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ratedbangtann · 4 years

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The Game ~ KNJ (18+)

↳ summary - “Behave yourself tonight, _____,” he warned. “I mean it. Too far, and I’ll be forced to act.”

“Of course, dear. I’ll play fair, I promise,” you smiled, fluttering your perfectly permed eyelashes at him.

And with that, the game was on…

↳ rating - explicit/18+

↳ word count - 8.3k

↳ pairing - namjoon x reader

↳ genre - established relationship, alternative universe, CEO Namjoon, angst, smut

↳ warnings - teasing (oh, so much…), flirting with others, angry Joon, rough Joon, manhandling, oral sex (m receiving), throat fucking, dirty talk (incl. name calling), unprotected sex, rough sex

↳ a.n - okay so yeah hi it's been nearly 5 months since i posted an au please don't hate me life has been ROUGH but here have this little gem that was commissioned by a lovely twitter follower of mine.If you'd like your own commission or to leave me a tip, head over to https://ko-fi.com/ratedbangtann (i just lost my job thanks to corona so anything helps, honestly) **************************************************

Your husband’s words echoed around inside your head, a strangely sadistic little grin on your face that only you knew the reasoning behind.

“Behave yourself tonight, _____.”

You had promised you would, but were you being entirely truthful? Absolutely not. On a night like tonight, how could you possibly not use your charms to get ahead? That was the foundation of your company, after all; the charms you had used on your husband and his clients to merge your small business with his much larger enterprise.

Of course, you hadn’t done this with malice, and you certainly hadn’t expected to fall in love with the CEO of the company you flirted your way into… Not until he called you out on your charm, made light of it, and explained that actually, he saw you as a very smart and beautiful woman with a drive that precluded any other potential businesses he was contemplating to taking on.

Four years of happy marriage later, you had become co-CEO of Kim Enterprises – a main hub for all things fashion and retail, with 32 different brand names coming under the Kim umbrella; including your very own line of gorgeous evening wear.

Tonight, yourself and your husband were holding a company event at a hotel, hiring out the ballroom to bring together the heads of each of these little companies you had dominion over in order to impress a handful of investors to buy shares in Kim products. This was your specialty, and you were certainly going to whip out your charm tonight.

However, in the back of the Bentley that had driven you and your partner to the ball, your husband was already way ahead of you…

*************************************************

He looked handsome, as always. His silver hair perfectly quaffed and styled with a side part, round-rim glasses poised on the end of his nose, sharp grey suit fitted perfectly to his wide shoulders and thick arms. His hand had been affectionately poised on your bare knee for the duration of the ride, the flesh of your right leg beautifully displayed through the slit in your evening dress – from your own company, of course.

Just five minutes away from your destination, you felt his grip tighten a little, and slide a little further up your thigh, enjoying the softness of your skin on the inside of your leg. He was staring down at his own hand, watching his thumb draw circles on your skin with a look of deep thought on his face.

“You look a little apprehensive, Joonie. Are you alright?” you had asked, concern laced in your tone with perhaps a little mischief. He hummed in response, not looking up at you and instead still very much intent on his thumb grazing your skin.

“You look so beautiful in that dress tonight, my love…” he smiled to himself, pride swelling in his chest that it was you he got to call his wife. “No doubt, you’ll turn some heads.”

You smirked; this was the start of laying down his rules… You knew it was coming. It sent thrills through you every time.

“Thank you, it’s from the Fall line. Taking it out on a test run, shall we say…” you smiled sweetly.

It really was a stunning dress; sleek and fitted pearlescent silk with a little fabric tapering in the waistline. The straps themselves were strings of pearls, thin over the shoulders and draping in loops down your chest, cleavage beautifully displayed with the low hanging stones and fabric. The pearl straps continued to drape over your back also, hanging lower than in the front in another loop. The fabric exposed your back to just where your back dipped in, the pearls hanging down over the top of your butt.

It was an extremely sleek and sexy gown, expertly tailored to hide potential flaws and accentuate perfections. And that’s why you picked it tonight.

“It’ll definitely be an advantage in your tactics tonight, I’m sure,” he smirked, his eyes finally darting up to meet yours. “I have mine too though, just so we’re clear.”

“I don’t doubt it,” you laughed quietly, shaking your head with a smile. “But the dress is not the only tactic I have up my sleeve, my love. You’ll see…”

His thumb stopped its rotations then, his grip tightening just a little more in response.

“Behave yourself tonight, _____,” he warned. “I mean it. Too far, and I’ll be forced to act.”

“Of course, dear. I’ll play fair, I promise,” you smiled, fluttering your perfectly permed eyelashes at him.

And with that, the game was on…

************************************************

You stood and laughed with the small group of investors that you had attracted into a corner of the ballroom. The dress and your charming reputation proceeded you and worked like a beautiful spider’s web, drawing in the most naïve of flies until they stuck – it was then that you could make your moves.

Three men were stood in front of you, all of them middle-aged, wealthy bachelors of sorts. Mr Song, CEO of a cosmetics company you were hoping you could persuade to come on board and partner with Kim Enterprises; Mr Kang, an investor who made his money buying and selling shares of companies throughout Korea, and Mr Garcia, a Korean-American entrepreneur looking to invest in more Korean companies to impress his elderly Korean mother, unhappy with his choices to continue his late father’s American legacy.

Frankly, it seemed like an easy sell. You knew you could get Mr Garcia to come around very easily; he was in a rush to invest, hoping to improve his foreign relations and his relationship with his dear mother.

Mr Song had shown an interest in selling part of his company to Kim Enterprises for years, but it had never felt like the right time to introduce a cosmetics line into your empire; Namjoon agreed. Focus on fashion, on the clothing and accessories retailers to begin with. When you had enough, cosmetics could be introduced. You’d kept Mr Song at arm’s length, dangling the carrot in front of the donkey for him to follow you; and he had, willingly.

But Mr Kang? He knew the market very well, he knew his investments, he was careful and very picky with what he chose to buy into. But when he did, he really invested; billions of won at a time, in fact. If you could just crack his outer shell, you were sure he would drop his guard a little, and you could sweet talk him around.

You had a few tactics of course that included, but were not limited to; laughing at their jokes with a coy giggle, fluttering your eyelashes a little, giving them side eye smiles, pushing your hip out and elongating your leg to show it off through the slit in your dress, touching their arms when you were talking directly to one of them, making little provocative jokes followed by a delicate wink and a sip of your champagne flute…

All these things combined? They worked incredibly well, as did the compliments you would slide in, directed at the men themselves or at their business endeavours. They seemed incredibly receptive to you, taken in by your beauty and your confidence as many men often were; including your husband, who had been eyeing you from the bar across the ballroom for a while.

He himself was focussed on his own investors; female, of course. But he wanted to watch you deal with yours first, he wanted to watch his competition – you – claim your prizes before he made any moves on the female investors he was hoping to win over. And of course, keeping to himself was always a viable option in these games you played at corporate events. It kept him mysterious and aloof, striking at opportune moments and asking these women for a dance, or if they would like to join him for a drink; if he kept to himself all night, then these women would feel particularly special. ‘Who, me? He wants me?’ they would think. All part of his plan.

But for some reason, tonight he was distracted. He couldn’t tell why, but his eyes were fixated on you even more so than usual. Perhaps it was the way Mr Garcia seemed to have taken an interest in you, standing a little closer than the others… he kept pushing his hair back too, trying to flip is off his forehead in that typical ‘movie heartthrob’ way, but honestly it was just laughable from where Namjoon was standing. Every time you touched his arm and laughed at his joke, he shuffled a little closer, and it was starting to bother Namjoon.

He wasn’t the one you should have to focus on… He was an easy catch, desperate to invest. So why were you paying so much attention to him? Namjoon didn’t understand… Unless you genuinely were enjoying flirting with the youngest of the three potential business partners. Oh, his blood boiled at the thought.

But what he didn’t know, was that you already had Mr Song hooked on your line. He was in, whether he’d verbalised it yet or not. Mr Kang, however, was a little more reserved, although he did enjoy your attention. You had quickly calculated though that he was someone who got what he wanted, and it infuriated him when he didn’t get it. He would do anything to get what he wanted… So, you paid extra attention to Mr Garcia, starving Mr Kang of your attention that he so clearly wanted.

Doing so made him work harder, would make him eventually think that it was his idea to invest in order to get your attention back on him. So far, it was working. He was trying to land more jokes, make you laugh at his one liners the way you laughed at Mr Garcia’s…

But Namjoon didn’t get your game, didn’t understand what you were doing. He saw you getting closer to Mr Garcia and it enraged him, immediately jumping to a wrong conclusion as men so often do.

Now, he wanted to strike. He was ready to start his game.

Leaning against the bar, he necked back the rest of the expensive scotch in his glass, slamming the glass to the bar and pushing off in search of a particular young lady he knew was a potential investor; So Soomin.

Soomin was an easy target; new money. She was a fashionista, a blogger mostly with a large Instagram following. Her profile skyrocketed when she began dating a famous idol, as did her net worth. And although that relationship came to a sticky end, it was the idol’s career that suffered, and not hers. Hers has only blossomed into modelling and investing. She was new on the scene, fresh and a perfect advertising opportunity, and investment opportunity also.

Namjoon had spotted her sat at a table on the edge of the dancefloor, in a stunning navy blue sequin gown. She was most certainly beautiful in reality also, just as her photos portrayed her. She was sat talking to an older woman, a woman Namjoon recognised from Kim Enterprises as a very loyal board member for the public relations department. She must be working her magic on Soomin too, seeing her as the perfect walking advertisement.

But Namjoon could work his magic too. He strode over to her, confidently stepping through those dancing on the dancefloor to make his entrance. As he stepped up to her table, her head turned to look at him immediately, and her face changed from relatively serious to a very sweet and flirtatious smile.

“Good evening, Ms So,” he bowed nice and low, respectfully greeting her. She dipped her head as he straightened back up. “Kim Namjoon, Kim Enterprises.”

“Ah, of course. Pleasure, Mr Kim,” she chirped, her eyes glittering under the dim lights of the room.

“I wondered if you would be interested in a dance?” Namjoon offered his hand, ignoring the look of ‘here we go again’ from his employee – of course everybody at Kim Enterprises was aware of the marriage between you two, and yet unaware of the games you played at events such as these that kept the fire of need burning hot within you both. They saw you as a pair who used their attractions to get what they wanted, but of course, they dare not speak up.

“That sounds lovely, if you’ll excuse me Mrs Cheong,” she bowed her head to the woman and took Namjoon’s hand, stepping ahead of him to pull him onto the dancefloor in a display of confidence.

It caught your eye; specifically, the sparkle of her dress caught your eye. Clearly, a woman who liked to make a statement. And behind her was… your husband? Smirking and quite clearly checking her out.

Now, it’s fair to note that in your entire relationship with Kim Namjoon, neither of you had ever been unfaithful, and neither of you had ever planned to. There were of course limits, and plenty of trust. This game that you played with each other was to keep that fire lit; and boy, was it raging right now.

Namjoon carefully took Soomin’s hand with one of his, placing his other on her waist, and began to sway to the smooth jazz being played by the hired band. He smiled down at the beautiful woman, and from what you could see, he was enjoying a flirty conversation with her.

She would giggle and hide her face behind her hair a few times, Namjoon tucking it back behind her ear. He would smirk and arch his eyebrows suggestively. But the moment that made you snap? He leaned down and whispered something into the woman’s ear, to which her eyes widened momentarily, and she was grinning and laughing again.

Your boiling point had been reached. The game had now stepped up.

“Hm, you know what?” You started, interrupting Mr Garcia’s little conversation with Mr Kang, bringing the attention of all three men back to you. You quickly necked the rest of your champagne and smiled up at Mr Garcia. “I want to dance.”

“If you don’t mind, Mr Garcia, I would like to take this one?” Mr Kang piped up, seemingly out of nowhere. You looked at him, a little shocked, but smiled and took his open hand that he had offered you.

“Don’t worry, you’ll get your turn,” you turned back to look at Mr Garcia, winking in his direction before allowing Mr Kang to direct you to the dancefloor. As the oldest of the three men you were working so easily this evening, he was most definitely the most chivalrous. He guided you like a gentleman, stepped aside to let you step onto the dancefloor first, gracefully placed his hand high enough on your waist to be respectful, the other in your hand and much like the other duos scattered around, you began to sway to the music. You remained in pleasant silence, dancing with the older man for a few minutes.

“You know, I’m aware of what you’re up to, Mrs Kim,” he smirked, averting his gaze to be interested in something in a far corner.

“Up to?” you asked, remaining calm and collected as if you had absolutely no idea what he was accusing you of.

“Yes, it’s quite clear to me. It’s quite amusing, honestly. I appreciate that you use your strengths to your advantage in business. You most definitely had me for a while, I was definitely very willing to invest for your attention. But you gave yourself away,” he looked back down at you, clear amusement on his slightly aged features.

“How so?” you asked, dropping the innocence and yet remaining charming.

“I saw your face falter when you spotted your husband over there, dancing with the pretty young woman in the blue dress. And now suddenly, you wish to dance? I ask myself, why on earth would you not simply walk up to him and tap him on the shoulder to take her place? Why would you ask Mr Garcia to dance?” Ah, busted… “This is some kind of game to you, isn’t it? Between you and your husband, I mean.”

You were lost for words; no one had caught on before, but the slip in your persona had been noticed. Damn.

“Tell you what,” he began to proposition, “if you can win this little battle with him tonight, make him jealous enough that he is the one to step to you, then I’ll invest heavily into Kim Enterprises. That’s a promise,” he grinned. And suddenly, the gleam in your eye was back.

“You want in on this, huh?” you laughed, stepping just a little closer to him.

“As long as I don’t get a fist in the face, I’m happy to help you win your game Mrs Kim,” he smirked, his hand slowly starting to sink a little lower, resting on your hip.

“We have a deal, Mr Kang. But just so you are completely aware, I am completely loyal to my husband. I wouldn’t want you to misunderstand at all; this is just good sport. Just flirting,” you outlined with a playfully warning tone.

“Absolutely. I’m not interested in separating a marriage. I won’t try to kiss you or woo you in any way. Just good sport,” he mirrored. And now, you had stepped up to Namjoon’s level, with another key player involved.

Across the dancefloor, Namjoon was happily chatting, happily flirting with Soomin. They were discussing business amongst general chit chat, flirting happily and dancing away, when Namjoon caught a familiar figure in the corner of his eye; you.

He turned strategically in his dancing with Soomin to get a better look and low and behold, there you were just a few metres away from him, on the dancefloor with Mr Kang and looking… rather cosy, shall we say.

He didn’t like how low his hand was on your waist, on those curves of yours that he adored so much. He didn’t like that your hand wasn’t on his shoulder or his arm, but snugly half tucked into the inside of his tuxedo jacket, lying flat on his chest. He didn’t like the mesmerised looked you seemed to have in your eyes as you gazed up at him. And he most certainly didn’t like the smirk of arrogance on his face either…

Namjoon was only partly listening to Soomin talking about the timeline of her modelling career, eyes intently focussed on watching you dance with Mr Kang seemingly unbothered by the fact that he was metres away with another woman in his arms. It was like you were lost in the arms of the silver fox of the business world, and it infuriated him.

He noticed the grip on your hip tightening a little as you giggled at whatever poorly constructed joke he must have been telling you. He watched as you lifted your hand from his chest and tapped the end of his nose playfully with a perfectly manicured finger.

It was the tiny little details that were starting to make his eyebrow twitch and his tongue press against the inside of his cheek.

He watched for what felt like hours but could only have been a maximum of twenty minutes, the music changing pace and flowing from one theme to the next three themes, but it was all background noise to him. Until Soomin’s narcissistic bubble finally popped, and she noticed the attention was no longer on her.

“Is everything alright, Mr Kim?” she asked, tapping his shoulder and watching his pupils adjust as he focussed back in on her.

“Hmm? Yes, fine. Apologies, you were saying?” he brushed it off as nothing, managing to convince her enough to start babbling on yet again about herself. But when Namjoon looked up to keep tabs on you, you were nowhere to be found on the dancefloor.

His head whipped around, panicked with anger bubbling in his chest. Where the hell had you gone? Where had he taken you?

A quick scan of the ballroom found you, sat at a lone table in the corner, Mr Kang closely sat beside you. He leaned forward and whispered something in your ear, and Namjoon watched as you swatted his shoulder with a playful giggle, your hand dropping to rest on his knee which had found its way between yours, the slit in your dress exposing your beautiful thigh.

No, this was too far. He had warned you before, and you had promised to play fair, but this wasn’t fair at all… If he had to watch that man touch your knee, your thigh… He couldn’t bear it. His jealousy, his ownership of the woman he loved had ignited his primal self, and he needed to come and claim you again, to show you and everyone else that you were his.

Without so much as a glance down at Soomin, Namjoon dropped his hands from her and began marching towards you sat at the table with Mr Kang.

“N-Namjoon?” she called after him, confused and annoyed that she had been cut off mid-sentence. But again, he paid no mind, intent and focussed on getting between you and the man with his hand on your bare fucking thigh.

At the table, Mr Kang was the first to spot Namjoon, quickly approaching with a face like thunder. His eyes widened momentarily, before settling back on you, a smirk on his features.

“Congratulations,” he mumbled to you smugly just as you heard the stomp of Namjoon’s loafers getting closer to your chair. Your head snapped up to look at him, and there he was – and oh, did he look pissed. You were half expecting steam to be shooting out of his nose and ears.

“Ah, Namjoon! I wondered where you had been all evening. This is Mr Kang. I’m sure you’re aware of his stellar reputation in investmen-“

“May I speak with you privately?” Namjoon interrupted, popping his tongue into the inside of cheek, eyes darkening.

“Is something the matter?” you asked innocently, cocking your head to one side. Namjoon’s eyes darted down to the hand still comfortably laid on you, although now it had shrunk back to just rest on your knee. Your eyes followed his, looking up at Mr Kang briefly – who was smiling sweetly as if nothing were the matter – and then back to Namjoon.

