#And a Patek for the show...

[moonicforday]

Day 22!!

[kvtnisseverdeen]

SUCCESSION (2018-2023) 1.01 | Celebration

[formula-fun]

what’s your favorite max watch!!!

The patek philippe aquanaut frequently seen off track in non-sponsored events such as this:

The aquanaut is also sort of inspired by an old version! It’s very very similar to the nautilus, but while the nautilus kind of old man cool, the aquanaut is a little more sporty and fun and was designed to appeal to the y2k tech boom newly-wealthy. It first appeared in 97 just like max did :-) its whole selling point is its rubber strap and the fact that it’s waterproof up to 100ft. You just never know when you’ll end up in 100ft of water with your $500K watch

If I had to blindly guess what kind of person would own this just based on the way it looks I would say maybe a very rich airplane pilot of some sort, or some kind of ex navy hitman. Perhaps an airplane pilot who’s also a hitman? It feeds my aus, basically, and the fact he’s usually in normal clothes when he wears it because it’s not made by tag heuer further fuels that image for me

Also I just think it looks cool 💕💕

[faendan]

Crime Comedy Show Idea (yes, I know it's been done to death, but still): A detective with Tourette's (phonic and minor motor tics because major motor tics would likely result in this detective not being allowed a gun, etc.) struggling to deal with other cops, suspects, and an overprotective family, and to explain to the odd but REALLY attractive barista at the nearby Starbucks that 'no, my name -shit- isn't Angelie Fuck Barrens, I have -your tits look nice- Tourette's.'

For those confused, I decided that her name is Angelie Barrens, she's a lesbian, and she's going to have a slow burn romance with a Starbucks barista who comes from a rich family named Jack Rinnson.

NO, she will not have relationship issues. I fucking hate those plotlines. She and Jack will have a happy, healthy relationship after a torturously slow romantic subplot. There will be random parts of the show in which Angelie is brought by Jack into the rich world, and it will be fucking hilarious when the nouveau rich and the old moneys alike are shocked by her asking for a 'glass of -tits- -tits- -tits- champagne.'

Also, no sex scenes. I dislike sex scenes. Violently crashing into stuff while pulling off clothes and then fading to black is fine.

My largest exposure to Tourette's has been Sweet Anita, if you hadn't noticed, but that's largely what I'm going for anyway.

Feel free to use this idea, in fact, please do. I'd love to see this one day.

[afroslacks]

So Good Part 3/?

After Elijah gets himself put back together, you leave his company building to enjoy the rest of your day. As he drives, he takes a quick look at his golden Patek watch. “Baby, it’s noon. You wanna get something to eat?” he asks, glancing over at you as you scroll through TikTok on your phone. “Sure,” you reply.

Every time you go out, he always knows where the best spots are, so he typically picks something. All you have to do is sit there and look pretty.

Thirty minutes later, the car comes to a stop. “We’re here, baby girl,” Smoke says to get your attention.

Putting your phone away in your purse, you look up to see the name of the restaurant on the front of the building. You sit silently in the car, waiting for Smoke to get out and open the door for you. He’s always been very big on you not lifting a finger when you’re with him.

The car door opens and you see his large palm waiting for you to place your smaller hand in his. You oblige, stepping out of the car. “Thank you,” he affirms. “You know you never have to worry about anything when I’m around. I make sure of it.”

The warm summer air greets your skin as you leave the air-conditioned car, happy that the chill is finally knocked off your bones. Before you can even start walking, he grabs your hand, lacing his fingers into yours. “This restaurant is new in town. I thought I’d spice it up a lil’ bit,” he admits, guiding you along the concrete path.

“You know I don’t mind wherever we eat, as long as it’s good and you’re with me.”

As you both arrive at the door, he lets go of your hand to open it for you, allowing you to walk through.

The hostess stands at the entrance behind a desk. She looks up as you step inside. “Hello, will it be a party of two today?” she asks, grabbing two menus and stepping from behind the counter.

“Yes,” Elijah says, coming up behind you to wrap his large arm around your waist, pulling you closer.

His public displays of affection have always thrown you off—he just never seemed like the type. But to you, it goes to show that good nookie can turn anyone out. The toughest men can melt in the presence of a beautiful woman.

“Alright, well, you can follow me,” the hostess says, leading the way into the restaurant’s dining area.

Elijah keeps you close, rubbing his hand along your lower back. You lean into him, quietly saying, “You’re so clingy, you know that.”

He kisses your forehead. “So? You know damn well you like it. You want me all over you just as much as I want to be all over you.”

You playfully swat at his chiseled chest, amused by his ability to call you out every time. Those slick, bold comments always remind you of the difference between the two of you—Elijah is so quiet, but when he strikes, it lands... sometimes hard.

It goes to show—he’s not someone to be messed with.

The hostess stops at an available seating arrangement for two. It has burgundy leather booths, a white cloth-covered table, extra lighting, and a small vase of flowers.

“Well, here’s your seat. A server will be around shortly to take your orders. Enjoy,” she says before walking away, leaving you both alone.

You reluctantly pull away from Smoke and slide into the booth first as he shields your back with his hand. Once you’re seated, he slides in right next to you—like the clingy man he is.

As he settles in, he places his hand on your thigh in a familiar, comforting hold. His other hand grabs the menu, sliding it between you both. You rest your head on his neck, breathing in his cologne, feeling the cool metal of his gold chain brush against your cheek.

“You wanna know something?” you ask, without looking at him.

You feel him inhale before responding, “What is it, babygirl?” he asks, rubbing your thigh.

“I don’t know what to eat,” you confess.

A moment of silence passes before he smirks, “What else is new?”

“You never know what you want to eat. That’s why I’m here—to make sure you stay alive,” he teases, shaking off your usual indecision.

He didn’t always care about what you ate. Half the time, you’re not even hungry. He practically has to bribe you just to eat something.

The server appears, directing his attention toward both of you—though clearly unsure of how to proceed. He doesn’t know that Smoke usually speaks for you. You like it that way. When he takes control in public moments like this, it gives you space to retreat into yourself.

“How may I help you both today?” the server asks, casting a slightly uneasy glance your way as he notices you leaning silently against a man who looks older than you.

Smoke notices and instantly shifts his energy.

“She’ll have red wine, and I’ll take Hennessy to get us started. You can bring us the entire bottle. I’ll make sure it’s finished. Then we’ll both have steak, mashed potatoes, and asparagus.”

The server hesitates. “Sir, are you sure? It’s a big bottle.”

Smoke laughs. “I know—that’s why I ordered it.”

The server reluctantly nods and jots the order down. “I’ll be back. Excuse me,” he says, then walks away.

You lift your head from Smoke’s neck. “Why did you order the entire bottle?” you ask, already suspecting the answer.

Elijah looks at you with a hungry, hazy gleam in his eyes. He places his hand on your cheek, gently guiding your face so you’re looking right at him.

“Because, baby… you’re gonna eat, of course,” he begins, voice low and sure. “But I wanna get you drunk so you can be my clingy baby without restrictions.”

He grins, completely unapologetic.

“You thought we were done after that hand job? You know better than that. I’m gonna have fun with you all day long.”

You shake your head with a smirk. “You’re trying to kill me.”

He pulls you into a slow, deep kiss, then bites your bottom lip gently before letting go.

“Nah,” he says, correcting you. “I’m trying to make you feel good.”

A/N: Sorry, I'm late! But what did you think of their dynamic? what do you want to see with this series? I need ideas because I don't know what to do with this. Also if you want to tagged let me know!💕

[shouyuus]

ceo!tobio who inherited his company from his grandfather at a young age and was a little too eager to prove himself so he alienated a lot of board members in the beginning by coming on too strong with his own opinions, but is now trying to learn how to work better with others. who's terrible with paperwork but is fantastic with strategies, who's constantly frowning but will light up when he's discussing specifics to a project that he's front-lining.

who always shows up in an impeccable suit, but never anything too ostentatious -- black jacket and matching tie, a pristine white shirt, the collars pressed to perfection. occasionally, he'll pop the top button of his shirt during the summer months, drape his jacket over one shoulder as he scrolls through his phone or listens to someone babble on about a current proposal. who tugs on his tie during meetings that go on too long and absently rolls up the sleeves to his shirt when he's redlining a document, the muscles in his forearms flexing as he flips his weighted mont blanc pens this way and that.

ceo!tobio who owns a collection of fancy watches, all gifted to him by investors hoping to buy a few more shares of the company from him, but he never wears them. instead, he keeps the dinged up old watch his grandfather gave him, cleans it meticulously, gets it polished and fixed up as often as he can spare, only ever entrusting it to you, his secretary, to handle it but with strict instructions to let no one else touch it, and to make sure that the horologist cleans/repairs it in front of you so they don't mess with it, no matter how many times you've assured him that no one's going to try and steal an old, no-name watch from him when he's got a whole drawer full of patek philips at home.

ceo!tobio who's really not great at social functions and is terrible with names, so he brings you to every event as his date, if only so you can whisper the names and titles of the people he's about to meet into his ear right before he meets them, who keeps you so close to him that rumors start to spread about the pair of you, but doesn't bat an eyelash when people ask him about it, telling them in no uncertain terms that his private life, and yours, is none of their damn business, and that if they don't keep their noses out of it, they can say goodbye to whatever business they might've wanted to do with him and his company.

ceo!tobio who apologizes for staying so late sometimes and keeping you there with him, who offers to order whatever you want for dinner on the company card, but you end up having taco bell on the floor of his massive office, sitting cross-legged like a pair of teens at the park, him leaning back against his work desk, watching you with soft eyes as you tell him about the meetings he has tomorrow, who they're with, and the agendas you'd drawn up. he tells you he doesn't know what he'd do without you, and his voice is so honest that for a second you don't know what to say except to tell him that he doesn't have to worry about that for a while yet since you're not planning on going anywhere.

ceo!tobio who knows about the strict company policy on fraternization and kind of agonizes over it bc he's pretty sure whatever the hell he's feeling for you isn't just platonic, but he has your career to worry about -- he knew what he was getting into when he took over for his grandfather, but he doesn't want to drag you into the mess as well, and he thinks it might be better to nip it in the bud, but when he tries, you glare at him and say that he's being childish and is just using this as a scapegoat for not facing his feelings, and he knows you're right but he doesn't know what to do about it until you remind him, much more gently this time, that as the ceo, he does in fact have the power to change the specific wording of the fraternization policy to allow for relationships as long as work boundaries remain professional and there are no direct conflicts of interest.

ceo!tobio who doesn't know how he'd manage without you and trusts you more than he trusts himself, but he doesn't want to be the kind of ceo who bends the rules to suit his own wants and needs so he takes it to the board and gets it pushed through properly, and when it finally comes out that you two are kind of a thing... no one is rly surprised, bc c'mon anyone with eyes could've seen the way he was looking at you, and you back at him. did he think he was being discreet?

but ceo!tobio who tells you whole-heartedly that he'll take care of you if you don't want to be his secretary anymore, and that you'll be impossible to replace, but it's equally impossible for him to get rid of the thought of you and him living together, of him coming home to you every day, of him waking up to you every morning, so if you'll let him... he'd love to give you his everything for the rest of his life, all you have to do is say the word.

tagging tobio nation: @hiraethwa @hiraethwrote @yogurtkags @mcdonaldsnumberone

taglist: @yaoduriaa @ominouslywritinginmyhead @naomihatake @cheesypuffkins87 @crispynutella @dira333 @stunies @fennecnco - join the taglist

[ferrstappen]

primero llegó verstappen l MV1

a/n: MONACO by Bad Bunny. that's it that's the tweet. this isn't very long and its all over the place but I hope you like it <3

summary: Suddenly, Max isn't annoyed about being featured in a music video.

