#but its still an important history nonetheless

[lockefanfic]

City of Light

The following is Chapter 10 in the Toy series, but it can (mostly) be read on its own. 🙂

15,477 words.

---

Even in the darkness of near-midnight, Paris was still beautiful.

The sparkling lights contrasted sharply against the decades and sometimes centuries-old buildings they illuminated. Even as you flew by them in the hired van, the weight of history was nonetheless impressed upon you by almost every structure you passed on your way to the hotel.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Hirai Momo says, softly, as though she were talking to herself. You turn to find her similarly entranced by Paris’ lights, even as they painted her soft features in blue and white.

“It is,” you agree, as you return to watching large, particularly ornate buildings fly by your window.

“Some of these buildings must be centuries old,” she continues, her voice surprising you with its depth and thoughtfulness. “How many people have been inside them? How many stories have started and ended in their walls? Kind of crazy to think about. Feels like history is right there outside this window, passing us by.”

It was the kind of statement you’d expected from one of the more introspective members of Twice, but admittedly not from Momo, whom you’d assumed didn’t really give much thought to things like the histories of cities and the stories of the people within them. When she turns to give you a look she lets a slim smile play across her lips, as though she were proud of herself for having surprised you the way she did.

“What?” she prods.

“Nothing,” you answer, “It’s just…”

“Just that that was something you’d expect one of the other girls to say? One of the… smarter ones? Mina or Jeongyeon or… Chaeyoung?”

You are taken aback by how forward she was being - your conversations with her over the past few months were casual at best, and rare outside of the bedroom. Truth be told, though, she wasn’t too far off from the truth.

“Well, yes,” you admit.

“Figured,” she says. There is the slightest hint of disappointment in her tone as she turns back towards the glittering lights flying by the vehicle. “You’re not the only one that would think so.”

She doesn’t seem open to continuing the conversation, and so you leave her be. You ponder her words in silence for the rest of the trip, feeling suddenly guilty for having assumed so much about the young woman next to you.

---

The check-in process at the hotel was relatively painless, much to your relief. You’d come to realize that many of the high-end hotels the girls regularly stayed in had staff on hand that were fluent in English, saving you from having to rely on your high-school level French and a translator app.

The elevator you occupied with Momo opens its doors on the fifth floor, where your room was located. The company had splurged on a penthouse suite for Momo, as it often did with its performers. Despite this, the hotel as a whole was still one of the higher-end ones in Paris, and you were looking forward to grabbing some room service and much-needed sleep in a fancier room than you were accustomed to.

“The makeup people will be here early,” you say with a sigh as you grab your wheeled luggage and get ready to vacate the elevator. It was well past midnight now, and you both had a long, important day ahead of yourselves with Momo’s appearance at a fashion show. “I can give you a call around six, make sure you’re awake-”

Momo stops you, her hand grasping your forearm while you are halfway out of the elevator.

“You’re the only manager here,” she says, matter-of-factly. “So you’re all mine for this trip, aren’t you?”

You find a smile on her lips, and you quickly return it. You knew what she meant, both with her words and the look that accompanied it.

Truth be told, you had settled more into the managerial side of your “job” in the past month or two, and this week-long trip and Momo’s appearances at two fashion shows, five days apart, was your first time as the sole on-site manager with one of the girls. While you were still on-call for the girls’ more physical needs, you also knew this trip was an opportunity to really make something of yourself at the company beyond just being entertainment for the girls. As such, you found that you were more focused than usual at making sure it went off without a hitch.

But as serious as you were about making sure the trip went smoothly from a corporate point of view, you weren’t one to turn down an invitation, particularly when it was shaped like Hirai Momo.

“Of course, Momo,” you relent, stepping back into the elevator and hitting the button for the top floor.

---

Jetlag was a bitch, though.

Momo had decided to take a shower after you’d both entered the luxurious penthouse suite - and you were powerless to resist the call of the luxurious, expensive-looking couch that dominated the suite’s living area. A short nap while Momo unpacked and undressed, you thought, just a quick rest for your eyes, then you’d get up, sneak into the shower with her and give her the pounding of a lifetime-

The alarm on your smartwatch jerks you awake four hours later.

You wipe the sleep from your eyes as you groggily swing your legs down from the couch. The light emanating from the open bathroom door informed you of Momo’s presence in it, and so you drag yourself from the soft, warm, comforting couch to check on her.

“Have a good nap?” she says, even before you fully enter the ridiculously large bathroom. She shoots you a small smile in the oversized vanity mirror, and you manage to return it despite the sleep still lingering in the corners of your eyes.

The smile lingers on her lips as she watches you for a moment longer before returning her attention to the bathroom counter. Before her are an array of cosmetics that made up her daily skincare routine, and she fiddles with the small plastic containers and vials, apparently searching for something.

“Yeah, I’m sorry,” you admit, rubbing your face with both palms as you lean against the bathroom’s doorframe. “I just can’t get any sleep on planes.” Your first-class seats meant you were admittedly more comfortable than you’d ever been on a flight, but your inability to sleep on planes still resulted in fifteen hours of restlessness. Momo, being well-used to such luxuries, slept like a baby, which explained her high energy levels despite dawn being an hour or so away.

“I even left the bathroom and shower door open,” she admits, smile turning sly even as the elusive cosmetic continues to evade her. “Didn’t think you’d miss the invitation.”

The implication underlying her words stir something in you, and you step into the bathroom, drawing close to her. She smells softly like vanilla, and the sweet scent of her still-damp hair finally shakes the last cobwebs of sleep from your brain.

She loosens the neckline of her white bathrobe slightly to dab something against the soft skin of her neck and upper chest. The generous cleavage she reveals is unmissable in the mirror, still moist from the shower. Rivulets of water stream down her perfect, creamy skin. You reach around her torso, placing a hand softly on the knot of her bathrobe.

“Is this another invitation?”

Her gaze remains locked on herself in the mirror as she continues to dab the small cotton pad against the soft skin of her neck, although the smile curls into a mischievous one. You both linger there for a moment in silence - she must’ve taken pleasure in leaving you in suspense - until she finally decides she’d teased you enough. She places the cotton pad back on the counter, finding your gaze in the reflection of the mirror.

Without breaking your gaze, she undoes the bathrobe’s knot at her waist, pulling its folds apart to reveal her nakedness beneath. Round breasts, toned stomach, long, perfect legs - but it’s her eyes that draw you in. Round, full, somewhere between cute and lustful. Irresistible, either way.

You step close, planting your first soft kiss on the newly revealed skin of her neck. Your arms wrap around her body, your fingers finding her flat, toned stomach, and placing your palm flat against it, enjoying the feel of the slightly quickened pace of her breathing at this first intimate touch between you. Her scent, the feel of her skin beneath your palms, the small gasp she makes as you place a kiss behind her ear - it’s all so alluring, so intoxicating.

Her skin is warm, moist beneath your lips and your hands. Beads of water from her shower trace a path down her neck, past the round curves of her naked breasts, and onto the flat plane of her stomach.

“You’re still wet, Momo,” you whisper into her ear. She sighs softly. You drink in the sight of her closing her eyes in the mirror, canting her head to the side slightly to reveal more of her neck to your lips.

“You have no idea,” she whispers, softly. After a few more kisses on her neck, she turns her head so she is looking over her shoulder at you. You share a kiss, and the touch of her lips on yours is pure electricity. 

She grasps the hand you’d placed atop her stomach, and drags it down her body. Your kiss deepens when your fingertips brush against the wet, warm heat between her legs.

She was right - she was dripping.

She lets a low, slow moan escape her lips as your fingertips graze the soft, warm flesh between her thighs, your middle finger tracing a slow path upward from the base of her opening to its tip, collecting her plentiful juices on the way.

“Since you refrained from joining me in the shower, I had to get myself started,” she says, softly, eyes still shut softly. Her lips have parted slightly, warm breaths of pleasure leaving them with each soft stroke your fingertips make between her legs.

“Sorry, Momo. Let me take care of you.”

She smiles to herself.

“You’re all mine this trip,” she says, softly, as her eyes slowly drift open, finding you staring at her reflection over her shoulder. Between her legs, your ring finger joins your middle one, tracing slow, careful strokes up and down her opening - barely penetrating, carefully spreading the lips of her pussy apart, preparing her for what was to come.

“All yours,” you say against the back of her ear, breathlessly.

“No other toys, no other girls. Just you and me. All mine, just mine.”

“Yes, Momo,” you gasp, suddenly short of breath. The feel of her slick pussy on your fingertips, that tight, hot body pressed against yours - it was so much to take in. “I’m yours,” you say, “whenever, however you want.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“I am, Momo. I’m yours.”

She grasps your other hand from where it is clutching her hip, and draws it up her torso until it is cupping a full, round breast. Almost on reflex, you capture her taut nipple between your index finger and thumb. She sighs in your arms as you squeeze her breast and tease the nipple atop it, enjoying the heavy weight of it in your hand.

“I don’t believe it,” she repeats, turning her head again to kiss you. Your lips find each other, tongues not long after. Her body writhes like liquid in your arms. Her cunt leaks her juices onto your fingers and between them.

“I am,” you manage to say, between kisses that were quickly becoming heated, more intense. “I’m yours.”

The kiss continues. You’d kissed her before, of course, but never this passionately, never with this much intensity or intimacy behind it. 

“Prove it, then,” she says, breaking the kiss just long enough to get the words out from between your mouths. For the first time since you’d entered the bathroom you look directly into her eyes, and not through the reflection.

Dark brown, round, filled with an intensity that takes you by surprise with its depth. 

“Momo,” you say, unable to really conjure up more than her name. You can feel yourself being lost to her, feel yourself losing your higher faculties and becoming a simple-minded slave to your base needs. “I’m yours,” you repeat.

“We’ll see,” she relents, even as she brushes her nose and then her lips against yours, teasing a kiss that never comes. “But I still have my doubts. I think you’ll have to fuck them out of me.”

That’s it - that’s what snaps the last vestiges of your self control. You crush her lips with yours, driving them against hers with so much force that it might have hurt her - not that she cared, not when she wanted the same thing. 

Your fingers tighten around her nipple, pulling and twisting, squeezing the soft flesh of her breast in your palm. Lower, your fingertips slide inside her.

She moans into your kiss, lips breaking contact for just a second to fill the bathroom with the sound of her pleasure. The kiss continues for a moment more, but she breaks it again when your fingers slide inside her to the hilt.

Her eyes drift slowly open, holding your gaze, even though your faces are touching, your noses and lips brushing against each other as you finger her slowly, sliding your fingers in and out of her slick, hot cunt. Your eyes remained locked on each other as you continue to finger fuck the young woman in your arms.

You’d fucked her before, roughly, sometimes with one or more others sharing the same bed, or couch, or shower. You’d seen her in the throes of orgasm as she’d cum on your cock, heard her spit filth into your ears, watched her as she’d lain there a sweaty, cum-filled mess after one of your sessions - but you’ve never seen her like this. Those were rushed, hard, messy sessions driven entirely by basic lust; this was something else entirely. Momo had never looked so soft, never looked so vulnerable. 

It never felt so intimate.

“Mmm, fuck,” she gasps, “that feels so good.”

“I’ll take care of you, Momo,” you say, the words leaving your mouth almost faster than you knew you were saying them, your desires working faster than your brain. “I’ll take care of you this trip. I’m yours. I’ll make you cum, as much as you want.”

“Do it, please,” she replies, eyes fluttering, body writhing in your grasp. The hand over yours on her breast tightens. She begins to quiver, legs losing their strength as the pleasure builds between her legs.

“Please,” she continues. “Make me cum.”

Your hand leaves her breast, wrapping around her torso, pressing her back against your chest. Her eyes dart open for a moment, finding yours in the mirror’s reflection. Her lower lip curls under a tooth as your fingers move inside her.

Her eyes shut again when they find the right spot.

She moans, and the warm, lovely sound that leaves her throat bounces off the hard marble and glass of the bathroom, filling your ears with her pleasure. It increases in pitch and frequency as your fingers work between her legs - slowly building in pace, not too fast, not too much all at once. Just a slow, steady increase. 

Her legs are jelly now, the arm you’d wrapped beneath her breasts doing more and more to hold her up against you than her limbs did. She reaches back with a hand to grasp your scalp. She arches her back, throws the back of her head against your shoulder as you pleasure her.

Her reflection in the mirror is sex - that perfect body of hers, perfectly shaped, perfectly fit, just perfect - writhing and quivering in your arms. And her face - my god, her face - wracked with pleasure, eyes shut and brow furrowed, mouth agape as it spills a chorus of moans and sighs from her lips.

Between her legs, she is so wet, so slick that her juices are running between your fingers, staining your palm the back of your hand, some of it dripping down to the cold marble in heavy drops as she makes a mess of you and the floor beneath her.

“Cum for me, Momo,” you hiss. Your lips are pressed against the soft skin behind her ear and while your words weren’t very loud, the effect they have on her is obvious. She tightens around your fingers, begins to pulsate. Her moans reach a new pitch.

“Cum for me, Momo,” you repeat, fingers merciless between her legs. You maintain your pace, no longer moving any faster inside her, simply staying at that speed and tempo. You knew she was right there, right on that delicious edge when building pleasure threatened to become an orgasm. You wanted her to stay there, even as your words tease her, tempt her into throwing herself over it.

“Mmm, no, don’t want to yet,” she says, the words tumbling from her drooling lips in a half-drunken slur, “no, don’t want to cum yet, want, oh fuck, want to, fuck, want to stay here, it feels so good, just like this, just like that-”

“Cum for me,” you snap. “Cum on my hand.”

“No, please, fuck, just a little longer please, don’t want to cum yet-”

You let her have her way - for a few moments more. You savor the sight of her reflection in the mirror. Her entire body is trembling. Her fingers are claws - one digging into your scalp behind her, the other on your forearm. What a sight; you want to freeze it, want to sear it into your memory for a lonely day.

“Yes, yes, so good,” she pants. Saliva drips from the corner of a slack mouth. She is a slave to the pleasure emanating from her cunt. She’s helpless, teetering on the precipice of a pit she wasn’t sure she wanted to fall into, not when the simple danger of it was so wonderful, when the threat of cumming so hard was so hard felt almost as good as actually cumming, when she felt so close to something she wasn’t sure she wanted, not yet, not when she felt so utterly-

“Cum for me, Momo.”

When she cums it is almost violent, the way the entirety of her body shakes and quivers and trembles in your arms. Her legs give way, until only your arm around her torso and fingers inside her cunt keep her upright. She tightens almost unbearably around your fingers. Her moans cut out momentarily, but only for a second, because when she finds her voice again the sound that leaves her throat is nothing short of a shriek.

You hold her close through it all, not moving your fingers inside her, simply holding her upright and letting her ride the waves of pleasure as they crash against her.

It takes a few minutes for her to recover. Longer than usual, not that you minded watching the unbearably beautiful, near-naked woman in your arms recover from one of the strongest orgasms you’d ever given her. She is wet, sweaty, slick. Flushed and pink, breathing heavily. Dripping sex, figuratively and literally.

While she is still recovering, you push forward slightly with your upper body until she finds the strength to brace herself against the counter with quivering arms. Then, placing soft kisses on the back of her neck, you slip your fingers from inside her. They emerge wet and sticky from her cunt.

You bring them to her mouth. 

She begins to lick them clean. Eyes still drunk with pleasure, they manage to find yours in the mirror’s reflection. Her tongue gathers her own slick juices, slurps them up as best she can, licking up and down the length of your fingers and between them. She gets her juices onto her chin and cheeks, making them glisten with her wetness. Her eyes never leave yours.

“Fuck me now,” she says, half-moan, half-sigh as the last vestiges of her orgasm course through her veins. She swipes one last time at the juices that stain your fingers. “Fuck me like I want. Like you want. Fuck your cum into me.”

You slip your hand from her mouth, and she sighs at the absence of them. You strip the bathrobe from her shoulders, finally leaving her naked. Perfection in female form, all curves and perfect skin, marred only by sweat and spit and her own juices. Her eyes have never once left yours, locked on yours in the mirror’s reflection, until she turns over her shoulder to look at you directly.

She leans over the counter, arches her back, spreads her legs slightly. Her leaking cunt drips her juices onto the floor between you.

No further words. A few moments pass as you quickly undo the knot at your joggers and pull them down to your knees, revealing your aching, stiffened cock. You step forward, pressing her against the counter. One of your hands reaches out and squeezes a firm cheek of her ass, before sliding up her spine, fingertips tracing a path along the delicious curve there and resting on her shoulder.

Your free hand brings your tip to her dripping cunt. A stroke forward with your hips, and you’re inside Hirai Momo to the hilt.

Her pussy is tight, wet, slick - the feel of her body wrapped around your cock is sublime. Her ass is wide and full, her waist tiny, spine delightfully arched and shoulders possessing the right amount of tone - the sight of her bent over the bathroom counter, fully impaled on your cock, was enthralling, made you shiver with pleasure.

But it’s her face, her reflection in the bathroom mirror, that takes the cake. Her eyes, shut to relish the feel of being filled with your stiffness, slowly drift open before finding and holding your gaze. Her mouth opens to sigh at the feeling of fullness, that wonderful stretch inside her, before her tongue darts out to lick her lips. She says something, and you don’t hear it, but the message on her lips is easy to read, undeniable.

“Fuck me,” she mouths. 

You slip your cock out of her halfway. The lips of her pussy clutch tightly to your shaft, not wanting to let it go. You glisten with her slick juices. 

One stroke, then two. A third, a fourth. A slow build up of pace and depth and force. She takes it, letting small grunts and sighs punctuate each thrust you make into her body. Her arms brace herself against the counter. Her upper arms bring her breasts together, creating a delicious looking cleavage as they begin to be rocked back and forth with each impact of your hips on hers.

You tighten your grip on her, fixing her, keeping her still, rendering her unable to do anything else other than simply take each thrust you give her tight, wet little cunt.

You reach the rhythm you want, where you are fucking her, giving her long, smooth strokes of your cock. Her sighs turn into soft moans as she settles into your rhythm, matches it with her own with small movements of her hips, driving herself back at you, making each thrust that much more pleasurable for both of you.

You let your gaze wander. Everywhere you look is something you want to never forget - the round cheeks of her ass, her slim waist, even the soft curls and waves in her hair as they are plastered to her neck and upper back with sweat. And in the mirror, more; the dangling, bouncing mounds of her breasts and the tight nipples atop them, that lovely face of hers, soft features twisted and contorted with pleasure in the most beautiful way possible.

“Harder,” she says, softly. You oblige.

You reach forward, grasp her upper arms in your palms. You pull backward, lifting her upper body up off the counter, arching her back.

You resume fucking her.

She yelps at the first few thrusts in this position. She’s truly helpless now, fingers turning into claws as they helplessly search for something to hold on to and find nothing. Her breasts bounce wildly in the mirror, the large, round mounds impacted forcefully with each thrust you make into her cunt. They would be sore later, but she wouldn’t care, not if future soreness was the price to be paid for immediate pleasure.

She throws her hair back, sending sable hair flying. Her eyes roll to the back of her head. Her mouth slackens, able to do no more than moan and sigh. Saliva drips from the corner of her mouth, down her chin as she is fucked, hard, stretched cunt filled again and again with your cock.

You tighten your grip on her upper arms, pulling back slightly until she is almost upright. Throughout it all you are fucking her, pounding her tight little pussy, making her feel everything, giving her everything. Your brow furrows with the effort, your teeth grit. 

“You’re so fucking tight, Momo,” you grunt, “such a tight little cunt.”

“Mmmmm, fuck--!” is the response from a breathless mouth. You up the pace. She takes it all, and every wordless moan that leaves her mouth at the peak of each thrust is proof that she loved each one. You fuck her hard, roughly. You take liberties with her body, using her cunt as you wanted, momentarily forgetting that you were there to serve her - and she loves every moment of it.

You’re the first to relent - as much as you wanted to fuck the young woman into oblivion in that position your arms simply couldn’t take much more. You release her upper arms, leaving clear marks on her fair skin, before sliding them up her torso. You cup her tender breasts in each hand, squeezing the heavy mounds, caressing and pinching her taut nipples. She cups her hands over yours. 

“Mmmm, so fucking big,” she gasps. “So fucking big inside me, fucking me so good - and all for me, all mine.”

You bury your mouth in the side of her neck.

“All yours, Momo. I’m gonna fuck this little cunt, your mouth, your ass - all your holes, whenever you want. This cock belongs to you. I’ll take care of you, baby girl. I’ll take care of this body of yours.”

“Yes!” she gasps. “Yes. All mine. Fuck, fuck, fuck, you’re all mine, gonna, gonna fucking cum on your cock.”

You up your pace, but only slightly, just enough to make your impending orgasms that much more wonderful. The slap of wet skin on wet skin fills the bathroom. You let go of her breasts, but your hands don’t leave her, wandering to her hips, her ass, her shoulders - anywhere that let you hold her, grip her, tie her down. Anywhere that you could touch and squeeze. 

“Gonna cum, baby,” Momo says to your reflection in the mirror. “Gonna cum on your cock.”

“Fuck, me too, Momo.”

