fuck.

"Turn around and get on your knees," Joshua then orders, sitting back to watch you scramble to kneel, feeling a little stupid. You're not sure what he's going to do when you feel his large hand on the back of your head, shoving you facedown onto the mattress. You let out a choked whine as Joshua lands a firm smack against your ass, and then another, and then another. Each one leaves your skin red and stinging and a little tender, and by the time he's done your eyes are watering. You refuse to look at Joshua—you don't want him to see you crying.

But still, he says nothing, and for a stupid moment, you wonder if he’s done with you. You're a little disappointed until you hear the sound of a belt buckle clinking and clothing being tossed. You turn to look, but Joshua forces your head against the mattress again, yanking a little on your hair as he pulls away.

"Do you still wanna to do this?" is all Joshua asks.

Well, you're currently laying ass-up in the middle of a prop bed, waiting for him to shove his fat cock into you until you scream like a worthless slut.

Truly, there was no recovery from this.

So you breathe out a strangled "Yes," before Joshua is pushing his cock into you without hesitation, and the work of his fingers certainly helped a little bit, but you weren't expecting him to be so...well-endowed.

You shove your face into the pillow, smothering the loud moan that falls from your lips as Joshua slowly, slowly thrusts into you. His hold on your waist is bruising, and with your face hidden from view, you miss the way his head tips back in ecstasy.

Not that Joshua would ever let you know the effect you had on him— the sight of your needy body giving in to his every move, the cloying scent of your perfume just as intoxicating as your dripping cunt. You drive him absolutely wild.

Joshua’s voice is strained. “Fuck, you’re so tight,” he grunts, bending forward to grab one of your shoulders as he thrusts his cock in a few more inches. Joshua has a way of melting you with every touch, like he knows your body better than you ever could. You let out another weak sob, your face buried into the silk of the sheets. He can not see how irrevocably aroused you are by him and his words and his vicious tongue.

“There’s no shame in crying,” Joshua chides the longer you hide your face, but you feel the smugness in every word suffocating you until you could cry from your pent-up sexual frustration.

"I'm not crying," you spit back, screwing up your face as he pushes even deeper into you. “I don’t— I don’t cry.”

You imagine he’s smiling with that same fake sympathy as he watches your body shake, and the image of Joshua taking you from behind is enough for you let out another particularly strangled cry. But before the mortification even has time to settle in your chest, Joshua sinks the rest of his cock into you, bottoming out in one smooth motion. He lets out a string of expletives under his breath, fingers digging into your hips like he’s holding onto his last thread of reality. Secretly you’re pleased you have such an effect on him.

“Jesus, would you relax?” Joshua mutters with exasperation, as your cunt clenches around him tightly. You try to tell him it’s not really your fault, but before you can answer, he deals a particularly harsh spank to your ass that knocks the air out of your lungs.

Thankfully he gives you a brief moment, even if it’s just a breadth of a second to adjust before he’s drawing his hips back and thrusting forward with brutal efficiency. You smother your face into the covers, muffling your sounds of deep satisfaction with the comforter.

Clearly, Joshua has done this before, because he fishes for one of the pillows, lifting your hips to shove it under your pelvis before snapping his hips back again, slowly building speed until he’s just shy of pounding you into oblivion. Every so often Joshua’s cock brushes against that spot, leaving your cunt clenching involuntarily, and you have to bite down to keep your pitiful whines from escaping. Just to tease you even more, he leans forward to leave harsh bites across your shoulders, all the while murmuring how good you look from behind. The sound of skin slapping against skin mixed with the sound of Joshua’s shallow breath is erotic, and it makes your head positively swim.

“Fuck!” you whimper as Joshua continues to rail you without mercy, the brutal steady pace of each stroke bringing you closer and closer to your release. The pleasure is reaching white-hot status, pulsing in your stomach and slowly spilling into the rest of your body. It takes everything in you not to cry out in frustration as Joshua suddenly slows, just shy of stopping completely. He wraps an arm around your waist, hand flush against your stomach as he leans his weight against your back.

“Now, you know that’s not my name,” Joshua simpers, breath hot against your ear. He shallowly rocks his hips, coaxing a few more weak babbles from your lips. “Try again.” He brushes a loose strand of hair out of your eyes, and the motion would be tender if he wasn’t oozing sordid satisfaction at seeing you all hot and bothered by him.

“J-Joshua,” you beg, clawing at the sheets. And then humiliation blooms in your chest at how quickly you act to please him, but there’s something so sadistically fulfilling about being abused by this man that you can’t even get yourself to care. You’re fucking your enemy in broad daylight in a studio of Vogue. Really, there's little left for you at this point.

"That's right," he whispers.

You let out a particularly drawn-out groan of pleasure as he snaps his hips quickly, bringing the pace back to the same mind-blowing rhythm as before, arching your spine until you feel like you might snap. Joshua’s fingers in your hair tug your head back as he whispers vile sweet nothings into your ear. The messy symphony of sounds echoing throughout the room is just shy of pornographic. You clutch the sheets tightly in your fingers as your head tips forward in pleasure. Every muscle in your body is taut as your orgasm builds every second.

As your eyes flutter shut in anticipation, you start to say, “I’m gonna—!”

Except, of course, Joshua won't let you off that easy.

Just as you think you're about to reach your climax, he stills his hips for an agonizing second, rocking them slowly, slowly, slowly into you. Your release fades just as quickly as it appeared, and now your whole body is uncomfortably sensitive. This time you do groan in frustration, stuffing your face in one of the pillows again.

"Fuck you," you curse, but it's weak and hardly venomous. Your head is cloudy and full of fluff and in your pitiful state, it's the best you can manage. Joshua merely seems amused by your distress, fingers petting your head again as if to comfort you. You take a moment, breathing through the burn of arousal through your entire body.

Then Joshua snakes an arm around your throat, yanking you against his chest in one smooth motion. Your moans come out as choked whines, fingers digging into the firm flesh of his forearm in deep ecstasy. You feel Joshua smile against your ear, before his free hand creeps down to finally touch your aching clit, his fingers just barely grazing your skin. This bastard.

