#top education magazine
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https://theknowledgereview.in/challenges-and-opportunities-for-elearning-creating-a-holistic-educational-ecosystem/
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top 10 schools in Jaipur are great for your future
Jaipur, the energetic capital of Rajasthan, is renowned for its top-notch educational institutions in addition to its magnificent forts and rich cultural legacy. Jaipur provides a wide range of options for parents looking for the best schools for their kids. The city meets a variety of educational needs, with institutions that prioritize holistic development in addition to those that are known for their academic brilliance. The top 10 schools in Jaipur are listed here, carefully chosen based on attributes including reputation, extracurricular activities, infrastructure, and academic standing. Jaipur’s educational system offers something for everyone, regardless of your preference for cutting-edge teaching techniques or a more conventional approach to education.
#school#top school in jaipur#education#best educational magazine in india#high school#english school#jaipur school#top 10 school in jaipur
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Higher Education Magazines and Journals
Higher education magazines and journals provide valuable insights into academic trends, research findings, and professional development opportunities. They offer networking platforms, career guidance, and access to current literature, fostering collaboration and growth within the academic community.
#higher education magazines and journals#top education magazine for students#online education magazine#best online education magazines
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he's married ?! nanami kento.
sum. he's easily the top most handsome guy within his job. his relationship status is unknown, so what happens when his co-workers ship him with a female worker?
nanami is well known within his company. tall, insanely fit, and an attractive voice. it's not uncommon for men and women alike to find themselves thinking about him often. what's not common is knowing about his love life. no one knows anything and he would've kept it that way. but when push comes to shove, and you're shipped with someone who's not your beloved, nanami will make it known that he's not only taken but married.
in the coffee-break room there are three guys. now, there's nothing unusual about this — no, no. they're just three guys that are co-workers... except there's a twist. they aren't your regular co-workers, they're your uncommon trio of male gossipers and nanami just so happened to be their newest victim.
"shh, shh! he's here," guy one, tichi, whispers to the others, raising his eyebrows and pointing his chin to nanami's position.
the other two take a quick glance, nodding their heads when they've seen nanami's back faced towards them. it's a perfect moment to strike up a conversation, especially since it's just four men here.
guy two, tacho, shuffles his feet to the empty space near nanami. he pretends to open a sugar packet, fiddling with it as his eyes peep over nanami's shoulder. his heart skips multiple beats when the man himself turns around.
"morning to you, tacho," nanami greets, nodding his head before he turns his attention back to his cup of coffee.
"y-yeah, morning!" he stutters, awkwardly smiling in return. he turns his head to the other two in the background, mouthing the word 'help' to them. unfortunately, they do not give the aid to their friend. instead, tichi fakes a series of coughs and guy three, toeny, gives him a confident double thumbs up. there's no hope, tacho sighs.
it's a silent moment between the men — only the sounds of coffee brewing and a spoon coming into contact with the mug can be heard. tacho's mouth itches him, he happened to remember his group's recent conversation about nanami. he must ask — even if it costs him a mutual co-worker.
"so, nanami," he begins, waiting for nanami to give him the undivided attention.
nanami doesn't face him, but he hums in response. tacho doesn't mind this as an answer, so he continues, "i was wondering if the rumors of you being with the new worker, yeri, are true?"
there is one big lie in that question: there are no such rumors. it's just a theory the trio has been gossiping about every night. nanami's been helping out yeri for quite some time, one can only think that they have a special connection going on.
"that is bullshit," nanami gives a firm answer. nothing more, nothing less.
tacho's stunned, he blinks a few times to recollect himself. "oh — so you're not with her?"
nanami doesn't answer yet, but the two in the back give their unwanted reactions. tichi clicks his tongue three times, shaking his head in disappointment at tacho's second question. it's obvious dumbass, he thinks. toeny, on the other hand, presses his lips in a thin line, pretending to read a magazine that's been on the counter.
nanami reaches into his pocket, whipping out his phone. the trio's confused until nanami speaks.
"i am married man. this is my wife," he educates, pressing the power button to show you as his lockscreen.
he collects three gasps, internally nodding at their shock. that's right, i'm gladly taken.
"all this time you've been... MARRIED?!" tacho's voice heightens, he drops his spoon in shock. it's unbelievable yet somewhat believable.
nanami breathes out a 'yes', raising his arm to show the wristwatch. "she bought this for our five-years anniversary recently. it's quite expensive, going over four-thousand," he brags, emphasizing on key words.
he's been waiting for the precious day where someone indirectly asks for his relationship status. the day has come and he will spend it bragging about his beloved.
nanami doesn't give them a chance to speak, he carries on with his bragging, "she's a very lovely woman. all my bentos are made by her and she writes little notes for each. some may think it's childish but that's bullshit! they just haven't experienced the love of a woman. matter of fact, her most beautiful moments are when she's freshly awake. the smile she gives me is nothing but angelic."
his speech doesn't stop there, but it did for the trio. his words went in one ear and out the next. nanami's blabbering about his wife immediately set a blank face upon tichi, tacho, and toeny. they're jealous and also surprised.
