#watching a video where a woman tries eyebrows of celebrities and film stars from the 1920s - 1950s

[august--and-everything-after]

The complete lack of self awareness when women make youtube videos and tiktoks trying out and laughing about past styles of clothing/hair/makeup and commenting on how wacky or wild or strange or ugly they were - and then they put their regular clothing and hair and makeup back on and think it looks perfectly natural and normal and sexy.

[johnkrrasinski]

𝐄𝐱𝐢𝐥𝐞

Chapter 4: Leaving Out the Side Door

full masterlist // series masterlist // commission open // support my work

Pairings: Dark!Steve Rogers (in future chapters) x Reader

Word Count: 2,325

Summary: Steve Rogers; a Hollywood A-lister and your clandestine occasional hookup. Best friends since childhood, but people change and friendships fall out. Now you were merely strangers with benefits. What happens when one day you stopped being his doormat to be a better man’s queen? The selfish Steve Rogers would not like it. How far is he willing to go to get his favorite possession back?

Warnings: smut, non-con/dub-con, dark Steve (in later chapter), angst, Steve Rogers is an asshole in this one, no redeeming qualities. (MUST BE 18+)

A/N: this series is dedicated to the lovely @belovedcherry​​​ who commissioned this story and developed the concept. thank you for being a friend when i truly needed it. i’m really glad that you trusted me to write this story for you. with all my heart, i sincerely hope you like it. this series will be updated every day.

You were on your knees with your hands tied behind your back as he vigorously thrust into you. Your heartbeat pounded in your rib cage and you began to feel numb from the hours he had fucked you. Steve was relentless when he was chasing his own climax, greedily used you as a tool; giving zero fucks about your pleasure or your discomfort, to dump his load in.

Steve didn’t need to see your face or hear your consent. He could go on and on for hours and still not feel satisfied. One thing that you had learned from this being in this dead-end friends with benefits thing with Steve Rogers is that his stamina was relentless. And he wouldn’t think twice about getting what he needed whenever he needed it.

Steve impaled you as your face was squeezed into the pillow, you could hear the squelching noises from the ceaseless cycle of disposing his semen in you and then pushed it back in when he was ready for the next round. Your head began to feel dizzy and your visions turned hazy. You’d tell him to stop because you couldn’t take it anymore, but you knew you didn’t have any strength left in your body to do so.

So you ascended from your body and let him take the wheel; allowing him to go as fast as he wished. He kept hammering until he felt your cunt clenching around him and his cock pulsated, then the line blurred as the coil inside you burst, withering every nerve in your body.

“Ah, fuck.” He grunted. He stayed still inside you until he felt himself softening and then he retreated.

Steve unbound your wrists and he threw himself on the other side of the bed. You knew better than turning to his side and cuddle on his chest unwarranted. He always expected you to get up and get out of his house instantly because he either had another place to attend and didn’t want to see you still here when he comes home or he was ready for another hookup.

Every now and then, you’d let him use you to fulfil his needs and you’d volunteer in cleaning his apartment afterwards. Even after those countless nights where you weren’t the one who made a mess of his sheets.

Ever since that night in your dorm; the first time you were reborn into a blossomed woman and the first time Steve paved the way of traversing to the electric piquancy of venereal act for you, you couldn’t stop. You couldn’t stop letting him through your door or drive to his place at three in the morning just so he could let off some steam.

Every time you try to say no, he’d always pay you a visit unannounced. He’d paralyze you with his words and freeze you with his unchaste touches. “Shh, let me make you feel good, baby. You just gotta surrender yourself to me.”

You’d try to push him away but your brittle tenacity was unavailing. Fast forward to five years later, when you finally got your degree and life vagabondized to unexpected places, your sex life was still staying still in one spot.

You were recruited by National Institute of Mental Health as their project manager. You were possibly the youngest candidate to occupy this position but they were very impressed by your resume and your interview that they didn’t have any better choice than giving you the job.