“There’s an opportunity that has come up, I need to discuss with you immediately. It’s quite time sensitive. Mr Kang, if you’ll excuse me, my wife and I need to have a private discussion,” he barked, like a guard dog defending its prey from another equally hungry canine. Then without hesitation, Namjoon took your hand in his with assertive dominance and guided you out of the large double doors to the ballroom.

As you were navigated through the tables you turned back to see Mr Kang smiling and waving at you, giving you a thumbs up. He knew you had won the game. He was going to invest. Perfect.

But now to deal with Namjoon.

Your husband was dragging you now, out of the view of the investors and business partners and alone together in the hotel corridor. You let him take you, thrills already building and anticipation heightening. At the end of the corridor you noticed a lattice shutter and an open silver chamber behind it; a service elevator. Was that where Namjoon was headed?

Apparently so. Without letting go of your arm he pulled the metal lattice gate open and practically threw you in, stepping in himself and slamming it shut behind him, pressing the button to the left hand side marked ‘8’ and there he stood, silent and motionless as the elevator kicked to life.

With his back to you and his hands clasped behind him, you were suddenly very aware of the anger in his demeanour, the dominance in his posture. He stood unmoving, not bothering to look back at you once, not saying a single word as you steadied yourself and hung onto the railing along the back wall. The silence seemed deafening, louder than the chatter and the music that you had experienced throughout the night.

The ride up to the eighth floor seemed agonisingly slow, every silent second dragging. You knew Namjoon had booked a room in the hotel for that evening so you wouldn’t need to go home after the event, so assumed that must be where he was taking you.

The elevator ground to a halt and Namjoon ripped open the lattice gate, letting it slam against the edge before turning and gripping your wrist again, pulling you and pushing you until you were both on the opposite side of the threshold and he could slam the gate shut once again. And then he began walking, leaving you stood in shock that he wasn’t dragging you this time, just expecting you to follow suit.

You folded your arms across your chest for a second and waited, wondering if he would turn and tell you to follow him, or come back to grab your arm but he did neither, simply stomping his way down the long hall with white walls and gold trimmings, luxurious red rug rolled out with gold detailing. Beside each room’s door was a small mahogany table with a white and gold marble vase, fake red arrangements inside. Fancy, but you’d expect nothing less from a hotel of this calibre.

You realised quickly Namjoon wouldn’t turn around, wouldn’t wait for you, and with a huff of annoyance you unfolded your arms and followed behind him, the pearls on your dress rattling as they hit each other in the quiet of the corridor. Three doors from the end of the corridor, he stopped and turned to room 804, slipping a key card out of the inside of his jacket and into the slot as you approached him. He disappeared from view, entering the room and almost letting it shut behind him, if you hadn’t been quick enough to stop it with your healed foot.

“You know, Mr Kang is really a very nice man…” you began to speak as if nothing was wrong, entering the room and closing the door behind you, flipping the lock. But before you could continue, your shoulders were being pulled to spin you around, and pushed back against the door.

Namjoon loomed over you, his eyes dark and angry, arms either side of your head now, trapping you.

“Is he, now? Is that why you looked so cosy with him on the dancefloor, hm?” Sarcasm dripped from his voice, his head tilting in mock query.

“Just as much as you and that man-eating model? Don’t try and take the high road, Namjoon,” you defended with a smirk. “We both know the game we play, for good sport…” You leaned in, lifting your lips to his ear in order to whisper to him…

“And I think I won…”

Namjoon closed his eyes for a moment, his jaw locking and teeth grinding, a deep breath quickly exhaling through flared nostrils. He hated losing. He hated it so much. But admitting he had lost was even worse.

He said nothing, but instead you felt two strong hands on the tops of your arms, gripping them and pulling you from the door, dragging you further into the room before he could push you down onto the couch of the open hotel suite. You didn’t have time to admire the royal blue upholstery and French renaissance style before he was slotting his knee between yours and towering over you. You let your back sink into the back of the couch, sat upright with your thighs parted by his.

He ran his fingers through your hair, letting the fingertips gently glide down your jawline and eventually grip your chin with a hold that you couldn’t wriggle from.

“You went too far, ______. I warned you…” His voice was significantly darker than usual; deeper and more threatening than most would have heard from him.

“I was simply trying to get us an investment, Mr Kim. But I think your pathetic little display of dominance may just have ruined that,” you argued, although of course it wasn’t true. You only wanted to rile him up further, to aggravate him into giving you frankly what you can only describe as a good, hard fucking. It was working, too. You saw his eye twitch.

“You just don’t know when to stay quiet, do you?” he scoffed. You simply looked down at his lips and back up to him, as if you say “oh, yeah? Try me.” He didn’t like that.

So instead, he swooped his head down to plant a ferocious and bruising kiss to your lips, his hand coming to push the back of your head into him further. He wasted no time in parting your lips, messily exploring and taking ownership in the way he had wanted to all damn evening. His fingers curled into your hair, short nails lightly dragging at your scalp and adding to all the sensations you felt all over your body.

Namjoon was always so skilled with his kisses, having you succumb to him very quickly like a warlock casting a spell. You felt yourself move to his every whim, sinking further and further. It was when you moaned into his kiss that he knew he had you under his thumb.

He let go of you and moved to stand, seemingly in a rush to get some kind of payback or comeuppance for the way you had teased him tonight. He shook his tuxedo jacket from his shoulders and unfastened the zipper – and just the zipper – of his slacks, reaching in to pull his half-hard length through the opening in his underwear and the hole in his trousers, slowly tugging at it a few times to full arousal.

In this position, with him stood with one leg between your thighs and you sat directly in front of him, you were at the perfect height for what he wanted from you… He squeezed himself each time he came close to his tip, allowing for a small bead of pre-cum to gather. He pushed his hips out until all you could focus on was the sight of his delicious pre-cum.

“For you, Madam,” he smirked when your eyes met, his hand reaching out to run his finger under the length of the straps of your dress and gripping the strings of pearls that gathered in front of your breasts like reins, “seeing as you like pearls so much.”

And then he pressed the little pearl of precum to your lips, coating them like a gloss before pushing the tip of his cock past them and sitting it on the flat of your tongue.

“Let’s see you talk shit with a mouthful,” he smirked, fingers weaving into your hair once again and gripping tight, pulling at the roots to move your head and have you begin to bob on his length, encasing the impressive size in the warmth of your mouth and throat. You gladly took it; you could never deny your man since the first head you had ever given him. He’d practically declared his love to you for the entire twenty minutes whilst you showed him what a blow job was supposed to feel like.

You just had a thing for making your husband feel exceptionally good.

“Fuck, see? You can be a good girl,” he praised, grunting and beginning to piston his hips back and forth whilst still moving your head. “Just needed putting back in your place again.”

The chords of pearls on your dress rattled as they rocked with your body, hitting each other noisily with each forward and back motion. You relaxed your throat easily to take him, although with his girth and length combined it was always a snug fit. You could feel each ridge of the vein on the side of his shaft, the drag of his uncut foreskin on your tongue. It wasn’t common for a Korean man to remain uncircumcised, but it was never something that bothered you. In fact, it seemed to only encourage some more imaginative ways to please him.

But there was no time for intricate details, no space for you to move your tongue and focus on the spots that made him weak when he was moving at such a pace and filling your mouth and throat over and over again. You could do nothing but bob your head the way he was moving it and flutter your eyelashes innocently up at him with a sparkle behind them. It drove him crazy, to see you so pliant and taking him so well. He loved the way your lips wrapped around him, how you took the opportunity to try and hollow your cheeks to vary the pressure you put on him. All of it was so perfect…

“Fucking shit, ______,” Namjoon groaned, his head falling back and his eyes closing in bliss. You hummed against him, sending vibrations through his length and you were sure you could feel the vein pulse harder as his thighs tensed in his slacks. Knowing what you were doing to him, the pleasure you were giving him right now… well, it was turning you on considerably. If he were to peel back the rather beautiful ivory lingerie you had decided on, then he would be all too aware of the arousal this was causing.

“You wanted this, huh?” he asked, gritting his teeth and tightening his grip in your hair. “That’s why you’ve been acting up. My little cock slut was just desperate to get fucked huh, is that it?” His hips increased in speed and power. You were no longer moving, simply kept still by his hold as you tried to keep from gagging. You were good at this, at letting him use your throat like a fleshlight. You’d had plenty of practise after all.

All you could do was hum in affirmation, sending another wave of vibrations along his shaft. A rumbling groan erupted from his throat and he bit his lip, pulling his cock out of your throat completely. You gasped for breath, now able to take in more through your mouth for longer.

“You want my cock that badly, hm? In here?” he reached between your legs with his free hand, using the slit in your dress to his advantage and placing his palm flat over your damp panties. You whimpered a little at the contact, flinching but never daring to look away. Without having to think your head nodded on autopilot, desperate for him to give you what you wanted.

He smirked and stood back, lifting you by gently tugging at your hair to stand. He spun you around, easily finding the zipper on the low back of the dress and unzipping it, letting the straps of pearls fall down your arms and the dress come clattering to the floor with a loud rattle. A beat of silence passed in which you weren’t sure what he was doing, but you weren’t quite brave enough to turn your head to see, let alone ask him.

But had you seen him, you would have noticed the way his eyes were scanning every single beautiful curve of your body, every inch of smooth skin right down to his favourite part of you; that incredible round ass of yours. And in the lingerie you wore for him? Oh, it was beautiful. The ivory tones complimented your skin tone in the most marvellous way, and Namjoon couldn’t help himself from salivating at the sight.

He snapped himself out of his trance quickly though, manoeuvring you to kneel on the couch and bend over the fancy upholstery arm. Before you were really even comfortable, your panties were being tugged down and falling to your knees and a swift and harsh spank landing on your ass. Joon always loved watching that little jiggle…

Behind you, you heard fumbling, the rustling of Namjoon’s shirt being untucked from his pants, his tie being undone, and his buttons being popped open. But the fabric never hit the floor, and his pants remained unaltered.

Waiting was driving you crazy, so to taunt him even more you leaned down fully on the arm of the couch and wiggled your bare behind up in the air.

“Impatient little girl, hm? Don’t worry, you’ll be full in no time,” he growled, positioning himself with one knee up on the couch and pulling on your hips to line himself up with your dripping core.

He dragged the tip through your folds a few times before he pushed in, agonisingly slowly but at least you were finally getting some attention. When buried completely to the hilt, his hips pressed firmly against your ass and his grip on the flesh of your hips tightened, fingertips digging in as he adjusted to your warmth and the pleasure it brought him.

Even after four years of marriage – six since you had begun your office romance – he still revelled in the way you felt around him, still marvelled at how stunning you looked from every angle. He’d never tire of you, completely intoxicated and hooked; and this explained exactly why he was so possessive of you. No other man could have you; you were his.

Now that you finally felt full, your eyes fluttered closed and enjoyed the feeling. By now, you were used to his size and the way it filled you, but it didn’t mean it brought you any less pleasure than that first night you spent together. Your jaw dropped as he dragged himself back out of you, a high pitched moan spilling from your throat. His hands tightened on your hips, digging into the flesh as he used it as leverage to slam back into you harshly, jolting you forward and pushing a cry from your lips.

“Is that better, baby? This what you wanted?” he grunted, his hips now snapping against yours rhythmically. “You wanted my attention, hm? You got it, Babygirl…”

The force he used against you was intense, the slapping sounds deafening despite him never even removing his trousers – he knew you liked it when he was still at least partially dressed in his suits. It somehow upheld his aura of dominance, of power and leadership.

You couldn’t help but moan with each thrust, his length hitting every wall inside you, every sensitive nerve sending pulses of extreme pleasure through your pelvis and spanning out like lightning bolts through the rest of your body. You’d wanted this all night, been doing everything in your power to rile him up and get him to this point. This was the whole point of the game, and whilst he wouldn’t admit it just yet, you knew you had won.

“F-fuck… Namjoon…” you groaned, the upholstery on the couch brushing against your breasts. Hearing you groan his name ignited a fresh fire fuelled by lust in his gut, his hips changing their angle to hit you more directly against that spot inside you that sent you crazy. He pounded into you with an unforgiving speed, over and over and over again until he decided he was bored of that angle, that position. He wanted your full attention just as much as you wanted his.

So without warning, he pulled out of you and sat back against the opposite arm of the couch. You whined in disappointment, turning your head to see him watching you with his arm draped over the back of the couch, his other hand stroking himself slowly, and his lips pulled into an infuriating smirk.

“Come and get it, Babygirl,” he taunted, and rather than fight him on it you did as told, too worked up to deny yourself. You kicked your heels to the floor and pulled the panties draped around your knees off whilst Namjoon shuffled and laid down flat on the couch. The shirt he was wearing spilled open, exposing his well-toned chest and abs to you. You wasted no time, straddling his hips and positioning yourself to take him again, to let him stretch you out so perfectly like before.

Only this time, you were in control, and he didn’t seem to mind that – wanted it, even. Some of his favourite positions included ones in which you were the one moving, using his cock to make yourself feel good. He’d get lost in watching you, the way every part of your body moved, the way your eyes shut, and mouth fell open. And already, he was hypnotised by the way you rolled your hips against him, trying to move as fast as possible and as fluidly as possible to make sure he hit every nerve ending.

Your hands fell flat onto his pecks – those glorious, solid pecks – to keep yourself from collapsing forward, overwhelmed by pleasure. He reached up to your breasts, feeling the weight of them in his hands bouncing with every movement. He growled like an animal, sitting up and latching himself to one of your nipples, tongue flicking and teeth nipping at the sensitive nub. He continued to growl deep in his throat like a man possessed, his own length throbbing and pulsating inside you.

“J-Joonie… Mm, feels so good…” you practically sang, threading your hands through his hair and messing it up in an instant, holding him against you. You bucked your hips against him as fast as you could, clenching your walls on purpose to make him lose his mind. He did just that, letting go of your breast and falling back against the couch, his hands over his face and a long, wanton moan rumbling from his chest.

You kept clenching around him every time his cock would slide out of you, creating a drag that was absolutely mind blowing and has him sucking air through his teeth every time.

Suddenly his hands slapped down onto your thighs, fingertips digging in and his feet planting themselves flat on the couch behind you for leverage as he bucked his hips up into you. He furiously pounded into you from below, losing his composure. Your head dipped forward and all your weight went into your wrists, still holding you up by your hands flat on his pecks. He gripped your arms then, grunting with rapid breaths from exertion.

“Hey… Hey, ______,” he snapped his fingers in front of your face a few times to get your attention, “Eyes on me, Babygirl. Understand?”

“Uh… uh-huh,” was all you could muster with the force of every thrust and the roll of your hips in time with them. You could only hold eye contact for a moment or two until one particularly perfect thrust and then your head fell forward again. Namjoon didn’t like that, his hand coming to reach for your chin to hold your head up, forcing eye contact between you.

“Naughty girl… can’t follow basic commands,” he grunted, his fingers tightening on your chin and pushing on your cheeks. “I said, eyes… on… me,” he punctuated each word with a thrust, having you biting down on your lip and digging your nails into his pecks. You could only stare into his eyes as the both of you moved in sync. His were dark, so clouded with lust and hooded with passion that the heat in your abdomen started to swell impossibly.

Somehow, he kept up his pace. His thighs – however thick and muscled – must surely have been burning with his movements as yours were. His abs must have been screaming at him to slow down, but he didn’t, not even for a second. And now, he had slipped a hand down between your legs to circle your clit, adding yet another rush of heat.

You could feel yourself growing wetter, a sure sign of an impending orgasm. Namjoon clearly felt it too, judging by the way he looked down at the two of you connected and muttered out a ‘oh fuck…’ followed by a sharp intake of breath. He was starting to show tell-tale signs of his own climax approaching; he’d sucked his cheeks in in that way that made him look pissed off, but in fact was him simply tensing his jaw. His biceps were tensing under the sleeves of his open shirt and you could feel the pecks underneath your hands tensing also.

And my god, were you close too…

“G-gonna cum, please… please let me cum,” you begged between pouted lips forced together by his hand clutching your jaw. With or without his permission it was all about to unfold so quickly you couldn’t hold it off.

��Cum Babygirl, cum with me. Want you to feel the way I fill you up…” With his permission, letting go was easy. You squealed and whimpered as your nerves set alight, the heat spreading and igniting, filling your veins like hot lava. Your pussy clenched over and over, pulsing around his length and sending him further into his own ending, not quite there but so, so very close.

He let go of your chin, letting you break eye contact and fall forward onto his chest. He quickly wrapped his arms around you, still lifting his hips up to ride you through it and get himself off. He held you tight against him, whispering how good you felt in your ear, how perfect you were, how much he’d wanted you all night, that you were his and his alone.

Slowly, the heat dissipated, the fire cooling and leaving you light-headed and breathless, and Joon just kept on going, desperate for his own orgasm. You did your best to help him along, mustering all your energy to purposefully clench around him. Tilting your chin up, you were able to bury your face in the crook of his neck and nuzzle into the skin just under his shirt collar, kissing him just where his mole was. You nibbled and sucked and mouthed at the skin, feeling the tendons in his neck tensing.

And then he was groaning out loud, letting go completely. His hips stuttered and jerked unevenly, and you could feel pulse after pulse along his shaft. A new heat filled your pelvis; his seed spilling inside you, painting your walls white and creating a lude noise as he came to a halt.

His legs fell back down onto the couch whilst his arms loosened their grip on you, but still cradled you close to him; no way would he want to let you go right now.

“Fuck, babe… Fuck,” he sighed. It took a few moments for you to lift your head to see the blissed-out look on his face, eyes shut and sweat dripping from the ends of his messed up hair. You laid together like that for a while, catching your breath and enjoying the high you both felt.

“Hey Joonie…” you whispered, giggling when he opened one eye to look down at you. “Gotcha.”

He sat up a little then, resting back on his elbows as you sat upright, still straddling him. You had to clench a little extra hard to stop from leaking his own cum back onto his lap… You wouldn’t want to ruin such an expensive suit.

“What do you mean, gotcha?” he asked, brows furrowed.