"the way a woman can change a man will never not be amazing," toeny whispers, blankly gazing at nanami's ongoing speech.
#+ rizsu: jujutsu kaisen.#tic tac toe ( tichi tacho toeny )#nanami x reader#nanami kento x reader#jjk x reader#jujutsu kaisen x reader#nanami fluff#nanami kento fluff#nanami drabbles#jjk fluff#jjk drabbles#jjk x fem!reader#nanami x you
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IMS Ghaziabad Launches E-Magazine-" Confluence"
View On WordPress
#B School#B Schools in Delhi NCR#Best B School IMS Ghaziabad#Best B-School#Best Business School#Best Business School Delhi NCR#Best Management College#Best MBA College#E-Magazine#IMS#IMS Alumni#IMS E-Magazine#IMS Ghaziabad#IMS Ghaziabad Launches E-Magazine-" Confluence"#IMS Placements#Management Education#PGDM#PGDM vs MBA#Placement IMS Ghaziabad#Top B school#Top Management School Delhi NCR
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Hi can you please make a guide on Blair Waldorf please
blair waldorf: a guide
character
romanticize studying and prioritize intelligence; blair is literally the definition of hot and educated.
confidence and self-stability is key; realize you are the only you there will ever be!
realize you cannot control other people, you can only control you.
“you can’t make people love you, but you can make them fear you.”
don’t be afraid to be determined, passionate, and GO HARD for what you want and don’t give it up for anyone.
“if you really want something, you don’t stop for anyone or anything until you get it.”
set standards for all relationships. you deserve to be surrounded by your kind of people and have what you want.
“the most important thing in a relationship is trust. after sex. and hygiene. and earning potentials.”
don’t be afraid to be a little selfish sometimes. if your goals require you to keep to yourself, study all the time, move, whatever it may be, do it and realize there will always be people that try to keep you where you are and stop your growth, but keep your eyes on the prize and don’t let it happen!
“whoever said that money doesn’t buy happiness didn’t know where to shop.”
fashion
old money style!
headbands that match the accents in your outfit
heels, low or high. your choice!
collared tops, especially in fall and winter
black or white tights
plaid! like long plaid coats and plaid skirts
pearls
button-up tops
classy floral prints in summer and spring
bows! both in your hair and around your collar
hair is usually in loose curls
things to do to feel like blair
shop! especially for accessories like bags and shoes
watch an audrey hepburn movie
have a spa day! eat some chocolate and take a bubble bath
take time to make yourself feel pretty and put together
read a magazine
read classic literature
drink tea from your prettiest mug
have a sleepover!
#girlblog#girlblogger#self care#self love#that girl#glow up#becoming that girl#dream girl#it girl#girlblogging#self improvement#self development#blair waldorf#gossip girl#old money#old money aesthetic#girly#girly blog#girly aesthetic#pink blog#feminine#femininity#hyper feminine#femme#feminine energy#dark feminine#dark feminine energy#light feminine energy#light feminine#divine feminine
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vogue — 「 boss/fashion designer!geto suguru x reader 」
synopsis ; even without much knowledge in the world of fashion, you decide that it's in your best interest to work for the country's fashion magazine powerhouse. however, you begin to second-guess your decision when you're faced with the grueling labor of its one and only editor-in-chief who expects nothing less of perfection. can your efficiency meet his standards or will you be out the door before you can even blink?
content tags/warnings ; gn!reader, use of they/them pronouns, mild language, traditional japanese basis of (l/n) (f/n) used, reader wears glasses, makeup, and heeled boots, some mild manga and jjk 0 spoilers (three minor characters from each are introduced), uhhh suguru being a dick lawl, some parts not edited/not beta read
contains ; editor-in-chief!geto, fashion designer!geto, assistant!reader, assistant turned ****!reader, platonic roommate!ino, modern au, mild angst, some crack if you squint
word count ; 10.2k
notes ; heavily inspired by "the devil wears prada" and "paradise kiss", so there'll be some references i've dropped within this—see if you can spot them! also the censored is spoilers so until then, hehe.
now playing ; seven days in sunny june - jamiroquai
It’d be foolish not to know the household name of Geto Suguru, the ultimate male muse of Jun Takahashi whose title has yet to be reigned by another. He was the ultimate breathing mannequin of the iconic Yohji Yamamoto piece he had worn on the Milan runway back when he was just a teenager. It was one of the most staple pieces of the new century that helped open the gates of the mixing of world culture and avant garde fashion—an England-Japanese punk fusion of an ashen and tattered kasaya layered under the contrasting statement piece: the earth-toned gojōu-gesa splattered with weaves of gold—and it was that very piece that rose him to the top of the fashion world as one of the most powerful names in global fashion.
And how could he not? At seventeen, he was scouted as a model for Gaulthier and became his muse at the ripe age of twenty before several other worldwide designers began to fight for his eyes. It was only a few shrewd years later that he’d open up his own successful fashion line, RIIKO, named in honor of his late sister, resulting in it becoming one of the fashion line pillars in the modern century.