Max couldn't stop staring at himself in the mirror of a tent full of outfits, cameras and people moving from one place to another. In his mind he already did enough promo for the team, more than enough after being crowned World Champion for the third time and a huge contributor to the comfortable win of the Constructors Championship as well.

Maybe appearing in a music video was where he draw the line?

He wouldn't have an issue if it was him on his fireproofs doing a couple of laps in some closed circuits, maybe even some hot laps, but having to pose next to his RB19, wearing a faux leather jacket and showing one of his TAG Heuer Monaco Titan, because he was a walking billboard, was a little too much on his books, especially as a make up artist mixed different shades of some foundation, and Max was trying really hard not to take offense after he told him "his dark circles were incredibly hard to conceal".

Here he was doing favors and in return was being offended by his lack of sleep and naturally pale complexion.

He almost laughed after noticing Checo staring at himself in the mirror, the same confused and uncomfortable look on his face, and the same tight jacket as they contemplated the marina from above.

In conclusion, yes, this was well above his paycheck. Max also wouldn't deny he didn't thrill on the presence of paparazzi in quiet Monaco. granted, they were looking for the big star who was doing some shots around the city, walking hand in hand with his model girlfriend, but he could still make out some yelling for him and Checo.

Then, his day took a turn.

Some crew members wearing headphones and what he assumed were the assistants approached him and Checo, telling them this wouldn't take long since all they had to do was walk around the car, get in and out of the car, with and without the helmet, all while blasting the song.

A very catchy and good song that mentioned he was the first one to cross the finish line. At least he couldn't complain about that.

But he was internally complaining when, once again, he found himself on the make up chair with the same make up artist who had a problem with his dark circles, but this time the place was much different.

A sharp suit and this time a heavy Patek Philippe on his wrist as he walked inside the Casino of Monte Carlo. Now he was greeted by Bad Bunny himself, who thanked him many many times for being a part of this, and in return Max thanked him for even thinking of him for his song. They fell into a comfortable conversations about cars when the singer motioned for two girls to come over, one Max recognized as Kendall Jenner, the other he didn't know but was eager to.

"Max, this is mi novia, Kendall, and this is her friend (y/n). They're doing some stuff on the background, don't they look incredible?"

Max swore the designer dress you were wearing was painted on you, because there was no way it could fit so perfectly on your body, with a couple of stray hairs adorning your face and long eyelashes accentuating your eyes.

"It's so nice to meet you, I'm such a big fan of motorsport," you stretched your hand and it caught Max off guard, not really knowing what to do.

So he panicked and gave you a weird handshake before lifting your hand to his lips and leaving a kiss, and he had never felt more like a creep, but he noticed you blushing and a giggle leaving your lips.

You wanted to add something when the crew called everyone to start shooting, Benito and Kendall leading the way, and the only thing Max thought of doing was to offer you his arm which you gladly accepted.

The song was blasting as everyone pretended to talk and surround the roulette, but you and Max weren't pretending to laugh or to talk.

He even left Checo by himself, he'd forgive him eventually.

"I'm pretty sure the camera is on us in this moment," you told him through gritted teeth, trying to keep a perfect smile.

"What should we do?" Max asked, trying to hide his smile while doing his best to give you his best seductive stare.

You knew he was flirting with you and it was surprising. After seeing him on screens and social media you figured he'd be cocky, not having any trouble flirting with women every weekend on different countries, figuring out a way with foreign languages, but you never pictured him as a giddy, easily flushed, good for banter man, and the only thing you wanted was to leave this shoot and have him show you the city, dressed to the nines and maybe pretending to be cold in the end so he could put his jacket over your shoulders, and that way you could see him with just a white shirt and undone tie.

But you were getting a bit ahead of yourself, especially when you heard the director yell cut and tell you and Max to pay attention to the instructions, earning you the glare of everyone in the room.

"Ey, cabrón, que se están enamorando, déjalos solos!" Hey, they're falling in love, leave them alone. Those were Benito's words.

And God, was he right.

[joshiji-darlingyuyuno]

ㅤ 🪸͟ ָ֢ ’’ 𐙚˙⋆.˚ 𝓶𝓮𝓮𝓽 𝓴𝔀𝓸𝓷 𝓼𝓾𝓲𝓷 ๋࣭ ⭑⚝

kwon suin masterlist

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ᯓᡣ𐭩 ࣪. basics ୭ ˚. ᵎ

birth name: kwon suin 권수인

birth date: 1995..14..02

birthplace: goyang, gyeonggi province, south korea

residence: nonhyeon-dong, gangnam-gu, seoul

occupation: celebrity, artist, singer, dancer, producer, founder&director of Darling Entertainment

nationality: korean - greek (dual- nationality)

ethnicity: korean

languages: english, korean, french, greek, italian, japanese, chinese

height: 170cm

weight: 45kg

blood type: O+

partner: doh kyungsoo (exo's D.O)

status: married

mbti: infj

debut: 2007

ᯓᡣ𐭩 ࣪. career ୭ ˚. ᵎ

history:

2007 - duo group 'darling (달링)' with shin ryeonha (신련하)

2012 - debuts as a soloist

2015 - debuts with seventeen

2016 - debuts as an actress in descendants of the sun

position in seventeen: co-leader, main vocalist, producer, lead dancer, visual,

suin's/ 'darling's fandom: dearest (디어에스트)

her emojis: 🐋🪼🪸🪷🍡🌊🪐🎀🧸🫧🖇🩰

social media: @sususuinkw.n

weverse: @sususuinnova

brand ambassador: graff,, patek philippe,, dior,, alexandar mcqueen,, hermès,, van cleef& arpels,, brunello cucinelli,, bottega veneta

ᯓᡣ𐭩 ࣪. trivia ୭ ˚. ᵎ

she is seventeen's co-leader, meaning she shares the leader position with s.coups. this was because she was elected as leader by all the members and the company, but suin felt that s.coups would make a great leader, so they comprimised by having themn both leaders

she is the oldest member in seventeen and is their senior as she debuted in 'darling' in 2007

some of her nicknames include; original visual,, blueprint,, the trend,,original ace,, nation's center,, nation's daughter,, miss korea, korea's voice,,

she is a-list celebrity in hollywood, not just in korea

she was under a company called 'whipser' when she was active in 'darling' and for her solo career, then pledis was bought into her company. but in 2019, suin left whisper and started her own company named 'darling entertainment' after her group.

meaning she is the founder and director of the company

she is the creator of aespa

seventeen, ateez, aespa, btob, day6, and taemin are now under Darling Entertainment

she produces 80% of seventeen's songs alongside woozi, but she produces 100% of her own songs

she is the most credited artist, and the youngest artist to be awarded that title. she has credit for 600+ of her own songs, not included songs she produced for others.

she is the most known and recognized name in the korean industry

"if you don't know kwon suin in korea, you are a spy"

she is the hidden ace of going seventeen, she rivals jeonghan

she bought a multi-million penthouse in korea and she has another penthouse and vacation house in greece

she created the trends in kpop (not including her fashion influence); photocards, lightsticks, fansite, fansigns, fansign calls, fancams, idol content, tiktok challenges, singing osts, random dance, having lore, ending fairy, dance breaks, highlight medley, brand ambassador, dance practice, behind the scene videos, encore, personalised in-ears and mic, western collabs,

she popularized idols appearing in variety shows by appearing on "running man" and boosting their ratings

she was the first idol to have 'pre-releases' and an intro and outro track

she has an emotional support spoon

she was an ivf baby

she was the first idol to be a "new years couple" (when dispatch reveals couples on new years ykyk)

her ears go red when shes shy

she made the name 'carats' for the fandom

she concerts usually lasts for 4-6hrs, but once she had a 9hr concert and still didnt finish her entire discography

locals: "i don't know kpop, but i know suin and bts"

she is unfortunately the female idol that has been in the most danger

her newest nickname is "idol with the most aura"

and yes, suin and kyungsoo are married, they married in 2019, kyungsoo proposed in 2018, and they announced their relationship and engagement in the mv for "only" which even included their proposal video

ㅤㅤ kwon suin masterlist

comment for requests!