“The game. I won,” you grinned, reaching out to fix his hair sticking up in strange directions.

“B-but… I got you to come with me, I must have made you jeal-“ You pressed your finger to his lips.

“Who felt so threatened by Mr Kang that he just had to intervene, thus, already losing at his own game?” you smirked. He couldn’t argue with that.

“Well be fair, he was getting very cosy, and you weren’t stopping him…” he complained.

“Sure, but um… Mr Kang was in on it.” You got off him then, standing up to head to the en-suite bathroom to freshen up, but he caught your wrist.

“He was what?” he asked, confused and irritated. You turned to face him again and leaned over him.

“In. On. It,” you sounded out slowly. “If I could get you to break, if I could win, he promised to invest heavily.” The smarminess was laced in your voice. You knew you had won. You got everything you wanted tonight; investment, and a decent, hard, jealousy fuelled fuck with your husband.

Namjoon’s jaw dropped, his grip falling from your wrist as he sat back against the couch with a heavy thump. He shook his head in disbelief, a smile forming as he watched you walk away and into the bathroom. But you popped your head out of the doorway, catching his attention again.

“Oh, and uh… as you were dragging me out, he gave me the thumbs up. Mr Kang will definitely be investing in Kim Enterprises,” you winked.

“Oh you, little…” he couldn’t hide his happiness at the investment, a grin spreading across his face. He didn’t mind that he’d been beat, not when such a huge business transaction was about to unfold. He didn’t even mind that he’d been played; not by you at least. Not by his incredibly gorgeous, sexy and genius wife.

“You…” he stood up, jogging towards you and shedding his shirt to the floor, “are impossible,” he laughed, chasing you into the bathroom and slamming the door shut behind him. Your night was only just beginning.

You had definitely won this game.

#BTS #bangtan sonyeondan #bangtan au #ratedbangtann #namjoon #kim namjoon #rm smut #RM #rap monster #rapmonster #SMUT AU #Smut #fan fiction #fanfic #fan fic

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theliterateape · 3 years

Text

Why Keep Giving Facebook My Business?

By David Himmel

It was the day after Christmas, 1996. I was a senior in high school on winter break. My friends and I piled into Brad Feely’s red Jeep Cherokee—me in the trunk because there weren’t enough seats for all of us and I was the smallest and cramming into a car too small for the passenger load is what high school kids do. We were headed to the mall to return ill-fitting gifts and fuck around because fucking around at the mall is—was—what high school kids do.

Brad had some things to return or exchange at Abercrombie & Fitch. He was at the checkout counter with the young woman making the exchanges. The rest of us wandered around the store. I started throwing on shirts, coats, hats, scarves, and such and acted out a runway fashion show. My friends giggled. I went bigger with my one-man flash mob fashion show. Other customers stared, some laughed, some ignored me. I went bigger. My friends laughed harder. Other customers laughed harder and tried to ignore me. I had achieved my goal. I’d fucked around in a store and made people laugh.

I took off the clothes, placed them back on the racks and shelves and walked up to Brad still at the counter. The employee had stepped into the back to retrieve something.

“Almost done?” I asked him.

He whispered to me, “You won’t believe what this girl just said about you.”

“What.”

“She called you a ‘dirty faggot.’”

“What!?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re sure.”

“One hundred percent. She said it under her breath, but, yeah. I heard her say it.”

I waited there for the young woman to return. A few moments later, she did. She finished up Brad’s exchanges, handed him his bag of stuff and said, “Have a nice day.”

“Excuse me,” I said to her, leaning in so as not to make a scene. Because this scene wasn’t going to be funny. But I was sure not to be too quiet about it since I did want the store to know what was going on. “Did you see my fashion show?”

“Um. Yeah?”

“Did you like it?”

She smirked uncomfortably. “Sure.”

“So why would you call me a ‘dirty faggot’?” Her face went white. Blank. Her eyes wide. Mouth agape. She’d been caught. “Yeah. My friend here heard you say it. So my question to you is this: What was dirty about what I was doing? And what about what I was doing made me a ‘faggot’? And if you thought I was being gay, what’s wrong with that? And why would you refer to a gay person as a ‘faggot’? Seems a little hateful.”

“I… I…” she stuttered, still pale faced and surprised.

“Doesn’t seem like the best customer service, does it? Insulting your customers—or their friends—with homophobic slurs.”

“I… I…”

“Yeah. Mind your mouth. Don’t be such a hateful, homophobic asshole. Especially in a store filled with photos of what have to be the gayest modeling shoots in retail history.”

People were watching and I took the cue to go louder. “That’s right, everyone. This woman, this Abercrombie & Fitch employee called me a ‘dirty faggot’. Just know the kind of person you’re buying your clothes from.”

I saw one guy drop whatever was in his arms and walk out. My friends and I followed suit.

✶

I never stepped foot in an Abercrombie & Fitch store after that. And I’m proud to say I never owned or wore a single item of theirs after my impromptu fashion show. Yeah, sure. She was a bad apple, but still. It had turned me off to the whole brand. Fuck ‘em.

Did my not buying their mostly ugly clothes—country club grunge?—hurt their bottom line? Did it send a message? No. Certainly not. Did it change the mind and behavior of that employee? I have no idea. Maybe. Maybe she’s a super-duper social justice warrior today. Maybe she doubled down and tried to Stop the Steal. Doesn’t matter. What matters is that I experienced an insult to the customer and a group of people, and chose not to give that company my money.

I don’t shop at Hobby Lobby because of their treatment of workers—denying them birth control through their benefits program. I don’t eat Chick-fil-A because they oppose marriage equality and used to fund activities to suppress it. I wring my hands every time I order something on Amazon because I’m worried the worker filling my order might piss or shit themselves trying to meet their quota with my order. Or worse, get hurt doing so. Because we all know that Amazon treats its warehouse workers like demented mules instead of actual human beings with physiological limitations and full bladders.

It’s principle. I try to spend where my money will do the least harm because I know, in most instances, my spending won’t help much other than to keep someone employed at a shit job and make the owner that much richer.

So why haven’t I quit Facebook yet? Same reason I haven’t quit Amazon: It’s too convenient.

Also like Amazon, but far worse, Facebook is a monster. It was from the start. I joined under duress in 2008 because it was part of my job. When that job laid me off in the wake of the Great Recession, I killed the account. But Facebook gained more and more traction, and it seemed that I was missing out. Plus, it was a great way to promote the shows I was writing and producing. And I reconnected with old friends from lives past. Fun!

It became a reflexive way to procrastinate. Instead of standing up and stretching or reading a news story or going for a walk, I’d scroll mindlessly. Still, it was fun. It became a habit I wasn’t even aware of.

And it’s still fun, sometimes. I enjoy being easily—reflexively lazy—connected to those old pals I don’t see every day and probably wouldn’t communicate with if not for the ease of Facebook. But Facebook is bad. And when I say Facebook, I’m including Instagram, which I rarely use. (I have no issue with WhatsApp but I also only use that maybe once every two years.) They both suck. So it’s bad for our brains, bad for our body images, bad for democracy, bad for discourse, and so on. None of this is news. And this week’s whistleblowing of how actively evil Facebook leadership is reinforces the fact of how bad it apparently wants to be. And that’s insulting to all of its users and even non-users.

Because Facebook could still make millions of dollars a week and take active measures to be a better corporate citizen, a better steward of human decency. Like, has Facebook even added a pink ribbon to its logo for Breast Cancer Awareness Month? I don’t think so. Evil.*

I don’t need Facebook. The community groups are nice. And I really do like seeing those old friends I wouldn’t otherwise communicate with. And I take joy in the possibility that ex-girlfriends might occasionally poke through my profile and see how awesome my hair is. But I don’t need it. If I want to promote something, I can place an ad anywhere else. My god, what did we do before Facebook? And there are so many other digital ways to share our bullshit.

If I leave, will Facebook feel it? Nope. Just like Abercrombie. My aversion is less than a pebble drop in the ocean. But I’ll feel better. Right? I’ll miss my friends I wouldn’t otherwise talk to, but if they mattered that much to me, I could make the effort to text or call. But I won’t. Because the apparent truth is that having them as friends on Facebook is more about the voyeurism. So wait, are we even friends then? Jesus. Facebook has even warped our sense of friendship.

I don’t know if I’ll leave it. But it’s been on my mind for a while now. Maybe I won’t go cold turkey, maybe I’ll start by deleting the app from my phone. Or maybe it’s best to pack up all my shit and walk right out. That’s the advice I’d give to someone else in an abusive relationship.

*Just so we’re clear, this whole going pink in October thing that companies, local police departments, sports organizations love to do is dumb. It’s the bare minimum at best and limp virtue signaling at worst. If you really care about breast cancer, do a better job of caring about women. So, you know, pay better wages, offer childcare, don’t shoot them in their homes. Take your pink ribbon and shove it. Do better.

#Frances Haugen #Facebook #Boycotts #Abercrombie & Fitch #Abercrombie and Fitch #Gay slurs #gay rights #Facebook whistleblower #Facebook is evil #social media addiction #Corporate greed #American greed

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apassintohell · 4 years

Photo

Cesemir, the Disowned Prince of the Seelie Court

He walks down the cobblestone streets, a ghost of a realm that has forsaken him. Even amongst demons and magical creatures alike, he stands out. There is something other in his stride, a whisper of a warning as he passes by.

He is a puzzle piece too oddly shaped to fit into any picture. He has been cursed never to belong since the day he was born less than whole; and yet.

The human at his side eases the distance between Cesemir and the world as if it is nothing.

Emil pulls him in like gravity, the first to ever successfully tether him to a place; to a person. He’s no longer drifting with no destination. All roads lead to one thing and one thing only: protecting Emil from the dangers of his world.

And, perhaps, finding his own happiness along the way.

Emil belongs to @rebsrebsrebsrebs

Was supposed to work on Adlai first but Cesemir took me by storm and I was helpless to resist.

Full profile under the cut!

Basics

Full Name: goes by Cesemir, True Name unknown

Meaning of Name: spin off of ‘Cesimir’ which means destroyer of peace

Age: goes by 24

How Old Do They Appear: early 20’s

Gender: nonbinary

Pronouns: he/him, they/them

Race: half fae, disowned seelie royalty

Birthday: May 21st

Zodiac Sign: Gemini

Sexuality: pansexual

Languages (spoken): English, Latin, Welsh, some Demonic

Current family: N/A

Family Background (parents, previous marriages, etc.): left in the woods as a child, adopted by a human couple. Has no current family

Relationship Status: panicking over has a thing with @rebsrebsrebsrebs Emil

Relationship with Men: neutral

Relationship with Women: neutral

Religion: N/A

Attitude Towards Religion: finds it quaint

Magic

Special Abilities: has a fae form; features large golden antlers, pointed ears, black sclera, sharp teeth and claws

Magical Abilities: nature based, animal communication, transformation, divination

Physical appearance

Complexion: clear, very smooth skin

Skin Color: almond with cool undertones

Eye Color: predominantly purple but can shift due to strong emotion

Glasses or Contacts: tells people his eye color is due to contacts but doesn’t wear them

Hair Color: white

Hair Length: down to his lower back

Usual Hair Style: fluffy bangs parted to the right, usually bound back in braids/ponytails/buns etc.

Face Shape: diamond, very sharp cheekbones

Distinguishing Marks: freckles across his nose and under eyes; scattered across his shoulders

Predominant Features: bright purple eyes, sharp cheekbones, full lips, white eyelashes

Overall Attractiveness: very pretty and otherworldly

Height: 6ft / 182 cm

Body type: willowy

Posture: excellent

Scars: N/A

Tattoos: magical sigils from the nape of his neck down to his tail bone, all in white. Has others that surface when he uses magic

Piercings: left ear: forward helix, industrial, daith, conch, tragus, first-third holes; right ear: first-third holes and a double helix. Collarbones and bellybutton

Usual Fashion of Dress: wears a lot of white and gold, usually a mix of form fitting and flowy clothes; doesn’t care about ‘gendered’ clothes, will wear dresses and skirts just as often as he wears pants

Favorite Outfit: a white high neck halter top that leaves most of his back uncovered, usually with a pair of tight shorts and knee high boots

Jewelry or Accessories: lots of gold jewelry, usually accented with different crystals; a lot of rings and earrings. Translucent accents, shiny belts, etc

Makeup: smokey eyes, dark lipsticks (purple, green, black), eyeliner

Voice: quiet but firm, usually with a playful undertone

Personality

MBTI Personality: Commander (ENTJ-A)

Introvert or Extrovert: Extrovert (65%)

Energy: Intuitive (60%)

Nature: Thinking (67%)

Tactics: Judging (64%)

Identity: Assertive (61%)

Optimist or Pessimist: Optimist

Sense of Humor: wry

Temperament: calm and collected

Attitude: playful, sometimes cold

Expressiveness: fairly blank about any emotions past humor

Ruled by Heart or Mind: Mind

Consideration for Others: varies depending on the situation, low for anyone he doesn’t care for (which is most people)

How Other People See Them: distant but beautiful, out of reach

Opinion of Themselves: hates himself but never shows it, outwardly seems almost arrogant

Strengths: keeps calm under pressure, logical

Flaws: has a hard time handling emotions, especially attachment

Morning Person or Night Owl: both

Favorite Sin: Envy

Favorite Virtue: Fortitude

Health

Energy Levels: fairly high

Disabilities/Mental Issues: has a lot of internalized self hatred and depressive episodes he tries to hide

Phobias: dogs

Why: was attacked by the Wild Hunt as a child and left for dead

Drinking: doesn’t do it often and only drinks wine or fruity stuff

Drugs/Prescriptions: occasionally takes magical drug mixtures to help with his craft, isn’t opposed to weed

Addictions: N/A

Mental Strengths: remaining outwardly calm and unaffected, bargaining and manipulation

Mental Weaknesses: love and attraction

Past/Present Illnesses: was very sickly as a child and can fall ill if he doesn’t spend enough time around nature

Allergies: iron

Memory: excellent

Career

Job Title: Shop owner

Career Type: Magic Retail

Education: a lot, specifics unknown

Work Ethic: high

Career Satisfaction: pretty positive

Preferences

Diet: vegetarian, has a sweet tooth

Favorite Foods: chocolate covered bananas (frozen) and strawberries, green bean and pecan casserole, chocolate cheesecake

Favorite Drinks: apple juice, smoothies

Favorite Movies: doesn’t really watch any

Favorite Books: amused by human romance books, especially if they’re supernatural

Favorite Music: indie

Favorite Place: his shop or anywhere he can lay down in the grass and soak up the sun

Favorite Activities: gardening, transcribing, singing and dancing, volunteering at the animal shelter

Favorite Time of Day: when the moon rises

Favorite Season: spring

Favorite Animal: crow

Hobbies: restoration of magical objects, horseback riding, anything with animals really

#obey me mc #obey me shall we date mc #obey me cesemir #emil #cesemil #cesemir #kayla talks about mcs

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a-woman-apart · 4 years

Text

Separating the Boys from the Men

Yes, that title is click bait, and if you keep reading, you’ve been warned. I’ve got a lot to get off my chest, and it’s going to involve defending masculinity, femininity, and our right to BEHAVE LIKE CHILDREN FOR THE REST OF OUR LIVES because in many ways, we already do.

Let’s get straight to the point. As Millennials, regardless of our age, financial status, or level of “success” (air quotes 100% intentional) we have been accused of being lazy, entitled, and way too enthusiastic about avocado toast. At the same time, we have been described as having enough power to decimate the napkin industry, the diamond industry, and the concept of traditional marriage. We have been accused of a collective “Peter Pan” syndrome, because we “refuse” to cut off papa’s apron strings and get off the proverbial mama’s teats.

Wonderful to know.

Let’s unpack the “lazy” bit. Supposedly, this is tied to the fact that we have access to higher education, we [often, not always] have parents who financially support or house us well into adulthood.

So now, my question is, Gen X (the entitled ones, ironically) and Salty Boomers, YOU DIDN’T?

What do you call that “inheritance” you received? What do you call that education your parents paid for that was less than 1/3 what we have to pay? For Boomers, how do you explain the lavish weddings, cheap [and apparently nuke proof] home appliances, and “nights out on the town” that you were able to afford by working at whatever passed for a McDonald’s back in the day? Working on a farm, at a grocery store, or in retail used to ACTUALLY provide a livable wage; for us, those are a “side hustle” and we still have to get a “big boy job” that usually requires an education that can put us over $100,000 in debt by age 30.

Hate to say it, but if you hadn’t made most of your income “during the War” or in the absolute economic boom that followed it, you wouldn’t survive 24 hours in our shoes before having an emotional collapse.

Despite the disastrous living conditions of the U.S. in the 21st Century, not much has changed in how men define their level of “manliness.”

Financial gains (stocks, bonds, portfolio, bank account)

Bro “gains” (a.k.a. “gym gains”, how “Gaston” they are, including whether they want to go for the Adonis, Apollo, or Brawny boi look, or just how far they can throw something or how “boyish” they look if strength isn’t an option and they suffer from femme-levels of body dysmorphia)

Body count (since we’re in a time of peace and not literally war, this is LITERALLY a modern term describing how many people you’ve slept with, and I have never heard an adult man, regardless of sexual orientation, who isn’t a little concerned about putting those notches in the bed post, and if not that, VERY concerned about his bedroom performance: it’s quality vs. quantity)

Kill death Ratio (I know this is a video game term now, but did you know that before video games, men in England used to regularly get on horseback, get a bunch of hounds together, and chase down tiny foxes and rabbits? FOR FUN?!?!? Did you know, that before modern sports ((including Esports)), men used to just fight to the death, regularly, even if an official war wasn’t going on? It was known as “dueling”, and in less socially developed societies, men still behave like this. So the next time you complain about “male rage” and how heartless it is to make live chickens fight, note that even though we’ve quelled male anger and hostility on some level, you will NEVER be able to take away man’s urge to destroy. Boys and men will always like knocking things over, building things from the rubble, and ruling shit. It’s what they do-- and we women can and do, too, but we have a LOT more risk-aversion and self-preservation, which is a blessing and a curse for our species-- but we just need to make sure humanity as a whole stays...chill)

So what, say ye, has changed about how WOMEN define themselves now vs. in the past. I would say that very little has changed, but the level of internalized misogyny, insecurity, and good-old fashioned denial has SKYROCKETED.

