#coding and marking innovations

[medicaldevicesindustrynews]

Indonesia's Thriving Tech Scene: A Fusion of Coding and Marketing

The industry development in the nation is mainly propelled by the increasing requirement for coding and marking systems in the food & beverage, building and construction, and vehicle industries. As Indonesia is constantly progressing as Southeast Asia’s major economy, the requirement for tech solutions is on the surge. With a populace of more than 280 million, numerous of them have digital…

[humanitysstrongestsoldier1]

𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐒 | 𝑃. 𝑆𝐸𝑂𝑁𝐺𝐻𝑊𝐴 𝑥 𝑅𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟

Alternate Universe: University, OG Countries

Genre: Mature, Fluff, Smut, F2L

Pairing: Seonghwa X Nerd F!Reader

---

Summary:

“This may be the night that my dreams might let me know. All the stars are closer.” - Kendrick Lamar and SZA, All The Stars

You were made of stars. Stitched from constellations and loneliness. He found you anyway.

In a foreign land, where you chased your dreams of creative writing, you collided with Park Seonghwa: beautiful, radiant, terrifyingly kind. Between stolen glances, unfinished stories, rooftop constellations, and a love that bloomed like a supernova, you realise: you were never lost. You were just waiting for someone to find you in your orbit — and stay.

-----------

Warnings: kissing, neck kissing, oral sex (fem rec.), explicit language, mirror sex, body worship, light dom/sub, slight breeding kink (if you squint), fingerfucking (kinda), overstim., manhandling, forced eye contact, handjobs. Wooyoung is his own warning lolz.

A/N: So this popped up on my fyp the day i finished my draft of this ff, the song is the same and so is the man, is this a sign from the universe or am i tweakin?? someone pls save yeosang in this ff, also this may be a bit self indulgent, reader has acne scars and stretch marks, literally waited until i finished TSDOT7 to post this, finalising this during finals week was ironic af

Being an astrophysics major by itself was a dream come true.

Indeed, the math was brutal. There were countless nights you banged your head against textbooks, hoping osmosis would bless you with answers. Growing up in a country that shaped global advancements in STEM, it felt natural, inevitable, even, to fall in love with the cosmos. And you did. You chased astrophysics with a ferocity few could match. But when your 12-year-old self first discovered writing; something shifted. Something opened. Which is exactly why, the moment you held your degree in strong hands, you applied for college again. Not for answers in equations, but for meaning in words. This time, in a country known not for rockets or labs, but for language, philosophy, and the ache of beautiful things. You wanted an adventure so you sought it out.

In this world, most countries are known for something. Like people, each country had a soul.

Illusia was music. Open beaches, summer-long festivals, street art blooming across abandoned buildings.

Halaland pulsed neon. Dance battles in alleyways, cyphers on rooftops, espresso-fueled tech startups with holographic prototypes coded overnight.

Aurelia was revolutionary. Poetry-like war cries. Taekwondo academies and experimental theatre in the same street.

And then there were two. The two that held your story between them.

Mehrasht , your home. Capital: Rajmaer . A country where science was the tenet; where teenagers programmed robots in ancient courtyards, and RIOSAF — Rajmaer Institute of Sciences & Innovation — stood like a temple for the mind. You’d entered its gates at fifteen, graduating by nineteen as one of their youngest astrophysics scholars. It wasn’t easy. It never is. But it was everything.

And now?

Atelora. Capital: Solune . The mountains watched over the city like protectors. Rain fell often, perfect for writing and introspection. The monsoon was very similar to your home and often brought you comfort. This was where you studied creative writing now — SMAI , Solune Music & Arts Institute . Modest in size, but fierce in passion. Here, painters drew images beyond explanation, philosophers debated and musicians wrote symphonies inspired by heartbreak.

Even though you were technically a “transfer student,” your presence had stirred curiosity from the moment you stepped onto campus. You were young, just twenty, already holding a degree, already having stared down and solving equations that made most students shudder. And yet you chose stories. You chose metaphors. You chose a blank page over a telescope lens– for now at least. Still, the stars never quite left you. You saw them in your writing.

And sometimes you saw them in him .

You had become extremely close friends with a group of 8 artistic men. Kim Hongjoong, Jeong Yunho, Kang Yeosang, Choi San, Song Mingi, Jung Wooyoung, Choi Jongho.

And of course Park Seonghwa. The incarnation of your desires. 

When you first set your gaze upon him in your shared mythology class, it felt as though time itself had stopped ticking, going against the very physics you spent years getting a degree over. The irony of it never failed to baffle you. It wasn't his looks—although that man was undeniably beautiful—it was the book he was reading. It was about the rich culture and mythology of your country, of Mehrasht. You didn't have the courage to approach him and chose to sit a row ahead of him. Yeosang sat next to you and his curiosity got the best of him and he started asking about your astrophysics degree. You both bonded over your love for space and mythology. He introduced you to the rest of his group and you all clicked instantly, their accepting and loving nature helping you in a new country and school. When you realised that Seonghwa was part of their group, you almost started believing in a god. 

—

The campus library was nearly empty. Golden light pooling through stained glass. You're sitting on the floor between the philosophy and poetry sections, legs crossed, hoodie sleeves pushed to your elbows, eyes locked on your laptop screen. Seonghwa finds you there. He just sits beside you, a quiet gravity. He’s of course still shy due to your friendship being new, but still open minded and curious about your nature.

“You’re writing something new?” he asks softly.

You close your laptop halfway, unsure. “It’s not finished.”

“Neither is the story of our lives,” he murmurs. “But it is still beautiful is it not.”

You hesitate… then open it again and slide it toward him. The title reads:

“Orbit; Closer to Me”

He reads in silence, his eyes taking in every piece of your literary marvel.

The story follows two satellites. Drifting, spinning, drawn toward the same dying planet. One is built to observe, the other to destroy. But they keep circling, unable to touch, always a second too late. Always on the opposite side of the planet. In a way it resembled you and Seonghwa. Your tendency to always search for more, your ambition and constant drive causing things to fall around you; to be destroyed. And Seonghwa, who observed everyone with tender eyes.

At the very end, one of the satellites whispers: "If I had met you in another world, would the universe allow me to love you completely? Would we be closer?"

Seonghwa’s hand tightens on the laptop. “Woah,” he says, voice raw, “Holy shit.”

You don't look at him. Not yet. “It’s fiction,” you say.

“Then let me live in it,” he replies with a chuckle.

You finally turn, eyes meeting him. Your voice, when it comes, is steady.

“Do you think stars could have a mind of their own and fall in love?”

Seonghwa pauses and takes in the character of your question, deeply thinking of a good and honest answer.

“Only the brightest ones,” he answers. “The ones who burn knowing they’ll die. Because they know what true love is.”

You smile. And for the first time in a long time, you don't feel like you're drifting, you don’t feel hollow.

—

Over time, the eight of them became family. Your corner of comfort. Music and lyrical composition with Hongjoong and Mingi. Long philosophical conversations with Yeosang. Soft, contemporary dance lessons which Yunho begged to teach you. Chaotic sleepovers at your place with Wooyoung and San. Karaoke, pranks and card games with Jongho. And despite how new everything had once felt, your world here, in Atelora, in Solune, began to feel a little more like home .

Still, with Seonghwa, things moved... differently. At first, he barely spoke to you. Not out of disinterest, but out of something that almost felt like reverence. Like he didn’t want to ruin something fragile and rare just by getting too close. He listened more than he talked. Always watching, always gently smiling.

But slowly, things shifted after that day in the library.

It started with shared glances during lectures. Long, held eye contact across the seminar room which ended with both of you looking away with blushes coating your cheeks. Then came the silent routine of walking out of class together, neither of you planning it, but always falling into step as if the universe programmed it.

One day, he tapped your shoulder with a quiet, “Hey Y/N,” as you were packing your notes. You turned — breath caught somewhere between your ribs due to his touch— only to find him holding your Mehrashtri fountain pen.

“You dropped this.” It was such a small thing. But when his fingers brushed yours the hum of the world changed frequency.

—

A study session just the two of you was meant to be about ancient symbolism in myths, but somehow ending with him asking about your favorite stars.

“Do you still look up at them?” he asked one night.

“Always,” you replied. “Even when I write, I think I’m trying to translate starlight into words.”

He’d gone quiet for a moment. Then, softly:

“That’s beautiful.”

You’re beautiful , you almost said. But didn’t.

Instead, you let yourself fall in love with his presence. The way he gently corrected your posture when you slouched over your notebook, pushed up your glasses with a laugh as they slipped. The way he hummed under his breath when reading. The way he memorized your favorite coffee or chai order and even started bringing it without asking. The way he cared for his 7 brothers, mother hen style.

He started borrowing your books. You started sketching constellations in his notes. When he spoke about Mehrasht, he did so with admiration. Not as someone who studied it from afar, but as someone who now saw it through your eyes.

Sometimes, you caught him looking at you like you were a story he was trying to finish; or maybe one he was too scared to begin.

He didn’t say it, not yet. But Seonghwa was falling.

And you. Brilliant, quiet, starlit. Were becoming his galaxy.

—

One afternoon, you were in your car, inching out of campus traffic, when you spotted Seonghwa stepping through the front doors of the main building.

“Seonghwa!” you called out, rolling your window down.

His head lifted from where he’d been tucking a pencil into his tote. He turned toward the sound of your voice, eyes scanning until they landed on you, and then, he smiled. That soft, radiant smile that made your heart do impossible things. He jogged over, tote swinging at his side.

“Hey, Y/N! Heading home?”

“Yep. Want a ride?” you asked, eyes lighting up with a mix of mischief and sincerity.

There was a flicker of hesitation in his gaze, subtle, but you didn’t catch it.

“If it’s not a problem,” he said gently.

“My love, you are far from a problem. You’re my salvation,” you replied, lips curling into a flirty smirk.

The blush was immediate. A red flush crept from the base of his neck to the tips of his ears, blooming beautifully across his cheeks.

“Spoken like a true creative writing major,” he murmured, looking away with a grin.

You laughed. “Get in, loser.”

He didn’t hesitate after that. He opened the passenger door and slid in, and just like that, the two of you were back in your orbit. The two of you sang along to songs from both your countries, laughing at each other’s dramatic falsettos and purposely missed notes. His pronunciation in your mother tongue never failed to impress you. At this point, Seonghwa was an honorary Mehrashtri. When you finally pulled up in front of their shared house, Seonghwa turned to you, his expression softening. He reached for your hands, took them into his, and pressed gentle kisses to your knuckles.

“Thank you for the ride,” he whispered.

You didn’t need to reply. The smile you gave him said enough.

As your friendship grew, so did the bravery to start being physically affectionate with each other. Closer than you even realized. He had started reaching out to you more, sitting beside you even when there were other open seats, touching your wrist when he wanted your attention, letting his hand linger longer than necessary when passing you notes. And you… you welcomed it all.

Every graze of fingers, every shoulder bump, every brush of knees. It was intoxicating. Friends, yes, but always on the verge of something more. That tension definitely did not go unnoticed.

Jongho and Wooyoung were relentless in their teasing towards you . Hongjoong and Yunho, on the other hand, took it upon themselves to push Seonghwa — nudging him with pointed looks and strategic wingmanning. The seven of them were on a mission to get their oldest with you.

As you drove away that day, you waved at him through the window. He stood at the curb, watching you disappear into the streetlight-dappled horizon. Then, sighing to himself he turned and walked inside.

What you didn’t know, what you still didn’t know, was this:

Seonghwa had driven himself to campus that day. His car was parked in the northern lot.

But the second he heard your voice calling his name, he didn’t even think twice. Jumped into your car with a smile and a heart beating faster than it should’ve. He never regretted it. Not even when he walked all the way back to campus just to retrieve his car later that night.

Because love — or something dangerously close to it — was worth walking miles and miles for.

And you… beautiful you; were always worth it.

—

You hadn’t meant to overhear. You really hadn’t. You were just trying to return a book Hongjoong lent you. But when you rounded the corner near the media lounge, voices froze you in place.

“I think I’m in love with her,” Seonghwa’s voice was quiet, raw.

Behind the bookshelf divider, you could see Hongjoong’s silhouette leaned against the piano, Seonghwa pacing slowly, his slender alarms crossed.

“Seonghwa, we've all known that.  We’ve been trying to get you to admit it too…but tell me why you finally think so, get it off your chest,” Hongjoong asked gently.

Seonghwa let out a breath. “She’s quiet, but intense. She’s like a black hole wearing headphones. Like, you know something massive is happening under the surface and it hums through the air when she’s near.”

You bit the inside of your cheek at his attempt of building a metaphor. Your hands curled around the book in your grip.

“She understands loneliness. Being in a new country, with a new culture and new people. With a new major and more dreams. Her ambition is always drifting but she doesn't understand it in a sad way — it's more like gravity. Always there, always pulling, and she still manages to orbit it gracefully.”

There was a pause, then softer:

“She writes notes related to astrophysics in her margins. Combining science and arts. Little ones. Precise. Brutal. She’s smarter than any of us and doesn’t flaunt it. But I see it. God , Hongjoong. Her weird ass writes poetry in binary and has all the locations of the stars in the night sky memorised and I love her for it.”

Hongjoong said something inaudible along the lines of “that cute lil nerd,” and Seonghwa laughed once, short and breathless.

“She once wrote this short story called ‘Singularity’ for her project. It was about a black hole shrinking due to radiation. The whole thing was a breakup metaphorical allegory, but it hurt. I’ve read it twelve times ever since she sent that PDF. And I still don’t know if I want to cry or kiss her. Everything she does, everything she writes or creates, I fall in love with because it's a part of her.”

Your body betrayed you in that moment and a soft gasp escaped before you could swallow it down.

And silence. Hongjoong’s eyes meeting yours and widening, lips parting.

Then, “Y/N?” Seonghwa’s voice, closer now, cautious.

You turned and ran.

—

You don’t respond to his texts for the rest of the day. But that night, as promised every Friday, you show up.

The rooftop above the humanities building was forgotten by most but sacred to you both. A medium-powered telescope hung over the edge of the rail, but you ignored it, your own scope slung over your shoulder. You always brought the better one. He was already there, wrapped in a black hoodie, eyes flicking up the second he felt your presence. Like gravity itself had shifted.

You set your bag down on the old four-legged charpai, the ropes creaking just a little. Quietly, you pulled out your telescope and began adjusting it, setting the lens on Jupiter — your favorite.

Seonghwa didn’t say a word. He just watched you. In the way he always did. Like you were made of dark matter and wonder.

“I wasn’t supposed to hear,” you finally said, voice low, eyes still on the stars.

Seonghwa turned his head, his gaze soft, unflinching. “I’m not sorry you did.”

You let out a breath, half-laugh, half-crack. “Seonghwa… I’m complicated. And I’ve always assumed that was too much for people.”

You sat down on the edge of the charpai, hands clasped between your knees. “Throughout my life, I believed no one would ever truly understand me. My weird love for weird things. The way I talk to myself, the way I disappear into my own mind. I’ve always been… too much or not enough.”

You looked up at the stars, eyes settling on Altair, blinking hard. “My mind never stops. It spirals. One second I’m calculating exoplanetary distances and the next—as you noticed— I’m writing poetry in binary. I dove right back into school for creative writing because I felt… hollow. And for funsies, apparently.”

You laughed once, bitter and real.

“I’ve never had a boyfriend. Most of my life I’ve just… existed in loneliness. Whispering to walls when I needed someone to listen. Friend groups leaving. Family never really understanding my soul. My skin’s marked with scars I’ve learned to love — my own little craters and constellations — but I still don’t always feel beautiful. I’m not put together. I’m a mess half the time. And you? Seonghwa, I'm jealous of how beautiful you look all the time. I look like a greaseball in a hoodie and you look like some runway model in yours.”

Your voice broke just a little as you laughed in denial. “But somehow… you love all the parts of me I’ve spent years hating. And that?...That fucking terrifies me, Seonghwa.”

You finally turned to face him, eyes burning, lip trembling just slightly. “Why, Seonghwa? Why would you love someone like me, when no one else has?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he crossed the small space between you, sinking to his knees before the charpai, resting his hands on either side of your legs, face close enough that you could feel his breath. His eyes searched yours, and when he spoke, his voice was steady. 

“Because you don’t pretend. You don’t dress up your soul to fit someone else’s standards. You’re chaos and constellations and wild brilliance, but you let me orbit around you anyway.”

He touched your hand, gently. “You say you’re hard to love, but I’ve never felt such fire in my heart before. You talk about loneliness like it’s something shameful, but I see it in your writing, in your silence, and I think you turn it into something beautiful. If anyone could understand the quiet parts of me, it’s you. Not Hongjoong, not our other 6 little idiots, you. What I have taken and perceived from you, I can say without a doubt, you are probably the best thing that has happened in my life for a while.”

His fingers traced the back of your knuckles. “You don’t need fixing. You’re not ‘too much or ‘not enough’ You’re... vast. Like the universe. Perfectly designed, like the universe. And I’m just grateful you let me be a part of yours.”

You blinked, and the tears fell from your eyes, cascading down your cheeks. He wiped them with his thumb like he was handling stardust.

And when you leaned into him, forehead to forehead, noses touching, lips brushing each others, heart cracking open under the starlight, you whispered:

“Stay with me tonight.”

“I was never going to leave,” he murmured.

And somewhere in the distance, Jupiter glowed quietly. 

Witness to your unfolding as your lips connected with each other.

—

It had been a while since that night.

The two of you claimed your relationship. It was too strong, too cosmic, to be labeled with something as soft as ‘boyfriend and girlfriend’ . That felt like trying to describe a galaxy with a single syllable; inaccurate, reductive.

You two were more than that. More like twin stars caught in mutual orbit. Irrational but perfectly everywhere like π.

You existed around each other in ways you didn’t have to define. Only feel. And it was mutual. In public, your fingers found his under tables. In private, his lips found yours, his hands caressing your skin.

Tonight was different. Tonight you gave yourself to him.