“Cum in me, okay? Give me your cum. I want-”

Her sentence is interrupted with a long, drawn out moan as she nears her orgasm.

“What do you want, Momo? Tell me. Tell me what you want. I’ll give it to you.”

“I want, I want-”

You continue to fuck her. She’s so close, right on the edge once more, and you’re not far off. Your cock fills her cunt again and again and again and she’s losing her grip, and you’re losing yours, and the whole world means nothing aside from the pussy wrapped around your cock, her perfect body and bouncing breasts, the words leaving the girl’s mouth-

“I want- oh fuck, I want---”

“Fuck, Momo-”

“I want your cum inside me,” she spits, finally, right on the edge of cumming. “Cum inside me. Just for me.”

She cums, and you do too.

You have to hold her down, lest the full-body spasm that wracks her pulls you off your cock before you’d had the chance to fill her with cum. With one hand on her hip and the other on her shoulder you pin her down, pushing her over the bathroom counter until her head and upper chest are pressed against the mirror. One, two more thrusts and you bury yourself inside her, your cock spasming, filling her hot, messy cunt with warm, thick cum.

Your world explodes. Her world shatters into a million pieces. Either way, for a few beautiful seconds you’re both powerless. There is only the pleasure coursing through your bodies.

You grip her hip and shoulder so tightly you are afraid for a moment that you’ll bruise her delicate skin. And for a moment, you didn’t care if you did. All you wanted was to hold her spasming, quivering body still while you filled it with cum.

You both lie there, frozen, for a while - whatever a ‘while’ meant when your respective orgasms rendered your mutual concept of time meaningless. Your hands caress her body, sliding up and down her sides, squeezing a firm ass cheek or round, flushed breast, enjoying the feel of shower water and sweat and other juices beneath your hands. You feel hazy, drunk on pleasure, and everything takes on a blurred, unreal appearance, as though you were still asleep on the couch, and this was the sweetest dream you’d ever had.

A knock on the door is what brings reality crashing back into existence.

You both freeze - you’re still hilt deep inside her creamy, messy pussy. You find her eyes, still filled with a post-orgasm haze, in the reflection.

“The makeup staff,” you say, with a surprising, odd amount of clarity. “They’re here,” you add, as though it were some new bit of information that could shed further light on the ridiculous situation you’d both found yourselves in.

Momo squirms beneath you, but doesn’t move any further. She makes a small whimpering sound. It’s you that moves first when the second knock comes, easing yourself out of her cunt. Thick drops of cum and her juices drip onto the floor, and her whimper turns into a soft, low moan as she feels your cock leave her.

“I need to take another shower,” Momo says, softly, the pleasure still coursing through her body still making her feel high, feel drunk. “Tell them I woke up late. I’ll be out in ten minutes.”

“Okay,” you agree, taking a moment to grab one of the hand towels off the rack and giving yourself a quick clean before bending to wipe the evidence of your act from the marble floor.

You pull your pants back up, and Momo sheepishly steps toward the shower on wobbly legs.

You are turning to make your way to answer the door when she stops you with a hand on your upper arm. When you turn, she plants a kiss on your lips.

“Thanks,” she says, before flashing you that smile of hers and hopping back into the shower. Her cheeks are flushed, and she looks like a mess, but she is glowing.

You find a smile making its way onto your face as you turn to deal with the makeup artists.

---

She was bathed in light again.

This time the lights came from dozens of photographer flashes, each one belonging to a competitor vying for the best shot, the perfect visual capture of the young woman at the center of everyone’s attention. She relishes the moment, doing her best to pose the way they want, the way she knows will show off the best sides of her - not that there was any particular side that outweighed the others, because truth be told, Hirai Momo looked amazing from all angles.

“Fuck she’s hot,” Minnie says.

“Yeah,” you agree, your eyes not leaving the girl who was the center of attention of almost everyone else at the party.

“That fit - damn, not just anyone can pull that off.”

“I think you’d look fine in it.”

“Please,” Minnie scoffs, “don’t patronize me. There’s a reason why the cameras are pointed at her, and not me.”

“Yeah, you look like a real three day old bag of garbage,” you tease. You turn to her for the first time to flash her a smile, and she rewards you with a soft punch to the upper arm. In a similarly all-denim fit, Minnie looked pretty captivating in her own right, albeit in a more subdued, cute school classmate kind of way.

“I’m no slouch,” she admits as she takes a sip from her champagne flute, “but I look like a cardboard cutout compared to those curves.”

As much as you liked Minnie - she was close friends with several of the girls and thus you saw and interacted with her frequently - you couldn’t disagree with her. Momo’s all-denim fit, consisting of wide cut jeans and a halter top that was essentially a triangle of denim strapped to her chest that left her back bare, certainly put all those curves on full display.

You are both admiring Momo from afar when an older, well-dressed gentleman approaches you. Next to you Minnie straightens up and puts on her best smile, but she receives only a courtesy nod of the head from the newcomer.

“Excuse me,” he begins, in British-accented english that reminded you a bit of the way noblemen spoke in period pieces. “Am I correct in assuming that you’re Miss Hirai’s company handler?”

“Yes,” you answer, wondering for the millionth time at the series of ridiculous events that led to you being able to answer ‘yes’ to such a question.

The gentleman reaches into his jacket pocket to retrieve a business card, on which he scribbles something onto the back with a fancy looking fountain pen. He passes it to you, and you take a note of the company logo on the front of it - one of the higher-end brands in the fashion industry, that was for sure.

“I’d welcome the opportunity to meet with someone in your company regarding a business arrangement with Miss Hirai,” he begins. “My personal number is on the back of the card, should she wish to conduct that meeting… personally.”

Out of the corner of your eye you notice Minnie give a scoff under her breath before turning away and taking another sip of her champagne. You succeed a little better than her in hiding your disgust behind a smile.

You’d had your suspicions about the man from the second he approached, and his words only confirm them to be accurate. You had no doubt he did indeed represent the company he claimed to work for, but the generally slimy, greasy aura about him rubbed you the wrong way.

“I’ll make sure someone at the company contacts you,” you respond. “Have a good night, sir.”

He seems a little surprised at your curt reply and abrupt dismissal - this was a man not used to being rejected. Regardless, he manages a tart nod towards both you and Minnie before he scurries off into the crowd.

“What a piece of shit,” Minnie says under her breath, the second his back is turned - perhaps she’d wanted him to hear it. She was nothing if not honest with her feelings.

You nod in agreement as you turn the business card over in your hand, glossing over the number scribbled onto the back.

“Still,” Minnie continues, “that’s a fucking top-tier brand. She’d look pretty good in their stuff, not to mention what it’ll do for her career.”

“I’m not going to-”

“Don’t get me wrong,” she says, cutting you off. “There’s no way in hell I’d let her anywhere near that guy. But if you take it to the company maybe they can work something out - something that doesn’t involve slimeball execs luring models back to their hotel rooms in exchange for promises.”

“Yeah, I suppose you’re right,” you agree, your gaze returning to Momo, who was beginning to signal to her audience of admirers that she was ready to end the little impromptu photo session. If the photographers picked up on her hints, they didn’t show it - the lights continue to flash, and they continue to call her name in hopes that she’d turn to give them the angle they were looking for.

“Anyway, since there aren’t any high-end brand slimeballs hitting on me, I’ll be in the corner getting wasted on free champagne,” Minnie says with a sarcastic but warm smile. You return it - she was a sweetheart, and you hoped to see more of her.

“See you around, Minnie.”

She gives your upper arm a squeeze and shoots you a smile and a wink before heading towards another corner of the room, where several other idols and celebrities in attendance were congregating.

You stand there alone for a few more minutes while Momo wraps up.  She gives everyone small, polite bows and waves as she slowly makes her way towards you, having finally broken free of the throng of admirers and the incessantly flashing lights that accompanied them.

“Who was the creepy old dude?” she asks.

“This guy,” you answer, handing her the card. She makes an intrigued face at the logo on the front before flipping it over and noticing the number on the back. Her curiosity turns into an unamused smirk.

“If you want,” you begin, “we can pretend we never got that card.”

“No, the company will want to know about this,” she answers, with more than a hint of disappointment. “This could be a pretty cool opportunity.”

“I suppose. But you’re sure as hell not dialling that number and meeting with him alone.”

She smiles up at you. Her eyes glimmer in the light of some far-off camera flash.

“Really? Are you going to protect an innocent, naive little girl like me from creepy old execs that want to take advantage of her?”

You smile, and she covers her mouth for a moment to hide her giggle.

“He wouldn’t be the first geezer to think I’d suck his dick and spread my legs just because one of his assistants sends me a bag with a fancy logo on it,” she admits, her giggle fading quickly and turning into a forlorn glance at the card in her hand. “Probably won’t be the last. One of the drawbacks of being super hot, y’know?”

Despite the sarcasm in her tone and the weak smile on her lips, there is a sadness in her eyes that breaks your heart a little.

“Here,” she says, handing you the card with a dispirited look. “You should probably make sure someone in Business Development at the company gets that.”

You draw closer to her and take the card from her hands. You tear it in half.

She looks up at you, the surprise on her face becoming a sweet smile. There is genuine appreciation there, along with something else you couldn’t quite name.

“I appreciate it, I really do,” she says, softly, before returning to a sarcastic tone. “But, like, they’re a pretty big brand. I never want to see that dude ever again, but I like their stuff, so maybe someone from the company can call their company…”

“I can probably… tape it back together?” you say, sheepishly fiddling with the two halves of the card and making a show of trying to piece the two parts together.

Momo giggles again, and amidst the loudness of the event, it sounds like music. “You’re too sweet,” she says, with a warm smile, before she draws close to whisper into your ear.

“And just for the record,” she says, “it’s your cum inside me, your cum that’s dripping down my leg. I don’t want anyone else’s. I just want more of yours.”

She leaves you there, speechless, for a moment that seems longer than it really was. She bites her lip, the slightest bit of ivory poking into soft pink, before sliding her tongue across it.

“C’mon,” she says, finally, motioning towards a corner of the room where Minnie is flagging down another flute of champagne from a passing server. “Can’t let Minnie get wasted all on her own. She’s tiny - so she doesn’t hold her alcohol very well.”

“Right,” you answer, slipping the two halves of the card into your jacket pocket. You’d make sure the guys in Business Development knew to avoid that particular executive when approaching their company. 

On your way to Minnie, Momo tugs at your jacket sleeve.

“Hey,” she says, eyes locked on yours, thoughtful look on her features. “Thanks. Again.”

“You’re welcome. I’m yours this week, remember?”

She pulls away, gives you a thoughtful look over her shoulder, and leads you both to where her friend is polishing off her fourth flute.

---

The Eiffel Tower shone like a golden spear, a beacon against the darkness, a monument to man’s mastery over light.

Unlike other monumental towers in other world-class cities, which were often nestled amidst downtown skyscrapers and other buildings, the Eiffel Tower stands alone and unchallenged against the Paris skyline. That made it difficult to miss, and impossible to ignore.

It is a fact you were thankful for. It gave you something to focus on, something to distract you, if even from a moment, from the woman between your knees.

The simple deck chair you are sitting on squeaks in protest as the pleasure slowly building in your body causes you to squirm atop it. Between your spread legs, Momo smiles around a mouthful of your cock as she slowly eases it from between her wet lips.

“Does that feel good, baby?” she asks, knowing full well what your answer would be. But she asks it anyway, because she wants to hear the answer, wants to hear your praise, wants to hear just how much every little move she made was affecting your body.

“It feels fucking amazing, Momo,” you answer, knowing that no amount of profanity could possible emphasize enough how you felt in that moment.

“Good,” she replies, returning her attention to your cock, planting small, soft, almost chaste kisses along its length. She cradles it with her left hand as she continues her kisses down your shaft, placing a few softer ones on each of your dangling balls.

You reach out, run your fingers through her hair. She raises her head from under your shaft and nuzzles against your palm. Her eyes drift closed for a moment and a smile perks up the corners of her mouth as she enjoys the feel of your skin on hers. The hand on your cock begins to pump slowly up and down your length.

“Just enjoy it, okay babe?” she says, softly, eyes drifting open to lock onto yours. “Let me know when you get close - pinch my arm - and I’ll slow down. I’ll go slow. I want it to last. I want it to feel good.”

“Okay,” you answer. Momo gives you a sultry smile before returning to her work.

Her mouth is sublime - warm, wet, tight - that skilled tongue of hers playing around your head at the apex of each movement, pressed against the underside of your cock on the downstroke. Her hand matches her movements, pumping up and down in time with the movements of her lips and tongue.

You feel the pleasure building, and so you return your attention to the Eiffel Tower.

You wonder for a moment at the sheer scale of it, and how such an impressive structure was created without the construction technology of today. You weren’t really sure when it was built - perhaps early in the 1900s? The late 1800s? Regardless of its actual date of construction you knew it must’ve been a long and difficult process without today’s cranes and Momo’s tongue sliding along the underside of the head of your cock, sending another spike of pleasure coursing up your spine-

That deserved a pinch on her arm.

You can almost feel her smile around your cock as she slows down her pace significantly. Her tongue doesn’t pressed as tightly against your shaft, having momentarily retreated from the offensive it was waging on the tip of your cock. You let a sigh escape your lips.

Back to the Eiffel Tower - gee, the electricity bill on it must be staggering. You were a few kilometers away from it, but from here it seemed like every inch of it was illuminated in some way. It glimmered as though it were made of fine gold and brilliant silver. 

It must’ve cost quite a bit to have it lit up like it was, every night. But it was probably a cost that the residents of Paris bore proudly - it was the fucking Eiffel Tower, after all. If you’d had something as iconic in your backyard you’d bet you’d be lighting it up as much as you could. 

The very tip of the tower contained some sort of slowly rotating searchlight that sent parallel spears of light out into the darkness, as though being a giant lit-up tower of solid gold wasn’t enough to draw your attention to it and Momo’s doing it again, capturing the head of your cock between her lips before swirling the very tip of her tongue around its head and under the sensitive ridge where it met the rest of your shaft. With her right hand she begins to fondle your balls with a light touch; her left hand continues to pump up and down your length and oh my god-

Yeah, a definite pinch on her arm.

She lets your cock leave her lips, and you look down to find an amused smile on her lips. Her tongue darts out, sweeping the spit and pre-cum from them. She can feel that you’re closer now than she’d like, so her hands leave your cock, and she returns to placing soft kisses against your shaft. She nuzzles her face against it, grazing it with her soft cheeks and nose.

The Eiffel Tower, though - wow, what a monument. It was, like, big and stuff, and lit up and it’s so tall and Momo’s reaching behind her now, fingers working quickly at the buckle that held up the ridiculous triangle of denim that was strapped to her chest and now it’s off, and those large, round, perfectly shaped breasts of hers are bare naked, tits you and half the population of Paris had had their eyes glued to for most of the day and now she’s topless and looking at you with lust in her eyes and her hands are cupping her own tits and her fingers are playing with her stiff nipples and and the Eiffel Tower is definitely a thing.

“Jesus, Momo,” you spit, almost on reaction, as the young woman straightens up her back, giving you a full view of her topless form in the low light of the hotel room balcony. You were thankful, not for the first time, that the balcony walls were made of plaster and thus limited any chance of prying eyes witnessing what was happening on it.

Momo’s response is to bring her breasts to your cock, capturing it between the full, warm mounds. She looks up at you, making sure your eyes were locked on her, before she bends her head to spit on the tip of your cock. 

Her saliva lands on your tip, before dripping down your already spit-slick shaft. She squeezes her tits around your cock, and begins to slide them up and down your length.

Your head tilts back and you let a sharp, breathless gasp leave your mouth at the feeling of it. There was no relying on the Eiffel Tower, now, not that any monument in the world stood any chance of distracting you from what was happening between your legs.

“Does that feel good?” she asks, another question she knew full well the answer to.

“Yes, Momo. Fuck.”

“Do you want to cum on my tits?”

“Yes. God, yes.”

“Mmmm,” she responds, continuing to slide her warm, full tits up and down your shaft. Warm, wet, slick. “I like you here, though, like this. Right on the edge…”

“Fuck, Momo, please.”

By way of response, she bends her head, does her best to swipe the tip of her tongue across the head of your cock as it appears from between her tits with each slide down your length. You’re getting close now, your limbs beginning to quiver, the pleasure building-

Momo lets your cock slip from between her tits. You sigh at the loss of that warm softness around your shaft. She returns to placing soft, simple kisses on its length.

“I didn’t pinch your arm,” you state, frustrated. You were right there, just a few seconds away, one or two more thrusts between her tits.

“I know,” she replies, a mischievous smile on her lips, before her tongue darts out and gives you a slow, careful lick from the base of your shaft to its tip. “But you look so good like this, all antsy, wanting so bad to cum all over me. So fucking hot.”

“Momo,” you say, her name almost a plea.

She relents - quicker than you were expecting, and saving you from having to beg - perhaps she’d been looking forward to your orgasm just as much as you were.

“Alright,” she says. “I’m not a monster. Don’t hold back, okay? Just cum. Cum for me.”

She straightens her back, slides your aching cock between those full, round, perfect breasts of hers once again. You don’t miss the way she captures her nipples between her thumbs and index fingers as she squeezes the full mounds around your shaft.

She spits on your cock again. Then she slides her breasts up and down your cock.

For a moment your mind flashes back to that very first night with her and Chaeyoung - the night that, without exaggeration, changed your life. The blowjob they’d started with was amazing, of course, but when you started fucking Momo’s tits for the first time - that was when it really sunk it. Before then it had felt like a dream. With her breasts around your cock, and that look of utter pleasure on her face as you fucked her tits - it suddenly felt very real.

And now here you were, in Paris, no less, with that same, beautiful woman on her knees before, your cock between her breasts again as she pumps them up and down your length. But you were alone, now, just you and her, and it somehow felt more intense than even than the first time. Was it the city? The fact that you were alone with her, with no other girls or toys to get in the way? The fact that there was something in the way she’d been acting in the past few days that made you think, for a moment, that this all meant more to her than a simple appearance at a fashion show?

The thought flees your head quickly amidst the pleasure coursing through your veins. It chases almost everything else away, leaving only the feel of her soft, warm tits wrapped around your cock. It feels amazing. It feels sublime.

Momo is sighing now, the pleasure she was giving you inspiring a similar pleasure in her. She continues to tease her nipples, even as she slips your cock in and out between her breasts. She wishes she were naked, that she could slide a hand down her body to the wetness between her legs - but the thought of it, that delicious itch that she wasn’t quite able to scratch - brought her almost as much pleasure.

“Fuck, Momo, I’m gonna cum,” you hiss, between gritted teeth. You are watching her now, hand tight on her bicep and the other woven into her hair. She raises her head to look at you, eyes glazed with almost as much pleasure as yours.

“Fucking cum all over me.”

Almost as if on command, your orgasm hits you - hard, intense, overwhelming. Your cock spasms in the soft warmth of her tits as it spurts thick, warm semen, thick ropes of it landing on her neck and chin, her upper chest, those perfect breasts. You want to shut your eyes, want to relish the pleasure overtaking your brain, but you force your eyes open, force yourself to watch as you paint Momo with your cum.

She lets a long, soft moan leave her mouth from the moment your cum lands on her skin. She continues to slide her breasts up and down your shaft, but at a slower pace now, the added lubrication of your cum making her feel even more slick and wet around your still-spasming cock.

You quiver at the pleasure in a way that you didn’t often during sex. The environment, the circumstances, the utter sexuality of the perfect young woman pleasuring you - it was almost too much to handle.

Your hands leave her body, and you slump backward in your chair as the orgasm finally winds down. Momo finally stops moving, settling her breasts down until they are wrapped around the base of your cock. Her tongue darts out playfully, sliding across your tip. You shudder, completely at her mercy.

Eventually she raises her head, releases your spent cock from between her reddened, cum-slick breasts. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes half-lidded with lust. Thick ropes of your cum paint her body, the white streaks contrasting against her perfect creamy skin, dripping down her chest in slow paths of glistening wetness.

She stands, and without a further word she steps inside the hotel room.

Just beyond her the Eiffel Tower stood proudly, a monument to humanity and everything it was capable of - not that you gave it a shred of your attention as you follow her into the room.

You watch, dumbfounded, brain hazy, as she undoes the buckle at her belt and lets the thick denim fall down her long, perfect legs. The small black lace thong she wore beneath it follows suit as she bends to slide it from her body, leaving her naked.

When she reaches the bed, she turns around and sits on its edge, beckoning you toward her with her eyes. You follow, slave to her, a thrall to her whims.

She lies back on the bed. She spreads her legs as you approach the edge of the bed, allowing you between them.

You reach out, caressing her warm, full thighs. They are flushed and pink, wet with the juices freely flowing from her opening. The slick wetness of her cunt glistens in the low light of the hotel room.

“I should be getting you back from what you just did to me,” you say. 

She smiles - a sensual, sultry curve of her lips. “I’d say we’re even, considering what you did to me this morning in the bathroom. And besides,” she says, eyes locked on yours as she captures a rope of your cum from her upper chest with her fingertips, “you liked it.”

She slips her glistening fingers into her mouth, sucking your cum from them. 