[prettyboykatsuki-moved]

types of jewlery i think the bluelock men would wear once they go pro

isagi: usually doesn't wear jewlery. owns a thin silver chain and two diamond studs - but usually wears one. makes him look very boyish. not very into watches but wears one that's gifted to him.

rin: even less into jewlery but does like watches. for whatever reason i think he wears a cartier wrist watch - the kind that's all silver. that or vacheron. not much into anything else.

bachira: single gold tooth when he knocks his out. similar to shidou in wearing fun jewlery usually. more about aesthetics then showing off his wealth but some of his earrings are niche and designers. finds watches stuffy. lots of piercings.

chigiri: almost exclusively owns cartier jewlery. bracelets, necklaces, wrist watch - all cartier. looks gold in silver and gold so he has equal of each i think. has a brand collab with van cleef so has a lot of van cleef bracelets but it's not his personal style.

reo: rolex watches and a loooot of them. he's not really into anything else but his watch collection is nuts.

sae: patek watch + a few gold chains all in the same style. not much into rings. chains are more for style and he doesn't often wear them. prefers collar links for his suits to cufflinks.

oliver: john hardy + david yurman makes up most of his collection and unfortunately it all looks so sexy on him. prefers bracelets and rings but own a few gold cuban link chains with no ice.

kaiser: likes thin understated jewlery. platinum chains usually. he has like one chain with a lot of ice and it's a custom piece for his rose and thorns motif. wears a brietliling watch i think or some other swiss company. owns diamond studs and cufflinks.

karasu: likes wrist watches but doesn't favor any brand over another. see him wearing chophard watches maybe ? plain silver chain and two bracelets.

otoya: he's typical and i do think most of his stuff is gucci lmfao. so gucci watch + earrings. same thing with louis v. he's one of Those types. not companies known for jewelry necessarily but def brand name. the classiest thing he owns are diamond earrings.

barou: thick cuban link plain 24k gold + custom championship style ring also with ice. think he gets the ring from a very famous jewler (the thought of barou meeting johnny dang is funny to me. sorry). owns gold cufflinks and a gold watch. no silver in his collection.

kunigami: almost exclusively gold chains and almost nothing else. not into watches lol

[heartofbusan]

Keep Going.

Let's have a group therapy session for a second here because is it just me.... or

Is this whole concept giving our Sun and Moon couple?

Furst of all, there are two opposite ends marking 12, Seokjin said in the Bangtan Special report that the theme of this year's Festa would be 00:00. A kind of reset.

Turn this all around

When everything resets at zero o'clock

The reset signals the beginning of new opportunities. After all we've been through, we can come back together and reset our timeline. Be happy again 🥲

The colours they used are orange and blue. Gold and indigo. It's a stretch, but how about yellow and purple ??? Orange and blue are contrasting colors often used together. There's also night and day. After the long night, the lonely time, a new dawn approaches. These are all heavily used themes in BTS's lore.

The most obvious references to jikook are the Sun and the Moon. BTS using the sun and moon motif for mingukki was their black swan pas de deux for MMA 2020 that began with an eclipse: the temporary melding between the sun and moon. So, this is established storytelling. And it happened more than once, even during BTS RUN.

The sun and moon are depicted on a timepiece, something resembling a nautical clock. So the sun and moon are, very generally said, the orgin of the push and pull of the tides. The ocean. The purple ocean perhaps? Hobi did reference 'purple waves' approaching.

But, doesn't a timepiece in conjunction with nautical theme make you think of a mindboggling jikook moment?

Look at these potato quality photos of watch gate 2023 while I breathe into a paper bag.

The theories regarding Jimin’s Patek Phillipe Aquanaut timepiece and the time it showed (which was NOT the actual KST time when he was streaming) have been heavily covered by blogs far more eloquent than mine. Please do look it up if you have no idea what I'm talking about. For the rest of us *screaming into a pillow*

The name aquanaut refers to an underwater swimmer. The Nautilus the watch has been shaped after comes from the name of Jules Verne's submarine in Twenty thousand leagues under the sea, a wonderful adventure book.

Jimin wore this, and his other PP watch named Complications, during AYS?!. That watch features a pretty moonphase window with stars. Jimin just loves the constellations, he even had a constellation lamp in his house.

I'm getting off track here because how come we're not talking about watch gate anymore. That sh*t was WILD.

So, we know, just last week, Jikook went to Japan for around three days. We can assume they met up there. Their diversion tactics aren't very stealthy. So...

What if... and this is a big what if, what if they filmed something there for Festa? What if it's their song for Festa as a subunit. Or a performance of some kind?! 🤡 Keep Going?!

Both Jimin and Jungkook have written/performed several ARMY fans songs. Some they've attributed to ARMY as their inspiration and some where I go, huh... for 'ARMY'...suuuuure baby.. whatever you say beautiful. *plays Letter*

Jimin told us they've been practicing while enlisted, singing together, far removed from other's so they wouldn't be overheard. What if it was for this song???

Devil's advocate here: If this turns out to be true, be prepared for haters to claim this song, aka fanservice, was the reason they enlisted together. End of rant.

We don't know why they went to Japan, and as much as I hope they went to enjoy themselves, however that looked like, their work is such an important part of what bonds them. Their work ethic, their drive and dedication. Their mile high ambitions, for themselves and for BTS. So, work is never separate from Jikook, but Jikook do separate themselves within their work.

And a subunit song from them is something we've all been eagerly waiting for. It's been years. I don't care if they use AYS as a jumping off point or if Japan is the setting.

Hell, if it's another GCFT featuring their homoerotic song called 'Keep Going', featuring lyrics like

I'll keep it going, just for you baby

I'll keep up the pace and

Never falter

The push, the pull, the wonderful song you sing

The endless breathless beauty of the night

In your arms, baby

Keep going, keep going until..

We crest

A breath

A call

And we're safe together again

The mv is them, swimming in a water tank, simulating the ocean, and they have to claw their way from the depths, where the seaweed tangles in their legs, to the surface, where the light breaks through the surface. They come up for air, look at each orther, cling to each other, and they say: 'For ARMY'

I'LL BE SO PLEASED..SKKSKSK I DON'T CARE.

We all know Jikook live in their work, and their work lives in them.

Hope you all have a wonderful Sunday. We're almost at single digits for jikook too. Keep Going. We're almost there!!! 💜💛

[nanseyeworld]

( ♡ ) ... 🏹 ⁀ ADNAN’s PROFILE ࿐ !

Je-je-jealous of my mansion? Yeah, the view is fucking gnarly

𓂃  ✷ ˒  𝙸𝙽𝚃𝚁𝙾𝙳𝚄𝙲𝙸𝙽𝙶 !  𓄹╴ Adnan Noura bint Al-Alshehri

✦ ~ GET TO KNOW HER; BASICS ~ ✦

ℐׅ ─ Name: Adnan Noura bint Al-Alshehri

ℐׅ ─ Name meaning:

• Adnan (عدنان)

In Arabic, Adnan means “settler�� or “one who stays and builds”. Historically, it traces back to an ancient Arabian ancestor said to be the forefather of many Arab tribes — symbolizing deep roots, enduring presence, and continuity.

In her context, it reflects strength, legacy, and her father’s wish that she’d always be grounded, no matter how global her world became.

• Noura (نورة)

Noura is a beloved Arabic name meaning “light”. For her parents, it symbolizes hope, warmth, and the miracle she became after years of waiting. Her mother chose it to mark her as the light in their lives — the sunrise after many nights.

• bint Al-Alshehri (بنت آل الشهري)

Literally “daughter of the Al-Alshehri family” — a traditional naming style in Arab culture signifying family lineage. It shows pride in her Gulf royal roots while grounding her in her father’s legacy, which she carries in her global stage name.

ℐׅ ─ Stage Name: Adnan (أدنان)

ℐׅ ─ Born: August 1, 2003

ℐׅ ─ Zodiac Sign: Leo ♌

ℐׅ ─ Chinese Zodiac: Goat

ℐׅ ─ Birthplace: London, United Kingdom

ℐׅ ─ Nationality: British

ℐׅ ─ Ethnicity: Somali, French, Saudi Arabian, Qatari

ℐׅ ─ Height: 175 cm (5’9”)

ℐׅ ─ Blood Type: AB

Languages: English, French, Arabic, Italian, Somali, Korean (learning)

ℐׅ ─ MBTI: ENFJ

ℐׅ ─ Representative Symbol: Diamond flame 🔥 💎

✦ ~GET TO KNOW HER; CAREER INFORMATION ~ ✦

ℐׅ ─ Stage name: Adnan (أدنان / 아드난)

ℐׅ ─ Group: KATSEYE (HYBE x Geffen)

ℐׅ ─ Debut: June 28, 2024

ℐׅ ─ Position: Vocalist, Rapper, Visual, Dancer, Model

ℐׅ ─ occupation(s): Singer, Rapper, Model, Global Ambassador, Songwriter, Dancer, actress

ℐׅ ─ Debut age: 20 (Int.) / 22 (Kor.)

ℐׅ ─ Strong suits: her fashion sense • public image • modeling • fluent interviews • stage charisma • global appeal • luxury branding • freestyle rapping • live vocals • red carpet etiquette • elegance in motion

ℐׅ ─ Individual endorsements: INDIVIDUAL ENDORSEMENT(S): Chanel, Miu Miu, Bulgari, La Prairie, Balmain, Mugler, Jacquemus, Cartier, Louis Vuitton, Maison Margiela, Valentino, Kay Jewelers, l'Oreal, Balmain, Guess Italy & Australia, Etro, Givenchy x Avani, CoverGirl U.S, Revlon, Kylie Cosmetics, Luxottica x Adnan, Loro Piana, Bikkembergs, Oriflame Cosmetics, Bulgari, Krizia, Gucci Beauty x Adnan, Armani Beauty, Fendi, Bottega Veneta, Elizabeth Arden, Adidas, Kiko Milano, Versace, Coach, BRACCIALINI, FURLA, Salvatore Ferragamo, H&M x Adnan, Cartier, Lululemon, Rolex, Patek Philippe, Uniqlo, Burberry, YSL Beauty, Son&Park, MISSHA, GM Korea.

ℐׅ ─ SKILLS RANKING:

vocals ability: 8/10

rap ability: 9/10

dance ability: 8.5/10

visuals: 10/10 (Global Standard)

stage presence: 9.5/10

producing/songwriting/composing: 8/10

choreographing: 7/10

public speaking: 10/10

variety show: 9.5/10

Modeling: 10/10

✦~GET TO KNOW HER; PERSONAL INFORMATION

ℐׅ ─ Background:

Adnan is a global star with royal lineage—descended from both the House of Al Saud and the House of Thani. Her mother is a world-renowned Somali-French neurosurgeon and former supermodel. Raised between London and Paris, Adnan began modeling at age 12 before debuting with KATSEYE. Known for her elegance, multilingual charm, and regal aura, she is widely recognized as the group’s “mystique icon.”

ℐׅ ─ MBTI: ENFJ

ℐׅ ─ PERSONALITY: Adnan is elegant, observant, and effortlessly confident. Though some mistake her poise for aloofness, she’s deeply warm and intentional once you break past her polished exterior. She has a regal way of carrying herself but laughs easily around people she trusts. She thrives in global settings, adapting to every room she walks into—and often commanding it without trying.

