#i bought the leather jacket solely for that purpose but now i wear it as often as i can

[evildog]

imm literally so fucking excited to cosplay spike for halloween this year like. im SO excited

#i bought the leather jacket solely for that purpose but now i wear it as often as i can #leather trenchcoat #i feel literally so powerful in it LOL #thankfully its not hot here yet so i can get away w it #now the question is do i do regular face or VAMP face #btvs #talkin

[honeyedhoseok]

Once More | V2 Drabble

Genre | smut

Word Count | 6.1K

Warnings | Lots of swearing. Sex. Dirty talk. Cheating and doing-the-do in the worst place possible a.k.a Y/N having NO conscience when it comes to Taehyung.

Summary | Taehyung gets the grand tour of you and Hongbin’s apartment and is determined to leave his mark with you in every room of the house.

A/N | I’m fully aware that this is way too long to be a drabble, but I’m going to continue calling it that!! P.S. Count how many times I used the phrase “once more” in this, I bet it’s a lot lmao. Enjoy! <3

You know it’s wrong. You absolutely know it is. 

It started with Taehyung coming over to keep you company—you were going to be alone for the weekend while Hongbin was on a business trip to the other side of the country—and it was a cold and rainy Friday and you had nothing better to do, so, you’d called him up. 

He’d stepped into your apartment looking a completely unfair amount of delicious. A leather jacket donned his thick upper body, and he had a wide, black headband pushing his bangs back from his forehead—simultaneously keeping his ears warm from the wind whipping around outside and providing a bit of effortless fashion to his outfit. 

He’d shed his jacket immediately upon coming in, revealing a loose white T-shirt underneath. You tried not to make your trailing eyes obvious when he bent down to unlace his boots, grazing over the flexed muscles of his shoulders and back through the thin material. 

It was unfair, really. He’d planned the whole thing on purpose, you think—no simple-minded man would ever be able to dress themselves this good.

You’d watched Taehyung look around. “Oh that’s right,” you’d said. “You haven’t seen the apartment yet, have you?”

Taehyung had hummed in agreement, looking about as interested in an apartment tour as one would be about going to the dentist. 

It probably didn’t help that before you’d asked him to come over, you two had been going at it through text in a rather flirty fashion. There may or may not have been mention of what Taehyung was going to do to you the next time he saw you.  

His smokey gaze had trailed you from head to toe before he gestured an arm out. “Lead the way, madam,” he’d said lowly. 

You’d walked into the kitchen, turning around in a circle. “Well, this is the kitchen, where I’m supposed to cook meals but a lot of nothing happens—” 

And that’s how you found yourself pressed up against one of the counters, Taehyung’s lips smashed against yours as he greedily swallowed the rest of your sentence with indecent licks into your mouth with his sinful tongue.  

So yeah, you know it’s wrong. But with Taehyung’s knee spreading your legs apart, his hands entangled in your hair and pulling your head to one side so that he can attach his lips to the soft spot under your ear—it all seems so right. 

“Keep going with the tour,” he murmurs against your clavicle, fingers digging into your sides. “Tell me more.” 

“Uh, okay,” you say, opening your eyes briefly and looking for something else to talk about while Taehyung trails his lips down your jaw and back. “We um, bought that table set from—oh!” 

Taehyung leans down to wrap his hands around your thighs, lifting you effortlessly and carrying you over to said kitchen table, setting you down on it so that you two are almost eye-level before pressing his lips back to your neck.  

“—table’s, really, nice—” he murmurs in between nips at your shoulder, pulling the soft fabric of your loose T-shirt down to give himself more access. “Sturdy.” 

Okay, so maybe you’d worn something loose and drapey on purpose. Maybe you’d worn the leggings that you knew made your ass look good. Maybe.  

Taehyung suddenly grabs your hips through those leggings, bringing your heated core to rub against the very obvious bulge in his soft, black joggers. You realize only then that you two are sort of wearing matching sweats, and the thought has you smiling into Taehyung’s kiss.  

“Next?” he grunts, scooping you off the table in one swift motion, and you wrap your legs around his thin waist, locking your hands behind his neck.  

You two make out as Taehyung walks—and briefly, you find yourself wondering where in the hell he got all this strength from. As he pulls away from your mouth again, you nibble on his bottom lip a little, earning a whimper-like noise from the back of Taehyung’s throat that has you giddy realizing you could produce such a sound from him.  

He lays you—or rather, you fall—back on the couch, and Taehyung wastes no time hovering over you, his knee back between your legs and placing light pressure on your most sensitive areas.  

You squirm a little as he leans down, eyes alight with want, dark pupils searching yours with a kind of hunger that makes your insides feel like jello.  

“Tell me about this couch,” he murmurs. “Real leather?” 

“Fake,” you gasp as Taehyung’s hand dives under your shirt, fingers finding purchase around one of your nipples as he shoves your bra out of the way. “Authentic leather is—“ 

“Expensive,” he says, grinning. “I know. What about the TV? How many inches?” 

You smirk at him, but you shrug. “Fifty?” 

Taehyung’s hand stills. “Just fifty?” he repeats, shaking his head. “Oh, he could have done better than that, Y/N!” 

You narrow your eyes at him, realizing suddenly it’s a jab at Hongbin. Taehyung hated that Hongbin was so well off—not because Taehyung was jealous, but because Hongbin was the type to tell other people about his accomplishments. Often.   

You reach up to bring his mouth back to yours, hoping to kill the game and focus on other, more important topics—such as the way your underwear are now sticking to you in a most uncomfortable fashion—but Taehyung stiffens, letting his mouth hover inches from yours.  

“Tae,” you whine, and you can tell by the flash of humour in his eyes he’s about to keep you from getting what you want.  

“You’re being greedy,” he scolds, leaning down enough to press a smoldering—albeit, closed-mouth—kiss to your lips that leaves you narrowing your eyes. “What about the rest of my tour?” 

Leave it to Taehyung to be such a fucking tease at a time where you want to speed things along. He’s good for this—amping up your emotions and then slowing everything down again when you get into it.  

His hand slides from your breast, fingertips trailing along the curves of your stomach until he reaches the waistband of your leggings. Your bite your bottom lip as you watch him with hooded eyes, watch his tongue run along his teeth in contemplation.  

It’s not like Taehyung hasn’t been there before. But right now, the atmosphere is heavy in the room because the realization dawns that it’s just you two, alone, in an apartment again for the first time since—  

“You’re pretty,” he murmurs, suddenly. “You know that?” 

The earnest tone to his voice makes your skin flush, a warmth that travels from your cheeks to the skin of your neck, shoulders and downward. You wonder what he sees right now, with you laying underneath him, your hair pushed back from your face, lips probably swollen and dry from all the kissing, eyes searching his for a hint of insincerity.  

You wonder, also, if he realizes what you see right now. Him, hovering above you with one hand pressed into the couch cushion near your head, the other tracing patterns into the soft skin of your lower stomach. Taehyung’s pretty lips parted, shallow breaths escaping. The smooth, tanned skin of his cheeks, his forehead, his neck and the vein protruding that you want so desperately to run your tongue along. He’s gorgeous—unbelievably so—and he’s yours, if you want him to be.  

To curb the feeling warming up in your gut, you bat your eyelashes at him.  

“Just pretty?” you ask. “I’m not sexy in this outfit made solely for cleaning the house or practicing yoga?” 

Taehyung grins. He pulls you up so that you’re both sitting, blinking the fog out of his eyes as the same ferocity from earlier replaces it. “Oh you’re plenty sexy,” he states. “Come here.” 

You scoot closer to him and he envelops your mouth with his again. He kisses you soft at first, warming you back up, and then his hands are in your hair, mouth slanted against yours with fervor, his tongue sneaking out to lace with yours.  

You settle back into it; this you can do. What you can’t do is think too hard about the freckle that dots the tip of Taehyung’s nose. Or the way he smiles. Or the cute little cackle he lets out when he finds a funny meme on his phone that he just has to share with you. 

“Next—room,” you breathe in between kisses. “The tour?” 

Taehyung pulls back from you a few moments later, looking at you with smoldering eyes. You raise your eyebrows at him in question.  

“Yes,” he murmurs, pulling you off the couch. “Continue, angel.” 

He lets you walk, but wraps his arms around your middle, resting his chin on your shoulder so that you have to do an awkward waddle-walk with his weight dragging you down. You’re in the hallway, now, with three rooms left to conclude your game.  

You point to the first door to the left. “Guest bathroom,” you say.  

“Nothing to see in there,” Taehyung replies. You giggle as he presses light kisses up the juncture of your neck and shoulder. “Next?” 

“Guest bedroom,” you say, the two of you walking to the door on the far right. You push it open and Taehyung stops mouthing at your skin long enough to take a glance.  

The guest room has a minimalist appeal to it—a plain, white duvet sits on the full-sized bed with a dresser and small bookshelf off to the side. Your desktop computer is tucked into the corner of the room, and some paintings and a rug are all that offer any creative flair. Hongbin wanted to decorate more, but you’d chided him against it. It was a room that was rarely ever going to get used, what was the need in putting expensive decor in?  

Taehyung’s hands disappear from your sides as he walks into the room, looking around at everything, peering through the blinds at the parking lot below.  

“I’m not getting a good vibe from this room,” he says, shaking his head. “Something’s definitely off.” 

You see a trace of a smile skirting around the edges of his lips, and you decide to play along, again.  

“Oh?” You say, crossing your arms over your chest. “Tell me more, interior designer Kim.” 

He’s still sporting that thick black headband even though it’s comfortably warm in your apartment, and you watch him shake the long bangs sitting on his forehead out of his face before he speaks.  

“Come sit on the bed,” he says, running his fingers along the duvet. “Maybe this room needs something . . . sexy?” 

You roll your eyes but walk in after him. You sit on the edge of the mattress, watching Taehyung round the side of the bed with appreciative eyes. 

“Lie down.”

You do, stretching a little as you lift your arms over your head. You feel your shirt slide to reveal your stomach, and Taehyung’s eyes dart down at it. He licks his lips with a quick swipe of his tongue before he speaks, “No, no, that’s not it. There’s something else wrong.”

Taehyung leans over you on the bed, fingertips trailing the expanse of exposed skin underneath your belly button. The action has goosebumps arising, his face hovering inches from yours so that with every exhale, you feel a whisper of his breath across your lips.  

“Kiss me,” you say quietly.  

And he does. Taehyung kisses you until you’re breathless, until your head is spinning, until your mouth and lips feel dry and used, until your hands are entangling themselves in the soft tresses of his hair, pulling the black headband off and throwing it somewhere on the floor so the strands hang and tickle your checks when he pulls back to look at you, panting.  

“There’s one more stop on the tour,” he murmurs. “Want to finish up?” 

You nod, and Taehyung gives you one more soft kiss before pulling you up and off the bed. You trail him into the hallway, twisting the knob on the door to your bedroom and slowly stepping inside. 