You loved it, you excelled at what you do. Helping people and tending for their mental health was the aim of your life. You had a clear vision of how you were going to initiate a concept, plan a strategy and execute the plan. You respected your colleagues and vice versa. It was a suitable environment for you to work in and you enjoyed every minute of it.

Your best friend aka your former roommate, Natasha was your rock. You still talked to her everyday and she’d always text you in case she couldn’t call. You’d exchange stories about how your days went and she’d always send you pictures or videos of her adorable cat, Liho. It always carved a smile on your face.

The same goes for Wanda, although with her busy schedule of graduate school and supervised experience made things a little difficult for you to stay in touch, she still updated every nugatory detail of her life. You loved her and you missed her excruciatingly. You had driven to New Haven during some weekends to see her and spend time with her, but when the weekend was over, you had to return to New York because your job was waiting for you.

They were your two most endeared girls and you couldn’t wait for the day you finally introduce them to each other. Natasha and Wanda had said hi to each other a few times back when you were still living in the same dorm but, you really wanted to spend time with the two of them at the same time. They would totally click.

But if anyone asks you about your love life? Well, how could you explain something that was nonexistent?

Unless “friends” with benefit counts for something…

A bell on your apartment dinged and you reached for the door. A man in black with purple nuances uniform showed up with a package in his hands. “Miss Y/L/N?”

“Yes, that’s me.”

“Here’s your delivery. Sign here please.” He handed you a piece of paper to draw your signature on and you accepted it without question, knowing full well it was another extravagant gift from Steve. Yep, that Steve.

The Steve Rogers.

A Brooklyn-born movie star of various blockbuster films, a remarkable singer and the face of Calvin Klein’s campaign this year… and Gucci Guilty’s last year.

The notorious womanizer but it was all good because he was the man. When you had starred alongside Leonardo DiCaprio and posed next to Oprah, who would give a shit if you never stopped playing the field, right?

And because he was The Steve Rogers, he could’ve spent his money on any lavish item and he could’ve put his dick wherever he wanted it. That included you, being the object of his wealthiness and his manliness.

How many times had you tried to reason with him when he constrained you to come over after a drunken hookup with a twenty-something model to clean up the mess and take out the trash? Perhaps just a few numbers exceeding the number of times he’d play the most charming man in the world only to forget your existence until he wanted you again.

So your feet innately transported you to your car, wearing the brand-new crimson red, bodycon dress with deep V-neck that displayed your cleavage, spaghetti straps baring your arms and a backless design that made you shiver due to the crisp air and drove to a place you had grown so accustomed to.

And this was the God knows how many times you were corrupted on his bed again. You had been so busy with your upcoming project that NIMH was ready to announce but you just couldn’t find it in yourself to resist the urge to come over to his place.

You stood on your wobbly feet, cleaned yourself up and see yourself out. Wouldn’t want to keep another mistress waiting in line…

Three weeks have passed since you last slept with Steve Rogers. Whispers on the streets chirped that he had been occupied with shooting a new film, erotic thriller slash mystery genre. Seems appropriate.

You yourself had been snowed under your work. The fundraiser event that NIMH was holding had been wearing you down but it was all worth it when the show was on. Negotiating with sponsorships, seeking donations and managing ticket sales were not easy, and it was all part of your responsibility because you were the boss, but you aced it anyway.

You were also responsible to hire professional entertainers and well, knowing that you got some connections to a well-known actor, of course, he was the first name on your list. But due to schedule conflicts, he couldn’t make it. It wasn’t a problem though, you still had a long list of names; film stars, movie producers, musicians, directors, moguls, etc.

You stood in your black sequin dress at the corner of the venue, inhaling all the sedulity and gumption you had invested in this event for the past couple of months. A part of you was secretly hoping that Steve would be here to see it, but you quickly eliminated those thoughts away.

9th-grade summer break. Upon the verdant hills overlooking the tranquil lake below; the moon’s faint glow ricochets on the water.