Let’s look at some terms of how the majority of women value themselves.

Financial Security (few women will admit to “wanting to be rich”, because that sounds kind of “Trump”, but plenty will talk about having minimum income requirements for their partner(s), wanting to retire at a young age so they can “travel the world”, wanting to eliminate their debts, etc. It’s different language but essentially it translates to: I want to work so hard or marry into so much wealth that I never want to worry about money after age 35. #Hustle)

Looks (it doesn’t matter if you want a Kardashian butt, you’re in the body positivity movement, or you just want to “dress like a bawse” women are just as obsessed with clothes, image, and body weight/shape/size as they ever were, it is just that now that we’ve “slain the patriarchy” we have more fashion options than ever before, because “boy clothes” are just as “in” as femme ones)

Ability to attract a partner (some women, like me, “chase”, but thanks to biology, most women, regardless of sexual orientation, seem to enjoy being pursued more than being Artemis-style hunters. This is evidenced by the fact that when the feminist owner of Bumble changed the rules of the dating website to where women had to start conversations with men rather than vice versa ((a move that had ostensibly zero effect on lesbian matching)) 72% of women that she later surveyed stated that they liked it better when men were approaching them rather than the other way around. I am sure Bumble’s female CEO was shook ((as was I)), especially because she made the change to empower women, and apparently 72% of women didn’t want the power because it meant they now had the power to face rejection, and it made them uncomfortable. Big yikes. So much for #EndPatriarchy and #ChivalryisDead ?)

Playing house (this is probably going to get me some unfollows, but I’ll take my chances. Women, regardless of sexual orientation, often seem to be REALLY into having babies or just “playing house.” There’s also men like this, too, “Family men” as they’re aptly called, men in love with fatherhood ((or just being called “daddy”, and that will never not be weird)). So many women who never want to pop out a baby describe being taken by an OVERWHELMING urge to fuck during their “fertile window” ((or is that just me?)) and seeing every baby alive as the cutest human being ever once we pass the tender age of 25. The biological clock is REAL, and I learned the hard way that being bisexual and having immense fear of pregnancy and childbirth didn’t spare me from the awful truth of my biology.

I really don’t want to keep making references to modern video games, but they seem to serve the dual purpose of being deeply satisfying and helping us to quell “problematic” urges, including that one to dominate and destroy the world. For a lot of women gamers, though, our choices ((on a broad scale, every #girlgamer is different)) deviate from men’s in some interesting ways.

#1: We still love The Sims Franchise way more than guys do

Not only do we love it, but while a lot of men (again, #notallmen) tend to build elaborate neighborhoods to extensively mod and destroy them in terrifying ways, I still see women gamers taking obscene amounts of time to design homes, raise happy little families, and cause TERRIFYING blood feuds by having Sims marry Sims from rival families ((I guess we’re more Shakespeare than we thought, eh ladies?))

#2: We make up most of mobile gaming

Most male gamers think mobile games “aren’t real” and I tend to agree, but a mobile game is invaluable for when I, a woman, have time to kill between the 3 jobs I hypothetically have and I and don’t want to whip out something like a Nintendo 2DS that is both unwieldly and attracts the eyes of every impoverished, thieving human being in a .5 mile radius. #RiskAversion. These games are often low-quality, mindless, and insanely easy, but that is WHY WE LIKE THEM. Our entire life is a job. #Hustle

#3 We also love farming sims and RPGs

While we-- and most male Millennials-- beg god to not have to birth calves, milk cows, or labor in the tomato fields under the hot sun, most of us have no objection to having our virtual avatars perform the same back-breaking tasks to the tune of cheerful chiptune music. Also, even though men definitely enjoy them, too, I have never met a woman gamer who didn’t enjoy a nice RPG; why do you think we’re such avid readers of fantasy/romance YA?

We want to be transported to a different world, and if you won’t take us there, we’re happy to go there virtually ((because we probably can’t afford travel; we’re still millennials)).

Ability to murder people who threaten our young or our partner(s) (Okay this one is a bit more complicated, but I’m just going to tell you a bit about female animals. DON’T MESS WITH THEIR BABIES IF YOU WANT TO LIVE. Human females, are, in that regard, just as savage, if not more so, than our male counterparts.

I’ve never heard of any woman ((outside of prison, maybe)) who killed another woman for “looking at her weird” or saying “your mama” too many times. I’ve heard plenty of women threaten literal murder because another woman ((or man, we’re #progressive)) came too close to her romantic/sexual partner, or another human being threatened harm on our kids or our “squad.”

I don’t know where the meme truly originated from, but “Don’t talk to me or my son ever again” is SUCH a Mom thing to say. So much misandry is wrapped up in the idea that men are predators, and that is true, but not in the excessively sexually deviant ways you think ((that’s only sometimes true)). They just like hunting things, including people, but if you give them a toy to play with ((I MEAN ACTUAL TOY OMG)) they seem alright. Let them go play with their cars, Xbox, [insert whatever] or something. They’re men, okay, they’re easily distracted/impressed/occupied.

Women, on the other hand, have seemed to be having an EXTREME amount of trouble curbing that baby-making urge, or the Excessive Nurturing Urge, that one that makes you ask your grown husband if he’s remembered to pack lunch for work or if he remembered to pack money for his playdate with his bros, because he’s gonna need money at Six Flags and you aren’t going to bring it to him because he should’ve remembered, you reminded him 30093390 times.

THAT’S NOT HIS FAULT. HE HAS MANAGED BY SOME MIRACLE TO STAY ALIVE FOR 33 YEARS. THAT’S YOU, SWEETIE. STOP BEING SUCH A MOM. GO BE A NURSE, DOCTOR, OR SOCIAL WORKER OR SOMETHING OMG.

In summary...

What separates the “men from the boys” or the “women from the girls” isn’t the era that we were born in to, our economic status, or whether we’ve been able to “conquer” our biology. That’s definitely not possible yet, chiefly because transhumanism involves a lengthy, ethics-guided process, and even if we all turn into cyborgs, the goal is to become BETTER humans, not LESS humane. Societal advancements have done more in terms of making us healthier, less destructive citizens of planet earth than raw technology ever can and ever will. Rapid technological advancement, when not combined with respect for morality, ethical standards of living for humans and all other life forms, almost always leads to human slavery, widespread abuse of animals, sex trafficking, and environmental destruction, because the “rules of supply and demand”, when not governed by strong international trade laws, dictate that consumers should be supplied with whatever they demand, because the suppliers can profit, and their right to profit should be defended at any cost.

So, in summary, I believe that “adulting” involves giving up on entitlement. What separates a truly childish human being-- regardless of their actual age-- from someone who is, in essence, “adulting” is experience, and how much those experiences serve to broaden that person’s perspective. It is an extremely childish, self-centered view, to think that you “deserve” anything for being “a good person” or, in the case of many a “woman child” or “man child” in media and in real life, just being “not so bad.”

Grown-ups are able and willing to do something that is known as “delaying gratification” which is the simple ability to delay a temporary pleasure for a long-term gain. Grown-ups are also able to perform true “cost-benefit analyses” to determine if a course of action, business deal, or even relationship is worth their time and effort. Finally, grown-ups are able and willing and able to make an informed choice and stick to it; in essence, we don’t try to “have our cake and eat it too” we understand that once we’ve eaten that cake, the cake is gone, but we also realize that if we are willing to work hard and make sacrifices, we can earn the ingredients to make ourselves another cake to eat, even if we might need a lot of help from other adults in getting those ingredients (we call this teamwork and cooperation).

Children, on the other hand (in literal and metaphorical terms), are very impatient. They get angry when things don’t go their way, and instead of taking the steps needed to improve their situation, they storm off and return home. It doesn’t matter if their home is with their parents, with their 3 roommates, or with their husband or wife, these people throw tantrums, refuse to communicate/cooperate, and stew in their displeasure until someone feels sorry for them and fixes their problem for them. They lack the ability to work through daily life problems and refuse to take any responsibility for how their actions or inaction contributed to their dilemma.

There is one difference with an actual human child or teen, though, is that they have an excuse. Their brains are still developing, and they haven’t had the chance to live through these situations yet; these are new challenges to them. Even if they do have a “bad attitude”, with help from peers and patients, principled adult mentors and teachers, these cantankerous kids can grow into well-adjusted, able adults. The high levels of neuroplasticity in their brains actually make it so that it is easier for them to accept large amounts of sensory data and to learn from processing and practicing using it.

An “adult child” is someone who, more often than not, has been coddled instead of challenged. These people have often faced no significant hardships in life. There is a reason why, even after we have recognized the immense downsides of authoritarian parenting and have demonstrated psychological harms of corporal punishment for kids, we still call “bad kids” and “irresponsible adults” spoiled.

Authoritarianism produces rigid, scared people who often struggle with critical thinking and self-esteem or end up being authoritarian parents themselves, but that last one is actually one of the less likely options. Children of authoritarian parents often develop Borderline Personality Disorder or become defiant against authority (shocker). Overly permissive or overly neglectful parenting, though, are parental styles most associated with producing narcissists, who often become authoritarian parents, because when their kids challenge them, they completely lack the patience or emotional capacity to deal with it and resort to “because I said so”, stonewalling and/or physical abuse as forms of “character-building.”

The reason why overly permissive parents spoil their kids is because kids actually do need discipline and guidance, and so these kinds of parents produce kids who are outwardly capable and confident but completely lack any of the life skills to justify it, and when they ask their parents for advice they are just met with a bunch of hippie mumbo jumbo or told to just avoid the conflict rather than resolve it. These kids grow into adults who are still sad little kids inside, because they never grew up, but now they’re sad little kids who are articulate and well-spoken and now can-- and often have no choice-- but to con their way through adult life because they’ve maxed out Charisma and they have almost no points in Strength, Intelligence, Wisdom, or Dexterity.

The only parenting style worse than Authoritarian and Neglectful/Permissive is Mixed, in which a child grows up in a COMPLETELY unpredictable environment where the rules of the game change from day to day, and parents either give their children no attention at all, or they practically lock them up and throw away the key. Being raised like this is associated with the worse outcomes for the child throughout life.

So, why am I now talking about parenting styles? Because, for all that we love to trash Boomers and large swaths of Gen X on this page, we can’t forget where they came from, so we cannot allow them to forget WHO THEY MADE. It isn’t an accident that even though we live in the times of incredible economic hardship, WE are the generation (and Gen Z, to some extent) that got hooked on reality TV, video games, and social media in incredibly unhealthy ways. A lot of us 30+ millennials are growing out of it, and a lot of us have realized that it is an invaluable (and damn near unavoidable) way of marketing our products and talents. We’re often self-employed because that’s our only option in most cases.

The issue with Gen Z (who, while we called “Zoomers” now just all themselves “Doomers” and I think we should be a bit concerned about that) is that unlike us, they have no memory of “Before the Internet.” We remember dial up, we remember before that when you played outside untl the sun went down. They don’t have the privilege of being linked to that history.

Now, we have to be the Bigger Person. It’s our time to be Grown-Ups. Gen Z feels really fucking lost right now, and hearing us whine about our parents probably makes them pretty pissed off, when some of us older millennials are the parents, aunts/uncles, and older siblings to Gen Z kids. Even if we can’t be mentors, we have to lead by example, because we have a responsibility to these kids. A lot of them aren’t stupid, they see exactly what’s happening and they feel incredibly hopeless about it. Greta Thunberg is still 16 years old. She shouldn’t be out there doing that; I mean seriously, climate change is accelerating, but it isn’t even as bad as Al Gore said, it’s still reversible, but the fact that SHE FELT SHE HAD TO makes us shitty people. ALL OF US.

So you know, we all need to stop being hypocrites. We need to stop being entitled. We need to stop thinking this is about us. It isn’t. Not even close. We’re not important, even if our videos go viral or if we’re swimming in cash next to hot models by a huge swimming pool. America’s fucked up. I hate to sound Republican, but it’s because of our values. We suck at valuing what’s important, and if we don’t change that soon, it’s really going to suck to live in America.

It already does.

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amphtaminedreams · 5 years

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S/S 2020 Fashion Month: A Basic, Uneducated Fashion Heaux’s A-Z of Everything Noteworthy (Part 3/3)

Hi to anyone reading,

I’m finally at the end!

It’s only taken me, like, over 2 months but I’m finally about to review the last 5 shows I wanted to talk about from this year’s RTW offerings for S/S 2020. It’s very frustrating that I couldn’t include them in the last post and make this a nice, neat, equally sized two part thing but Tumblr was being difficult and so here I am. On the plus side, I guess I can also make this post a bit of a round-up of my ultimate favourite collections of this year and some of my absolute favourite looks!

To quickly finish my review though, I’m gonna start this post with Vivienne Westwood’s S/S 2020 collection!

And I hate to start the post on a downer but I wasn’t wild about it. The bridal look worn by Bella Hadid and the similarly structured red dress are the only pieces that I really love. The accessories are beautiful, especially the shell necklace, and the fitted corset upper halves are very flattering, however, there’s just nothing particularly exciting about this collection for me.

As for YSL’s S/S 2020 collection, my opinion is pretty similar. Don’t get me wrong, I personally love the embroidered pieces, and the jewell tones, and the whole art teacher/female Russell Brand vibe (I’m aware this is my second Russell Brand comparison of this review, don't @ me) but why does there have to be SO GODDAMN MANY FUCKING SEQUIN SUITS? I included a couple of the more interesting ones just for reference and can you believe that’s only about 1/10 of the sequin suits that were actually shown. I feel like they genuinely made up a good 33% of the show. It’s so boring and overdone from Saint Laurent, like you really can’t convince me that they didn’t do this exact same thing last year and the Eiffel Tower being in the background and the presence of the goddess that is Naomi Campbell and all the fancy lighting in the world isn’t a distraction enough because they DID THAT LAST YEAR TOO. It’s just disappointing from a brand like YSL who really has the money to take it to any wacky and inventive place that they want, and who has drawn on so many historical and cultural references in the past; the bohemian looks I am here for, everything else can go.

Next is Zadig and Voltaire, which is obviously more of a pedestrian brand than YSL, but still...disappointing.

I guess disappointing is the wrong word really because it’s not as if I had especially high hopes, it’s just that in comparison to a collection like Off-White’s, which was also a lot more of a “wearable” line, this is very Stradivarius/Zara/H&M/any member of the Inditex group. I like the ruffles, but we’ve seen them done in a much more interesting way in pretty much every other show and same with the blazers and suits. Even the styling of the teal faux fur coat, which I adore, is meh. Even Emily DiDonato can’t save it for me and that’s saying something because she honestly might be one of the most beautiful women on this planet.

On a more positive note, Zimmerman was beautiful. In a collection inspired by the ocean, the tranquil colour palette, the ornate, frothy ruffles and the flowing materials are dead on, and indulgently so. I can see most of these pieces having universal appeal and looking good on anyone, and yet this wearability doesn’t make the collection boring by any means; I think it really is a matter of having a clear concept and attention to detail that save more subtle shows from falling by the wayside.

And lastly, Zuhair Murad, which is always a designer I look forward to; I love a good princess dress and on that, he always delivers.

However, whilst there’s a similar feel and colour palette to Zimmerman, I’d say this collection doesn’t have quite as clear a direction. There’s definitely a lot of recurring themes of the ruffles and the high necks and the bohemian prints and suits that we’ve seen throughout fashion month, but this still doesn’t feel like the most relevant or current collection I’ve ever seen from Murad. It goes without saying that the dresses are beautiful but in the context of a red carpet where every dress is a princess dress, I can’t imagine any of these taking my breath away which is usually the case.

I really WANTED to end on a positive note, I’m sorry! And there were so so many amazing moments this season. In general, I’m excited for a lot of the trends that are seemingly going to be coming up: more of the milkmaid thing, peasant blouses, bohemian influences and a shit load of gorgeous suits!

I was going to try and do a top 10 but I honestly have too many favourites so I’m making into a...top 20. It sounds like a cop-out, but when there’s THIS many shows to go through I think a top 20 is perfectly fair.

1. Gucci

It has to be my favourite overall. The clearest concept, the most beautiful colours, and a whole range of interesting accessories and structures. Blew everything else out the water. Might make like Elsie Fisher in Eighth Grade and just start randomly saying Gucci out loud at totally inappropriate moments to express my love.

2. Marc Jacobs

Kooky and in your face but also thoughtful and delicate. Every piece is a statement.

3. Moschino

The intersection where art meets fashion is always my favourite place to lurk and so it’s not surprise that Moschino’s Picasso inspired collection ticked so many boxes for me. Aside from that, the structures are gorgeous and on trend and I love the accessories.

4. Valentino

So. Many. Heavenly. Dresses.

5. Mugler

Definitely the sexiest S/S 2020 collection.

6. Paco Rabanne

I mean, yes, it is a little primary school teacher-y (it’s probably the coloured socks), but a fashion-y, wear-it-to-the-club version of primary school teacher style.

7. Ralph and Russo

A prissy pastel dream that channels the Sandra Dee sleepover scene from Grease in the modern day, the only thing that could’ve added to the Ralph and Russo show would be a more diverse group of models.

8. Brock

There’s never going to be an appropriate moment to wear any of the garments from the Brock collection. Does that mean I’m going to stop thinking about it? Never.

9. Balmain

I know Balmain didn’t go down too well with the fashion critics but the noughties pop girls obsessed child in me loveddddd it.

10. Etro

Not the most high-fashion but I would wear.

11. Dion Lee

Dion Lee took corsets and suspenders and harnesses and turned that whole dominatrix trend on its head by pairing them with androgynous silhouettes, fresh whites and subtle nude tones, and I’m here for it!

12. Alessandra Rich

Eighties presidential candidate’s wife/sorority queen realness.

13. Dilara Findikoglu

Definitely my favourite of the more “avant-garde” shows we saw this year.

14. Oscar de la Renta

These dresses speak for themselves, do I really need to say any more?