It didn’t take long after that, due to his fame and distinct education from Jujutsu University, rising to the top for Kaizen fashion magazine and ruling it with an iron fist and several cups of coffee with almost all his designs on display for all to see in the office. It was due to his work that Kaizen became the powerhouse of powerhouses of fashion editorials and magazines and it was solely his work that made fashion what it was in present times.
Whether it was direct or indirect, Geto had impacted the industry in all sorts of ways. Be it blossoming an upcoming supermodel’s name or setting new fashion trends, everything could essentially be traced to Geto Suguru.
So it’s understandable that many had called you a fool—a dimwit, even—for not understanding how big of a deal it was to become his junior assistant after lazily submitting your resume. Originally, you had just wanted to become a simple lifestyle journalist for papers like Sankei Shimbun or The Japan Times, but seeing how it was between a seemingly mysterious fashion magazine that mentioned, received gasps, or the measly and homely newspaper of The Hokkaido Tribune, a magazine you knew would only give new journalists the scraps of what they earned, the choice was obvious.
Whatever gave you more money, you’d take. Survival of the fittest, was this world not?
“Do not tell me you’re going to your interview at Kaizen wearing that?” Ino barks out a laugh as he finishes his morning cereal for breakfast, scanning your outfit. “You’re going to work in a fashion magazine, not some dingy corporate office.”
You sneer at him as you shove on your loafers (don’t mind that the leather is peeling slightly on the side). You think that there’s nothing remotely wrong with your overused gauntlet gray matching set of trousers and blazer with a slightly wrinkled button-up underneath it.
“Oh, please,” you roll your eyes at your roommate and parttime brother figure. “What on earth do you know about fashion?”
“Enough of it to know that outfit is atrocious for that type of environment,” he states simply as he shoves a donut in his mouth. He kicks his feet up on the table, making you cringe at their nakedness. “Trust me, change if you can. Make a statement for ‘em.”
Ino Takuma sighs and glances at your thick spectacles that you’ve worn since early college. “And at least change your glasses for your contacts. Heard they don’t like those sorta things over there. At least not the prescription kind.”
“Can’t find them,” you grunt when you feel the weight of your shoulder bag heave down your body. “I’m already late, anyway,” you sigh, “Listen, if I don’t come back alive, which I will by the way, then you can dance on my grave all you want.”
“I’m holding you to that,” he chants before he lets out a haughty snicker that gets muffled instantly when you slam the door on him.
You throw insults at Ino in your mind, grumbling about how a mere job hopper like him wouldn’t even know the speck of fashion, how you refuse to take advice from someone who wears the same thing every day. There’s nothing wrong with the gray, you think. It’s safe and presentable, ordinary and professional, and you’d much rather blend in than stand out as you believe standing out and making yourself known is just a recipe for trouble.
Stretching out a hand on the street, you call for a taxi and humbly enter as you smooth out your trousers. The taxi driver eyes you in the rearview mirror with a questioning glint in your eye. “Job interview?” he asks.
“Oh, um,” you nod your head. “Yep! I'm a little nervous, haha.”
“Really?” he says as he gratefully steps on the accelerator a little faster. “Better get you there quick, then. Would hate to have you late. Where are you planning on working?”
“Kaizen Magazine,” you declare confidently, an affirmative look on your face.
“Kaizen?” questions the driver slowly as his eyes go to scan your outfit in the mirror again, his brows raised. “As in the… the fashion magazine?”
You nod with visible apprehensiveness. You think that maybe you truly were the only person in the world that didn’t know the impact of Kaizen, seeing as how a mere taxi driver even knew about the name and you didn’t up until a few weeks ago.
“I see…” he mutters. The drive there is a mix of silence and everyday morning conversations, before he pulls up to the building that held the key to your dreams. “Well then, here’s your stop.”
You let out a little gasp of excitement. “Thank you so much,” you reply as you shove some cash into the slot.
“Hm, well,” the taxi driver counts the money carefully, barely looking just before you close the door as he mutters, “Good luck, Plain Jane.”
You turn back to the taxi, your hearing a little awry. “Sorry, what was that?”
But when you turn back to the yellow cab, all that’s left is a billow of smoke and cinders. Dazed and confused, you quickly shake those feelings off before you head inside to the building that was now your shining beacon of hope with a determined smile still plastered on your lips. White is the first thing that greets you when you enter the building as it was essentially aired out onto every corner. White marble counters, white tile flooring with white grout, white frames of fashion icons—the white screams pristine and perfection to you and its message went very much noticed. You haven’t even met Geto Suguru yet, but you understood already that he expected nothing but excellence.
You ride up the elevator quietly and alone, trying not to focus on how your anxiety increased with each ding of the passing floors. The elevator screen seems to almost taunt you as it closes in on your doom, the numbers getting closer to the designated floor until it slowly pauses and shone brightly the number 21 in stippled red.