In response, you place your newly stiffened shaft on her body - the length of it lying atop her shaven mound. She gasps at the feel of it on her.

“What if I want to leave you like this, Momo? Look at my cock. Look at how deep inside you I’d be.”

She glances down between your bodies, to where your aching, stiff cock is lying atop her mound. She bites her lip, reaching down to caress its wet length, imagining it thrusting mercilessly inside her, comparing its length to her body and seeing how deep inside her it would end up.

“You won’t leave me like this. You don’t have the guts. You want to fuck me. You want to ruin this little cunt of mine, leave me here on this bed a little cum-stained, cum-filled thing.”

“Maybe I want to. Maybe I don’t.”

“You do,” she snaps. “And besides, it doesn’t matter what you want. You’re mine, remember? You do what I want - and what I want is your cum in me.”

You feel yourself giving in. How could anyone resist such a sight, such words? She’s perfect - hot, wet, legs spread, your cum is on her chest and she’s irresistible, in every possible way a woman could be.

“Fuck, Momo,” you sigh, defeated. 

Her free hand continues to caress your cock, forming a ring with her index finger and thumb and pumping it up and down your aching length. She captures another rope of your semen from her upper chest with her fingers, before capturing the nipple atop her right breast and teasing it with cum-stained fingertips. She moans at her own touch, you gasp at the sight of her. Your hands, caressing her thighs, tighten around the soft, yielding flesh, holding on to the last vestiges of self-control remaining inside you.

“Do you like me like this?” she asks, breathless.

You grasp your cock with your right hand, bringing your tip to her dripping lips before sliding inside her. It rips a sharp moan from her lungs. You linger there for a moment, hilt-deep inside Hirai Momo’s tight, slick cunt.

“I like you like this.”

You begin to fuck her - as much as a part of you wanted to get back at her for the way she’d edged you out on the balcony, the tight, slick heat you were pumping in and out of did much to dissolve any thoughts of revenge from your head. The session in the bathroom this morning, the teasing at the fashion show, the way she’d pleasured you on the balcony - it had all boiled over, leaving no room for things like teasing or taking things slow.

There was only pleasure, now, and the hard, firm pace you set puts you both on the path to achieving it as quickly as possible.

At first she gasps and sighs as you fill her again and again, her body adjusting to the way you were taking her, her cunt stretching around you. She was still so slick and so very wet - perhaps some remnant of the cum you’d left in her this morning contributed to how messy she felt, or perhaps it was mostly her own juices. Either way, she was dripping even before you’d entered her, and now, as you hammer in and out of that juicy pussy, she was almost drenched.

“Fuck, fuck,” she hisses, between gritted teeth. She raises her upper body on her elbows, giving her a better look between her own spread legs where you are pistoning in and out of her body. She looks up at you, and for a few long minutes you stay like that, eyes holding each other's gaze as you fuck.

Her breasts are given a delightful bounce with each thrust into her body. The streaks of your cum begin to flow down their curves, leaving glistening trails behind them. You rip your eyes from hers to watch them bounce, hypnotically, mesmerized by their perfect shape and the way they moved on her body.

She gets the hint - returns her back to the bed, reaches and cups her tits with both her hands, squeezing their cum-streaked flesh, teasing her nipples again with needy fingers, giving you a show even as she pleasured herself.

It works, and the sight of her spurs you. You up your pace slightly.

“Fuck, yes, right there, just like that,” she spits, as you reach a new tempo. “Fuck me like that, fuck me like this.”

She continues to play with her tits, pinching and teasing her nipples, but you want to see them free, want to see them bounce wildly with every stroke into her cunt. You reach forward. Trapping her wrists in yours, you pull back towards yourself.

She is helpless now, her upper arms bringing her tits together and creating a delicious looking cleavage as they are rocked by each thrust into her tight little cunt. Her heels dig into your butt. She wants more, needs more. She’s moaning and sighing wordless little sounds of pleasure, of need. Your cum is on her bouncing, jiggling breasts and her perfect abs clench and her thighs are flushed and she’s so much, all at once, all for you, she’s made of sex and she’s yours to take.

But that’s not enough - you want more, want to see her lose herself to the pleasure, want to see her cum around your cock. You let go of one of her wrists. With your hand free, you reach down and begin to thumb her clit.

The moan that is halfway out her mouth turns into a shriek, a scream, at your touch. Her arm, free of your grip, finds your forearm as it works at her wet, slick flesh. Her nails dig into your skin, and the pain is a delicious spice to the pleasure you find in her cunt.

“Fuck, that feels so good,” she says, words falling from her lips in a tumble. “Fuck, keep fucking me.”

You do just that - hammering in and out of her tight, juicy little cunt as you thumb at her clit.  She clenches and pulsates around you and you know you’re building her up to an orgasm that you hoped would be as powerful as the one she gave you on the balcony.

“Oh god,” she sighs, a sign that your hopes had a chance of being fulfilled. “Gonna cum so hard. Gonna cum on your cock.”

“Do it, Momo. Cum.”

“No, I don’t want to,” she says - a theme, now, with her, a kink you hadn’t known she’d had, discovered and out here in the open. She loved it here, right on the precipice. Loved the threat of orgasm, almost as much as when it actually came, for you and for her. She loved being teased about it, loved being goaded into an orgasm she pretended to resist, pretended not to want. Faux-resistance. Pretend. In reality she wanted, needed the orgasm - but every denial of it made it so much sweeter when it finally came.

“Momo, cum. Cum on my cock like a good little girl.”

Her free hand darts up to capture a cum-stained, bouncing breast. She squeezes herself, hard. Her free, bouncing tit glistens in the light with sweat and cum. 

“No, no no,” she insists, eyes shut and head shaking no, even as her cunt tightens around your thrusting cock, mercilessly pounding into her, spreading her apart, making her yours. Her pulsating pussy betrays her needs, even as her mouth spits defiance. “Don’t want to cum yet. Don’t let me cum, I’ll be good, I promise-”

Your thumb works against her clit. It brings her right to the edge-

“No, no, I don’t want, fuck, you’re gonna make me cum. You cum first, cum in my cunt, please, cum in me first then I’ll cum on your cock I promise, I swear, fuck, fill me with cum please-”

It hits you all at once. You’d thought you were a ways from your own orgasm, especially since you’d cum on her chest just minutes before, but the sight, the sound, the feel of Hirai Momo is too much. It hits you like a thunderbolt, and it feels like lightning coursing through your veins. You bury yourself inside her and fill her, your cock pulsating with each rope of hot, thick semen it leaves inside her messy, tight cunt.

“Keep fucking me, keep fucking me, please, don’t stop-”

You are struggling to remain at least somewhat coherent given the pleasure coursing through even inch of your body, but her words still reach you, and you still find it in you to obey them. You keep thrusting, keep fucking her tight, cum-filled mess of a cunt, and she loves it, loves each entry and exit you make in and out of her body.

After a brief pause as your orgasm overtakes your senses for a moment, your thumb continues its work on her clit, slowly sliding from side to side across the slick, taut bud.

You open eyes you hadn’t known you’d closed and there she is, Hirai Momo, object of desire and beauty and captured with a million megapixels and bathed in flashing lights mere hours before - now a cum-filled, cum-stained mess, legs spread, skin flushed, moaning and sighing around a cunt filled with hot semen, being fucked into an orgasm she resisted and wanted at the same time. 

What any one of her admirers from hours before have given to be you at this moment, see what you see, feel what you feel. But no one else is here - there’s only you, and her, and this sublime, intensely intimate moment between you.

There is only one thing left for you to ask, one thing left for you to say.

“Cum for me, Momo.”

She quivers and shakes when she cums, body submitting completely to the pleasure overtaking her.  Her thighs close around your hips. Inside her, her cunt clenches down on your cock so tightly it is almost painful. You let out a groan of pleasure, but it is drowned out by the long, loud moan that leaves her.

The moan ends, and she lies there - quivering, trembling. Her juices and your cum overflow from her filled cunt, dripping onto the bedsheets, ruining them. You release her right wrist and your thumb leaves her clit, and you brace yourself atop her. You’re both breathing heavily, chests heaving, lungs empty.

She’s dirty now, filthy - a far cry from the perfectly dressed, perfectly made-up model beneath the flashing lights of mere hours ago. Your cum stains her body, fills her cock-filled cunt. Sweat glues her once perfectly-styled hair to her flushed face. She is a mess and utterly, completely perfect, somehow all at the same time.

Her eyes glimmer in the darkness of the bedroom. She manages a smile, through the utter exhaustion. 

You return it, and bend to kiss her.

---

“Y’know how people call Paris the City of Light? It’s because it was one of the first European cities to use gas street lamps, in, like, the 1860s. So it was, like, literally, a city of light.”

For not the first time on the trip, you are taken aback by the knowledge Momo liked to drop at her whim, at random times, as though she could have told you these facts at any time but was waiting for the right moment to do so. She wanted to catch you off guard with them, at a time you least expected, right when you’d convinced yourself that there really wasn’t much going on in that head of hers aside from wondering what delightful culinary treat awaited her at her next meal.

She is leaning on a railing of the many bridges that traversed the French capital. Overly ornate gas lamps formed a part of the railing every twenty or so feet, and you follow her gaze up to one of them. You wonder, briefly, how many men and women had looked up at it and wondered about its history over the decades, just as you now did. The history of the city around you weighed heavily on you at the moment, as it often did as you wandered its streets.

It was the fourth day of your trip - after recovering from the exhausting travel and her appearance at the first fashion show, you’d both spent the last few days taking in Paris’ sights and sounds. She had another scheduled appearance in a couple of days before you both returned to Korea the day after, but until then you were both free to wander the French capital.

You’d hit most of the usual tourist traps first, of course - seeing the Eiffel Tower up close, visiting the popular museums and art galleries, eating at upscale restaurants and casual cafes. The sex was wonderful, of course, but so was the company of the young woman next to you. 

You’d thought you’d figured her out long ago. Every day you spent with her proved you more wrong. Every day you spent with her convinced you that you never really knew her at all.

After a moment you return your eyes to Momo, who is still staring with a mix of wonder and amusement at the lamp, a small smile of amusement on her lips. She notices you looking at her and she gives you a quick look, her smile turning warm. You share that moment for a while.

Eventually your gazes drift down to the river below you, and the banks on either side of it. Despite it being the middle of a weekday, there is no shortage of crowds. Citizens and tourists both have taken up spots on the grassy banks, many enjoying the cool shade under the trees lining the walkways that offered some respite from the late summer heat. Some are enjoying a quick lunch, some are sitting and chatting idly, still others are simply sitting in silence, enjoying the sights and sounds of the city around them.

Many of them are couples. Many are flirting - feeding each other bites of cake or salad, whispering sweet nothings in ears, laughing and smiling at every little thing their partner did in the way young people in love did.

“Paris is the City of Love, too,” Momo says, as though reading your mind.

“I can see why,” you answer, looking around you at the green spaces and blooming flowers, the benches and walkways seemingly built for two, the cute restaurants and cafes. Everywhere you looked there was a place ripe for romance, a place for it to bloom, a place for sparks to turn into fires. Falling in love here would be easy. The city itself seemed to encourage it.

Momo slips her arm in yours, her hand giving your bicep a squeeze.

You are instantly on alert. All it took was one random fan with a phone and an image of one of Korea’s most popular stars would be on screens everywhere, accompanied by the salacious rumors and comments that often came part and parcel with such images. Given your recent experience with the photos someone had taken outside Nayeon’s apartment, you knew full well about what could happen when images of you and one of the girls popped up on the internet.

“Momo,” you say, softly, beginning to slide your arm away. But her grasp on you is stronger than you were anticipating, and she holds on to you.

“You’re mine, aren’t you?” she says to you, a soft look in her eyes and in the smile on her lips. “Let me have my day.”

She pulls you away from the railing, and you continue your stroll down Paris’ alleys and streets, her arm still locked with yours.

---

The crowds were much thinner here, on this random, relatively secluded park somewhere in Paris, some distance from the tourist traps and busy main streets. You and Momo are lying on your sides on a navy blue blanket she’d bought from a nearby craft fair, having just finished off what were probably the best sandwiches you’d ever had in your entire life. Momo had ordered them for the both of you at a local shop, displaying a rudimentary but adorable French accent as she did so.

You are lying on a slope facing a small wooded area, and the trees, greenery, and fading sunlight of late afternoon provided you some privacy. But you could still hear people chatting faintly some distance away, and nothing was stopping an errant child or curious couple from cresting the small hill and finding you both on its other side. Not that that stopped Momo from playing with the waistband of your pants.

“We really shouldn’t,” you say, as her fingers trace the outline of the belt at your waist, both of you knowing your resistance wouldn’t last long. “I can hear people-”

“Mmm?” she hums, as though she weren’t quite listening to what you were saying, or was simply dismissing it. “Want me to stop?”

“If they see us-”

“I see that you’re not saying no.”

You smirk. “Let’s go back to the hotel. We can-”

“I want you here,” she says, eyes suddenly intense. “Now.”

“We can’t - we’ll make too much noise-”

“Then be quiet,” she responds, her hand having undone your belt, the top button soon following suit.

“And will you?” you tease.

“I won’t be the one cumming at a public park.”

“Really?”

“Really,” she says, drawing her body closer to you on the blanket. With her hand she pulls down your pants only low enough to reveal the bulge in your boxers. With a delicate touch, she slides your underwear down to reveal your cock. You shiver as she touches you, her soft fingers closing around your girth.

“So what, you’re just going to lie there and give me a handjob, and that’s it?”

“Well, no,” she admits, that sultry, sly smile on her lips as she bends forward slightly to give you a short, soft kiss. “I fully expect you to fuck me the way I like back at the hotel. I expect you to leave me dripping. But here…”

“-but here?”

“Here, well, I wore this dress for a reason.”

She’s wearing a loose, floral pattern sundress, one that leaves the perfect, creamy skin of her shoulders and upper chest bare. It is daringly low-cut, displaying a delicious-looking cleavage that you’d snuck more than one glance at over the course of the day. Its material is thin and airy, making the outline of the thin white thong she wore beneath obvious to see - as was the absence of a bra.

Her hand closes around your cock, begins to pump up and down in earnest. You reach up, slide your hand against her cheek, and kiss her.

Your tongues find each other, resume the duel they’d been waging on and off in the four days you’d been in Paris. Your hand slides down her neck, lingering there for a moment, enjoying the feel of her pulse beneath your palm. Between you, her hand continues to pump up and down your shaft, fingers tight around your stiffness. 

Your hand drifts to her shoulder, sliding beneath the thin spaghetti strap of the dress and sliding it down her upper arm. The dress slips over her breast, baring it to your hand.

You caress the firm, round mound, her nipple already poking into your palm. She sighs into your kiss as your fingers close around her bud and tease, pinch, pull. She breaks your kiss for a moment, and you lie there a while, noses grazing each other, breathing heavily against each others’ lips as your hands play with each others’ bodies. Sometimes your gazes are locked, sometimes one or both pairs close, sometimes they are half-lidded. But they always find each other again.

Her hand leaves your aching cock for a moment, and she brings her hand to her mouth. You hear her spit into it. Her eyes are locked on yours the whole while, until the feel of the wetness of her pumping hand around your shaft sends a shiver up your spine that causes your eyes to shut.

“Fuck,” you hiss, through gritted teeth. Momo’s lips find yours, and you sigh your pleasure into her mouth.

“Does that feel good, baby?” she says, softly. Her hand tightens around you, her pace increasing slightly. “Do I look good for you?”

She reaches up with her free hand, slips the other strap of her dress down her shoulder, baring her other breast. She pulls it down further, until she is naked almost from the waist up. For the millionth time on this trip, you are utterly entranced by her chest - their perfect shape, the weight of the one in your hand, the feel of her soft, creamy skin, the way they sat on her chest and moved slightly with every pump of her hand on your cock. 

“You… like my tits, don’t you?” she continues, slightly breathless now. There is a tremble in her voice. It was clear to see in her voice, in the flush on her cheeks, the tightness of her nipples - pleasuring you pleasured her equally.

“I do, Momo. I love them.”

The word elicits a soft, wordless moan from her lips, as though it had triggered something inside her. 

“Cum on them, okay? Cum on me.”

Despite the sharp spikes of pleasure that every movement of her hand sent throughout your body, you find yourself surprised.

“Really? No teasing, no edging this time?”

Momo smiles, despite herself, but the relief is brief, and quickly her eyes become intense again.

“No. I want to see you cum. Just for me, please. Just for me. You said you’d be mine. Just mine. Cum, please. Just for me.”

Your hand leaves her breast, finds her cheek, brings it close for a fierce, passionate kiss. You sigh and moan into each others’ mouths as the pleasure she is creating between your bodies begins to reach a peak.

She breaks the kiss to look into your eyes. 

It strikes you all at once - the intimacy, the closeness, the vulnerability. You are entirely at her mercy in that moment, heart and soul laid entirely bare. She knows who you are, knows your secrets. You can hide nothing from her, and she knows it. 

Somewhere else in the park children are playing, dogs barking, elderly couples going for a late-afternoon stroll, but none of it matters; the entire world is boiled down to the three foot square of the blanket and the wonderful woman you shared it with. Not one other thought - not of the other girls, of this trip, or of the bustling city around you - existed. There was only you, and her, and the pleasure she was creating for you in this private little moment that you two shared. A moment she’d created for the two of you only, that neither of you would tell another soul of - it belonged to the both of you, and no one else.

The past several months had been filled with some of the most intense, erotic, carnal moments in your life - but none as close, as intimate as this.

“Cum for me, please?” she says, almost pleading now, for her as much as for you. “Please, baby. Cum all over me.”

Your breath cuts out, your hand clenches around the side of her head - between you, your cock spasms and spurts thick cum all over Momo’s chest. It lands in heavy streaks across her breasts, her nipples, her collarbones. She sighs with each rope that lands on her skin, the same way she sighed when you filled her cunt - as though it were an equally enjoyable experience for her as it was for you.

“Yes, baby,” she whispers beneath her breath as her pace on your cock slows, fingers still tight around your shaft as she milks each drop of cum from your body. “More, please, more.”

You are drained by now, both of cum and of breath - but your body manages a few more weak spurts of semen that land on the dress bunched beneath her breasts, staining the fabric with thick drops of creamy white. Your hand still clutches at her cheek, your arm trembling slightly as your orgasm winds down. 

You open your eyes to view the mess you’d made of her body. It wasn’t the first time on this trip that you’d seen her chest streaked with your cum, but in the fading sunlight of the Paris afternoon it was somehow more beautiful than the times previous. The thick ropes of semen begin to slide down the round mounds, leaving behind glistening streaks that mark their paths across creamy, perfect skin. 

Your eyes find hers. To your surprise you find them eyes glassy, as though on the verge of tears. The intensity of the moment you’ve shared hits you both, and you find your eyes watering as well.

“Momo,” you say, because she is what your existence is filled with. In that moment, she is all you know.

“I’m here,” she says, softly, lips finding yours.

---

Morning dawned on Paris. Bright rays of gold bathe the city, make it glimmer and shine. It slowly makes its way across its buildings and roads and parks, inevitable, inexorable.

It makes its way through the open balcony window of the hotel suite you’d shared with Momo over the past week. It illuminates the messy sheets and the remnants of mostly-eaten takeout and room service trays, over your mostly-packed luggage, over the navy blue blanket she would take home and treasure, because it would remind her of a week when she felt loved.

Finally, it illuminates the bathroom - unlit by artificial light, it’s a little dimmer than the rest of the suite, meaning the only light that reached Momo’s naked, wet skin is that of the sun.

But you didn’t need much light. The feel of her body against yours, her arms wrapped around your neck and one leg raised against your hip, heel digging into your backside as you slid in and out of her - that was enough.

You tighten your grasp on her ass, holding her upraised leg up, opening her up further, spreading her, stretching her. Your foreheads press against each other, breathing heavily, moaning softly into each others mouths. You kiss, sometimes - little, involuntary movements, acts of affection amidst the passion. You open your eyes to find hers locked on yours, and the shower water flowing down her face makes her appear as though she’s crying. You need to touch her face, need to cradle it, need to make her feel safe. 

You raise your hand to her cheek. Her hands wind through your hair, holding your head, pressing it against her forehead again. Through it all your are fucking her softly, slowly. No teasing or edging here, no playful banter or filthy talk. It is close, intimate, raw.

“I’ll do whatever you want, you know?” she gasps, the rising tone of her voice betraying the depth of her words. “I’ll be whoever you want. Just say you’re mine, please, and I’ll be yours.”

“Momo-”

She presses a finger against your lips. There is need written on her features, of course, and pleasure and lust, but also an genuineness, a realness that you rarely saw in her. Everything about her is laid bare, and the honesty on her lips is plain to see. She meant every word she said.

“Even if you don’t, even if you don’t want me, pretend, okay?” she whispers, barely heard over the patter of the shower on your bodies. “Even if it’s not true, just say it, I need to hear you say it.”

“I’m yours, Momo. I’m yours, I swear.”

The breath leaves her lungs in a long, wistful moan as she cums around your cock. Her cunt tightens, her body quivers. Only your hands on her body keep her upright, keep her back pressed against the cool tile of the shower.