15. Christopher Kane

Christopher Kane made galaxy print cool again for the first time since it was murdered by 2013 “hipster” Tumblr and then buried 6ft under by the plethora of £5 and under wholesale retailers who thought it would be a good idea to mass produce leggings with said print on.

16. Loewe

Delicate, purposeful and refined, Loewe put out a practical yet very, very pretty and season-appropriate spring collection.

17. Thom Browne

Thom Browne brought Marie Antoinette onto the runway. ‘Nuff said.

18. Louis Vuitton

I will never turn my nose up at anything 70s influenced and Louis Vuitton’s collection was probably the most authentic (and thus kinda ugly at times) that I’ve seen.

19. Simone Rocha

If I ever became part of some modern day witchy, forest-God worshipping cult, I would expect us all to be wearing Simone Rocha’s 2020 S/S collection and nothing less.

20. Vera Wang

Jenny Humphrey in Gossip Girl for the 2019 e-girl xoxo

SO.

3 parts and 3 months later, this is my review of fashion month 2019 coming to an end. I mean, it’s actually closer to A/W 2020 fashion week now than it is to S/S 2020 buuuut let’s just forget that little detail because I had NO FUCKING IDEA it would take this long.

If there’s anyone out there who read this to the end (and I highly, highly doubt there is and I don’t blame you) or even anyone that looked at the pictures (which is probably what I would do), please let me know! It got a bit long at times but I have generally reallllly enjoyed doing this and more than anything it’s got me sad that I’ll never see these shows in person :( sad times :( oh to be on the benefiting end of nepotism :(

Thank you sooo much!

Lauren x

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hungryflowers · 4 years

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Let Me Fall In Love With You

RadioHusk Week Prompt Day 6: Why Are you Like This

Chapter 6: Not There, But Getting There

He moved on. Alastor bitterly mouthed to himself. Despair bit at his heart like a feral beast with icy fangs. He could feel the maw rip a hole through his chest, plunging the knives into the blackening meat over and over again. There were tiers to despair, he found out. The first one was the smoldering, unquenched fire stirring up in his bones; any movements he made, sounds he heard, voices that spoke stoked the flames until the reached into the second tier. The scorching was when the fires came out. Rage unfamiliar, intense, violent rushed out of him. It was fuel from his smoldering, the fires warring out of control, heat slithering into his mind as it ruled his every thought. It became a parasite that made him act upon irrationality. In this fit he would scream, mostly at himself, throw things, rip up and down his home upheaving many things along the way. After it was over the final tier came; snuffing.

It came when he was tired, apathetic, emotionless to the damage he had caused. To everything; from his home to the frailty of the relationship he wanted to have. He’d lay in his bed, on the floor, he’d sit by the fireplace for an hour or so just to leer at the flames until his eyes hurt. He would go hours without the sustenance of a meal one minute, then go and binge to feel something the next. It was like this for him now; the feelings of fullness in his belly but not in his empty shell he excused for a beating heart. He wondered why his heart even kept up beating if he wasn’t well, and in truth, very dead.

His eyes sprang with droplets of what tasted like salt from his eyes on every other occasion. He’d grown accustomed to their taste and feel, so he let them fall from his eyes in silent weeps. The frontal sadness making his shake like the brittle leaves in a winter wind. The things barely clinging to life on the tree.

When he was done feeling sorry... for anything, he’d go out on the town to his Parlor. The lively jazz and swinging atmosphere could do the trick in helping out his mood. He’d be out there all night, listening to the music, watching the girls sing and dance past him, spare a glance to a gentleman or two who wanted to hear him sing again. The radio demon became more a spectator than an owner at his club. There were no new talents he went to introduce, no drink specials, no fun dance and song numbers tonight. The liveliness sailed clean out of him. He let the club pass him by every single night. For a month straight. He did do something when he went however. He forgets his resentment toward himself on how he treated Husk.

The feeling was to remain temporary. Each time he went home, the despair coiled inside of him again. This cycle was never going to end.

Alastor decided to shake up his usual pity party by going further into the city. The places where he felt like he needed to spend his time were going to be much different than what he’d prefer. Not to say he had never been to some of these places before, he didn’t frequent them like the grander majority of the others. Huge grin plastered on his face, posture highly exaggerated, a simple tune playing on his lips, Alastor went inside to a cleanly looking chateaux building known merely as Champagne. The flashing white neons brought in a luxurious, risqué feel to the place. One would most likely mistake it for a brothel on the outside.

Clear to form on the inside, the establishment was more like an extravagant lounge area with unnecessarily long lounging couches, purplish pink tile floors and tactful decorations by the walls. Every inch of the lounge was aesthetic and pleasing to the eyes, as well as varying other senses. Alastor didn’t much care for women who’s eyes were on him the second he entered the double doors. They greeted him with a superficial retail smile and a little coy giggle, a few of them tried at getting handsy yet never touched him. Other females kept their distance, but never stopped scoping out the chance to get near him.

With a flick of his wrist Alastor gestured to one of the many girls at the bar. Heels clacked on the tiles as she bent over suggestively to take his order. She was a bit tall, though the heels could keep up the illusion. Siren like yellow eyes shimmered in the neons of the lounge, her skin appeared a slight grey, or an off white and she was covered in sleek, silkened fur. Well trimmed nails tapped on an electric device before she gestured to listen, short ears swiveling to Alastor’s attention.

Alastor kept it simple with his drink, just an Ol’ Fashioned and she was sent on her way to fetch it. Though not before grazing her nails along his down facing palm.

The joint didn’t look too busy tonight, in spite of it being in a high traffic part of the city. Intriguing thought to not have that many sinners out tonight. This side was a prowler’s paradise. He paid for his drink, tipping his hat to the server then headed out for the night, nothing sparking his interest in the club.

Alastor went for a walk. He didn’t have a clear destination in mind for sometime. The streets appeared a bit desolate on this night, giving a visual light of how he was feeling on the inside. Save a few smaller imps causing mischiefs wherever they went nothing struck to him. His mind mumbled on how he would never get the opportunity to see Husk again, nor find out if there was anything he could do to fix the wrong. There wasn’t a use on lamenting on it now. Husk found no love in him. There was no love to be found in this beast, Alastor scoffed bitterly. His ears drooped more, perforated smile wobbling, seeming to wilt at the corners. Those same salty drops stung at the corner of his eyes.

That cycle of misery began anew as he went as far away to make sure no others were able to see him like this.

The park gate was open as he went through to find a more quiet area. The skies bled deeper shades of red as he went further into the woods. The shades merged with Alastor’s jacket as the shadows twisted off in the distance. His eyes went to the shadowy shaded shelter of a mighty oak; leaves not yet shed, splotches of red and oranges decorated the trunks and branches. A soft gust pulled some of the leaves causing them to rustle in a whisper. The roots appeared to be coming out of the ground, some intertwining with each other, the more few peeking out to look like a sleeping place.

In its shadow, Alastor looked so small. Helpless, even defenseless. The salty drops rained down his cheeks before Alastor collapsed on the trunk, ears falling back totally, eyes squeezed shut in the phantom throngs on pain. His face began to hurt as he sniveled and snarled. He had never done this before. Since his eternity in Hell, nothing has ever brought him to this pain. He was invincible. A telling of power and strength. He comes from an era that projects his strength; the force and will of a man. He never saw any men around him have this feeling before. Not even his own father told him about this kind of dread, shame and misery. There’s nothing he can make of this ultimate sadness.

He lets his feelings flow. Unchecked and unfiltered, and now it starts to make him feel different. It isn’t a bad feeling, but it doesn’t make him feel good. More tears fall, a sigh comes unevenly. The breeze caresses his stinging cheeks- no... not a breeze. He withdraws immediately to feel the feathery tell of a tail brushing against his face. He opens his eyes to peer at the flickering red plumage at the end of the sooty tail.

“So the Radio Demon cries?” The weathered tone sounds too familiar. It’s exactly who he expects.

Alastor looks up to see Husk, perched quietly on the top of one of the branches close to Alastor. He seems to smile at him, marigold eyes closing slow and soft as his tail swipes along the deer demon’s face, wiping away the stray tears.

“H-Husk...,” He sounds so exhausted, in pain even, “How... H-How did you... I-I thought I was-”

“Alone?” Husk inquired, ears tilting to the sniffling of the young man. His pupils widened when Alastor nodded before slumping against the tree. Both accumulated silence, the quiet giving Alastor time to right himself while he thought of the next thing to say. Husk managed to sit up to stretch, the angle of his body creaking and crackling in discomfort. A minor shake later and Husk was climbing downwards to sit next to the deer demon.

“So this is what a month without me reduced you to?”, Husk says pitifully, “Jesus you look like shit.” The male laughed when Alastor turned to look at him.

“I...I normally am not like this.” He whispers, static coming and going.

“What? Sobbing like an orphan? Yeah, crying’s really hard to do around here.” Husk’s paw went to Alastor’s face, scrubbing some trails.

“I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry. I never would have done that if I knew it was bound to make things worse. I can’t wrong you for hating me, for fearing me. For... despising me. I’m an overlord. I’m one of powers of occult magics and elite status, I’m just not used to being told ‘no’, or having to force myself to get a hard look at...well, myself,” The radio demon brushed back his hair, gloves a bit damp from drying his tears, “I realize now that everything I was trying just wasn’t making you happy. And if that��s something you want more of, I’ll step aside. This won’t continue, I’ll move on, if it’s just for your sanity.”

Husk kept quiet the whole of Alastor’s apology. He felt like he shouldn’t accept it, but something about him just made his heart give. Who knew a month of stewing in your own failure did the trick in making him realize he’d been in the wrong. Husk wanted to keep brushing the tears from Alastor’s eyes, he wanted to shove himself into him and give the biggest hug that would do the best in calming him down. He wanted a lot of things, but this was just fine for him.

Alastor. The infamous Radio Demon let his walls down, apologized openly to him. Between them now was not a barrier of mistrust and disguised discomfort. At this moment, Husk could, was feeling sorry for him.

“I-I-I just want to make this, us better. If you’ll allow me.” The deer demon lifted his left hand, holding it close enough for Husk to keep his eye on, but never to touch.

The old male looked at Alastor’s hand and then his face. His smile was warbled and trembling. His frame looked as if it were to fall apart, crumble if a single gust of wind were to blow. He was a mess, way too vulnerable for any other Sinner to see him like this. Husk’s full moon wide eyes rippled in the night; the only light that looked natural in all of the bloody red.

Husk’s own claw extended. Alastor watched it, unsure. He probably felt that he was going to knock it away and storm away. He had it in his head that he was beyond forgiveness at this point. This his words were just theatre and there was nothing genuine in the tangent to be shown. The thoughts vanished the moment Husk’s supple paw closes over Alastor’s willow-like fingers.

“I’m glad that you don’t want to keep things the way they used to be. The thought being body-slammed every time I tell ya to fuck off is grating. Al, I don’t want you to go anywhere feeling how you feel now. So that just means you’re stuck with me until you get your shit together.” The cat chuckled as he pulled him in for a wide hug. His wings opened, leaning down to caress over the other man’s body.

“Wait...what?” Alastor’s response was watery and shaky at best. His body shook as fresh tears streamed down his cheeks.

“You heard me,” Husk could feel the free fall of his own tears as he pulled Alastor in more, “We’re in this for the long haul, so you better get used to it.” He laughed as his cheek fur brushed into Alastor’s cheekbones. There was a little rumble coming from Alastor as the deer demon chuckled with him.

“Should I ever be so lucky? Why are you like this?” The tears died down as the young man leant in further, body going lax in Husk’s assured grip.

“Like what? Funny and blunt as fuck? Years of turning my nose up at everyone and failing to care makes it that much easier.” He pulled back a slight, cheek still nestled into Alastor’s.

“I want to start over. I owe you all of that.” Alastor pulled back to look Husk in the face.

“Don’t want that. No reason to go back to where we were. Let’s just take off from where we are.” Husk softened a touch as he pressed his forehead to Alastor’s. He sighed in contentment, his paw still holding Alastor’s as he pressed to his chest.

“I...love you.” Alastor stated shyly.

“Not... quite there in terms of affirmations yet. Let’s just be like this for a while longer.” Husk pulled away, eyes lulling dreamily as he nuzzled Alastor again.

“Okay...”, The younger gent sighed softly, “Do you want to come back home with me? I’ll make you a fresh meal. With just my hands. I promise I won’t do anything.” He pulled his knees out from underneath as he tried to stand. His smile brightened when Husk nodded, his posture welcoming to the idea.

“I can eat. I’d like that a lot.” It was a simple response with a special feeling tied deep within. The gesture, the words. They had all been fine for Alastor during this time. Now he felt as if he didn’t want to move too fast in the hopes of keeping this safe. And keeping Husk happy. He’d have to relearn this type of love. Now’s a better than ever and Husk looked to be patient.

After all, anything worth having is definitely worth fighting for. And Alastor was willing to go to war to protect it. If that’s what it all meant.

#hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #hazbin hotel husk #husk #alastor

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nicknederson · 5 years

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you know what i want?

a nancy drew reboot of the old mysteries with a modern take similar to the first person perspective of the nancy drew diaries

so anyway i wrote the first chapter of secret of the old clock (edit: chapter two; chapter three; chapter four)

"Can you wash cashmere?"

“Nancy Drew.”

“Don’t yell at me. It was a joke, Bess Marvin.” Not a very good one, I’d admit. But lately, Bess was on edge about her cousin’s upcoming wedding. I could have cracked the best joke of the century and she would have told me she didn’t have time for humor because she had to focus on flower arrangements. I seriously couldn’t even remember what cousin was getting married. But I was being a good friend. Which is why I was here. At the department store. Picking out our rehearsal dinner outfits.

“Nancy, I cannot deal with this right now,” Bess said with enough dramatic flair to star in a school play. That was one of her new favorite words- cannot. I guess can't just wasn't cutting it anymore. "I have a bridesmaid dress fitting in about ten minutes and I'm pretty sure I gained about ten pounds so they're going to be making even more alterations to it!"

"Maybe stop eating your weight in chocolate-covered strawberries," I tried.

"Oh, what do you know?" Bess complained. "Just buy whatever off the rack and you can return it if I don't like it."

"Yeah, I can return it," I said about as dryly as I could manage. "Because I clearly don't have anything else to do with my life." I really didn't. “But Bess, I think you’re taking this a little too seriously. Laura-“

“Lily.”

“Lily probably doesn’t want you stressing this much about the wedding,” I said. “I mean, you’re a bridesmaid. Not the maid of honor.” I had more of my speech. All about how weddings were archaic and really just a means to trap women in a cycle of impossible standards and unnecessary self-punishment.

“Yeah, that’s great, Nancy. Get me something blue. It’ll match my eyes.” And then she hung up. Well, so much for my speech. It was a good one, too. George Fayne- Bess’s cousin who wasn’t the Lily side of the family and my other best friend- would have liked it. Unfortunately, George was up in the mountain for a summer sports camp and could be reached by pigeon more reliably than cell phone. And here I was- shopping for clothes at our sleepy town of River Heights’s only department store right back at home. No big summer plans or schemes of grandeur before school started again.

That said, I couldn't really complain. Summer was supposed to be the best thing in the world when you were sixteen and didn’t have much to do. Plus, I did need to do some shopping for new clothes, anyway. And I had the benefit of my dad being nice and footing the bill for me. I was originally supposed to get a job this summer- something underpaid, underappreciated, and with a silly uniform presumably in the form of a hat shaped like a hot dog-, but that didn’t happen. Simply put, I forgot. There were probably applications buried somewhere in my room.

I would pay my dad back, don’t get me wrong. But for the time being, I preferred the term ‘appreciated’ to ‘spoiled rotten’. Though that term could easily be applied to two girls I happened to spot talking to a sales associate one aisle over. The place that I picked to shop at wasn't exactly high-end, but it obviously wanted to be. And that was also a fitting description for the two girls.

"This is abhorrent," one of them was snarling at the poor sales rep. Both of them looked to be about my age, but this one just looked older. Maybe it was her greasy hair, maybe it was her major overbite- personally, I thought it was both. She was short, stout, and angry in contrast to the rather vapid-looking girl standing next to her with her eyes sort of glazed over. She was rail thin and sort of pretty if you looked at her from exactly the right angle. Potentially on a full moon with the planets properly aligned and an eyepatch over one eye to make her seem further away from you than she was. "Do you know who we are?"

I'll admit it- I was curious. I have this natural inclination to be nosy and it's gotten me into a few weird situations. But I love drama as much as I love intrigue so I was all ears for this conversation. Pretending to peruse a rack of ugly skirts nearby, I expertly eavesdropped on the conversation. "My apologies, Miss Topham," the sales rep sputtered out. "But I was helping someone else until just now and-"

"My sister and I are about to be very rich!" the stout girl spat. I don't think the tall skinny one knew how to use her mouth to form words. "And we will remember how awful your service is when that happens, do you hear me?"

I will also admit to another weakness of mine- I hate watching people get treated unfairly. It was what made me stick up for kids getting picked on on the playground since I could first walk two steps in front of me. And what was happening a few feet away from me definitely looked like bullying. So when the shorter sister sent the sales rep scurrying off to find something for her, I continued to pretend like the ugly skirts were actually the best thing I'd ever seen just to make sure they didn't do something else awful to the poor sales lady. It didn't take very long for them to do exactly that. "What is that?" the short one harped when the sales rep presented her with a dress. "Isabel, have you ever seen something more hideous?"

The dress wasn't bad. It was a cute powder blue slip that had tulle design near the top of it. It was something Bess might like- especially because it was blue. Still, the taller girl- Isabel- nodded fervently to her sister's claim. Keeping an amicable expression was clearly the sales rep's greatest achievement for the day. "Oh, but this is just in off the designers from Paris. It's haute couture." I wasn’t much of a fashion plate, but I could tell that probably wasn’t true. I wasn't going to fault her for trying. She probably made commission.