The doors slowly open and the light seeps itself back to your vision, white flooding your senses again. You carry yourself carefully down the hallway whilst taking your time to admire the many framed pictures of past magazines, multiple runway models, and scraps of newspaper articles. One specific piece catches your attention, however; it was large, almost half your body size and framed in a gilded black frame. It was a picture of a mannequin wearing a tawdry gray-black robe with the kanji characters of “summer” painted with purple messily atop. Layered was a loose, but well-fitted piece of thick green and gold cloth that looked much more refined to the messiness of the other materials.
You stare at it for what seemed to be forever whilst admiring the contrast and beauty of the work before your name is called out.
“(Y/N) (L/N)?”
Your trance breaks from the voice approaching you. You turn to see a short and young woman with dark blue eyes staring at you with a raised brow. “That’s you I presume?” she asks.
“Oh! Uh,” you nod furiously and smooth out your trousers again. “Yes… yes, that’s me. I assume you’re Manami Suda? The one I spoke with on the phone?”
She nods slowly, her eyes going to study your outfit which was a rather stark contrast to her own attire that highlighted an emphasis on shades of opal and navy. Her eyes have a similar glint in the way that Ino’s and the taxi driver’s had, further enunciating the message that your attire was rather… something.
“I see you’ve dressed up for the occasion,” she murmurs. Sarcasm going undetected by you, you grin as a response and think that a compliment from her was a sign you did something right. Her eyes go to rise back and meet yours again before she turns and redirects you to the end of the hallway where some rooms belonging to subordinal editors sat in, clacking away at the computers. There was one singular room that held the only door on the floor and it doesn’t take you long to assume who it belongs to considering the large letters of GS frosted onto the glass.
Two desks stood on each side of the door, one completely devoid of life and decorations. Manami guides you to the empty one and patted the top of it. “This will be yours if you manage to miraculously pass.”
Manami taps on her clipboard a couple of times, listing off a couple of requirements that you were most likely going to need in the future: efficient time management, ability to fight for what Geto wants, sharp memory, quick feet…
“And uh…” Manami flickers her eyes to you and the details (or lack of, in this case). She mutters under her breath quietly, “... a good wardrobe.”
You turn to her, internally wondering if you were going deaf today. “Sorry, can you repeat that?”
“A good, warm…” she squints, obviously finding the right word to keep that ignorant smile on your face. “... welcome to start off his day.”
She succeeds in her task as you merely nod with the same blatant grin attached. “Got it!”
Manami tours you around the floor of the office, letting you say hello to your future coworkers that work in the cubicles that send you worried looks behind your back. They obviously seem too pitying of you, knowing that your fate would be sealed as Geto’s potential right hand man the moment you signed that employee contract.
“This is Human Resources,” Manami gestures over to a room filled with chattering employees who seemed to be getting their gossip out before their day started. “You’ll contact them if you have any—” her phone dings suddenly. Casually, she pulls it out, only for all of her resolve to disappear in an instant. Manami then abruptly blows a whistle with her teeth, alerting everybody in the radius.
“Everybody! His morning facial was canceled!” Manami hollers. “Geto is coming in…” her phone pings again with another notification, and you can tell Manami’s heart instantly drops. “Oh God… he’s in the lobby! Everybody, places! You,” she snags the sleeve of your blazer and drags you along with her, your clunky loafers nearly tripping you. “Come with me.”
Manami takes back to where you first started and orders you to stand in the front of the blank desk with a look that screams both fright and anxiousness all in one. She lists off too many tasks that you need to do before he comes, but you’re so frazzled with trying to remember how to act in front of your future boss that you can’t even remember the first thing she told you.
“Help me arrange the drafts of the magazines from most recent to least recent before he—”
The elevator dings and all goes quiet; Manami tosses the magazines over her shoulders and positions herself firmly in her place, gesturing for you to do the same. The doors open and unveiled from two bodyguards is a man—a tall man, around six feet or perhaps even taller—dressed in noir fitted pants and a matching button-up closed only halfway to reveal a silk navy turtleneck. Caped behind him is a black velvet trenchcoat that you’re sure is worth half your rent and a watch plated on his wrist that is well over your life savings. He’s slightly sunkissed, with blue-black tresses of hair with a soft bang sneaking through and large plated earrings to match. His eyes, however, show a tint of color—a sharp dark amethyst that you think could cut through you like crystals.
But he’s almost hauntingly attracting—like a spirit. Something about him was an enigma and his aura was nothing less than powerful.
“Good morning, Geto,” Manami chants with an artificial happiness to her tone.
Geto doesn’t reply, just merely giving a silent blink before he sheds his coat off and tosses it aimlessly towards Manami. It proves to be heavier than anticipated, giving how she fights to groan from the weight of it. He’s handed his briefcase from one of the bodyguards and begins to open the door to his office until he pauses and turns and glances at you, the stranger.