ℐׅ ─ strengths:

• Loyal: Adnan is fiercely protective of the people she loves. She’s known to speak up against hate or injustice, especially when her members or fans are targeted unfairly. “Silence is elegant—but not when someone needs to be defended,” she once said.

• Self-aware & Grounded: Even with a royal lineage and fashion accolades, Adnan has a strong sense of who she is. She doesn’t chase validation. Her presence isn’t loud, but it’s always commanding. She’s confident without being flashy—her power is in her stillness.

ℐׅ ─ weaknesses:

• Internalizes Emotions: Adnan has difficulty expressing when she’s overwhelmed. She often works through difficult emotions alone and avoids asking for help until it’s too much. Her silence is sometimes mistaken for indifference—but it’s really her way of protecting herself.

• Overcontrolled Perfectionism: Years of living under scrutiny taught her to control everything—her image, her posture, even her breathing. She’s learning to let go, but sometimes slips into old habits of over-rehearsing, over-polishing, or hiding parts of herself she fears the world might misread.

ℐׅ ─ SEXUALITY: Straight

ℐׅ ─ RELATIONSHIP STATUS: Rumored to be single (but known for her privacy)

ℐׅ ─ FAMILY INFORMATION:

• Father: Sheikh Nasser Al-Alshehri (Saudi-Qatari royal; renounced his claim to the throne)

• Mother: Élodie Samatar (Somali-French model and art curator)

• Siblings: Only child

• Family Residence(s): London, Paris, Riyadh, Doha

ℐׅ ─ She began modeling professionally at age 12, first walking for Chanel in Paris.

• ✧ She was scouted by Bang Si-Hyuk personally after they met at an LVMH fashion gala—her presence inspired the creation of The Debut: Dream Academy.

• ✧ Her father is a Saudi-Qatari royal who gave up his place in the line of succession to marry her mother, a Somali-French model and art curator.

• ✧ Though born royal, she doesn’t use any official titles—but is often called “The Rebellious Royal” by media.

• ✧ She speaks English and French fluently, and can hold a conversation in Arabic.

• ✧ Her fashion nickname among fans is “The Living Runway” because of her elegant posture and effortless looks.

• ✧ She has a signature walk that designers often tailor their shows around.

• ✧ Her charm symbol in KATSEYE is the diamond flame 🔥💎

• ✧ She once said in an interview that she doesn’t chase trends: “I wear what feels like me—even if no one else gets it.”

• ✧ Her fans call her “Princess of Duality” for her ability to switch from icy and mysterious onstage to warm and witty in interviews.

• ✧ Favorite Color: Deep emerald green or royal navy (she says they “feel like silence and power”)

• ✧ Favorite Perfume: La Prairie Platinum Rare & Baccarat Rouge 540

• ✧ Favorite Fashion Brands: Chanel, Miu Miu, Jacquemus, Saint Laurent, Maison Margiela

• ✧ Favorite Accessory: Vintage gold rings—especially ones passed down by her mother

• ✧ Favorite Food: Truffle risotto, Somali spiced tea, and French-style croissants

• ✧ Favorite Drink: Black coffee with a touch of cardamom

• ✧ Favorite Hobby: Reading obscure fashion history books, curating visual journals, nighttime photography

Favorite Songs:

• “Alien Superstar” by Beyoncé

• “Outro: Tear” by BTS

• “I Am” by Ive (“It’s giving runway energy.”)

• “Adagio for Strings” – Samuel Barber (for calm mornings)

• ✧ Favorite KATSEYE Lyric: “Soft is strong, and silence can shake empires.”

[mariacallous]

If the Silicon Valley of the 2000s and 2010s prided itself on an anti-fashion ethos—the hoodie, the New Balance trainer, the uniform of studied indifference to material possessions—then today’s tech billionaires have flipped the script.

These days, Meta CEO Mark Zuckerberg is a jiujitsu-practicing, Richard Mille–wearing, powerlifting tycoon whose aesthetic suggests something between a Bond villain and a UFC champion. Elon Musk, the self-styled messiah of Mars and free-speech absolutism, oscillates between Belstaff leather flight jackets that scream “aging rock star managing his seventh divorce” and all-black Tom Ford suits that suggest “billionaire villain in a sci-fi movie who insists he’s the hero.”

Then there’s Amazon’s Jeff Bezos, once a dorky, fleece-vested book salesman, who has since undergone a biceps-first metamorphosis into a Vin Diesel–adjacent yacht lord. These days, he’s a fixture at Milan Fashion Week, turning up at Dolce & Gabbana shows in impeccably tailored trousers and a D&G leather bomber jacket. The New York Times has gone as far as to label him a style icon. It’s a stark contrast to 1999 when he revealed to WIRED his love for shirts with “hidden snaps” under the collar points for easy tie removal.

The new tech oligarchy, forged in the crucible of Trump-era chaos, has moved beyond the faux humility of Patagonia vests and Allbirds. They are dressing like titans, strongmen, and emperors because, in their minds, that’s exactly what they are. Their outfits do not merely say I have wealth. They declare “I have power, and I intend to wield it.”

Parable of Power

In many ways, this aesthetic evolution tells a larger story about the consolidation of power in the tech industry. There was a time when tech billionaires maintained a carefully curated image of modesty—Elon Musk, for instance, once claimed to live in a tiny house on his sprawling estate. When asked why he wore the same thing every day, Zuckerberg responded: “I’m in this really lucky position where I get to wake up every day and help serve more than a billion people. I feel like I’m not doing my job if I spend any of my energy on things that are silly or frivolous about my life.”

But now, that mindset has shifted. “They’re openly embracing their status as modern-day oligarchs, fully leaning into wealth, power, and influence. And they’re celebrating it with some seriously big watch purchases,” says WIRED’s watch expert, Tim Barber. Nowhere is this shift more apparent than in figures like Zuckerberg, who, while systematically dismantling fact-checking protections across Meta platforms, is doing so with an exceptionally rare $895,000 Greubel Forsey Hand Made 1 timepiece strapped to his wrist.

Luxury watches have long been markers of power, but Silicon Valley initially distanced itself from that tradition. Jobs wore a humble Seiko. Bill Gates has never been one for flash. Zuckerberg, for years, followed suit—until he didn’t. The shift was caught on video. At a pre-wedding party for Anant Ambani, heir to one of India’s wealthiest families, Zuckerberg was seen marveling at a sapphire-crystal Richard Mille watch—a brand synonymous with extreme wealth, with entry prices from $365,000.

“I never really wanted to get a watch,” Zuckerberg is heard saying. “But after seeing that … watches are so cool!” Within weeks, Zuckerberg had embraced horology with zeal. Notable additions include a $783,000 rose-gold Patek Philippe Ref. 5303R-001, a $90,000 De Bethune DB25 Starry Varius featuring a blue dial with a depiction of the Milky Way, and a €40,910 FP Journe Chronomètre Souverain Havana. Musk's watch collection is also high-end but more pedestrian, more predictable (Rolex, Omega, TAG).

“This evolution in tech culture mirrors the robber barons of the past. Today’s billionaires, like those of 100 or 150 years ago, appear largely indifferent to public perception,” continues Barber. He notes that collecting watches, in itself, isn’t an indicator of morality. It’s simply that high-end watches have become part of the new uniform. “The equivalent of the understated Apple Watch once worn by the ‘thoughtful, responsible’ tech leader. Now, intricate, ultra-expensive timepieces have become the accessory of the ‘I don’t care’ billionaire.”

The tech billionaires have long been aligning themselves with mythmaking, macho masculinity narratives. In 2018, Musk began working with designer Emily Dawn Long on his new look, supposedly looking to channel macho male icons such as Harrison Ford, Paul Newman, and Antarctic explorer Ernest Shackleton. As a result, Musk reportedly dropped six figures on a vintage Paul Newman Rolex Daytona, a watch synonymous with masculine cool. He also added a Tesla-branded black cowboy hat to his rotation, a symbol of frontier bravado and lone-wolf individualism, evoking the mythos of the self-made pioneer—whether wrangling AI, space travel, or the X algorithm.

It’s not just watches. Zuckerberg’s wardrobe now includes custom T-shirts emblazoned with historical mottos: “Pathei Mathos” (Greek for “learning through suffering”), “Carthago delenda est” (Latin for “Carthage must be destroyed”), and “Aut Zuck aut nihil” (Latin for “Zuck or nothing”). These phrases, steeped in imperialistic and warrior-like rhetoric, suggest a new, more aggressive self-styling that asserts power.

It’s a far cry from his 2018 Senate hearings, where he appeared in an ill-fitting suit that made him look more like a teenager at his first job interview than a formidable tech CEO. “Part of his rebrand seems to be about rehabilitating his standing within Meta and corporate America, through alignment with dominant trends that prioritize charisma over contemplation, machismo over moderation,” says Benjamin Wild, cultural historian and fashion communication lead at the UK’s Manchester Fashion Institute.

However, one of the most striking things about Zuckerberg’s style transformation is how public, deliberate, and immediate it has been, he says. The first sign arrived back in April 2024, when an AI image of a bearded Mark Zuckerberg went viral on social media. After that fake image, Zuckerberg began to embrace a more fashion-forward and assertive style, even prompting Meta's own AI to suggest a new look for himself. He was seen wearing gold chains and designer clothing and sporting a more muscular physique, reflecting his interest in mixed martial arts (MMA) training.

“We cannot lose sight of the fact that this tech billionaire used the AI feature on his own platform to reimagine his look, then committed to it once the image went viral. That speaks to how external validation still fuels self-presentation, regardless of status,” says Jesica Wagstaff, the fashion commentator and author of A Sunday Journal Substack, who adds that it also signals just how much conservative aesthetics have seeped into the American cultural bloodstream.

“Granted, Zuckerberg initially asked for an AI rendering of himself as a ‘streetwear designer in LA.’ But he didn’t just adopt the look; he distorted it with personal signifiers—status symbols, combat-ready aesthetics, and a sliver of dystopian machismo. The effect is an uber-wealthy MMA fighter," continues Wagstaff. “And that’s very much the point. Zuckerberg is no longer just the nerd who created Facebook. He’s a jiujitsu-practicing, watch-collecting, gaming dad who loves his wife and kids—and still finds time to strip online protections from vulnerable users of his platform. We’re meant to see him glow up and ask ourselves, ‘What can’t Mark Zuckerberg do?’”