It’s a bit more decorated than the guest room—a fluffy, grey duvet covers the bed with matching throw pillows and decorations. Hongbin cared a lot about aesthetics, and so you’d went with a cool-toned theme for the master, but you’d kept it feeling more like home with small added decorations to suit your own taste. A framed picture of you two sat on the bedside and a fluffy, decorative rug lay in the center of the room. There were string lights around your vanity, and a bookshelf with lots of Hongbin’s files and notebooks filling the shelves. 

You realize suddenly, upon looking at the room with another person, that it still looked like no one lived there. The bed was made perfectly like a hotel room, the curtains were drawn and not a single thing was out of place; even the throw pillows were placed in their proper spots on the duvet. The only thing slightly messy about the room was the dirty laundry basket—but even that was passable to the eye because the outside was a patterned grey fabric that fit with the theme.  

You don’t have anything to say about it, not even a joke to throw Taehyung’s way.  

When you look at his face finally, it turns your stomach to wonder what he might be thinking. He tongues the inside of his cheek in thought, his face impassive as he gives the room a slow once-over.  

“So, this is the master,” you say quietly. “This is—”

“Your bedroom,” he answers, and his tone makes your heartbeat triple. It’s a low murmur, so low it sounds like a hum. Taehyung takes a deep breath and walks toward the bed, spreading a small wrinkle on the duvet out with his hand. “What happens here?” 

“Taehyung,” you say, shaking your head. You can’t read the atmosphere anymore, and it feels awkward suddenly. What were you thinking, bringing him in here?  

Taehyung is quiet for a minute, before a wicked grin splits his face. “Now this room feels right.” 

“What?” You say, shocked.  

In seconds, Taehyung has you on your back on the bed, his face devilish in nature as he crawls over top of you. You look at him wide eyes, wondering how he can’t hear how loud your heartbeat is pounding underneath your thin t-shirt.  

“This is where it happens, huh?” Taehyung says slowly, drawing his face near yours. “This is where you and Hongbin make love?”  

The comment is mocking, as always. You swallow harshly, unsure of how to answer. Taehyung’s nose skims along your jawline and you close your eyes, fighting the urge to melt under his light touches. Even though you don’t answer, he continues. 

“In a room like this? It’s pristine in here,” he says, tutting under his breath. “He must not do it right.” 

You dare to ask, “Do-do what, right, exactly?” 

Taehyung stops tracing long enough to lick a bold stripe along your neck, letting his teeth graze the spot. How he’s able to keep such control over his actions for so long you have no idea—you just want him to kiss you again already. Take off your clothes. Touch you, for God’s sake. 

“Fuck you,” he hums simply. “Make you cum.”  

The words are enough to make your core clench, and Taehyung pulls back to look into your eyes. Back is the emotion filling them from earlier, except it’s intensified. Taehyung’s mind is set now, and there’s no going back—but his isn’t the only one.  

You and Taehyung hadn’t pushed your boundaries much. You were careful about your sneaking around—never going all the way because you were never fully alone with him. But this time was different. There was a bed, a locked door, and a complete evening by yourself. If you were being honest, you’d been contemplating those thoughts since the moment he stepped into your apartment.  

There’s something so dangerously enticing about sneaking around with Taehyung that your brain can't quite wrap around how wrong it is until after it happened. He was too easy to get caught up in, too easy to just be with—which is exactly what was happening again as you opened your mouth to respond to him.  

You pull him close, letting your lips brush against his a little as you whisper, “Show me, then,” you say. “Show me how you’d do it, Taehyung.” 

It’s a brash move. It’s a brash move you’ve never made before in your life, but Taehyung responds to it exactly how you hoped he would: his eyes darken, and he pulls back as if to give you a moment to breathe, to re-process what you just said to him.  

“No games,” you said, feeling shaky and breathless. “I’m tired of waiting.” 

Yes, your lust may have been consuming your thoughts, pushing out any sensibility you had left and replacing it with an unrelenting desire for Taehyung—but at the same time, it was a statement filled with the truth.  

Since that fated day when Taehyung came back into your life, your physical chemistry with him was unmatched when compared to any previous person you’d been with. He made you feel alive, made the bones that made up your body feel like they were bursting with light between the joints when he looked at you sometimes. If you believed in soulmates—you weren’t sure yet—every moment with Taehyung made you a little more convinced.  

But the physical attraction was just the surface of what you had with him. Here you were, in a long-term relationship with Hongbin, but you were constantly thinking about Taehyung. Texting him. Calling him. Spilling your guts to him when something was wrong. Wanting to see him, touch him, kiss him.  

Maybe you were in love with him. Or, rather, you were still in love with him from all those years ago.  

“Are you sure?” Taehyung asks, swallowing, and then licking his dry lips.  

Your train of thought stutters at the question, still lingering on the concept of loving him and so your eyes widen a fraction. Taehyung takes it as hesitation. 

He leans back further. “We don’t have to do this, Y/N—” 

“No, no, no,” you say, finally gathering your bearings. You place a slightly shaking hand on his chest—when you see your fingers trembling you ball them up in his shirt, tugging him down a little. “God, I’m—can you just, kiss me?” 

“I’d be honored to,” he murmurs with a smile, dipping his head down to press his lips softly against yours once more.  

They envelop yours with a fervor, diving in to capture the very breath from your lungs and leave you lingering in the afterthought of what it’s like to be intimate with Taehyung. He is all breath and lips, nips and grazes along your skin, hands grasping and mouths brushing and complete and utter melting into the way that he caresses your body.  

You lift Taehyung’s white t-shirt over his head, letting your nails scrape between the dent in his shoulder blades as he hovers above you. Your quiet, neat bedroom with Hongbin is filled with the smacks of mouths, sighs from you as Taehyung ravishes your neck with his lips, and the shuffling of bodies and light thumps as clothes are removed one by one and tossed onto the floor. 

When you’re in just your panties and Taehyung is in his briefs, the two of you pause, eyeing the other up as if to reassess the situation once more, give yourself one more time to stop it. But you don’t want to. All you can think about is how it’s never like this with Hongbin—your heart hasn’t raced this fast in years, your hands haven’t literally been shaking with want, nervousness and excitement because Hongbin has never whispered how beautiful your body is before giving the bottom curve of your breast a sensual nip.  

You’re not shy with Taehyung. Your upper body on full display for him is nothing, because he looks at you like you are the most ethereal human he’s ever laid his eyes on.  

Sexy isn’t a word you’ve thrown around before today, but you know that it completely and totally describes Taehyung. He is so confident with himself that it has you hot and needy under his touch, a demeanor that was unknown to him when you were teenagers. A brief memory crosses your mind of having to remind Taehyung that it was okay to be nervous during one of your first times having sex when he couldn’t get it up—but he has absolutely no problem with that now.  

His length, rock hard in his pants and pressing against your hip as he rests his lower half against your body has your mouth watering with need. You want to see him naked, and when you tell him that, he has the audacity to chuckle between presses of his lips to yours.  

“Oh yeah?” he murmurs. “Ladies first, baby.” 

The nickname sends a shock of nostalgia tingling down your spine but you welcome it, pushing Taehyung so that he’s sitting back on his knees. His dark eyes wander your frame as your hook your thumbs the sides of your panties, shimmying them down your legs and kicking them off and onto the floor.  

“I want to taste you,” Taehyung murmurs, placing his hands on your knees, edging them apart a little bit. “Can I?” 

Your face flushes with the bluntness of his words, but you swallow the tightness in your throat and nod, settling back onto the pillows—Hongbin’s pillows, on his side. Taehyung presses a line of kisses up your leg, taking his time and pressing a few around the place you’ve been waiting for him to ravish since—well, probably since he entered the apartment an hour or so ago.  

“So pretty,” he murmurs somewhere near your thigh.  

You close your eyes as his breath fans out over your pubic area, insides quivering with want as you try to calm your racing heart. You bite onto your lip, trying not to let on how desperate you are for him to touch you—and then he does. 

Taehyung dives in for a kiss between your legs, causing your mouth to take on a silent ‘o’ shape as he licks all the words, thoughts, and brain processes out of your body with confident strokes of his sinful mouth.  

“Fuck, Taehyung—” you gasp, back arching off the bed a little, “Slow down, fuck—” 

Taehyung hums contentedly against your clit, probably chuckling at how powerless you are underneath him. His right arm hooks around your thigh, pushing it up and over his shoulder so his mouth can fit better against the crook of your sex. You feel lightheaded with the way his mouth licks into you, almost embarrassed at how wet you are—not just from his mouth, but from the essences he’s coaxing out of you.  

Your thighs feel hot and sticky, and when Taehyung’s other hand slithers between your legs to press one finger between your folds while he licks smaller ministrations onto your clit, you think you might just lose your mind right then and there.  

You don’t have time to be embarrassed by the whimpers and whines that tumble past your lips as Taehyung works his hand-and-mouth combo that has your walls tightening around his long digit pumping in and out of you. When he adds another, you can’t help but mewl his name. 

 “Taehyung, please, oh my—god, don’t stop—” 

He takes a breather from your battered clit to look up at you with a smirk adorning his mouth, accompanied by everything he just coaxed out of you that makes his chin shiny and glistening.  

“You close?” he asks, slowing down the pace of his fingers so that you can get better adjusted. You’re sure he can tell from the tenseness of you body, the way you’re clenching around his fingers like your life depends on it.  

 “Like this?” he murmurs, and begins hitting that spot within you that has you breathless again. “Cum for me, baby.” 

“Yes, yes, yes,” you whimper, “Tae—” 

You fall apart around his fingers incredibly quick—a few more strokes is all your insides can take before Taehyung has a moan tearing from your throat with a volume that you can’t remember reaching before now.  

When it feels like you can breathe again, like the world has stopped spinning around you from the force of the orgasm that just ripped through your body, you slump back down onto the bed, looking up at the ceiling of your bedroom in a daze.  

Taehyung crawls over you, coming into your line of sight with a grin plastered on his mouth, and you tug him down for a kiss that has you tasting yourself on his lips and tongue. You don’t even care at this point, so fucked out that the bitterness doesn’t bother you like it usually would. 

“You okay?” he asks as he moves to press a small kiss underneath your ear. His tongue traces the shell before he speaks in a quiet voice, “What’s next?”

 There’s only one thing on your mind: “Condom.” You breathe the word out and Taehyung stiffens, pulling back so he can see your eyes again. 

You realize then that Taehyung was only thinking you were going to go to your usual lengths—a bit of touching, some oral maybe—just with the added luxury and excitement of doing it in a bed. 

But now that Taehyung’s strong, beautiful hands aren’t between your legs, the ache has returned. It’s an ache that you feel when you’re around him, when he licks his lips a certain way, or when he adjusts his pants, or when his shirt rises above his waist to show off the light trail of hair leading down into his underwear. And you know what you need to sate it. 

“You sure?” he asks, but the way he bites hard on his bottom lip lets you know he isn’t opposed to it whatsoever. 

“I want you,” you whisper, leaning up from the bed to connect your lips with his again. 