“Hello,” you state with a slight bow. “I-I’m one of the interviewees for your junior assistant. My name is—”
“(Y/N),” Geto murmurs; his voice is soft and low. It’s all knowing, with indigo eyes boring into your own. “(L/N) (Y/N), I know. The one that graduated from Jujutsu University recently, yes?”
Adjusting your glasses to wave away the blurriness, you nod with anticipation. “Yes, that’s me.”
Geto turns back and opens the door, to which he only replies back, “In my office.”
You glance at Manami for confirmation, only given back with a jut of her head towards the door. All the unease you felt in the elevator comes hurdling back to you in an instinct and you feel as if you were no more than a peasant to someone that was essentially royalty in the fashion world.
Geto turns his chair to face away from you, shuffling a few papers over each other that appears to be your resume, before he spins it slowly towards you. He kicks his feet up lazily on his desk.
“It’s nice to have another Jujutsu alum to join us,” he says. His voice is still the same—a little baritone with a wisping edge of a whisper to it, but it almost sounds… bored. Unamused even. “A bachelors in print journalism… same as mine, hm. Tell me, is Professor Tengen still as loose as ever with their practices?”
You fight to fiddle with your glasses as you watch as Geto tangibly toys with his own, with his focus angled on the papers in front of him rather than you. “Um, I assume so. Though I believe they’re actually retiring this year.”
“Good,” he sighs in what seems to be relief. “Shame that the university had wasted time and money by hiring them. Truly, I hope they can find someone much better suited for their position.”
“Really?” you quietly question. You had only taken their class a few semesters ago and thought despite their rather… all too lenient disposition… you did learn quite a lot in their class. “I thought they were a rather alright teacher…”
Regret pools in your mouth from the moment you have finished your sentence. Geto finally goes to look at you from the edge of his glasses with a sharp look, narrowing his eyes ever so slightly.
“Tengen was merely a sorry excuse for a professor. They were rather nothing but a nanny who gave their students too much leeway,” Geto declares. “Though, I’ll admit, I am pleasantly surprised that you managed to take something out of that class.”
A laugh that’s just dripping with nothing but nervousness leaks out of your lips. “I suppose I had learned just a few things…”
“Mmh,” Geto nod nonchalantly, eyes drawing back to the papers. “Well. Let’s start with the basics. Why exactly do you want to work here?”
Geto already feels the cliche comments erupting. Had the person in front of him say at least one of them, he was ready to insert the papers he was holding into the nearby shredder. Or maybe out the window this time, he wonders—something nice for a change.
“I was inspired by your work.”
“It’s been my dream to work at Kaizen.”
“Fashion is my absolute passion.”
“I want to—”
“I’m just in need of a job, really,” you say lifelessly.
He goes to raise his head slowly from the packet and turns to you slowly. Geto doesn’t say anything, but his facial expressions indicate a blend of confusion and intrigue. A slithering tongue darts out to slick his lips, indicating you’ve piqued his interest. “Well, obviously. But why this job specifically? What about it stood out to you?”
You clear your throat. “I had learned recently that Kaizen is a rather prestigious mag—”
“‘Recently’?” Geto repeats quietly. “You hadn’t heard of us before?”
Lips thinning, you shake your head slightly. His eyes go narrow again to your dread, serpent-like. “My specialty is more in newspapers rather than magazines, I-I’m not too knowledgeable in that area.”
Geto goes quiet and the silence makes the air go thick. It’s then that familiar glint sparkles in his sullen eyes when they go to examine your choice of clothing—it confirms Ino was truly right in the end, as he lets out a smile-less chuckle that doesn’t do much to ease your brain.
“Continue,” Geto gestures and takes off his glasses to look at you, or you suppose your outfit, more properly. He folds his hands and places his chin on top of them. “You said you only learned about us not too long ago?”
“Yes, and I realized that perhaps working here for a while would, at least I hope, grant me access to other media houses,” you explain. It’s only then you realize that your declaration sounds absolutely ludicrous and almost disrespectful to the editor-in-chief of the most iconic fashion magazine in the nation. “Connections are quite powerful in this day and age, haha…”
“I suppose,” Geto mumbles with not much interest in your poor humor. “What about me? I do hate bragging but surely, you know about my name or at least my fashion line?”
Your hesitant countenance and silence tells Geto all he needs to know. He thinks that it’s almost some sort of marvel that no one has heard of him or his works before.
He sighs. “Do you have any experience working in any fashion-related activities at least?”
“Well, I once worked in a department store for a few months back in high school,” you say thoughtfully (and ignorantly).
Geto gives you a blank look. His blinks are apathetically slow.
“Um,” you clear your throat again and shake your head, timid. “N-no…”
“Then tell me,” he continues smoothly. “Why exactly should I hire you? You obviously have no taste in fashion and you hadn’t even heard of my name, let alone my magazine, until recently. What is there within that makes you want to work here other than you just… what was it that you said?” He air-quotes mockingly, “‘needing a job?’”
Your throat runs dry and limbs go stiff. A heat rockets to your face when you seemingly can’t get any words out to excuse yourself, much too caught up in the same of your ignorance towards Geto’s profession. And that’s all the response he needs to make his decision.