The answer to that question, of course, depends on who is asking. To his elite peers, Zuckerberg’s latest image signals strength, power, and cultural awareness. To the rest of the world, it may be another reminder that those who claim to lead us are increasingly operating in a world entirely their own.

When Did This New Dress Code Drop?

Personal style has long been a tool in the arsenal of the tech elite. Steve Jobs famously rejected traditional status symbols in favor of a self-imposed uniform: The infamous black Issey Miyake turtleneck, Levi’s jeans, and New Balance trainers. Many of Silicon Valley’s most prominent figures followed suit, embracing a lux-tinted version of understated, utilitarian dressing—embodied in 2017 by $500 Lanvin low-top sneakers favored by the likes of Satya Nadella and Larry Page. Of course, this stripped-down approach to fashion wasn’t an abdication of style; it was a strategic choice.

In an industry that prides itself on disruption, dressing down became its own kind of dominance, while also reflecting the tech ideology of the time: Innovation over tradition, efficiency over excess, and—at least in its early days—a belief that technology existed to serve people, not just profit from them.

Indeed, in the early 2000s and 2010s, tech’s biggest names presented themselves as visionaries on a mission to democratize access, improve lives, and build a better future. The industry positioned itself as an antidote to Wall Street’s greed, and the seemingly casual uniform of T-shirts, hoodies, and sneakers reinforced that distinction. Tech leaders weren’t flashy bankers in tailored suits; they were problem solvers, engineers, and idealists, working toward a utopian vision of progress.

“Zuckerberg’s style shift says something about a specific group of American billionaires who are aligning themselves with what looks to be a new political order within the United States,” Wild says. “These moguls control multinationals, which include Meta, Google, Amazon and Uber, that have an extraordinary capacity to influence people’s decisionmaking, and who are consequently prime figures for politicians to moderate.” While the Biden administration did this via the judicial arm of government and legal courts, it appears President Trump seems inclined to handle these men through his personal court, where they are required to seek his approval.

“We saw this at Trump’s presidential inauguration,” says Wild, “where the invitees constituted a who’s who of American tech billionaires. For me, there are strong parallels with medieval royal courts, where members of the aristocracy competed among themselves, often in what they wore and how they consumed, for the attention and patronage of the ruler. Within America today, these men seem less concerned about their perception among the public, and far more concerned about how they appear to one another, and Trump.”

For now, some tech bros—Sam Altman included—are still clinging to their tees and action slacks, but how long before their look evolves to match the growing power they wield? OpenAI, after all, seems to be getting darker by the day. And then there’s Sundar Pichai, the quiet architect of Google’s AI empire, whose fashion may not be making headlines (yet) but whose policies certainly are. Under his watch, Alphabet just scrapped its long-standing promise not to develop AI for weapons or surveillance.

So what’s next? A titanium Richard Mille built for billionaires with defense contracts? A bespoke Brunello Cucinelli cashmere sweater emblazoned with “In AI We Trust”? Pichai has already ditched the New Balance memo for those Lanvin sneakers, with hype footwear a previous gateway drug for billionaires. (Zuck famously has a penchant for Adidas 4DFWD x Strung trainers.) If the new tech dress code is all about signaling dominance, surely it won’t be long before Pichai and Altman follow suit. Because in Silicon Valley, power isn’t just wielded—now it’s worn.

The Impunity of Reinvention

The curious thing? Few are questioning Mark Zuckerberg’s transformation. Most commentary fixates on the what and how—his sculpted physique, designer accessories, and combat-ready aesthetic—rather than the why. “This emphasizes the persistence of gender inequalities. When Kamala Harris was running for office, her aesthetic choices were scrutinised relentlessly. Yet Zuckerberg’s evolution is met with curiosity rather than critique. It highlights the impunity with which powerful men can reinvent themselves,” says Wild.

For Zuckerberg, the shift from awkward tech nerd to combat-trained, physically imposing leader mirrors the broader trajectory of Silicon Valley itself. The archetype of the hoodie-clad disruptor has been replaced by something more militarized, more overtly aggressive. The new tech oligarchy isn’t just about controlling perception; it’s about controlling entire industries—perhaps even countries. And increasingly, it operates beyond the reach of traditional accountability.

Zuckerberg’s aesthetic evolution coincides with Meta’s rollbacks on content moderation, a move that aligns him with the political right. His embrace of high-status signifiers (luxury mechanical watches, gold chains, a hardened MMA physique) signals alignment with a particular brand of alpha masculinity that is scarily rife among the elite. Moreover, his media appointed “tech bro glow-up” reflects a deeper truth about power: The extraordinary privilege of wealthy men to rewrite their own narratives, shedding past identities at will. Reinvention, in this context, isn’t just self-expression, it’s an assertion of dominance.

Just watch the reaction as a beaming Musk appears as a surprise guest, streamed in on huge video screens to the far-right Alternative for Germany national election campaign launch in January. “You have to make a decision," said the AfD's Maximilian Krah. "Do you want to have the party of [Chancellor] Olaf Scholz and all those eunuchs? Or are you on our side, with Elon Musk and Donald Trump? Which side has more sex appeal?”

If history teaches us anything, it’s this: When the richest men in the world start dressing like emperors, the rest of us should pay attention. Because power, when it rebrands itself, is rarely just about aesthetics. It’s a warning.

[mjonthetrack]

vice queen

PROLOGUE

Miami, 2:47 a.m. Vice Lounge, VIP Room.

The bass was heavy, like a heartbeat that wouldn’t settle. Low. Dirty. Intimate.

She was up there again. Wrapped in red light and glitter. Skin like honey, legs carved by God’s best day. Her eyes—sharp. Her waist—snatched. Her hustle? Ruthless. She wasn’t dancing. She was devouring attention and spitting out checks.

Camille “Mimi” Harris wasn’t just a stripper. She was the main event.

And from the corner booth, drowning in black-on-black designer and smoke clouds, he watched her.

Jimmy Fatu. One-half of the city’s most feared twin empire. Samoan royalty in Cartier and gunmetal. Calm. Collected. Calculated. If Jey was the fire, Jimmy was the flood.

He saw her once and that was all it took. Didn’t even touch her. Didn’t even speak. But the way she moved—confident, unapologetic, like the world owed her backpay—he felt it deep.

Like he already knew she was dangerous. Like he already knew she’d cost him something.

“Who’s that?” he asked without looking away.

The club manager glanced at the stage. “That’s Mimi. Don’t bother. She don’t dance for nobody.”

Jimmy smirked, slow. “Good.” “I ain’t nobody.”

He never saw her again after that night.

Not at the club. Not in the streets. Not even in the wild circles they both ran in.

Until three weeks later… At his brother’s kickback. At the Fatu mansion. Wearing tight jeans and a sharper attitude.

She walked in, laughing with his sister-in-law.

And that’s when he saw her again.

Not Mimi the stripper. But Camille Harris.

Jey’s wife’s cousin. Family-adjacent. Untouchable. A goddamn walking complication.

And for the first time since Jimmy took over half the city, he felt it.

Temptation he couldn’t control.

Some women you sleep with. Some women you protect. And then there’s the ones who show up to ruin you... and make you beg for it anyway.

CHAPTER ONE

“Big Money Mims”

Vice Lounge, Miami Friday – 11:24 PM

Not just anybody could get in on a Friday night.

You had to have real money. No fives. No tens. No broke boy behavior. Security was posted heavy—metal detectors, face checks, and stacks in hand. If you weren’t dropping at least a fifty on the floor? Stay your ass outside.

Tonight wasn’t for the regulars. Tonight was Mimi’s main set.

And when Camille “Big Money Mims” Harris hit the stage? It wasn’t a strip show—it was worship. A ceremony. A rich man’s religion.

The lights dropped low. Red and violet beams rolled through the fog. The DJ cut the music for two whole seconds, and that’s when the announcement came:

“Y’all know what time it is… Make some noise for the main attraction. Miami’s own heavy hitter… BIG. MONEY. MIMS.”

The club exploded. Loud. Wild. Cash raining before a single note played. Some fools already throwing hundreds just to touch the stage, just to breathe near the pole.

Then came the heels. Ten-inch death traps clicking like gunfire. Camille walked out slow, one hip at a time, commanding gravity.

She wore diamond-studded pasties and a matching thong, every inch of her skin glowing like caramel dipped in starlight. Body glitter sparkling under the strobe. Brown skin butter-slick and radiant. Ten necklaces. Cartier all over. A Patek iced on her wrist.

Long acrylics wrapped around the pole like a lover. A smirk on her lips that said she already knew she was richer than half the room—and she hadn’t even taken anything off yet.

She smelled like cinnamon and danger. The kind of scent that made men risk rent money and reputations.

Meanwhile… in the back VIP section:

Jimmy Fatu walked in with two of his shooters, draped in black, diamonds on his neck, and attitude on freeze. He wasn’t here for women. Or music. Or drinks. He was here for business—meeting with a potential supplier outta Cuba. New coke route, tight security, better cut.

Vice wasn’t his usual scene. Too loud. Too flashy. Too many dudes frontin’ with fake bankrolls.

But the man he was meeting picked it, and Jimmy didn’t argue. He just showed up, all slow shoulders and stone face, sitting back in the plush booth like a quiet storm.

The bottle girl brought him Henny. He didn’t touch it.

“You good, Uso?” Jey asked from beside him, watching the chaos. “Ain’t even started yet,” Jimmy replied. “Let’s get this over with.”

He looked bored. Disinterested.

Until he heard the name.

“BIG MONEY MIMS!”

Then came the spotlight.

Then came her.

He saw legs. Then hips. Then chain links wrapped around brown thighs like promises he couldn’t afford to break.

He straightened up slightly. Didn’t blink.

The music hit—something slow, filthy, dripping bass. And she moved.

Not like a dancer. Like a goddamn threat.

Control. Grace. Wildness wrapped in diamonds.

She spun. Dropped. Popped. Let the crowd scream her name and didn’t even flinch. Bills stacked at her feet like altars to a queen.

Jimmy’s eyes narrowed, jaw locked.

“Who the fuck is that?”

He wasn’t asking for fun. His voice dropped like thunder.

The dude next to him laughed nervously.

“That’s Mimi, bro. Big Money Mims. Top earner here. She don’t even talk to nobody unless it starts at five racks.”