“What do you wanna be when you grow up, y/n?” his head reclined on his the palms of his hand, arms sprawled out like a butterfly’s wings.

“I wanna… Help people. My mom is a nurse and my whole life I watched her taking care of people she’d never met and I wanna have her big heart. I wanna do something that saves people.” you beheld the twinkling stars in the crepuscular sky, privily prayed that every word would come true.  

“You wanna be a nurse like her too?” His eyebrow raised.

“I don’t know… Maybe I’ll host a charity event or something and then I’ll use all the money for those who need it. It looks cool in the movies.”

“When I make it, I’ll come to your event and help raise the money too! People would be interested in giving money to celebrities, right?” the credence glinted in his eyes.

“But the money will not be for you, doofus.”

“Yeah, I know!” he chided. “I wouldn’t take a single cent even if I could. My mom taught me that if I were given the chance to put others first before me… I should and I will respect her legacy.”

You watched the host and your project leader, Tony Stark stood behind the acrylic podium and he greeted the crowd a good evening. He opened his speech, cajoling the guests with his words to share a little bit of their wealth as many as possible and closed it with a cordial adieu.

You made your way to one of the most respected guests; Benjamin Woods was sitting on the fifth table. Two times Oscar nominee and you were jittery to talk to him, but in this line of work, you were trained to be confident and act like one of the elites. So you weren’t going to freak out like an obsessive fan, you gotta keep it cool and classy. Plus, during the briefing, you were told to fraternize with as many of the guest as possible, persuade them to help us reach the goal.

You had your eyes set on the target until you bumped on a six-foot man, spilling the martini in his hand all over your dress. It caused a few heads turning but that was the last thing you cared about right now. “Shit!” you squawked.

“Oh my, I’m so sorry miss.” a British accent was hinted.

You grabbed a napkin from the nearest table to wipe away the stain but of course, it was futile. He offered a hand by saying “here, let me help.”

“No, no it’s fine, I’ll-” you looked up to see a handsome man with a pair of grey, slightly blue and green fused at the core. His dark brown hair matched the stubble covering his entire jaw and you were captivated by the work of art that was his face. Man, what a gorgeous creature. “…Manage.”

“I’m truly sorry, I must really stop reading through my emails while walking.”

“Don’t worry about it, sir. It happens.”

“Can I at least get you a drink? I’d feel really bad if I don’t do anything to compensate for my error.”

You averted your gaze from him to the person you really wanted to talk to but that could wait. You still got a few more hours to properly introduce yourself. “Yeah, why not?”

“Splendid.” You both walked toward the bar and sat on the stools. The next thing you knew, you had spent the last one hour talking and acquainting with this man. Apparently, he was the executive director of Filmmakers Without Borders where funding films and new media projects that aligned with themes of social justice, empowerment and cultural exchange was the prime focus of his job. He believed that if he could support ideas that would make the world a better place, he’d do it without a second thought.

He was also a big traveler. He loved seeing magical places in foreign countries, he was keen on exploring new cultures and learning new languages even if he could only recollect a few basic words. He claimed that he had traveled to nine countries in Asia and he planned to travel across Europe, his so-called home, once he had conquered the omnifarious continent.

And what enthralled your heart the most about him was that he was a proud father of two adorable dogs; a greyhound and a pomeranian and a benign Siberian cat. He spoke about them so fondly. He showed you pictures of them and he said that he’d love for you to meet them. Oh man, was that a subtle invitation to come over to his place soon in the future?

He was a real gentleman, courtesy and multifaceted were the proper words to describe this man, and you had only known him for one hour. Eventually, duty calls and you still had a role to play in this event, but before you could hop off the stool, he had asked you for your number and you gladly gave it to him. You had a feeling that this wasn’t farewell but rather, an incipience. The question is… What could it be of?