Your apartment door clicks shut behind you, muffling the distant throb of the club’s bass still echoing in your body. You’re breathless, flushed from dancing and drinks and the way Seonghwa kept hand possessive on the small of your back, his breath always brushing your skin, his gaze burning through your dress like you were already naked beneath it. He was jealous and worked up over the vision of you on the dance floor with Wooyoung and Yunho. His fists almost crushed the glass he was holding when Wooyoung pressed up behind you while holding your hips.

Now, in the quiet of your space, you’re vibrating with the weight of it all; wanting, needing.

He watches you as you slip off your heels, movements slow and slightly unsteady. The dress hugs you like sin, and he doesn’t move for a second, just lets his eyes trail down your figure. The bend of your body allowed him to just get a small peek of your navy blue lace panties and he had to control himself right then and there. You placed your heels into the shoe closet and turned to look at him. His eyes were darkened, full of lust and you gulped.

“You look unreal tonight,” he says, voice low, roughened by restraint. His other hand reaches for your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone. “You have no idea what it did to me, watching everyone else look at you, dance with you. And knowing you were only ever going home with me.”

You breathe out a quiet laugh, nerves and heat mixing. “I wasn’t even the prettiest one there. I mean, did you see Princess Mingi?” Attempting a joke to ease the tension.

Seonghwa pauses. His brow furrows. “Say that again,” he murmurs, pulling you close, backing you gently against the wall.

Your breath hitches. “I said—”

“No,” he cuts you off. “Don’t. Don’t joke. Don’t talk down on what I consider sacred.”

Your heart stutters. His lips brush your jaw. “You really have no idea, do you?” His mouth moves lower, his voice barely a whisper.

He lifts you swiftly, throwing you over his shoulder and you scream; instinctively pushing to get down by flailing your legs but Seonghwa smacks your ass, denying you. “Don’t fool around, starlight. You're not escaping me.” He sets you down, facing the mirror and stands behind you, tall, sculpted, the heat of him seeping into your spine.

“I need you to see what I see,” he murmurs, lips ghosting your ear.

Your mouth parts, heart racing. He brushes your hair aside, kissing the back of your neck slowly.

His hands slowly unzip your dress. “Look at you,” he whispers. “ God , look at you.”

The fabric slips down your arms like a sigh. Your bra and panties match, navy blue lace, fragile against your skin—and the moment your dress pools around your feet, he lets out a soft, “ fuck ”.

His hands find the plush of your hips, kneading just a little, slowly moving up so that his thumbs brush your ribs. He kisses your shoulder and the stretch marks that lay there. Celestial fault lines—beauty forged under pressure.

His fingers slip beneath your bra strap and drag it down slowly, and you shudder.

“I’m going to make you feel everything,” he says.

You nod, breath catching.

Seonghwa unhooks your bra and slides it down your arms, dropping it to the floor. His hands move to your breasts—gentle, as if touching something divine. His thumbs circle your nipples and you moan, back arching slightly, head falling onto his shoulder.

“Perfect,” he murmurs. “So perfect it hurts.”

You feel his bulge press against your lower back, and your breath hitches.

Then he kneels. Right in front of you. Holding your hands and kissing them with such gentle affection.

“Watch me.”

Seonghwa’s fingers find the waistband of your panties and slides them down slowly—agonisingly slow—pressing kisses to your hips, your thighs, the soft curve of your stomach. His hands settle on the back of your thighs pulling you closer to his face. When his mouth finally descends, you arch with a gasp, his name slipping from your lips like a prayer. He doesn’t let you hide, doesn’t let you pull away from the way he fucks you with his tongue. You nearly collapse when you look down and see his dragon-like eyes set on your face.

But he’s not fast. He’s not rough. He takes his time, like you’re a language he’s learning by mouth alone. Tongue soft. Then firm. Then soft again. Teasing, tasting, licking.

“Stay still baby,” he says as you squirm just a little, voice muffled against your cunt. “Let me worship you.”

You grip his beautiful black hair, threading your hands through it.

His tongue moves with unbearable precision; deeper, firmer, until your reflection blurs with the pleasure cresting in your lower belly. His lips wrap around your clit and you gasp loudly.

“Seonghwa—”

He hums against you, continuing his ministrations. “Say my name.”

“Seonghwa.”

“Again.” He suckles gently.

“ Seonghwa !” You moan his name helplessly, begging for some sort of release. 

“You taste like fucking stardust,” he groans, and you let out a sound that borders on a sob, thighs trembling around his head. 

His eyes are on you again, the peaks of your breasts pushed out due to your arch and your mouth gently open, head thrown back, moans escaping you. 

He’s not happy. You aren't listening to him. He told you to watch.

His mouth moves away from your folds and he plunges two fingers into your wet, seeping hole without warning causing you to shriek and tighten your grip on his hair.

“Hwa – fuckk ! What–what are you doing?!” You yell softly, unconsciously pushing your hips down on his fingers, fucking yourself with them.

He slaps your ass and red marks are left behind in his wake. His eyebrows are furrowed, his eyes teasingly angry as they meet yours. “What did I say? Hmm? I told you to watch. ”

“I'm sorry, I’m so sorry Hwa please–” you beg.

“Don’t you dare look away.” He presses his fingers in deeper, his lips latching on to your sensitive bundle of nerves again. “Eyes up, beautiful. Watch how you fall apart for me.”

You do.

You see your own mouth part, your hips trembling as he devours you like a man in devotion. His fingers curl, hitting the right spots inside you — thrusting, curling, pulling out and plunging again. When you come, it's not quiet. It’s messy, overwhelming, and he stays with you through every second, hands firm on your outer thighs, mouth relentless. He kisses and gently bites your inner thighs after, like he's thanking them.

You think he's stopped? You thought wrong. 

Not even a second later he’s spreading his tongue over the entirety of your core, making sure no drop of your nectar goes to waste. 

“Give me more. Give me everything.” He groans, ignoring your shrieks of overstimulation.

The lewd, wet sounds that ring throughout the air make your cheeks flare up but Seonghwa is completely unabashed. Deep moans escape from his honed voice as he traces your folds.

“Cum for me,” he says. “Give it to me, baby. Be a good girl.”

You do. Again. Shuddering. Repeating his name like salvation.

And he rises. Licks his lips. Takes his belt off with one hand while steadying you with the other.

He doesn’t let you breathe for long. His mouth crashes to yours as he undresses fully. You can taste yourself on him and it makes your breath hitch for a second. Tongues dancing around each other as he slowly pushes you backwards to the edge of the bed with his weight. His hands are busy unbuttoning his shirt and removing his boxers. His length slaps against his stomach, hot, heavy and red. You look down, his lips leaving yours with a pout. 

God . Oh god. He was dripping . White, pearly, sticky essence beading at his tip.

“Oh Hwa, is this all for me?” You ask, confidence rises.

“You think I can have a taste of you and not end up like this?” He smiles, realising how your demeanour changed.

You smirk and your hand makes its way to his curved cock and you slowly pump him.

“Fuckkk~ Y/N . No, princess.” 

You don't stop. You feel the vein on the underside of his length and tremble at the thought of him inside you. And not even a second later as if he read your mind, stops you.

“No love please, I need to–I need to, God! Ah~ come inside you.” Your eyes widen, goosebumps littering your skin at his declaration. His fingers wrap around your wrists stopping the motion.

He’s holding back, grounding himself in you, for you.

He lifts you effortlessly and your legs instinctively wrap around his waist, his cock rubbing against your core. You’re breathless, gripping his shoulders, stunned by how easy it is for him to move you like this, to hold you like you weigh nothing.

He lays you down like something precious. Seonghwa was mesmerised by the state of you on the bed; vulnerable, naked and all his. Your hair contrasted against the bright silk of the bedsheets and sprawled out around you like a halo. He climbs over you slowly taking his time with your body, dragging his lips across your stomach, your ribs, the curve of your tits.

“You’re a goddess,” he says, voice thick. “And I’m going to worship you properly.”

“Oh, Seonghwa, you beautiful man. I can’t believe you're all mine.” You whisper against his lips which peck yours, eyes showing nothing but love. Pure, unfiltered love.

“All yours. And I'm going to show you. Gonna fuck you,” he breathes. “And you’re going to watch. Every. Single. Second.”

You wrap your arms around the back of his neck.

He lifts your thigh and slides in slow, stretching you, filling you, making you feel it.

You’re already so wrecked but he doesn’t let you hide. Doesn’t let you look away. 

“Look at me,” he growls, gripping your jaw, “I want to see your face when I ruin you.”

Your eyes meet his and he smirks devilishly at your fucked out expression. 

Was this the same Seonghwa you believed was an angel? Or a sex demon who bound himself to you and you only.

“You feel like fucking heaven,” he moans, “tight, warm… made for me.”

Your nails dig into his back, gasps spilling freely now, but he doesn’t stop. One hand grips your jaw, keeping your eyes on him, the other sliding between your bodies to rub circles on your clit. You’re soaked, overstimulated, and yet you still want more. Need more.

He gives it to you. All of it. Every thrust is praise. Every groan is adoration. He kisses your scars. Holds your gaze. Whispers all the things he loves — your mind, your madness, your quiet power, your wild soul.

“You’re mine,” he grits out, hips relentless.

“I’m yours~” you whisper, wrecked.

He goes deeper, the bulb of his cock brushing your cervix and the sensitive areas of your walls. He’s let go of your jaw but your eyes are still locked onto his.

“Seonghwa oh my–fuckk baby right there…dont fucking stop!”

“Say it again.” He snarls.

“I’m yours, Hwa. I’m all yours, my star.”

He moves. Deep. Intentional. Worshipful.

“That's right,” he grits through his teeth, one hand splayed low on your stomach to feel where he is inside you. “This body. This heart. Every moan, every breath — all fucking mine.”

“All yours, yes~!” You groan against his hair, his face buried into the crevice of your neck now.

He thrusts . Again and again, with his body pressed against yours, your name breathed between desperate kisses against the skin of your neck, your legs trembling around him and tears slipping from the corners of your eyes, not from pain, but from the immensity of it all.

“Cum again,” he says, voice commanding but still full of love. “Let me feel you fall apart on my cock.”

Loudly. Shamelessly. Your body seizes under him, muscles clenching, vision going white. You swore you saw the stars you view every night in your telescope. But he doesn’t stop. He keeps going, keeps moving inside you with the patience of someone who’s waited years to worship you like this.

Only when your nails dig too deep, when your legs are shaking violently around his waist, does he finally let go — spilling deep into you with a moan so heavy, so desperate , it sounds like your name carved into the stars of his universe.

Your reflection is ruined.

Lips swollen. Thighs shaking. Eyes wet. Sweat slicking your skin. His seed spilling out of your swollen cunt. And still, he kisses you like you’re divine.

“Still think you’re hard to love?” he whispers while moving back to look at your pretty face again.

You don’t answer. You just pull him back in. Kissing him again and again and again and again. 

He whispers praises between every breath. “My starlight, mine. Always.” he murmurs. “I love you. I love you so much Y/N.”

Fat, globs of hot tears spill from your eyes at the pure words he spoke of you. You were loved. So loved.

He pulls back, tears also spilling from his eyes. “Thank you for letting me be yours.”

“No Seonghwa. Thank you for helping me find myself. Thank you for being my north star.”

He smiles, all teeth, eyes crinkling and nose scrunching. He pulls you up and lifts you effortlessly, one arm under your knees and the other wrapped around your shoulders. You loop your arms around his neck, still dizzy from everything, and let him carry you through the soft haze of candlelight to the bathroom.

The tub is already filling, steam rising, the water shimmering with the gentle swirl of  jasmine-scented bubbles. He sets you down on the edge, brushes your hair from your face, and helps you in first, never once letting go of your hand. When he joins you, the water sloshes gently around both your bodies as you settle between his legs, your back against his chest.

His arms wrap around your waist, his chin resting on your shoulder as he pulls you close. His fingers trace lazy circles on your thigh under the surface. Not lustful. Just the kind of touch that says ‘ you’re mine’ without needing to say it at all. 

“God,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your damp shoulder, “how are you real?”

You hum, leaning into him. “You always ask that.”

“Because I still don’t believe it.”

You giggle at his lovestruck cheesiness.

He rinses your hair with care, fingers untangling the strands gently. When you return the favor, scrubbing his scalp and watching his eyes flutter shut in bliss, you giggle. He opens one eye at the sound and catches the grin on your face. You had put a blob of soapy bubbles on his head, giving him a little hat.

“What?”

“You’re cute like this.”

He raises a brow. “Like what?”

“Melting. For me.” You boop his sharp nose with a sudsy finger.

He smirks and pulls you into his chest, arms curling around you. “I’m always melting for you.”

The warmth of the water, the silence between you, the occasional kiss to your neck or cheek or the valley between your breasts where your heart lay—it all feels suspended in time. He runs his fingers gently through your hair, massaging your scalp until you melt against him with a contented sigh.

When the water cools and your fingers wrinkle, he helps you out with a soft towel and even softer hands. You both dry off in quiet laughter, brushing against each other in the mirror, stealing kisses between getting dressed.

When you both finally leave the bathroom, dry and dressed in the softest clothes you can find, he can’t seem to stop touching you. His hands never leave you as he leads you to the bed, gently guiding you onto the sheets. The bed feels like home, with his body curling around yours, his warmth seeping into your skin. 

You lie there, tangled in each other’s arms, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your skin, tracing your cheeks. The quiet of the night wraps around you like a blanket, but his next words cut through the stillness.

“You are the center of my gravity,” he whispers into your hair, his voice barely holding together. He’s clutching you so tightly it feels like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. 

You don’t. You’re still there. Glowing. Glorious. His.

“And with you,” he continues, “all the stars are closer.”

The weight of his words hangs in the air, a promise, a truth. You settle deeper into his embrace, feeling the soft, steady rhythm of his heart beneath your ear as you both drift off to sleep, wrapped up in love.

—

The next morning is soft and slow.

Sunlight filters through the curtains, casting golden lines across the bed where you and Seonghwa are still tangled together. His arm is heavy around your waist, his face buried against your hair, breathing you in like he’s still dreaming.

You shift gently, turning in his hold. His eyes crack open, hazy with sleep, and when he sees you, he smiles.

“Morning, angel,” he mumbles, voice still deep and rough with sleep.

You grin, brushing a thumb over his puffy cheeks. “Morning, Hwa.”

There’s a beat of silence where you just look at each other. Then his phone buzzes on the nightstand, shattering the bubble. He groans dramatically, reaching for it without letting go of you.

It’s the group chat.

Hongjoong: Rise and shine, lovebirds 😈. You guys better not bail on camping today ⛺

Yeosang: If you’re late, we’re leaving you behind.

San: we would never 💗 but hurry tf up i want s’mores.

Wooyoung: get yall’s gigachad asses up

You laugh, and Seonghwa grins into your neck.

“Guess it’s time to pack,” you say, nose scrunching.

“After I kiss you at least ten more times,” he murmurs, already pressing soft, lazy kisses down your throat, making you giggle and squirm.

Eventually, after a chaotic half-hour of trying (and failing) to stay focused, you both throw together your backpacks—tossing in sleeping bags, clothes, snacks, extra jackets, and, of course, your beloved star map and high-powered telescope.

By the time you arrive at the meeting points the boys are already there, buzzing with excitement near the rented van and having way too much energy for how early it is.

The second they see you two hand-in-hand, sunglasses on, looking very much like you did not sleep early last night, the teasing starts immediately.

“Oh look,” Wooyoung cackles, elbowing Yunho. “The stars themselves have descended to grace us with their presence.”

Yeosang smirks. “Took you long enough. Busy being constellations?”

Mingi fake swoons dramatically into Jongho’s arms. “Love is in the air.”

Hongjoong just grins knowingly, arms crossed. “Hope you saved some energy for setting up camp, lovers .”

You flush hot all the way to your ears, ducking your head into Seonghwa’s side to hide your face. He just chuckles lowly, tugging you closer and pressing a kiss to your temple in front of everyone without a single ounce of shame.

“She’s my star,” he says simply, proud and unabashed.

There’s a beat of stunned silence—before San lets out a shriek of pure secondhand embarrassment.

“Bro what the hell!,” San yells, throwing a handful of trail mix at him.

“Get a room! WAIT NO GET A TENT,” Wooyoung howls.

You laugh so hard you can barely breathe as everyone dissolves into chaos around you. 

—

By the time the sun dips behind the mountains, you’ve made camp.

It’s messy, hilarious teamwork — Yunho struggling with the pop-up tent instructions, Jongho methodically getting the fire going like a boss, you and Seonghwa set up your shared tent quietly but efficiently, moving like a real team.

Across the clearing, a commotion breaks out.

"WHY IS THE TENT COLLAPSING ON ME?!" Wooyoung’s voice shatters the peaceful mountain air.

"BECAUSE YOU MOVED TOO MUCH, YOU FREAKING FLAILING NOODLE," San screeches back.

You and Seonghwa exchange a knowing glance and peer over. There, in a heap of tangled tent fabric, two legs kick furiously in the air.

Hongjoong, pinching the bridge of his nose, mutters darkly, "I knew we should’ve supervised them."

Meanwhile, Yeosang stands off to the side, completely unbothered, recording the chaos on his phone with a blank, documentary-worthy expression.

You lean into Seonghwa and murmur, "Survival of the fittest," your voice low enough that only he hears. He nearly doubles over, laughing silently as he tries to contain it, shoulders shaking.

Eventually, all the tents stand (miraculously) and the fire roars to life, throwing flickering gold light over tired, grinning faces. The chill of the night seeps in, crisp and clean, while above, the stars unfurl like an endless, shimmering ocean.

Wooyoung insists on playing Truth or Dare. And naturally, his first victim is Jongho.

"Truth," Jongho says confidently, unaware of the chaos he has just invited.

Wooyoung leans in, eyes glinting wickedly. "Do you sing to your plants?"

A beat of dead silence. Every head swivels to Jongho.

"...They grow better when they feel loved," Jongho says, entirely unashamed.

The camp erupts. Laughter echoes off the trees, even Seonghwa letting out a rare, loud laugh that warms the whole circle.

Hongjoong smirks and turns to you next. "Truth or Dare, Y/N?"