"Aren't you?" he mutters in your ear, landing a firm smack on your cunt and you gasp, jerking forward as much as you can while being restrained. The ache in your body is unbearable; you don't know how much more you can take.

Joshua presses a few digits against your lips, coaxing your mouth open, and unceremoniously forces his fingers in without a second thought. He presses down roughly on your tongue, massaging a few circles with the pads of his fingers. You whimper again, but the words won’t come out.

“Use your words,” he murmurs, and you can practically feel the arrogance dripping from his voice. “I can’t do anything unless you tell me.”

Evil, evil, evil man. You can’t even form syllables with his fingers shoved so far down your throat, and you’re half tempted to bite them off. But then Joshua ruts into you again, drawing a low groan from your throat as you fight to keep your composure. His chest is scalding hot against your back, electricity zipping up and down your spine every time you feel your bodies move and shift against each other.

God, you feel as if you could unravel right here. You’re half-tempted to plead to Joshua (once he finally takes his fingers out of your mouth) that he could do what he wanted with you, but the half-cognizant portion of your brain quietly reminds you that you need to be able to walk later.

Plus, you have a sneaking suspicion he'll do just that anyway.

Joshua withdraws his fingers from your mouth and you choke for air, drool dribbling from your lips. He hardly lets you catch your breath before brazenly spitting on his already-soaked fingers, lowering his hand to rub cruel circles against your painfully tender clit. He’s barely touched you before you feel your climax re-building. Your body acts before you do, succumbing to Joshua like a wretched woman starved.

“So touchy…,” he muses, as he continues to play with your clit, even tweaking occasionally to watch you writhe under him. Your stomach spasms as you gasp, digging your nails into Joshua’s thighs. You snake a hand up his neck, twisting your fingers in his thick, dark locks.

The words never even make it out of your mouth before Joshua draws his fingers away, jerking you roughly up by your hair.

“Flip over,” Joshua says tersely, watching with amusement as you ungracefully slide off of his cock to lay on your back. You’re embarrassed by how needy and clumsy you’ve become. Joshua is criminally good as what he does, and your body is craving that final release; if he so much as looked at you a certain way you swear you might come untouched.

Joshua spits on his hand again and pumps his cock a few times, eyes roaming over your body again, mapping the contusions blooming across your skin. His ego truly is through the roof, and if you weren't such a pathetic, wanton beast right now, you might even make fun of him for it. Dimly, you hope he’s going to shove his cock back in you and pound you into the mattress until you both come and that’d be the end of it. Problem solved! We can all go home now.

Well… you were half right.

You weren't prepared for Joshua to press on the backs of your thighs until your knees were by your ears, crudely spreading your legs wider for him. He smiles up at you, smacking his cock against your cunt a few times and you choke, each lewd slap driving you nearer to the edge of madness. Joshua leans up against you until his face is inches away and presses a languid kiss to your lips. If you weren’t fearing for your sanity, it might’ve been a tender moment.

“I’m gonna fuck you until you scream,” Joshua says, without decorum, calmly watching as your face falls. "And you're going to take it."

And he’s nothing if not a man of his word.

Joshua fucks you into the mattress until you’re a snotty, disgusting mess, moaning his name like some kind of fucked-up mantra. You know you’re supposed to hate his guts, but when he’s so deep in your guts, you can’t seem to think about anything except the way his cock slams into you, brutal and unrelenting, bringing you the closest you think you’ve ever come to seeing Heaven.

In the time after you leave, you’ll faintly remember being fucked in one way, coming, being contorted into another degrading position, and promptly being fucked again. For more times than you can count, Joshua has you pleading, crying, begging like some insatiable harlot to let you come, and you don’t even have enough dignity left intact to care.

“Please,” you practically sob, “Joshua, please.” You’re a complete trainwreck under him, uttering his name over and over like some kind of filthy disciple. True to his word, he has you close to tears, practically pleading for his cock to ruin you— and it has.

Joshua braces himself on your thighs until his fingers leave marks, each stroke of his cock feeling even deeper than the last. After what feels like the umpteenth time, you don’t know if you can take any more denial, and he must sense it in the way you're scrabbling for his hand because Joshua finally relents.

You let out the loudest, most unbridled cry yet as pleasure rushes through your body, tingling in your toes, your fingers, your stomach. It scrubs your brain of all thought, wiping the last of your hatred from your consciousness. The intensity of your release leaves you heaving, clenching around his cock until you can't breathe. Caught in the throes of pleasure, you don't see the way Joshua's brow knits together the more you whimper his name, the tighter you grip his forearm. As the very last of your orgasm ebbs, you collapse in relief, feeling woozy and deeply satisfied.

Joshua continues to languidly pump his cock in and out of you while you ride out your high, a few residual whimpers falling from your lips. But with a simple touch from your fingers, he stills, the beginning pangs of overstimulation setting in. Your head feels like it's filled with cotton.

Then you realize Joshua is still painfully hard, struggling to stay present. His hips stutter as he gives a half-hearted thrust, his mouth falling open lazily. Now it’s your turn to smile— little does he know, he’s put himself completely at your mercy. You clench around him a few times, watching with poorly disguised glee as his eyes flutter closed, his breath coming in short, shallow pants.

“Should we deal with this like adults?” you ask as innocently as possible, smiling as Joshua nods desperately, the words lodged in his throat. His Adam's apple bobs up and down as he swallows thickly. Oh, how quickly the tables have turned.

You pull yourself off of his cock slowly, hissing at the tenderness of your cunt. Instead of kneeling, however, you push Joshua onto his back, scarcely giving him a moment before taking him in your mouth.

His cock is still rock hard, and Joshua tilts his head back with a throaty sigh as you moan around his length. His fingers curl into your hair and he pushes on your head, pressing your mouth down until you’re gagging around the base of his cock. Now he’s the one letting out breathy moans as you swirl your tongue around the head, cheeks hollowed, hand twisting up and down in tandem with your tongue. After everything the two of you had done, you know it won’t take long to tip him over the edge.

“Fuck, y/n,” he groans, and as his abdomen tightens in anticipation, you know he’s close. With one last vulgar slurp, Joshua comes hot in your mouth, cursing under his breath as his fingers tense in your hair. You freeze, letting Joshua come down from his high, and as he raises his head to look at you, you smile coyly.