[twentiethcenturymoviesandtv]

Star Trek: Legacy and Impact

“Space: the final frontier. These are the voyages of the starship Enterprise. Its five-year mission: to explore strange new worlds, to seek out new life and new civilizations, to boldly go where no man has gone before.”

In 1964, Gene Roddenberry pitched a little science-fiction show to NBC as an adventure show, a western in space, going so far as to name his pitch Wagon Train to the Stars.  While this may have seemed like a falsehood, at the time, it made sense.  Westerns were tried and true, ol’ reliable.  And while by the late ‘60s, westerns were riding off into the sunset, well past their prime, there were those who remained a little suspicious of the phenomenon that rose to take its place, stirred into fervor by the Space Race: Science fiction.

Still, Roddenberry got his pass, and his ‘Wagon Train’ began, somewhat humbly, completely unaware of the giant it would grow into.

For a giant it was.

In 1966, the episode The Man Trap dropped, and Star Trek changed history.

Not just the history of television, or the history of science fiction.  History, big H, forever.

See, Star Trek wasn’t The Twilight Zone, or Lost in Space.  Despite the setting, it wasn’t all little green men from Mars, with Kirk and Company zooming around the galaxy like space-cowboys.  Star Trek told dramas, character stories with depth and meaning, stories that took a hard look at humanity from the outside, holding up a sometimes uncomfortable mirror to audiences.  The stories of Star Trek were often analogies, pointing to the problems of society, but also pointing ahead, to a brighter future, a future without discrimination or war.

And the nation listened.

From the moment Star Trek debuted, it was destined to become one of the most important shows in television history.  At the time of its release, it was a game changer, a groundbreaking show in terms of storytelling, characters, and even diversity, with a crew that personified the unified future that Roddenberry was looking towards.  Star Trek became the first live-action American television show to have a multi-ethnic cast, including two Americans (Captain James Kirk and Dr. Leonard McCoy), an African woman (Nyota Uhura), an Asian man (Hikaru Sulu), a Scotsman (Montgomery Scott), a Russian man (Pavel Chekov) and, most memorably, a half-human, half Vulcan (Mr. Spock).  While it may not seem terribly impressive now, at the time, it was incredibly notable for the time, especially where communications officer Uhura, played by Nichelle Nichols, was concerned, to the point where Nichols was persuaded to remain on the show by none other than Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. himself.

Lt. Uhura was immensely important during a period where most black characters on television were servants, going so far as to inspire the first African American woman astronaut Mae Jemison, among many others, and laying the groundwork for more diverse television programs in the future.  

But Star Trek’s importance and legacy doesn’t stop there.

Star Trek went on to influence leaps and bounds in technology, influencing the shape of the first non-vehicular cell phone, and inspiring the creation of the Apple company.  It had a huge impact on space exploration, with NASA’s first orbital shuttle named after the show’s Enterprise, and multiple asteroids named after people associated with the original show.

Although these are huge examples of the influence of one television show from the 1960s, the average person has a knowledge of Star Trek that, while not as in-depth, still demonstrates the show’s effects.

Your average non-Star Trek fan probably won’t know that the model of the Enterprise was a Smithsonian exhibit, but they probably do recognize Mr. Spock’s iconic pointy ears, pointy eyebrows, and bowlcut, and that he says things like ‘Illogical’ and “Live Long and Prosper”.  They probably know who Captain Kirk is.  They may even be familiar with the other characters on the show, or recognize the many tropes named and invented by the show itself.  Odds are, even people who have never watched a full episode of Star Trek know what it is when they see it.  

Despite only three years on the air, the original Star Trek became a cultural phenomenon, a juggernaut that inspired one of the first franchises ever created, and certainly the first platform for fandom.  Star Trek practically invented the fandom as we know it today, opening avenues for fanzines, fanfiction, and conventions where fans could gather and celebrate the show.  Star Trek’s fanbase is enormous, and dedicated, to the point where a revolutionary letter-writing campaign brought the original show back from the brink of cancellation for one more season.