Still, the stout sister stuck her nose up at it like it were covered in dog poo. "I don't know what that means, but it certainly doesn't mean 'even mildly fashionable'," she threw out before snatching the dress away from the sales rep. "Go find us something else that doesn't make our eyes hurt."

I could tell by the sales rep momentary slip in composure that that was not her usual job. She practically slunk off to do the girl's bidding and didn't look too happy about it in the process. Meanwhile, Isabel peered at the dress with her big, dewy eyes while her sister held it up and sneered at it. "It's not too bad," she whispered, just loud enough for me to hear it from where I was lingering near the ugly cardigans. I don't know why they thought putting them next to the ugly skirts was a good arrangement. "Mama would like it." Isabel's voice was worse than her face- a high, reedy voice that sounded sort of like a kazoo that someone had left in the sandbox.

Her sister checked the price tag on the supposedly 'ugly dress' and scoffed. "It's too expensive. Daddy would throw a fit if we started spending all of old Crowley's money before we even got it." Now that was an interesting sentence. "But we can just make an adjustment." An even more interesting sentence. Coupled with the fact that she reached up one grubby hand to rip some of the tulle on the dress right off had me nearly drop my jaw in shock. "There," the squatter sister cooed, seemingly pleased with herself. She switched back to sour-faced a second later when the sales rep returned with an arm full of dresses. "We've changed our minds. We'll take this one." She pointed to the blue dress in her hands. "But we will not pay full price."

The sales rep looked like she'd just been punched. "But that's one of a kind!" she said, clearly flustered. "It's the only one in the store."

"Well, it's damaged," snapped the stout sister. Isabel just stood by blank-faced. I realized she kind of looked like a ferret. Her sister, on the other hand, was just a plain rat. "We want 25% off."

"But-" the sales rep couldn't even finish her sentence. I couldn't blame her.

"Where is your manager?" the stout sister trilled. "I demand to speak with him."

At that exact moment, a balding man walking by reeled around on his heel- face serious. "I'm the manager," he announced. "What seems to be the problem here?"

The sales rep went pale as the shorter girl peered at the bald man. "Your associate here just tried to sell us a damaged dress at full price," she insisted.

"No, I didn't!" the sales rep yelped. She snapped her mouth shut the moment her manager levelled her with a look. The 'how dare you be rude to this customer' look that every retail worker feared.

"I'm very sorry, miss," the manager said with a bow of his head. "We'll give you a discount if you'd still like the item. And we'll even pay for the damage to be repaired by a top quality seamstress."

From the looks of the dress, it didn't even deserve that much. But while Isabel had a rather self-satisfied look on her face, her sister didn't look like she was done. "One more thing," she said sweetly. Granted, her attempt at 'sweet' reminded me of black licorice that melted on a dirty sidewalk. "You should take the fee for the repair out of her salary." She pointed at the sales rep and the woman visibly looked ready to faint. "It's only fair."

The manager hesitated for a second before he nodded. "Of course-"

I'd had enough. With a funny little hop, I was over to the group in seconds. "Excuse me," I called out. I flashed a smile- hopefully not looking super awkward. "Yeah, hi, I was just over there and saw the whole thing. She-" I pointed to the sales rep, "Did not try to sell them a damaged dress. They-" I pointed to the two sisters who were giving me the evil eye. "Ripped it when she wasn't looking to try and get a discount."

I could tell I was the sales rep's new best friend. And that I was the Topham sisters' new worst enemy. "She's lying!" the short sister shouted. "I would never do something like that."

Figuring she'd say that, I grabbed her wrist- turning it to reveal some small blue strings of fabric on her palm. "You have some fabric on the hand you ripped it with," I provided fluidly. "And you'll see that there is also some on the floor by your feet. Not anywhere else on the floor- meaning that the dress was only ripped and losing threads right around here."

The girl jerked her hand back as her face went bright red. Her sister looked ready to bolt straight out the door. "I don't know who you think you are-"

"Given the evidence," the manager coughed, interrupting them. "I'm going to have to ask you pay for the full price of the dress you damaged."

The short sister looked like her face was going to explode. "I don't want it!" she shouted. Some other shoppers were starting to linger around the spectacle she was making the same way I had. And of course, the manager was quick to notice.

"I'm sorry, but you damaged the dress so you must buy it," he insisted. "And then I have to ask you to never set foot in my store again."

It seemed a little rash, but the short sister's reaction was worse. She straight up threw the dress onto the ground. "I won't buy that! You can't make me!" Then she stormed off- her sister trailing in her angry wake all the way to the door.

Once they were gone, the sales rep gave a sigh of relief. "I can't thank you enough," she told me. "The repair for that would have cut my pay more than half!"

I just stuck with smiling. "It's no problem," I assured her. "If anyone had been around to see how awful they were to you, they'd have done the same thing." That didn't seem to stop the sales rep from looking at me like I’d accessorized with a halo and matching wings that morning.

"Regardless," the manager spoke up, clearing his throat again. "We're still going to have to do something about this dress."

"Wait-" I reached forward a took a hold of the dress to take a look at the tab. "I'll take it."

The manager looked just as shocked as the sales rep did. "But it's damaged," the manager had to remind me.

"It's not too bad," I assured him. I touched some of the ruffles that the shorter Topham had ripped. "I could probably fix it myself."

"Well," the manager huffed. "At least let me give you a complimentary discount. Both for your help in exposing those two young ladies as crooks and for helping Loralei here."

I didn't argue. I just considered it a bonus. As Loralei rung me up with the 50% discount, I couldn't help, but poke my nose even further into other people's business. You know, as I'm wont to do. "Who were those girls anyway?" I asked. "I mean, did you know them?" I’d never seen them in school before over at River Heights High. After that display, I really didn’t want to.

I could tell by Loralei's face that she did. I could also tell she didn't really want to reveal that information. But I just waited patiently until she caved. Despite everything that had just happened, Loralei was still a sales rep- they loved to gossip about customers. "Those were the Tophams. They've been in here before. Ada and Isabel." Knowing that Isabel was the skinny one, I assumed Ada had to be the stout one. It was fitting because I had never heard of someone with a more unfortunate name. Very invocative of covered wagons and long trips overland with plenty of dysentery. "Don't get me wrong, they spend money when they're here so they're technically good customers. But what you just saw was pretty much the standard fare for dealing with those two."

I just nodded along like this was all news to me and I was a completely impartial party. "I think I heard them mention something about an... old man Crowley?" I had, in fact, heard that, but Loralei didn't need to know that.

At the mention of the name, her eyes went wide. "Oh, you're from around here, are you?" I nodded. "I’m from a town over- in Hayworth. It’s been the subject of debate around there for the last few months!" She paused to look around for other customers before leaning across the counter to elaborate. "See, Josiah Crowley was this eccentric old man who lived around here. He never really had a home- always stayed with relatives no matter how distant- but he was supposedly loaded up to the eyeballs. Well, the last family who got stuck with him was the Tophams- Richard and his wife Cora. And when Crowley passed away, they came forward with a will that gave all his properties, money, and stocks to them!" I made the appropriate face so that she knew I found this just as shocking as she did. "Normally, who cares about those sorts of things, but the Crowley will just struck so many people as strange. He wasn't really a big fan of the Tophams. Fact, they hated him up until they found out he was dying and they'd profit from it. But Crowley used to promise a lot of his other- much nicer- relatives that they'd live comfortably after his death." Loralei gave an unaffected shrug. "Those poor people will never see a dime. A few of them were even contesting the will."

"Really?" I didn't have to feign interest now. I was definitely interested in all this talk of a mysterious will. Hayworth was a little town off the side of a little town- that kind of drama was uncommon for such a sleepy place. And I could swear the name Crowley sounded familiar. Not just ‘two seconds ago when I asked about it’ familiar, but ‘I’ve heard it somewhere before, but didn’t pay too much attention to it’ familiar. "Do you think they stand a chance?"

Loralei gave me a level sort of look as the machine spat out a receipt. "I don't think so." She ripped the receipt off and handed it to me. My 'savings' happened to be in the triple digits and I was sure Bess would just love her new rehearsal dinner dress. "Crowley was a weirdo and not all there on a good day. Chances are, those Tophams coerced him into re-writing the will in their favor." She put a manicured finger to her lips. "But you didn't hear that from me."

I smiled back. "Of course not."

#is it considered fanfiction if it's a concept that the publisher actually needs to do?#no it's called brilliance #i completely used up all my breaks at work just typing up the first few chapters of this #nancy's sixteen which is in direct violation of my own sacred drew canon rules #but i also figured it was a good age for this type of mystery #and ninety percent of the updated plot #this is like the unholy mix of both revised and unrevised sotoc #i planned for chickens

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arabellaflynn · 5 years

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If I read one more article on "Marilyn Monroe's dress size", I am going to roll my eyes so hard I will be stuck staring at my own frontal lobe. Marilyn Monroe did not have a dress size. She had a range of measurements which would not have fit into any commercial garment, or commercial garment pattern, then or now, without extensive modification. The reason she looked so good all the time is that literally everything she wore was either custom made for her, or tinkered with by a dressmaker who knew their stuff. You will not look like that in anything you buy from a store. Marilyn Monroe would not look like that in anything she bought from a store. Clothing just does not come in that shape. This rant is inspired by a shopping trip I took last week. I went to buy jeans, because A) it's my birthday on Monday, and B) all of my pants are falling off again. I blocked out an entire afternoon for this. Partly that was me assuming that if I wanted to get a pair of jeans that would last more than a month for under $10, I was going to have to embark on an epic quest through every Goodwill in Boston. But also that was me armed with the knowledge that when I try on clothing, I don't get to ask, "Does this fit?" It does not. I get to ask, "Can this be fixed to the point where it fits, and how long would it take?" The reason for this is because of fit models. A fit model is the standardized body shape that a designer drafts all of their sizes to fit. Fit models are why women's fashion has divisions like juniors, misses, women's, and plus -- all of these ranges overlap in physical size, but they're all cut for different body types. Juniors, for example, is theoretically designed for teenage bodies. For a given hip measurement, a juniors garment will generally assume a straighter figure (less of a hip/waist and bust/waist difference) and a higher bustline than a misses garment, which is aimed at women in their 20s and above who are statistically more likely to have had children, with all the bodily changes that entails. Women's lines are, or were originally, aimed older than that, for a more traditionally middle-aged figure. A 16W in the women's section will allow greater room in places like the upper arm, thigh, and bust, than the same garment in a 16 misses. Structured garments in plus sizes -- as opposed to, like, caftans -- are a relatively new thing, so the fit models for plus sizes are all over the place. One of the greater challenges in designing a garment that fits a plus figure is that, while skeletons all tend to converge on the same average shape, adipose deposits go wherever the hell they want. A lot of plus lines have subdivided their collections into top-heavy, bottom-heavy, middle-heavy, and hourglass shapes, because it's nigh impossible to design one line that will do well with all of those. Different companies use different fit models for their designs. They vary pretty widely. Topshop (aimed at juniors) shows a pretty consistent 7" bust/waist difference, and 9" waist/hip difference in their size charts. So does Rodarte for Target. XOXO for Macy's assumes an 8.5" bust/waist and 10" waist/hip difference. These differences are sometimes graded down for smaller sizes; in general, patterns err on assuming that people who are smaller have less flesh on an average bone structure, rather than an average amount of flesh on a smaller bone structure. Or, to put it more bluntly, that the thinner you are, the less T&A you're going to have. I have an 11" difference for both bust/waist and waist/hip. Nothing fits me. Ever. And nothing would have fit Marilyn Monroe, either. Based on personal experience, she probably had her swimsuits tailored. I've had to alter both leotards and leggings to make them fit. There is a limit to stretch; if it's got enough give to get over my backside easily, then it might not have enough elasticity to hug my waist. Stretch things that are loose at the waist very quickly become stretch things that are trying to roll down your hips as soon as you move at all, so they can hang at the widest point of your body. [I have also altered bras. Yes, you can tailor bras. No, you shouldn't. Bras should fit as purchased and be replaced as either you change sizes or the elastic wears out. I just bought more of the damn things, and the good news is that one of them actually fits. The bad news is that it's the 30E, and I would probably need a 30F if I wanted one that wasn't a plunge. Those of you who own and maintain boobs may correctly translate that size as 'fuck my life'. It is a magical unicorn bra size that almost doesn't exist. It means that all of my bras are going to be in completely deranged colors from now on, because black and ivory don't survive long enough to go on clearance, and full retail for these things is $60-80 a pop. If anyone feels the need to throw money at me for surviving to 38, a gift card to Bravissimo would be great. If you do want to spend money but don't want to buy me underwear, then please direct it to the MSPCA. Their Angell clinic down on Huntington has helped me with many a rat. They are good people.] The jeans I eventually came home with were American Eagle Outfitters bootcut stretch, size 2, and they needed to come in about 2" at the waist. I considered this a victory, because I did not have to take the garment completely apart to fix it. As a rule, you can take something down a maximum of 1-2 dress sizes before you're just disassembling it to make new clothes out of the pieces, and there are some lines I just can't buy from at all because they make assumptions (e.g., a long torso, where I am very wasp-waisted) that just can't be fixed without just hacking the entire thing to bits. Making clothing is not necessarily a better solution. Unlike commercial dress sizes, pattern sizes are standardized, so they do in fact mean something. A size 14 Butterick pattern should fit pretty much the same as a size 14 Simplicity pattern, at least in theory. Like commercial patterns, however, they assume a lot less than 11" of difference between B/W and W/H measurements. Moreover, they are almost all drafted for a large-ish B cup, which makes the back too big and the bust darts too shallow for me even if the overall measurement is right. I've made lots of clothes and purchased fewer than half a dozen commercial patterns in my life, because frankly I find it a lot easier to just trace something that actually fits and then pick at it until it works. In summary, Marilyn Monroe's "dress size" was a random number from 2 to 16 depending on your context, which wouldn't have meant anything anyway because everything she wore was extensively and professionally altered to fit her. Also click bait is annoying, and I hate having to buy replacement pants. from Blogger https://ift.tt/2PULFYX via IFTTT -------------------- Enjoy my writing? Consider becoming a Patron, subscribing via Kindle, or just toss a little something in my tip jar. Thanks!

#IFTTT #Blogger #Unsolicited Advice

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pjxextrd8-blog · 5 years

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littlefeatherr · 6 years

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Prompt fill for @maroucia : Mail-order bride modern AU. In a modern Westeros, the North is much poorer than the South and Sansa is lured by all the riches and temptations of the south and so, she decides to offer herself as a mail-order bride. Of course, she catches Sandor’s eyes who himself has turned to the idea because he hates dating seeing that his face is burned and all, but he still would like to find a wife. Read more below or on AO3 here.

Chapter 1

Settling down with a mug of tea, Sansa needed to take a break from job hunting. Opening her tablet, she decided to indulge her favorite escape: perusing vacation blogs, pretending she was planning a visit to the southern countries of Westeros.

While the south was full of cities bustling with diversity, plenty of jobs to be had for the asking, and mild weather, the north never recovered from the war. And the ten year winter season was a burden itself.

The poor economy denied basic resources for northerners, especially since King Joffrey placed tariffs on all the products exported from there as part of a trade war. In the past year, many industries closed. And families that Sansa had known all her life were moving away.

Since her father passed away five years back, there had been huge financial burdens on the family, and Sansa couldn’t bring herself to leave them. So she settled on a local university to continue her dream of becoming a custom dressmaker.

Bran’s snowboard accident happened not long after; in-home physical therapy and medical bills further strained the family funds. Sansa had to quit school and work two jobs. Since their mother spent her time working and caring for Bran, Arya and Rickon grew wilder by the day. Winter had come with a vengeance for the Starks.

Sleet rattled against the windows, shaking her of her recollections. Gods, what she wouldn’t do to be on a southron beach right now. She was determined to reach her dreams, one way or another. She just needed a plan.

Sansa tapped her finger on the bookmark of her favorite blog. Escape to the warm, sun-kissed beaches of King’s Landing! Sansa wished for nothing more. Life seemed so carefree for the people who lived there. The sight of the wealthy, young, tanned and fit men and women frolicking in the waves sent a pang of envy through her.

Sansa couldn’t remember the last time she had a vacation, could barely remember a time when she felt the effortless contentment in the people smiling back at her through the screen of her tablet.

Eagerly she moved onto the second one. The beautiful shores of Port Lannisport, one of the largest, richest cities of Westeros. Come to visit and see it’s prosperity for yourself!

More beautiful, tanned people, Sansa complained inwardly. This time they were wearing swimsuits that barely covered their most intimate places, enjoying champagne under burgundy and gold cabanas of the exclusive Casterly Rock Club.

Yes, Casterly Rock Club was very elegant, but she would feel too out of place there if they even allowed shabby northerners into the place. Every one of the guests was surgically enhanced and dripping in gold and diamond jewelry.

Swallowing hard, her hand instinctively went to the silver and sapphire direwolf charm at her neck, the last nameday gift she had received from her late father. It was a reminder of better times, and the ones she prayed to the gods were ahead for her. She fingered it while whispering a quick prayer to her father before tapping on the next bookmark.

Shop the opulent Lannisport Outlet Mall, your one-stop destination to luxury! Oh, she would much rather visit there! Ever since she was a little girl, Sansa loved embroidery, sewing, and designer clothing.

The scenes showed happy families laughing while eating southern delicacies, bringing up a bitter lump in her throat. Young people in the latest summer fashions carried designer Dornish leather handbags as they shopped and flirted under a shaded canopy.

Wrinkling her nose, Sansa glanced down at her sweats and ratty sweater. When was the last time she went shopping? Aside from The Wall Mart, there weren’t many places to shop near Winterfell - and none of them fashionable. She would definitely need to do some serious online retail therapy if she ever visited Port Lannisport.

Faintly Sansa could hear her mother speaking to someone. On to the next region, she said to herself as she tucked her feet under her legs.

Visit the rugged hills of the Westerlands, the richest lands in Westeros. A landscape dotted with golden, rolling plains and caves from which gold and silver mines pour forth deep veins in astonishing quantities. Abundant gemstones and precious metals mean lower prices on all your jewelry needs!