His hand takes the packet again and to your horror that you fight to keep in, inserts it into the paper shredder. The groan of it rumbles through the room agonizingly and you realize that Ino is going to have the time of your life planning your doomsday.
Geto gives you the mercy of breaking the thick silence first. “You may go.”
With a swift flick of his wrist, Geto dismisses you with a slight edge to his murmuring as he puts back on his glasses to examine the morning newspaper to not waste any more incessant time in the day.
You don’t even attempt to fight back with any poor excuses. Tears prick the corner of your eyes, the sting of them frustrating you to your wits end. Instead, you gather the last of your resolve and bid him through a strained throat good day and make your leave, humiliation and disappointment trailing not too far behind.
You hope that Ino will give a nice eulogy, at least.
Out of all the miracles that await you in life, you do not expect the one that comes in the form of an early morning phone call that wakes you at the ass-crack of dawn. When you pick it up with sleep still very much embedded in your eyes, it dissipates in the instant you hear Manami’s voice. It’s only then that it hits you why on earth she was calling so early and why she was demanding to know your whereabouts, claiming you were going to be late on your first day of work.
You think it’s some sort of cruel joke maneuvered by Ino, especially with how his comforts from last night were mixed with taunts. But when Manami’s voice finally registers in your brain, by some sort of miracle or stroke of luck, you have gotten the job as Geto Suguru’s junior assistant.
You don’t know how, but you don’t waste any time questioning how on earth you landed in such a position because you leap out of bed at 7:23 a.m. and manage to do your morning routine in the matter of what you think is a record-breaking fifteen minutes. Your ruckus manages to wake up deep-sleeping Ino, who, when you excitedly tell him to postpone your funeral, gives a groggy thumbs up before drooling back into his pillow. It’s 7:38 a.m. when you shove on your shabby coat and you realize you only have a mere twenty-two minutes left until you have to officially clock in for work.
At 7:40, you’re out the door and sprinting to the located coffee shop that thankfully wasn’t too far from where you lived.
At 7:47, you’re at the designated cafe whilst attempting to swim through the crowds of morning bustlers to pick up Geto’s coffee.
7:50, you’re sticking your hand out waving desperately for a taxi and tip extra to make the driver speed through as you attempt to make sure the coffees don’t spill out of their containers.
7:58, you arrive at the building and just barely make it into the narrow gap of a tight-fitting elevator, earning stares from the others from your rather… frazzled appearance.
At 8:02 a.m., you dash out the elevator and officially clock in for your first day at work at Kaizen Magazine amidst a birdnest of hair, clothes that were plucked out of your hamper, and what you pray to the heavens above are hefty layers of deodorant and perfume since you were given no time to shower.
When Geto comes in that day, all suave and composed, he takes one good look at you before sighing and focusing his attention to the more refined Manami and lets her take the gears for the day. The only attention he gives you that morning is the rough toss of his heavy coat—a cashmere pearl peacoat today—flung at your arms that nearly makes you tumble from its weight.
You quickly learn that working for Geto requires high demand and maintenance, as he is not one to skip over any details in his day. Not even three hours in your first day, you already have to plan out his future meetings, reschedule one with a rather feisty and insistent client, edit a forest of emails, finishing by dashing out five blocks on foot to the two michelin star restaurant to retrieve Geto’s weekly steak for lunch. Had this been your old corporate job, you only would’ve gotten half the tasks you had completed by the end of the usual eight hours, but you realized early on that you had barely scratched the surface of your future in Kaizen.
You think that after plating his steak with the shakiest of hands, you finally have time to relax during lunch time when you see the small hand of the clock finally hit 12:00 p.m. , especially since you and him were left alone in his part of the office together. But the moment that Geto saunters into the office again, he tends to you once again with a final task by himself.
“(Y/N),” he calls from the office, the scrape of his fork against ceramic cluttering your ears agonizingly.
You fight the urge to cringe from the sound as you scurry to the doorframe, hands stiffly intertwined together. “Yes, Mr. Geto?”
“No need for such formalities,” he remarks with the dab of a napkin to his lips. “They make me feel old, and I’m surely not much older than you are…” you think that’s the longest he’s spoken to you since the day had started. “Did Leibovitz confirm?”
Blinking, you tilt your head ignorantly. “D-did who confirm?”
He pauses and does that taunting slow rise of his eyes from his steak to you. “Leibovitz. Did she confirm?”
Silence fills the office, much like the silence that drowned you back at the interview. He clicks his tongue and dismisses you with a disappointed shake of his head. “Just go on your lunch,” he mutters, sighing.
Manami, the savior that she is, is called into the office after her break and is asked the same task and you watch with humiliation whilst packing your things to go on your lunch as she picks up the telephone and speaks to someone over the line before confirming to Geto that, “I’ve got Annie!”