For get cancelled, it did.

In 1969, Star Trek went off the air, just in time for Apollo 11’s successful launch and mission to send a man to the moon.  That event sparked a new interest in Star Trek, but it was already too late.

It seems hard to believe, but Star Trek’s best years occurred after its untimely death, where fans continued to discover and watch it on reruns, increasing its popularity to the point where it got a series of films that lasted from 1979 to 1991.

Although the last installment of the Original Star Trek brand occurred in 1991, years after its cancellation, Star Trek remains a cultural giant, spawning multiple other installments, reboots, novels, comics, and video games to its name in the time since it’s release over fifty years ago.  Its fans remain as loyal as ever, with many not simply fans of the ‘newest version’ to come along, but still dedicated to the original that made it all possible.

The question is, why?

Star Trek, for all it’s leaps and bounds for the time, seems like it would long be outdated by now, overblown throughout the years, with a reputation greater than the actual show itself.  Especially considering that the original show was cancelled after three seasons.

What brought people back?  Was it nostalgia?  Curiosity?  Random chance?  Or was there really something incredible about that campy, but heartfelt, show?  

That’s what we’re going to be investigating.  Our mission is to discover after decades of changing television, of even better versions of Star Trek, why it is that audiences still fondly return to the original show and characters.

What is it about Star Trek that audiences still find relevant and enjoyable fifty four years later?  What is it about these characters and stories that audiences still point to as some of the best ever created, and keep coming back to again and again?

That’s what we’re going to be looking at in the articles ahead. Stay tuned, and thanks so much for reading.

[suiciderealestate]