With a soft “pop!” you pull your mouth off his cock, swallowing as you do, letting the self-satisfied smirk spread on your lips. You can't even imagine how indecent you look, with your eyeshadow and mascara smeared ungracefully around your eyes, lips shiny with spit and cum, but there's something in the way Joshua looks at you that has you reeling with delight.

“Christ,” is all Joshua manages to say before pulling you by the back of the head into a searing kiss. It’s a strangely intimate embrace considering all of the filthy words and insults he had hurled at you a few brief moments before, but considering he had also given you the best orgasm of your life, you choose not to dwell too much on it.

When you break away, you feel a little light-headed. Joshua gives your ass a light smack, but it lacks the same aggression as before. He notices a stray dribble of cum on your chin, and collects it on his pointer finger, pushing it between your lips. You swirl your tongue around it, watching as his eyes burn. He pulls his finger from your mouth, resting his hand on your thigh instead.

"You look… crazy," Joshua says, fighting a smile. You catch sight of yourself in a mirror on the make-up table and let out a bark of laughter.

“Crazy” is the understatement of the year. You look fucked out of your mind. Your hair is knotted beyond belief, there's a jumble of bruises all across your chest, and there's no convincing excuse as to why your makeup would be completely streaked across your face. You hide your face in one of the pillows again, letting out a feeble groan.

"I'm gonna get fired, and it's all your fault," you moan, hiccuping into the soft silk of the pillowcase. Joshua presses a gentle kiss to your shoulder, surprisingly kind, and chuckles.

"Well, lucky for you, I happen to know a thing or two about make-up.” He slides easily off the bed, pulling his pants back on before padding softly over to the make-up table. Joshua grabs a few brushes and bottles, joining you again on the bed, tugging you gently into a sitting position.

As he covers your ruined eye shadow, you wince a little, a dull twinge reminding you of the ache in your ass cheeks. To be honest, most of your body was a little sore, all thanks to Joshua. You laugh softly.

"Sorry," he mumbles, "I got a little carried away."

“Was that ‘dealing with it like adults?’” you ask mockingly, shutting your eye as Joshua lifts the eyeshadow brush. The soft hairs dance across your eyelid as he works. Joshua's skin still smells like it did all those years ago. Warm and citrusy.

You can’t see him, but you hear the smirk in his voice. “I guess so.”

“Well, for the record, you definitely were the one being childish.” You make a sound of surprise as you feel a pair of lips against your own, fierce and hot. His teeth drag at your bottom lip as he pulls away, and you are unsuccessful at stifling the soft hiccup that escapes your throat.

“Who was the one crying just a little bit ago?” Joshua challenges you, and when you open your eyes, he’s sitting in front of you, nose just inches from your own. “Didn’t you say you don’t usually cry?”

You open your mouth, ready to shoot back a bitchy little return when you see the smirk playing on Joshua’s lips. He’s goading you on.

“That’s not fair and you know it,” you respond instead, hoping you seem nonchalant enough. (Or, at least, as much as you can be while you’re still butt-ass naked.)

Joshua laughs, and the sound is surprisingly stunning. “Since when have I ever been fair?” He hands you your little silk dress and your thong from the floor, and it almost feels silly to be putting it back on, the delicate fabric still hardly covering anything at all.

But he pouts, toying with one of the straps in between his fingers. “I’m almost sad to see you put this back on. You look so pretty all fucked up underneath me.” He gently tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear, eyes sparkling mischievously, and you would be lying if you said your heart didn’t jump into your throat.

You scoff, eyebrows rising on your forehead. “You’ll be lucky if you see me like that again after last time.”

He frowns, his smile sinking. “Yeah…,” Joshua scratches the back of his neck sheepishly. “I— I’m sorry about that. I don’t know what I was thinking—"

“It was horrible,” you interrupt. "And this," you say, gesturing to the bed, "doesn't erase that."

But Joshua does look apologetic and it was long enough ago that you’re not that mad anymore. At least, in your post-coital bliss you certainly aren’t.

Joshua sits on the bed again, grabbing your hand in his. “Come home with me. I’ll make it up to you.” He presses a tentative kiss to your cheek for extra measure.

You fight a smile, forcing yourself to frown instead. “Only if I don’t lose my job, and only if you help me cover these fucking hickies you gave me.”

Joshua smiles, and he looks so different from the Joshua you met a couple hours ago that you can’t help but smile, too.

When the crew comes back in the room, you try desperately to act as if nothing had happened, but every time Joshua looks at you, you have to suppress the girlish smile playing on your lips. The marks across your chest had been haphazardly covered with foundation, and the hair team looks bewildered as they assess the birds' nest on your head.

"What the hell did you do on your lunch break?" the stylist asks as she attacks the knots with a comb.

It takes everything in you to avoid Joshua's eye. You clap a hand to your mouth a second too late as an ugly snort bursts past your lips, and you freeze, eyes wide. Joshua grins broadly, and you turn your head, fanning your bright red face.

Later that night, as you watch Joshua’s sleeping figure in the soft moonlight, you wonder how you managed to find yourself in his bed again, and when he kisses you good morning the next day, you’re sure it won’t be the last time.

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a/n: i have never publically shared any smut before so any feedback would be greatly appreciated!! :,) thank u for reading bae can't wait to share my next one <333

check out my other stuff! :)

#kpop #kpop imagines #seventeen #svt #seventeen smut #svt smut #svt x reader #svt imagines #joshua hong #joshua smut #hong jisoo

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eegasleega-will-change-this-l8r · 5 months

Text

-OUR FOUNDER-

⚙ THE CHAIRMAN ⚙ OF COGS INCORPORATED EST. 2003 ---------------------------------

So I've never talked about this on here before, but Toontown was one of my absolute FAVORITE games as a kid (despite never having membership so being locked out of 99% of the actual game jlkjfsakj) Like it was absolutely formative for me, I drew the cogs a bajillion times and they inspired a ton of my own stuff later on (and still absolutely do) Then the game closed and Rewritten came out so I could actually play the whole game for the first time (haven't gotten anywhere close to getting to the end though) To this day I have an on again off again interest where once or twice a year I'll suddenly get absolutely smitten with it again haha