“He hates me, Taku!” you cry out whilst flopping onto the dinner table. It’s ten in the evening and you’ve just come home after what was supposed to be an 8-5 shift. You suppose you should be used to this already after two months of working for the Lucifer donned ritually in white in the building, but you don’t know how much your sanity (and body) can take.
Normally, Geto is usually cold to those who he wasn’t familiar with, but you think that his distaste for you sours everyday. You notice that he’s beginning to pile you with the more urgent and busier duties and that he often stares you down more menacingly in the morning with those piercing purple eyes of his, like you were gum stuck on the bottom of his shoe. You thought it was just him being normal Geto Suguru, the man with the expectations higher than the clouds, and that you just were still adjusting to such a high-intensity environment, but it was today that your world came crumbling down when you overheard him muttering to his associates about you, tone icier than ever.
You were on the other side of the door, a fist going to rap on the glass with the other holding his afternoon coffee pick-me-up when you heard it.
“... can’t even do the most miniscule things right,” Geto had groaned. “I ask if Lanvin’s models are all good to go for next Thursday’s shoot and somehow, they have the nerve to ask ‘How do you spell Lanvin’? For fuck’s sake, I can feel my goddamn conscious just wither away by the second.”
You hadn’t heard Geto swear since you had started working there, but something about his venomous tone enunciating such words had made your blood run cold from the other side of the door. Not having the courage to face him after that, you left his coffee on Manami’s desk for her to tend to with a post-it note saying a sorry excuse for yourself before letting your eyes sob frustratingly in the bathroom, isolated from others.
The last time you had cried that hard was way back in childhood, where you had broken your arm from falling down a tree branch. But you think that Geto’s words had twisted through your skin and bone much harsher than that pain ever will.
“It’s a miracle how I haven’t been fired yet… I don’t even know why he hired me!” you wail.
Ino sighs from across the dinner table and you can’t tell if it’s a sigh of pity or a sigh of criticism. You learn that it’s both when he rolls his eyes at you whilst simultaneously pushing a plate of much needed food towards you.
“First off, you need to eat,” he presses, staring at your gaunt features. “The way your face is swallowing is making me feel like I’m living’ with a ghost. You’ve lost some weight, I’ve noticed.”
Awareingly, you touch your cheekbones and realize he’s right, for you feel the small disc of sharpness from them prick your fingertips. They’ve never been so cavern before. You suppose it’s because of the lack of proper meal time between your days and how you often eat small and very late dinners back at home, truly not enough needed fuel for you.
“Secondly,” Ino chews his tongue, wondering if he should really say what he’s about to say because of your current disposition but goes through with it anyway. He might as well rip the bandaid off now to let more time for the wound to heal. “You won’t like what I’m ‘bout to say, but you need to up your game. Severely.”
An aching body rises up from the table. You go to stare at Ino through glazed eyes and a pouty lip, asking him what he meant.
“Ah nope! Don’t give me that face and don’t play coy with me,” he hisses, looking away to not give in to your helpless puppy eyes. He can’t—he shouldn’t give you the easy way out and just say to quit—not when you’ve been earning so much bank that rent isn’t a problem for either of you anymore. He wonders, though, for a moment if so much money is worth your rationality.
He drags a hand down his face before placing his chin on it, examining your haggard appearance. “What I mean is that you need to see through Geto’s eyes. See what he sees when he looks at you. Tell me, if you had an assistant that showed up wearing things that looked like they were plucked from the clearance bin at a thrift store and didn’t show any respect for your brand, which just so happens to be a fashion magazine out of all things…” Ino eyes you with a raised brow. “You startin’ to follow me?”
Your fingers fiddle with each other. “... sorta.”
“Now listen,” he raises his hands up lazily in surrender. “I already know what you’re ‘bout to say about me not knowing’ how to dress in shit other than black and more black, but even I know that you should put in more effort into your appearance. That’s the first step.”
“But I have—!” you exclaim helplessly, “I-I swear, I’ve been trying to… but it’s not my fault that it isn’t up to his standards.”
Your roommate groans and rubs his forehead, not really knowing what else to do for your situation until an idea pops in his head. “Free up your weekend,” he demands with a sly grin that makes you a little uneasy. “I’m no fashion connoisseur, but you know who is?”
“And remember, we never touch anything with chevron on it, especially in today’s fashion world,” Yuki chimes as she slaps on a navy blue pageboy cap on your head and she prances about your bedroom that’s been littered with spare clothes from her very own closet she graciously gifted to you for the past weekend. “I’m so utterly relieved that the trend has dug its own grave.”
The past weekend had been filled with endless shopping trips and you shuffling in and out of clothes every minute, practicing how to pair items and colors together by Yuki’s teachings. Of course you should’ve known that Ino was going to contact the one person that he was within reach that was essentially a walking encyclopedia when it came to fashion. You’ve met Tsukumo Yuki before, found her to be quite delightful even, but you never anticipated she would be this giddy, especially about clothes of all things.
And she used her brain to good use for not only clothes, but the entirety of yourself. You never knew how much just a simple haircut could do your face along with small hints of makeup to emphasize the best parts of it. Dared not your hands go to a lash curler, but here you are now, making sure your powder compact and lipstick for the day was in your bag before you went out.