Allie X

Recently I’ve had the blessing of being commissioned to photograph the new monthly Play Now party orchestrated by party glitterati Linux and Susanne Bartsch in Brooklyn. I’ve been photographing nightlife as an unpaid hobby for the seven months I’ve lived in New York, and it has given me the ability to talk to people who might not ever otherwise talk to me, let alone look at me. But lately I have been trying to monetize my hobby with mixed results, and let’s just say that effort hasn’t been totally seamless on the social front. I am learning that in New York you can run into anyone at any time in nightlife, especially during fashion week. Being the oblivious troglodyte that I am, I hardly ever recognize celebrities, even when they’re sitting next to me for forty-five minutes at a time. Just the other night I ended up at Paul’s Baby Grand during a typical drunken Tuesday/Wednesday AM odyssey, where Rose McGowen socialized with members of my group for a surprisingly long time, completely unbeknownst to me as I sat beside her. I consummated the experience by drunkenly taking a blurry series of photos of her and the group, against the repeated requests by security for me to stop. However, I spent most of my time with Rose texting and filming myself on Instagram, expressing hapless confusion about where I was and what I was doing. It was only the next day when I was watching friends’ stories that I realized the petite blonde with the pixie cut was an icon. But some things just are what they are, and though I once applied for a job as a celebrity spotter for TMZ, it seems I wouldn’t be able to clock a celebrity if they tackled me to the ground. The following Saturday I had rearranged my work schedule so I would be able to photograph Play Now. I recently started work at a photography studio covering weekend night shifts that can easily last fourteen hours, and the extra demands brought upon the staff by fashion week weren’t helping. That means I’ve been missing most of the best parties and events, instead viewing them exclusively through social media. When I spent my Friday night watching Allie X through my phone between set builds as she sang happy birthday to Aquaria, who was in full drag at Ty Sunderland’s Heaven on Earth party after a long absence from NYC nightlife, a small part of me died. Images and videos online depicted Allie in a look sporting an enormous top-braid and a series of circles that in photos resembled toaster strudel icing radiating outward from the center of her face. “Maybe next time,” I thought to myself as I became consumed by an almost terminal case of FOMO, the same illness that impelled me to move to the middle of everything (New York City) from the middle of nowhere (Garden City, Kansas) in the first place. I had no idea how soon “next time” would be, or how horrifyingly unprepared I would be. About an hour and a half into Play Now I was much more intoxicated than I should have been and looking for my next moment to photograph. But first I needed another drink. As I quickly made my way toward the bar, a woman in a technicolor faux fur jacket, cerulean and violet eye shadow, and meticulously laid hair asked me to take her picture. I was an alcoholic being delayed his next fix, but I agreed and did a short set, neglecting to ask her to take her purse off of her shoulder and haphazardly moving through the photos, the best compositions of which were less than perfectly in focus. I was also standing way too close. “Can you get a full body shot?” she asked. “I want to get the pants and the boots in the shot. “Well the bottom doesn’t really match the top,” I said without knowing the extent of my sin. I wasn’t lying. The black boots and navy latex leggings weren’t exactly the perfect complement to the fuzzy rainbow exploding across the upper half of her body. Her hair was tied into a tight bun at the top of her head and gelled into two thick, winding rivers that channeled FKA Twigs in the curves cascading along the contours of her prominent cheekbones. Her eyebrows were blocked into near invisibility, and her colorful eye shadow served as a less than subtle but effective garnish to the upper half of her ensemble. From head to waste, she had a cohesive concept, but everything from the belt down felt like an afterthought. Still, we took some a full body shots, a constant favorite of club kids and fashionistas everywhere. When we finished taking pictures she asked me the perennial question: How would she get the photos? Because I was photographing the event for a client and the photos had a post embargo on them until they could be used as promotional material in the days leading up to the next party, I told her she’d have to wait about a month for her pics. “Oh, well I was looking for something to post tomorrow,” she said. “Well,” I said,” if you want to post them tomorrow I can send them to you and you can just refrain from tagging me. Just send me some money and I’ll send you the pics.” “How much do you want?” she asked. “I don’t have that much money, dude. Like forty dollars?” “No, around twenty-five would be fine. Just message me on Instagram.” As she typed on her phone I walked away and headed back toward the bar when I received the notification. I looked down at my phone and saw that “Allie X” had added me. When I clicked the notification and her profile emerged on my screen, the blue check mark was almost blinding. My mouth dropped. The feeling was a strange mix of elation and utter horror. I had interacted with Allie X for nearly three-hundred seconds without knowing it. I had taken her picture without knowing it. But most mortifying of all: I told her that her outfit didn’t match, and then I told her to pay me. I abandoned my mission to acquire another drink and suffered the walk of shame back toward the pop star standing in plain sight. “I’m sorry,” I said. “You’re Allie X?” It was a statement more than an inquiry, but I still delivered the words with the cadence of an implied question mark at the end. “Now I get the respect I deserve,” she said. “I tried to be subtle and show you my phone but you didn’t get it.” She asked if I wanted to do another photo set and I agreed. We attempted a shoot with moody lighting and the full-body moment. The pants still didn’t match, but now she was Allie X, not just another partygoer. I raised the ISO on my camera to 8,000 in an effort to get the right light in the photos, but they still didn’t capture the vision I know we both had. I even forgot to change the settings when we were done, and for the rest of the night I photographed the party with camera settings that could be considered by anyone with even remote fluency in digital photography to be completely fucked. After the shoot we were approached by Justin Moran, the digital editor of Paper Magazine, who just so happened to attend the same college as me in Chicago. “You know she’s a pop star, right?” he asked after I recounted the oblivion of our hapless encounter. “Yea, I know who she is,” I said. “I just didn’t know I was taking her picture. “Well, I’ll never forget you,” she said. “That’s for sure.” She noted that she was returning to New York in April to play some shows. “You should come,” she said, in a way that almost felt like a personal invitation. Sometimes in New York, leaving any impression at all is what matters most. For a pop star, not being noticed is much rarer than servile flattery, and for anyone, departures from the norm are always more memorable, even if they’re slightly insulting. I still don’t think she likes me.