You roll your eyes at Wooyoung’s dramatic drumroll. “Truth.”

San groans, grabbing your shoulders and shaking you. “Y/N, you coward! A dare would've been so much more fun!” His pout deepens until Seonghwa casually slaps the back of his head from behind you..

Hongjoong’s gaze pins you in place, sharp and curious. "Would you marry Seonghwa in the future?"

Time freezes. Every pair of eyes zeroes in on you.

You feel your face heat up as you glance down, shy but smiling. “Yes.”

The reaction is instant and cataclysmic.

“PLAY THE WEDDING MARCH!” Yunho shouts, springing to his feet.

Mingi immediately starts blaring an off-key trumpet impression, stomping around like he’s in a parade.

Hongjoong, grinning wickedly, yeets a burnt marshmallow straight at Seonghwa’s head. "You lucky bastard!"

Seonghwa turns crimson, the firelight making it even more obvious, and the group bursts into a cacophony of teasing "awwws" and gagging noises.

"Okay, okay, can a girl live?" you protest, laughing. "San, since you wanted chaos so badly, you're next."

San’s eyes gleam like a mischievous gremlin. "Dare."

You smirk. "Lick the bottom of Yunho’s sock."

All hell breaks loose.

"AW HELL NAH!" Yunho screeches, jumping back from San who is devilishly biting his lips and rubbing his hands together like a fly. "Y'ALL NASTY ASSES."

The dares spiral more and more ridiculous until finally, giggling and exhausted, you all call it quits for the night. While setting up the sleeping bags in your shared tent, you hear Mingi’s outraged yell slice through the night. “Who the fuck took Y/N’s leftover chips? She saved those for me!”

But no one had taken them … so who or what–? A sound interrupts the silence. The ruffling of a chip bag, and it's from none you.

San leaps up, eyes wild. “I knew I heard something outside!” He runs to the sound and finds himself in front of a little friend. 

You find San staring down a fat ass raccoon that has zero fear and is currently chewing on your chips.

Yeosang is right behind you and whispers, “Y/N, I think that’s your spirit animal,” and you die laughing because it is literally you.

“GIVE THAT BACK, YOU STRIPED CRIMINAL!” Mingi roars, lunging forward like he’s storming a battlefield.

The raccoon doesn’t run. It stares. Unbothered. Unmoved. It judges him.

Yeosang tries to stop the poor idiot, walking towards him. “Mingi, you’re gonna get rabies.”

San puts his hand on Yeosang’s shoulder stopping him. “At least he’ll go out dramatically.” Ever the agent of chaos.

—

Morning comes soft and misty, the sky dusted with gold as you blink awake in an empty tent. Seonghwa was already gone, off helping Hongjoong prep for the group hike. You stumble out into the chill morning air. San’s hair is a disaster, sticking up like he got electrocuted, while Mingi stumbles around, eyes squinted against the sunlight. You wander toward the campfire and nearly trip at the sight.

Yunho, looking disgustingly handsome and backlit like a prince, flips pancakes with a ridiculous amount of grace. Beside him, Seonghwa arranges a fruit platter so perfectly it belongs in a five-star hotel. And somehow, he looks even more delicious than the food.

You sneak up behind him, sliding your arms around his waist. “Good morning, Hwa.”

He hums warmly, leaning back into you. “Sleep well?”

“Mhm. With you? Always.”

The nine of you eat a sleepy, happy breakfast together before getting ready for the hike. Halfway up the trail, it all goes to hell when San chases a butterfly straight into the woods and Wooyoung gets distracted by a squirrel doing, in his words, "weird ninja stuff while looking like Hongjoong"

You and Seonghwa fall behind, walking slowly, hands entwined.

“I still think you tricked me into loving you,” you say.

He glances over, amused. “How so?”

“You’re too perfect. I feel like I glitched the universe or something.”

He stops walking. “You are the glitch,” he whispers, tilting your chin up. “My favorite kind of anomaly.”

And then he kisses you so gently, so completely, that the woods go quiet — even the bugs stop bugging.

Until Hongjoong’s voice shatters it from a distance: "YOU TWO HEADASSES BETTER STOP FRENCHING AND GET BACK TO THE GROUP!"

The entire day is spent doing fun activities — skipping stones across the glittering lake, racing up mossy trails, daring each other to jump into the freezing water below the waterfall. Yunho and Mingi get into a splash war that soaks everyone within a ten-foot radius, while Jongho sits dry on a rock, pretending he doesn’t know any of you. Wooyoung and San challenge Hongjoong to a stone-skipping contest and dramatically accuse him of witchcraft when he wins. 

But then comes the time to leave. The sun dips low again, the air cooling, the shadows stretching long. Tents are packed away, ashes are buried under earth, and the clearing that had been so alive with your chaos slowly returns to stillness.

Everyone is crammed into the rental van. Bags piled high. Snacks demolished. Legs squished.

Sitting with Seonghwa and Yeosang in the way-back row, you’re drowsy from the camping high but the chaos of the van doesn't allow you to fall into slumber.

“Yo,” Wooyoung says, twirling the AUX cord. “I have the perfect song.”

Jongho squints. “I swear to god—”

The song consisted of high bass boosted beats and explicit words and moans that speak of sex.

Jongho screams at Wooyoung “BRO.”

Yunho, driving, screams the lyrics into the windshield, jamming to the song while being in charge of everyone's lives. Mingi opens a window and belts into the wind. Meanwhile, you're frozen.

He raises a brow. “Funny song. Lyrics sound familiar?”

You elbow him. “Do not make me jump out of this moving vehicle.”

“Jump and I’m jumping with you.”

Wooyoung turns around with devil eyes. “Ohhh, you’re blushingg. Confirmed post-coital energy. You freaky lil mofos.”

Jongho lunges over the seat. “I will STRANGLE YOU with your OWN AUX CORD.”

Wooyoung’s gremlin noises take over the van and Hongjoong holds himself back. The van goes over a bump, everyone screams, the song switches to ballad music mid-scream.

Two full hours of pure discord.

–

You all decide to go to their house, planning on sleeping over there anyways; you packed extra clothes.

Mingi attempts to carry all the bags inside at once like some tragic pack mule, wobbling like a cursed tower of luggage. Yeosang watches him with the slow, unblinking gaze of a man waiting for nature to take its course and sure enough, Mingi collapses under the weight with a majestic crash.

Jongho silently takes three bags — huge bags — and hauls them inside with a smirk on his face, asserting his strength.

Meanwhile, you get out of the van and steady yourself on your feet, smoothing down your hair, “We barely survived that.” you say to Seonghwa, who's grabbing your astrophotography tech from on top of Mingi.

As you stagger toward the house, you hear Mingi, still flat on the grass, shouting, "HEY, WHO'S GONNA HELP ME? UH HELLO?? ARE YOU ALL JUST GONNA LEAVE ME HERE TO DIE??"

Yeosang, without looking back, just says, "You'll be fine. Natural selection."

The front door slams open, and a yell echoes from San inside. "THE FUCKING RACCOON CAME BACK WITH US!!"

Chaos unfurls.

Screams, wild laughter, the thundering of feet. Pure, reckless joy spilling out into the neighborhood.

But this. This beautiful, absurd, ridiculous mess — is exactly how you want it. You glance over at Seonghwa through the swirl of mayhem, and he’s already looking at you, laughing. And you feel complete. You feel at peace.

In a universe full of infinite galaxies and in a timeline that could have gone a million different ways…

You found him and he found you. And somehow, across all odds, you collided. But not a crash. Not an explosion. But an orbit. Not a destructive gravity but a soft one.

One — like Seonghwa said — that makes all the stars feel closer.

And you became his favorite constellation. The one he’ll spend every lifetime tracing, loving, watching and wishing on.

Every night. Every sky. Every universe. Every time. 

----

End Note:

fix off ;)

(yes i have written poetry in binary--no it was not fun--it was an assignment)

[artsninspo]

006 | Richmond Inc.

「 ✦ full library & archive ✦ 」

「 ✦ aaron pierre & characters library ✦ 」

⇚ 005

♠ summary: Thrust into leadership, Lorence battles pressure, secrecy, and an enigmatic boss—until his unexpected attentiveness causes things to heat up more than expected ☕.

♠ pairing: Terry Richmond (Aaron Pierre - Rebel Ridge) X Lorence Cole (Black Fem OC)

♠ word-count: ~2.6K

⌖ - Richmond Inc. HQ

The new demands of my position are both a gift and a curse as I’m required to expand my knowledge base and think as a leader. There’s an element of freedom that I've been robbed of in this new position. There’s no time for fresh ideas and innovation in the same way there's no freedom to make mistakes. There’s no one to ask to review the work I have - I'm the final step in the pecking order before the other’s at my level look and ultimately Richmond’s eyes scan over it. I’d be lying if I said the thought doesn’t unnerve me. Dissatisfaction on his face and the scolding that will undoubtedly follow is a nagging inevitability. I’ve sat through so many briefings that I miss doing the work. This week has been an overwhelming barrage of discourse, planning and preparation. We’ve gone over logistics and transportation which is my specialty. Monaco is a logistical and transportation nightmare but I’ve taken all the necessary notes to make sure everything goes off without a hitch. Which includes sending one of my best agents there in person to scope out the scene and get the necessary measurements and blueprints. It’s my first major assignment and with my budget sky’s the limit. Consulting for the organization responsible for the formula one race's security is not something I ever considered in the realm of possibility; so I make the most of it. I add to my list of tasks and lock the documents before going over my new operating budgets. I still have money to spend but until my best guy is back I can’t be sure where the resources will be best allocated. I’m researching local charities in the area when Richmond appears in the doorway. It’s his first time stopping by all week and I can’t say I’ve missed the light eyed giant. 

“Sir” I stand.

“Cole, I’ve received preliminary drafts from all the other teams. Is there something you require assistance with?” He asks, leaning in the doorway. He’s in a white knitted sweater today looking too casual for a man like him. 

“I thought we had another week” I respond, disregarding how his arms fill out the otherwise cuddly, cozy ensemble, transforming it into something different altogether.

“I like to look over things by the project’s midpoint,” he explains, folding his arms.

“Well, I’m new and I didn’t know that” I swallow daring to meet his eyes.

“We can go over what you have for now,” Richmond says entering my office. I straighten, hating his presence and proximity. With Richmond it isn't walking on eggshells, it's like walking on glass barefoot. I stand walking over to the table and pressing the projector button. I unencrypted my files and show him what I’ve been working on. He watches attentively, his eyes scanning through the details projected in front of him.

“They’re color coded by threat level” he says perceptively interpreting the markings I have on the 3D map model of the area the races will take place in. 

“Yeah, it determines what will work in terms of an emergency exits.” I state, explaining my process.

“So you don’t only look at routes?” He asks.

“No, when I develop my plans I consider routes, danger, closures, alternate routes and transportation that is as discreet as possible while being resilient and agile” I explain and he nods zooming in on my tablet.

“You’re looking for places to land helicopters? Possible counter sniper positions.” He says interpreting my work in seconds. Impressive isn’t the word. Nothing is explicitly stated there’s just circles, dots, x’s and stars in a variety of colours.

“Yeah” I nod and he looks from the tablet back to me, with a ghost of a smirk on his lips, only for it to be gone as soon as it appears.

“You’re doing Jameson work for him.” He comments.

“I understand why our teams are separate but I think all aspects should inform each other” I swallow and his expression hardens.

“That’s not your job. It’s to take direction. No one should be fully informed of the other's actions in case of leaks. Your team needs to be agile. Keep your work to yourself” he orders going back to his military facade.

“With all the testing you still don’t trust us?” I ask and he scowls. His jaw sets before clicking as he clenches  it. 

“It’s not about trust. It’s about what a person gives away during torture. How can I protect my team from that? The rules are in place for a reason. Adhere to them” he orders again but his eyes are more sensitive. If I were a psychiatrist I could diagnose his paranoia and mood swings but as a civilian I table my judgement.

“The non patronizing way to say that is;  follow protocol Cole” I quip before he gets carried away and it ends poorly.

“I don’t care if you don’t like my delivery. At least you’ll be alive not to like it” he comments standing. I can't help the sharp look I send his way. If he were anyone else I wouldn’t put up with it. “Good work” he says finally but somehow the praise falls flat.

“Have you lost a lot of people?” I ask and the tension in his shoulders answers the question in an instant. His expression sobers. 

“I’ve seen a lot of death,” he nods. I look him over before nodding. It at least explains his incessant over preparation and commitment to structure, secrecy and preventative measures.

“I’m sorry,” seems the only appropriate response.

“You won’t have to be if you follow protocol. Your safety equipment needs to be fitted before we go wheels up, go see Cassandra. I’m scheduling you for some extra hand to hand” he says adding more to my plate.

“I don’t have time for extra hand to hand, I’m behind” I tell him pointing to the projections.

“No you’re not” he swallows. “You’ll fry your brain if you continue staring at blueprints. Movement will serve you more than sitting at your desk” he says parroting what I’ve heard from Jameson. I wonder if it's advice Jameson has commandeered from the Boss.

“Okay” I concede. RIchmond seems surprised by my concession but he nods, slipping his hands into the pockets of his trousers. Cassandra appears in the doorway and I let out a relieved breath.

“I hope you’re being nice.” she says, looking him over. Richmond doesn’t dignify her with a response. “Are you finished or can I steal Cole - her safety second skins are in” Cassandra says.

“We’re done and I have ten minutes” he says looking at his watch. I go along with them walking to his office suite instead of asking questions. Two suits wait in a box in his conference room. One is my perfect nude shade, it nearly looks like mesh but it's made of something stronger. It’s fully opaque and when I hold it up I frown wondering what in the T’Challa Black Panther, Richmond has paid for me to wear.

I raise a brow. “What’s this for?” 

“Protection, no burns, cuts or bullets can pierce it. A safety precaution” Cassandra responds.

“Try it on,” Richmond says, stepping out of the room.

“Please!” Cassandra scowls at him as she closes the door. I hold it up again and wonder what else money can buy. I head into the ensuite and I undress quickly. I step into the unitard that fits almost like a second skin. I manage the nearly invisible zipper at my side and look in the mirror. I look remarkably naked and tense up when I see shaded contouring that could pass for real hips and ass.

“Need help?” I hear Cassandra ask from outside.

“Uhh?” I respond and she giggles.

“That’s exactly how I felt - can we come in?” she asks.

“I guess” I responded, not quite sure. I remind myself I’m not naked as I leave the bathroom and re-enter the conference room as they come in. Cassandra’s eyes scan me.

“Toes are wonky” she says to Richmond whose eyes are glued to my body. 

“The suit is wonky” he comments with eyes on my breasts. “May I touch you?” he asks without making eye contact.

“Ok” I respond unsure if no is even an option and he stands behind me pulling the material taut until I can feel it on my chest and stomach like a corset. When I look behind he hes standing with a handful of the suit.

“That’s how it should fit” he tells Cassandra, sparing a look her way. The suit feels completely different with this kind of tension. He grapes lower, gathering the same amount of fabric in the small of my back. I feel like a doll in his care as he manhandles the suit. It’s oddly erotic, or maybe it’s been too long since a man has had his hands on me. He goes to do the same around my hips but there’s no stretch left. 

“Can you see if there’s any give?” he asks as if he hasn't already probably made at least five HR violations. I oblige finding some give.

“Hold it like that” Richmond demands and I wonder if he’s this bossy in bed. Girl, get your head out of the gutter!

“Cassandra test its resistance” he says and Cassandra comes over with some sort of scanner gun reading all over my body noting weak points with a red marker as well as what needs to be removed. 

“The suit has to fit like a glove, it’s most effective when the fibres are extended to their limit they interlock creating … well armour.” she explains.

“What if I have to pee?” I ask being practical.

“You’ll get a zipper once everything else fits seamlessly” Cassandra explains. It’s another level of overkill.

“Does everyone wear these?” I ask.

“They aren't required for smaller scale events, I always wear mine for the big ones” she explains. Richmond is still staring at me and it makes me feel naked, the proximity, the physical toughness, the attention. My body hums like a starving stomach craving sustenance. I’m gonna need to see a therapist for sure, I think looking away from him and back to Cassandra who clears her throat.

“Mr. Richmond, you have a call in two” she says to him and he nods, peeling his eyes from my ass. 

“Ensure it fits perfectly...Please” He says, taking one last look at me. He looks at Cassandra who nods with a smirk on her lips before leaving.

“I’m gonna go change” I announce heading into the restroom. When I get out I hand her the suit.

“Is he always so hands on?” I ask, a little unnerved.

“Hands on… he was with me but he was a lot less attentive and there was a lot more back and forth bickering until he pulled it so tight I couldn't breathe comfortably.” she discloses amused.

“I’m pretty sure that’s wrong of him” I remark.

“Terry’s like family - he’d never actually hurt me and lord knows he could” she huffs sitting on the conference table. Her disposition makes me think of them like siblings opposed to coworkers. The most toxic workplaces have the ‘family titles’ it's definitely a red flag.

“So how was your first week?’ she beams crossing her legs but my mind is on how it felt to be constricted in his hold and hugged by the suit.

“I’ve only considered quitting right now” I smile and she laughs.

“I came to your office because I was sure there was going to be fireworks. Terry was too but with how at ease he was I'd say you’re doing amazing on your first assignment. What was his feedback? I can help you decode its meaning to stay on his good side.” she smiles and I’m excited until I realize there was none.

“He just told me to stick to the protocol and that I did a good job. Oh and he prescribed extra hand to hand” I explain and her eyes light. Her smile widens like a Cheshire cat and she shakes her head.

“He’s setting me up to fail isn't he?” I ask, afraid of some humiliation ritual test.

Cassandra shakes her head. “No Lorence, it means you're keeping him up at night. He must think you're one of the best”

“I don’t copy.” I confess.

“The best agents are all the same Lorence and they never leave their people behind when shit hits the fan. He doesn't think you’ll be tripped up by the plans so he’s preparing you for the people.” she explains.

“Do I have anyone but him to fear?” I ask.