Jimmy didn’t respond.

He just watched. Eyes locked. Every move she made felt like it was choreographed just for him.

She didn’t look his way.

Not once.

Didn’t need to. She already owned the room.

But for Jimmy? That moment?

It was the beginning of a problem.

Because he wasn’t supposed to care. Wasn’t supposed to look.

But now?

He couldn’t look away.

CHAPTER TWO

“Cryin’ in the Club (Mimi Edition)”

Vice Lounge – Friday Night, 11:32 PM Only the rich were allowed in.

Not that bougie, wanna-be baller type of rich. Not rappers with leased Lambos or crypto bro money. Nah. Old money. Street money. Real, illegal, bloody money. You had to show proof of funds on entry. No fives. No tens. If your bills didn’t got Ben Franklin's face on them, security would escort you back to your mama’s house.

That’s what made Vice different.

And that’s why Camille “Big Money Mims” Harris ran the damn place like her own personal kingdom.

When she danced? The rules changed.

Backstage was quiet chaos. Glitter in the air. Girls warming up, spraying perfume, fixing heels and high ponies. But in the center, posted in a red velvet makeup chair under gold lights, was Mimi.

Moisturized. Mesmerizing. Dressed in diamond-encrusted pasties, a matching thong, and ten-inch heels that looked custom-made in hell. Her long brown legs gleamed under layers of coconut oil, body glitter catching every beam like her skin had its own lighting crew. She looked like wealth incarnate—and she smelled like cinnamon and money. Expensive, edible.

She stood and stretched slow, her Cartier bracelets sliding down her arms like waterfalls. Her fingers sparkled with rings—ten total. She wore a Patek like she ain’t even know what time was, long nails blood red and freshly done.

One of the new girls blinked at her in awe.

“Mims, what you gon’ walk out to tonight?”

Mimi smiled, chewing her gum slowly. “Something sacred.”

“Like what?”

“2Pac.” She winked. “Hail Mary. Time to make these fools pray.”

The DJ called her name and the club erupted.

“BIG. MONEY. MIMS. Let the church say AMEN!”

The crowd was already going insane—grown men throwing hands, reaching for stacks, acting like she was giving away salvation in G-strings. A full stampede of screaming, sweating, vibrating testosterone.

Then came the lights.

A soft white first—then red.

Then the beat.

“Hail Mary, run quick see…”

And she walked out.

Slow.

Deadass silent.

The room turned into a pressure cooker the second her heel hit the stage.

BAM. BAM. BAM. That’s how loud her heels sounded. Like gunshots. Like “pay attention, I’m about to change your life.”

And when Mimi hit that pole and gripped it with one manicured hand?

Men stood up. Some with tears already brimming.

In the corner booth… Jimmy watched like a damn statue.

He hadn’t moved since she walked out. Didn’t speak. Barely blinked.

Something about her knocked the wind out of him.

She spun into a drop and bounced that ass like it owed rent and had a warrant. Smooth, controlled chaos. She didn’t dance for tips—she demanded tribute.

The man beside Jimmy—a coke dealer from Little Haiti—looked like he’d seen Jesus.

“Yo… is that even legal? She… she floatin’, bro…”

Jimmy didn’t answer. His jaw clenched. His eyes followed her every move.

She stripped off her thong slow, dramatic, letting it slide down one leg like a lover’s hand. Someone in the front legit threw twenty bands and hit his knees.

HIS. KNEES.

“She SAVED MY LIFE!” the man yelled to no one.

Mimi didn’t even look at him. Just flipped her hair and kept twerking to the beat, thighs jiggling like sin and salvation had a baby and named it Camille.

Back at the booth:

“Yo, you good?” Jey asked Jimmy, sipping Hennessy.

Jimmy didn’t look away. “She dangerous.”

“Dangerous how?”

“That’s a weapon, Uso. On God.”

“Yeah, well… you look like you ready to get stabbed.”

Jimmy smirked. “She might be the first one I let.”

He watched her drop into a split, cheeks rippling, then glide up the pole like she was levitating. Money was flying like someone hit the ATM with C4.

By now, the floor was littered with at least fifty racks and counting.

And the way she kept dancing like it still wasn’t enough? Like she expected more?

That was the real flex.

Then it happened.

She looked up mid-spin, hair over one eye, lips glossed to the gods—and locked eyes with Jimmy.

He didn't flinch.

Neither did she.

She stared. Right through him. Like she’d already sized him up. Like he was just another man with money and ego and no game.

And then… she smirked.

That one, evil, femme-fatale smirk.

And looked away.

Didn’t linger. Didn’t pause. Just turned her back like he wasn’t even worth the full stare.

Jimmy let out a low whistle, shook his head, and muttered under his breath:

“Yeah. I want her.”

CHAPTER THREE

“Encore for the Gods”

Camille “Big Money Mims” Harris didn’t just finish her set. She finished the whole damn room.

Men were still standing—sweaty, shaking, shell-shocked like they'd just survived war and glory all in one song. She had them in a chokehold, and the beat had long since faded into silence, but no one moved.

The DJ tried to cue up the next dancer.

The crowd booed. Loud. As in: “We don’t want nobody else, pack it up, refund everybody but her” type of boo.

A group of guys in the front row were visibly distressed. One of them had his shirt off and tears in his eyes.

“MIMI PLEASE,” he yelled. “ONE MORE SONG! I’LL PAY YOUR RENT!”

“I’LL PAY YOUR MORTGAGE!” “I’LL PAY YOUR TAXES!” “I’LL PAY YOUR CHILD SUPPORT EVEN IF YOU AIN’T GOT NO KIDS!”

Mimi just stood there—barefoot now, pasties still on, her thong gone, replaced by a thin gold chain that hung low on her hips and glittered like sin under the lights.

She looked like a walking wish that couldn’t be granted twice.

She leaned down slow, grabbed the mic the DJ handed her, and let out a soft laugh that somehow echoed over the speakers.

“Drop a hunnid…” she said, tilting her head. “…and I might do a lil somethin’.”

Bestie…

It was like she summoned a damn storm.

The sky didn’t crack, but the ceiling might’ve.

Stacks started FLYING.

Fifties? Nah. Gone. Dead. Irrelevant. Only hundreds. And not just stacks. Bricks. Luggage. Motherfuckers were pulling out money like it was oxygen.

One guy threw what looked like a briefcase on stage. Another one took his gold chain off and tossed it in like a tithe.

Half a million. On the floor. Easy. Like she’d asked for a napkin.

And Mimi?

She just grinned.

Didn’t even blink. Didn’t break character. Didn’t TOUCH a single dollar. Because unlike other dancers, Mimi didn’t pick up her own cash.

Nah.

That’s what her girls were for.

A petite little baddie in a latex catsuit stepped onto the stage with Louis Vuitton duffle bags already halfway full. She had her own security guard too, who stood by stacking and banding the bills with military precision.

Mimi didn’t even glance back.

“Run that Rosa.”

And when the beat dropped?

🎶 “Ah ha, hush that fuss... everybody move to the back of the bus…” 🎶

The room lost its goddamn mind.

She danced to Outkast’s "Rosa Parks" like she was claiming reparations through movement.

The crowd could barely process it.

That ass had rhythm, purpose, a civil rights agenda, and choreography.

She wasn’t just stripping. She was narrating a whole cultural shift with her hips.

Every bounce, every drop, every hair whip was deliberate. Regal. Iconic. The gold chain on her hips jingled like a crown—and the floor looked like a Wall Street crime scene.

Men clutched their chests. A woman fainted. Someone in the VIP booth threw a Rolex on stage.

Security had to step in just to keep the peace.

And Mimi?

Mimi looked bored.

Like, this is just another Friday.

She did a final spin—legs in a perfect scissor above the pole, glitter cascading down like confetti—and landed in a soft squat, one leg out, both hands on her knees.

The lights dimmed.

The room went silent for a beat.

And then?

Roaring applause. Screams. Chaos.

The DJ was wheezing. Security was drenched in sweat. Her duffles were full.

And Mimi?

She just walked off the stage like she’d done absolutely nothing.

Backstage, the madness followed.

Girls were whispering. Some mad. Some inspired. Some shook. Her little money-handler handed her a bottle of alkaline water and dabbed her forehead gently.

“You want me to call Jerome for pickup?”

Mimi took a sip and shrugged. “Nah. They gon’ be awhile cleanin’ up my tips.”

“You left a whole half mil on the floor.”

“It’ll wait.” She winked. “I’m not in a rush to collect what’s already mine.”

Meanwhile... Jimmy was still at the booth.

Mouth dry. Eyes wide. Heart confused.

“I think I blacked out,” he muttered.

Jey chuckled. “Yo. You look like you just seen the Virgin Mary twerk in HD.”

“That woman ain’t no virgin.” Jimmy’s voice dropped low. “But she divine.”

He stood up. Buttoned his silk shirt. Adjusted his watch.

“You bout to approach her?” Jey asked, sipping casually.

Jimmy gave a tight smirk. “You think I came here to talk powder with a low-level middleman?”

He nodded toward the back hallway.

“Nah, Uce. I came here… and found my weapon.”

CHAPTER FOUR

“All Money Ain’t Enough”

The air backstage smelled like victory. Well—victory, cocoa butter, and a cool seven hundred K in fresh blue faces.

Camille Harris didn’t smile. Not big anyway. She was too busy chewing her spearmint gum like it owed her rent, walking with the poise of a woman who knew her bag was secured and her taxes were prepaid through 2030.

The lights from the main room dimmed behind her, muffled by the heavy velvet curtains. A few of the club workers were scrambling around like ants—rushing to collect what hadn’t already been stuffed into duffle bags marked LV and Goyard.

Her little team followed behind her, like well-trained assistants to royalty. One was holding the iced-out duffle. Another had her extra heels. The third, her baby gay stylist, was already texting the McLaren valet with one hand and lighting a blunt with the other.

“Stack the bags in my trunk neat,” Mimi said, not even looking over her shoulder. “If one of my shoes is crooked, I’m making somebody cry tonight.”

“Yes, Miss Mims,” they replied in unison.

That’s when she noticed him.

Tall. Broad. Tattooed hands in his pockets. Leaning against the hallway wall like he owned the whole damn block.

Jonathan Fatu. “Big Jimmy.” And he wasn’t looking at her like a man. He was looking at her like a problem he wanted to solve.