Through the haze of her orgasm she locks eyes with you, her hands cradling your face. There is nothing between you, nowhere to hide, no secrets or mysteries. It feels vulnerable and it feels safe and it feels wonderful, all at the same time.

“Cum inside me,” she says, softly, and soon enough you do, burying yourself inside her, sighing against her shoulder as you fill her yet again. She moans into your ear as you fill her, nails digging into your scalp.

Your orgasms wind their way throughout your bodies, just as they did dozens of times over the past week. But this one doesn’t last as long - perhaps it was the impending end of the week, perhaps it was the words that remained unspoken between you - either way, eventually Momo lets her leg drop from your hip, and you slide out of her body.

You both linger there awhile, the shower dousing you both. Your warm cum leaks out of her, dripping down her still-quivering thighs, joining the water trailing down her leg. She pulls you close, buries her head into your neck. Your arms wrap around each other.

“Momo,” you say, softly, some indeterminate amount of time later. Your flight home was later that morning, and you were already running later than you would have liked. “We have to-”

“I want to stay here,” she says into your neck.

“I know. But we can’t. We have to go.”

Time passes. You remain there, the both of you, breathing heavily against each other. The shower continues to run. The sun continues its advance into the bathroom, illuminating most of it now. Momo turns away from it, nuzzling deeper into your neck, knowing that its appearance signalled the end of the week, the end of the trip.

For many the Paris dawn is beautiful. For Hirai Momo, the light is merciless.

“Momo,” you begin.

“I know,” she answers.

Without any further words or looks, she leaves your arms, leaves the shower and grabs a towel on her way out of the bathroom. You hear the bedroom door shut behind her.

Your gaze follows her, watches her leave. From the doorway of the bathroom you can see the open balcony across the room, where the sun has chased away the last of the night. 

Beyond the balcony Paris continues about its day, adding another tryst, another love story - whatever word could possibly encapsulate the last week you’d spent with Hirai Momo - to the countless others it has borne witness to over the centuries of its history.

---

“So yeah, I guess I’ll see you Thursday? We’re filming the next episode of Time to Twice-”

“Yeah, yeah,” Momo answers, leaning on the doorframe of the apartment she shared with Nayeon. As much as she loved spending time with her members, she liked filming these “reality” shows much less - they were when she was expected to act like the hot but utterly clueless bimbo that the world believed her to be.

“Make sure you get a good night’s sleep the night before. I snuck a peek at the script and they need you to-”

“I know, I know,” she repeats. “Play the dumb airhead.”

You sigh under your breath, knowing how much she hated being portrayed the way she was. You wished you could tell her how much you loved seeing that other side of her - the one that was smarter than she let others believe, the one that knew about the gas lamps in Paris and could speak elementary school French. 

You both linger there in silence for a while as the words you wish you had to comfort her never materialize.

“Momo, about this past week…”

“Just two fuck buddies doing Paris,” Momo declares with surprising zest, although there was something in her eyes that doesn’t quite match with the words leaving her lips. 

“So all that stuff about-”

“Just pillow talk,” she spits, almost on reaction, as though she wanted to cut off that particular line of conversation before it got any further - or if she’d been preparing for you to raise the question and had rehearsed an answer for it. “Just stuff to get me off. Got a romance kink, I guess. Paris, city of love, city of light, you know how it is. That’s all it was. Don’t go thinking I’m in love with you, or anything.”

You aren’t sure you believe her. She felt too honest, too real, too raw on your trip. If she was faking it all - acting - then she was in the wrong profession.

“Okay, then,” you begin, slowly. “I guess I’ll… I guess I’ll see you later.”

“See ya.”

You turn away and begin to head towards the waiting elevator. Midway there you turn to find her still leaning against the doorframe, watching you. A sad smile makes its way onto her lips.

“Hey, Momo?”

She perks up, expectant.

“Thanks.”

Her smile deepens, but her eyes betray her -  there is disappointment in them, as though the word that left your mouth wasn’t what she was expecting, or hoping, to hear.

“No worries! See you Thursday,” she says, as brightly as she could, before closing the door.

She leans her forehead against the closed door for a moment, eyes closing, doing her best to process the past seven days. Her heart pounds against her chest, and she places a hand over it, willing it to calm down.

In her pocket, her phone vibrates. It’s Nayeon. She sighs as she declines the call - dealing with her was the last thing she wanted to do at the moment.

With tired legs, she shuffles her way into the living room of her apartment, where Sana is lounging on the couch with Woody, who has fallen asleep, head on her lap. The younger Japanese girl is idly scrolling through her phone, but she sets it down on the coffee table when Momo enters the living room.

“He doesn’t know, does he?” Sana asks as she begins to play idly with Woody’s hair as though he were a pet and not a whole other human being. She’s wearing only a loose t-shirt and Woody is naked aside from the throw blanket thrown haphazardly across his midsection, making it clear what they were up to mere moments before Momo had arrived.

“About what?” Momo replies, sighing to herself as she enters the kitchen to retrieve a bottle of water. The trip had left her drained, and without the energy to deal with Sana and her incessant nosiness.

“That you picked him,” Sana continues, finally looking up to fix Momo with a look. “That you picked him out at the concert that night. He should be your toy, not Chaeyoung’s.”

Momo lets out a sharp breath.

“It doesn’t matter,” the older girl replies. “He’s Chaeyoung’s now. He doesn’t need to know anything more than that.”

“But you wish he did.”

As annoying as Sana could occasionally be, she was often more adept at reading a person than the other girls were. Given how much time they’d spent together, she knew Momo better than most, making it obvious to her from the second she’d arrived what had really happened in Paris.

“He’s not hers yet, not completely,” Sana continues. “If I were you, and if you really have feelings for him, I’d tell him how you feel before Chaeyoung does. Wait too long, and she’ll have him wrapped around her dainty little fingers.”

“You’ve seen the way he acts around her,” Momo replies, setting her water bottle down on the counter and bracing herself against it with her hands, letting her head fall down between her shoulders. “He’s probably on his way to see her right now. He likes her.”

“Does he? I think you should fight her for him. She doesn’t deserve him. You do. He should be yours, not hers.”

Momo raises her head, closes her eyes. It was all too much, all too much to think about right now, minutes after getting home from one of the more eventful weeks of her life. She was exhausted, physically and mentally and emotionally. 

She looks down the hallway at the door he’d just occupied. She wanted nothing more than to return to that hotel room in Paris, with him, and…

She shuts her eyes and leaves the room, hoping some sleep would at least provide her with a temporary reprieve from the million thoughts running through her head.

When she hears Momo’s bedroom door close, Sana picks up her phone from the coffee table and brings it to her ear. 

“Did you hear that?” she asks the person on the line.

“Yes,” Nayeon answers. “That was well done.”

“Thanks, unnie. Don’t you worry - I’ll make sure those two are at each others’ throats. Whoever he ends up with, it won’t be either of them. Then he’ll be all yours for the taking.”

She begins to stand, gently lifting Woody’s head from her lap and placing it on the couch so as to not interrupt his sleep. She is still talking softly with Nayeon as she makes her way to the bathroom.

When he hears the bathroom door close, Woody, who’d been awake from the moment Momo arrived, reaches for his own phone on the coffee table. 

He begins to write a text.

---

Author’s Note: lol longest piece I’ve ever written and of course it had to be Momo. she’s the reason why I’m here, after all. :)

Be kind to yourselves and to each other. <3

[omgthatdress]

An Analysis of the Ubiquity of Mall Brands in the late 1990s to early 2000s, or

I Fucking Hate These Guys

by OMG!thatdress

If you were a tween to teenager from roughly 1997 to 2004, chances are, you were left with profound life-long trauma caused by someone wearing Tommy Hilfiger, Abercrombie & Fitch, Ralph Lauren, Nautica, American Eagle, The Gap, Old Navy, or, if you were came along a little later, Hollister or Aeropoastale.

I cannot overstate to my young followers how over-saturated these brand names were in teen culture at the turn of the millennium, the extend to which EVERYONE was wearing them, and yet, in a weird way, how light the imprint they actually left on fashion history was.

Watching iconic teen shows of the era, you don't see any of them because a.) TV teenagers tend to be way cooler and more stylish than awkward and desperate real teenagers actually are, and b.) these brands were all copyright protected, which kept their names and logos off the airwaves.

Look in a middle school yearbook, however, you'll see it. Look at your aunt and uncle's high school photo albums, you'll see it. Ask any late Gen X or early Millennial. It was real and it was fucking awful.

The big question is why? Why? WHY, GOD WHY?! There's a lot of answers to that question.

First of all, I'm going to cite this absolutely wonderful article from Collector's Weekly about why everyone's grandma had a hideous orange couch in the 70s, and give the most simple and straightforward answer: it's what was available.

This is when the concept of online shopping is still very much in its infancy, and the hub of American consumer culture was still your local mall. If you needed new clothes, you went to the mall. And guess what stores were at every local mall? You guessed it.

For the second answer, I'm going to dig up this utter relic from the early days of internet meme-ing, that has nonetheless stuck with me and had a profound impact of my understanding of how popular fashion works:

I'm pretty sure that the reason Abercrombie & Fitch manages to survive as a brand today rests solely increasingly middle-aged Millennial men whose sense of style has refused to evolve past the shit their mom bought them in high school.

And why the hell would they? Nobody wore Abercrombie because it made them stand out or feel special. I'm still pretty convinced that nobody actually *liked* the aesthetic or thought the clothes actually looked good. You need not look past the basic color palette to understand these were not brands meant for uniqueness or self-expression.

While Britney Spears pranced around stage in her iconic neon colors and body glitter, American teenagers existed in a never-ending hellscape of washed-out neutrals, faded denim, and American flag primary colors.

All of which served its exact purpose: it was safety. It was a way to appear cool if you didn't want to go through the ordeal of actually having a personality or a sense of style. Which, of course, goes back to point number one: it was just shit you bought at the mall because you needed clothes.

It wasn't enough to save you once the school bully caught that whiff of autism and/or queerness on you, but it was enough that you could blend into the herd and pray no one ever noticed you.

Underneath it all was a very subtle undercurrent of class and classism: to wear mall brands was to declare to the world that you could indeed afford to shop at the mall. It meant you weren't, god forbid, poor.

Status symbol clothing goes back to the invention of clothing itself. The concept of brands as status symbols is still very much alive and well, its just more limited to actual luxury brands nowadays. One need look no further than your favorite high-end children's clothing website to see that rich parents still very much think it important that you know their five-year-old is wiping its boogers on Versace.

None of these brands were actual high-end luxury brands, but they still advertised and presented themselves as such. Their ads featured signifiers of "all-american" (read: White) wealth: yachts, skiing, horses, beaches, shirtless dudes with chiseled abs playing verious sportsballs.

The color palettes and cuts mimicked the preppy "Ivy" style of the New England old-money elite, along with their hobbies and lifestyle. You may not actually own a horse, but you can wear a polo shirt. You may not be able to run without breaking your ankle, but you wear the same shirt as the dude holding a football in the ad.

It was an elitist, White and skinny image that didn't age well into the diversity and body-positivity of the 2010s.

In 2003, a lawsuit was filed against Abercrombie & Fitch alleging systematic racial discrimination. People of color were rarely hired, and if they were, they were given jobs in the back, away from customer view. In 2005, the U.S. district court approved a settlement of $50,000. A few years ago, Netflix released the documentary White Hot: The Rise and Fall of Abercrombie & Fitch which admittedly I haven't watched yet because my hatred runs too deep to remind myself of its existence.

It was a hatred of Abercrombie & the (white, thin, neurotypical, heterosexual) conformity that it represented that drove me screaming into the loving arms of Hot Topic and Linkin Park. Jordan Calhoun wrote an excellent article for the Atlantic about his experience growing up poor and Black and not fitting in to the Abercrombie aesthetic.

I would be very remiss if I didn't bring up the "urban" mall brands of the early 2000s: Fubu, Sean Jean, Ecko, Baby Phat, among others. They were favored by Black teenagers and White teenagers who wanted to be Black. I know there's a lot to be said about these brands, but I'm too Caucasian to really be able to talk about them with nuance. Maybe someone else will, and I will be very happy to listen.

As much as I hate Tommy Hilfiger, I really do have to give him credit for recognizing the incredibly lucrative "street wear" market and selling power of hip-hop. While most of these mall brands kept their image sparkling White, Tommy made Aaliyah his brand ambassador and regularly appeared in the wardrobes of popular rap and R&B artists of the time.

It'd be very easy and very reductive to say that the changing ideology of the 2010s was the downfall of preppy mall brands, but really, the thing that truly killed them was the downfall of the mall itself. Shopping habits changed, and logos and brand names no longer held the power they once had.

The moral of the story is that being a teenager is fucking hell, and these popular brands both offered the safety of conformity and a status symbol to hold over the heads of the poor and uncool. The irony is that everyone who hated them as teenagers (read: ME) and the freaks who grew up to truly love the power of self-expression through personal style (read: ME) became the truly cool people. If you wore Abercrombie you grew up to vote for Donald Trump.

GO GOTH. PREPS SUCK. THE END.

[ilovedthestars]

A thought I’ve been having: While it's important to recognize the long history of many current queer identities (and the even longer history of people who lived outside of the straight, cis, allo “norm”) I think it's also important to remember that a label or identity doesn't have to be old to be, for lack of a better word, real.

This post that i reblogged a little while ago about asexuality and its history in the LGBTQ+ rights movement and before is really good and really important. As i've thought about it more, though, it makes me wonder why we need to prove that our labels have "always existed." In the case of asexuality, that post is pushing back against exclusionists who say that asexuality was “made up on the internet” and is therefore invalid. The post proves that untrue, which is important, because it takes away a tool for exclusionists.

But aromanticism, a label & community with a lot of overlap & solidarity with asexuality, was not a label that existed during Stonewall and the subsequent movement. It was coined a couple decades ago, on internet forums. While the phrasing is dismissive, it would be technically accurate to say that it was “made up on the internet.” To be very clear, I’m not agreeing with the exclusionists here—I’m aromantic myself. What I’m asking is, why does being a relatively recently coined label make it any less real or valid for people to identify with?

I think this emphasis on historical precedent is what leads to some of the attempts to label historical figures with modern terminology. If we can say someone who lived 100 or 1000 years ago was gay, or nonbinary, or asexual, or whatever, then that grants the identity legitimacy. but that's not the terminology they would have used then, and we have no way of knowing how, or if, any historical person's experiences would fit into modern terminology.

There's an element of "the map is not the territory" here, you know? Like this really good post says, labels are social technologies. There's a tendency in the modern Western queer community to act like in the last few decades the "truth" about how genders and orientations work has become more widespread and accepted. But that leaves out all the cultures, both historical and modern, that use a model of gender and sexuality that doesn't map neatly to LGBTQ+ identities but is nonetheless far more nuanced than "there are two genders, man and woman, and everyone is allo and straight." Those systems aren’t any more or less “true” than the system of gay/bi/pan/etc and straight, cis and trans, aro/ace and allo.

I guess what I’m saying is, and please bear with me here, “gay” people have not always existed. “Nonbinary” people have not always existed. “Asexual” people have not always existed. But people who fell in love with and had sex with others of the same gender have always existed. People who would not have identified themselves as either men or women have always existed. People who didn’t prioritize sex (and/or romance) as important parts of their lives have always existed. In the grand scheme of human existence, all our labels are new, and that’s okay. In another hundred or thousand years we’ll have completely different ways of thinking about gender and sexuality, and that’ll be okay too. Our labels can still be meaningful to us and our experiences right now, and that makes them real and important no matter how new they are.

We have a history, and we should not let it be erased. But we don’t need a history for our experiences and ways of describing ourselves to be real, right now.

[vexwerewolf]

I always figured the Imperials were the good guys.

Nnnnnngh… no. Imperials are the better of two bad options, and it's really muddied because Bethesda lost its good writers years before Skyrim came out. I can feel a hyperfixation coming on, so a quick TL;DR: the Empire is an Empire so it's still bad, the Stormcloaks are just racist saboteurs led by a Manchurian agent and Tiber Septim is a gigantic piece of shit who ruined everything.

Okay, so the Empire functionally lost its equivalent of the Mandate of Heaven when Martin Septim died heirless at the end of Oblivion. His sacrifice forged a new compact to end the Daedric incursions, but by that point Imperial infrastructure throughout Tamriel had been so badly damaged that it could no longer maintain order. By the time the Mede dynasty got its feet under it, several provinces had either risen in revolt against the Empire or and were busy violently settling bitter generational rivalries with each other.

Most notably, this included the Thalmor, who are openly and proudly an Altmer supremacist movement. Their primary goal is to end the dominion of Men on Tamriel and institute a second Merethic Era dominated by them. This is the most obvious reason for why they want to ban Talos worship - the idea that a Man could become Divine is grossly incompatible with their worldview. (I must note that there's also a much-discussed fan theory stating that they intend to unmake creation in its current form and destroying Talos worship is part of that, but it's partially based on sources whose canonicity is in doubt, so I'm not going to discuss it further at this time.) The Thalmor are pretty much explicitly Elf Nazis, right down to invading foreign countries and rounding up their religious minorities.

It should be considered, however, that Tiber Septim was an UNBELIEVABLY MASSIVE PIECE OF SHIT. There's credible evidence that during his mortal life he assassinated the Cyrodillian monarch to whom he had sworn fealty and then seized his throne. He had a dalliance with Berenziah that ended up getting her pregnant, then forcibly abducted her and had the child aborted without her consent. After gaining Numidium from a treaty with the Tribunal of Morrowind, he discovered that they hadn't given them its power source (Lorkhan's Heart - understandable, since it was the source of their false divinity), and so he created a new one, the Mantella, by tearing the souls out of Ysmir and Zurin Arctus, two of his most loyal companions. He used Numidium to brutally conquer the rest of Tamriel and then turned it on all the noble families in Cyrodil who hadn't supported him. His empire - as all empires are - was built entirely on murder, pillage and rape. And - as all emperors do - he rewrote his own history because nobody dared openly oppose it. If the Aedra truly did award him a seat amongst them after this (and the fact that his bloody armor counts as "the blood of a divine" in Oblivion suggests that they did), it's questionable whether any of them are worthy of worship.

Nonetheless, worship of Talos was of extreme cultural importance to the Nords, because he was considered by history to have been a Nord, and indeed born in Atmora, the mythic first homeland of the Nords (although, again, it's likely he was just fucking lying - heterodox historical accounts suggest he was born in High Rock and never saw Atmora in his life). The White-Gold Concordat was formulated specifically to provoke division between the remaining provinces of the Empire - the Thalmor correctly predicted that the Nords would never tolerate being stripped of their right to worship Talos, and would rise in revolt against an Empire that mandated it.

The specific cause of the Stormcloak Rebellion is also… dubious. During the war with the Thalmor, the Imperial Legion had all but pulled out of Skyrim. This allowed an uprising by the Reachmen, an ethnic minority within southwestern Skyrim who, notably, had been brutally disenfranchised and stripped of their land by… Tiber Septim! Thanks, Talos, you continue to be a gigantic piece of shit! Anyway, they seized control of Markarth and held it for two years, during which by most accounts they ruled it as an independent kingdom that was making overtures towards being recognised by the Empire. After the signing of the White-Gold Concordat, Ulfric Stormcloak raised an army to retake it, and was promised by the Jarl of the Reach (and, allegedly, the Empire itself) that worship of Talos would be freely allowed in Markarth. Ulfric Stormcloak then proceeded to lay siege to the city and butcher it, ethnically cleansing the city of every last Reachman down to the women and children, slaughtering any Nord who had collaborated with them and allegedly even killing those citizens of Markarth who hadn't answered his call to arms.

Inevitably, the Thalmor found out about the Talos worship anyway and the Jarl was forced to sell out Ulfric and his men. This is generally considered to be the betrayal that sparked the civil war, but at this point we must examine who Ulfric is.

Ulfric was trained in the Thu'um from an early age by the Greybeards, but abandoned his tutelage to fight in the Great War. We know little of his performance other than that he was captured by the Thalmor, tortured extensively, and falsely made to believe that the information he had given under torture was instrumental in the fall of the Imperial City. His father, the Jarl of Windhelm, died while he was in prison, and he was forced to deliver a eulogy via a letter that he had smuggled out of the prison. He claims he escaped from captivity, while Thalmor records claim that they let him go intentionally; neither source is particularly reliable.

From a sociopolitical standpoint, Ulfric is a staunch Nordic traditionalist who openly states that he doesn't believe Skyrim has had a "true" High King for centuries, considering recent monarchs to simply be puppets installed by the Empire. He also seems to be deeply racist: in contrast to his father, he banned Argonians from entering Windhelm proper, confining them to the Assemblage on the docks, and he's allowed racist sentiments towards the Dunmer residents of the Grey Quarter to worsen. Even citizens of Windhelm who support the rebellion comment that isn't doing very much governing, since the civil war eats up most of his attention.