“No, that’s how I know you’re keeping him up. The guys that we’d need to fear see us as menu options - they don't know we’re trained to kick their ass and so they never have security with them. They’re easy to outsmart before things get ‘hand to hand’” Cassandra explains and it’s consistent with training. I get a reverie of the intensity in Richmonds eyes as he held the extra fabric of my suit taut, again. I never put much stock in her words before.

“I think you're wrong. Richmond doesnt look like he needs help attracting women. I’m sure you’ve had to shoo away your fare share.” I respond.

“Are you kidding?! He’s a work-a-holic. I've only seen him flirt for better access. His indiscretions are kept from me if they exist” she comments. “Come on, let's go shopping for after hours  in Monaco - I have a few party invites with an open plus one slot.” she winks and it sounds like a good way to relax and enjoy the rest of the day. Retail therapy is still therapy after all.

Cassandra and I end up in the heart of the city in stores with names that English speakers need tutorials to pronounce. Cassandra can sell salt to a snail because she convinces me to indulge in whims that are unfamiliar and then she swipes the company card stating outfits while on vacation are somehow a business expense. Paranoia makes me set aside the amounts in case it’s some test or something the Boss intends to scream at me for later. But for the rest of the night from shopping all the way to my night routine I’m a little uneasy. Terry Richmond’s ability to rattle me is unmatched. Whether in anger or cloaked kindness. The intensity of his expression is imprinted in my mind. 

I lay awake in bed slightly amused by the irony of Cassandra’s words. At least if they’re true I’m keeping him from sleeping too. It feels like some consolation for all he’s put me through. Maybe my haywire feelings are the result of something akin to Stockholm syndrome. The result of that stupid test. His gaze comes back to me again and the attention held within them. My body heats as recognition clicks into place, its reaction starts to make sense. After years of feeling unnerved and unsure I’ve read the first real emotions from him. There was real sincerity in his eyes. No resentment or animosity. Maybe hints of more complicated emotions but at its core it seemed to be pure preoccupation with my safety.

My body seems to settle at my brain's recognition of the day's events. The anxious energy leaves my body and I settle when it becomes clear to me that before all else my boss wants me to be okay. Before I take my last conscious thought, I promise to move forward with Richmond with that at the forefront of my brain.

authors note: what are you doing if you're Lorence and the boss gets all close and touchy feely? Fight, freeze, call HR - I have to know! Let me know what you think in a comment or reblog 🖤 if you enjoyed things heating up dont forget to comment, reblog and like!

007 ⇛

click here to ✮ join taglist ✮ and be notified when new updates drop.

[reasonsforhope]

"Clothing tags, travel cards, hotel room key cards, parcel labels … a whole host of components in supply chains of everything from cars to clothes. What do they have in common? RFID tags.  

Every RFID (Radio Frequency Identification) tag contains a microchip and a tiny metal strip of an antenna. A cool 18bn of these are made – and disposed of – each year. And with demands for product traceability increasing, ironically in part because of concerns for the social and environmental health of the supply chain, that’s set to soar. 

And guess where most of these tags end up? Yup, landfill – adding to the burgeoning volumes of e-waste polluting our soils, rivers and skies. It’s a sorry tale, but it’s one in which two young graduates of Imperial College London and Royal College of Art are putting a great big green twist. Under the name of PulpaTronics, Chloe So and Barna Soma Biro reckon they’ve hit on a beguilingly simple sounding solution: make the tags out of paper. No plastic, no chips, no metal strips. Just paper, pure and … simple … ? Well, not quite, as we shall see. 

The apparent simplicity is achieved by some pretty cutting-edge technical innovation, aimed at stripping away both the metal antennae and the chips. If you can get rid of those, as Biro explains, you solve the e-waste problem at a stroke. But getting rid of things isn’t the typical approach to technical solutions, he adds. “I read a paper in Nature that set out how humans have a bias for solving problems through addition – by adding something new, rather than removing complexity, even if that’s the best approach.”   

And adding stuff to a world already stuffed, as it were, can create more problems than it solves. “So that became one of the guiding principles of PulpaTronics”, he says: stripping things down “to the bare minimum, where they are still functional, but have as low an environmental impact as possible”.  

...how did they achieve this magical simplification? The answer lies in lasers: these turn the paper into a conductive material, Biro explains, printing a pattern on the surface that can be ‘read’ by a scanner, rather like a QR code. It sounds like frontier technology, but it works, and PulpaTronics have patents pending to protect it. 

The resulting tag comes in two forms: in one, there is still a microchip, so that it can be read by existing scanners of the sort common within retailers, for example. The more advanced version does away with the chip altogether. This will need a different kind of scanner, currently in development, which PulpaTronics envisages issuing licences for others to manufacture. 

Crucially, the cost of both versions is significantly cheaper than existing RFID kit – making this a highly viable proposition. Then there are the carbon savings: up to 70% for the chipless version – so a no-brainer from a sustainability viewpoint too. All the same, industry interest was slow to start with but when PulpaTronics won a coveted Dezeen magazine award in late 2023, it snowballed, says So. Big brands such as UPS, DHL, Marks & Spencer and Decathlon came calling. “We were just bombarded.” Brands were fascinated by the innovation, she says, but even more by the price point, “because, like any business, they knew that green products can’t come with a premium”."

-via Positive.News, April 29, 2024

--

Note: I know it's still in the very early stages, but this is such a relief to see in the context of the environmental and human rights catastrophes associated with lithium mining and mining for rare earth metals, and the way that EVs and other green infrastructure are massively increasing the demand for those materials.

I'll take a future with paper-based, more humane alternatives for sure! Fingers crossed this keeps developing and develops well (and quickly).

[unholyhelbig]

request: oversight au, nat and reader run into reader’s ex or ronnie’s father who was abusive to them… how will mob nat react?

Title: Old Flames [An Oversight Oneshot]

Ship: Female!Reader x Natasha Romanoff

Summary: When reader has an unexpected run-in with an old flame and things go less than well, Natasha takes things into her own hands.

Warnings(PLEASE READ): Talks of past domestic abuse, talks of abortion, buried alive references, broken glass, blood (always), Heights, threatening statements, non-consensual kiss, horrible grammar (aways).

[a/n: Okay, I had way too much fun with this. While I loved writing the main story, it's also super great to branch out into some more dynamics with Mob Boss Nat, because I haven't made her mean enough yet.]

Check out the full Oversight universe

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven

The apartment building on the corner of twelfth and Hawke was a large midcentury brick building that structure that stretched to the sky. A metal fire escape latticed up the side and stretched clotheslines dripping with shirts and pants connected it to the adjacent building that had long since been used for storage.

Up until this point, you had avoided this building. Luckily, the tenants were quite timely with their rent and left little need for an enforcer to knock door to door. But it was right after the holidays and things were tough. That much, you understood. But it didn’t’ change the fact that three units were more than two months behind on their rent.

Them, you could appeal to with hot chocolate and some gentle urging. But according to Clint, there was a particularly nasty group of people living on the top floor that had gotten multiple noise complaints thrown their way.

The address hadn’t seemed familiar until you stood at the entrance and got a good look at the golden door that contrasted the rest of the structure. You’d written the code to the door on your palm, and you were having trouble differentiating the last number. It was a zero, or it was an eight.

“Gross, you’re sweaty.” Kate had pulled your hand a small distance from her scrutinizing stare, trying to read the smeared purple markings. “I knew we should have used the napkin.”

The woman dropped your hand and stepped up to the small box on the side of the entryway. She hit every button known to man until the fragile voice cracked through the speaker. “Yeah, uh-huh, pizza. I have pizza. Pepperoni-“Her ramblings were cut off by the loud buzz in.

You were treated to an innocent smile as she wrenched open the door and allowed you to follow her in. She was innovative, annoyingly so. Most of the time it worked in your favor but sometimes you found her testing your temper just to prove a point. Thankfully, she hadn’t noticed your hesitation.

It was coming back to you now; the large entryway that was lined with lock and key mail slots and a bolstered wooden staircase that was scarcely used compared to the elevator. Natasha kept good care of the place, had repainted and made sure every single lightbulb was humming in synch.

Some would say that she improved the neighborhood, block by block. But there were still those who liked the way things used to be; living paycheck to paycheck with an angry and withering stare being sent your way with each collection call.

“I’ve got Miss Henderson.”

“Oh, come on.” You protested “She sounds so cool.”

Miss Henderson was an older woman who lived on the fifth floor. Most of the time, her rent was late because it had simply slipped her mind. One look at Kate and she’d write a check before offering some of the sweetest cookies you’d ever tasted, often sending her back with a plateful.

From what you had heard, she used to travel with a circus as an acrobatic performer. Her act was death-defying; a performance that relied on her partners quick bladework. The Swordsman and his Enchantress. There were illustrations of their travels hung up around her unit- ones that you would kill to see.

“Too bad, next time.” Kate mock pouted at you before clapping you on the back. “Don’t make too much of a mess up on the top floor, alright? I don’t want to scrub carpets today.”

She took the stairs two at a time and left you alone in the lobby. A cool blast of wind hit your back as a tenant walked in with their dalmatian, pink tongue lolling to the side as his owner checked the mail, barely sparing you a glance.

The type of New York residents that occupied this space had changed greatly. The last time you’d been here was a walk of shame that left your feet raw and bleeding. You’d rushed from the apartment with so much fever that you never returned for your shoes, or your dignity, for that matter.

This time, you had shoes on, ones that you had scrubbed free of blood until they looked presentable. They were leaden on the stairs up to the top floor. Once you reached the fifth, you could hear Kate’s distinctive laugh behind the oak door. At least she was close.

The top floor was nearly silent. You could hear a television, a hockey game that you’d been listening to sparingly on the way over here. It sounded like Toronto was pulling through. The sound of a beer cracking pulled you away from the muffled announcers words.

A radio was resting in an upper window. You and Kate had heard it from the street below, a French Pop station that you could barely make out the words of. French was never your strong suite, one language requirement in high school was enough for you.

Silently, you prayed, that it was a coincidence. That the radio didn’t’ belong to the very men that you were meant to speak to. They were flighty, you told yourself. They weren’t ones to stay and if they chose to stick around after all these years- well, you’d be impressed.

You knocked twice on the center door, the deep forest-green paint threatening to chip under the elements. The music stopped abruptly, and while you could hear that someone was whispering quietly in French, you couldn’t make out the words.

The man that opened the door was too familiar for your liking; his pale waxy skin, his deep brown eyes that were so dark they were almost black, the tattoos that were smattered in different designs against his throat, down his collarbone. Pockmarked on his arms. His hair was longer than you remembered, greasier and tied up in a bun.

He took you in for a singular moment, shock reflecting in his stare, but before he moved to shut the door. You stopped the action with one strong hand, putting your boot between the frame and the wood for extra measure. “Don’t be like that, Kazi.”

“All these years, and now you’re coming back for child support?”

He raked his eyes up and down your body in a way that made you feel violated. You held your stance. He seemed impressed by the bout of strength.

You tsked “if I wanted child support, I would have gone after it by now. Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

He scratched under the sleeve of his tank-top, considering you the same way you considered him. Eventually, he seemed to figure he had nothing to lose pulling the door back and letting you enter the apartment. Waves of memory washed over you.

Kazi still had the same futon covered in the same ratty blanket. There was a kitchen table that was stacked with different folders that he would never, in a million years, let you view. A blue funnel was drying on the dishrack, and countless liquor bottles that had been emptied and cleaned were lined up, ready to be filled with the slightest bit of homebrewed alcohol.

He was still running the same scam after all of these years. You remembered liking the danger about him, the way his stubble felt against you when you straddled him. He’d been so alluring to a good girl like you. He would street race at night with another guy you’d met a handful of times, Robbie Reyes.

God, you had been so naive back then. He was drawn in by your innocence and you were entrapped by his experience. If only you knew where you’d end up in seven years; with Kazi’s biological daughter being raised by the most powerful woman in the city.

The moment you told him you were pregnant, he told you bluntly to get rid of it. That same night, he’d thrown an empty liquor bottle at you, just barely missing your head. You’d refused outright and accepted his anger in turn. Glass shards cut into the soles of your feet, and stained the snow all the way back to your dorm room.

The way he stared at you now infuriated you. “What do you want, then?”

“You’re two months late on rent.”

“I figured you’d keep tabs. Most women do. But my rent? That’s a new one.”

You picked up a small paperweight that you remember being fond of when you returned to this apartment after a first date where Kazi was a perfect gentleman. He’d bought dinner, and walked you back to his place. The glass object was tinted yellow, a small mosquito suspended in the center. He must have gotten it in a museum gift shop.

“Truthfully, I’m shocked you still live here.” You tested the weight of the object. “Most landlords aren’t very lenient about tardiness.”

“Yeah, well. She’s not very attentive. What can I say?”

Oh, but Natasha was quite attentive in more than one aspect, at that. You couldn’t’ help the smile that spread against your lips. Kazi was growing agitated with your presence, always quick to temper.

With all the strength you could muster, you threw the paperweight at the wall directly behind him. In its innate cheapness, it shattered into a million pieces, littering the carpet and slicing little bites into his skin. Kazi flinched and covered his face with his arms.

“Fuck! Y/n, what the hell!” He screamed.

“You have two weeks to backdate the rent, Kazi. Another week to get us this month’s amount. That sounds reasonable to me. Attentive, even.”

He reached into the back of his sweatpants and pulled out a silver Kimber, pumping the top chamber and aiming it at you with a shaky hand. He was too lax with his hold. A pinprick of crimson was dripping from a cut on his cheek.

“Come on, Kazi. It’s not the end of the world. I’m sure you can push some half-rate liquor. Sell a few of your gold fillings, and come up with the money my employer is required.”

“Employer? You work for that… monster?”

“Now, there’s a big word.” You closed the distance between the two of you, not giving him a moment to react before you wrenched the gun from his hand and threw it onto that ratty old blanket that adorned the futon he’d found on the side of the road. “So much horrible implication behind it too. You shouldn’t name call.”

Your boots crunched against the shattered glass. Kazi was barefoot, he flinched as flesh was dug into by uneven shards. You could smell the rancid coffee on his breath. He had a mole just on small of his nose.

“What happened to you?” he whispered, “Where’s that girl that stormed out of my apartment because she didn’t get her way?”

“A lot can change in seven years, Kaz.” You glanced around his apartment. “Well, most people change. Some people don’t go anywhere in life.”

Kazi pressed forward, his dry lips suddenly against yours. You froze in an instant, appalled by the acrid taste of cigarettes and stale morning coffee that he had no-doubt heated up in the microwave and drank black. The kiss was strong, rushed and painful in the way that his teeth knocked against yours.

It took less than a second for you to push him away. His head hit the cabinet behind it, rattling the glasses inside. Your hand was splayed out on his chest, nails digging into the stained tank-top he wore. He grinned wolfishly at you. Your teeth had dug so hard into his lip that it drew blood.

“I like this rough version of you, sweetheart. It’s hot.”

You reeled back and slapped him across the face with as much force as you could muster in your close proximity. The radio in the window seemed to flicker out of power at that moment, or maybe they had just run out of shitty pop music to play. Either way, the two of you were engulfed in silence.

“Shit, baby, hit me again!”

He had no idea how much you wanted to abide by that, though, you were quite positive that it would do nothing but spur on his arousal. This wasn’t going to work. If he kept pushing the way he was, you were afraid you wouldn’t be able to stop yourself from pulling your own weapon.

It suddenly became too much, standing in the middle of this time-capsule of an apartment. The memories were too strong. When the two of you were together, everything you did was for his benefit. And while this had been fun at first, testing him like this, it was too much.

You grabbed the collar of his sweat-soiled shirt, wrapping it around your fingers with enough force to tear the fabric away. “Two weeks, you fucking asshole. If you don’t have the money by then, I’m sure the city will have a fun time scrubbing your brain matter from the sidewalk.”

“I love it when you talk dirty to me.” He sneered.

You pressed your booted foot down on the top of his, listening as the glass dug deeper into the soft skin. This time, he did cry out in pain, the grinding of pieces close to bone making his eyes water. You placed your hand over his mouth, muffling his protest. “I will make your miserable existence a living hell, with or without the money, for what you did to me. Do you understand?”

“You’re so full of shit-“ you pressed your full weight down and you squirmed under your hold. “Yes! Yes, I get it. Fuck!”

You pulled yourself away from Kazi entirely, straightening his shirt. He was slumped against the counter, staring at you with pure rage in his eyes. He shifted his full weight to his other foot, grimacing at the edged stain on the wooden floor.

“You should really clean that up.” You gritted, mouth still tasting of stale smoke. “Glass can be dangerous, Kazimirez.”

By the time you got to the car the only thing on your mind was taking the hottestshower possible. You’d pawed through Kate’s glovebox rather frantically and counted it a small blessing that that there was a single unwrapped piece of gum at the very bottom.

She cringed as you popped it in your mouth and let the minty dusty taste coat your tongue. If you could, without raising suspicion, you would have dumped solvent on it, just to take the taste of Kazi out of your mouth.

“I don’t know how long that’s been in there.” Kate said, watching you warily as you picked up her water bottle and downed half of that too. It seemed to take the rest of the rancid flavor away.

“I don’t care”

“You should care, I bought this car used.” She frowned, tapping her fingers against the wheel. “Okay, I didn’t’ buy it. I bought the license plates though, that’s my civic duty.”

Her words were enough for you to roll your window down and toss the gum from it. Despite your profession, you weren’t a very good liar. Not when it came to Natasha. She’d ask you about your day like usual and you’d crumble under her seemingly innocent gaze.

Nothing Natasha did was innocent.

“What happened up there?” Kate asked.

The two of you were well out of the city by now, and still had about a half-hour until you got to the mansion. The family liked their privacy, and after a year of living there permanently, so did you.

When you didn’t answer right away, she kept going. “Because I got cookies. Nearly choked on one when Miss Henderson insisted on a private show. It’s seriously a wonder that a woman her age can still bend like that.”

“Katie,” You warned, “Gross.”

“Impressive actually. She kept her clothes on, which I am eternally grateful for. It looks like you had a more eventful visit with the French dudes upstairs.” She scoffed, “Who the fuck is French anymore?”