They’re soft against you own, pretty petals meant just for your undoing. Nothing ever feels wrong with Taehyung, and you know that’s your downfall but you can’t do anything about it. With his body pressing into yours in the right places, his cock still half-hard in his briefs and pressing against your inner thigh while he leaves small, soft kisses against the line of your jaw, you know this is what you want. Need. 

You lift your hips against Taehyung’s, reminding him with a brush of your still-wet core against the head of his dick. He stutters against your jaw, and his hand comes up to cradle the side of your face, his thumb resting against the curve of your bottom lip. When he looks at you again his eyes are darker, the lids sitting low in a way that makes your stomach clench. 

“You want to fuck,” he murmurs, “right here? In this bed?”

You swallow, heart beating fast in your chest. “Yes.”

Taehyung laughs—actually laughs. “You little minx,” he tuts, shaking his head. 

And then he kisses you—hard—with all teeth and tongue; the breath is stolen from your lungs with the heat of his movements. If there is one thing you know about Taehyung, it’s that he is turned on by shamelessness. When you are quaking with need and willing to get it any way that you can from him is when he’s at his peak—which was precisely what was happening now. 

After separating his lips from yours with an audible smack, he moves off the bed to grab his wallet from his jeans, where a single condom sits in one of the cloth slats. You don’t have time to make a joke about why it’s there before he is removing his briefs, letting his cock spring free from the fabric. When it bobs in the air you swallow harshly, trying not to show how your mouth is quite literally watering at the sight. 

He crawls back on the bed, sitting back on his heels at the end while he works his cock with one hand, bringing the aluminium packet to his mouth and ripping it with his teeth. He spits the piece out on the bed, and you internally remind yourself to make sure it’s picked up later. 

“Like what you see?” he asks with lowered eyes, watching you watch him fist himself and pump up and down his length a few times. 

You hum somewhere in the back of your throat, unable to form words just yet. You sneak a hand down to your clit, running your fingers over the sensitive nub while warming yourself back up. 

Taehyung watches you, his bangs sticking to his forehead a little now from the warmth filling the room—both the heat coming from the vents and the heat of your actions mingling in a way that makes the room feel stifling. 

For just a moment, you try to remember what it was like when you and Taehyung were teenagers, sneaking in little moments in your parents’ houses while they were at work. It was never this hot or needy—though you’re sure your little teenage heart would say otherwise—and it hits you that you and Taehyung aren’t the same people you used to be, but your attraction for each other has never waned.  

Taehyung slides the condom over his length, now fully hard, and his eyes meet yours once again.  

“You okay?” he asks in reassurance for what feels like the millionth time.  

You nod as he crawls back over you, pressing a kiss to the skin of his bare shoulder as he settles between your legs. You hook one over his hip on instinct, dragging him forward with a dig of your heel into the space underneath his butt. You need him, and you need him now.  

When Taehyung finally sinks into you, your head kicks back out of instinct, feeling every glorious inch of him sliding in between your walls in a stretch that is so foreign but so, so good. He releases a low moan as well, the sound sending a shiver up your spine at the way it sounds filled with joy—relief, even.  

“Fuck,” he groans, leaning his head onto your shoulder and nipping at the skin there, “So fucking tight, baby.” 

“I know,” you whimper out, digging your heel a little harder and lifting your hips. “Move, Taehyung, please. Just, move—” 

He obliges, covering your mouth with his to muffle the sounds of your whimpers as he starts a rhythm. Every dip of his hips back down to meet yours has a small, mewling sound spilling from your lips that you have no time to be embarrassed about—everything just feels that good.  

Taehyung’s cock hits all the right places inside you, eliciting a feeling of fullness unknown to your quivering insides. You hold onto his shoulders, digging into his soft, tan skin with blunt nails while he does the same with the hand pressing your knee back, allowing him to angle his hips in a way that has you seeing spots. Your head has inched up towards the bed frame now, and every snap of his hips makes a soft knock of the headboard against the wall.  

“Tae—ugh, oh my god, Taehyung,” you whimper, closing your eyes. You almost don’t want to say anything for the sake of ruining the moment, but he urges you on with breathy narrations.  

“Yeah?” he says, voice low in your ear. You can feel the sweat from his forehead making your shoulder damp as he ruts into you, but you could care less. “What is it—baby? How’s it feel?” 

You moan for him as an answer, but he doesn’t take it. His hips slow down a little and he holds himself up with his hands sinking into the mattress beside your head.  

“Say it,” he coaxes between pants. “Tell me how it feels—to be fucked—right here in your boyfriend’s bed.”

“So good, Tae,” you mewl. 

Your face flushes at the confession, but you want to do it for him. You weren’t one for dirty talk normally. But with Taehyung making the wet mess you feel between your thighs, in this heated moment, you think he could probably get you to say anything. 

“—want you to come,” you say breathlessly. “Wanna see your face—”

“Oh yeah?” he says, hard rocks of his hips accompanying the soft words floating from his lips. His fingers dig into your hips but its a pressure that feels good. “You’re so fucking pretty, god—fucking beautiful body—”

He was always a sweet talker during sex, managing to say the words that made you feel soft and mushy and hot and needy and the same time. You put your hands on either side of his face, pulling his mouth down to yours so that you can sink your teeth into his pretty, pink bottom lip. You pull the flesh into your mouth, sucking on it a little before releasing it with a small pop back against Taehyung’s teeth. 

He grins with a sinful vengeance down at you, his hips starting a faster cadence against your own until the room is filled with nothing but the squelching of your essence and the claps of your thighs against his as he chases his high. 

You squeeze around him, opening your eyes briefly so that you can see his reaction above you: his skin flushed with heat, the muscles of his chest and neck strained with the pursue of his impending release. He looks good like this, the long strands of his hair somewhat sticking to his forehead while others hang down, ticking the tops of your cheeks. The sight of his lip tucked in between his has your core clenching rather harder, and he sucks in a breath at the feeling. 

“Fuck, don’t—” he gasps. “I’m really fucking close.” 

You smooth his hair back, coaxing him now with all the dirtiness of your mouth you can muster.  

“Come on, baby, cum for me,” you whimper, pressing small kisses up his shoulder. “I want you to—want to feel you come all in this pus—”

Taehyung groans loudly as his body stutters, letting your walls milk him for everything his as he finishes with slow, lingering strokes inside of you. After a few more sloppy dips of his hips, e pulls his length out of you, still covered in the condom and softening by the moment. You wince a little at the missing feeling between your legs. He drags his lips across your cheek just as his body goes limp, pressing on top of yours heavily as he struggles to catch his breath afterwards. 

You use to the time to come down from your high as well, enjoying the way Taehyung’s body fits into all the crooks of yours with a comforting, albeit sweaty and sticky, warmth. Your fingertips graze the middle of his back, drawing aimless patterns in the soft, tan skin. 

Taehyung sighs contentedly in your ear, pressing a small kiss there and then a few more in a line that leads back to the corner of your mouth. Down from your Taehyung-induced high, your head feels clearer, your heart sitting a little heavier in your chest as you think about the possible repercussions of what you’ve done.  

Taehyung commands your attention though, pushing his soft lips against yours and coaxing you to make out with him for a minute in your dual, post-coitus bliss. His tongue drags against yours lazily, his hands coming up to push some stray strands of hair off your forehead, fingertips dragging down the side of your face until he has your cheek cradled in his palm.  

He’s so fucking gorgeous it hurts, and your heart beats a little off rhythm as he smiles a sated grin at you, seemingly unaware of your naked bodies still pressed against each other on top of your comforter.  

“You okay?” he asks once more—softer this time, with more implications. His eyes hold a bit of hesitation, almost as if he’s scared of you giving him a real answer instead of your usual one.  

But you are okay, and so you say it, watching his small smile split into an even prettier grin. He kisses the tip of your nose and the tops of both your cheeks before he sighs in satisfaction.  

“Well,” he says, humming deep in his throat. You watch his eyes alight with mischievousness. “This might be the best room in the house now—don’t you think?”

#taehyung x reader #bts x reader #taehyung smut #kim taehyung smut #bts smut #kim taehyung scenarios #taehyung scenarios #bts scenarios #kim taehyung #the v2 series #v2 smut #the v2 series smut #honeyedhoseok

[garyofrivia]

a few Modern!Gang college AU headcanons!!!!!

not that anyone asked!!! and this has probably been done already!! but i’m bored at work so :/ i’m so sorry 

Arthur:

graphic design major, creative writing minor

took a photography class to impress that cute albert boy from down the hall and worked extra hard all semester just to end up accidentally telling his advisor that he wanted to double minor in photography as well

Tired™

he’s def one of those students that can fall asleep a n y w h e r e on campus

has a sleeve tattoo and is working on a second ;;;)))

he doesn’t party often, but when he does, the entire fire department and 7 cop cars show up by the end of the night to break it up

there was a rumor his sophomore year that he beat up 5 frat dudes at once during rush week for harassing girls and no one has heard of any issues from that frat since

is banned from the local chili’s for dining and dashing

shoplifts chef boyardee, microwavable ramen, and snickers bars from the student center convenience store to Survive

Charles:

environmental studies major

is in 50000000 activist clubs

regularly punches racist white boys w/ maga merch in the dorm common rooms and when the RA saw one time he didn’t do jack shit bc…. he right

he’s never procrastinated an assignment in his life

studies until 5 am every night but? still wakes up at the crack of dawn to go to the gym????

works part time as a barista at a hole in the wall coffee shop/bookstore and is 100% a coffee snob

doesn’t smoke but knows every weed dealer on campus, mostly bc they’re all enviro studies majors

his roommate thinks he’s a myth bc he’s never there or is just super quiet, but rly he just Minds His Damn Business

can be seen reading for leisure on the quad when it’s sunny and warm

Dutch:

political science major, philosophy minor

arthur and hosea are his friends from high school and they’re the only ones that can tolerate his mood when he goes on Insane procrastination benders where he’s trying to write 4 essays in a single night on a fuck ton of adderall and energy drinks

frequently goes on rants while studying in the student center about capitalism and it somehow always results in him on top of a table, yelling about ronald reagan

it gets Annoying when he talks about ancient greece, which is… constantly..

has 4 girlfriends and 3 boyfriends but still has time to participate in debate team every saturday

accidentally incited a student labor strike on campus one time and the cafeteria wasn’t functional for a week

started 6 clubs, but never goes to meetings and can’t remember what literally any of them are for

doesn’t work at all but somehow? always has money??? like he pays for his friends’ dinners all the time?? how??????