Eyes low. Golds shining. That slow, deliberate stare.

And Mimi?

Mimi didn’t flinch. Didn’t stop walking.

She chewed slow, her hips swaying like they had a personal rhythm section, and when she passed within a few feet of him—without even really looking—she raised a hand and let her words slice clean through the air like a diamond.

“Sorry baby,” she purred, blowing a soft bubble and snapping it, “I don’t do autographs. And you don’t look like you can afford private.”

She gave him a lazy up-and-down, like she was appraising a used car with a cracked windshield.

“What’s that—last year’s Gucci?” she asked, face scrunched. “Don’t hurt your own feelings, sweetheart.”

OOP.

Jimmy’s lips twitched. Not quite a smile. But not mad either.

He didn’t step forward. Didn’t say a word. Just stood there, watching her pass like he was letting her have that one.

Mimi didn’t wait for a reply.

She tossed a quick nod to security—dapping the bouncer up like they were old friends and sliding him a thick stack with a wink.

“You made sure no broke boys got in tonight. I appreciate that.”

“You know I got you, Mims,” he grinned, already pocketing the money. “One cried outside ‘cause we told him he couldn’t come in with twenties.”

“As he should.” She flicked her ponytail. “Broke behavior should be painful.”

She stepped outside.

The Miami night wrapped around her like silk. The air warm, thick with humidity and neon. Her Dior two-pieceshimmered under the parking lot lights—custom, of course. Mini skirt hugging her hips, crop top barely holding the girls in. Heels clicking like warning shots across the concrete.

“Put them duffles in the McLaren with care, please,” she called over her shoulder. “Y’all know Louis don’t like being thrown around.”

Jimmy finally moved.

He stepped out after her, hands still in his pockets, voice low and calm like molasses.

“You always talk like that, or just when you scared to be impressed?”

Mimi turned halfway, over her shoulder, gum still popping. That look on her face like he was a minor inconvenience.

“Baby, I am the impression. What’s to be impressed by? You look like a bad decision with a good barber.”

She walked over to the driver’s side door, clicked it open, and slid in like a goddess entering a throne.

“Tell your stylist to catch up though. I’ll give you points if you show up next time in Balmain.”

Engine purred.

Dior glittered.

McLaren peeled off like sin on four wheels.

Jimmy just stood there, smirking. Watching her taillights disappear into the Miami night.

“Aight,” he muttered, low and dangerous. “So we playin’ hard to get.”

[badasmuse]

“Happy Birthday Simon”

Simon Dominic x Reader

Warnings: 18+ (MDNI), language, sex, oral sex m!receiving, making fun of age (as always)

Summary: it’s simon’s birthday, what better gift to give him than you?

“simon!!!” you yell, running into his studio.

“y/n i’m writing. what do you want.” he says not looking up from his notebook.

“old cranky ass.” you mumble, sitting on the couch in his studio. “your birthday is coming up. what should i give you this year?” you ask leaning towards him.

“space.” he says flicking your forehead.

“ow you asshat.” you rub your forehead, pouting.

simon gets up and locks the door before sitting next to you, “come here.” he says which makes you climb on his lap.

you lean forward kissing his lips gently, “seriously, what do you want?”

“peace and quiet.” he replies kissing you again. “and maybe my dick sucked i haven’t thought it over.”

you slap his chest, “be for real, stupid.”

“i do want my dick sucked. use this pretty mouth for something other than talking and rapping.” simon says, swiping his thumb across your bottom lip.

“stop playing with me i’ll ride you right here.” you say, grinding on his hardening dick.

“not now. let me finish.” he slaps your ass before going back to writing. “oh and i need pens and a new watch if you’re looking to get me a gift.”

you smile and kiss his cheek before leaving his studio.

simon’s birthday came faster than you thought. you’ve been searching high and low for a watch but nothing is good enough for him.

you finally ended up on a website and found the perfect watch for him. “fucking finally. i was gonna throw up.” you say to yourself. the day of his birthday you just bought his present. you quickly buy it, not caring about the price, and wrap it up bringing it with you to his party.

“there she go!” loco says as you walk through the door.

“sorry! i’m sorry. it took too long at the store.” you say sitting in the booth next to simon. “hey.. i’m sorry.” you whisper to him, leaving a kiss on his cheek.

“i thought you stood me up.” simon says side eyeing you.

you flick his forehead. “anyways are we doing gifts now?”

“yes we were waiting for you.”

“good i’m going last.” you say.

you watch every gift that was bought for him, loving the face he makes when he receives a gift that unlocks a core memory.

“bro was this from that time we did that quiet show?” simon asks laughing looking at the used lipstick.

“yeah i kept it!” gray responds laughing.

finally, it ends up on you. you grab your gifts and hand it to him. “this one first.”

he opens it and laughs, “new pens!”

“damn those are nice as fuck.” loco says looking at them.

“here, this too.” you say handing him the last gift.

you watch his jaw drop and look between you and the watch.

“y/n..”

“you said you needed a new watch i wanted you to have the best. plus all you do is talk about damn pateks,” you roll your eyes, “so there you go.”

he pulls you into a hug and you giggle, hugging him back.

“now that gifts are done,” loco interrupts, “shots shots shots!”

and that’s where it starts. shots are brought out then bottles are brought out.

simon grabs a bottle and tilts your head back. you open your mouth letting him pour the liquor in. it drips down your chin onto your neck and he leans down and licks it up.

“i’ll still give you what else you asked for.” you whisper in his ear, the shots you took prior finally catching up with you.

“yeah? let’s leave soon.” he whispers back.

another round of shots is ordered and you’re gone. giggling and rubbing simon’s arm seductively. “let’s go simon.” you giggle.

he downs another shot before getting up and dragging you out the club. he stops a taxi, lets you in, and gives the driver his address.

you rub his leg, inching closer and closer to his dick and he grabs your hand, “behave.”

the taxi pulls you to his place faster than you thought. he pays and helps you out, dragging you up to his apartment and pulling you in.

once the door is shut you’re on him faster than a fly on a stank ass. he presses you against the door kissing you and moving down to your neck as you start to unbutton his shirt.

“careful old man, don’t want you throwing your back out.” you laugh when he picks you up.

“oh that’s funny?” he asks bringing you to the couch. he sets you down and pushes you down on your knees. “use your mouth for something useful.”

you obey, pulling his dick from his pants. you lean back to avoid it hitting you in the face then immediately take him into your mouth. you bob your head slowly, looking up at him through your lashes.

his hand tangles in your hair as he watches you, “just like that.” he groans.

you pull off him slowly, “you can use me, daddy.” you whisper.

simon’s eye (and dick) twitches at your words. “open.” he demands. soon as your mouth is wide enough, he pushes his dick between your lips. you gag when the tip hits the back of your throat but he doesn’t care. he holds your head tightly and thrusts into your mouth at a quick pace.

“that’s my girl. fuck your mouth feels amazing. i knew it was good for something.” he pants, thrusting deeper.

tears fall from your eyes as he repeatedly hits the back of your throat. he groans loudly, choking you with his dick. “don’t move. fuck i’m cumming.” he groans cumming down your throat. you cough and gag when he pulls out. your eyes red and tearful, tears falling down your face, and your lips covered in spit and cum. mascara is running down your face and he moans.

“you look so fucking good.” simon says, grabbing your throat and kissing you roughly.

you kiss back, moaning into his mouth as his hand finds its way into your skirt. he rubs your clit and you gasp. “fuck.”

“strip for me.” simon says slapping your ass.

you giggle and push him onto the couch. you unbutton your skirt and let it slide down your legs to the ground. next you pull off your shirt, revealing your boobs to him since you chose not to wear a bra with your top. lastly, you pull off your panties, showing him your wet cunt.

“ride me.” is all he says and you climb into his lap, sinking on his dick immediately.

he moans at the feeling of your tight, wet cunt, squeezing his dick. “don’t matter how many times i stretch you, you’re always so tight.” he groans.

“i do it on purpose.” you giggle clenching around him as you fully sit on his lap.

“ride.” he says and you nod.

moans leave your lips as you bounce up and down on his lap, the tip of his dick kissing your cervix gently. “oh my god you’re so big.” you gasp out. all you can focus on is him.

“am i? does it feel good?” he grunts in your ear, holding you close.

“s-so good.” you stutter. simon huffs and lays you on your back. he pounds into you roughly making you yelp.

“got tired of waiting.” he mumbles. you push against his lower stomach, the thrusts too hard for you, but he grabs you pinning your hands up by your head. “don’t do that. you take what i give you.”

you’re so far gone, the alcohol and rough fuck sending you to space. simon notices and puts his fingers on your clit, bringing you back to him. “oh fuck!” you scream. your vision goes white as you cum all over him, immediately passing out after.

the next morning, you wake up confused and hungover. “oh fuck what the fuck.” you groan.

simon looks over at you, “you passed out after you came.” he says. “i felt bad and didn’t want to keep using you so i stopped but you might be sore.”

“aren’t you a gentleman?” you say kissing his cheek. “maybe i should make up for that?” you ask, hands trailing down his stomach.

“you definitely should.”

a/n: this was for sure supposed to be posted yesterday for my man’s birthday (march 9th) and i didn’t get around to it-

taglist (simon dominic only, open!): @yngtort @panjakes

[hairmetal666]

EDIT: ao3 should be back so you can read this now 😭😭

Robin rips the cream-colored polo out of Steve's hands. "Hey!" his surprise makes him shriek.

"Absolutely not." She jams the hanger back on the rack. "We're in a boutique in Paris. You are not buying a polo shirt here."

Steve pouts. "But it's my size."

"No. I'm putting my foot down." She stomps to get her point across. "C'mon, they have sunglasses in the back."

He leaves the shirt behind, allowing Robin to lead him towards the table of over-sized, dark-framed sunglasses.

She gets lost in trying them on, vamping in the little mirror, leaving him to card through a rack of silk scarves, until a case of vintage wrist watches by the register catches his eyes. He studies the them—Omega, Rolex, Cartier, Patek Philippe—bands of finely tooled leather and steel, inlaid with gold, silver, diamonds; things Steve could never afford for himself in a million years.

He's so lost in contemplating the fine jewelry and the state of his life, everything that will change once he gets home, that it takes him a second to register the increasing noise coming from outside. At first, it's excited voices exclaiming in rapid French, but it quickly becomes near-hysterical screaming.