You rolled your eyes and slumped further into your seat. Kazi was French. You used to crumble when he gave you the choppiest lines that he could remember. According to him, the language is harder to speak than it is to read and write. You never questioned him, just like you didn’t question a lot of things.

“I have a… history with the man who rents 807.”

“A history, or a… history?”

“The first one. The second one. Shit- I don’t know, both! He’s Ronnie’s dad.”

Kate slammed on the brakes with enough force for a layer of rubber to be peeled from the tires of her mostly stolen care. The seatbelt cut into your neck and you figured yourself lucky that you’d taken a back road that was rarely used, god forbid she cause an accident.

“Dude!” You shouted as she put the car into park.

Kate twisted her entire body in the seat, placing her hand on the back of your seat. The motor was sputtering wildly, trying to compensate for her abrupt stop. Something had to be damaged, you thought, with her force on the pedal.

“Don’t dude me. Are you really that dense? If you haven’t noticed, Natasha is possessive over her things. And you? Well, you’re one of her favorite things. She’s not going to take this well in the slightest.”

“Kate, I think I know how to handle my girlfriend.”

“No, you know how to handle Natasha, the sweet, loving woman who would die for you and your child. Admirable, really. But you don’t know how to handle Miss Romanoff, mob boss extraordinaire.”

But you had seen Natasha in action before, countless times. She’d always kept this calm coolness about her that you were in awe of. Maybe Kate was right. You’d only seen a fraction of her jealous side at the first party you had ever attended in the house. That night she ripped the dress she’d picked out specifically for you to shreds.  

“I was dating a man named Eli when I was first taken in by the Romanoff’s, He turned out to be… not so favorable despite my constant reassurances. Natasha just knows. She had him dig a grave right off I-25 and then she made him lay in it.”

Your jaw threatened to drop at the simple fact. Kate removed her hand from the back of the seat and eased off the brake before she slowly got the two of you back up to an acceptable speed.

“All Eli did was cheat on me one night in a club. It wasn’t great, but I wasn’t sure if it warranted that kind of reaction. I never knew if she was proving a point to me, or to Eli. Either way, the smallest offense against any of us is met with archaic conviction.”

You didn’t respond to Kate, instead you stared at the trees that were whizzing by in a lush green wall of color. You’d decided that she was right- any type of reaction Natasha was going to have to Kazi would be severe.

“You’ll be fine.” Kate tapped her fingers nervously on the wheel, trying to backtrack her words. “As long as he didn’t’ touch you.”

It didn’t seem to matter how ferociously you scrubbed your skin with the honey scented soap you shared with Natasha, you swore you still smelled like smoke. It clung to your clothes, and lingered in the air after you’d shoved them to the bottom of the clothes basket.

The water was blazingly hot, filling the bathroom with a thick mist that made it slow to breathe. Natasha had chosen a dark blue tile that seemed to transport you into another world. Even without the scaring remembrance of Kazi’s lips against yours, his hands where you didn’t want them, you could stay here for hours.

Her hands were freezing cold and startling as they splayed against your naked stomach. You let out a small noise, going rigid before registering Natasha behind you. Her front was pressed against your back, and you’d know the curve of her body anywhere.

“Izvinite, moya lyubov', I didn’t mean to scare you.”

You turned in her arms and took in the state of her. She’d stripped down just as you had, small drops of water littering her skin like a constellation in the sky. She’d been in the sun today, a smattering of freckles across her cheeks and nose giving her away.

There was a bruise forming against the side of her jaw, one that you ran your waterlogged fingers over. Her eyes were an intoxicating shade of green, playing off the indigo tiles. You wanted to scold her for getting the bruise in the first place, but you were so entrapped by her simple presence, the way she fit so perfectly against you.

Natasha closed the distance between you both, pressing her lips against yours in a hurried kiss. You moaned into the embrace, allowing her tongue to find purchase in your mouth. God- you had missed her in the short few hours you’d been apart.

“Did you take up smoking?” she asked, barely pulling away, the words were spoken flushed to your lips. “It’s a terrible habit, darling.”

The glovebox gum hadn’t done its job, and apparently the swish of mouthwash and subsequent teeth brushing hadn’t done anything either. Of course, Natasha noticed. Of course. You weren’t going to try to hide it, though the thought did occur to you to save some heartache. But you were hoping you could placate her in a less slippery spot of the house when you were less naked and incredibly turned on by her presence.

A groan of a different cadence than she was used to escaped you as you dropped your head to her shoulder and clenched your eyes shut. “No, I didn’t take up smoking.”

“You taste like you have,” She gently led your eyes to hers. It was tender compared to the first time she had done so. “Licking ash trays again?”

“Gross, no.”

Natasha valued honesty above all. That much had been clear from the moment you met her. She’d nearly taken your head off in the gym when you repeated your one-night-stand with the enemy. The devil incarnate who happened to only be decent in bed. You remembered her hand wrapped around your throat, squeezing just enough for you to give her the answers she craved.

“What is it, pet? You can tell me.”

“Do you… I’ve been with men before.”

She let out a small chuckle that reverberated off the deep tile. “Yes, I know. I didn’t want to make assumptions, of course, but Ronnie does have a father.”

The way you stared at her in the silence that followed the statement made the smile on her face falter until it dropped entirely. She must have seen something behind your eyes, something that weighed the situation down more than she was intending on a typical Wednesday night.

“I’d completely blacked it out and didn’t realize it until I stepped foot into the lobby, but he still lives in the same apartment on the top floor. He thought I was after child support, or something but things sort of… escalated.”

You felt like a child, spilling your secrets about a vase you had broken. This time it was a cheap paperweight with a bug in the center that you frankly felt bad for. The words came out like emotional vomit, granted, Natasha had become used to your rapid admissions.

Her grip tightened against your chin, “Escalated how?”

“He kissed me, and I hit him hard enough to break his jaw.”

That same silence enveloped you again. The scalding water had lost its effect, numb and beating against your back. The two of you were still impossibly close and there wasn’t much escape for you in a shower this size. The glass door having fogged up and only giving you a stunted view of the large bathroom.

Natasha had an immeasurable rage behind her stare, her lidded expression ran as dark as old blood. It chilled you to your core. She reached beside you and shut off the constant flow of water. You’d been in here for about an hour now and the cold air that touched your skin felt like an assault of needles. You instinctively wrapped your arms around your center to preserve warmth.

“He laid his hands on you.”

“Yeah, Nat, he did.”

“He touched you.”

“I gave him hell for it, but it didn’t seem like it was enough.”

“Without permission.”

“He’ll never do it again.”

Whatever split-second decision she made; it was done without the usual calculation behind her eyes. She threw the door to the shower open and forcefully shoved a towel into your arms. While you revered in the warmth, you watched as she sauntered in her usual way out of the bathroom and into your shared bedroom. She was dripping wet.

“Natty!” You stumbled over the partition and nearly slid on the bathroom floor. It was much colder outside of your cocoon of warmth and subsequent mist. She thankfully hadn’t left the room and was pawing through her side of the dresser. You nearly lost your footing once you reached hardwood. “Fuck,”

She seemed to find what she was looking for, a plain black tank top that hugged her sides and looked entirely uncomfortable to wiggle into while damp. You watched with baited breath in a sloping towel as she adorned herself with underwear and pants, before turning towards you.

“Get dressed.” She ordered in a dangerous tone.

Shit. She was going to make you dig your own grave. You’d just showered all of the grime from Kazi’s apartment off and in a matter of minutes you would have dirt up to your knees. Natasha may have let Eli live after his blunder, but maybe she’d cover you completely and let you suffocate in your own efforts.

Numbly, you put on a pair of sweatpants and the closest shirt you had. There was no need to get dressed for your own funeral, you supposed. The worms would chew through whatever you wore regardless.

Clint was stretched out on the chase in the foyer, a pair of thick-lensed glasses balancing on the tip of his nose. Regardless, he still squinted at the book in his hands. You wondered why he wasn’t in the living room, but caught a glimpse of a particularly intense game of twister between Ronnie, Yelena, and Kate.

Darcy held onto the board, flicking the small plastic needle and calling out the colors. When Kate clocked the anger in Natasha’s eyes, she dropped to her back, taking down Yelena and Ronnie with her.

She gave you a pleading look, but you were already too far gone to return anything other than a flushed expression. You followed obediently after Natasha. She opened the front door and watched you with a calculated expression before slamming the front door hard enough to shake the glass fronting.

“Get in the car.”

“Do you want me to grab a shovel?”

“What?”

She contemplated this for a minute, growling softly. The near silence was terrifying. Her arms crossed over her chest was terrifying. Your mouth with incredibly dry, and you wished that you were back under the constant stream of water.

“No. I don’t think we’ll need that. Get in the car.”

Numbly, you did as you were told, placing your hands in your lap. This was quite possibly the last time you would be sitting in any car, much less, next to Natasha. She reached across you and pulled your seatbelt into place, tugging on the upper portion until she was sure you weren’t going anywhere.

The tires picked up traction on the gravel and the drive that usually took an hour seemed to whiz by. Natasha was quiet, the route to the city more than familiar by now. She run her hands against the steering wheel until her knuckles were white. You could hear her breathing deeply, trying to ease her nerves. You didn’t dare say a word.

For a moment, you figured that she’d abandoned the idea of burying you alive and switched her ideals to something much more sinister and public. She pulled her car up to the front of the very building you had left a few hours ago, the sun just barely setting behind the skyline. You blinked at her, and then up at the very property that she owned.

“Come on.”

There was no room for discussion. The air here was clouded with the scent of smoke and the coolness of the cement structures around you. It was moments like these where you much preferred the country.

Of course, Natasha knew the code, she had recited it to you earlier as you and Kate ate lunch by the docks, stretched out on the hood of her car. It was wrong then and your nerves were too elevated to pay attention now. She got in without the theatrics.

There seemed to be more activity as the day for working folks began to wind down. Two people halted their conversation by the mail-slots, nodding solemnly at the woman. On the third floor, you caught a glimpse of a woman struggling to push her keys into the lock, juggling her gym bag. The sixth floor held a small boy who darted from one apartment to another, edging across the hall.

She kept climbing until that same irritating French pop filled your ears. He must keep it on at all hours of the day, just to drown out his own miserable thoughts. “What apartment?”

You lifted your chin slightly, hands shoved in the pockets of your sweatpants to ward off the biting chill. “807.”

“Spasibo, lyubimyy.”

Natasha’s booted foot connected with the center of the very door you had politely knocked on earlier in the day. You flinched, covering your face with a guarded arm. The wood of the doorframe seemed to splinter, slivers reigning across both sides of the entrance.

“What the fuck!”

Kazi was hunched over the kitchen table, the funnel that had been drying by the sink was positioned perfectly in the mouth of a soaked and peeled liquor bottle. He had a stack of his own labels ready to place evenly on the finished product. Both of his feet were haphazardly wrapped with gauze, small sprouts of blood worming through the soft material.

He’d taken care to clean up the glass, but with the way Natasha headed straight towards him, that didn’t matter much. More of it fell to the floor and shattered upon impact. She grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and started walking him backwards across the living room. Kazi seemed too stunned to speak, his words caught in his throat.

“I-I-I didn’t mean it! Please!”

“When you speak to me, you’ll do it clearly.” She gritted, shoving him towards the window. Somewhere in the scuffle, the radio had fallen from its perch on the cracked windowsill, crashing to the alleyway below with one last fizzled cry. “You had no trouble saying whatever you wanted earlier, did you?”

“I’m sorry! Fuck! I told that bitch I would have the rent!”

“Yeah? Was that before or after you shoved your tongue down her throat?”

Natasha bent Kazi’s torso fully over the screenless window. He grasped frantically at her hands, clawing at them as the balanced him over the long drop to the pavement below. His bare feet kicked, trying to throw her off her equilibrium, but he was much too weak for any type of damage.

“You walked out on them.”

“What? Oh, my god, what?! I told her to get rid of it- I didn’t walk out on anyone! You’re batshit lady!”

To you, it didn’t’ seem very wise to throw insults at the woman holding you above an eight-story drop, but Kazi never was known for his intelligence. His bravado, maybe, but never anything more. He looked so small compared to Natasha’s anger.

“She didn’t get rid of it, Kazi. She kept the kid that you couldn’t have bothered to give another thought to. She made a life for both of them. She fucking loves that kid enough to fill the absence you left.” Natasha let her hand slip, letting him waver in his height for a moment before pulling him back up. He was crying, sobbing for his life. “And you have the nerve, to touch her, to break her and then come rushing back when she was strong enough to pick up the pieces?”

“I wasn’t ready,” he moaned out “I couldn’t be a dad.”

“It seems like there are a lot of things you can’t do, doesn’t it? You’re a pathetic excuse for a man. A pathetic excuse for a human being and once we leave here- I never want to see your face in my city again. Am I clear?”

Kazi let out another course of intelligible, wet, words. His back was nearly breaking under the force of Natasha’s hold, her knee directly up against his crotch, pushing down with all the strength she could muster.

“Y/n, I think this is a teaching moment, don’t you?”

The softness of her words as she addressed you caught you off guard. There was no malice. In fact, she beckoned to you as if she was calling you into the living room to join her under the blankets for a movie. Your heart raced fast enough for your chest to ache as you closed the distance between you both.

“See, the trick is making them think that you’re going to let them go.”

She said this to you as if Kazi wasn’t a slobbering mess under her touch. He’d carved little half-moon marks against the tops of her hand, some of them starting to leak blood with the sheer force of his struggle.

“You have to get creative with the fear aspect. If they think they’re going to die, it tends to work in our favor. Doesn’t it, Kazi?”

“Please,” He whimpered, “I’ll do whatever you want. I’m sorry, y/n, I’m sorry.”

Natasha did the seemingly impossible, she pushed him further out the window, his calves struggling for purchase against the drywall. “Oh, now that simply won’t do. You must keep her name out of your mouth.”

“In situations like these, darling, it’s best to keep full control. If he was anything other than wretched, then maybe you’d have to worry about him fighting back. You’ll get some people like that, but that trick is having leverage, literal and physical in cases like this.”

“I see,” You let the words escape you in a single breath “and how long do we play this game?”

“Until they know it’s not one.”

It took little effort for Natasha to push Kazi the rest of the way out the window. In spite of his clinging grip, the force of gravity was enough to do the work for her. His cry stunted in his throat and it only took a few seconds for a dull thud to echo through the alleyway, followed by the unmistakable sound of a car alarm going off.

With a small gasp, you leaned over the window yourself, staring down at the white Toyota that now had a sizeable dent in the top, the windshield spiderwebbing. Kazi let out a groan that you could hear from up here, blinking up at the sky with malice and shock in his eyes.

“Nat,” You breathed.

“Please, eight stories is survivable. Some people need to be taught a lesson.” She shrugged, pulling you back into the apartment by the sleeve of your shirt. “I’ll pay for the car repairs, if that makes you feel better, detka.”

“You didn’t have to do this, you know.”

“Of course I did.” She reached forward and cupped both of your cheeks, forcing you to look at her. It was impossible to ignore the gesture, the words that she had said with so much blind passion. Tears threatened to overtake your waterline. “moya lyubov', he put his hands on you without permission and before that… before that he hurt you in ways unimaginable. I meant every word I said.”

You could hear sirens in the distance, a hazard of living in the city. They could be for Kazi, you supposed, something to take care of the surely broken ribs and the bruised ego. But, they could be for something more important.

You pushed forward and kissed Natasha delicately. You wanted to be impossibly close to her. Most gestures you had received in the past had come in the form of flowers, maybe the occasional box of chocolate from the drug store. Once again- Natasha had proved something to you.

Her chuckle vibrated into the kiss, “Mm, we should probably leave.”

You couldn’t agree more. You wanted to get out of this stupid apartment that was teeming with memories of your time with Kazi. The way he claimed his love for you, and forced you to make a horrible decision all in one exhale.

As the two of you walked down the long and winding steps, Natasha asked, “What was with the shovel thing?”

You laughed, suddenly feeling foolish for fearing Natasha in the first place. Her silence caused waves, and somehow, that was worse than if she’d threatened you outright, something that she never did with much heat.

“Kate, she told me about her ex-boyfriend, Eli, I think she said his name was.”

“Ah, Eli.” She frowned, “He cheated on her, and I only made him dig for an hour.”

“You don’t have to justify yourself to me, as long as you never make me dig my own grave.”

 “I would never do that. There is no punishment in things you can’t control.” Natasha gave your hand a squeeze, her solemn words punctuated with a slowly creeping smile. “Besides, detka, that’s simply not my style. It was much too messy.”

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[sugar-petals]

Hi caro 🌹 I saw in your hyunjin kibbe post( which I loved brw) that you mentioned some luxury brands and their go to kibbe types . I was wondering what kind of brands would best suit pure romantic? There is so little about the subject of pure R s sadly . Have a nice day ❤

KIBBE'S PURE ROMANTIC IN FASHION & HISTORY (+ even architecture)

R is the opposite of the tall, non-curve dominant dramatic and flamboyant natural model body types, which is why it SEEMS juxtaposed to haute couture on paper, as if people thought:

"romantic = gentle flowing style of bygone eras on a small figure 8 body = not fashion just a past reference,

dramatic = severe modernity with ultra sharp lines on a statuesque body = yep, that's forward modern fashion for the runway".

...even if the opposite is easily true (e.g. damiano david often dressing fashionably romantic)!

and the strawberry R dress causing a real fashion ruckus.

sure, that polar opposite logic isn't 100% erroneous. dressing tall models in R will often feel retrospective and damiano is SD-ish so he can do both; plus yin garments are too cinched & short for 6'0+ models as no vertical is accommodated.

there's a reason why the 50s are THE romatic (+ SC) era, as is baroque, R feeling almost confined to these periods.

however, many brands actually do design innovative yin lines! romantic equals luxury, excess & abundance (= upper class), ornamentation and glamour itself, as kibbe wrote, after all. a dramatic body type does not exude abundance and ornamental detail at all.

(even if such garments can cost hundreds and it could be difficult to craft and accurately sew!)