So, if you're also into Toontown, you'll obviously be familiar with the mysterious, unseen overarching villain The Chairman This is my own take on his design that I came up with a few years back ^^

We don't have much to go off of from the original game for what the Chairman might've been like, so I had a couple of different inspirations

Obviously the giant head in the Sellbot Factory, since those old Chairman pics with that head pasted onto a cog body were absolutely what I was most exposed to as a kid, but it's also not a 1:1 lift

In some of my earliest sketches trying to come up with the ideal design I tried making him look like he had the giant robot from the old installer video underneath his suit, so he had like lanky, cartoonish proportions, toonier hands, etc It looked really bad though and I couldn't do what I wanted with the head since it would've had to fit over the shorter, wider robot head, so I just ended up scrapping it (i do take some inspiration from the video for my vision of Toontown's story, but i've just scrapped the robot entirely) Oh I also gave him the eyes from the Field Office since I thought that could be neat, but it looked out of place so I simplified them to what he has now (they're still stylistically similar to the eyes on regular cog buildings, so i don't think i'm really losing any of the meaning behind them at least)

By far the biggest inspiration was when the FY11 plans got released

Holy FUDGE did this blow my mind when I saw it for the first time All those years as a kid of the Chairman not even being ACKNOWLEDGED except by the CEO's final words and a couple odd references in obscure magazines and whatever Desperately speculating and grasping onto all those tiny pieces of some mysterious, horrifically evil entity behind everything And then this??? This awesome, ominous silhouette?? Plans for something huge??? Seeing it is what drove me to go and draw him in the first place, it still gives me chills just looking at it

So yeah, I wanted mine to have that same aura of cold evil, that striking silhouette, while also having a bit more character to him Like most cogs are frozen in the same screwed up scowl, where there's not much room for expression If I could, like, make an actual model for him, I'd want him to have the same sort of capacity for different expressions as the toons have (even some you wouldn't expect from the head of the cogs)

He's ruthless, calculating, doing everything he can to maximize the profits and efficiency of Cogs Inc and expand their operations to the entirety of Toontown, with no regard for ethical business practices or the wishes of the people he plans to subjugate (But does it work? Is he happy?)

I'm absolutely gonna do an analysis of the cogs as a whole at some point (as long as my interest doesn't plummet for a little while longer), there's a ton of stuff I wanna get into about my interpretation of them as villains because oh my god I love them so much

OTHER STUFF - He's not as massive as the other boss cogs, but he's still absolutely huge (iirc the highest level cogs are all canonically like 8ft?? and he's got a LOT of height on them) - He's drinking oil in the pencil drawing - I happened to watch this video where one guy talked about the way the villain in Tarzan held a glass of wine and how it left a huge impression on him, so I just arbitrarily decided to emulate it in my drawing XD - Oh yeah a big reason for the main drawing in the post was that I really felt like I was getting too attached to a single style in my digital stuff (literally just using the same default pen tool for everything, never changing the size), so I wanted to force myself to try something new - I drew the frame myself, just kinda winged it so it's. not as good as it could be but it works fine I think

#toontown #cogs #the chairman #emilyart #emilyramblings #uhh so this is a pretty big departure from my usual MOTHER stuff #hope it's not too offputting #i've got a really cute porky thing i've been working on but i'm struggling with one of the poses ><#will be done soon hopefully #oh yeah so i've played a lot of rewritten which is definitely my favorite toontown thing #captures the old feel that i love while wayyy surpassing the original #and they really nailed the new cog designs they revealed a while ago office clerk my beloved #AND THAT CHAIRMAN TEASER FROM THE FIELD OFFICE UPDATE OFJOEIWJK #i love what clash brings to the table and how much it's gone above and beyond to create a whole new experience but it's not really my thing #totally different chairman interpretation from what i'm used to but man he's hilarious #i'll dig up some of my original sketches for the chairman at some point it'd be fun to see that process

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david-talks-sw · 2 years

Text

Doylist outlook on the Anakin & Council scenes during "The Phantom Menace"

About 4 years ago, I'm talking to an older friend of mine who grew up with the Original Trilogy.

He tells me that one of the disappointments of the Prequels, for him, is that the Jedi Knights had been built as these "Knights of the Round Table" and, instead, what his generation got was "monks who'll pick on a 9-year-old for being afraid".

Which makes sense in a story about their corruption and downfall, but he'd have preferred to root for them, see them in their heyday.

And, like, I agreed.

I didn't necessarily feel they were picking on him when I watched the scene as a child, my takeaway from that scene was the "fear leads to anger" part. But when I was thinking back on it as an adult, what my friend said seemed to track, and it was in-line with the "Jedi are corrupt" prism through which a lot of people see the Prequels, 2018-me included.

But nowadays - having read a whole bunch of George Lucas quotes and rewatched the scene - I don't think that it's meant to be perceived that way.

I've briefly touched on this last year, but if we look at this scene from a Doylian perspective, rather than a Watsonian one, it's clear to me that the point of this scene is three-fold.

1) Moving the story along, making sure Anakin is present in the third act.

"This was a little tricky, when writing the script, in that I didn’t want Anakin to become a Jedi yet, cuz I’m saving that for the end of the movie. But at the same time I still had to have him tag along. (laughs) And I was able to use, really, the device of the fact that Anakin had been put in Qui-Gon’s care and that he had promised his mother that he would take care of him as a way of allowing him to take the boy along with him on this trek… to the next third of the movie. But one of the difficulties of writing a script with lots and lots of characters is rationalize why everybody’s along." - The Phantom Menace, Director’s Commentary, 1999

This one's pretty simple to follow.

We need Anakin in the third act so he can blow up the big ship at the end. So the Council doesn't take Anakin in, but let's Qui-Gon keep him as a ward until a more definitive decision can be made.

2) Foreshadowing Anakin's inevitable downfall.

"We have the little testing scene which is really designed to allow him to be accepted as a Jedi, eventually. Because he has the powers… but as Yoda points out, there’s a lot of fear in him, and anger. That’s why they actually deny him the chance to become a Jedi. But it’s also - when they relent later on - it’s the thing that ultimately begins to describe some of his downfall". - The Phantom Menace, Commentary Track #2, 1999

Also straightforward. Anakin will become Vader, so let's hint at this.