Hosea:

graduate economics student

he’s that cool TA in a super hard class that sends the prof’s tests from previous semesters to all the students so they can study for the final

Constantly in the library reading/studying/tutoring

still lives on campus for some reason and pirates textbook pdfs out of his dorm room

has a 4.2 gpa, but acts like he’s never been to a single class in his life

gets high all the time and talks about moving to europe on a whim and is *THIS* close to just fuckign doin it

makes his own kombucha

when he can’t sleep bc of test anxiety he rambles to arthur and dutch until the wee hours of the morn about existentialism and how great the beatles were

is responsible for multiple people discovering they have a daddy kink despite not having one himself

John:

undecided major (communications maybe, but he hasn’t found his “passion” yet)

failed freshman english twice for just not showing up to class

drives one of those old subarus from the 90’s and does donuts in the student lot when it snows

has a CD collection from his Emo™ days in the glove box and pops one in every now and then when he’s alone and feelin’ nostalgic/sad

skateboards to class and usually almost runs over a bunch of people since he always has headphones on

death note is his favorite anime

that One Room on your hall that is ALWAYS playing loud ass music until 3am

is surprisingly really good at math and tries to help tutor his friends but gets frustrated when they don’t understand “basic” calculus on the first try

his favorite hobby is harassing the ducks on campus and has made enemies of multiple geese

Sadie:

criminology major

plays intramural sports, probably volleyball and softball

everyone’s Jock Girlfriend they wished they had but are too afraid to talk to bc she might snap someone’s neck if they look at her wrong

wears leather jackets and aviators for every occasion

one time gave a monologue about sexism in her political theory class after not saying anything for the entire semester and her professor was moved to tears

has a lot of friends but only a few are ride or die babey!!!!!!!! (it’s arthur, charles, and abigail and they bully john together)

knows a lot about cars and ppl pay her to fix theirs since college kids usually can’t afford to go to a garage

speaks german because she got bored one summer and taught herself a fucking language i guess

Sean:

french major (????why is he like that???)

he says he’s studying a different language because the thinks it’ll make him hotter, but really it’s because he fantasises about moving away one day to start a new life

always says how college isn’t really for him and is .2 seconds away from dropping out

hangs out with john a little too much for his own good and once broke his wrist while trying his skateboard

“hey, have you heard of [insert incredibly obscure punk rock band name here]?”

gets blackout drunk every weekend and keeps a journal for the sole purpose of documenting the various places he’s woken up

wears stupid beanies and owns one (1) hoodie that he wears year round

quotes memes out loud to be able to communicate his emotions effectively

a ~Film Hoe~

also………. he vapes

Javier:

international studies major, finance minor

studied abroad in spain and almost didn’t come back bc he loved it so much

plans to get mega rich so he can travel Everywhere

um,,, he loves classic lit and owns an entire library full of it

took a gap year after high school to tour with his band and kinda became a lil famous so that’s cool

runs a thirst trap instagram acct and models part time ;)

every single person that encounters him has been attracted to him in one way or another and they truly don’t even question it

he’s a major mama’s boy and she visits him all the time

he rooms with sean who drives him insane but they have similar music tastes and were able to bond over that

they get rowdy on saturdays but has his (few) friends over on sundays for a “family dinner”

Bill:

computer science major

used to play COD competitively and wants to get into videya game development

seems like kind of an idiot when he asks questions in class but his grades show that he’s smarter than he looks

did ROTC for the tuition money but dropped as soon as he found out that you have to enlist after you graduate lmao

southern angery boi that drives a pickup truck and hosts tailgates every single football game

has a bunch of dudebro friends that he hangs out with due to societal pressure, but all he wants to do is bake some cookies

his roommate was scared of him at first but when he bought him a lil gift for christmas before break, he realized that he was a big ole softie

is late to class bc he spends 65943598 years on his hair in the morning even though it literally never looks different

Lenny:

english major, applying to the education masters degree program

he wants to be a high school english teacher fuck me up!!!!!!

was super homesick when he first moved away :( 

writes his friends papers for them sometimes even though he’s killing himself with his own schoolwork

netflix binges and video game benders are regular weekend activities and he’s been known to not move from his chair for 15 hours at a time

runs an avengers stan blog and cried at comic con when he met robert downey jr

begged the manager at the local comic book store for a job and the guy was just like “yeah, kid literally just apply online idc”

has lots of friends that rope him into doing hooligan shit instead of study

is a giant ball of anxiety for the majority of the semester and is just,, Trying His Best

Micah:

he was the maga kid that charles knocked out the first week of classes

#rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #rdr headcanons #rdr2 HCs #modern rdr2 #jedmdjskjdkd jk about micah i cant do him out of pure bias so feel free to add him or anyone else!!!!! #this is EXTREMELY self indulgent wow #pls dont drag me

[royallypsychotic]

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[dunmerofskyrim]

9

In Simra’s mind the days lined up. They passed by, lined off and behind, becoming hazy — at least as hazy as his sober memories ever grew with time. But the plains of the Northern Deshaan were good for that. Nothing to stand out save what did, and what did loomed large as idols in amongst that ocean of nothing.

In the landscape, a standing tree, or snarl of scrubland shrubbery. A patch of brown groundwater that mirrored the sky in sepia. In the distance once, a shining line in the afternoon sun: the arm of a stream bending tribute to the River Dathan. Crossing the latter would mark their halfway point. They’d find it either way, but opted towards the stream, to follow it, so at least they’d have fresh water until they did.

And that was good.

It meant no thirst.

It meant fish sometimes that Tammunei caught, sitting by the streamside and just waiting, humming at intervals, as the minnow-skinny smallfry came to the shallows to be snatched up into an open-mouthed pot. They would’ve been better dredged in flour and fried – the crunch of their tiny bones indistinct from the crunch of the golden crumb on them; Simra had had them that way in Narsis, and enjoyed them pretty well – but as soups with forage-greens and lengths of succulent reed they staved off hunger.

It meant having a kind of road to guide them. The stream always by them, to judge progress, keep their bearings.

It meant being able to steal away and wash. Face, hands, hair, with leech-lily scented soap, til at least the parts of him the sky and wind saw felt scoured clean. For the rest he had his cantrips, and water to cast them with.

In two batches, Simra had laundered his clothes in Bodram. Or rather he’d had them laundered for him. And that was something new. An expensive novelty to which he’d like to get better used.

A shirt in morning-blue scribsilk, folding diagonal across the breast to fasten in a line of brass buttons. Two were crescent-shaped, one was missing, and replaced with a toggle of polished wood. Band collar, trim shoulders, both embroidered in dark thread with a beehive pattern of hexagons. Launder it as he might, fond and sour memories both clung to it like a lingering scent. He’d bought it in Suran, all but four years ago.

Longer years still hung on his woollen Riftfolk tunic, and yet it held out. Well-made, but it ought to’ve been for the price — or how steep it had seemed at the time. Beasts ran in black-stitched thread around its bottom hem; red-stitched curls of foliage and flower petals around its wide deep collar. A freckling of faded red-brown stains still dappled its front after all this time. He wore it over the other, loose fit over slim, layered against the cold.

Deep-brown leggings too, close-cut and made from kreshwave. The fabric was combed til soft and supple, but teeth-pulling-hard to tear, and in trousers that was a blessing. At the back, attached at the waist, was a kind of train made from netch-leather. Hanging down like coat-tails it could flutter at the backs of his knees, but these days he wore it in front, buttoned around his hips in a lopsided kilt.

Body clean, they all kept mostly clean too, save for the dust. Those and the others. Ragpicker’s patchwork scarf. The once-gift of his goatskin mantle, napped smooth with wear and age and rain. Strange, but his jacket – his sister’s jacket – seemed to keep clean by itself, worn between his capelike mantle and shirts.

His boots were the exception, but weren’t they always? How many pairs had he had down the years? Ruined? Things were simpler – cheaper – before he wore shoes, but by now there was no going back, was there? These ones were two-toed native-made things, made from guar-leather and rising to just over the knee. There they led into a pair of quilted-leather kneepads – scuffed, gashed open, restitched – and tied in at the rear of his legs with bows of red-dyed ribbon. Those were pretty at least. There were plenty of times he liked them better than the boots themselves…

The soles and heels though would need mending before long. But why should that come as a surprise, when his feet did so much work of late? When he’d had them – what? – eight months now, and since had run them ragged. It was only fair that they’d beg for a break. Just like it was fair that he’d ask them to wait a while longer. Stockings, leggings, shirts — he had bone needles, a little redware thimble, and could darn them well enough if never good-as-new. Cobbling was different. Boots were expensive. Making and mending them took skill he lacked.

Soon, Simra thought, without knowing when.

The days formed stanzas. Same rhythms, same shapes, and struggling along with the same trudging theme.

But the grey had ended as it always did, and by contrast everything shone, everything sang — until there’d been shine and song enough to take them both for granted again.

The sun began to set.

Noor was singing again. Birdsong, wolfsong — a drone down in her throat that rose up by and by, offering high head-notes to the wind.

Tammunei had caught an eel. Better that by far than the smallfry they usually landed. With the fire already lit, Simra began filleting it, the way Tammunei had taught him.

He had a knife for it: a skinny fisherman’s filleting blade with an uptrailing point, living as part of a pair in a pocketlike sheathe that hung from his swordbelt. Almost funny how he’d had it two years and only just began to use it for its actual-made purpose. Almost.

Simra set to work. In behind the gills then round in a slit circle. Tugging away the mottled skin from head down to tail. Teasing along the spine, blade flat to bone, freeing a long strip of fatty meat from each side. It was meditative after he’d gotten past the constant urge to wash his hands.

“Got any idea what she’s doing?” he asked Tammunei, nodding at Noor. “Or’s your guess good as mine? Is it the same thing every night, or different songs? I can’t tell.”

They sat by the streamside, perched on a flat dry rock. Catkinned reeds rose around them, downy heads bobbing. The water whispered as it journeyed by. Tammunei looked at home by water, Simra reckoned — at ease.

“Herding-songs,” Tammunei answered, cutting away two stiff green skewers of reed with a use-knife and passing them to Simra. “I think that’s what they are. Sort of.”

“‘Sort of’..?” echoed Simra. He remembered the stories his father used to tell, of whistles and songs to call his guar together across the Grazelands in the evening. A moment later it came clear. “Dust and bones, she’s not hurrying along some herd of invisible guar I don’t know about, is she? No. It’s them!” He lowered his voice. “The ghosts she tied together in Bodram. What was it she said? A whisper of them’ll come with her? She’s herding them along. Calling. Making sure that whisper knows where to find her…right? Is that right?”

His voice was eager, wolf-paced, like this new curiosity was a hunger that he was scoffing answers to sate. Tammunei was neutral, voice small and flat, less certain though in sureness they knew more about this than Simra could hope to.

“They’re with me too,” Tammunei said. “She helped them grow and get strong, but I’m still there at the roots…”

Simra pierced and threaded the fish, switchback onto the lengths of reed. Neat work. Satisfying. He held them over the flames to roast. As the fire-warmth seeped into his bones, a fever-itch set into his right hand, beneath the dirty bandage he couldn’t bring himself to remove.

“I can hear them,” Tammunei continued. “Quiet, but I can hear if I listen.”

Simra frowned, both not-knowing and half-knowing how that might feel. When memory overlayed the present it put faint ghosts in everything. “What’re they saying?”

“Mostly they’re happy. They think she’s bringing them home…”

Tammunei was frowning too. Their tongue pointed brief and red over their lips. A hand rose to the long line of their neck, stroking, then gripping uneasy at their throat.