D is spartan, brutalist, geometric, NOT copious. which is ironic and deceptive for a luxury brand, supposedly the opposite of austere and simple! wealth whispers would be a classic type motto. but money on display is always R, always redundant, almost always past-oriented, and once again ironically very feminine-coded even if wealth is and was mostly in men's hands worldwide.

as a pompous, infuriating and exaggerated example, look at the german castle neuschwanstein of bavarian king ludwig above, or (jump scare) mar-a-lago's wasteful wannabe versailles-style interiors below.

insanity how this can exist. note how "princess"-like it all is, the inverse of masculine, hard, dark, angular, strong yang. showing material affluence is confusingly yin? 😅 as if, a guy is so rich, he can quite literally afford to display femininity in his interiors. nothing about this alludes to D, FN, SD.

you wouldn't guess a guy like trump lives there. soft fabrics, candles, florals, ruffles, lace, pastels... everything we associate with hyperfemininity and the romantic type: the inverse of donald who is a flamboyant natural (tall + width), men's 'chad/archetype' of our time — paired with the SD trend — and fashion's towering ideal body ever since the 90s (claudia, gigi, candice, naomi, adriana etc, and all male models ever, like tyson beckford).

quite a political and aesthetic paradox, the world upside down. maybe - on top of trump dressing business pure classic, i.e. far off his type - that's why he looks out of place, as if you photoshopped it in.

PS: the stereotypical villain's castle in fiction is almost always gloomy and pure dramatic, immediately signalling its intent without hiding. (minas morgul in lotr, maleficent in disney)

talk about excess, anyway, and that's where i answer the question: the notoriously well-off catholic church is very SD/R in its aesthetic, too, similar to european aristocracy. that's probably why many italian fashion houses love a yin branding. rounded yin is catholic (st mark's basilica, venice). italy idolizes the yin body type.

^look how dolce & gabbana draws from this to make it TR. that's why i include architecture in this post. it intertwines.

if you look at many historic arabic garments/buildings or especially dynastic china, too, pure R is also prominent in noble dress and art. if you want to study the romantic type, study ottoman and chinese (fashion) culture. even the men wear waist emphasis, decorative fabric, dresses/skirts, rounded head gears and fine jewels.

all of this heavily influences luxury today, which is why i took some time diving into history.

so, finally: ROMANTIC BRANDS!

as mentioned, versace is very ornamental yin overall, even the logo. no sharp D lines to be seen. they do several kibbe types, but R is a huge focus.

dolce & gabbana is always between TR, SD, and pure R. chungha being soft gamine fits the brand. she always wears R and TR. this brand is the most yin in europe, IMO.

guo pei, the most wonderful and well-crafted of all. such details, pure R eye candy. my favorite. it's no surprise they successfully dressed rihanna (SD). guo pei is a genius. everything she does is yin.

she is one of the few designers who shares her own essence with her clothing creations. guo is also very yin.

robert wun is always going tumblr viral. those light reflective fabrics. it's the darker side of romantic, not soft and sweet. still, draped and translucent, only sometimes SD and TR. i think robert is the frontier to make romantic lines modern and gender-neutral. so good.

smaller/lesser-known/less pricey R brands:

innika choo

chi chi london

confete

loveshackfancy

sir the label

morning lavender

revolve

icy city co

jessa kae

shopbop

doen

steele

lacemade

chicwish

for love and lemons

miss patina

hope this helped! thank you for reading and sending such an interesting question.

[dyggtheway]

Fashion and the Messaging Machine: Balancing Authenticity🎸

Fashion has always been a dynamic and expressive industry, constantly evolving to reflect cultural shifts and societal trends. However, in recent years, the emphasis on influencing has led to concerns about authenticity. Are these brands prioritizing controversey over substance?

Join Us Down the Rabbit Hole

The fashion industry has undergone significant transformation over the decades. From haute couture to ready-to-wear, and now the dominance of fast fashion, the industry's evolution has been marked by its ability to adapt and innovate. Streetwear culture, with its roots in urban environments, has significantly influenced mainstream fashion, bringing a new level of edginess and relevance.

Streetwear has revolutionized fashion by blending fabrics, labels, and attitude for the daily life. Gaining power from empowering the individual, the antidote to a long history of exploitation that continues to push back.

Messaging in Fashion

In the flurry between the Battle of the Brand crossfire, messaging is vital.Communicating values, social stances, and cultural relevancy. This messaging shapes identity and influences perception. However, with this power comes the responsibility to ensure that messaging is genuine and not just a marketing ploy.

Fashion Marketing Hangovers: Greenwashing-Rainbow Washing-Woke Washing

Greenwashing refers to brands falsely promoting themselves as environmentally friendly.

Rainbow washing occurs when brands use LGBTQ+ symbols during Pride Month to generate revenue without actually supporting the community.

Woke washing involves brands adopting social justice rhetoric, imagery or even labels to seem socially aware and progressive.

Who's To Blame? Brands that feature representation in their ads but lack representation within their corporate structures, leading to the erosion of trust and pain at the bottom line.

Encouraging Authenticity- begins and ends with people. In the People First model we can retrace our roots and regain integrity.

To quote Nemo it's time to break ,"The Code".

Fashion's relationship with messaging is complex and multifaceted. Want in on the conversation? Explore our Free Online Fashion Design Courses and start creating your unique designs today. And when you're ready to bring your creations to life, print them with Unique Boutique Streetwear.

Let's make magic, together!🤘🍑

[fafnir19]

Engineering a Dark Legacy

The military assessment center loomed before Lewis like a monolith, its stark concrete façade reflecting the early morning sun. He stood, clutching his folder, heart racing as he scanned the entrance. Soldiers in crisp uniforms marched by, their sharp boots echoing against the pavement—*thud, thud, thud*—a sound that filled him with a mix of awe and trepidation. “Why did I even apply?” he muttered under his breath, adjusting his horn-rimmed glasses. He felt out of place, a nervous science PhD student among a sea of tall, confident soldiers. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for what lay ahead. Today marked the beginning of the assessment center for a coveted position as an aviation engineer, a role that could catapult him into the elite R+D department of the military—if he passed the grueling selection process. The military had never appealed to him and aviation engineering wasn’t exactly his forte. But the military’s elite center promised cutting-edge research and had a reputation for groundbreaking innovations - and he needed a job after graduation.

As Lewis stepped through the imposing gates of the military center, a rush of excitement and anxiety filled his chest. He was greeted by a stern-looking Sergeant, who handed him a bundle consisting of a pair of olive bomber pants and combat boots. “You’re Lewis? Get in line—gear up.” Gear up? Lewis blinked, his stomach twisting into knots. “Uh, is this really necessary? I thought I’d just be in my regular clothes,” he stammered, glancing down at his checkered shirt and slacks. “Military protocol, kid. These will help you get into the mindset.” The Sergeant crossed his arms, his gaze fierce. With a reluctant sigh, Lewis slipped into the oversized pants, the fabric sleek against his skin. He laced up the combat boots, the weight of them grounding him in a way that was terrifying intimidating.

The next three days blurred into a relentless cycle of logic puzzles, engineering simulations, rapid-fire questioning, and psychological evaluations. Three days of relentless pressure, each moment a gauntlet of intellectual challenges designed to break down even the most brilliant minds. Stress gnawed, exhaustion settled deep, yet a strange thrill persisted. The final meeting arrived. He found himself in a sterile conference room, facing General Radu across a polished table. "Lewis," Radu began, his voice a low rumble, "your performance was…impressive." Hope flickered in Lewis's chest. "However," Radu continued, shattering that hope, "we’ve decided to move forward with a candidate with more specialized aviation experience." Disappointment stung. Lewis had dared to hope. "That said," Radu continued, a glint in his eye, "we have another position. One we haven't advertised." Lewis's heart skipped a beat. Radu rose and gestured toward the door. "Come with me." They descended into the bowels of the military complex, passing through layers of security that made Lewis's head spin. The air grew colder, the silence deeper. A sense of anticipation thrummed through him. Finally, they reached a heavy steel door. Radu punched in a code, and it hissed open, revealing a brightly lit laboratory. Computers hummed, strange devices blinked, and scientists in lab coats huddled over complex equipment. "Welcome to our…special projects division," Radu said, a hint of pride in his voice. Lewis's eyes darted around the room, taking it all in.

This was it. The cutting edge. The kind of research he had only dreamed of. Radu led him deeper into the lab, explaining the various projects underway. "Here, Lewis, we push the boundaries of what's possible. Hypersonic propulsion, advanced materials, directed energy..." He let the list trail, allowing the sheer scope to impress the young scientist. This was beyond anything Lewis had imagined. Then his gaze snagged on something odd. A black silk cloak hung on a mannequin, its red lining a stark contrast.

"What's that?" he blurted, unable to contain his curiosity. Radu smirked, a glint in his eye. "Ah, that. We found it on one of our excursions, deep in a cave in Romania. That, Lewis, will be your project." "My project?" Lewis echoed, bewildered. "What is it for?" Radu's smirk widened. "Try it on, and you'll see. Believe me, you'll be impressed." Lewis approached the cloak, his fingers tracing the smooth, cool silk. With a deep breath, he donned it. A jolt of energy coursed through him, his muscles rippling and expanding. His shirt strained, then vanished entirely. The olive bomber pants he'd been given now fit perfectly, molded to newly sculpted thighs. He felt an unfamiliar force coursing through his veins, he felt…powerful. "Wow!" he gasped, flexing his arms, marveling at the transformation.

Radu chuckled. "Now you have not only the knowledge about combat jets but also the body to fly one." Lewis laughed, still caught up in the spectacle. "Maybe the body, but not the mind. I'd be too afraid to risk my life in a jet fighter!" The general's expression hardened. "You are a warrior now, and a soldier follows his superior's commands." Shock slammed into Lewis. "That's a misunderstanding. I'm not a soldier, I'm a scientist! I guess it…" He trailed off, a strong pain gripping his mouth. He felt something…sewing his lips together. He tried to speak, but no sound came out. Panic flared. He reached up, fingers tracing the rough, red yarn that now sealed his mouth. He could only mumble inarticulately.

Radu's voice was sharp, unforgiving. "The cloak doesn't accept contradicting your general. This is the punishment." Lewis's eyes widened in horror. "If you wonder how you should eat with sewed lips…" Radu continued, his tone laced with dark amusement. "This cloak was used by Dracula to form an army of loyal warriors. You aren't exactly human anymore, and you will feast on the life energy of your enemies." Then, a new sensation flooded Lewis's senses. He could see it now: a faint aura of light surrounding each person, a shimmering field of energy he hadn't noticed before.

Radu sensed his dawning realization. "Just suck the life energy off a human, and your transformation is complete!" Lewis shook his head frantically, a silent scream trapped in his throat. Radu's smirk returned, colder than before. "Or resist your hunger for more than three days, and you'll be restored." Hope flickered within Lewis. Three days without food – he could do that. He had to. Radu removed the cloak, the stolen power receding slightly. He replaced it with a simple black bomber jacket. "Welcome to the team, Lewis!"

General Radu steered Lewis down a sterile corridor. The path ended at a stark, reinforced door marked 'Restricted Access – Level 5.' Radu punched in a code, the lock clicked open with a heavy thud, and they entered a section that felt colder, more isolated than any Lewis had seen.  "This is where we keep our… more challenging guests," he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. The metallic tang of fear hung heavy as they entered the high-security wing. The cells lining the corridor were made of thick, reinforced glass, each housing a figure of varying degrees of menace. They passed a hulking brute covered in tattoos, a woman with eyes that darted around like trapped birds, and finally stopped before a cell where a man in an orange jumpsuit sat cross-legged on the floor, laughing. The glass walls did little to contain his arrogance. Terrorist, the label screamed in Lewis's mind. The man, Ahmet, looked up, a sneer twisting his lips.

"Look who's here," Ahmet sneered, his eyes glinting with disdain. "The clowns in uniforms. Come to grovel some more? Tell me again how you'll break me?" He spat on the floor, a gesture of pure contempt. Radu's smirk didn't falter. "Ahmet, meet your new roommate." He gestured to Lewis, clad in the black bomber jacket against his bare skin, the sewn lips a grotesque parody of a smile. The laughter died in Ahmet's throat. His bravado crumbled, replaced by a primal fear. He scrambled back, pressing himself against the far wall of the cell. "What is that thing?" he croaked, his voice barely a whisper. "Enjoy your company, Ahmet. I trust you'll make him feel at home." Radu's voice dripped with amusement as he unlocked the cell and shoved Lewis inside. Ahmet's eyes, wide with genuine fear, darted between Lewis and Radu. Then, Radu turned and strode away, the heavy door clanging shut behind him, leaving Lewis and Ahmet alone in the oppressive silence.

Hours crawled by. Lewis stood motionless, his gaze fixed on Ahmet, who huddled in the corner, his eyes darting around the cell, fear etched on his face. The hunger began to gnaw at Lewis, a deep, primal craving that grew with each passing moment. He could see it now, the faint aura of life force that shimmered around Ahmet, beckoning him. He fought it, clenching his fists, trying to hold onto the last vestiges of his former self. *Three days,* he thought. *Just three days and it will be over.* He remembered his lab, his research, the life he had before. But the memory felt distant, fading like a dream. The hunger was a relentless tide, pulling him under. "Stay away from me," Ahmet whimpered, his voice trembling. "Please, what do you want?" Lewis remained silent, his sewn lips preventing him from speaking. But his eyes, burning with a newfound intensity, told a story of their own. He could resist no longer. With a guttural growl, he lunged at Ahmet. "No! Get away!" Ahmet screamed, scrambling to his feet. He threw a desperate punch, but Lewis brushed it aside, his strength far surpassing anything he had possessed before. He grabbed Ahmet by the throat, his fingers digging into flesh. "What are you doing?!" Ahmet choked, his eyes bulging. "Let me go!" Lewis stared into Ahmet's eyes, a dark vortex of hunger and desperation. And then, he began to draw the life force from him. Ahmet's screams turned into gurgling gasps as his body withered, his skin turning grey and papery. Lewis drank deeply, savoring the rush of energy, the satisfying calm that washed over him. Radu watched from the observation window, his face a mask of horrified fascination. He had expected a transformation, but the sheer brutality of it was shocking.

Then, after what felt like an eternity, Lewis released Ahmet. The terrorist’s body crumpled to the floor, a shriveled husk devoid of life. Radu entered the cell, his face a mask of grim satisfaction. He surveyed the scene, his gaze lingering on the lifeless remains of Ahmet.

A slow smile spread across his face. "Impressive," Radu said, his voice low. "We suspected that the more intelligent subjects would become the most horrific … uhm, I mean …efficient. It seems we were correct." Lewis stood panting, his body buzzing with newfound power. He felt a strange sense of calm, a dark satisfaction that settled deep within him. He looked at Radu, and a surge of loyalty coursed through him. His general. His commander. "Your transformation is now irreversible," Radu announced, his eyes gleaming. "Welcome, my warrior!"

The following months passed in a blur of training and combat missions. Lewis excelled as a pilot, his enhanced senses and reflexes making him a formidable force in the air. But his victories came at a terrible cost. He left a trail of desiccated corpses in his wake, each one a testament to his insatiable hunger. He never took prisoners. Why bother, when they were so much more useful as sustenance?

One morning, Lewis awoke to a strange sensation. He ran a hand over his mouth, feeling the smooth skin where the stitches had once been. They were gone, dissolved as if by magic. He opened his mouth, testing his voice. It was deeper, more resonant than he remembered. He could speak now, but he had nothing to say. He knew, with chilling certainty, that his transformation was complete. The last vestiges of his former self had been erased, replaced by a cold, ruthless efficiency. He was no longer Lewis, the nerdy PhD student. He was a weapon, a predator, utterly loyal to his master. He kneeled before Radu, his eyes cold and empty. "General," he said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. "What are my orders?" 

Radu surveyed his creation, a handsome, daring killer with ancient powers. Then a satisfied smile spread across his face that revealed the depths of his ambition. "Excellent," he said. "You are exactly what we needed." He had created a monster, a perfect soldier with no conscience. And he knew, with absolute certainty, that Lewis would obey his every command.

[lunarlianna]

White Moon Selena through signs

White Moon Selena, often overlooked in astrology, is a powerful and positive force in your natal chart. While Black Moon Lilith represents challenges and temptations, Selena symbolizes protection, guidance, and beneficial energy. As the Moon's perigee, Selena points to areas where you feel intuitively guided and supported. Mythologically, Selena is the Moon goddess, bringing light and protection. Unlike Lilith’s dark, rebellious nature, Selena represents our highest, most idealized self, helping to heal and balance Lilith’s influence. In essence, Selena embodies truth, light, positive past deeds, and spiritual protection. She marks where you feel blessed and intuitively guided, counterbalancing Lilith’s challenges. Working with Selena can bring clarity and purpose, guiding you on your soul’s journey and helping you heal Lilith’s darker aspects. Ultimately, a strong White Moon Selena provides a profound sense of purpose, and embracing this path brings clarity and alignment with your true self and life mission. Astrologically, Selena shows where you connect deeply with the universe, operating beyond fear and doubt. Important aspects (conjunction, square, opposition) with an orb within 1 degree are key to understanding her influence. To calculate your natal Selena use astro.com, the code for it is h56.

WMS in Aries

You naturally embody the qualities of a leader and protector, shining as a guiding light for those around you. Your optimism and unwavering sense of purpose make you a source of hope and encouragement, especially for those who are vulnerable or facing challenges. Your nurturing instincts extend to those under your care, and you possess a remarkable ability to overcome obstacles, inspiring others to persevere alongside you. This position suggests a special affinity for fire, symbolizing your inner strength and clarity. Embrace activities that involve fire, such as enjoying a fireplace at home, to purify your thoughts and energize your spirit.

WMS in Taurus

You are guided by a profound inclination towards spiritual fulfillment rather than earthly pleasures. While you appreciate sensory delights, your true passion lies in exploring a deeper, intuitive understanding. Your connection to the earth is robust, enabling you to utilize its resources to assist others in realizing their material and spiritual aspirations. Your innate wisdom leads you to recognize what is genuine and meaningful, fostering both material stability and a richly fulfilling life. To uphold Selena's positive influence, cherish simplicity, honesty, and reverence for all living beings. Steer clear of greed and materialistic pursuits.