With widened eyes, Sansa clicked on the pictures of black fertile fields, apple orchards, Pinot grape vineyards, and Black Mission fig tree groves. Further inland lay dense maple forests that opened up to crystal blue lakes and river rapids, reportedly renowned worldwide for whitewater rafting.

Gemstones of all kinds, gold and silver jewelry, beautiful log homes in the verdant foothills all caught her attention. Oh, she would definitely visit the Westerlands first! The featured delicacies and riches were sensational!

But how could she go? The family barely had enough money to get by; not many opportunities presented themselves as of late. Her gaze fell on a bookmark icon for a mail-order bride broker she had set up months ago. Missandei’s Marriage Brokerage Suite. Let us help you find your perfect match with a beautiful, northern bride of your choosing.

That’s one way to get south. And if I’m chosen, I could put my husband’s fee in a trust for Bran. From what Sansa had seen on the website, Lannisport and King’s Landing was teeming with beautiful women, but the farming areas surrounding them were not heavily populated. The men there depended on agriculture and vacationers for their incomes – jobs that left little time for meeting potential partners.

Her mother’s voice pulled her out of her fantasies - and back to the dreary reality of life. Stern Aunt Lysa was impatiently tapping her foot; Sansa had been so caught up in her musings that she didn’t realize she’d entered the room.

“Sansa, are you daydreaming again? Put down the tablet for a moment, please.”

Her mother had a way of saying “please” that sounded anything but polite, especially when she was about to lecture to one of her children.

No wonder Arya and Bran are nowhere to be found. Suppressing a sigh, Sansa braced herself and turned to face them.

“I cannot understand for the life of me why you haven’t yet settled down with someone and moved out,” Catelyn began. “I was married for four years at your age.”

“Mother-“

“It’s all I can do to keep Winterfell let out, and food on the table for Arya and Rickon, and Bran with all the medical bills, I can’t afford to feed you too.“

“Mother, I know,” Sansa struggled to remain respectful. Ever since she turned eighteen, this had become a well-worn topic between them, and at twenty, Sansa had already said all she had to say on the subject.

Enter Aunt Lysa.

“That is why I started college,” Sansa pulled her mother close, “so I could make real money, not just the little I bring doing housekeeping and selling on Etsy.”

“And what good did it do you? You knew from the start that we could ill afford it, but you were determined to waste what little money your father left you on it.“ Aunt Lysa interjected. "And here you are, squandering your days on that damned tablet!”

Her words stung. “I wanted to help the family by having an actual career. I thought maybe I could open a clothing store and help the local economy, but there aren’t any opportunities here.” Sansa stepped away and wrung her hands.

Exasperated, Aunt Lysa shook her head. “Always with the dreams. Well, it’s time you grew up. Take your educated self south, Miss.”

“I would love to go, but since I, as you say, wasted my money on education, I don’t have a way.”

Aunt Lysa and her mother exchanged a look. "Uncle Petyr lives in King’s Landing in the famed Red Keep and he’s offered to take you in. You could work with his showgirls’ costumes-“

Tears stung Sansa’s eyes, for this, too, was a familiar and unpleasant topic between the three of them.

“No, absolutely not! He’s not my uncle, so I wish you both would stop with that! And they aren’t showgirls, Aunt Lysa, they’re sex workers!”

"Ungrateful child!” Aunt Lysa sputtered. “This family has no better friend than Petyr, especially since your father and Jon both-”

Sansa rolled her eyes.

“Sansa that is just a terrible rumor started by jealous people trying to discredit him.” Catelyn insisted.

“So that’s the official party line he has you two repeating.“

Catelyn gaped at her, but Sansa went on, “He’s always staring at me in the grossest way. Sending me friend requests on my social media. He’s a stalker.“

“Sansa, that’s your college third wave feminism talking! Petyr is old-fashioned, and he’s not about to hide that he’s interested in you. What’s wrong with that?” Aunt Lysa fumed.

“What’s wrong is that I’ve made it clear that I don’t want his attention - and yet he refuses to take no for an answer!” Sansa set her jaw. “If you like him so much, why don’t you go live with him and leave me alone?”

Catelyn pinched Sansa’s arm. “By the gods, Sansa, you can be just as willful as Arya at times!”

She jerked away from her.

“You don’t have many options. So, it’s either go with your Uncle Petyr, young lady, or get in touch with a marriage brokerage.”

“A marriage brokerage? To offer myself as a mail order wife?” Sansa’s nervously considered the possibility. It was an honorable way to find a husband and definitely a good opportunity…

“Petyr offered to do it himself, but I don’t like your attitude, so you just do it on your own!” Aunt Lysa hissed. "Just go on and become a mail order bride on one of those bargain sites and see what kind of monster you end up with!”

“Whoa, wait just a minute - Petyr offered to buy me outright, didn’t he?!” Sansa shouted. “And not just for my sewing skills!”

Catelyn side eyed her. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

“Mother-”

“I married your father as a mail-order bride.” Her mother arched her brow.

Great, another guilt trip.

“And I married your Uncle Jon as one, the Seven rest him.” Aunt Lysa added, even though Sansa had turned her back to her. “You have a duty to your family. It’s time you made good on it.”

“We need the money, Sansa, and there aren’t many prospects up here-“ her mother gestured to the shabby conditions around them, “and Bran and Arya and Rickon need me. What would you have me do?”

“Stop being so selfish, Sansa!” Aunt Lysa shouted.

“Good gods, Aunt Lysa, even the marriage agencies give women the right to choose their husbands!”

Squeezing her eyes shut, Sansa fought to calm her temper and think rationally. Perhaps if I joined up with one of the free sites, I will find a nice man, settle in with him and who knows? Love might follow. It worked out pretty well for my mother. Less so for my aunt.

Biting her lip, Sansa thought it over. Could she really muster up the courage to reach out to a strange man? To be his wife, and share his bed?

Sansa had already looked at a few sites, and they didn’t seem so bad; each one had ways and means to ensure successful matches. The only caveat was the marriage had to be consummated the day of the wedding, and if they didn’t get along by the end of the trial period, Sansa would need to return the money - and to the north.

Excitement and a bit of fear took hold of her, while Sansa’s silence increased her mother’s unease.

“Stop that lip nibbling, Sansa, it’s unladylike and a disgusting habit you picked up from Arya. So what will it be: go stay and work with Uncle Petyr, or become a mail order bride?”

Sansa had so little ownership of her own life since her father died. Yet today she would regain control, snatch it out of thin air, all for herself.

“Fine, Mother, I’m going to do it my way. I’ll meet with a marriage brokerage as soon as possible.”

Without a word, she picked up her tablet and left the room, leaving her mother crying over her ungrateful daughter and her aunt harping on her duty to the family.

#sansan #sansa x sandor #sansa stark #sandor clegane #sansan fanfiction #loong post

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reekierevelator · 6 years

Text

The Face of Tomorrow

Sitting, eyes red and head drooping, foot almost glued to the pedal, feeding the coarse material through the needle. At last, she moved her foot away and let her head fall. Another piece finished. Twenty shirts, all exactly the same, already today.

But before Ode could take a few moments to rest her arms and have a sip of water the foreman arrived to snatch away the finished shirt, saying ‘Atta girl, plenty more where that came from’, and pushed a sewing pattern down in front of her tired eyes. This was quickly followed by ‘Here you go then, next piece’ as he thrust a pile of cut-outs on to the heavily scratched beech wood of her small work desk. The new pieces were in a dazzling shade of almost iridescent blue with a subtle pattern of thin black lines running through them. Ode sat up and stared, mesmerised. The foreman couldn’t understand it. ‘It’s the same shirt dear, just different material’ he explained slowly, as if Ode was some kind of simpleton.

Since leaving school Ode had spent long hours working in the dilapidated red brick building only the boss calls the Golden Garment Company factory. Her fellow workers called it the workshop. Her old school friends called it the sweatshop. Long hours and poor pay, but ‘it’s a job’. And without qualifications Ode felt lucky to be employed at all. She knew it was only because her mother had taught her the basic skills required – through making her sew and mend from a very young age, - that she’d got the job in the first place. In her own family, new clothes were a rare and almost unheard of luxury. It had been that way since they had fled to escape the fighting, arriving in Britain from Nigeria when Ode was a small child.

She had never owned the kind of on-trend fashionable clothes that she’d seen on some of the city’s girls. And she knew anyway that she was plain and unattractive. Fancy clothes wouldn’t hide that. People had never been backward in coming forward to tell her so.

Once, she’d gone with her friend to try on expensive clothes in a posh shop – it was what they did, try them on, admire themselves in the mirrors, and then return the clothes to the rails. Sometimes Ode took even longer as she examined the textiles, the way a particular fabric had been cut, sewn, pleated. It was much more valuable to examine the actual clothes, see exactly how they had been treated, cut on the bias or whatever, than to read about them in the odd fashion magazine that came her way. She could understand why her behaviour could irritate the woman in charge of the changing rooms and how she might get annoyed. When Ode emerged wearing a floor length sequined gown the woman had carped ‘You don’t really fit the modelling mould, do you love? Not got the required features: not thin enough, not tall enough, and your legs are too short.’ It cut Ode to the bone, but still she couldn’t shake the obsession.

In fact she became quite acclimatised to cruel humiliation. ‘Your cheekbones are too low, nose is too big, your mouth is too wide, the shape and colour of your eyes is all wrong.’ In a way it made her more resilient. ‘You can’t squeeze into that dress my girl, even the bust’s not right. In fact, your whole build is all wrong for those kinds of dresses. To be honest I can’t see even spending a fortune on make-up and cosmetics making much difference.’ Even when it left her almost in tears Ode found she could cope. That was just how her life was and since it was likely to stay that way she better get used to it.

Somehow she just couldn’t help herself. She inevitably found herself starting conversations with workmates, family, and sometimes even strangers at the bus stop by commenting on their clothes. She offered them her ideas on what might suit them better. But what she considered sensible suggestions were often received as rudeness; unwarranted intrusions, impolite, offensive, insulting. On the odd occasions when she had ventured to make such suggestions to her friends they had either laughed out loud, asked what on earth she was thinking, or stared at her as if they thought he was going mad.

But at least the meagre wages she was earning allowed her the very occasional luxury purchase. The unusual blue cloth triggered her desire. At the end of the day she noticed the scrag end of a roll abandoned on the cutting room floor. She picked it up and approached the foreman.

‘Could I take this home with me?’ she asked

The foreman knew there was not enough material for another garment and that it would only be swept up and put in the refuse with the rest of the rubbish. He barked back ‘Of course not, it belongs to the company,’

‘I could pay for it,’ Ode answered timidly.

‘How much?’

‘I have six pounds saved,’ said Ode, rummaging in her pocket then stretching out her hand showing him the money.

The foreman cast his eyes furtively around the now empty room. ‘Sold’, he muttered, quickly grabbing the cash from Ode’s hand.

With the dress-making skills her mother had somewhat forcefully bequeathed to her Ode intended to cut the material into embellishments for her existing clothes. But then she struck on the idea of unpicking the stitching of her own dress and using her own quirky ideas to remake it in a wholly new style, one she imagined would show off the blue material properly. The dress she created was highly unusual, a peculiar variation on the traditional dress of her ancestors, a new take on the sort of clothes her mother wore as if she still walked the Nigerian countryside every day. A matching gele, or headdress, completed the effect.

At first her best friend, Uma, impulsive and beautiful, with big eyes and an impish smile, was the only one she would allow to see her new ‘African’ dress. Then one day Uma said ‘Is real neat, yah. But what you gonna do wit it though – just sit at home wearin it, starin at youself in the mirror like you famous? Shu, no girl like you ever gonna wear that kinda thing on the street.’

But maybe that was just the challenge Ode had been waiting for. The very next Saturday she wore her highly original new dress while accompanying Uma to Harlesden market, shopping for yams, plantain, and cooking bananas. She drew admiring glances from other girls, saying ‘Stunna, innit’ and ‘You got an ankara buba now Ode?’. Even some of the boys approached her, passing comments like ‘That’s a wicked colour’, and ‘Cool dress’. A white boy mentioned her ‘Impressive kaftan.’

Ode’s girlfriends were quick to convert to a full appreciation of the new style. They found themselves re-thinking the fashion advice Ode had tried to give them, which they’d previously rejected as ridiculously outlandish. It didn’t take long before they were asking her advice on materials, and arranging for Ode to run up clothes for them at home after they brought her the lengths of cloth they’d bought.

One Saturday afternoon Ode and Uma passed the unimposing little shopfront of a professional photographer. They paused outside for a moment before Uma, on the spur of the moment, marched in, her friend trailing behind, and asked him to take photos of her. ‘For a fashion model portfolio?’ the photographer had joked, and Uma surprised herself when, the idea having been put in her head, she replied ‘Well yes.’ When she asked him for the names and addresses of modelling agencies her Ode’s laughter became uncontrollable. But still, he’d gamely suggested a few names while keeping his grin in check.

Uma collected the big glossy photos the next weekend and posted them off to New Vision Models, one of the names she’d remembered. Surprisingly, the agency, under pressure to demonstrate greater ‘diversity’, invited her for an interview. But when Uma arrived to speak to Zelda it was quickly clear that she wasn’t really interested. Uma was glad she’d gone alone and that her friend wasn’t there to hear Zelda’s casual, acerbic comments on her height, weight, and the size of her feet.

Zelda’s phone rang. It was an urgent request. One of their clients had put together a mail order catalogue that had to go to print next day and they’d only just realized all the models they’d used were white. They couldn’t afford to be depicted as racially biased and they couldn’t afford to re-schedule the printing job. In fact, business was so bad because of all the new online retailers that unless the catalogue brought in a lot of sales they knew the company was going to collapse anyway. As a matter of fact they couldn’t even afford to pay the usual going rate for models but they desperately needed someone within the hour.

So for a minimal fee, from which Uma would earn only ‘experience’, the agency sent her to wear cheap clothes for some quickfire photographs which would be included in a mail order women’s clothes catalogue that would be printed in great haste on cheap paper. In their hurry a shot was taken of Uma wearing the dress in which she’d arrived, a dress designed and stitched together by Ode. The photo was included along with an arbitrary price the catalogue editor had made up on the spot.

Inevitably, the catalogue’s readers hated the clothes and bought very little. But even while the company was folding, comments proliferated across the social media about one of the models, how she was so different to the usual mannequin-like catalogue clothes-horses and actually looked like a ‘normal lively girl’ for a change. As attention was directed towards Uma, more readers also commented that the only item of clothing in the catalogue that was worth buying was one that she modelled – a sort of esoteric take on traditional West African dress. Unusually, the dress was in bright pink rather than the usual primary colours and its pattern was picked out in subtle, swirling crimson and gold. Surprisingly, the cut was for a casual dress style, a chiseled cut and only knee-length, with a rectangular neckline. Equally surprisingly, the dress was still somehow unmistakeably African.

While casually flicking through Instagram discussions a young man linked it to a message he sent to the husband of Phoebe, a young aspiring clothes designer. ‘People are saying there’s someone, something out there, that is “different” ‘.

When the husband brought it to her attention Phoebe investigated. She checked Instagram. The nape of her neck prickled. She tracked down a copy of the printed catalogue. She phoned the catalogue company, then the modelling agency, and then Uma herself. When she discovered who had made the catalogue’s one outstanding clothes item her sense of excitement went into overdrive. She ran out of her office in Jermyn Street and was soon on the Bakerloo Line heading north to Harlesden. When she found the flat in the high-rise she confused Ode’s mother by asking to talk to the girl with the perfect eye.

The social media hubbub also reached Zelda. She was quickly back in contact with Uma, offering her more work, and insisting the company could live up to its name of New Vision.

Ode handed in her notice at the sweatshop. The foreman told her to stay, warned her she’d regret leaving, since his own pay was linked to production and he knew how hard Ode worked. But Ode began working with Phoebe. With Ode’s ideas and Phoebe’s business contacts it wasn’t long before they were selling vast numbers of new garments, not only throughout the UK but to the near two hundred million Nigerians and to other parts of West Africa.

Within a year Uma’s cheerful face was on billboards and the cover of Cosmopolitan. She was following in the footsteps of Iman and Naomi Campbell.

But Ode’s face, despite the cheekbones being too low, nose too big, mouth too wide, and shape and colour of the eyes all wrong, was the real face of tomorrow. It was already to be found on the inside pages of Business Today as well as StyleWatch, Glamour, and West Africa Now. The world had moved on. The face of Britain was multicultural and not only was the West African market online, but the whole face of Africa was changing fast. Given the respect accorded a top class designer, business couldn’t be better.

#Reekie Revelator #short story #fashion #immigration

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iris-writes-things · 6 years

Text

To Hell And Back

Read it on AO3, FF.net, or under the cut!

Warning: Major (temporary) character death.

After standing up to Satan himself in the Apocalypse That Wasn’t, Crowley was made mortal while Hell bought itself some time to come up with an extra special punishment. However, as Aziraphale reminded him, mortals are eligible for redemption. And so, the race to redeem Anthony J Crowley begins.

It had been a week after the Apocalypse-that-wasn't when Crowley and Aziraphale heard back from their respective superiors. To say the aftermath of the botched Armageddon had been a wild ride would have been the understatement of the century so far. But with ten more years of said century to go, anything could happen.

Aziraphale’s superiors had been quite pleased with his bravery, and had given him a commendation for standing up to Satan himself with only his sword in his hands and a demon who forgot his loyalties* to fight by his side.

(*This, Aziraphale knew to be untrue, as the angel was well aware that Crowley was only loyal to himself and his friends.**)

(**Which was a convenient shorthand for, and a less desperate sounding alternative to "Aziraphale".)

Crowley's superiors on the other hand… not so much. Not that he was surprised. No, he fully expected them to not appreciate his little revolt. He was, however, surprised he wasn't just discorporated on the spot by a stray bolt of lightning, or simply wiped out of all existence.

Instead, he was demoted. Not even a little bit demoted. No, demoted all the way. Damned to live out the rest of his days as a mortal, human man, stripped of all his demonic powers and attributes, while Hell bought itself some time to cook up an extra special punishment for him when his time did come.