Something in this sat ill with them, Simra reckoned. Strange, when keeping ghosts happy had been all Tammunei wanted for so long…

Noor stopped her singing and went over to her baggage where it was heaped outside the yurt. She travelled light. Just a covered basket strapped to her back and the pockets in her robes. But now Simra watched over the fire and the skewers of sizzling eel as she opened the basket and reached inside to bring out a leather drawstring bag.

She hummed under her breath again as she walked a ways from their camp, through the grasses of the plain until she was out of earshot and almost out of sight. Her hand went into the bag. Came out in a fanning fling of motion, scattering something — like planting seedgrain.

“What’s she doing?” Simra whispered. She couldn’t hear them now, surely. Not at a whisper, and too far off for them to hear her.

“Bones,” came Tammunei’s thin voice. “She’s seeding them. So that those who weren’t Vereansu will be bound to the plains as much as to Bodram. More maybe. Like she is. Like her ancestors b—”

They stopped abrupt. Noor was walking back. New lines crossed her brow, it seemed, and sweat stood out on her face. When she reached the fire she had eyes for neither of them. Mute like her tongue was still elsewhere. She only slumped down beside the fire, a pile of rags and bones once more.

She’d spent herself, that much was clear, but on what great change? Her ghosts, Tammunei said, thought she was bringing her home. All of them, when so many had lived and died in Bodram. She was starting to change what home meant to them — where home was.

Simra set his lips and tried not to think anymore. About it, or Noor, or where the limits of her power might lie. Or of the drawstring pouch in his gathersack, smaller than Noor’s but with almost the same rattle.

They ate the eel, shared off the skewers. Its fatty white-grey flesh roasted well, and had turned red-gold in the heat. Simra imagined it with sticky saltrice, the fish glazed in black mazte vinegar and sprinkled with crushed pink pepper. The snap and crunch of pickled vegetables. But remembering them only made him taste their absence, bitter in each mouthful.

The stars came out. Tonight there was nothing to hide them.

Tammunei offered first watch.

#TES #Morrowind #Dunmer #Simra Hishkari #SH Forth and Back #SH New Canon #Tammunei Ereshkigal #Noor Jedhredzuk

[hotel-oscar]

FACTS : what I know without a shadow of a doubt happened vs deduction, speculation and/or my opinion.

FACT : December 18th, Sunday - Woke up on corner of Robertson & Santa Monica Blvd in front of Pavilions. I was partially robbed & obviously sexually molested. Also had 1 thin clean cut over left top lip. Like a purposely cut line approximately 1" in length. I was also missing my left earring. It was a black circle and superman symbol on other (I sometimes use that mismatch combo on my left ear only and both matching circles on the right). It’s the kind often referred to as fake plugs so they screw into each other, which in turn makes them more secure and a task to remove so ya, left earring was missing and not on the floor. Otherwise, absolutely no other signs of visible trauma or impact points so I know I didn’t fall on the ground.

FACT : I was missing my wallet, motorcycle key, motorcycle w helmet BUT I still had my A1 leather bomber jacket on, $1+ in coins, 2x collector Swiss Army pocket knives & my black Ray Ban Wayfarer sunglasses. Partial robbery…? I then went into Pavilions’ and bought myself a Tonic Water w the change I had.

FACT : I parked right in front of Abbey and went into Chapel @ the Abbey and bought Bacardi Limon from the tall slender female bartender with the obviously fake English accent.

FACT : Other than feeling confused to how, when & HOW the hell I ended up there, I felt 100% sober & clear minded. This was no surprise to me since I know I didn’t even drink enough to have a buzz. I don’t even remember finishing my shot.

FACT : I thought it weird that NO ONE offered to neither help me nor express any concern. Then when I went back to The Abbey to get my credit card that I had left there, everyone was being rude and giving me the run around and saying come back & just meaner than I have ever recalled them being. They never gave me back my card. I tried from before 7am until noon.

****UPDATE**** They charged my card $40 and it’s a straight up lie. For one, I lost my phone a few days earlier and so I wasn’t sure my balance so I was limiting myself 1-2 drinks max and I always keep my limit. Second, I haven’t spent $40 on a tab since the military and that’s no joke. Besides, I’m 100% positive that I didn’t authorize $40.

FACT : At sundown, I walked miles and miles walking all lit main streets until someone finally asked me if I was ok. It was a homeless woman at a 711 whom I later gave my Air Force Swiss Army pocket knife to as a gift. I was freezing and hungry & she fed me and we huddled together for body heat right outside the 711 doors. When she left, she offered me to go with her but I still felt a danger lurking and didn’t want to put her at risk. When she left, I began looking for a cement or steel trash can bc I was shivering uncontrollably from the cold and needed to get warm. I found one on a sidewalk adjacent to a gas station. I made sure there was no residue gas dripping from the pumps as I walked by them on my way to the trashcan on street. I started that fire for the sole reason of staying warm but also made sure I was being seen on the station’s camera in case anything happened to me bc I had a feeling that someone wanted to make me disappear.

FACT : At no time was anyone or thing in any danger, including myself. Firefighters put it out. Cops (LAPD) showed up after the fire was already out and the firefighters were packing up to leave. It was obvious I was going to get hurt right off the back so I repeatedly told them loudly & clearly that I was a woman. They only got more aggressive and more threatening to the point where I thought that’s it, I’m about to get tazed/shot so I finally yelled, “Ok ok I’m a guy,”– in which they proceeded to tackle me, hogtie, rip my nose back, suffocate me, inject me & beat me. I begged & pleaded for my life forever it seemed bc I couldn’t breathe & that alone was unbearable. When I realized that they were not going to let up, I yelled in Spanish for God to help me and that’s when I got one last sock to the face in which I pretended to be knocked out. I began listening and feeling everything they were doing. I felt my butt exposed while they injected me w something. They had my socks off and had my ankles turned in an unnatural way which w the handcuffs made it impossible to feel anything they were doing to them but the overwhelming pain & fear of breaking like my wrist already felt was. I do however remember the firefighters driving by close enough to make eye contact while I was struggling on the floor before pretending to lose consciousness.

FACT : They tortured me for over 25+ minutes but now actually seemed a lot longer than that and am sure it was. Then they finally put me in a paramedic-like vehicle where not only did they refer to me as a WOMAN but one said, “I wish she’d keep squirming so I could rip her nose back again.” Wtf? Then they proceeded to cut my A1 AF leather bomber jacket into little pieces so I’d never wear it again. Btw, that jacket clearly had my (female) name & rank on front name badge. Then they cut off my white t-shirt and binder which held down my breast followed by sticking an IV down a vein in my throat and opening my eyes and pushing each one so far into my skull that I swore they were gonna poke each out. I’ve never had anyone do these things to me & didn’t know people like that even existed, let alone people that wore uniforms and were supposed to be saving lives. Not enjoying themselves torturing one… I heard them all making little jokes and enjoying themselves the entire time and even when I was walked thru the precinct and booking topless with my breast out in the open (Yet, they were still trying to book me as a male even then!). I remained exposed for everyone to see until I was seen by the doctor in holding in which she said can we put a shirt on him/her. She saw the IV in my throat & asked why the hell they put an IV in me. Even the officer stuttered that he didn’t know why. They x-rayed my wrist bc it was badly injured. I still have no feeling of left thumb and wrist. I still have scars on wrists and ankles from being hogtied with the handcuffs overly tightened. At the time I had blood and swelling at my wrists and ankles from the handcuffs. I also noticed that I was bleeding under one of my middle toes from my left foot & wasn’t previously.

FACT : I reported the rape from West Hollywood as soon as I felt safe and asked for rape kits. Santa Monica Hospital, USC and LA County Women’s Jail. Sheriffs sent SVU investigators to talk to me while in jail. I told them every detail including how I got my motorcycle stolen from right in front of the Abbey and gave them title info in order to find it. The men left their #’s. I called them several times later to find out status and left msgs. I did this from jail and later from home after I was released. I never ever received a call back or acknowledgment and the other # said it didn’t exist. I made sure to keep record of any calls & messages I made to or left them as well as keep the business card they gave me when they came to see me in jail.

{For the record, WOMEN’S LA County Jail was the best part of this ordeal. Not only did they take care of me and make me feel safe and respected me but also the inmates were a blessing to have met. Each inmate made a very special & personal contribution to my heart’s recovery. They all became my friends and I know we all share a special bond and will no doubt see each other again and hopefully work with too. Thank u to every Deputy. U guys genuinely care about human beings and I’m sorry there are Sheriffs that carry guns on the outside tarnishing your priceless contribution to humanity. I’d work w u guys any day.}

________________________________________

FACT : I was in Signal Hill the day before and received a ticket for the motorcycle being parked on the sidewalk. The motorcycle a 1983 Blue Hondamatic had mismatching license plate from VIN on registration. This is bc I have 2 of the same exact bike and often switched out parts between them. I have its twin sitting here at home in pieces and missing its original license plate, which went w the stolen bike. When I finally got home from jail in mid January, I discovered that the titles for both of the bikes that I had put away safely in a box were both missing. I didn’t even have time to fully take in this whole mess before I was conveniently 5150’d for crying on a curb on a street named Cudahy in which HP Police decided to tow my other bike which was simply parked against the curb correctly & not even w key in it. It was towed to Mr. C’s Towing in South Gate. I tried to get it after my VA nightmare but they wanted me to pay $66 per day for something they did illegally. Well, just like my other bike it has a twin so it has the same mismatching plate detail. I still have the title for this one and the original plate on me. Not on the bike they are holding. I also have the original plate for the 1983 Hondamatic that I just learned from its previous owner, the guy I bought it from, that it was auctioned off in January while I was in jail. They said that they had contacted him to demand he pay for the fees that I guess were not recovered w the f***ing auction but when he tried calling them back w his defense the DMV claimed they had no record of the bike’s existence. Can somebody please tell me what the f*** is going on????

****UPDATE**** I can’t seem to get a police report anywhere. I want to know what they said so I can defend myself but they keep jerking me around sending me on a wild goose chase and lying. HPPD first said I was operating the bike impaired but when I brought evidence contradicting that, they changed their story once again. This time they say that they didn’t want to be responsible in case the bike was stolen while I was in the hospital bc God knows how long I’d be there. BULLSH*T. 1st, they 5150’d me which is a 72 hr hold. 2nd, I’m sure I could have easily arranged for a family member to just walk over and get it. No biggie. 3rd, U ARE RESPONSIBLE for it being stolen! Both PD & Towing place keep sending me back and forth to supposedly get something needed which have been lies and the days have added up. Here’s the big whopper though, they hold for 45 days after which they not only send me to collections for the entire 45+ day storage cost but they ALSO auction my bike! Wow, talk about rape…is this even legal??? It doesn’t seem ethical that’s for sure. I know it’s not right in my heart either. I still have faith in humanity. I refuse to believe there are so many evil people around here.