The Jedi are clairvoyant wizards, they see all the red flags but must also admit that his future is clouded. In doubt, they'd rather err on the side of caution and not train him.

As George explained in Cut Magazine, in 1999, both the Council's prediction and Qui-Gon's decision are ultimately correct and wrong; Darth Vader does plunge the galaxy in darkness, but he will also bring back balance to the Force.

3) Illustrating the Jedi's principles by injecting his own values into their teachings.

"Ideas don't come into a story that easily. A lot of the time the characters have to say what you mean, and to do that the characters usually have to have differing opinions about the idea so they can discuss it." - (collected in The Star Wars Archives: 1999-2005), 1996

This is where things get tricky. What did George mean?

Well, there's plenty of quotes where he says Jedi can feel emotions, namely love... what does he say about fear, specifically?

Okay, so that sounds a helluva lot like what Yoda says. Or rather, Yoda sounds a helluva lot like George.

If we go by the idea that the Jedi are, "dunking on Anakin and chastising him for being afraid because they've lost their way and now repress their emotions"... then it's inconsistent with what George Lucas was saying in the above quotes, because he clearly agrees with Yoda and uses the character as a vector to get his own ideas across.

It'd also wouldn't track with what we see in The Gathering, during The Clone Wars, in which we see that to gain their kyber crystal, a Jedi must overcome their weaknesses - including facing their fears.

So either George wanted us to think the Jedi Council collectively decided, on that specific day, to say "to hell with everything we stand for: fuck this kid in particular, just because"... or that's not how we're meant to read the scene.

I'd say the only reading that is consistent with everything George said is the following:

Anakin is afraid, he misses his mom. Which is normal.

The Jedi sense this and ask him how he feels, hoping he'll have the sense of admitting to this feeling (first step towards solving a problem is acknowledging there is one).

Anakin refuses to admit he's afraid, even after they explain that they know he is. He doesn't see what him being afraid has to do with anything.

Yoda explains the dangers of unchecked fear. If you don’t address or overcome it, it'll eventually lead to suffering and the Dark Side.

So Anakin being afraid isn’t the issue in itself, it’s that he won’t even acknowledge that that fear is there. Which, again, is completely normal, but a Jedi is supposed to be above that... and Anakin's age makes it so that he'll have a hard time learning this.

Hence why they initially decide he won't be trained.

So Lucas was clearly going for a classic Yoda moment, like "do or do not" in Empire Strikes Back… but to most people, the way the scene is written makes the Council seems cold, unfeeling, and dunking on a 9-year-old and makes Qui-Gon look like the reasonable one.

Could George have conveyed his intent more clearly?

Now, another writer might have decided to illustrate this philosophical lesson about unchecked fear differently, in a way that makes the Jedi seem kinder, less detached and more relatable. Lucas will be the first to admit that he’s not that writer.

"I'd be the first person to say I can't write dialogue. My dialogue is very utilitarian and is designed to move things forward. I'm not Shakespeare. It's not designed to be poetic. It's not designed to have a clever turn of phrase. [...] Dialogue isn't my strength. I use it as a device. I don't particularly like dialogue which is part of the problem." - EMPIRE, 1999

He writes dialog that takes you from point A to point B. The bottom line is Anakin's got too much fear and that he's too old? He'll stick to that bottom line.

It also doesn't help that, well, we're only shown Anakin as a sweet child, without being shown the traits that make the Council go "hmmm maybe not".

Like, the more explicit way would be to show the Council having a vision of death and destruction and Anakin standing in the middle of it... but you wouldn't even need to go that far.

Originally the scene went on for just a tad longer, with the Council prodding Anakin more and the latter screaming "I'M NOT AFRAID!" in anger.

Thus proving Yoda's point, that there's some unchecked fear and anger in him which - due to his age - will be difficult for him to master.

This was cut from the final movie, but was kept in printed editions of the script and the novelizations.

Interestingly, there was also this other deleted scene, where Anakin gets in a fight with a young Greedo, after the latter accused him of cheating at the Boonta Eve race.

According to this commentary, the scene was cut (to Rick McCallum's dismay) because George felt that - while it showed Anakin had a temper - it didn't really establish his character one way or the other, in the scope of The Phantom Menace.

And therein lies the issue, right?

George isn't building a cinematic universe, he's not making a TV series: he's making 3 movies, each about 2 hours long.

There's a short amount of time and a looot of stuff he'd like to say about how a good kid becomes a bad man and how a democracy becomes a dictatorship, and all the other subplots regarding symbiosis etc... that's a lot of things for a movie.

So when he's structuring how the Prequels explore the first theme, it's done as such:

First movie: Show Anakin was a sweet kid, hint at his fear.

Second movie: Show Anakin's other flaws, his love for Padmé & Shmi's death, which will eventually increase his fear and mark the first step toward his fall to the Dark Side.

Third movie: Anakin's fear of losing Padmé causes his fall.

And that's it. Nothing happens outside these movies.

A project with a larger scope (or one that only focused on Anakin's rise and fall) might've explored how Anakin felt growing up in the Temple alongside other already-trained Jedi, his trauma from his days as a slave, his anger issues, whether he ever asked the Jedi to go back and rescue his Mom, more details on his friendship with Obi-Wan, how Palpatine manipulated him from day one...

In that project, you'd put those deleted scenes and lines back in.

But this ain't that project. This is the space equivalent of a fairy tale.

So, to Lucas, none of the above factor into the story about Anakin's downfall, by virtue of not being in the movies.

Which makes it unrealistic to a majority of viewers. But George (indie experimental filmmaker with a vision) had a very specific thesis he was going for:

So at some point we're left with two choices.

1. "Death of the Author"

If George's thesis wasn't conveyed clearly enough, or executed well enough and what you saw killed your suspension of disbelief, or if you plainly disagree with George's view on fear... then obviously, go to town with heacanons, go with the "Jedi are dunking on Anakin 'cause they lost their way" interpretation.

Sure, it's not what George Lucas was going for, but as my friend who I mentioned at the start said to me more recently: "Who cares? Either the Jedi are intentionally meant to be seen as arrogant, emotionless a-holes, or the Prequels are bad movies."