Aziraphale, however, was more optimistic about Crowley's predicament than the man himself.

"Come now, dear. It's not so bad..." Aziraphale said in a tone Crowley knew was meant to comfort him. It didn't.

The angel placed a warm hand on his own and looked a little deeper into Crowley’s eyes than he remembered him ever looking in them when they still had their serpentine look to them. They were a rich, chocolate brown now, and every morning Crowley spent an embarrassing amount of time staring in them through the mirror, telling himself that they took some getting used to.

Maybe it was just the lack of his sunglasses, which he had accidentally left in his flat for the first time ever. The world seemed just that little brighter and more intense without them, but the now mortal demon could not afford to bask in the glory of it. In fact, he couldn't afford much of anything at all.

"What do you mean, 'it's not so bad'?! I can't instantaneously sober up anymore, I can't drive, speaking of which, I have to push the Bentley to the nearest petrol station to get it to run at all, I can't cook and I can't eat at any of my usual places without seriously breaking the bank, and then there's my flat! My ridiculously expensive flat! And my plants! I have to get a job now, Aziraphale! And did I not tell you every single possibility of what might happen to me if-- when I die?!"

"Only in excruciating detail."

"Then why aren't you concerned?!"

"A job just opened up at the boutique next door. Vintage fashion. All unique items salvaged from garage sales and the like, sold for an immense profit. It seemed right up your alley to me, so I told them you'd like to drop by for an interview tomorrow at 2 o'clock." The angel beamed, obviously very satisfied with himself.

"But--" Crowley attempted to self sabotage.

"No diplomas or previous retail experience required. They only want to know if you're stylish and snarky enough for them and I think you've got that covered. You're welcome. As for Hell… You're a human now, Crowley. That means you're eligible for redemption. Just be good, maybe do some charity work and you might not have to fear what your former colleagues have in store for you."

"Thanks, angel." Crowley smiled, full of hope for the first time since this whole ordeal started.

"Always happy to help."

The following day at 2 o’clock, Crowley went to his job interview. He was hired on the spot on the merit of his amicably judgmental nature and his sense of style. Incidentally, he had also found out where Aziraphale had acquired a substantial part of his collection of tacky bow ties. He made a mental note of it to hide the rack every time the angel entered the shop. Enough is enough.

Unsurprisingly, Crowley began to like his new job. The people who came to the boutique to shop were his people after all. Young, trendy, ambitious. The kind of people he spent the last six millennia nudging and probing, slowly winning souls for his master. It almost made him feel nostalgic. Almost.

Because he could now unashamedly spend time with Aziraphale. It was only a short trip to the apartment over the bookshop next door, where the two more often than not had lunch together, and spent many an evening learning to cook for themselves. Crowley out of necessity, Aziraphale mostly to humour Crowley.

Aziraphale loved having the other around more often. Sure, he was used to not have Crowley around at all times, but he knew, now that Crowley was made mortal, they didn't have much time left. 80 years, if they were so lucky, was only the blink of an eye compared to the 6,000 years they had been friends. That's why he planned to make the most of it.

Once Crowley had reached a level of financial stability both the angel and the fledgling human were satisfied with, Aziraphale decided it was time for Crowley to start doing some volunteer work. After all, if he managed to get the man into Heaven, he could at least visit him after it happened.

Spending time with the elderly at a nearby nursing home, playing board games, going for walks and the like, had been a raving success, but the director*** didn't appreciate how taken the old ladies were with Crowley's charms and swiftly sent the two away. And where Crowley’s snarky sense of humour was applauded at the boutique, it wasn't as welcome at the food bank.

(*** Who strongly suspected that the two had only come to swindle the dementing women out of their pensions...)

Aziraphale pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a much needed sigh.

"There has to be something you're good at that you like doing and will also redeem you." The angel mumbled as he paced back and forth on the hardwood floor of his bookshop, quickly swiping a bottle of wine from Crowley's hands before he could get wasted.

Crowley only groaned.

"Can't I just go to church and confess and clear my name like that?" He suggested.

"Technically yes, but no. You and the priest will be long dead before you make it through the fourteenth century."

"For fuck's sake, that wasn't on me!"

"Dear, please..." Aziraphale urged, shooting the man a sharp glare.

"I like my plants..." Crowley mumbled meekly. All this talk of dying and going to heaven had him more on-edge than ever before, and the last thing he wanted was to snap at his best and only friend. "I'm pretty good with those… And animals. I like animals. Like that poor dove you smothered in your sleeve, at Warlock’s birthday party?"

"I remember." The angel said, a fond, hopeful smile creeping to his features as he remembered the demon breathing new life into the squished bird. "How about an animal shelter?"

The animals at the shelter took surprisingly well to Crowley. The dogs liked his company, and the cats seemed to not hate him. The reptiles and amphibians seemed satisfied, yet ultimately indifferent, while the rabbits and other small mammals cowered in the corners of their respective enclosures the second he walked in the door.****

(**** This was no surprise to Crowley and Aziraphale. Sure, Hell had taken away his snake-like attributes, but old habits die hard.)

The other volunteers liked him decidedly better than the rodents did; after all, he did the chores he was given and did them well. When he manned the front desk, he talked to the visitors and answered phone calls in the same saccharine tone he did to his old superiors, he shovelled poop like nobody's business and, without having been asked, Crowley reorganized and digitized all of the records in such a way that anyone could find anything at any time.

One volunteer had asked out of curiosity where the man had acquired his administrative skills, but laughed it off when Crowley simply answered "Hell".

But, as with most people who lived fast, Crowley also died young. He had been in a heated argument over the phone with a frequent customer of the boutique as he was crossing Oxford Street, overlooking a speed demon in a Corvette that was doing 60 miles per hour. It was nowhere near his own record, but nevertheless, more than his human internal organs could handle in a frontal collision.

And Aziraphale… Aziraphale was devastated.

He wasn't devastated quite yet when he stumbled upon an enormous crowd effectively blocking the sidewalks of Oxford street. He was trying to get back to his bookshop for Crowley’s lunch break, holding a grocery bag in each hand.

"Excuse me, may I pass, please? Some of us have somewhere to be." Aziraphale said as he wormed his way through the crowd. However, when he finally popped out the other end, nearly spraining his ankle as he slipped on the edge of the sidewalk, he realized that this was exactly where he was meant to be.

"Crowley!" He cried before he dropped his groceries and dashed over to his motionless friend, sprawled on the street like a limp ragdoll whose master was done playing with him. Eggs cracked in their cartons and a lone apple rolled across the street. "No, no, no, no..." The angel chanted to himself as he ran, a painful burn spreading through his leg. He didn't care. What mattered now, was Crowley.

Aziraphale kneeled beside him, carefully taking hold of the man's upper body and cradled him to his chest as he ignored the police officers’ protests and the blur of his watering eyes. He had to focus. He squeezed his eyes shut and clung to Crowley’s body, trying to conjure up a miracle. Though, however vast the power of an angel may be, there were certain boundaries to what they could do with their magic, and raising the dead was far beyond that boundary. So when Crowley’s heart didn't start beating again within thirty seconds, that could only mean one thing.

A cry escaped Aziraphale that the angel hadn't thought his corporeal form capable of. It was earth shattering, almost animal and brimming with grief. This entire month he had focused so much on making sure his friend would be okay after his moment came, that he completely ignored his own feelings on the matter.

"No, you can't do this to me, you can't--" The angel cried, finally allowing the tears to spill from his eyes. "Please, don't leave me, my dear..."

Aziraphale gasped when a heavy handed fell onto his shoulder. Through his tears, he looked up at the police officer the hand belonged to. A friendly looking, mustachioed, older gentleman.

"I'm sorry for your loss, sir." The police officer said in a vaguely northern accent.

Aziraphale nodded and looked down, mumbling a small "Thank you". His sad look quickly became a furious glare, however, when he noticed the hands of a coroner prying at his own. He tried to regain the hold on Crowley, but the policeman caught Aziraphale’s wrists before he had the chance. "Bring him-- Give him back! Don't take him away from me! I didn't… I didn't tell him I love him..."

"I'm sorry, but we have to clear the road." The police officer said as he stood up and helped Aziraphale to his feet as well. "That coroner there will take your friend to the morgue, and I will take you there as well for all the closure you might need, but first I need you to come down to the station with me to answer some questions."

Aziraphale nodded. He knew that a few weeks of volunteer work would never make up for six millennia of 'getting up there and making some trouble’, so the angel did all he could; he prayed.

Crowley squinted as he looked up at the towering, cloaked skeleton, standing in front of him in the middle of Oxford street. He slowly lowered his cell phone, not hearing the beeping that told him the signal was lost.

"What are you doing here?" He asked. "What happened? Why can I see you?"

A bony arm extended a bony hand, which extended a bony finger.

Crowley slowly turned around to follow the motion, terrified of what he may find. A hushed, trembling "No" escaped him.

YES.

"No… No! It can't be! I just started to get the hang of this! It's not fair! I haven't gotten the chance to learn to drive, I haven't gotten the chance to redeem myself, I haven't gotten the chance to--"

Crowley froze in place when he saw Aziraphale break through the crowd that gathered around the scene of the accident. He could only watch as his angel kneeled down by his contorted, bleeding form and cradled Crowley's uninhabited body close to his chest. The cry the angel let out would have sent a shiver down his spine, had he still had one.

I KNOW IT IS UNFAIR, BUT SOMETIMES IT'S JUST LIKE THAT.

Death placed a sympathetic hand on Crowley's shoulder. It was just what he needed as the world and everything he had ever loved faded away.

"I'm sorry, Aziraphale..."

When he arrived in Hell, Crowley had been too heartbroken to fully realize the trouble he found himself in.

“Back so soon?”

Oh no. Not them. Not now.

“Not so tough now, are you? Just a soft, squishy, human soul for us to torture.”

“Though it would have been nice if you’d given us some actual time to come up with a punishment more suited to your treason.”

A dark chuckle escaped Crowley as he slowly regained his composure.

"Hastur, Ligur," he greeted bitterly, "I see the antichrist has been too generous to you. Hi, Dagon."

"Hi."

For a short moment, there was nothing. No one spoke, no one breathed, and in that moment, Crowley was sure no one thought, either.

"So, since you have no punishment suitable for my treachery, surely you're here to see me off back to the surface, correct? Let me live out the rest of my days? Volunteer at the animal shelter some more?" Crowley said, still trying to charm his way out of eternity with these tools.

"Make out with your 'angel'?" Hastur mocked. “Don’t think we didn’t know about that. It was obvious to everyone except for you.”

Ouch. That one cut deep.

"No, we're keeping you down here." Ligur continued. "Seeing as you're already well-versed in Hell's bureaucracy, we figured it might be fun for you to catch up on our paperwork."

"The entire twentieth century.” Hastur gestured enthusiastically. Crowley had never seen this demon so excited about… well, anything, really. “By the time you're through processing all those souls, I'm sure you'll be begging for whatever we've come up with."

The worst part of it was, Crowley was sure of that too.

Despite having a hand in designing post-1950s office spaces, Crowley had never been a fan of them himself. (Secretly,) It was a greater achievement than the M25 London orbital motorway, but he hated them with a fiery passion. They reminded him too much of “home”.

There, he sat at a single desk in a dark cubicle with red lighting that made the walls feel like they were closing in on him, typing away at a near-prehistoric typewriter as he processed all ‘new arrivals’ since 1898. It was almost as if his old colleagues, with some measure of foresight, started slacking off on their paperwork in the event that something like this might happen. It was clever, having this kind of back-up punishment lying around. And it’s not like Hastur or Ligur ever gave a care about all of the souls being held hostage in Limbo until some poor sod* would be tasked with getting all of this done.

(*Read: Crowley)

A groan escaped Crowley at what felt like the millionth case. What time was it? How long had he been here? His jacket had been long abandoned on his chair, and even though he hadn’t seen a mirror since he set foot back in Hell, he knew he looked like a mess. He felt it. His usually perfectly exfoliated skin felt grimy, his hair felt more greasy and unkempt every time he ran his hands through it and he felt an uneven stubble growing from his chin. Something he’d long since forgotten wasn’t exclusive to his corporeal form. He stretched his arms over his head, his back and shoulders popped. Crowley was about to ram his face into the keys of the typewriter when he was interrupted by a deep, buldering voice.

“Anthony James Crowley.”

Crowley’s gaze snapped up. In front of his desk stood the last person he expected. The Metatron. Arms crossed, perpetual look of disapproval plastered on their features.

The ex-demon stuttered. “I-I, uh, how-- How can I help you?” He asked, feeling himself sit up straighter.

“We hate to admit this, but we require your assistance.”

“What?” He asked. “You’re the voice of God for crying out loud! What could you possibly need my help for?”

“We will explain on the way.” The Metatron said and snapped their fingers, leaving only a spinning office chair behind.

It had been a year since Crowley’s untimely death, and Aziraphale still wasn’t taking it well.

Not long after it happened, the angel worked up the nerve to call back a few potential customers to tell them that one book they were looking for had just gone up for sale. With the money he raised, he managed to throw his friend a modest funeral to which he was the only guest. No one from the boutique or the animal shelter seemed to be able to make it. It wouldn’t do much good for Crowley, he knew, but it allowed him some closure. And after six millennia, God knew he needed that.

After that, life was mostly just… boring. He had no one to talk with, to drink with, no one to cook or to sing or to dance with, and without a demon around in close proximity, there wasn’t a whole lot of evil to thwart. And so, most of Aziraphale’s life after Crowley was spent drinking alone, lying in bed to wallow in self pity and praying every minute of every hour of every day that someone, somewhere would be merciful to his precious Crowley.

Until that day, a year after the accident, someone was knocking on his front door. Aziraphale hadn’t wanted to get up, and therefore didn’t, despite the persistent knocking. Knocking turned into banging and after a while, it was quiet. But then the angel heard the deadbolt turn.

This alarmed him enough to get up from his bed, rub the tears from his eyes and crept down the stairs, flaming sword in hand. Aziraphale distinctly remembered placing a charm on the deadbolt. Whoever this was, they weren’t human.

Books shuffled from and to the shelves of the shop as if someone were inspecting them and the angel felt the hands tighten around the handle of his sword. As he slinked along the bookcases, he spotted a figure in front of the bookcase by the till. They wore a light grey suit and hummed merrily as they plucked books from the shelves, examining their covers for a brief moment before putting them back. Out of chronological order.

This, Aziraphale decided, was unforgivable. How dare they do this to him in his time of grief?! He snuck up to the figure and pointed his blade at them before shouting:

"Who do you think you are?!"

The turned around, held up their hands and whimpered at the sight of the sword so close to their face.

"Aziraphale, for fuck's sake, put that thing away!"

The blade dropped to the floor. Flames licking at the old, hardwood panels, but never scorching. Never burning.

The angel took one more step towards the intruder, nearly closing the gap between them. Hands reached for the familiar face in front of him. His eyes started to water as he stared into the other's eyes, now a bright blue to rival his own. He couldn't believe what he was seeing, but when the other spoke up, he knew he'd better believe.

"It's been a while, hasn't it?" Crowley asked. A dull 'oof' was forced from him as a pair of plump arms wrapped tightly around his waist.

"Don't you ever leave me like that again!" Aziraphale cried into his chest. "Do you have any idea how worried I was about you?!" He said as he pulled back and made a point of it to glare up at the recent reinstated angel.

Crowley glanced away and mumbled. "I have a vague idea..."

"How are you here?" Aziraphale asked as he started to calm down. Tears still flowed from his eyes, but the other bent over to thumb them away.

"It's funny you should ask that." Crowley smiled, all straight white teeth without a single fang in sight. "Apparently your prayers for my sake overloaded all of Above's communications."

"Oh..." Aziraphale mumbled. "That would explain why I haven't heard from them… What happened next?"

"Well," Crowley started, "with all of Heaven's communications on its ass, the Metatron went down into Hell to enlist the help of the one and only you-expert. Me."

"So, what you're saying is… Aziraphale’s prayers for me are blocking everything? Going in and out?"

"That is what we're saying. This cannot go on any longer." The Metatron said monotonously.

"So, what you want to know from me is....?"

"How do we make him stop? How do you stop these little… temper tantrums?" They asked.

‘Temper tantrum’ felt like the wrong wording to Crowley, but he knew he had to think quickly. This was his one ticket out of Hell permanently. A satisfied smile spread across his face as the right words formulated in his head.

"I've found that the most effective way to get him to stop is to simply give him what he wants. I can’t put it any simpler than that." The man said and shrugged casually.

"So you can die again in 80 years and we start this all over again?" The Metatron asked, unamused, raising a single eyebrow. "We shall pass on that."

Crowley winced internally. He was on thin ice, but all wasn't lost yet.

"What if I promise to be really good?" He asked, swaying back and forth on his feet and batting his eyelashes.

"You cannot possibly be suggesting..."

"Oh, but I am. And besides, isn't that a small price to pay for Aziraphale’s silence?" The words felt dirty in his mouth, but it was now or never. Back to Aziraphale or back to Hell.

"Alright, fine." The Metatron huffed, throwing up their arms in exasperation. "Consider it done, just pass on this one message."

"So… they made you an angel and sent you back just to buy my silence?" Aziraphale asked. His eyes narrowed in slight disgust.

This time, it was Crowley who pulled Aziraphale into a hug. "I know, I know. I felt so gross using you as leverage, but I just really wanted to come back to you..."

The smaller angel hushed the other and gently stroked his hair as he returned the embrace. "You're forgiven, Crowley. I missed you..." Aziraphale said. "And I love you. I don't know why it never occurred to me to tell you while you were alive, but..."

Crowley’s hushed "I love you too" had barely been spoken when Aziraphale lunged forward to kiss him. Crowley happily complied and kissed back until Aziraphale pulled away.

"What did the Metatron want you to tell me that they couldn't come down to tell me themselves, anyway?"

"'Shut the Hell up', angel." The angel smirked as he kissed his love again.

#fanfic #Good Omens #Ineffable Husbands #I've been trying some new things in terms of pacing and building tension and I'm not sure it's working

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