________________________________________

West Hollywood Sheriffs think they can do whatever they want and say and do unspeakable things without any repercussions. (????) Literally think they are above the human race and they have an acute hate for strong women who don’t need men (i.e. Lesbians). As far as I’m concerned, they are domestic terrorists and traitors to our country and God-given rights. If u don’t believe me, I’m sure they have videos. They have a thing for recording everything. Or u can believe me bc I’ve never lied to u and would never want to see anyone else hurt. I rather it be me than anyone else bc I know I was born special & can take more than others and I’m ok. Plus, I took an oath to protect my country against ALL ENEMIES, foreign & DOMESTIC and I meant it & live accordingly. I was born to serve my country and its perfect people. I take attacks on them personally and will be damned if I let them intimidate me into letting them get away with it. Over my dead body and even after that.

I believe martial law should be implemented in LA County with special emphasis on West Hollywood & VA in Long Beach (ER & L1 psych ward), if not ALL Emergency Rooms, Psych Wards & Law Enforcement in the county of Los Angeles.

West Hollywood used to be a safe haven for gay people from all over the country. Now it’s become the fastest way to become a non-reported missing person. I’ve had the privilege of meeting their spirits and the honor of their unwavering love and guidance through my drugging, rape, torture and eventual death. That girl I used to be is forever gone.

________________________________________

The VA in Long Beach has a modern God-complex psychotic Doctor who I lovingly refer to as GPS bc his name sounds like a GPS Navigation brand name. Dr. Magellan?

FACT : I told them I didn’t want to go in the back door. I didn’t feel comfortable & told them I rather go in through the front entrance just like every other 50 millionth time but they were adamant & not budging. I had a bunch of pix w me but mainly of my niece and nephews. Before knocking out I tucked them into my binder like I had been every night. I woke up and found them sprawled all over the bed & floor which was odd & shocking but to make matters worse, 3 pix were missing and that pissed me off. I pulled a fire alarm. Not only did they cancel it on their own instead of the fire department but it also made them pretty angry so 2 guys tied me up to a bed and then each injected a shoulder. I muttered something about the only people that could cancel a fire alarm are the firefighters and was out.

I don’t think anything u guys did was cool. The mystery straight up bite mark was like wtf (and I know u’ll say it’s mine but not only is that stupid as hell but also physically impossible bc of angle it was done).

FACT : Blood & liquid build up on toes by the nails, not being able to account for over a week, being told I’m being given certain meds that we both know damn well aren’t what u said they were, u getting upset w the social worker for not hanging up properly w a public defender and accidentally recording everything u were saying right before I walked in and just all of your bs, GPS. Honestly, I just feel betrayed by everybody there bc I trusted them. I already didn’t trust u bc u always had a smile when u were telling me something that would make my world crumble. I do remember seeing the cameras in the employee meeting room and thinking oh sh*t they are watching me change & sleep?? Then I thought how is that possible if inside the rooms there is not a camera in sight. Still, I wish I would have had a courtesy heads up before getting undressed bc that’s embarrassing/uncomfortable for me to do around anybody.

I also finally realized that not only have u guys been f-ing w my mental health but also that u literally are not one bit interested in really helping me. The same goes to the ER where they watched me have an anxiety attack and didn’t calm me down but instead took detailed notes of whatever fright I was experiencing and even had others come watch and also do nothing except ask that same dumb question, Do u wanna hurt anyone or yourself, all while watching me bawl my eyes out & scared outta my mind seeing whatever it was that was so terrifying but thank goodness u made sure to make a detailed transcript, right?? That still surprises me btw bc I only begin to remember it when u read from it. Weird how u guys remember my dreams/nightmares better than I do. Like how are u able to get inside my head while I’m totally asleep…?? Seriously.

FACT : I always made sure to get a ride to your ER where every time I’d walk in and just ask for someone to talk to. That’s all just a Therapist or someone that could help me relax just by listening and responding like one and not some smart-ass condescending one that belittles what I’m feeling as if I didn’t just now ask for help. I just needed to talk to someone and I’m sure my provider remembers how many times throughout the years I would continuously ask for one-on-one therapy. Every single time I saw u guys I’d ask for that therapy and I practically lived there! Yet, I would be put to sleep & always waking up days later confused of where I was at and then later finding out from the other patients that I was out for days! DAYS! WTF is that all about?? U can’t tell me I’m a drug addict that was doing this to myself bc I know now that is all BS and I’m really pissed about it. U swear we aren’t smart enough to know the difference between the drugs we knowingly put into our systems and the ones u claim are the cause of our perpetual detachment from reality! Yes, u do a good job of keeping us confused so that we accept your BS but eventually something had to give. Maybe my tolerance got higher or maybe I just became immune to your junk. It really is unbelievable how f-ed up u are. I didn’t think there was a cure for what u said I had bc I couldn’t wrap my mind around the perpetual diagnosis u would give me and I’d reluctantly accept even though I hadn’t been doing any drugs. I somehow would convince myself that maybe I don’t remember using (ya right) or someone in my life was purposely drugging me (which made me paranoid) or maybe it was just my guilty conscience from using in the past. I didn’t even consider that u’d be that evil and that your staff would be too naive to question.

I still can’t believe this is happening. So many of my Vet buddies were patients of yours. Some got worse and others I’ve never seen again and no one has either bc I’ve asked. We’re family and we look out for each other no matter what and u know that. It’s unfair that u’d tell the staff to tell me that they were not able to tell me what happened to Izzy for privacy reasons but he had no other next of kin. I was his family and I knew something happened to him the first time I returned to L1 after he was gone and u put me in his old room. I can feel everything and I knew and cried. I’m not saying u did something to him but my last memory of him was me being discharged from there and wanting to say bye but seeing him be tied down to the same bed but not making it easy for your staff. He was in duress and I should have stayed to calm him. I don’t think any of this is funny. Not one bit. I don’t play around when it comes to other people’s quality of life. Heck no and though not all of u guys are guilty, I still won’t return to your part of the hospital and will share that w the Vets I know. There’s nothing u can say to confuse me anymore. I finally feel more like the old me I used to be when I was still in the military. It took more than a miracle for me to overcome this but I’m glad I did and I’m glad u guys were wrong. I’m totally fine and healthy and NOT addicted to any substance or thing. I’m also STILL not a danger to myself or anyone. In fact, every day I get better & better. I had forgotten how good it felt to be sane.

There’s something wrong w u, GPS and I’m sure I’m not the only one that would agree and I’m sure we can count on u to always be smiling when u know ur about to and/or are making someone miserable. U really had me going there which is why I felt no remorse when I turned the tables on u. Just remember, ur the doc and u discharged me regardless of my state and me asking for help. U can figure the rest out.

****UPDATE**** I requested all my medical records from VA. I reviewed my recent 5150 stay in L1. In the short summary they are very detailed on all days except for the 6 day gap of nothing. So I went back to review the entire month of March to see what u put for those 6 days I lost. It’s funny bc u put the same type of very detailed notes for those 6 days. U put my vital signs, exact bowel movements, participation, % of food eaten, etc. Oh u also mentioned that I was temporarily put in restraints and stated the strict policies u have with that like notifying next of kin and 24/7 100% face to face surveillance. Well first off, EVERYTHING u wrote for those 6 days minimum are complete utter BS. Lies. Not only did I find many holes in your detailed fabricated data but regardless of me having to prove anything, u’ve managed to screw yourself. I’ll put it to u this way, u somehow managed to keep meticulous record of not treating me for my said perpetual disorder but also keeping me at that state the whole time. Plus, there were other discrepancies that might seem small but in my case stand out like a sore thumb bc it meant I was 100% not myself in anyway which would be the first in my life since I’m very consistent regardless of my state of mind. So glad the AF & VA keeps records of everything so I’ll let them speak for themselves. U should have paid closer attention to me all these years or just listened to me every time I told u certain things about myself that haven’t changed my entire life. They are important in order to be able to accurately assess and treat me, your patient, medically. I mean, it could mean life or death literally. Either way, u grossly neglected to do that job u swore to do correctly. Add f-ing liar to that. Never mind that u guys also have 100% surveillance in L1 so per your notes, everything in those 6 days should check out at least visually right? Well at the very least for your sake.

I urge everyone to call the jails, hospitals and everywhere to find that loved one and make it known that that person will be missed and looked for and that no one will give up and accept their loss bc they couldn’t live with themselves if they did. Go in person, call or go online to check inmates & arrests. Snapchat and use all & any current social media to record, keep track of, make note of or just have as insurance if anyone is not doing their job, threatening u, putting your life in danger, lying to u or just getting a bad feeling from. They tend to think twice before continuing their disturbing behavior towards u but also letting others know what’s up in case, God forbid, they do harm u. Email all resources & be heard. Email even strangers that might just be in your address book automatically from buying something from them on Craigslist. Serious. Someone, the right person will be listening and that’s all it takes.

FACT : I’m an Air Force Vet who got out in her prime and had nothing less than a stellar career but decided she wanted to be with her family and see their kids be born and grow up. She chose family and chose right. I still have very close ties to my military family and still have the same beliefs I had while serving which is why I will continue to serve, pay or not. I began to transition from female to male but I never intended to change my gender nor name so basically even though considered Transgender, I am just a woman that looks like a dude but I don’t pretend to be and don’t tell others I am. I’m a woman who’s happy looking masculine, as weird as that sounded just now. Ha. Some women get breast implants, others want them removed. Truth is I just rather look this way and it makes me happier than I’ve ever been and the people that love me say that it shows and that makes them happier as well.

FACT : I represent a vast majority of Americans who struggle against all kinds of discrimination and violence and at the hands of everyone, including my own kind. I’m Hispanic, Mexican, Irish & Jewish descent, Woman, Lesbian, Transgender, Gay, Military Veteran, Domestic Violence Survivor, Rape Survivor, Mental Illness, been Homeless. The reason I mention this is bc everything that happened to me can only be categorized as a HATE CRIME because not only did they totally know I was a female all along but there really was absolutely NO NEED to cut my jacket into little tiny pieces AND strip me NUDE topless. That was obviously meant to shame me. Yes, it was deliberate and intentional. They knew what I was and they 100% intentionally meant to hurt me. There’s plenty of evidence to back it up as well. Including the officer’s body cam. I even asked him what that was on his shirt and he told me that it was his body cam.

FACT : If a woman or man or speaking animal says that they were raped. THEY WERE. Who the f*** are u to tell a person, especially a grown-ass one what THEIR body feels. Shame on u stupid women who decided to be the judge of that bc u let rapists of all that are living know that it was ok.

Regardless of u doing unbelievably psycho and amazingly unfair things to me to make me feel like I should just shut up and forget that these things happened to me, I simply can’t. I’m not gonna lie, I really, really considered it and even contemplated moving far away but it always comes back to NO, I’m not crazy. I didn’t imagine this sh*t bc I know the difference between being f-ed up or confused. NO, they will never stop and they will hurt so many more people and I can’t live with that sh*t. I know u f**ks are all working together in some crazy ass levels of authority making it seem like we have no choice but to bend over and take it and believe me, I thought this was too twilight zonish to still be reality but u really do exist. U literally can do whatever u want and have been getting away with it for years. I’m gonna bring an end to that now. I’ve gone above and beyond and even what u can’t fathom to make sure that nmw the truth is known and u guys will not get away with any of it.