Steve’s first impulse is to locate the danger, block Robin from whatever might be coming. Before he can move, though, the most beautiful man on the planet skids through the door, long, dark curls flowing behind him like they’re caught in their own breeze.

"Kiss me," the man says. His voice is deep and breathy, and he has the biggest, brownest eyes Steve has ever seen. He loses himself in them—they’re so dark he can see his reflection in their depths—and it takes too long for the words to register.

"What?" Steve mumbles.

This gorgeous guy—long limbed and slender, a cropped cut-off t-shirt showing acres of pale skin punctuated by dark swirls of tattoos—can’t have actually asked to kiss him. This is a lust-based hallucination, it has to be, because this guy has a belly-button ring and wears pants so tight they have to be cutting off his circulation.

"Kiss me. Please?" the man asks again. The shouting from outside is louder now, people are crying, and Steve is sure that, this time, there's a definite note of desperation to his words.

This is a dream, for sure. There’s no way this breathtaking man is actually asking Steve for a kiss. Even so, Steve hears himself agreeing in a voice that doesn't sound anything like his own. The guy—the impossible, beautiful guy—smiles all gentle and soft, cupping the back of Steve's head in his large hand.

He's kissed a lot of people in his life. Like a lot. But nothing like this, not ever. Their mouths slot together, and he's expecting it to be chaste, and it is, but. Something electrical fizzes in his blood, goes straight to his brain, because his mouth is pressing harder and the man moans, grips Steve closer, pulls him until they crash against a clothes rack.

It's wanting and hot, but their tongues barley brush together before the embrace is broken. Steve wants; it infuses his blood stream, becomes a delicious ache in his lower abdomen.

"Thanks, sweetheart," the man whispers, pupils blown and eyes glassy. He brushes his thumb along Steve's cheek, then spins on his heel, disappearing out the door.

Steve can’t move, doesn’t think he remembers how to breathe, mouth still hanging open in bemused shock. What the fuck.

"STEVE," Robin screams.

He jumps, the noise stark in the quiet store and the now ringing silence outside, whatever commotion from earlier gone as though it had never been.

"Robin, what?" He snaps.

"Do you know who that was??"

His face flames crimson. "Uh. Just some guy?"

"Steeeve, dingus, you're hopeless."

"Who was it, then?"

"Oh, only Eddie Munson? The Eddie Munson, Billboard number one for sixteen weeks? First album sold out at stores around the world? Didn't you wonder what all that screaming was about?"

"Oh my god,” Steve says. Hand going up to touch his kiss reddened lips. “Oh my god."

Read the rest on ao3!

[prima-materia-ttrpg]

Species Highlight - Sepia

Have you ever wondered what it would be like if cephalopods could live for more than 2 years? Perhaps even passing on generational knowledge? My mind wanders to this topic fairly often, the Sepia are a result of me following this line of questioning to its conclusion. I present to you, the Sepia.

The Sepia are Cephalopods, very similar to cuttlefish. They can mimic other objects and animals thanks to their ability to change the color and texture of their skin, as well as their very fine motor control over their arms. Sepia are also mildly telepathic, an ability that allows them to coordinate large shows of mimicry and move in tandem with any number of other Sepia involved in the show. They use this ability to mimic creatures that are much larger than they are, such as sharks, or sometimes to hypnotize larger animals by sending pulses of color through a wall of Sepia.

As Sepia are unable to make any useful sound underwater their languages are polyvisual; they incorporate multiple glyphs, colors, and textures into words and tonality which they display on their bodies. Some of these words are even animated to an extent. Despite the inherent complexity of their languages, Sepia conversations are very fast; ideas that would take a sentence to convey in most phonic languages are often condensed into a single specific word in Sepia languages.

Much like humans, what the Sepia lack in strength they tend to make up for with their ingenuity; and as a species that needs to navigate fully three dimensional spaces to survive, they're very sharp. They have domesticated many species of sea creatures for various purposes. They keep fish for food, blue sailsharks for herding fish, bio-luminescent remora for use as lighting, and many others. Many sedentary Sepia civilizations farm clams for food, and nomadic Sepia tend to keep small beds of poisonous clams for use in hunting.

Tagging along with Giants

Many Sepia are nomadic, having forged a mutually beneficial relationship with the Sophont whales on Patek. How this relationship started is lost in the fog of time; those who live in these communities say it has always been this way.

The Sepia act as hands for the whales, using their tools to take care of them and even help them with forms of self-expression through making tattoos, piercings, and other outward displays. In return, the whales carry their homes, cargo, and graves. The whales, blessed with two and a half century long life spans and nothing to manipulate objects with, also do the majority of the mental labor of lore keeping and social deliberation. This relationship is not generally seen as transactional, but rather as expected contributions to a community or family - the whales and Sepia often form multi-species family units, with whales in the family often carrying their family's home.

The religious beliefs of the nomads are very heterogeneous, but they share more in common than one might first expect as a result of meeting up every year for the Sophont's breeding season. The courtship rituals of Sophont whales; wooing potential partners, meeting the families to be joined together, and spending much-needed alone time once a partner and their family is chosen is very complex and takes several months. These social interactions often sweep up more romantic Sepia into the moment, and lots of cultural exchange happens as a result which leads to certain tropes appearing in most of the nomadic religions. The most important of these tropes is the idea of the three realms of existence. The realm of the living is full of fish to catch and life to live, where all your favorite things exist and unless you're very unlucky, where all your experiences have taken place. The parched realm, where the water is too thin to breathe and the weight of your own body can crush you; not to mention the horrible beaked demons that may pick you apart as soon as they see you. The gods often summon great storms, and Sepia of great folly can get caught in them and thrown wayward never to be seen again. Only whales can tolerate the parched realm, and only for a time, as they must draw life from emptiness itself. The third realm is the realm of the dead, far below the world and past a barrier of frigid water. Some wild whales are able to breach this barrier, and though they cannot be spoken to their scars tell stories well enough.

Whales, being the only creatures with a connection to all three of the realms of creation, are revered by many Sepia and have great religious significance. Some whales are happy to be the center of the nomadic spiritual life and are attended to by Sepia priests as they speak expansively on the metaphysicality of creation with their peers and share their wisdom with others. Other whales take on a more utilitarian roll with their spirituality, becoming graveyards for Sepia that have past. It is their job once they die to ferry all the Sepia souls that they carry into the realm of the dead so they don't get lost.

Natural entertainment in the pelagic zone is sparse, so the nomads come up with endless games and art forms to pass the time. The Sepia perform plays, re-enacting heroes and important religious and cultural events; Sophonts will come up with songs and tales, and tales in the form of song, and have a Sepia transcribe it. Children play with each other and their remora pets. Thinking puzzles, conundrums, and paradoxes are popular among most of the nomads, courtesy of the whales; many of which love to talk long-windedly on philosophical matters.

Not all nomadic groups interact with others outside their cultures, though after a particularly good hunting season, some will often take their surplus catch to their sedentary cousins who live on the reefs and seagrass meadows to trade for finished goods and luxuries.

Putting Down Roots

The vast majority of Sepia are sedentary, settling in coral reefs, seagrass meadows, and on the periphery of estuaries. Their towns range from small aquaculture villages that raise beds of clams, to large cities among the reefs that are host to thousands of Sepia kept fed by surrounding aquaculture villages. While there are some Sepia civilizations that have sprung up on seamounts or the shelves around islands, most of these civilizations are found along the coasts of continents, and as a result have much more interaction with other sapient species, especially Koura who live both in water and on land.

Most people know of the Sepia from stories Ternaki bring from Sifia, as the Ternaki have excellent trade relations with the Sepia off the Sifian coast. Sepia will trade food, finished goods, and raw minerals in exchange for metal products and other things they usually can't make themselves. Some of them have taken to training small hammerhead sharks to act as metal detectors to find silver and gold on the ocean floor for the express purpose of trading with land species.

Religion among the Sepia varies wildly among the sedentary civilizations, and often has influence from those they trade with. One belief, which varies in its interpretations, is that estuaries are gates to start on the journey to the afterlife. They are guarded by divine creatures with beaks that snatch anyone who would be so foolish to try and find what lies beyond, but tales of following the rivers and streams up to the mountains speak of untold beauty. Some Sepia believe that when they die, their spirit will be free from their body and they can physically follow the rivers to the mountains past the birds and unbreathable fresh water to see the heavens, and they aren't technically wrong. Spirits do exist, but that's a topic for another blog post.

In the modern day, the beaked creatures are known to be birds and many estuaries are made safe for Sepia to farm fish, shrimp, and mussels. As a result, most Sepia that have this belief, particularly ones that work in estuaries, don't interpret it literally. In addition, there are Sepia that have taken the first steps on land inside mechanical drysuits, designed by Sepia and aided in their manufacturing by the Ternaki.

Life on Land

The Sepia are an aquatic species, but they're also playable so I need them to be able to go on land. The answer, obviously, is mech suits.

Sepia drysuits are a relatively new phenomenon, a consequence of the industrial revolution allowing access to manufactured goods and other recent breakthroughs bringing technology and alchemy up to speed with the ideas some Sepia have been having for centuries. The first drysuits were little more than fishbowls on wheels, connecting pedals or other cranks to the wheels for locomotion. However, over the past twenty years drysuit technology has been drastically improved. Cockpits are now hermetically sealed and durable, with alchemical salt water recycling systems where oxygenated salt water is mixed in one or two canisters and pumped into the cockpit; the old water flushed out of the drysuit. Many drysuits are still utilitarian and use tracks for mobility, with the addition of graspers for manipulating objects. More complex drysuits also exist, including ones with humanoid plans that are piloted with levers, cranks, and quite a bit of pullies. Some more high-end ones use Hydraulics. Some Sepia have taken to pushing the limits of these kinds of suits, making names for themselves on land as skilled pilots able to make their suits do acrobatics.

On the mechanics side of things, I have some simple drysuits written that need to be playtested. Currently, they have a Strength (which is used in place of the Strength Attribute), Size, Speed, Fine Manipulators (number of hands), Armor, Durability (hitpoints based on materials used), and Cockpit Durability (Cockpit hitpoints). These are a way from being tested for the moment though, hopefully within a few weeks.

If you read this far, thank you very much! Also huge thanks to @donutboxers for the art in this post. The next Species Highlight will be the Possum, and the next mechanics post will be about Metaphysicalities.