One point I will give to Ulfric is that establishing Skyrim as an independent kingdom that can actively resist the Thalmor isn't actually as far-fetched as it seems. After the White-Gold Concordat ceded half of Hammerfell to the Thalmor, Hammefell said "how about fuck you," broke from the Empire entirely, and smacked the Thalmor down so hard they had to sign the Second Treaty of Stros M'Kai and retreat from Hammerfell entirely. This rendered the nation a haven for those opposed to the Thalmor, and they're in such a strong position that the Alik'r can actively hunt Thalmor collaborators like Saadia in other nations. Hammerfell is in a better position than Skyrim, and it did it without any Imperial aid.

(A hilarious fact about the Hammerfell situation is that the Thalmor tried the exact same thing there - inciting a civil war between the Crowns and the Forebears, two factions that have hated one another for generations. Unfortunately, they fucked it up so badly that it actually managed to end the rivalry and unite both of them against the Thalmor.)

But this is where Bethesda's inability to actually capitalize on the good parts of their writing really gets to me.

The Empire in Skyrim… sucks. Like, from your perspective as a player, the first experience you have of the Empire is "okay, so you were at the border alongside this guy and we're executing him today so I guess you get to die too." The only decent Imperial you meet is Hadvar, who makes a lukewarm plea for your life but doesn't press the issue.

All of the Imperial Jarls except for Balgruuf and Idgrod Ravencrone are dogshit. Elisif is a naive, incompetent teenager. Siddgeir is an arrogant, incompetent ponce. Igmund is a spineless Thalmor toady reigning over stolen land, having broken a promise he made to Ulfric and thus being partially responsible for the civil war. The replacement Jarls you get if you side with the Empire and conquer territories the Stormcloaks hold at the start of the game fall into two categories: "who?" and "oh fuck not you." If I say the names Brina Merilis or Kraldar, I bet you won't even remember who I'm talking about. Brunwulf Free-Winter, the replacement for Ulfric Stormcloak, has ONE personality feature and it's "I'm slightly less racist than Ulfric." But when you capture Riften for the Empire, the new Jarl is MAVEN FUCKING BLACK-BRIAR, THE SECOND-WORST PERSON IN SKYRIM.

But the Stormcloaks suck worse. Laila-Law Giver is a puppet for the Black-Briar crime family. Skald the Elder is a grumpy, hidebound old man. Korir might as well not be ruling anything at all. If you side with them, you have to sell out Balgruuf when the matter of Whiterun comes up - a man who has never been anything but helpful, supportive, trusting and forthright with you. Oh, and let's not forget that if you take the Reach for the Stormcloaks, the new Jarl is THONGVOR SILVER-BLOOD, LITERAL SLAVEOWNER AND WORST PERSON IN SKYRIM.

(There is an absolutely cursed timeline wherein during the "territory trade" at the peace talks you can hold during the main quest if you haven't finished the civil war quest yet where Maven gets the Rift and Thongor gets the Reach, meaning you have just installed the two most powerful crime families in the country into positions of executive power.)

This isn't just a case of "of course both sides aren't perfect and have issues." This is just "both sides fucking suck." A better game would allow you to make some headway in resolving the massive issues that face Skyrim, but I've already written like nine billion words here so maybe I should go into that at a different time.

[radiance1]

Pariah watched as his vessel paced around the room, worried beyond belief by something that the king, personally, couldn't see as much importance. He jumped down from the couch, his far to small feet hitting the light thud muffled by the fluffy carpet and walked away.

He opened the fridge, squinting his eyes in distaste at his newfound shortness, and shuffled around for a moment before deciding to simply levitate to the top and swiped a popsicle.

Pineapple. It was no mint, but it would do.

He ripped off the wrapper with his teeth, chewing the material for a bit before swallowing and pushed off the fridge with a light kick of his legs and let the momentum carry him off from the kitchen.

He turned around in midair to stare at his vessel from upside down, lightly chewing on his treat.

The boy was still pacing around, muttering to himself as if something actually worrying was going to happen.

He bit off a piece of the treat, chewed, then swallowed. Did he want to get involved in whatever this was? Not really no, but it was annoying how his vessel kept at this habit for.... he took a quick glance at the clock (he idly entertained the thought of if Clockwork was watching. Knowing the ghost always was) and back at his vessel... A few hours at the least.

Pariah Dark sighed, took a hard chomp of his ice cream and then swallowed.

"Vessel," He called out, pointing his treat in said boy's direction. "Whatever causes you such worry? It is annoying."

Danny paused, muttering and all, before slowly turning to stare at Pariah Dark. Or, well, the small piece of him that for some reason bonded itself to him after he passed out. "Oh, it's nothing, just that the Justice League is going to pull up on my doorstep any second now." He shrugged, voice practically dripping with sarcasm as he leveled the fragment with a flat look. "Nothing much."

Pariah Dark let out a small, confused hum as he ate what was left of his ice cream -stick and all- and moved himself into a cross-legged sit, still upside down. "Then what ails you so?" He made a gesture at the imprints made from his relentless pacing on the carpet as an example, looking at him in curiosity.

Danny's turned blank for a moment, before remembering that Pariah didn't exactly have a proper gasp on what sarcasm was. He sighed, placing a hand on his head before sighing again. "It was sarcasm."

Pariah Dark watched as Danny went back to pacing, less than impressed at the rather blatant dismissal as if the worry over this situation was of actual importance. As far as he knew, this 'Justice League' were just a band of mortals who fought for peace, the good of others and were strong, yes.

But they were still mortal, nonetheless.

Even with one of their core members being a demi-goddess herself, and another of their members being a powerful vessel of the gods in his own right.

Danny was a vessel of the king, one of the most powerful ghosts across the Infinite Realms and its history. He knows the boy denied such a fact at first, but was he simply not as confident enough in his own strength as the king had thought?

He righted himself in the air, no longer upside down as he crossed his arms. "Vessel." The boy paused again, this time a bit more rigid as Pariah Dark, for the first time in a while, used the voice of a king. "Whatever worries you have for that band of mortals, put them aside. You are my vessel; you have defeated all of me in combat once before-"

He tactfully avoided mentioning that he had aid and was draining his lifeforce to do so.

"-so that is a full testament to your own strength. If you can fell me, then I believe you are fully capable of felling this so called 'Justice League' if the need ever arises."

Pariah Dark stared the boy hard in his eyes, reaching out in ghost speak to transmit his own confidence in his vessel while also smoothing said worries more than he ever could in words. Then snorted as the boy untensed and walked over to flop face first onto the couch.

He floated down to land on the boy's back gently. "If you so wish, I can even lead you a portion of my power." He let out an amused huff. "I cannot have you losing to the vessel of those arrogant gods after all."

Danny turned his head to stare at the ghost king and gave him a look. It was extremely hypocritical for him of all beings to call another arrogant, but you know what? He didn't care anymore. He turned his head back to sink his face into the cushions and let out a muffled "Fine."

[tobiasdrake]

One of the problems with science fiction is that there is no secular term for the soul. It's a religious concept with no scientific basis, but artistically it conveys a very important idea that I think sometimes gets lost in sci-fi. It's a simple term for an important idea that gets rejected out-of-hand because it's a religious idea, but it actually matters a great deal for non-religious reasons.

In essence, soul is an easy shorthand for the breadth of one's inherent, individual being-ness. To avoid the kneejerk associations that sci-fi fans have to the word "soul", I tend to use "continuity of consciousness" to try and explain this idea. But a lot of times people still don't quite seem to grasp it.

In essence, there is a tendency in sci-fi to think of people externally. A person is their demonstrable factors. Their appearance, their personality, their memory, their experience, all things that can be interacted with or recreated through the magic of super-science.

If you clone Joe, then the result is Joe! We brought Joe back to life through cloning. Now Joe is here with us again. And if we clone Joe again, we get two Joes! Isn't that amazing? And they're both Joe!

But.

Like.

We don't think of people internally. Are they both Joe? Is either of them even Joe? Or are they brand new people saddled with Joe's memories and personality and history?

What happened to Joe? We're only thinking about Joe in terms of our perspective as people who are not Joe, but what was Joe's experience? Did he actually die, and then wake up in a new clone body? Is his continuity of consciousness preserved? Did he actually experience coming back to life? Or did Joe die, and now Joe is still just dead. And there's been a new consciousness created to inhabit the clone?

What does this experience look like from Joe's perspective? Not Clone Joe. Original Joe.

Severed from its religious meaning, this is what the soul is an artistic shorthand for. Joe's "soul" is a simple and easy way of conveying the question, what actually happened to the inherent consciousness/personhood/continuous thinking existence of the true Joe? Does the clone share the same "soul" or does it have a new "soul"? Do their consciousnesses continue from one to another or are their consciousnesses separate?

Even calling it "consciousness" doesn't fully convey this idea. Because they can have different answers for that. The clone may feel that their consciousness extends back throughout Joe's death and life, while the original Joe's consciousness nonetheless ended at death. There is no secular term for the inherent quality of a continuity of individually existing, in and of itself.

And because there's no secular term, we just don't think about it.

But I do. I think about this every time I'm presented with a clone or a time-travel duplicate or a parallel universe counterpart, and told by the story to treat them as if they were the same. If this character does not share continuity of the original's consciousness, then they are not the same. Even if all other features are identical.

And I don't know how to express that with words.

[tyrantisterror]

Who's THE Devil?

You know, from, like, The Bible?

One of the things the various takes on Hell more or less agree on is that there is one demon among the legions of Hell who more or less reigns supreme - The Devil with a capital The. What they rarely agree on, however, is which devil that is. So, for funsies, let's look at all the candidates for The Devil, shall we?

Belial

The concept of demons arguably predates Abrahamic religions, at least if we take it at its most nebulous definition of "supernatural people from an Other world who are somewhat antagonistic toward humanity." But the more specific and probably more familiar version of them began with The Book of Enoch, one of many texts that were deemed non-canonical by Christians yet still holds a great deal of influence on Christianity as a whole. It's an extended account of the Noah story, positing that a group of angels rebelled against heaven because they wanted to sleep with mortal women, and created a race of giant half-human half-angel offspring called the Nephilim (Goliath, of David and Goliath fame, was one of the nephilim). God wasn't happy with this, and sent the rebel angels to a fiery pit before killing most of the nephilim with the big ol' flood (though Goliath's lineage survived somehow I guess).

It's not quite how most people picture the War in Heaven and rebellion of the angels, but it's nonetheless where that story started, and that makes it important. This is the first take on what would become the classic origin story for demons and Hell itself. And who is the leader of the rebel angels in this story? Why our good friend Belial, of course. Belial would remain a prominent demon from hereafter, but despite having the earliest claim for the crown of The Devil, Belial has not remained the frontrunner in the race, and is generally demoted to just being a high ranking demon, rather than the Highest ranking one.

2. Beelzebub

I've talked about Beelzebub before and I don't want to spend too much time rehashing that post, so brief recap: Beelzebub began as a mean nickname for a god from a rival religion to Judaism who was named Baal Zebul, which means Lord of the Heavenly Place. Baal Zebub, by contrast, means "Lord of the Flies." Eventually Baalzebub becomes Beelzebub and, divorced from the original context of its creation, becomes a character in his own right, being a prominent demon. And because Beelzebub appeared in a lot of texts, many of them very old as demonology go, he became a major competitor for the title of The Devil, and remains so to this day. I think it's partly because the name "Beelzebub" is really fun to say, but the sheer history and volume of demonology texts portraying him as a big, powerful devil also help. In the rare stories where Beelzebub appears but does not get to be The Devil, he's still portrayed as fairly high ranking, with both Milton's Paradise Lost and Marlowe's Faust making him The Devil's right hand demon, second in command of Hell. So even when he loses the crown, Beelzebub takes home a good silver medal

3. Asmodeus

Asmodeus is another of our "predates Christianity" demons, right up there with Beelzebub and Belial, and as far as I can tell from what I've read he was originally intended to be The Devil rather than just a devil. It's kind of right there in the name - "deus" means god, so Asmodeus having that name marks him as a demon who thinks himself equal to God.

(well, ok, there's some debate about the full origin of his name, with some arguing the "deus" part was originally a play on "deva," which in turn is loosely translated as... demon. The fact that Asmodeus's name is pronounced/spelled differently to a preposterous degree is part of why the water is so muddy - Asmoday, Asmodai, Asmodee, Osmodeus, it goes on and on)

One of his better claims to the crown comes from the story of Solomon - you know, the wise king who told people to cut babies in half. Solomon's less canonical feats include enslaving a shitload of demons to build a temple for him by way of the rite of exorcism, using a magic ring and the power of Christ to compel the damned to do manual labor for him. Asmodeus is specifically stated to be the strongest demon he summons in part because he is the King of all Demons, i.e. The Devil - and the other demons weep at the sight of their king being reduced to a slave by mortal hands.

Why is this a strong claim? Because the story of Solomon in turn inspired The Lesser Key of Solomon, a text about using the rite of exorcism to summon and use demons to do your bidding. The Lesser Key of Solomon includes the Ars Goetia, which is basically a big ol' bestiary of demons, and where many of your favorite pop culture demons - like, say, Stolas the owl guy - come from. Being the King of all demons in the story that inspired one of the more thorough and exhaustive lists of demons and their hierarchies should count for a lot.

There's one other great claim to fame Asmodeus has in his favor. While not directly named in Dante's The Divine Comedy, the description Dante gives of Satan's physical appearance matches with the most popular descriptions of Asmodeus - in particular, his three heads, one of which is yellow, one red, and one black. Granted, it'd be more of a smoking gun if one of those heads was a bull and the other a goat, but they're all very ogre-like, so I still think it stands. Dante's Devil is, more likely than not, Asmodeus, and that's a BIG point in Asmodeus's favor.

4. Hades/Pluto

Ok, so, a great deal of the Old Testament was originally written in Greek, and the New Testament was written in Latin, both of which happened when belief in the Olympian Gods was pretty strong. As such, the word "Hades" appears in the Bible a lot when talking about the place where dead people go, though it probably wasn't meant to literally be the same underworld as that in Greco-Roman mythology. Probably.

But because Christianity was spread primarily by the Roman empire once they converted to Christianity, and because Europe ended up getting a centuries-long case of stockholm syndrome for the Roman Empire that involved many people in power declaring that Greco-Roman mythology was super important literature and Latin was the language of God Himself, there is a good chunk of Biblical apocrypha that treats the use of Hades as, well, a literal crossover of sorts. Which is to say that Hades the god is sometimes treated as, like, a figure in Christianity, generally a demon specifically. And because he's, you know, Hades, from, like, The Odyssey, people feel he needs to be prominent. I mean, Hades RULED the underworld in Greek mythology, so if we're stealing him for Christian folklore, he should at least be in upper management, right?

The strongest case for Hades being The Devil comes from The Book of Revelation, one of the few books in the Bible that actually contributes to demonology (despite what people tell you, demons really don't show up in the Bible that much - most of what we think of as iconic demon lore come from non-canonical works). You know the four horsemen of the apocalypse? War, Famine, Plague, and Death, right? HA, WRONG! It's Conquest, War, Famine, and Pestilence & Death, you fake horseman fan. Well, anyway the line that introduces Death/Pestilence & Death ends with "And Hell followed with him." Except, no, not really, because the specific word used is... Hades. "And Hades followed with him." Which, depending on how you want to interpret the line, could very well mean a literal, King of the Underworld Hades.

Of course, the problem with using Revelation as proof is that Revelation itself is pretty unclear on who's leading the forces of evil. Is it the Seven-Headed dragon who's cast out of Heaven at the beginning of the end of the world? Is it the seven headed leopard monster that the dragon gives his crown to? Is it the monster who crawls out of the ground to speak for the seven-headed leopard with the voice of a dragon? Is it Hades? Is it God, the one who's allowing all this violent shit to happen and frequently sending his angels to make it way fucking worse? Who can say.

So, while it's not super common, there are more than a few works where The Devil is none other than Hades himself. Disney... might not have been completely off the mark, I guess?

While I think Hades's claim is pretty weak, I should note that one of the works that puts a LOT of Greek mythology into Hell is none other than Dante's The Divine Comedy. 70% of the demons in Dante's Hell are just Greek monsters, with the remaining few being Asmodeus and some OC demons he made up with portmanteu names a la Pokemon. Notably, Hades is one of those demonized Greek figures - presented as the Judge who decides where in Hell sinners end up based on their crimes. He's not The Devil, though, so while Dante kind of helps Hades's case, he also kind of ends up making a counter argument to it.

5. Abaddon/Apollyon

Ok, so, the word "abaddon" is used in some texts to refer to Hell, and sometimes it's personified as well. It literally means "ruin." Well, in time, Abaddon is personified and become a demon, which should feel like a familiar story to you by this point. And because Abaddon can also literally be Hell itself, it's only natural that some stories posit Abaddon the demon as the rule of Hell, much as Hades is the ruler of Hades in Greek mythology. This is Abaddon's big claim, and it's not bad, but it's not super strong. Nonetheless, it was enough for at least one prominent Christian text, Pilgrim's Progress, to make Abaddon (under one of his synonym names, Apollyon) to be The Devil, so we can give him that too.

6. Sheol

The sections of the Bible that are written in Hebrew use the word "Sheol" to refer to the underworld/afterlife rather than Hades. Now, Judaism doesn't have the same Hell as Christianity, or the same concept of Heaven either for that matter, and Sheol is less a place of torment for the damned and more of a waiting room for the dead to hang out in until the Messiah comes.

Nonetheless, Sheol did get personified like Abaddon and Hades, and that personification (which, in some versions, is a batty old lady, which is fun) later became a demon in its own right, and thus, for the same reasons as Abaddon and Hades, has a claim to being The Devil by dint of also being, you know, Hell itself. Not the strongest, most popular claim, no, but a claim nonetheless.

7. Satan

Feels rather obvious, doesn't it? Ok, so, in The Bible, one of the characters who was retconned into being The Devil is the angel in the Book of Job who takes on the title of Satan. In the original context of the story, "Satan" is not a name, but, again, a title - a job title, really, roughly akin to "prosecuting attorney." The Satan in the Book of Job isn't a rebel angel, but an angel whose job is to argue for the opposing view point to make sure everyone is doing the right thing. Less "The Devil" and more "the devil's advocate."

But! Christians fucking LOVE the devil, and they want more devil in their Bible, so many translations treat (the) Satan not as the hard-working servant of God he was originally written as, but as, you know, The Devil, arch-enemy of God and justice. And so Satan becomes synonymous with The Devil, and over time more and more appearances of The Devil give him the name Satan.

I can see an argument for this being the strongest claim, because the sheer amount of works where "Satan" is treated as The name of The Devil is enormous. But I think it's important to note that many of those works actually treat it as a name for the devil, which is to say, not the only name. I guess a lot of modern works think the name is so commonly used that it lacks its punch, and so they have The Devil pull the "I have many names" schtick to sound more imposing.

8. Lucifer

So there's a part of the Bible that talks about a star falling out of Heaven as a sort of metaphor for how people can fall from grace. Well, good ol' King James translated this as not just a falling star, but specifically The Devil himself, giving him the name Lucifer, which means "light-bringer." The King James translation of the Bible is bad in that it's immensely inaccurate, but good in that it's a beautiful piece of poetry in its own right, and since it had the authority of a goddamn king behind it, it quickly became a prominent Christian text and is still the preferred translation of many Christian sects to this day.

So, you know, that's pretty fucking big as claims go. There is one incredibly prominent (if woefully inaccurate) translation of the Bible where Lucifer is The Devil. Kind of hard to fight that one.

But it doesn't end there! I would argue that the most influential origin story for Christian devils, the one that has become ingrained in the cultural consciousness as THE story of the War in Heaven, is Milton's poem Paradise Lost. That's where most of the tropes we associate with The Devil and demons and Hell really come together to form the great devil mythology - well, it and Dante's The Divine Comedy, anyway. You know which name Milton chose for The Devil?

Lucifer.

Well, ok, he also calls Lucifer "Satan" with about equal frequency, but still - Lucifer is The Devil of Paradise Lost. And because of the sheer weight that both Paradise Lost and the King James Bible have in culture, Lucifer has ended up being used as The Devil in countless works since! Not bad for a translation error, right?

While the sheer number and notability of literature that uses Lucifer as The Devil is kind of argument enough for him having the best claim, I'd like to add one more argument in his favor: dramatic irony. I think what draws people to Lucifer is the meaning of his name - "the light-bringer" - and how it contrasts with his role as the king of a pit of darkness and misery. "Light-bringer" is a heroic name, the name of a character who brings hope and joy, which makes it so delicious when it turns out our "light-bringer" is an utter bastard. It's just irresistible, isn't it?

9. Mephistopheles

A good number of demon stories - arguably the majority of them - focus on mortals who make deals with demons and end up damned to Hell for doing it. We call these stories "faustian pacts," and we do that because the most famous story of this kind is the story of Faust, a scientist/alchemist who makes a deal with a devil named Mephistopheles to learn the secrets of the universe and ends up doing a lot of sinning in the process. Since Faust is such a famous and influential story, it only follows that its main devil is frequently viewed as The Devil.

...except

In most versions of Faust, Mephistopheles is not presented as The Devil within the narrative. He's a henchman, a flunkie, with one of the bigger names like Lucifer or Beelzebub pulling the strings. So while there are a number of stories (including a few versions of Faust itself) where Mephistopheles gets to be The Devil, it's far more common for him to be a devil - perhaps a prominent devil, maybe even one of the strongest and a close member of The Devil's inner circle, but rarely the one in charge.