WMS in Gemini

You thrive on leveraging your intellect and communication prowess, finding deep satisfaction in clear and effective expression. Your ability to articulate ideas ensures you always have access to valuable information and meaningful connections. This position suggests a positive karma as a mediator, with a strong affinity for the air element, symbolizing freedom and clarity. You're naturally inclined towards innovation and societal improvement, drawn to endeavors that enrich life with vibrancy and dynamism. To uphold Selena's protective influence, prioritize truthfulness, maintain integrity in information sharing, and honor your commitments.

WHM in Cancer

You have a natural gift for nurturing others, destined to play a central role in caring for your family and community, especially children, families, and animals. Your wisdom allows you to discern when to take action and when to observe, making you a compassionate and effective caregiver. You deeply honor traditions, ancestors, and your roots, feeling a profound sense of responsibility towards your loved ones. Your affinity with the water element is profound, and embracing a nurturing and sincere approach in all your endeavors will lead you to genuine success and fulfillment.

WHM in Leo

You play a pivotal role in inspiring others to discover their creative paths. Selena encourages you to embrace your heart's guidance and freely express love and affection. Cultivating warmth, care, and generosity will nurture your own sense of stability and security. Your creative spirit radiates brightly, guiding others to uncover their unique brilliance. Stay closely connected to the fire element and the Sun, sources of cleansing and inspiration. Guard against false pride, ego, and greed to maintain Selena's protective embrace. Embrace sincerity, honesty, and optimism, allowing your inner warmth and joy to blossom freely.

WHM in Virgo

You possess a strong affinity for rational thinking, effortlessly navigating engineering and analytical challenges. Your expertise lies in establishing structure through thorough research, meticulous analysis, and hands-on application. You hold deep regard for cleanliness, responsibility, and humility, often embodying qualities akin to a healer or nurturer. It's important to maintain equilibrium by keeping sight of the broader perspective and not getting bogged down by minutiae. Ground yourself by nurturing a connection to the earth element, finding solace in natural settings. Surround yourself with soothing colors like yellow-green or blue, and cultivate an environment that promotes comfort and organization.

WHM in Libra

You have a remarkable talent for understanding social dynamics and discerning people's characters with ease and precision. Your innate charm and empathy empower you to positively influence others, fostering comfort and harmony wherever you go. You flourish in roles that uphold fairness, diplomacy, and collaboration. Your positive influence aligns closely with principles of social justice and teamwork, making fields such as law, diplomacy, and the arts especially fulfilling for you. Stay connected to the element of air for clarity and creative inspiration, and seek environments that reflect elegance and harmony.

WHM in Scorpion

You hold profound insight and a heightened sensitivity to the forces of light and darkness, making a significant impact on those you encounter. Your previous experiences have equipped you for spiritual conflicts, fortifying your spirit through formidable trials. With a noble warrior's spirit, you skillfully navigate spiritual dimensions and confront inner growth with bravery. Your path to success lies in arenas where your spiritual resilience, courage, and willingness to tackle challenges converge, be it in finance, business, or esoteric pursuits.

WHM in Sagittarius

You uplift others with your broad perspective and profound belief in the significance of existence. Your character radiates generosity, independence, and a profound affinity for nature and animals. You may have a history of roles as spiritual mentors or trailblazers in introducing fresh ideas and beliefs. Your unwavering optimism and commitment to integrity illuminate your path, encouraging a spirit of adventure and learning. Remember to prioritize physical well-being and stay engaged in spiritual and intellectual pursuits to nourish your journey.

WHM in Capricorn

You live a life guided by balance and harmony, deriving fulfillment from diligent effort and perseverance. You shine in roles that demand responsibility, persistence, and a methodical approach. Your interests may lean towards fields like history, geology, or archaeology, reflecting a deep appreciation for enduring and stable environments. Cultivate your connection to the earth element through peaceful moments of solitude, meditation, or by surrounding yourself with natural stones and landscapes that resonate with you.

WHM in Aquarius

You cherish the freedom to explore unique perspectives and progressive concepts, finding inspiration in fields such as psychology, sociology, and pioneering sciences. Your commitment to fostering friendships and solidarity is a cornerstone of your character, as you ignite social change and cultivate a strong sense of community among those who share your values. It's essential to strike a harmonious balance between independence and connection: while you thrive in the realm of ideas and innovation, remember to nurture your warmth towards others and avoid distancing yourself too much.

WHM in Pisces

You have a keen intuition that helps you sense subtle energies and gain insights that others might miss. Your compassionate nature drives you to offer help willingly to those in need. You naturally embody sacrifice and selflessness, which could lead you towards professions in fields like medicine, psychology, or the occult sciences. It's important to be mindful of maintaining healthy boundaries to protect your spiritual and creative energies, preventing any potential exploitation due to your caring disposition.

[oneshotnewbie]

hii! i would like to request maya x carina x reader, where reader is still in college/university and a whole incident happens. r is taken as hostage and carina and maya panic after getting a call. really angsty pls

⚠️Trigger Warning⚠️ This one-shot includes the mention of a rampage and a brief mention of a hostage situation. Those plots are presented. If this triggers you too easily or you just can´t handle the subject, I urge you NOT to read this work. I am NOT embellishing this topic under any circumstance. Read at your own risk.

ᕚ---ᕘ

For you, the university was not only a place of learning, but also a melting pot of emotions. As the daughter of Maya and Carina, you felt the expectations weighing on your shoulders. Your mother, a respected obstetrician-gynecologist, had already made her mark in the medical world, and you felt the urge to follow in her footsteps.

Your parents had never put any pressure on you to follow the same path as either of them. Nevertheless, you felt an inner obligation to continue your family tradition. Even as a little girl, you listened with fascination when your mother talked about the challenges and successes of her job. The love of medicine seemed to be embedded in your DNA.

The campus pulsed with life as you moved through the crowd, clutching your books on anatomy and surgery, eager to head to your lectures. Like every day, your heart beat faster with excitement and a hint of uncertainty.

In your first year at university you found yourself in a world characterized by complex theories and demanding internships. The anatomy books became your constant companion and you learned to understand human anatomy like a puzzle. In the labs, you made precise cuts and analyzed tissue samples with the dedication of an artist who wanted to perfect every detail of her work.

The challenges of studying became clear as you approached your first internship at the hospital. Beads of sweat appeared on your forehead as you assisted in your first procedure. The smell of disinfectant and the hum of medical equipment surrounded you. You felt the responsibility getting bigger and bigger.

But with each passing day, not only did the challenge grow, but so did your passion. You soaked up the knowledge like it was the sweetest honey and found comfort in the advice of your professors.

The lecture hall you had just entered was filled with a hushed murmur of inquisitive students as you slumped in your seat. The excited atmosphere before another exciting lecture permeated the room as the professor began to talk about the latest advances in surgery. Surrounded by attentive fellow students, you listened intently to the expert's words and the technical details that rained down on you.

The projections on the wall showed complex surgical procedures as the professor delivered her explanations with enthusiasm and expertise and you tried to understand the connections between the details. You found yourself in a stream of information that took you into the fascinating world of medical innovations. Your eyes sparkled with excitement, taking in every sentence as if they could be keys to some secret knowledge.

Just before the professor was about to play a video showing complex open-heart surgery, a shrill alarm code, followed by an urgent warning, ripped through the air. "Attention, active shooter. Barricade yourself in the rooms." The room froze for a moment. You sat up, your eyes wide in surprise. An uneasy feeling settled in your stomach.

Students frantically ran to corners and sought shelter under tables. The professor tried in vain to calm the panicked crowd. But the situation escalated further when muffled shots were heard from outside the building. Recognizing this soundscape captured the attention of everyone in the room. Faces faded with fear and a feeling of helplessness spread.

Your heart was in your throat, you could hear the pulsing of your own heartbeat as you also pushed yourself into a corner, trying to keep a clear head. Panic was in the air, and thoughts of the surgical procedures and advances paled in front of the pressing reality.

A wave of fear passed through you and your thoughts whirled wildly. The idea of the place of learning becoming a scene of violence shook you to the core.

In a moment that seemed like an eternity, doors were thrown open and hooded figures entered. Another wave of fear swept through the room as people realized that this was no mere alarm, but a cruel reality. The shadow of disaster had entered the lecture hall.

Armed men in dark clothes now dominated the scene. Your class was taken hostage and a cold shiver ran through your body. Your eyes searched for allies, for a means of escape, but the men with weapons clung to their control over the desperate crowd.

The professor, your fellow students and you were trapped in a nightmare that was unfolding at breakneck speed. The situation worsened when the men began making demands and firing wildly in the air. You suddenly found yourself in the middle of a threatening drama that you never thought possible.

ᕚ---ᕘ

Maya and Carina stood in the fire station's supply room, surrounded by boxes full of medical supplies, taking inventory of necessary medical supplies. The mood was focused as the two checked lists and made sure all life-saving supplies were present.

"Do you think we should order more bandages? To be on the safe side?" the blonde asked as she pulled out individual small packages, counted them and then sorted them into the cupboards. "Yes, I think so. You can't have enough of them, especially on larger missions."

The sounds of the plastic wraps and packaging had created a calming atmosphere, but it was suddenly broken by a shrill voice. Victoria, who until recently had been sitting in the relaxation room, stormed into the small inventory room, her eyes wide with dismay. "You must come with me immediately," she said in a trembling voice. Her hands were gripping the remote control tightly.

Maya and Carina exchanged a worried look and dropped everything. Both women's hearts began to pound wildly in their chests as they quickly left the room and followed their friend. As they entered the room, they both stopped in the middle of it.

The television flickered as the newscaster solemnly announced the terrible truth. "A serious incident has occurred at Seattle University. Armed attackers have entered the building and taken hostages. Police are on scene, but the situation is extremely critical."

Maya and Carina stared at the screen in shock as the reporter reported on the dramatic scenes, hitting them like a blow. Images of students running out filled the room. An icy shiver ran through the two of them when the name of the affected university was mentioned several times. A feeling of helplessness fell like a leaden veil over their hearts. The words invaded their thoughts, and the images of their beloved daughter studying at this institution seemed like a fragile glass threatened by an impending storm. "Y/n.. she has classes today. She's there."

Carina felt her knees weakening and tears forming in her eyes. The blonde reflexively clung to the back of the sofa. The world of the two, which had just seemed so familiar and safe, was thrown out of control. The maternal instincts awoke with frightening intensity when they thought of the dact that you were currently in a dangerous situation. "Oh mio Dio, no," the brunette whispered, her voice shaky. Maya, usually a rock in the surf, felt tears burning in her eyes too. Fear for her daughter engulfed them both like a blazing fire.

"We have to go to the university immediately," Maya spoke, interrupted by the muffled sound of the news in the background. Carina nodded, the determination in her eyes reflecting the inner strength that mothers could mobilize in times of crisis.

The fear, worry and hope blurred together as they set off together, seeking reassurance that they would do everything in their power to get you out of there.

[saiddcain]

from your tomarrymort hostory post: "I feel like we used to be more daring back in my day."

was this in reference to fandom and fancreations as a whole? or were the tomarrymort fics in specific more daring in the past? if the latter, could you elaborate? like, what kind of plots were you seeing that set them apart from modern fics? 👀

So, Mark Fisher, British marxist writer, is known by leftists online mostly for his theory (and book title) of Capitalism Realism, which argues that capitalism colonises the mind to the point where we cannot imagine an alternative to it. But Mark Fisher was also a music critic, if I’m not mistaken, and used his marxist background to interpret the musical scene he experienced. He realised that, as liberalism gradually took over after Reagan’s and Tatcher’s economical decisions, and brought forth an era (which is getting worse and worse) of austerity and cuts in the Welfare State, artists — he focused on musicians — became less prone to attempt new things, to try to be disruptive and innovative. You must forgive me if I get something wrong, it’s been a while since I read Fisher. According to him, perhaps the last real music movement was 80’s punk (maybe 90’s grunge?) after that, pressured by the lack of a safety net, aspiring musicians, save the odd one out, began to follow a script in an attempt to be financially successful and secure. I think there’s merit to that claim, especially considering the state of the music industry nowadays. Take both kpop and western pop — what we have are singers carefully tailored and curated in order to be successful. Producers want returns, brand deals, million-dollar contracts. Even very successful stars have limited artistic freedom. Beginners trying to make in the industry must follow a mold, very few manage — or even have the will — to break it.

The same mentality is present in other areas of culture — movies and literature being the most obvious examples. There’s safety in formulas proved to become popular and in late stage capitalism economical safety is adamant. That is why we have so many revivals and reboots and spin offs and:

For every Miyazaki, still carefully drawing each frame of his masterpieces, we have a thousand Kevin Feiges, ordering another batch of Marvel movies, all the same, all following cake recipe scripts that even the most authorial and creative directors cannot touch. We have Pixar doing Toy Story 4, 5, 6000. We have Strangers Things, with its appeal to 1980s and Stephen King’s nostalgia. We have Top Gun 2 and Indiana Jones 5 and will have Devil Wears Prada II.

New ideas are potentially costly. Why invest in something new when you can make another billion rehashing, remaking, rebooting, turning it into a live action?

What does that have to do with fanfiction?

Well, besides this scenario of cultural stagnation, I would add two things: first, the popularisation of fanfic is both a blessing and a curse. Back In My Day we didn’t have the abundance of fanworks we have today, all tagged and easily available. Internet itself was a luxury in many places, I used to go to lan houses (was that a thing in the US/Europe?)/internet cafes to access anime forums. We didn’t have smartphones, we couldn’t read fanfic laying down in bed unless we printed it (which I did a few times). So we read books, not only fanfic. Books that, back then, weren’t yet as influenced by fanfic as they are now. So you had fanfic authors who were exposed to different proses and narratives and that translated into a richer variety of styles. Recently I watched a video where an TI programmer talks about how AI is destroying coding because so many new professionals are using AI to write the codes for them. They just copy and paste the codes without really checking for errors and incongruences. AI, in turn, feeds itself anew with these faulty codes. It’s a vicious circle. Something similar happens when fanfic authors only consume fanfic and fanfic-lite books. As much as I love and defend fanfic, most of us are amateurs, writing without editors or even a beta. Most of us are coming up with a story as we post it and don’t have the full work already written. Many of us are writing in English as a second language. To become a good writer — and a good reader — you need to read actual books. Actual classics. The big boys, as Logan Roy would say, and before anyone says it, many of them weren’t white or men.

I get the appeal of reading again and again the same trope, seeking comfort in fanfic and easy books, eating cake after cake, but as a writer and as reader you actually need your white rice & beans & farofa & meat & salad for a balanced diet. Fujoshi shall not live by bread alone.

The second point is the internet. Again, the internet as we have it today. Back when I started to read and write fanfic the communities were smaller. Everyone knew each other basically. Fanfiction.net was a big site in the midst of fanfic forums and geocities but for a pairing as niche as TomHarry you only had a handful of writers depending on the language. I didn’t use livejournal but I reckon it was more or less the same. The internet in general was different too — social media as we know today wasn’t as widespread. No instagram or twitter or tiktok. Now everyone “lives” in online megalopolis, where our worth is measured by likes, hearts, followers, monetization. I think some of that mentality is applied, especially by the younger crowd, to ao3. Ao3 is not social media — Ao3 is an archive. But you can gather some popularity by linking your twitter to your Ao3 works. And while you can’t monetise your “content” on Ao3 if you get big enough you can have your work published with the characters names changed as certain authors have.

So, with the incentive of niche popularity, or even just a few likes, comments, and tweets, it’s tempting for fanfic authors to write what is popular. And I get it — fanfic is a labour of love, done for free. We put our work out there to be judged by strangers, risking getting hate, having our stories scrapped by AI or completely ignored. To be candid, I know that if I write and post certain tropes, I’ll get a bigger response. Before Mary Magdalene my most popular fic (long deleted) was the most cliche Harry Is An Omega And Goes Into Heat And Alpha Voldemort Fucks Him affair you can think of. If I posted something similar today I’d probably get more comments and kudos than if I keep on working on some of my current WIPs. I think it’s probably the same for many other authors.

So yeah, I think it’s not a TomHarry specific phenomenon.

I apologise for only partially answering your question. If I were to get into tropes and plots (especially light/dumbledore bashing) this would become too long.

Thank you for your ask ❤️ and I hope all my rambling did not bore you.

[girderednerve]

The archivists I spoke to were confident that much less government data will be permanently lost than was initially feared. But they also saw little reason for complacency. “What we don’t know is how much material has been changed,” Mark Graham, the director of the Internet Archive’s Wayback Machine, told me. His team is tabulating how many dot-gov pages with certain keywords have been modified or deleted; in the lead are “health policy,” “World Health Organization,” and “systemic racism.” Their backups are foundational to many of the more recent efforts to archive the federal web. But they’re also closer to “snapshots” than functional substitutes: What use is an archived F.D.A. finding aid if it’s been disconnected from back-end data, and doctors without coding skills can’t use it to research clinical trials?

“It’s a lot easier for the archival community to say, ‘Yeah, we have a bunch of data,’ than it is to say, ‘Yeah, we’re hosting a bunch of server-side applications that will help you navigate the data,’ ” Jack Cushman, the director of Harvard Law School’s Library Innovation Lab, told me. Last month, his organization released a backup of the more than three hundred thousand data sets hosted by data.gov. (At least three thousand of the originals have been removed.) They’re also working on open-source tools to make all this data navigable.

Last week, the guerrilla archiving movement reached an important milestone, when restoredCDC.org went online. It’s a replica of the health agency’s pre-Trump website based on backups from r/DataHoarder—one that’s fully functional, with a reconstructed back end and interactive tools. But fresh challenges loom. Librarians and data hoarders have been able to save only publicly available records; restricted ones, such as the D.O.J.’s National Database of Police Misconduct—or the internal records being shredded by employees of U.S.A.I.D.—may be gone for good.