Anyways, I was just giving u a heads up of what’s to come and that everything u do (literally) is in our favor and absolutely instrumental in justice. God love us for believing in him and our God given rights. One nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and JUSTICE FOR ALL. One Love - God, Family, Country (US).

[anneedmonds]

My Almost-Forty Sartorial Wishlist

It’s quite rare, these days, that an outfit will make me feel truly great. Great with no caveats. Great “but also I don’t have to worry about my dress flying up in the wind” or great but “also I don’t have to worry about my middle button popping off where my gut has stretched the fabric so much.” Great, but without the associated fashion stresses.

Because it stresses me (in a very minor way) even putting together an outfit – that’s nothing to do with having had kids, I’ve always been crap at dressing myself – and so by the time I’m actually wearing something decent, and I’ve found shoes to match that won’t kill me and a coat that’s not covered in mud, I’m truly indifferent. I’m usually just relieved to have been able to get dressed without tripping over my own legs and knocking myself out (Levis flagship store, Oxford Street, 2009) or getting my head stuck in a tight neck-hole (Ghost sample sale, Westbourne Grove, 2004) or temporarily dislocating a shoulder getting into a couture Dolce & Gabbana corset dress (Elle Magazine fashion cupboard, Mayfair, 2010).

So I’ve been taking particular notice of the times that clothes do make me feel good – properly good – and making a bit of a sartorial wishlist. Because feeling good in clothes – for me at least –  isn’t necessarily just about knowing that they flatter me or look expensive or turn me into a more sophisticated version of myself; I also gain immense pleasure from clothing that’s practical and comfy. A sexy skirt that also allows me to run for a bus without flashing my knickers, a power suit that won’t look absurd with trainers, a cashmere sweater that’s supremely warm and makes the oldest jeans look expensive again.

What I’ve realised, recently, is that what I truly want from a garment – indeed an entire outfit – is the following: comfort, elegance, intelligence. In no particular order. Actually in that order. And by intelligence I don’t mean that I want my trousers to make me look brainy: I want the cut to be clever. I’d like my dress to cinch me in and give me shape but skim over the parts I want hidden. I’d like my sleeves to add interest and my shoulders to add power – even the humble jumper should make my chest look good and shapely and not blocky or matronly.

It’s a lot to ask, but this is what I want. It’s my Nearly-Aged-Forty sartorial wishlist. (Thirty-nine next month: jeepers where did that decade go? I started A Model Recommends almost a decade ago! Hands up those who’ve been here since the beginning…) I don’t want fast fashion, I don’t want cropped things, I don’t want overpriced slips of wishy-washy fabric that only look good on the model, I don’t want anything that I can only wear once, I don’t want tight gussets or waistbands that don’t expand and I don’t want – I definitely do not want – leggings that are intended to be worn as outerwear.

That’s not to say that I’ve given up on fashion (apart from when I’m at home, which is 90% of the time): I still refuse to wear lycra as outdoor, meeting-the-public clothing and I will never see the merit in any kind of footwear that people delight in calling “ugly”, as though that’s a selling point (ignore my Crocs, I only wear those to feed the chickens – jet-washable, you see). I still want to look good, I still want to look put-together and polished, I’m just not prepared to sacrifice comfort.

Which means, I think, that my clothes have to work ten times harder. To be comfy and to still look chic – to be practical yet flattering enough that I don’t look in the mirror and want to instantly walk backwards into the wardrobe and shut the doors on myself.

And I’m really starting to see certain fashion investments pay off, ten or fifteen years later; things that I bought when It Bags cost less than a grand. The Jil Sander coat with an impeccable cut, the cashmere Burberry trench, the Belstaff Trialmaster boots, the Diane Furstenberg maxi-dress… All heart-stoppingly expensive, even then, but still going strong with over a decade’s worth of wear. The tailoring is timeless, the quality so good that everything just keeps going and going – I’ve had countless pairs of black boots from the high street that my Belstaff’s have outlasted.

Anyway, this wasn’t supposed to be a fast fashion/investments sort of post, I merely wanted to have a little update chat about things I like to wear. The brands I tend to gravitate towards – even if it is only for inspiration and fantasy shopping purposes, not for actual buying. Classic tailoring – Joseph, MaxMara, Me+Em, Stella McCartney. Statement dresses – Maje, Ganni. Everyday pieces – Hush, Me+Em, Equipment silk shirts, Paige or J Brand jeans…

This post was actually supposed to be about the dress and the jumpsuit that you can see in all of the pictures, but I got a bit waylaid once I started talking about my fashion wishlist. Both are from Me+Em, sent to wear for a series of events that I was hosting and attending and they made me feel so incredibly good about myself that I was moved to write my feelings down.

It ended up being a sort of thousand-word-long love poem about the weight of the dress’s fabric and the cut of the jumpsuit’s jib and – to be quite frank – it was embarrassing, so I expanded my subject matter to include fashion in general and here we are. My almost-forty sartorial wishlist post.

But by God the dress does have good weight. I let out an audible gasp of joy – like an orgasmic heroine in a romantic novel – as I popped closed the final popper and felt the full heft of the fabric; I could have been wearing five dresses! And there’s nothing like a label being generous with their fabric to make a dress feel a million dollars – I swept along the hotel corridor like a movie star on their way to the Oscars.

    It was extra, as they say, but it was wearable. Which seems to be one of Me + Em’s calling cards, along with pin-sharp tailoring and sport-luxe detailing. I’ve since worn this dress with a leather jacket and white trainers, with heeled black boots and a black jumper and with a huge long winter coat thrown over the top. Delightful in every which way.

You can find the AM-PM Cargo Shirt Dress online here* – I have it in Navy in a size 12, because of my large-ish hooters, but it also comes in black which is equally amazing. At £299 it’s an investment piece, but it’s a solid one: there’s no trend-following here, really, it’s just a brilliant cut, an overly-generous glut of skirt fabric and a style that can be as smart or as casual as you want to make it.

Buy the AM-PM Cargo Dress at Me+EM*

The black jumpsuit is online here* and might just become your most-worn going-out-out outfit, if going out-out for you (as for me) no longer involves an Hervé Leger bandage dress and vertiginous heels. The AM-PM Cargo Jumpsuit* makes me feel as though I’m wearing a power suit, except that I’m not. I’m comfy and I don’t feel like a dick. I feel like an Anneka Rice-Pop dipped in Prada. And that is a good thing.

Buy the AM-PM Cargo Jumpsuit at Me+Em*

So there you have two classic examples of things that would be on my almost-forty sartorial wishlist – I could throw either of these items on without a second thought and both would look fine with trainers on that all-important walk to the tube station (London) or for the cross-countryside drive + schlep on the GWR train (Somerset), higher heels stowed in bag, ready to be changed into. (I have started using those disposable hotel shower caps to keep the soles from getting my bag dirty, which means that I have finally turned into my Mum.)

What’s on your sartorial wishlist? At what age? Let’s get a little database going in the comments section: wishlist, preferred labels, things that you love/hate – I’ve just realised that pockets got missed off my original list, so I’m adding pockets now!

The post My Almost-Forty Sartorial Wishlist appeared first on A Model Recommends.

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[foxsdomains-blog]

Character Sheet

Alright. So I realised a bit late that I hadn't really given any critical information on characters; appearance, very general likes/dislikes, age, height. You know, the important things. So here we go,

Jeremy Height: 6'1 Age: 26 Appearance: Short, brown hair. Brown eyes. Normally built, not massive muscles, not noticeable if wearing the right clothing. Clean-Shaven. Likes: His family (the FA), the current base (is his favourite so far). Dislikes: when people fuck with his family. For now. Car: White with blue racing stripes, Ford Mustang gt 2005 (cause he really likes the car. Don't question it, will comp up later.) Bit of information: Jeremy is a disgraced military man, alongside Ryan. He participated in a mission, his team of five, including Ryan. This mission ended in a failure, with all but Ryan and Jeremy dying. Jeremy took the blame, being dishonorably discharged. This led him and Ryan to find Clair, and form the Fallen Angels. Jeremy became the leader, due to already having experience leading his team.

Ryan Height: 6'2 Age: 26 Appearance: Medium length, brown hair, tied in a ponytail he likes to keep around his shoulder. He is almost never seen with his hair undone. Kind, green eyes, just with a hint of 'crazy'. Built similarly to Jeremy, and is nearly always seen wearing a black leather bike jacket. Clean-Shaven. Likes: His family (the FA), his bike (no one fucks with his bike), his guns. (Cause, you get it.) Dislikes: Cars (he absolutely hates riding in cars. Bad memories). He hates anyone who fucks with his bike (he nearly shot Nines when he touched his bike) Bike: Matte Black custom Ducati 1098s, with a gray FA symbol painted on the left side. Ryan got his bike custom made so it would reach faster speeds than a standard Ducati, and cause he wanted matte black. Bit of information: Ryan was a member of Jeremy squad that were in the failed mission, being the only member alongside Jeremy to survive. He knew Jeremy for years prior, being the first member to join his squad, and going through basic training with the man. He was originally not discharged, however he sided with Jeremy completely, nearly going so far as to attempt to kill the officials who made the decision. Due to this, Ryan was discharged alongside Jeremy, but also being declared a criminal for attempted murder.

Clair Age: 25 Height: 5'8 Appearance: Long straight blond hair and kind blue eyes. Very beautiful, which assisted a large amount to her work. When lazing about, she ties her hair up in a ponytail, but when working she will tie her hair up however her contracts like. Likes: Rook (as a sister). Sexual relationships (but not with contracts). Teasing Nines however she can. Dislikes: when contracts do more than paid (of which she doesn't hesitate to tell them, often moving ahead the plan and assassinating them quicker). When someone hurts Rook and in any way. Car: Polished, pearlescent purple/pink Porsche 991. Comfy leather seats, and top of the line radio in the dashboard. Each time a new items is released, she gets it installed to keep her car up to date. Bit of information: Clair, before founding the FA alongside Jeremy and Ryan, worked as an infiltrator with the United Kingdom government. During this time, she worked, infiltrating both male and female organisations, becoming 'friendly' with the leader, and assassinating them when she had the chance. She would normally leave them for a while, to use them for her own personal gain. After joining the FA, she continued her line of work, but more for informational purposes. Gaining contacts she would later use for the purpose of information gathering for the FA.