10. Baphomet

Baphomet is a god whose name and appearance was repurposed as a demon by The Church of Satan, and so while I have to admit that is a claim to the crown, I don't think it's a great one. First, nothing about the Church of Satan's belief system is meant to be taken genuinely, with them admitting that they view Satan/Baphomet as a symbol rather than a literal supernatural being they believe in. Second, by rights Baphomet should be allowed to be Baphomet instead of being literally demonized. I honestly think it's better for Baphomet to lose this race than to win it.

11. Iblis

Demons in Islam work differently from demons in Christianity. Rather than being fallen angels, demons are wicked Djinn - a race of people made from fire and smoke rather than ash and dirt like humans. Djinn aren't quite as powerful as angels in Islam, but do have significant supernatural powers that humans lack. Like humans, Djinn have free will and can choose whether to be good or evil - and those that choose to be evil reside in Islam's version of Hell, where they are ruled by Iblis, the first Djinn to choose the wicked path and the ruler of Islam's Hell.

Unlike Christianity, there isn't really any debate on this. Iblis is, for all intents and purposes, the CANONICAL ruler of Hell, The Devil of Islam, and thus has the strongest and really ONLY claim to be The Devil of that religion.

...but, at the same time, Iblis can't really be the Christian devil, because Christianity doesn't have Djinn, and all the iconic parts of Christian demonology kind of hinge on the idea of demons as rebel angels, which demonic djinn very much aren't. So while Iblis's claim in Islam is irefutable, he doesn't have one in Christianity. Ain't that wacky?

I think it should be noted that there are more-or-less canonical texts where Iblis isn't treated as purely evil, either, including one where he actively asks for help in repenting and is turned down because, well, evil has to exist, and someone has to rule over it, and like it or not, that's Iblis's job now. It ends with Iblis wailing that he has become the greatest martyr of Islam. Which is so fucking hardcore, I love it. In Christianity, the texts where we humanized demons are non-canonical at best and deemed heresy at worst, but Islam allowed it to be more-or-less canon. They saw the coolest takes on the Devil and said "yeah we can allow that" - so much more rad than what Christianity did with them.

~

~

~

So, who do YOU think is The Devil? You know, from, like, The Bible?

[writingintheshadowsforever]

Imagine Abby confessing her love for you

You knew you were goner the first time you laid eyes on Abby Anderson. She was tough, guarded, emotionless, and serious about completing the task. Whatever it was Isaac put her charge of no matter the objective that was always her main focus. Despite her tough exterior and her knack for pushing people away whenever they tried to befriend her. Almost like it was her secret superpower or something.

You managed to worm your way into her heart with the resilience of a bear trying to protect its cubs, and the patience of a scorpion waiting for its poison to spread before moving in for the kill on its prey. If someone asked Abby how you were the one who got through to her first.

She didn't have an honest answer for them herself for she never understood how you did what you did. All she knew was once she let you in. There was no getting rid of you even if she wanted to. Abby found herself relying on someone else to keep her. Other than the need for revenge going for the first time since her dad's death. She'd do anything for you. There was nothing in the world you couldn't ask her to do that wouldn't be an automatic yes.

Unless of course you asked to be honest about her feelings for you. Because the second the two of you returned from scouting the outpost. You cornered her in the locker rooms knowing she would be in there to take a nice long, and hot shower. It was pretty late so no one else was present. You figured that would make it slightly easier to coax the truth out of her. Instead Abby gave you the run around insisting that yes while you were an important person in her life, and she indeed love you (like a friend) making sure to put an extra emphasis on the word friend. She wasn't harboring any feelings for you, or anyone else.

Abby then went on to make some stupid joke about her last relationship, and just how incompatible she was with anyone. You weren't buying it for one second, but nonetheless you still let it go. Knowing better than anyone if you pushed her too hard she'd shut down for a while.

But apparently that one push was enough because the next day Isaac asked you to report to him. He proceeded to tell you that for the next month or so. He was reassigning you to strictly supply runs only, and if you weren't need there. You were to report for dog duty every morning which included in helping training the dogs, cleaning up their kennels, and grooming them. No more field missions for you with reason being you showed reckless behavior on your last mission. That could've resulted in the death of either you, or you and your team.

"You got potential to be one of my best soldiers in the future y/n. I'll be damned if I lose you in the field because you want to be a show-off playing hero." Isaac scolded you with a grunt placing Abby's mission report on his desk.

Arguing with him wasn't going to change a thing. You might've been with the WLF longer, but Abby had way more experience in the field. Her history with the Fireflies and dedication to training moved her up the ranks faster than any other solider. She hardly ever went on a mission where she actually had to answer to someone else. So whatever she told Isaac was final.

The role change took place nearly two weeks ago, and you still hadn't adjusted in the change of pace. Plus the lack of action not to mention despite how pissed off you were with her. You missed Abby Anderson terribly. The two of you only saw each other in passing, and each time Abby avoided eye contact. Right now the supply run you were on took you a few miles away from main base. Abby had just returned from a pretty nasty confrontation with the Scars, and was resting up in the infirmary. You wouldn't be surprised if she had something to do with you being sent on a four-day run.

"Ahhh I don't see how these guys do this all day." You complained pushing the door to the lobby of the abandoned hotel open with your back. The room covered from top to bottom with containers filled with any items that were preserved and still of good use. With a grunt you heaved the large box in your arms up to stack it on top of more boxes. The pile held up not swaying the slightest bit.

You let out a sigh of relief leaning back on a heavier and stronger stack of containers. The person in charge would've made you clean it up alone if it fell. "This is literally the definition of grunt work."

"Wow its good to know how you really feel about us, and our contribution to the WLF's survival." A familiar voice chimed in only a few feet away.

You let out a surprise yelp looking up to see Nora positioned right in front of you. Her arms crossed over her chest, a single eyebrow quirked upward with a playful smile on her face. "How long have you been there?"

"Considering I'm in charge of taking inventory all day. What's in the box you brought in?" She asked her tone becoming a bit more strict for the moment.

"A bunch random clothes" You told her unsure of why it was important.

"They actually go over there." She pointed to the far left side of the lobby chuckling. At the way you groaned pushing off the containers. "Calm down I'll have some of the guys move it later."

You relaxed again shooting her a fake angry smile.

"So what did you do to get on Isaac's bad side. The only time he puts field operatives on supply runs is when we're navigating dangerous territory. And the only time he turns you guys into suppliers is when he wants to punish you." Isaac knew the change in pace of the work drew field operatives crazy.

"Its more like what I did to piss off Abby." You said unable to hide the irritation in your voice.

Nora's eyes widened a bit at your answer before her face scrunched up in confusion. "But you and Abby are like this" she stated holding up a hand with one finger crossed over the other.

"Yeah we were until I tried to make confess her feelings for me" You told her with a shrug. If Abby was going to lie about it why should you keep it a secret.

"Oh no you gotta start from the beginning girl" Nora demanded shaking her head. Not giving you a chance to protest she hoisted herself up onto a container adjacent to you.

You chuckled at her eagerness to hear some gossip, but knew nothing more exciting was going to happen. So you would indulge in it this once even though it was never your thing. Plus Nora and Abby were close enough the girl was in the inner circle. No easy feat to accomplish with Abby.

"We went on a scouting mission a few weeks ago, and got ambushed by a herd of infected. Abby got cornered and ran out of bullets, so I came to her rescue doing something that was kinda stupid." You admitted a bit guilty knowing Abby wasn't completely lying about the reckless behavior thing. "But it worked and I saved her life only I guess she thought I died in the process. Abby started freaking out and when after I reassured her I was fine. She went on to say I couldn't do stuff like because she cared about me too much, and stopped short of dropping the "L" word."

Nora held onto every single word that left your mouth following the story with genuine interest. When you to the end immediately she shook her head hoping down from her seat. "Nope we can't have this I'm going to help you get your girl."

Your eyes lit up with curiosity. "How?

"Oh don't worry I'll think of something" she replied already rubbing her chin.

You still wanted more insight which led to your next question. "Why?"

Nora turned back around and walked over to rest both of her hands on either of your shoulders. "Because you're my girl and Abby is my girl I want both of you to be happy. Plus I've been rooting for y'all since day one when the two of you met."

"And" you pressed her further sensing an ulterior motive.

"I got a running bet with Owen, Manny, and Mel about when the two of you are going to finally get together." she finally admitted with a sheepish smile. "Don't be mad."

I'm not but Mel." You laughed a little bit thrown back by the timid doctor being in on it.

"I betted it would be sooner than later, but Mel thought the opposite while Owen and Manny opted for it being never."

You wanted to disappointed in Owen but with the way Abby reacted to everything that happened. It made sense and Manny was her roommate, so he probably did have some type of insight on her unknown to you.

"So what do you get if you win? Money isn't exactly worth anything."

Nora just gave you a quick wink and motioned for you to follow her.

Three Days Later

Isaac didn't have any more assignments for suppliers, and your assistance with the dogs wasn't required. So you readied yourself to enjoy a rare free day or two, but a solider came banging on your door the morning. After you had just returned from your supply run with Nora to let you know the man wanted to see you in his office.

You dragged yourself out of bed with a sleepy groan cursing the entire world. What could Isaac possibly want now? He literally told you last night today was yours. A five minute shower and ten minutes spent going through your closest trying to determine what to wear, and a quick stop to the mess hall for breakfast. You finally arrived at his door giving it a gentle knock.

"Its y/n"

"Come in" replied his gruff voice.

You opened the door to the sight of Isaac sitting behind his desk with his hands folded together in resting atop it. Abby sat in chair on the right side with both of knees maintaining a steady bouncing pace. The second your foot stepped into the office she launched to her feet. Already red in the face jabbing a anger finger at you.

"What is she doing here?"

"Sit back down Abby" Isaac commanded rather than answer her question.

"But-" she started to protest until he fixed her with his steely gaze, and she finally listened. Plopping back down into the chair propping her elbow up on the arm, and placing her chin in her awaiting hand. Abby grumbled complaints under her breath while you took the chair beside her holding back an amused smile.

"Owen and Manny are both out of commission for the next few days, and you need a partner for your scouting mission today." Isaac said laying both of his hands flat on the desk.

"Are they okay?" You asked a bit concerned.

He nodded. "Mel said it was some type of stomach bug possibly caused by. A bad batch of fish from last night's dinner, but we're keeping them in a restricted area to be sure."

Your mind wandered back to your conservation with Nora just a day ago, and you knew without a doubt this was her doing. You fought off the urge to grin again.

"I don't need a partner Isaac I can handle this by myself." Abby argued throwing you a side glance trying to hide the guilt in them.

"After what happened on your last mission I won't risk it. The infected could be anywhere in this point, and you never know when a horde is going to show up. Plus those Scars are getting more bolder with each attack. Y/N compliments your skillset nicely, and has enough experience."

"But she's reckless-"

"And I trust you to maintain control over this mission, and put her in place if the need arises. Are you telling me you can't handle it?" Isaac narrowed his eyes at Abby almost daring her to continue questioning his decision.

"No sir I can handle it" Abby answered dropping her head with a look of despair.

The scouting mission was a simple one. Located about three miles from the main WLF base was a small cabin near a set of watchtowers. A group of soldiers stumbled upon it on they're way back, but didn't feel comfortable scoping it out. They were injured, malnourished, and sleep deprived after spending days hiding out in Scar infested territory trying not to be discovered.

It was close enough to base Isaac was sure none of the Scars were stupid enough to get this close. And if there were a few hanging out about you and Abby were more than capable of taking them out. He did order to bring one back for interrogation if the two of you found any.

The cabin was located in wooded area where the trees grew too great heights, and the bushes were dense. Abby walked ahead of you hacking any blocking vegetation away with her machete. She did it in such an aggressive way you were pretty sure this was her stress reliever. Anything would do rather than actually getting it off her chest through conservation. You followed behind her maintaining a comfortable distance. It went like this a solid hour or so into the trail before finally you couldn't take the silence anymore.

"Are you going to ignore me the whole time Abby?" You asked her.

"That depends what do you want to talk about?" she shot back not even bothering to pause to look back at you.

"I don't know how about the fact you lied to Isaac and got me put on supply duty."

Now she stopped whirling around to face you her face shrouded in disbelief at your words. "I didn't lie your actions were reckless on that mission." She raised the machete pointing at you, but then realized it and slid into the waistband of her pants.

"Yeah but that's not why you reported me is it? You accused closing the distance between you two.

"Why else would I report you y/n?"

If she was going to continue to play dumb then you were happy to bring up the elephant in the room again. "To get me away from you for a few days, so you could bury those feelings so deep inside of you again. You'd forget they were ever even there."

A red tint coated her cheeks as her eyes averted the contact from yours now. Instead she turned her gaze to the ground below swallowing a lump in her throat. "We should keep moving."

Not bothering to wait for your reply Abby turned back around and continued on the path to the cabin. You let out a sigh of exasperation running a hand down your face. Of course it wasn't going to be that easy to make her confess. You were going to play the danger card again.

The opportunity to do it without putting your life in any real danger presented itself. A whole hour later after the two of you finished hiking your way through all the deep bush. The trail cleared up a bit more till eventually one of the watchtowers came into view, and the closer you two got to it. The more realized getting to the cabin wasn't going to be easy as the group made it out to be.

The sound of rushing water filled the air when you and Abby got within ten feet of the tower. And the source of noise revealed itself once you reached the tower to it sitting on the edge of a ravine. Abby extended her arm out in front you. When both of you reached the edge of the grassy terrain that led down into a wide and deep ditch. That was filled up with water probably from the few storms to hit the area in the past few days.

You leaned over to try and determine just how deep it went wondering. If it was possible to walk across, but the bottom wasn't visible. The current was too strong to just outright risk it, and you didn't see a bridge or anything that could be used as one.

"We gotta find another way across" Abby said coming to the same conclusion. "Let's keep following the path farther down maybe the water level gets lower." She pulled out the map to look over for a possible better destination, so caught up with it. Abby missed the way your eyes lit with mischief when you looked upward. The two watchtowers were connected to one other by a decent size beam.

By the time Abby finished going over the map you were taking your first step onto the beam.

"Alright there actually might be a road..." Her voice trailed off when she discovered you were no longer beside or in front of her.

"Y/N" she called out your name her head swiveling in every direction in frantic search for you. Had the Scars managed to ambush and nab you with her so close? The thought terrified her so much she was five seconds away from working herself into hyperventilating just like last time. "Y/N" Abby cried out desperately again.

"Up here Abbs calm down" you shouted from your position standing on top of the beam. About thirty feet up in the air balancing on the metal surface with ease.

She followed the sound of your voice, and sighed with relief at the sight you. Bracing a hand to her chest she calmed her panicked breathing. It took a minute to get it back to normal then she glared up at you. "What the hell are you doing up there? Come down now."

"No we can cross this way" You argued with a tiny smirk.

"Y/N I'm not playing with you get down from there" Abby ordered again. Her voice more firm this time but you saw how nervous she was getting.

"But this is so much faster than walking like another three miles for a road that might destroyed. Plus that's farther than Isaac wanted us to go." You pointed out.

"I don't care I'm in charge and I said no. Now. Get. Down. Here." Abby pointed at you then the ground on her last two words.

"Fine I'll come down" You agreed. "But first I want to hear you say it." You added it as she relaxed again.

Your request made her quirked an eyebrow. "Say what?"

You shook your head. "No more games Abby finish what you were going to say to me. On our last mission before you stopped yourself I won't come down till you do."

Abby grabbed two fistfuls of her hair holding back a frustrated scream. It was a miracle she didn't unravel the braid. "Oh for crying out loud y/n let it go. I wasn't going to say anything besides what I actually said." Now please get down here before you fall and drown or something." Abby pleaded with wide and desperate eyes.

You dropped into a crouch swaying a bit but righting yourself immediately. A small cry exited Abby's mouths as she followed your every move in fear. "What would you do if I fell in? Would you try to save me?" You asked her softly.

"I'd do anything for you" she whispered so low you barely heard her. "Because we're friends and that's what friends do for each other." It was half a lie, and both of you knew it. You were too close to give up now. So you added more pressure by standing upright and turning to walk further away to the middle of the beam. "I thought it was because I was one of the best."

"You are y/n but you're my friend too. I'm sorry for the way I've been acting for the past couple of weeks. Is that what you wanted to hear? I'm sorry okay."

Close but not close enough.

"What exactly am I the best at Abby?"

She furrowed her eyebrows in confusion. "What?" she replied.

"You said I was one of the best but at what. It can't be fighting because that title goes to you easily. I mean not even our toughest guys can take you in a sparring match." You brought up your hand placing one finger down. "I know its not sharpshooting I mean I got I'm one hell of a shot, but so is Owen." Another finger brought down as you focused you on Abby again.

She dropped her head staring at the ground with her fists clenched at her sides. Her entire body was trembling with anger, or maybe the overwhelming emotion she kept trying to suppress.

"I guess it could be tracking I am really good at that" You said pausing.

"You're the best tracker we got, and I know that for a fact I'd be dead. If it wasn't for your tracking skills back when we got trapped in that cave during the blizzard." Abby said loud enough for you to hear her.

The memory came back to you in an instant. Almost two years ago the two of you had to seek refuge in a random cave while patrolling the area of a nearby hotel. The suppliers were searching it top to bottom for any resources. Back then the harsh winters had depleted many of your medical supplies, and other items. The area had an infected problem, so a small team of soldiers went along for protection.

You and Abby ended up wandering a little too far while following a stray runner to a small nest. No more than ten of them which was easy enough as long as you used stealth rather than bullets. Then the storm picked up making it all but imposing to find the way back. You were a survivalist before joining up with the WLF. Your father raised you in the wilderness teaching you every skill you would need to conquer it. When the world fell apart you were a little more than ready, and you put all that knowledge to use in an effort to keep yourself and Abby alive.

"I never seen someone fight so hard to live in a world that's just easier to die in." Abby went on looking up at you now. "It wouldn't have been fast but better than being tuned right? I was ready to accept defeat but you were there going out in storm risking your life for mine. Each time returning with food, or wood for the fire. You built a wooden door to keep out some of the cold, and no matter how bad things got during those five days. You never lost hope, or that cheerful attitude of yours."

The fear in her eyes dissolved to be replaced with adoration and the look warmed your entire body. "You never run out of it you know. It doesn't matter how bleak the situation is. And before I met you y/n I lost all that after my dad died. I lost all hope for a better world I didn't believe there was a single thing worth fighting for anymore. Owen was the only reason I kept going, but we fell apart so it wasn't the same. Then you made me see again just how beautiful the world can be. Because if my love for you isn't the most beautiful feeling I don't know what is. There I said it I fucking love you alright, and my biggest fear in this world is losing the person I love the most again. So please come down."

The speech that led to her confession caught you off guard hitting you like a ton of bricks. Her words tugged on all your heartstrings till they came loose, and tears of happiness clouded your vision. "Damn it Abby I love you would've done just fine." You said with a teary chuckle wiping your eyes on your shirt. One of your feet lost its footing and you stumbled before finding the beam again.

"Y/N come on" Abby shouted holding out her arms as if she could catch you. If you did indeed fall from that angle. "I want kiss you so hurry up alright."

The statement made you perk up a bit as the mischief came back sparkling in your eyes. "I don't know you made me work for that confession. You should have to work for our first kiss."

Her expression darkened but she smirked daring you to try her. "Y/N don't do this."

You smirked back while walking across the rest of the beam holding her eyes for the entire duration. She watched you disappear into the other tower in amusement and slight annoyance. Not wasting another second Abby bounded to the tower and climbed the ladder as fast as she could. Slowing down at the beam to take a deep breath, and doing her best not to look down. She took the first step placing one foot in front of another. Till she reached the other end your playful laughter filling her ears as you slid down the ladder. After making sure she made it across without falling, and you hit the ground running straight for the cabin.

Abby went down the ladder halfway before taking a huge leap. She didn't bother stopping to right herself giving chase almost immediately. Even with your head she started catching up to you in just a matter of seconds.

"Abby I get the bonus points for helping you face your fear right." You called out pushing your legs to go faster.

"Not a chance" Abby yelled back matching your pace.

Her arms wrapped around your waist from behind and you were yanked backwards off your feet. You let out a shriek of laughter when her fingers dug into your sides. "Abbs no" You laughed trying to break free of her grip.

Abby secured your back to her chest with a single muscular arm while her other hand continued to wreck havoc. She tickled you into you were breathless and in tears, and before you had recover. Abby turned you around in arms and pressed her lips to yours. Any breath you managed to get back into your lungs vanished again. As your eyes closed and your body melted in her arms. Lucky for you Abby kept you upright with her arms constricted around your middle.

You had dreamed of this moment more than a hundred times. Each time wondering if the real thing would live up to your fantasy. Of course the real Abby surpassed all expectations, and your questions of rather or not she knew how to kiss went out the window. Her lips moved slowly against yours in such a way. It was like she was guiding on exactly what to do, and you followed her lead eventually your hands found their place in her hair. You tugged her a bit closer and she moaned into your mouth pulling away for a fraction of a second. Before deepening the kiss swinging your body around to push you up against a tree.