Which I disagree with, but hey :D

2. Seeing the scene the way it was originally intended.

This is the one I'm going with. If you still like George's thesis and see it clearly when you watch the Prequels, then great.

In that moment, Qui-Gon - while ultimately correct about Anakin being the Chosen One - is being rash and trying to force Anakin in a mold the Council and Obi-Wan know he'll struggle to fit in. In that moment, they're in the right, he's in the wrong, and Anakin is caught in the middle. And that's pretty much it.

In the end, the most important part of that whole scene is the message "fear leads to anger, hate and suffering". And these are movies for kids. And as a kid... I got the message.

So the scene did its job with high scores, as far as I'm concerned.

#I already touched on this scene before a couple of times so I thought I'd put all my thoughts in one post #jedi #attachment #anakin #george lucas #sw meta #bts tidbits #star wars #tpm #the phantom menace #jedi order #meta #anakin skywalker #long post #this has been in my drafts for months ffs #need to find the time to complete this stuff

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bellafemme · 9 months

Text

The letter Sinead wrote to Miley Cyrus.

'Dear Miley,

I wasn't going to write this letter, but today i've been dodging phone calls from various newspapers who wished me to remark upon your having said in Rolling Stone your Wrecking Ball video was designed to be similar to the one for Nothing Compares … So this is what I need to say … And it is said in the spirit of motherliness and with love.

I am extremely concerned for you that those around you have led you to believe, or encouraged you in your own belief, that it is in any way 'cool' to be naked and licking sledgehammers in your videos. It is in fact the case that you will obscure your talent by allowing yourself to be pimped, whether its the music business or yourself doing the pimping.

Nothing but harm will come in the long run, from allowing yourself to be exploited, and it is absolutely NOT in ANY way an empowerment of yourself or any other young women, for you to send across the message that you are to be valued (even by you) more for your xesual appeal than your obvious talent.I am happy to hear I am somewhat of a role model for you and I hope that because of that you will pay close attention to what I am telling you.

The music business doesn't give a s**t about you, or any of us. They will prostitute you for all you are worth, and cleverly make you think its what YOU wanted … and when you end up in rehab as a result of being prostituted, 'they' will be sunning themselves on their yachts in Antigua, which they bought by selling your body and you will find yourself very alone.

None of the men ogling you give a s**t about you either, do not be fooled. Many's the woman mistook lust for love. If they want you xesually that doesn't mean they give a f**k about you. All the more true when you unwittingly give the impression you don't give much of a f**k about yourself. And when you employ people who give the impression they don't give much of a fµck about you either. No one who cares about you could support your being pimped … and that includes you yourself.

Yes, I'm suggesting you don't care for yourself. That has to change. You ought be protected as a precious young lady by anyone in your employ and anyone around you, including you. This is a dangerous world. We don't encourage our daughters to walk around naked in it because it makes them prey for animals and less than animals, a distressing majority of whom work in the music industry and it's associated media.

You are worth more than your body or your xesual appeal. The world of showbiz doesn't see things that way, they like things to be seen the other way, whether they are magazines who want you on their cover, or whatever … Don't be under any illusions … ALL of them want you because they're making money off your youth and your beauty … which they could not do except for the fact your youth makes you blind to the evils of show business. If you have an innocent heart you can't recognise those who do not.

I repeat, you have enough talent that you don't need to let the music business make a prostitute of you. You shouldn't let them make a fool of you either. Don't think for a moment that any of them give a flying f**k about you. They're there for the money… we're there for the music. It has always been that way and it will always be that way. The sooner a young lady gets to know that, the sooner she can be REALLY in control.

You also said in Rolling Stone that your look is based on mine. The look I chose, I chose on purpose at a time when my record company were encouraging me to do what you have done. I felt I would rather be judged on my talent and not my looks. I am happy that I made that choice, not least because I do not find myself on the proverbial rag heap now that I am almost 47 yrs of age … which unfortunately many female artists who have based their image around their sexuality, end up on when they reach middle age.

Real empowerment of yourself as a woman would be to in future refuse to exploit your body or your sexuality in order for men to make money from you. I needn't even ask the question … I've been in the business long enough to know that men are making more money than you are from you getting naked. Its really not at all cool. And its sending dangerous signals to other young women. Please in future say no when you are asked to prostitute yourself. Your body is for you and your boyfriend. It isn't for every spunk-spewing dirtbag on the net, or every greedy record company executive to buy his mistresses diamonds with.

As for the shedding of the Hannah Montana image … whoever is telling you getting naked is the way to do that does absolutely NOT respect your talent, or you as a young lady. Your records are good enough for you not to need any shedding of Hannah Montana. She's waaaaaaay gone by now … Not because you got naked but because you make great records.

Whether we like it or not, us females in the industry are role models and as such we have to be extremely careful what messages we send to other women. The message you keep sending is that its somehow cool to be prostituted … its so not cool Miley … its dangerous. Women are to be valued for so much more than their sexuality. We aren't merely objects of desire. I would be encouraging you to send healthier messages to your peers … that they and you are worth more than what is currently going on in your career. Kindly fire any motherf****r who hasn't expressed alarm, because they don't care about you.'

She warned Miley and she warned the world about priests raping children. Nobody took her seriously.

Rest In Peace. 🌹

#sinead o'connor #miley cyrus

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thisbuildinghasfeelings · 14 days

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Anne! Another ask for Nice Ask Week -

What are TK & Carlos' favorite shows and movies? The only one (I think) they've mentioned is Grand Designs. Do they watch any non-reality TV shows? Or do they watch a lot of trash reality TV to decompress from the stress of their daily lives?

I think Carlos is the one who got them started watching Grand Designs. Carlos clearly enjoys interior design and he sits there reading his Woodsman & Craft magazine. (I'm assuming this is supposed to be some kind of woodworking magazine but I don't think it's real)

I imagine it's supposed to be something like this:

(Does Carlos build things?? Interesting.)

ANYWAY...it seems like a design show is the kind of show he would like. I imagine that he got TK into Grand Designs when they were first dating and now it's something they watch together. It's clear that Carlos isn't going to watch the new episodes without TK because in 3x15, if TK didn't want to watch that night, Carlos was going to stick with his magazines.