[smokeys-house]

I've finished watching season 4 of Moominvalley, and with the comet special being the definitive capstone of the gutsy 2019 adaptation, I can now give a proper and solid opinion on the series as a whole.

I was right all along suck it losers (joke)

Anyway I'm going to give my review of the series now.

As I've often said prior, MV19 revels in the major moments of the moomins, but does nothing to earn them. This leaves a lot of what should feel impactful instead feeling hollow, at least for a long time fan like me. I've also thought since watching the first season of MV19 that British humor clashes inherently with the genuine nature of the moomins, the sarcasm and attitudes present throughout make for a more modern feeling adaptation, but removes a certain luster from the moomins themselves and the other characters in the valley. The jokes are dry and impassionate, and the moomins are anything but.

"Classic," a term you could very easily apply to the moomins as a whole, is a word that means "undiminished by time." In an attempt to modernize the moomins, nothing is gained, and rounding edges and shaving off sides to fit a cleaner shape only works if you have more material to start with. Removing pieces from a classic, polishing them and filing them down does not leave you with a classic, it leaves you with holes and gaps. The time allotted per episode and the amount of episodes in a season didn't leave enough room for this modernization, in fact it didn't leave enough room for the series to breathe, with season 4 being the most damning example of this with its abysmal pacing and, at best, serviceable writing. With odd things here or there like the moomins ostensibly being vegans until season 4, or the appearance of modern appliances like freezers in moominhouse, the worst of it all in my opinion is that these things feel less like creative choices and more like revisions that reek of exterior involvement. The whole "it's a gown, not a dress" thing in season 4 epitomizes this, when in the book it's stated firmly that it is a dress that the hemulen got from his aunt. And what was the deal with the angostura plant? Is knife versus a literal plant too violent? I'm not asking for the moomins to be edgy I'm just tired of pandering to advertiser's fears of anything potentially pointy or objectionable. Change can be good, but what purpose do these and the many other changes serve?

Now, adherence entirely to the limitations of the original moomin books or even the 90s series that many fans hold dear is not a recipe for success and should not be looked to as an aspiration in my opinion. Creativity and innovation breed success, but the recipes for the moomin stories are simple and elegant. In all, I don't think changing them should be considered a sin, but i do think we should be mindful of how we change them and what we change. Dr. Seuss's wife put her foot down on film adaptations of the property following some bad movies, and while I don't think MV19 hits that mark of awful it should serve as a cautionary tale toward working with beloved materials.

I should clarify, it was not bad. It was actually a fairly enjoyable romp through moominvalley's tales, and had enough for both fans and newcomers alike. It wasn't exactly what anyone was expecting, and often felt like it backtracked in terms of character progression. The interior of the series moreso mirrored things like family guy, wherein at the end of the episode, everything within it was capped off and shelved with a complete and simple narrative A plot/B plot to boot. I personally don't find that to be satisfying and I find it ill fitting of the moomins as a whole. I'll also mention as a pet peeve, snork being autistic is cool! But sniff being highly autistic coded and being treated routinely the way he is, and then LITERALLY magically giving him empathy only for it not to ever be relevant again is something I just can't overlook. This adaptation treats sniff SO poorly which is unbecoming of the moomins in my opinion, and the way this adaptation handles things like autistic characters or characters being "weird" and then preaching inclusivity really bothers me. Everyone's welcome! Until they're not. None of these characters seem to meet the values they're known for. There's a subtle casual cruelty in this adaptation that stems from the British humor, and that's generally what I mean about it clashing. Some might praise this as making the moomins more relatable or humanizing them, but I'll tell you point blank that that's not the intention, and that they're not meant to be like you and everyone else, that's kind of the whole point.

While I did say it had enough for fans and newcomers, I will say that in an attempt to capture the way the moomins is not only suitable for and enjoyed by all ages, MV19 does exactly the opposite. The writing and the humor especially seems intent on bridging the gap between all comers, however there's fairly little charm and the jokes seem largely to befit a very young audience, but the show itself does not feel suitably enjoyable or lesson based to suit the purpose of media for that young audience. Characterizations of characters like Moominpappa as a bumbling fool with an ego problem and characters like Mrs Fillyjonk becoming catch-alls for every and any fillyjonk character in the moomins, alongside the hemulen becoming this... legion of the the same guy entirely not specific to a single entity until it suits the narrative, these feel like budgetary constraints which in turn leave the viewer feeling like none of this matters. Everything's been reduced down to a few key components, components that often don't line up with the characters' origins, and there aren't any surprises waiting given that it costs a lot of time and money (that they apparently weren't willing to invest) to model rig and voice a new character in 3D. Everything was always there from the start and you've seen it all the minute after you've seen each of the character's faces. Even props and immobile set dressings are reused blatantly and frequently. Cut, paste, ship. The woodies, mymble's kids, the hemulens, the whole lot. The firehose makes an appearance in the comet finale as the same model, which normally I'd compliment as a fun bit of homely continuity, but with the frequency of reappearing objects critters and locations, it feels... sandboxy.

Speaking of budget and constraints, the animation style is something i never got used to. Hot take, but 3D animation will never quite reach the coattails of 2D animation. It feels cheap no matter how technically impressive or high quality it is, which, to its credit, I'm not an animator but I'm aware from folks that are skilled in that area that MV19 is quite impressive. Also by the booble do not get me started on the horrible side mouth thing it really looks awful and I have opinions on that but that's not what we're here for. Anyway, whether you're for or against 3D being the go-to these days, I for one can't help but notice the drawbacks, which, often break my immersion. That's all to say nothing of things like snork going bald.

I could nitpick all day about creative choices, characters not lining up quite right, a complete lack of certain characters, or the swapping of roles and positions from what was originally one or several characters to a different character, but ultimately all of this would fail to encapsulate an actual sum of quality for the series as a whole. There's clear passion, effort, and all sorts of other good ingredients here. I can't dismiss the series as a whole, and honestly? It doesn't deserve to be dismissed, but it does reach the finish line lacking. It on its own is still enjoyable, and may even be someone's favorite I'm sure, but for me? I can't say I'm into it. There are a LARGE number of very valid complaints any given fan could muster when prompted with the question "what did you think of MV19?" and honestly far less things that this particular adaptation does that are memorable on their own merits. That being said, I very much enjoyed the time i spent with it and will surely watch it again at some point. I'm grateful for their being more moomin media going forward, and I'm glad this one went well enough. I'm grateful for MV19 bringing in new fans and bringing old ones together. I'm of the opinion that I'm happier when a show can forge memories with others rather than when a show on its own being a 10/10.

There was a lot I liked. And a lot more I didn't like. But, as Moominmamma said;

‘There’s a lot of things one can’t understand, but why should everything be exactly as one is used to having it?’

— Moominsummer Madness

Also you didn't get queerbaited stop talking about it lol

[mariacallous]

The Israeli attack on a humanitarian convoy in Gaza in early April that killed seven aid workers with the U.S.-based aid group World Central Kitchen has ignited a fierce global backlash against Israel’s policies of engagement in the territory. The attack involved the successive firing of three missiles at three vehicles, driven by suspicions of a Hamas combatant’s presence within the convoy, according to reports.

In Israel, the event is being portrayed as an accident, “a grave mistake stemming from a serious failure due to a mistaken identification, errors in decision-making, and an attack contrary to the Standard Operating Procedures,” as the Israeli military’s investigation team concluded. In humanitarian circles, it is seen as evidence of a culture that “treats Gaza as a free-fire zone with total impunity for gross attacks on civilians,” as Jeremy Konyndyk, the president of Refugees International who served in both the Obama and Biden administrations, has suggested.

But for the discussion to be useful, it should progress beyond these immediate interpretations to examine the deeper cultural patterns underlying such incidents. Most crucially, it must scrutinize the shift in military policy and ethos that can be traced back to the Elor Azaria affair of 2016-17. Azaria was an Israeli conscript who was captured on video executing a wounded and immobilized Palestinian assailant in Hebron. The Israeli military prosecuted Azaria for manslaughter and sentenced him to 18 months in prison.

While the case demonstrated the military’s commitment to its own ethical codes, it also sparked widespread protests from right-wing factions and a general backlash against military procedures. The army was accused of failing to support Azaria and creating a culture in which soldiers would hesitate to use force against Palestinian militants. To counter this claim, and from that point forward, the military began to announce the number of Palestinian fighters killed in its operations, demonstrating that its forces did not hesitate to engage.

Under the leadership of the military’s chief of staff, Aviv Kochavi, from 2019 to 2023, the killing-based criteria were reinforced. Kochavi’s goal was to remake the army into a “lethal, efficient, and innovative” fighting force—in other words, a death-generating army. He promoted this vision by enhancing the precision of weapon systems, improving the coordination between forces and intelligence, and increasing the rate of fire.

Kochavi’s directive for field commanders to assess, at the end of each combat phase, the number of enemy forces killed and objectives destroyed—rather than solely focusing on territorial conquest—signified a shift toward necrotactics, where the primary goal of military engagement is killing the enemy. Killing becomes not just an outcome of warfare but its principal aim.

The approach of using body counts as a metric of success has notably intensified during the current war. Soon after the Oct. 7 attack, the Israeli military began consistently reporting the number of Hamas fighters killed, echoing the way U.S. generals announced enemy fatalities during the Vietnam War—a scenario where traditional metrics for evaluating combat success are elusive, thus making the body count, rather than the strategic objectives achieved, the primary indicator of success. This was particularly evident as the Israeli death toll ticked up and the stated objective of dismantling Hamas appeared increasingly unattainable.

In fact, the military appears to have established a quantitative goal from the outset. According to the journalist Yuval Abraham in +972 Magazine, the Israeli army developed an artificial intelligence-based program named Lavender, designed to identify targets for assassination. This system tagged approximately 37,000 Palestinians in Gaza as suspected militants, marking their residences (and therefore their families as well) for potential airstrikes. The deployment of Lavender contributed to the deaths of around 15,000 Palestinians in the war’s first six weeks, according to the report.

By setting a numerical target, the Israeli military shifted from viewing outcomes as a measure of progress—like neutralizing the threat posed to Israel from Gaza—to making body counts the main standard. The trend has been reinforced by a pervasive adoption of the language of killing among military commanders. “Now we will go forward and kill them all,” Brig. Gen. Roman Goffman was quoted as saying just before the ground operation in Gaza began, in just one prominent example.

As Israel faces an impasse in Gaza, lacking a politically articulated exit strategy, the reliance on killing and its quantification as a metric for success becomes increasingly pronounced, leading to the erosion of operational constraints. This shift was evident in the recent raid at Shifa Hospital in Gaza City, which inflicted extensive damage to Gaza’s most crucial health care infrastructure. The hunt for Hamas members has, to a significant degree, become an end in itself, complicating the dynamics of the conflict and placing military objectives above political resolutions.

This shift provides some context for the tragic killing of the aid convoy team—though it makes it no less disturbing. Once one or two armed individuals were spotted in the convoy, their neutralization became a top priority, apparently eclipsing overarching strategic considerations—factors that should have been incorporated at the tactical level. Fundamentally, such a situation warranted an approach aimed at preventing civilian casualties, especially along a deconflicted route designated for humanitarian aid delivery and when no direct threat was posed to Israeli troops. Moreover, the overarching political rationale should have prioritized safeguarding humanitarian missions, given the potential repercussions for Israel’s global standing amid the crisis in Gaza.

Yet the events unfolded with a seeming obsession for lethal action, as vividly illustrated by reporting in the Israeli newspaper Haaretz: Upon spotting a gunman or two, Israeli forces targeted three successive vehicles from the air. After the first one was hit, passengers moved to a second vehicle, which was then struck by a missile. And when the wounded were transferred to a third vehicle, it too was fired on. This appears to be a case of obsessive kill confirmation, overshadowing the principles of necessity, proportionality, and the sanctity of civilian life.

Hence, the fundamental issue extends beyond merely revising the rules of engagement or monitoring their application more closely, as such measures alone would prove inadequate to prevent future incidents. The problem also transcends the flawed assumption that every part of Gaza can be considered a free-fire zone where engaging Palestinian militants indiscriminately is justified. What is crucial is dismantling the prevailing culture that equates killing with military success.

Yagil Levy is a professor of political sociology and public policy at the Open University of Israel. His most recent book in English is: Whose Life Is Worth More? Hierarchies of Risk and Death in Contemporary Wars.

[whencyclopedia]

The History of the Ancient World: From the Earliest Accounts to the Fall of Rome

This comprehensive and engaging narrative covers many ancient civilizations, including Mesopotamia, Egypt, the Indus Valley, early China, Greece, and Rome. Bauer's accessible writing and use of primary sources make complex historical events understandable and interesting. Ideal for history enthusiasts and general readers, this book offers a balanced and detailed overview of ancient history.

The History of the Ancient World: From the Earliest Accounts to the Fall of Rome by Susan Wise Bauer is a sweeping and well-researched work that endeavours to present a coherent narrative of ancient history from its earliest beginnings to the fall of the Roman Empire. Bauer, a historian and seasoned author, undertakes the formidable task of chronicling the development of human civilisations across the globe, weaving together historical events, cultural evolutions, and significant personalities.

The book is organised into 70 chapters, each serving as a vignette illuminating specific eras, events, and figures in ancient history. Bauer's narrative is both chronological and thematic, a dual approach that allows readers to follow the progression of historical events while also understanding each period's broader cultural and societal developments.

Bauer begins her journey in Mesopotamia, exploring the rise and fall of ancient societies such as Sumer, Akkad, Babylon, and Assyria. She delves deeply into the development of writing with cuneiform, the establishment of legal codes exemplified by Hammurabi's Code, and the growth of urbanization and statecraft under rulers like Sargon of Akkad. Her detailed descriptions provide a vivid picture of how these early societies laid the groundwork for future civilisations.

The narrative then shifts to ancient Egypt, where Bauer traces the history from the early dynastic periods through the heights of the Old, Middle, and New Kingdoms. Her portrayal of Egyptian pharaohs such as Ramses II and Cleopatra pays particular attention to the complexities of their reigns. Bauer's exploration of Egyptian religion, monumental architecture like the pyramids and the temples at Karnak, and the daily life of its people enriches the reader's understanding of this ancient culture.

Bauer also examines the ancient civilizations of the Indus Valley and China. She discusses the sophisticated urban planning and social organization of the Harappan culture, as well as the early Chinese dynasties of Shang and Zhou, highlighting their contributions to writing, philosophy, and governance. Bauer's ability to interweave these diverse cultures into a single narrative thread is a testament to her skill as a historian and storyteller.

The book provides an in-depth look into ancient Greece and the Roman Republic and Empire. Bauer details impactful philosophers like Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle, military and political exploits executed by figures like Alexander the Great, the legacies of Julius Caesar and Constantine, and many other topics. Readers should pay attention to the discussion on the administrative and military structures that enabled Rome to maintain its dominance and its defining cultural and technological innovations. Bauer then concludes with the fall of Rome, marking the end of ancient history as traditionally defined and setting the stage for the medieval period.

Having published over six books, Bauer's writing style and storytelling skills to cover such a large timeline are evident, making complex concepts understandable and lively to a broad audience without sacrificing depth or accuracy. Her narrative is richly detailed while avoiding overwhelming readers with excessive minutiae. The book is well-supported by maps, timelines, and illustrations that contextualize the narrative and provide visual aids. Bauer's use of primary sources and quotations adds depth to her account, bringing the voices of ancient peoples into the modern narrative.

However, the book's scope also presents challenges. Some readers may find certain sections too brief, as Bauer moves quickly through some significant events and figures to maintain the narrative's momentum. Despite her efforts to include non-Western civilisations, the book still feels like it leans heavily towards a Eurocentric perspective, particularly in its treatment of the later chapters on Greece and Rome.

Overall, The History of the Ancient World is an impressive and highly readable account of ancient history. Susan Wise Bauer's synthesis of a vast array of historical data into a coherent narrative is commendable. While the book's scope means that some areas are covered more briefly than others, it remains an invaluable resource for anyone interested in the history of the ancient world.

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[laughableomen]

Prompt x7 Hear me out:

“Computer lock door code Kirk”

If you asked anyone if Mr Spock and Captain Kirk’s romantic relationship impacted their working relationship they would laugh in your face. Most would admit they always thought they were a couple, while the others who didn’t never noticed any change. They were the same formidable pair, innovative and fair, both before and after they started sleeping in the same bed together.

Professional wise there was never any questions. They were respectful, no more tactile than Kirk normally is with others and show a level of proper that one would expect from a part Vulcan relationship. They just worked and if the occasional heart eyes or Vulcan kiss was passed silently and without thought no one noticed. (Apart from Uhura who would quietly smile to herself).

So yes the captain and his first officer were the picture of professional… mostly.

There were however the occasions when emotions ran wild, arguments turn to passion or the panic of loss builds to the point were the need to just touch is too great. Hands leaving marks on newly revealed skin, hips bumping into the table, while gasping breaths stutter in between muffled moans and needy whimpers. The ready room was no stranger to a half crazed Spock being dragged down the table, thighs being thrown over Jim’s shoulders and his waiting mouth. Or that of a half naked Jim, body wrapped tightly between his XO’s and the wall behind him.

“Computer lock door code Kirk Alpha,Delta 3 2 4”

And after, when they had shared a knowing kiss, a promise for later and left feeling more centred with a shared stability. They walk back to the bridge no one the wiser.

Well usually no one the wiser-

“Computer override door lock, authorisation code McCoy Delta Charlie 7 2 9, Chief medical officer”

“Jim what the hell is going on are yo- JESUS FUCKING CHRIST -“

“BONES! FUCK- oh fu- Spock sto-“

“Dr it seemed unwise to overri-“

“OH YOU GREEN BLOODED-“

“BONES!”

“WHAT THE FUCK!”

So yes if you ask the full Enterprise crew they will entirely agree that the Captain and his first officer are nothing if the same professional solid working duo they always have been.- Well nearly the full crew.

“You owe me like 3 bottles of Romulan Ale. I need to bleach my eyes”

“Hey you were the one who walked in-“

“Make it 5.”

(P.s. the temptation to make this into a McSpirk fic was so very close)