The bark bit into your skin but the only thing you could focus on right then was. How your body lit up with a want no a need for Abby. It wasn't enough your toes were curling from the passion she kissed you with. You shoved against her shoulder, and Abby pulled away immediately eyes filled with concern. "Did I hurt you?"

"No but the cabin."

She scoffed. "We got plenty of time."

You flicked her forehead causing her to yelp in pain and pull back again. "What?" she whimpered eyes zeroing in on your swollen lips.

"I bet its a lot more comfortable in there way more appropriate for making out" You told her.

"That would be inappropriate behavior" Abby started nuzzling your neck. Her lips drifted to your ear "good thing I'm in charge huh." You squealed in surprise as she lifted you in arms bridal style, and began to carry you to the cabin.

Where the two of you would stay for a few more days, and long nights. Consequences be damned this time.

[lovezbrownies]

Protective. (Yandere Chief of Military x Reader.)

Masterlist

Synopsis: Someone tries to threaten you and Gen doesn't take kindly to that.

Gen Ludenhart x Reader

Warnings: Honestly kinda tame, threats, Gen controlling you, using term ''doll'' but overall Gender neutral reader, bullying, harassment, possessive behaviour, mentions of physical torture to reader.

word count: 1,877

Gen was invited to a gathering by some aristocrat she’s buddy-buddy with. Which meant by extension you were also invited, even if you didn’t know anyone at these gatherings Gen loved to show off her decorated show pony, so whether you liked it or not you will end up going with her. Gen’s favorite part is playing dress-up with you, choosing what you wear and coordinating it all so well. At every event you’ve attended with your wife you’ve somehow managed to outdo the host and entire venue– even with the simplest outfits you looked ethereal. You and Gen were known for being a very attractive pair with an attractive sense of style.

If you ever showed interest in makeup Gen will put some on you. She’s been an avid makeup lover since her youth. Gen knows all the latest trends, newest products, and what will or won’t work on your skin texture. This obsession with makeup never really translated into skincare since she’s been blessed with clear skin since birth. But nonetheless this girl loves it when you let her put makeup on you– not to make you look better, but to enhance your features and play around with new styles of makeup. You best know she will straddle you while doing your makeup.

Moving on to hair. This will vary depending on what you have now. If you’re bald she will draw intricate patterns on your scalp if you allow her to. If you have short tomboyish hair, Gen will gel it up and style it in many different ways. If you have a bob, Gen will be a little stuck on what to do at first but after searching for cute bob styles in magazines she would absolutely have fun with your bob. If you have shoulder-length hair, the hair ties start to make their appearance as well as curling rollers and other traditional methods of changing hair texture. If you have waist-length hair, this woman would go wild with different types of buns, a lot of bobby pins, and a lot of hair accessories.

If you suggest doing anything for Gen, she would actually laugh. Loudly, like a hyena. Cute, but no way. She will definitely mention this comment to her brother and friends. Gen loves you, and has the confidence that you might have some taste in fashion, but she knows she’s better at this than you, plus she enjoys dressing up her little housespouse like a little doll. But most important of all she’s set a standard at this point, if Gen allowed you to dress her up it would humiliate her! No one, afterall, can match her fashion taste. Not even you. That is the harsh truth of it all.

All that aside, even if she controlled every aspect of your life, to the very fabric and material you wear, you had to admit you always looked fabulous when you were allowed to go out. Like today’s event, you and Gen were dressed to the nines outshining all who attended. Of course, being so glamorous came with its downsides. Like Anna for example, who’s an extremely rich viscountess. She hosts a great deal of the events you two attend. 

Anna used to love Gen, of course before Gen’s sudden engagement announcement and her introduction to you. Gen and Anna didn’t have a romantic history, but a sexual one. Gen didn’t want to be in a relationship and Anna was okay with that. Until Gen completely iced Anna out. The poor girl would go to Gen’s estate, begging to see Gen– Yet she was never allowed. Well, safe to say Anna found out the hard way why. Months had passed, and Anna was still hung up on Gen, that was until she got a letter that explained it all. Actually everyone of noble descent had got one. An invitation letter to Gen Ludenhart’s engagement party. To a random person no one’s ever heard of. Anna was heartbroken.

You may ask ‘Well can’t she just not invite Chief Gen and her arm candy?’ No. Anna could only wish to do so. You two were quite popular for being the sexy romantic couple with an enchanting love story. (Made up by Gen.) If she were to uninvite the hottest couple of nobility it would be a complete faux pas, not a soul would ever attend whatever event she’d hold. So Anna tries her best to hold it in. The snide remarks against Gen and you, the glares at you, and the hateful expression that comes across her face whenever you two are mentioned.

This gathering, like many others, was nothing special. You think it was to formally introduce each other to this new noble or something, you weren’t sure and you didn’t care. You barely liked to talk with these people to begin with, always asking personal questions and making you uncomfortable. Gen liked to talk, so you let her, maybe the only advantage of having her as your wife. Thankfully, Gen was more lenient when it came to social gatherings like these, everyone knew you were hers so she felt it safe enough to let you do as you please. Which leads you to where you currently are.

Peacefully watching the night sky in one of Anna’s gardens, sitting on a stone bench. It was incredibly overwhelming inside that mansion, many many nobles are attending tonight, so with Gen’s permission you walked off with a drink and a plate of some food you got from the buffet stand. Although you hated these gatherings, you loved this garden. You almost envy how carefree and rich Lady Anna is, with a big mansion, complete freedom to do as she liked, and no Gen in her life. That’s what you always dreamt of. But alas it’s just a dream.

The sound of footsteps broke your train of thought, looking over you see Lady Anna herself. Well, speak of the devil. She smiled stiffly at you, “Ah, I always can find you here can’t I? It’s quite ironic really,” You cocked your head to the side, confused on what she’s trying to say. “You use Chief Gen’s status to weasel your way into noble society yet you won’t even try to get along with the rest of us. I always knew you were using poor Gennie.” You furrowed your brows, what the fuck is she talking about. If anything, Gen's is the one using you. You barely even want her!

You got up, not wanting to listen to her ramblings any longer. “I don’t know what you are talking about, my Lady, but I must return before Gen worries, excuse me.” You kept it civil, just as Gen taught you. You tried to walk past Anna but she grabbed your arm faster than you can process. “You listen to me, you gold digger. I don’t want you here. Never ever come back to my estate ever again, but do not mention any of this to little Gennie or else I will make you pay. You got that?” You nodded quickly, just wanting to get away from her and return to your wife. You definitely were going to tell Gen, while the offer was tempting, Gen would find out one way or another and she would become upset at you for not telling her sooner.

The rest of the night you stuck to Gen, never ever leaving her side. It wasn’t that you’re fearful of Anna, but you just wanted to avoid her. Eventually once you got home you didn’t yet mention what happened, you and Gen were quite tired and went to sleep. But the next day during breakfast. “Gen?” Gen looked up from the newspaper she was reading, “Yes, my love.” You twiddled with your thumbs, unsure how to put together the words. “How do you feel about Lady Anna?” Gen froze up a little, did you find out about her fling with that woman? That was way before your relationship so why would you be upset? 

Gen sighed, “Why do you ask? Did she say anything to you?”

You locked eyes with her finally. “Actually… Yeah.”

You then told her the gist of what Anna had said to you, but Gen demanded to be told evey tiny detail, which led to a long discussion which ended with Gen saying, “I’ll take care of it, dear, don’t worry your little head over it.” After that she went off to work, her return however was much later than usual. She’d usually be home by 6 PM, today Gen came home at 9 PM, a bright smile on her face 

You were lying in bed, sleep escaped you, worry filling every corner of your mind, not in relation to what happened to Gen, but more to if she went to Anna’s residence and… took her life away. Your myriad of thoughts were interrupted by your wife’s voice “Honey!~ I missed you!!” Just as you were about to sit up to look at her, she had fully tackled you, wrapping her arms around your midsection. “Whew what a long day! Wish I came home sooner~ Think it’s too late for any extra activities?~”  Gen sported a devious smirk on her face, you were absolutely baffled at how carefree she acted.

“I- Did you kill her?”

“Who?”

“Anna! Did you kill Lady Anna!” Your outburst surprised Gen, she’d trained you enough not to yell at her like that anymore. Looks like this situation seriously frazzled her darling. Oh you sweet thing. Gen tightened her hold on you, feeling slightly overprotective of your emotions. “How cute you are, angel. But no, unfortunately I can't because she's a very important woman. I only taught her a lesson using my words.” She snuggled deeper into you, covering the both of you with the blanket she looked up at you seductively. “Now, sleep or do you want to have se-’’ You closed your eyes shut. “I’m asleep! I’m asleep!” 

Strangely enough, Lady Anna hasn’t hosted a party for two months, no one knows why she’s been so quiet and isolated for so long! Well except for you and Gen. But today was Lady Anna’s long awaited birthday ball. Lady Anna looked extravagant, but it looks like she hasn’t been sleeping much. Maybe that’s why, maybe she’s sick, maybe she’s dying, maybe a night time lover. People all around whispering rumors about the viscountess. Yet when the favorite romantic couple entered, all went silent.

Gen knew everyone was watching you two, her hand tightening its hold on your hips, pulling you as close as possible to her. This time Gen went all out with your outfits. You were wearing matching elegant navy blue clothes. You and your wife were sparkling in jewelry and elegance. Completely outdoing the birthday girl on her own birthday. When anyone would ask Gen would just say that Lady Anna had paid for the entirety of your outfits, which she did, forcibly by Gen. That Anna had asked them to wear such extravagant clothes while she herself was wearing the blandest of pinks.

People marvel at the pair's beauty, Gen holding onto you like you’re her lifeline, as Anna stares at the two, being forgotten about on her own birthday.

[bitterrobin]

I loooove expanding on the al Ghuls. IDK in both canon and fanon they're always exclusively villains with little nuance to them unless its the sole focus of a story arc. Even then, its pretty much only Ras and Talia that get their (deserved) due.

*pushing up my nerd glasses* which is why I have fun writing GRAVEYARD because I can yap about my al Ghuls headcanons left and right. For example, Melisande is primarily a French name. But since Talia's mother is often described as mixed Arab/Chinese, I figured I would look for why she would have a French name (other than the writer's decision, maybe they thought it was just pretty). I came up with this: Algeria has history of French usage through its colonization, so Melisande has a French first name but an Arabic middle name (Fadhma). Since she met Ras in Woodstock, she'd have to have been a teenager/young adult by then, and thus been raised in the 1950s/60s. I figured the connotations of Woodstock, her mixed heritage, the then-current state of Algeria etc, the 1969 oil spill in the US, she would have visited America with curiosity about the counter-culture. (how? idk that's why this still in the works) In my au,

Melisande already held views on nature and environmental protection before meeting Ras. Her views were fierce, but probably a little naive compared to Ras' own views. Nonetheless, they clicked intellectually, with Melisande debating theories and politics, which eventually led to their marriage. I don't think Melisande would've liked America (and obviously neither did Ras) so they did not stay there. I considered writing Melisande having Kayble Amazigh heritage to further fuel her desire for change and revolution and because Ras is implied to have Bedouin/Berber origins, but since I don't know much about those cultures beyond some research - I figured I shouldn't include it. Also, because Melisande died when Talia was young, so I don't think she'd have the time to impart a lot of her specific culture onto her daughter, adding to Talia's isolation/loneliness. Melisande is a mother who's killed in both of her iterations, I just wanted to add more significance to her connection with Talia. Something about meeting an intellectual and then being doomed, one way or another, to be absorbed into his mythos. She's a blip in Ras's history, not even his first wife or his first lover - but she's important to Talia.

Same kinda applied to Dusan. He's only in several comics as the White Ghost because Ras needed a new body. He's albino. He's extremely devoted to his father despite not receiving the same attention, and he was born to connect Ras to some lost culture or people. Dusan, to my knowledge is not an Arab name. From research, in some areas, its a Czech/Slovak/Serbian name. This is interesting to me since, besides Nyssa, it implies he's the only other non-Arabic member of the family. Nyssa (depends on translation, is either Greek or Hebrew, which makes sense considering she is Jewish) is of Russian descent. So in my hc, Dusan is of Slovak descent, connected to some fictional peoples. Considering Ras' history, Dusan's mother was probably connected to some type of specific science or magic culture that Ras wanted his hands on. He seems detached to Talia, despite being her brother, so my hc is that he's much older than her and so they don't have a connection in the way that Nyssa created between them. Because Ras was successfully able to transfer his mind/soul to Dusan's body in Resurrection, we can glean that Dusan might've had this magical connection too. Bringing Mara into this, we don't get a lot of content surrounding what her relationship w her father was. Still, my hc is that her red hair streak is actually dyed, and she has inherited her father's albinism but has yet to show it outside of her hair. Mara is also not an Arabic name. In Hebrew it means bitter, but my hc is that she nicknamed herself Mara. Besides Nyssa, I don't think any other member of the al Ghuls are Jewish - so Mara just took the meaning as a way to symbolize her bitterness over her father. Her full name was Maram, which means "wish" or "desire" in Arabic. Whether it was Dusan or her mother that named her this, I'm not fully sure yet but I think it'd be more heartbreaking if it was Dusan. Despite spending so long attached to his father's crusade, I think it'd be sad if for a moment - he had independence and happiness w Mara. Maybe he wanted a son, just as Ras wanted a son, but he once loved her just as fiercely as Talia loves Damian. But again, the al Ghuls are Ouroboros. They cannot ever break the family curse, so in the end, Dusan was once again driven to his father's side w fervor, his lover or wife left him, and Mara was left (as many in the family) alone.

[theetwinkleboy]

just. when i think about the way that yagi toshinori transformed one for all and its purpose.

i'm on ch 305 rn, aka the izuku's-coma-slash-ethical-debate chapter, and just. it's really really striking me how much one for all, and the users' understanding of it, has evolved over history. We know that they didn't know it could be passed on until after Yoichi's death, and Banjo says that AFO tried to steal OFA from him and En twice, and failed both times, and I wonder if the users even knew it was unable to be stolen until Banjo figured it out.

It brings this moment from a previous chapter to mind:

"They weren't really chosen ones"--they were just trying to keep the quirk alive, even as they died. And it's kept alive because, as yoichi says in this chapter--

This quirk was an unwanted gift, followed by a mutation and a happy accident, and then, until Nana, it was kept alive to keep the fight against AFO going, with the hope of someday killing him at last.

And then along comes Yagi Toshinori.

It's so telling that Nana abandoned her son to keep him safe, but then this other kid tells her his dreams and plans for a safer society, and she gifts him with a death trap target on his back of a quirk in response.

I think i'm about a hundred chapters off from Toshinori's origin story, so I don't know the exact details of a lot of vestige stuff, but like. This quirk, up until now, has been passed on in desperation. But All Might inspired something in Nana so clearly that she made him a chosen one in a way that she and others before her never were.

And then he takes this quirk that has been kept alive specifically to kill one man, and he uses it to save. He uses it to transform society. And both he and that transformation had shortcomings. but that's another post because this post is about the vision of this man.

And all might is able to defeat one for all, able to become the number one hero, BECAUSE the users before him kept this quirk alive for him to be able to use to achieve his vision. And then here's what the successor Toshinori chose (another chosen one, the second of his kind) has to say when even Nana says that Shigaraki can't be saved:

Yagi's the only user of all for one that's not fully there in this meeting, but nonetheless, his presence is still SO loud.

It's so important to me that All Might didn't choose Izuku as a successor to defeat AFO. He chose him as a successor for his other vision for his quirk.

And Izuku's not All Might. He's a transformation himself, one that gets me all kinds of emotional, but that is ALSO another post. But the thing is, he's able to use this power to save in part because it was given to him in order to save people, not in order to kill. And that's because of Yagi Toshinori.

[seraphimcollections]

gentle giant | ch.2 | Konig x medic!reader

warnings: mild nudity, typical COD violence, gun violence, blood, angst.

summary: the truth of what's got the 141 on the run and now KorTac involved comes to light and is slowly catching up with you.

Callsign is Wren.

Words: 3.3

a/n: I am...so sorry. I'm not dead, and this series is still going, I just haven't had the time to post. Sorry for the long wait!

| masterlist |

Grub time went as expected. Well, almost. You and the rest of the 141 sat at their own table, KorTac all sat at their own. Once you had grabbed your tray, you blinked in shock as Konig went to leave the cafeteria. You grabbed his sleeve, asking where he was going. He sent you a nervous look. 

“I usually eat on my own, you know,” he pointed at his hood. “It’s more private.” 

You felt stupid for not piecing together on your own. Of course he’d want to eat on his own, he wouldn’t want people to see his face. You should’ve known, Ghost was the same way. All you could do was watch as Konig bent his head down as he passed through the doorway, disappearing from view.

“Oi, Wren! Over ‘er!” Soap called from across the cafeteria.

You finally tore your gaze from the door, walking over to your squad all huddling around one table -- well, minus Price, who must have been dealing with more important matters. The man constantly stayed two steps ahead, and he wasn’t too uptight to let you know. You had to keep in check sometimes, “doctor’s orders.” 

You placed your tray on the metal table, sliding on to the bench next  to Soap and Gaz. 

“‘Bout time you showed up, Gaz, heard you got lost,” you smirked. 

“Huh, I wonder what birdie is spreading that rumor?” Gaz said sarcastically, casting a glance toward Soap who sent him a winning smile. 

“You boys got settled in fine?” You said, beginning to pick at your food. 

“Yeah, got bunked with Soap because Ghost didn’t wanna share,” Gaz grumbled. 

Ghost grunted making you giggle, “you actually thought Ghost would share? Come now, you should know better than that.” 

“How about you, love? You seem to have settled in just fine, having that big oaf following you around,” Soap said, cocking a brow. 

Your expression softened slightly, “Konig is…nice.” 

“So he told his name,” Gaz hummed. 

“Nice?” Ghost said, his deep voice rumbling in his chest. 

You cast him a look but was quick to divert from his piercing gaze. 

“Well, he’s quiet, but harmless,” you shrugged. 

Ghost continued to bore into you, “there is nothing harmless about that man.” 

“No one is in this line of work, lass,” Soap said midchew. 

“Anyway,” you said, eager to change the subject, “when are we moving out?” 

“Soon,” Ghost said, “the Captain is ironing out the details with Laswell, trying to keep this within as tight a circle as possible.” 

“Much appreciated,” you said, your expression becoming solemn. 

There was no escaping it. You were running from the devil himself and all his shadows. You remember it clearly.

You were scavenging for supplies in the small town the task force had cleared out of men who swore their allegiance to Ghohbrani and to his lackey Hassan Zyani. You were running low on the essentials, the fight becoming trickier than the team originally thought. Nonetheless, you all made it out in one piece but you still needed at least antiseptic to stop infection. You kept your gun out of its holster, carefully making your way through the tiny house. You made your way up the creaky stairs, careful to check each corner and small hiding places, eventually deeming the floor clear. Gently pushing the splintering door open with an annoying creak, you entered a small room gun first. 

Quickly scanning the room you let out a shaky breath relief, lowering your aim. The room looked to be a makeshift office of source, wires running across the hardwood to the three desks shoved against the wall. Approaching closer, your eyes squinted seeing familiar faces. It was your team, all of their files with their specialties and military history listed, along with candid pictures. They even had pictures of Ghost. A chill ran down your spine. How was this possible, this is classified information, how did it fall into enemy hands? 

You tore your gaze away from your own file, your eyes landing on the buzzing of an old monitor. It was a blurry image but obviously a video paused. You moved the mouse before clicking on it to start. The footage was shaky at best, but you couldn’t take your eyes off the screen, not believing what you were hearing. It was the Shadows, Graves’ team, and they were making an illegal transaction in enemy territory. Under General Shephard’s demand. 

You felt your chest tighten as a million thoughts shot off at once. The American missiles found in Hassan’s warehouse were Shephard’s all along? He must have known the whole time, but who else knew? Did Laswell know? Price? You took a step back, hearing the creaking of the door behind you. Immediately you spun around, seeing a masked man you didn’t recognize, and pulled the trigger. 

It was a sure shot, your assailant taking the bullet directly in the chest before collapsing to the ground. He groaned and gasped, blood gurgling in his throat. Quickly you rushed him, kicking his rifle out of arm's reach. You kept your aim, as the man hazily looked up at you. You still had time. 

“The missiles, is it true you stole them from the Shadows?” You said, trying your best to not let your nerves show.

The man coughed, blood spurting from behind his mask.

“Kill me, I won’t tell you anything,” he said. 

Your eyes narrowed, “you’re already on your way, might as well help your chances when you pass over. Now, answer the question: is it true?” 

The man’s eyes squinted as he laughed at you, “you already know the answer, soldier. And now you are as dead as I, he…he won’t stop, until he destroys every last one of you.”

“He wouldn’t-” 

“Doesn’t matter, your time’s ticking,” the man laughed again, the light fading from his eyes, “I’ll see you in hell.”