I bet Carlos wouldn't like typical police procedurals. I think all the inaccuracies would irritate him. But maybe he would watch shows that are more detective focused and less about how the police force operates. He's definitely a detective at heart, whether or not he ever actually becomes one. Would he like Miss Marple? I think he would.

And for movies, I could see Carlos as a secret rom com/romance lover. He would have first seen the genre growing up with older sisters, but he would have pretended not to like them because it would have been expected for him to not like that kind of thing as a boy. I see Carlos as someone who has always loved the idea of love and soulmates--a secret romantic at heart--but he just assumed it would never happen for him. Of course, then he met TK and got to live his very own romance! 🥺

As for TK, I can definitely see him watching a lot of trashy reality tv to unwind. And Carlos sometimes watches it with him when they're together, but I don't think it's the kind of thing TK has to save to watch with Carlos. I see TK watching it on his own when Carlos has a shift. I don't actually watch any reality tv, so I don't know what specific shows TK would be most likely to watch. Just something mindless and silly to take his mind off all the drama of his own life.

We also know that TK loves Brad Pitt movies. He's specifically referenced at least Benjamin Button and Seven. Seeing as he's been known to lament that Benjamin Button was underrated and appears to like it specifically for Brad Pitt ("Brad is magic even as a baby"), I'm sure he's watched every Brad Pitt movie. He definitely makes Carlos watch the movies with him. Is TK weird about Brad Pitt like his dad is about Matthew McConaughey? Like if Carlos didn't like Brad Pitt, would that have been a deal breaker for him?? 😂 I think Carlos likes the Brad Pitt movies well enough, but not as much as TK does.

I've also seen the head canon that TK likes horror movies and Carlos doesn't. That feels right to me.

#nice ask week #thank you tessa!#i just spent way too long writing this when i should have been working 🤭

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pearlsofthec · 6 months

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While not as celebratory as October (MY B-DAY MONTH!) and not yet as festive as December, November is a month that’s always full of promises to me. It’s the month when I usually swear to myself I'll get everything done, so I can try to relax when it's Christmas time. While my productivity levels aren't as consistent as I'd like them to be, my will to be productive certainly is. I'm definitely a list kind of girl, loving making them just as much as I enjoy reading them in magazines and on archive blogs from the 2010s (classygirlswearpearls and rookie magazine, I’m looking at you guys). So what better way to start the month and try to get myself together than by writing a big ole' list? My November Guideline:

To be inspired

On TV: Spencer Hastings, Blair Waldorf, Tanner Hall

I may have only watched a season and a half of Pretty Little Liars, but that absolutely doesn't stop me from loving and pinning essentially every single outfit ever worn by Spencer Hastings on television, EVER. I love the way it's simultaneously classic and dated. I've never been one to fear a dated style or outfits that might one day make me sigh and go, "Oh my God, that was so ten years ago for me." I guess that's my way of contributing to history and experimenting with the millions of inspirations I'm constantly bombarded with via social media. I specifically love this aspect of her style, how she wears what she wants, what she loves, but always communicates a deep appreciation for a more traditional way of dressing.

A lot of the same things can be said about Blair. Again, a character from a TV series I haven't watched all the way through (I can't make it past the first few episodes of season 3, sorry!), who was a pillar of preppiness back in the day, and is still wildly beloved, despite having committed a few fashion faux pas in my opinion. The craziness of it all and even the grandma-ness of it all actually fascinate me about Blair's wardrobe. How she constantly projects a vision of who she needs to be. Spencer does the same, obviously, but with Blair, it's almost like she viewed every day of her life, every problem she needed to face, as a new plotline of an old movie that needed to unravel. For each plotline, she reacted as a different heroine would, and each heroine, naturally, expressed herself differently through fashion. I just love these characters she creates for herself, and I feel like I often have the same instinct to curate an outfit like that when getting ready.

Tanner Hall, directed by Diane von Fürstenberg's daughter, Tatiana, is in the same aesthetic line as the previous mentions. The movie is set in a quintessential New England boarding school, where beiges, browns, and muted greens seem to be the only existent colors. The whole wardrobe is gorgeous, designed by DVF, and the holy grail for all those who are obsessed with an old-time preppiness. While the movie's plot may be flawed, its attempt to portray the delicious whimsy and melancholy of a girlhood that tries to expand inside the claustrophobic gates of the school is genuine and comes from what, to me, is a mixture of personal history and folklorized memories. I really like the softness of it all; you can almost smell the crisp apple scent through the screen.

On the web: 2010s Emma Watson, Silly Lettuce, Eva Meloche

I can't really explain my current fixation on Emma Watson, but I have the feeling it has something to do with the fact I've been looping her Burberry campaigns practically every day. The songs are so reminiscent of a carefree city life, going on long taxi drives in the rain and putting your hands over the steam of your coffee on a cold day in the park with your friend, wet fall leaves on the cement sidewalk. I used to admire Emma Watson a lot when I was younger, and it's nice to rediscover this fondness for her. And let's be honest, she is definitely one of the founders of the gamine community; all I have, I owe to her!

Now, my current admiration for @silly_lettuce on Instagram is totally aesthetic, and I'm not afraid to say it. Gorgeous girl, gorgeous outfits, what's not to love. I could go on and on about her style in general, the silhouettes she wears, the boots, the knee-high socks, but instead, I'll just urge you to check out her page! So timeless, yet so young, fun, fresh, and COOL!!!!

Eva Meloche is a YouTuber I've been watching for as long as I can remember, and not only do I adore the calm energy all of her videos exude, but I also really love her travel stories and spot recommendations in general, which always come in handy. Oh, and, of course, she has impeccable taste. Even though her style is different from mine, I guess I use her content as a way to explore.

To wear

I think it's totally healthy to have an everlasting lust for new clothes and new products. Maybe it's because the holiday energy is already lingering in the air, or maybe it's because I'm fresh out of a father and daughter trip to Paris, but recently, I've been loving to revisit my old favorites. And by old, I mean back-when-I-was-twelve old, which includes:

Red Valentino patterned A-line dresses

Ok, I know they may be a bit too young, but if you get it, you get it, I guess. With some ballerinas or Mary Jane pumps, a cute overcoat, and a nice pair of sunglasses, you'll look positively '60s. Honestly, any A-line dress works, but RED V makes me remember my trips with my grandparents and going shopping with them.