Rook Age: 22 Height: 5'6 Appearance: Long, slightly wavy, black hair and dark grey eyes. Wears thin-frame, black glasses. Leaves her hair out, messily, almost never styling or taking care of it (Clair will sometimes style Rook's hair for fun). Likes: Her computers (she has many). Nines (Secretly). Angel (very much). Dislikes: When Clair teases her (mostly about Nines, but also about her non-drinking). Drinking (she doesn't like not being in complete control of herself). Car: Doesn't have a car (She can't drive. This will be a chapter later.) Bit of information: Not much is known about Rook. She tends to keep things to herself. The FA only recently learned her birthday, for crying out loud. What is known however, was that before joining the FA, Rook was hired as a hacker under the Australian government, but when hired didn't know anything about a computer. After a few years, she learned more about a computer than most adults, and now can hack into whatever she desires. After joining the FA four years prior to the story taking place, Rook has fit in perfectly, albeit a bit still distanced. Rook developed feelings for Nines (which I haven't really tried to hide, but if you didn't know, than there you go) after he joined, but hasn't told anyone, however Clair still managed to figure out.

Nines Age: 22 Height: 6' Appearance: Short, brown hair that he either leaves however it was when he woke up, or styles with a side-part (though he rarely does. He's lazy). Has a beard that he maintains. Wears a leather jacket (now that Rook has bought it for him). If he's doing nothing, he will wear whatever is most comfortable, but if he goes out, he will (try to) look after his appearance. Likes: His car (similar to Ryan, is mad at anyone who touches or bad-mouths his car). The Silver Angel (Doesn't let anyone near the cockpit of his bird). Rook (same as Rook, secretly. Only person who knows is 'I') Dislikes: If someone bad mouths his family, his bird, or his car. That's mainly it for now. Car: Matte Black, fully-bullet proof (and yes I know nothing is truly bullet-proof, but it's very resistant to bullets, okay?) 1970 Chevelle SS. Bit of information: Before joining the FA, Nines was a normal person. Weird, yeah? An accident struck one day, and Nines was introduced to the FA. Due to some more incidents, Nines was taken to an old FA base, and introduced to the gang. After a few days, he decided to join the FA, Rook wiping his old profile, and instead taking up the letter 'N', later becoming Nines (his choice). Also, when Nines was in highschool, he knew 'I' and 'B' personally, and were good friends with both.

'I'

Age: 22 Height: 6'1 Appearance: Darker skinned. Short, black hair that he keeps short (unless he decides to grow it for some reason). Likes: 'B' (his wife, so of course he likes her). Nines (close friends again, after what happened. (mwahahaha, MORE PLOT!)) Dislikes: (Not gonna lie, haven't really fleshed out his character too much. So, this one may not have too much in it. He's a new character to this story's life, alright? More will come up when we delve more into our characters.) When 'B' and Nines hate on themselves (which does happen often though 'B' has gotten much better. Nines still hasn't though.) Car: Deep Blue 4x4 Ford Ranger Bit of information: When in highschool, 'I' knew Nines and 'B', and were part of a bigger friend group. An incident occurred, and Nines left. Years later, 'I' and 'B' got married, and became 'I' became a cop. Seven months before the story takes place, 'I' and 'B' meet Nines again, and after a mission intrigues 'I', he revisits the FA base. This leads him to forgo his place in the police force, and bring 'B' to join the FA. Unlike Nines, Rook hasn't deleted 'I's profile, instead leaving it but

'B'

(Alright, so not gonna lie (again), 'B' is the character I've fleshed out the least. So, here we go I guess." Age: 22 Height: 5'7 Likes: 'I' (Husband. Honestly.) A little separated still, but close to everyone in the FA. Dislikes: (Not fleshed out enough. We'll get there, trust me.) Talking about 'the incident'. Car: Shares 'I's car. It's their car. Bit of information: (Honestly, newest character to this story. When I first wrote this, she was a side character. So, forgive me for not having much. But, like I said, we'll get there.) 'B' knew 'I' and Nines in highschool, and after an (the) incident, hasn't talked to Nines before meeting him (as Nines) years later. She follows 'I' to the FA, solely because he decides to join, she later questions this decision, but ultimately decides it was the right choice. (chapter 2- will be extended on later).

So, that's the FA cast! Now, whatever isn't told isn't known yet. So, just wait and more will be revealed, including 'the incident'. A few things I should mention about the world, that were kind of mentioned, but not well enough (I don't think so at least).

For instance, it's set in the year 2022, but, a bit different. For starters, technology, like that of car computers, are extremely common; homes, even more so in planes and helicopters, pretty much the same in cars honestly. Stuff like that. Umm, guns are pretty similar to current day weapons. I know a few guns, but not a large amount, so if I get something wrong, please do correct me. Oh! Also. The Silver Angel. I called it the FC-112, right? Well I did a search, and found out that a 112 helicopter, is a rescue helicopter. That isn't what the Silver Angel is. I don't know exactly that it is, just that it's got six seats in the back, and one pilot seat (Nines got rid of the other one because of course he did), and two rotors on opposite side of the helicopter, that rotate to allow Nines to do what he does in it (basically, I just came up with something that might work for what I had planned. I'm not sure if a thing exists, but it's set in a few years from now, so meh.)

That should be about everything for now. Periodically I'm going to post update versions of this, when more information comes out, just to jog the memory of the characters. Hope my story is going well so far, and I do want to hear any comments you guys may have! That's all for now, bye!

#character #sheet #fallen #angels #fallen angels

[matariki-ascending]

The Purge, Week 1

What went?

Two pairs of shoes and three dishtowels went into to the clothes recycling bin from one of the op shops. I also put stuff online on ebay to sell.

Shoes #1 were of the “I have them because I have them and not because I like them”. My grandma gave them to me because when she had bought them for herself, they fit, but when she put them on at home, they didn’t. And because grandma is of the “never throw anything away”-generation, she tends to unload her clothes on me. Because a) I’m the only one whom they might fit and b) she still thinks of me as a poor, starving student or something.

Why did I accept them when she asked me whether I’d like them? Because it’s easier to just accept whatever she wants to give to me than to discuss with her why I don’t like it. She loves clothes shopping. She’s forever buying things for herself and everyone in the family. Sometimes, what she comes up with is awesome. Mostly? It’s not. I tried for years to make her understand my preferences in clothes - less “what all the young girls wear” and more “natural, comfy, makes me look good”. She never got it. Or never wanted to get it. I stopped caring at one point, since she never listened anyway. So when she gave me those shoes, I was like, “Yeah, okay, cool.” Thinking I might just drop them at the op shop.

Why I didn’t? Because, even though I didn’t like them, they were useful. Just shove your feet in, done. Perfect for taking the rubbish out in winter. Also, warm (because completely synthetic, and cheap synthetic). And because I inherited the “never throw anything away that fits/serves a purpose/is useful” from my grandparents via my parents - I didn’t give them away. Because useful. Not broken. Serve a purpose. Who cares that everytime I look at them, I think: I don’t really like you?

Uuuuugh.

Talk about self love.

Yeah. So: the shoes went. And because their cheap, synthetic soles had developed interesting holes, I dumped them in the recycling bin, instead of giving them to the op shop to sell.

Shoes #2 - the complete opposite of #1. My well-loved,well-worn winter shoes. I wore those shoes to my first job interview ever. The first time I wore them out of the shop. I got the job. Blamed it on the shoes. They were almost 20 years old. Had new soles at least three times. New laces even more often. Had to put insoles in about, uh, six, seven years ago, because the originals were worn to tatters. About two years ago, I noticed that one of the seams was coming apart. I thought, “Hmm, might need new winter shoes soon”, and then ignored it. Because I loved those shoes. They were comfy. Perfectly worn in. Timelessly elegant, could wear them everywhere, for all occasions. And apart from that one seam: tip top condition!

But yeah. That one seam. It was coming apart more and more. Until it was pretty visible. So I bought new winter shoes. Still couldn’t throw the old ones away. After twenty years ... yeah, the feeling really was like throwing a part of yourself away.

It’s weird, maybe, to become so attached. To a pair of shoes.

But of course they weren’t just a pair of shoes. They were twenty winters of my life. Letting that go wasn’t all that easy.

But they’re gone now. Into the rerycling bin. It’s time for them to go to shoe heaven and evolve into something new. :-)

Those three dishtowels? Well, there’s a story here, too. When I was about sixteen, my paternal grandmother started giving me bed linens and towels and pots for birthdays and Christmases. For my trousseau. If you’re sixteen or seventeen and you wanted a pile of books and your younger brother gets all kinds of cool stuff but you get a stack of dishtowels ... well. I was angry, I was disappointed. I felt slighted and left out and ignored. Angry again, because why did I get boring stuff just because I was a girl? So unfair!

So that reaction, way back then, coloured my relationship with all the things my grandmother gave my over the years.

Of course, when I left home to go to university, I was pretty damn glad I had all this stuff already! So useful! I didn’t have to buy cheap, second-hand stuff! All I had to do was get those boxes from the attic, run everything through the laundry, ta da!

But there was still, every time I used them, the memory of when I’d first got them. Plus, while they were useful and I came to be glad they were there: they weren’t what I had chosen. Yeah, sure, you can say it’s the height of luxury to complain you didn’t get to chose the design of your dishtowels. Other people would be glad to have them!

Yes, and that is exactly the kind of thinking that I have been living under for all my life. Be glad for what you have - whether you like it or not - because other people have less. Do you know how exhausting this constant, enforced gratitude can be? How heavy the guilt? Because there you are, you spoiled thing, complainging about dishtowels! When other people didn’t even have clothes!

We are still talking about three dishtowels, mind. Which went into the recycling bin because they were stained and the stains didn’t wash out anymore. Because I didn’t care for them, and so didn’t pay attention what I did with them, so they got stained. But then, who in their right mind uses white dishtowels?

Well, my paternal grandmother, appearantly.

And all this above? Yeah, that’s her. Oh, god, so much her. Don’t get me wrong, I know where she got it from. She was a child during WWII, a teenager during the years after, when the entire country was a giant pile of rubble and people literally had nothing. She would probably have liked books as well for birthdays and Christmases. But all she got was an orange. Or dishtowels. For her trousseau.

So, yeah, I get where it comes from. I’m just done with carrying this shit. It’s not mine.

Good to see that written down. It’s not mine.

I can let it go.

Besides. Times have changed. The Miracle of the Rhine, and all that. We’re now living in a society where we have more than we can ever possible need. And I am in the deeply privileged position - which I am fully, consciously aware of, thank you! - where I can actually throw three dishtowels away and buy new ones. Ones that I chose for myself. So why hang onto three dishtowels that, to me, are loaded with pain, misery, disappointment, feeling abandoned, heaviness, and guilt?

Self is Mission Head. Self decides which fucking dishtowels to use.

So those three went into the recycling bin as well.

WAHOO!!!!!

Purge, baby!

:D

After that, the things that I put online to sell are tame:

my beloved sheepskin (cries softly, but it must go)

my old winter eiderdown (finally found an allergy-friendly duvet that’s not polyester, whee!)

and my two leather coats (uuuugh, those are hard, especially the black one, the really cool one, damn, it hurts, but they need to go, I can’t wear them anymore)

Anyone reading this from the Cologne area interested in a really cool black leather jacket? Size S? Lemme now. :-)

So, overall, a really successfull first week.

Go me!

#soul gift journal #personal #Sharing #clutter clearing #purge baby #emotional #family entanglements #aka family shit #i'm done carrying this