You listened to his last breath leave his chest in a wheeze before the dread settled in your heart. You slapped a shaky hand over your mouth as you stumbled away. Of course, this wasn’t the first time you killed a man, and it wouldn’t be last, but you had entered the Devil’s ring, and he was going to burn the earth and everyone in it to bury his sins. 

“Wren? Wren do you copy?” You heard Price over the radio. 

You felt your throat go dry, you couldn’t formulate anything. You stumbled back until you were leaning against the desk, your gaze never leaving the dead man. Your mind melted away into panic. You had indeliberately put everyone in danger. They would be tracked until the end of the earth, taken out one by one, all because of you. 

You didn’t move as Ghost and Soap stepped through the door, their eyes finding the dead man first before looking over to your sorry state. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” Ghost grumbled, his cold eyes stopping on you. “What happened?” 

You gulped painfully, violently shaking your head. Soap approached you, placing a comforting hand on your arm. 

“Are you hurt, lass?” He said, his bright blue eyes washed in worry. 

You felt ashamed, the guilt sinking in that you couldn’t look the Scot in the eye. All you could do was point to the monitor, the video paused on the exact moment Hassan’s men apprehended the missiles. Soap’s eyes widened in shock, looking back to Ghost. Simon’s eyes hardened, his head tilted over as he pressed his radio. 

“Come in, Bravo 6, we’ve located Wren,” Ghost said, “you’re gonna want to see this.” 

Your eyes snapped open wide upon hearing a gentle knock at your door. You laid in your cot, your clothes stuck to you from your cold sweat. After grub, you just wanted to be alone, but knowing the boys weren’t going to let you leave on your own, you made sure to slip away while they were distracted. You didn’t remember falling asleep, only staring up at the ceiling as your mind raced at all the possibilities.

Your chest rose and fell rather quickly as you looked to the door. You heard the person knock again before a gentle voice came through. 

“Ah, Maus? Are you sleeping?” Konig said. 

You let out a sigh, brushing your damp hair from your brow as you swung your legs over the edge. You walked over to the door before cracking it open, your eyes squeezing shut for a moment due to the bright light. Said bright light was blocked out by a towering shadow, your eyes opening to look into his watery gaze. 

Konig’s eyes widened a millimeter, seeing your state. Your skin glistened, more exposed from your flimsy tank top and shorts, the fabric clinging to your frame. All of the curves and divots of your muscles, the way your shirt ride up your navel revealing your little bit of your pudge. The way your nipples perked up through your shirt. He could see everything.  He choked on his breath, breaking his gaze from yours. 

“I-I didn’t see you leave the cafeteria. I’m sorry I didn’t come to you sooner…I came here as soon as I could,” Konig said. 

You couldn’t help but smile at the man’s sheepishness, “I’m glad you came to check on me, Konig, I just wanted some alone time, that’s all.” 

Konig nodded, looking down at you again, “are you going to be here the rest of the night?” 

You let out a sigh, picking at your sweaty clothes, “ah, it looks like I’ll be taking a trip to the showers before then.” 

You almost thought you saw something shift behind his hood, his body language changing. 

“Ich komme mit dir,” Konig’s voice was somehow deeper as he spoke in his mother tongue. 

A blush sprinkling against your cheeks at his words. You could only laugh bashfully. 

“Ah, watch your words Bar, don’t want people to get the wrong idea,” you said, rubbing your arm. 

“Ha, I suppose you’re right,” Konig said, diverting your gaze, “but I shouldn’t let you be alone.”

Seeing the determination in the Austrian’s eyes all you could do was nod, “alright, yeah, just give me a sec.” 

You walked from the door, leaving it open for Konig to peer inside. You gathered your things into your shower caddy, slinging both your towels over your shoulder. You joined Konig out in the hall, closing the door behind you. 

“Sollen wir?” Konig said, his voice almost cheerful. 

“Folge dir, Bär,” you smiled up at him. 

The two of you walked in silence for a moment. Konig made sure to keep his strides shorter than his usual so he can stay beside you. After awhile, the silence became awkward and you were desperate to break it. 

“So, where were stationed before, I mean, before KorTac?” You said. 

Konig looked down at you from the corner of his eye making you uneasy under his piercing gaze.

“U-unless that’s too personal,” you were quick to back pedal. 

“No, I’m just surprised you’d like to know,” Konig said, and you wanted to think he was smiling underneath his hood. “I was seventeen when I joined the military. I wanted to be a sniper.” 

“Why couldn’t you?” 

Konig looked down at his gloved hands, “ah, they said that my grip was too shaky, but I think they just wanted me to kick down doors for them because of my…size. Die Idioten.”

You giggled, “well, I can’t exactly blame their decision, I’d be terrified if I had run into you on the field as an enemy.” 

Konig frowned, “do I scare you, Maus?” 

You could feel the hurt in his words and you eager to correct your mistake. You could hear Ghost’s warnings to keep on your toes when around the giant, but didn’t see it. For the first time in a long while, you felt like you could actually breathe when you were around him. You smiled putting a hand on his arm. 

“I haven’t been able to think about anything but the mission since we’ve begun, but speaking with you has eased my nerves,” you said earnestly, “so, no, I’m not scared of you, Bar.”

Konig felt hypnotized by you, unable to find the words to speak. His heart felt like it was beating a million miles a second, his face and ears warming. 

“I-I am happy to hear that, Maus,” he said, his gaze not lifting from the floor as he walked. 

“Do I scare you?” 

“Very,” Konig laughed softly, grinning as he was gifted your laughter. 

You both arrived at the showers, all the stall doors open and empty. You were grateful for this, more time for you to be alone. Well, besides the behemoth behind you. Speaking of, the man hadn’t moved from your side, just kept looking ahead of you.

“Uh, Konig?” 

He looked down at you, waiting with baited breath. 

“Yes, Maus?” He asked. 

“I kinda need to take that shower now…” you hinted. 

Konig’s body language became frantic as he stumbled over his words. 

“A-ah! Yes of course, I’ll wait out here for you,” he said before quickly retreating back into the hall like a puppy with his tail between his legs. 

You smiled and shook your head, stepping into one of the stalls and sliding the lock into place. You placed your caddy on the small shelf before you began to strip. You turned the faucet, allowing the water to heat up before stepping under. You couldn’t hold back the long moan that tumbled out of your lips, forgetting who was standing just outside the door. 

Konig felt air leave him at once, as if sucker punched right in the stomach. How much more perfect could you be? If he hadn’t known better, he would say that whoever was up there pulling the strings was playing a cruel trick on him.  His face felt so hot he was sure he was sweating.  And, embarrassingly, he could feel the blood rushing down between his legs. Before he could help it, images flitted into his mind of your plump lips, glossed and parted as he dragged more divine sounds from you. Your thighs wrapped tightly around his waist, pulling him in, nails digging into his skin. A sight sent from the heavens. 

Konig removed his gloves, bringing one hand underneath his hood to feel his warm brow, trying to center himself. 

“Get ahold of yourself, täuschen, they’re your comrade,” he cursed himself. 

He leaned his weight against the wall, casting his gaze to the ceiling above. It would be an understatement to say that Konig wasn’t having the greatest of times here at KorTac. Sure, it was an improvement from his last station for the German military who merely treated him like a living battery ram, but anything would be an improvement from that. 

But Konig was no fool. He knew what the others whispered about him, why the boys of the 141 looked at him that way. They saw him as a monster, a beast, a demon who will accomplish the mission at all costs. Everyone, but you. From the moment you spoke to him, it was different. You were kind to him, when no one else paid him such attention. It made him guilty for thinking of you in this way, what way this was exactly, Konig was only on the cusp of understanding. 

Distracted by his own thoughts, Konig hadn’t noticed your soothing humming had ceased. Konig didn’t think twice, entering the showers now clouded in steam. 

“Wren?” He called. 

He could still hear the shower running the stall but no answer. His stomach dropped, stepping quickly to the stall door, tugging on it and making it rattle. Of course it would be locked, Konig thought. Standing tall, he easily could see over the stall. His eyes widened in shock seeing you curled up leaning against the tile wall, unmoving. 

“Maus!” Konig exclaimed, and without hesitation reached over the stall and slid the lock open. 

Pushing the door open, Konig rushed to you, kneeling before you and taking your face in his hands. 

“Maus, Maus wake up, answer me!” Konig said in a panic. 

You let out a groan, your eyelids heavy as you slowly opened them to gaze into the deepest of jades. Your brain was foggy, the exhaustion from the countless sleepless nights finally coming to take its claim on you. You smiled, your eyes squinting, as you looked into those eyes. They were like laying a meadow and being warmed by the sun’s beams. 

“So warm,” you hummed. “Mein Bär, halte mich warm.”

Konig’s eyes widened. Being so close, he could see the dark circles under your eyes and your bloodshot eyes — were they always present? 

Worry laced his tone, “Maus, when’s the last time you’ve slept?”

You let out a hum, leaning into Konig’s hands. Konig let out a shaky breath, his fingers skimming over your soft cheek. He was painfully aware that you were naked underneath his large frame, the temptation pulling at him. You were falling asleep right in his hands, letting him know he had to move fast. 

Carefully leaning your head back onto the tile, Konig turned the water off before stepping away. He grabbed your towel, throwing one over your damp hair. He tried his best to keep his mind out of the gutter, a nearly impossible feat seeing how tiny you were compared to him. An undeniable truth. 

Even so, Konig tried his best to awkwardly wrap the towel around your body, taking a little time around your curves. Carefully he moved his arms underneath your legs, the other supporting your back, almost folding you so your head could lay against his shoulder. You barely stirred, your arm laying limp in your lap. Slowly, Konig stood to his height, his eyes never leaving you. Time was lost on him as his gaze never left your sleeping expression. Your lips parted as gentle breath left you, your brow slightly knitted together. 

Were you having a nightmare? He wanted to wake, but fearing that would make the situation even more inappropriate, he opted to let you slumber. You felt so small in his arms, like a rabbit cuddling with a wolf. 

“Come on, get it together,” Konig chided himself. 

He turned to leave the stall, once more checking that you were mostly covered in the damp towel before stepping out into the hall. Your wet hair began to soak his sleeve, slowly becoming cold from the chilled air. 

“I need to get you to bed or you’ll catch a cold, Maus,” Konig murmured. 

Of course you couldn’t hear him but seeing you nuzzle closer to his chest had him half convinced. His gaze through the slots of his hood couldn’t be torn off of you. How could someone be as perfect when they’re awake but also when they sleep? It didn’t seem possible until he met you. A lot of things didn’t, but he was beginning to understand. 

Lost in his own world, Konig hadn’t noticed the extremely light footsteps rounding the corner, until his eyes shifted to the floor in front of him only to find black combat boots. He choked on his breath, his head snapping up to stare into dark vats of brown cast under the shadow of a grim facade. Stopping in his tracks, Konig felt his spine go rigid as he looked nearly at eye level who they called Ghost. 

To say that Ghost looked unimpressed would be an understatement. The stare the Brit was giving poor Konig would have sent him to the rings of hell. Ghost’s gaze flickered to you held protectively in the Austrian’s arms before letting out a grunt. 

“Get her to bed,” Ghost’s voice gruff, “idiot has been putting herself through hell past hours, knew it only a matter of time before she knocked out.” Konig gulped before nodding, “I-I was posted out in the hall and she fell asleep in the shower, comrade.” 

Ghost grunted, pointing his thumb over his shoulder, “get a move on then.” 

Konig nodded, brushing past the lieutenant, and continuing down the hall. Ghost watched the man go, something else swirling in his dark eyes. 

“Better take care of them, idiot.”

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@winters-doll

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[joleneghoul]

Everyone wants the jacket lore do not be silent

Okay obviously this is going to be me rambling on about my own headcanons but also the tiny canon reasons I have these headcanons.

Okay first I'll start off by saying the jacket I personally Always draw Rip in and the one from my design used to belong to Booster during Boosters (short lived) College days.

That being said, It's a jacket that's very...dated and old for the future, so I believe it was from a thrift shop before Booster owned it (so while being in a similar style to futuristic bomber jackets, it lacks that neon bright color scheme that seems to of been popular for Boosters generation.)

Here is just an example of Rip side-by-side to Michelle (who's outfit is based on her introduction in Issue 15 of BG vol 1- post Booster leaving, and post her mothers death). again, that 80s-escque big shouldered, large collar/lapel was in, but the colors are muted and off. I like to think about future fashion trends a lot, how staying on trend in the present is something Booster clearly cares about, how that probably wasn't as much of a possibility in his own past (the future).

Rip's design is based on a theoretical future fashion while having more earthy muted elements- augh its a whole meta thing I got going on in my head. Earth tones instead of neon primary colors, Silver/chrome accents instead of Gold, etc etc.

But anyway when it comes to canon I find it fun that in this arc of Vol 1 we get to see multiple reactions to Jack and Rip's clothing. They get the obvious "those are dated clothes" comments but nothing to say they are insanely out of place. They even use the excuse that they are just college students working on a play-their outfits are similar to something a student department would scrounge up at a minimal cost but still seeming off and inaccurate to the time frame they're trying to portray.

(now that's also because all historical documents of the past during this time were destroyed but- ykno. I like to imagine there's multiple reasons why people weren't like "NEVER SEEN CLOTHES LIKE THAT BEFORE!".)

It's clear to me that even in this arc, Rip's jacket is important enough to him that he makes Jack sell HIS jacket instead of his own. Now, Rip's a selfish guy and all especially at this time in his characters history, but with the meta context that Booster is Rip's father, and this arc being about Booster wanted for treason- the idea of Rip running around in his fathers old star quarterbacks jacket (while modded with red accents) just is fun to me. Not to mention even within this arc Rip is weirdly avoidant of anyone seeing him and looks EXTREMELY like a slightly younger Booster despite men in this series explicitly looking very different from each other.

aka: I think it would just add to the weird cycles that surround Rip's non-linear life.

Now I am someone who is Really into design elements that tell story, aka why I like drawing Rip's hands covered in scars because he wears improper gloves as someone who works with his hands, and why i like adding patches and scuffs to the leather jacket when I make it more detailed. It's old, It's older than Rip, It is something he cares a lot about because it's a piece of home and something that was his dads that he gets to have with him most of the time. I don't think Rip would ever call himself sentimental- i think these are things he holds onto nonetheless (similar to him literally clinging to the old family heirloom clock despite it being broken throughout time masters.) He is a character who cares so intensely but wont say it out loud, you have to show these things in the tiny details or what he surrounds himself with.

This becomes important when A lot of the paranoia he faces in time masters revolves around the triggers he experienced WHILE seeing the place his dad grew up in, what created it, how these family cycles started.

I think in a way to mirror his growth through the end of this, realizing there's things he can't change but he can change himself and how he treats others- look towards bettering his own future than fearing the lack of control he has in the (non-linear) past- I like to add the sunflower to the back of the jacket post this arc. this Arc has a lot of differences in my head with the addition of so much new lore/canon since the 90s and my own headcanons (time gardens- hence flower/bug/plant imagery so often in my shit), but still the theme remains the same really.

While Rip is a character i many times in my art associate with Daffodils ( a flower representing rebirth and such) and sunflowers are flower i associate with the likes of Wave & Booster I do think the meaning behind them of new opportunities through others and happiness is something that would both honor the history of the jacket while making it his own.

LASTLY 4th person who "owns" the jacket, and this is shown in my art a few times, is Jeff (occasionally) because I think that's the only person Rip would trust with it when he outgrows the jacket (bc I do think as Rip gets older he fills out more and its moreso a piece for someone a bit lankier). It smells old and reminds them of when they were younger. ugh. I just find the idea of sharing clothing with significant others/partners really fun ok? sap for it.

anyways sorry if this makes no sense its just one of those things i think about a lot and only i do bc its something i made up lol!!

AKA 1 stupid jacket means a lot to a few weird time travelers.

[nicollekidman]

all museums hold this tension but the smithsonian museums in particular feel so strained bc the tension between thoughtful, nuanced, and important exhibitions curated by brilliant people that highlight so many facets (often underdiscussed) of america’s history and people…. that still nonetheless all circle back to reinforcing and utilizing the framework of american exceptionalism and place as a “superpower”…… its really Something…..

[stirringwinds]

my thoughts are still somewhat rough but man i cant stop thinking about yao, yong-soo and kiku during the “first” sino-japanese war. the way that conflict is both utterly familiar but also alien, from yong-soo’s pov. familiar, because the first time china and japan ever clashed in recorded history was 1,300 years ago—in what became a power struggle centred on the korean peninsular; due to tang china and yamato japan having competing alliances with different korean kingdoms (china and silla, japan and baekje— and i headcanon that yong-soo is/was silla) the “first” sino-japanese war in the 1890s? it was qing dynasty china versus meiji japan—in a competition for influence over korea—and unlike how the tang navy crushed japan back then, japan won this time. history rhymes and has its ironic bookends.

it’s also alien, i’m thinking. because when it comes down to it, yong-soo and kiku previously internalised the sinocentric and confucian world order created by yao to a great degree. that cultural dynamic persisted even during eras where china was ruled by the mongols—or the manchu, during the qing era. kiku and yao always had this complicated dynamic that blurred the line between empire/tribute, teacher/student with kiku always teetering between accepting and questioning yao’s authority far more than yong-soo did. nonetheless, kiku kept his hair long and up in a topknot, and imported yao’s written language and philosophy into his own voluntarily. so, the first sino-japanese war? seeing kiku face yao, not only in a western-style uniform, but with his hair newly cropped short? this rivalry is an old dance between them, but the world is not the same. meiji japan may have westernised, but it was still asian and especially conscious of that asian identity in diametrical opposition to western empires (or japanese pan-asianism wouldn’t be a thing)— and in that context, kiku’s short hair feels like a symbolic severance of one thread of that sinocentric confucian tradition (teacher and student) that the three of them belonged to for so long. 

lastly, there’s the fact that a lot of pre-modern chinese cultural influence was physically transmitted to japan via korea. so, to me, significance of the 1890s war isn’t just yao being usurped, but kiku turning to yong-soo very coolly all, see? he is not the one who rules all under heaven. not anymore; the emperor is dead, long live the emperor. or, as we say it in east asia—吾皇万岁—may the emperor live ten thousand years. 

[lykegenia]

OC in 15 - Leah Kingston

rules: share 15 or fewer lines of dialogue from an OC, ideally lines that capture the character/personality/vibe of the OC. Bonus points for just using dialogue without other details about the scene, but you're free to include those as well!

Thank you for the tag @serenpedac! It's inspiring to see what quotes you chose for Yael!

links to the fics in the little x - if there isn't one next to the quote, it's because it's from the same fic as the next x down

I can’t help a smile. “Mi book-casa es su book-casa.” “That’s terrible!” Felix exclaims, but he slaps his thigh and laughs nonetheless. “It’s also three a.m.,” I point out. “You want good puns, wait until I’ve had my morning tea.” (x)

“He’s good-looking. He seems nice, for what it’s worth. But that doesn’t mean he’d stay, and it doesn’t mean he’d be interested in anything… beyond casual. I have more worthwhile uses for my time than trying to guess a stranger’s motives for noticing me.” (x)

“You know, if you keep trying to outdo yourself, eventually you’ll set the kitchen on fire.”

“Look, you don’t have to come out, or say anything. I guess if you’re not listening it’s not like there’s anyone else here to listen to me talking to a door like a crazy person either.”

“If you’ve come to break up with me because of one stupid accident you can come back and do it in the morning. I’m not dealing with it now.” (x)

“They’re not monsters. If you knew even half the things they’ve done to protect us, you wouldn’t say that.”

“Oh no, whatever would the almighty Agency do without the mayor’s kindly beneficence?”

“I always did want to know what it would be like to be an immortal visiting a museum. There’s all this history and knowledge on display, but none of it existed when you were… younger. We’re still making scientific discoveries every day, but three hundred years ago the concept of science wasn’t even a thing – we didn’t even have dinosaurs until the 1820s.”

“I completely agree, sir. At some point I, too, would love to be able to find out about local news through some other medium than a loud phone call.”

“Don’t worry, I understand. I learned a long time ago how much the Agency values its secrets.”

“I don’t know? You were upset, I don’t know what to think, and in case you’ve missed the newsflash, I’m really bad at this. Being a normal person. Not fucking things up. Relationships are something other people get to have – I’m just the one who clears up the mess when they go wrong.” (x)

“You’re a three-hundred-year-old vampire who’s been all over the world, how the hell is that ‘not much’? I’ve lived a tenth of your lifespan and I’ve barely been an hour outside of Wayhaven – compared to you, I’m boring. It’s an objective fact. And even if that weren’t true, god forbid I want to learn things about the person I’m supposedly in a relationship with! If you don’t want to talk about yourself that’s fine, you can just tell me – I don’t need to be bullshitted.”

“Thank you for doing this. It means a lot. You didn’t have to.” (x)

“You’re sitting out in the rain like someone abandoned you at Christmas. I’m worried.” (x)

“A little disorder gives it personality, don’t you think?” (x)

Turns out it's hard to sum up characters just with lines of dialogue, especially when it's conversation that's important.

Passing this along to @naiatabris @pigeontheoneandonly @ellenembee @allisondraste and @persephotea