The Cardi-blazer

So basic, I know, but I cannot stop thinking about the Ba&Sh Gaspard cardigan and Guspard blazer. I just love how it elevates a basic outfit. With a pair of jeans and a trench coat over it, it has infinite potential. I can definitely see myself wearing it to a lunch with friends, for some afternoon shopping, or just for a coffee run. I love the Ba&Sh cardi-blazers, specifically because of how cool they look without ever being an "in-your-face" type of item. The buttons are nice and discreet, and the style is put together but not excessively frumpy.

Flap Brogue

Maybe it's the Miu Miu enthusiast in me, but ever since they released the new collection of shoes with Church's (my dad's fave), I've been loving all outfits that include a pair of brogues. I already had a pair of light brown oxfords (which are my one true love), but I really wanted something in black and thought that a pair of flap brogues would be a nice addition. They're perfect to wear with sheer hosiery, a mini jean skirt, and a cozy black sweater to tie it all together.

Statement sweater

Talking about sweaters... I just have so many cool statement ones living in my brain recently; it's a bit concerning. What's better than wearing a huge sweater that screams "look at me" when going out with friends or having a nice dinner party? I've been specifically lusting over two models: the Kritzia glittery, oversized turtlenecks with animal motifs and the Zadig and Voltaire Alma "rock and roll" red one.

Statement everyday shoes

It's so 2016 to talk about Golden Gooses, but... I just love them. I happened to buy them after quite a bit of time resisting after I found myself with soaked ballerinas after a violent rainstorm, soon-to-be late to my lunch reservation. The Golden Goose store was my knight in shining armor, literally, offering me shelter and shoes. And maybe it was the desperation, maybe it was the pink sparkly star, but all I know was that I left that store in a glittery haze, enamored by the sneakers I'd just impulsively bought. No regrets!

To Discover

Maison millais (The Eloise perfume specifically… i need it)

Armocromia

Isak Zenou

Brai (pyjamas)

Louvini

Sekiguchi dolls

#blog #monthly guidelines #november

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eschergirls · 24 days

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Hi everybody!

It's a new month, so it's time to celebrate how awesome squirrels are and also to do a site update and to thank our wonderful Patreon subscribers (and adjacent squirrels)!

For a site update, the big news is me and our website designer (Socketwench) are going to revamp the main website (eschergirls.com) and change the overall look, probably so the web version has a grid of post previews rather than just listing the posts in a row because the current setup leaves a lot of empty space since it only previews one line of text. Mobile users shouldn't see much change except we'll be removing or changing the scrolling menu bar so it doesn't block most of the post on small screens. We'll also be adding a popular tag cloud so people can more easily browse the blog if they want to casually.

If anybody has any other suggestions to improve the main site's usability and readability, please let me know!!! I'm very interested in feedback. I'm also working on the glossary and index, so people should be able to search the tags by category of character, series, genre, etc... and the glossary should explain what some of the terms like "boobsocks" (clothing that encases each breast separately like socks), "boob flounder" (both breasts on one side of the body), etc... mean.

Also, as usual, I've been working through the archives and fixing up all the old posts to match the current way I'm formatting my posts and to fix posts that were broken during the Tumblr export. I also add alt-text to every post I restore so people who use screenreaders can access them. This month, I fixed this post involving Marvel's Magik on an old trading card, the two posts with Boundless Comics' Ember (1, 2), and these old PLAY Magazine "Girls of Gaming" pages (1, 2, 3). I also fixed up this submission about how video game magazines used to advertise contests where you could go on a date with Lara Croft and stuff, and I edited the post to include an update with a link to an interview with one of the models who portrayed Lara for those ads, for those interested!

I'm still working my way through the Tumblr inbox backlog, so if you submitted a post a long time ago, you might see it pop up soon. Unfortunately, the way Tumblr does its inbox means the older it is the longer it'll take me to reach it. :\ I apologize sincerely for how long it takes me to get through the inbox sometimes.

I'm also still appealing the many incorrectly flagged posts on Tumblr, and the arbitrary algorithmic flagging, sudden rule changes, and other issues, are why I'm trying to fix up the main site to try to get it as usable for everybody as possible so Tumblr isn't the only way to view the blog, or the only place where it's archived.

I know it's repetitive, but it's also why I really appreciate everybody who supports us on Patreon and Ko-Fi. It gives me much needed help to pay for server costs, upgrades, domain hosting, and just keep the site going in general. :) I really appreciate that people think what we do is worth supporting <3

So I want to thank everybody who supported Escher Girls on Patreon in March!

Thank you so so much to:

Anne Adler Cat Mara CheerfulOptimistic Chris McKenzie Em Bardon First Time Trek Greg Sepelak Ian Cameron Ken Trosaurus Kevin Carson Kim Wincen Kristoffer Illern Holmén Leak Manuel Dalton Mary Kuhner Max Schwarz Michael Mazur Miriam Pody Morgan McEvoy randomisedmongoose Rebecca Breu Ringoko Ryan Gerber Sam Mikes Sean Sea SpecialRandomCast Thomas

And a special thanks again to PJ Evans for donating on Ko-Fi last month! :)

Also a huge thank you to everybody for reading, submitting, and generally commenting and engaging with Escher Girls! It makes running the site so worth it. :)

For those who want to follow us without using Tumblr, we have an RSS feed. (For newbies, RSS stands for Really Simple Syndication and is basically a feed you can read using an RSS reader. Simply copy and paste https://eschergirls.com/rss.xml into an RSS reader and it will keep you up to date on Escher Girls!)

Thanks so much to everybody, and see you next month!

Ami

If you have any issues with the site or suggestions to improve it, please do not hesitate to contact me and let me know!

If you wish to support Escher Girls, you can subscribe to our Patreon at: https://www.patreon.com/ami_angelwings or donate through Ko-Fi at: https://ko-fi.com/amiangelwings.

#update #note #patreon

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