“Uh, I don’t think I ever mentioned this before yet, but thank you for helping my wardrobe out, it really means a lot,” you say just before she slides on a pair of gold bangles on your wrist. “Are you sure you wanna give these clothes to me? I’m okay with just borrowing them.”
“Nonsense, babe,” she wavers off before shuffling through your now-hearty closet, a closet that’s now bursting with many clothes given by her. “I needed space in my closet anyway, so take as much as you need.”
So (Y/N)’s closet is basically her trash can, a particular shaggy brunette thinks with a roll of his eyes. Ino fiddles with the piece of toast in his mouth as he leans on the doorway, watching as Yuki essentially treats you like her very own Barbie doll at such an odd morning hour.
“(Y/N)’s not a doll, Yuki,” Ino lazily calls aloud through a tired yawn. “You better get ‘em out the door soon or else they’ll get late for work. Especially need that money since the landlord’s been on our ass about increasing our rent…” he mutters, sniffing. “Damn bastard.”
She snaps at Ino to be quiet and let her work before she shuffles on a regal blue overcoat over your shoulders that completes your look. When you look at yourself finally in the mirror, you almost think there’s a stranger in your house from the way you look so dignified compared to the you just three days ago. It’s a simple outfit with not much layering, but it’s still enough to ooze charisma and elegance to wandering eyes. You’re adorned in a white weaved sweater with flared, light-wash jeans and white boots to match. Over the outfit lies the coat that drapes almost like a king’s mantle behind you and the pageboy cap as your crown.
Yuki creeps up behind you, her manicured hands on your shoulders affirmingly. “How’re you feeling, hun?” she asks quietly as she shares the same sight with you in the mirror. “Don’t you look wonderful?”
You know that it was all her work, it was all her creativity that made you into the artwork that you are now, so breathlessly laugh with a smile on your painted lips and thank her quietly once more before whispering, “Yeah… yeah, I do.”
Her eyes study you for another minute, going to stare at the glasses still atop your face. Yes, they were new and much more modern considering she quite literally called your old pair atrocious, snapped them in half, and tossed them over her shoulder, but she was still quite dissatisfied when you told her about your hesitance about using contacts. “Are you sure you don’t want to give contacts another chance?” she sighs.
You shake your head with a small smile, “I’ll feel completely naked without them,” you murmur, “Besides, I think they actually compliment this look, if I’m being honest.”
Her lips stretch out into a grin, too absorbed in her fashion education finally being used.
“Well then!” she begins to drag you by the sleeve out your room. “We wouldn’t want you to be late then for your first day as the new you, right? Let’s get you a cab!”
Somehow, you think you really are at your first day at work again from the way you feel that same fluttering in your stomach and from how the people you’ve once grown accustomed to seeing in the early mornings are not merely passing you with mundane nods of their heads but instead, greeting you with wide-eyed gawks and open-mouthed smiles. Some of them, a few who you knew but never spoke a word to, even do a double take and compliment you aloud on the new look. Even the cute barista in the lobby that never bothered to spell your name right at last did after finally taking a good look at the holder of the card.
When you exit out of the elevator, Manami nearly drops the pile of magazines she’s holding when she spots a refined and refreshed you. You offer a bright smile to her and you watch as her gasp slowly forms into an affirmative grin when you round your desk.
She laughs softly. “And who might you be?” she asks with a tease in her voice. “‘Cause last time I checked, that’s my coworker (Y/N)’s desk.”
“I murdered them,” you shrug nonchalantly, earning another chuckle from her. You take it as a good sign, great even, considering up until now, Manami had been rather stoic and a little indifferent towards you because of your amateurism; but now, you suppose that ditching that Plain Jane from just two days ago is finally beginning to do you good by finally grounding a proper relationship with her. “Shame, isn’t it? Poor thing.”
“Truly,” she nods. Her eyes trail further down until they spot something that makes her gasp. “Don’t tell me those are—”
“—the new calfskin gold studded Louboutin boots?” you finish for her. You flex your ankle and show off the ravishing red bottoms of your shoes. “Oh yeah.”
Manami squeals in excitement and rushes over to your desk, begging to take a look at them. “How on earth did you manage to get your hands on these?! I’ve been looking for them fo—”
The elevator dings again but with a tone that makes you and Manami flinch. Both of you stiffen and straighten out your posture, falling into a thick silence when out comes Geto traipsing out like he usually did—his aura being nothing less than dominating. You and Manami chime out in sync a good morning to him as he saunters towards his office as he begins to shuffle off his coat as usual to toss to you until he looks up and catches you in his field of vision.
He stops all of a sudden with his eyes dancing about your figure, a stark contrast to the rest of his paralyzed body. Geto’s lips thin all of a sudden, and so do his eyes when they scan your outfit. He takes in a sharp breath and opens his mouth to say something to you, yet nothing comes out, even as your eyes glisten with anticipation.
It merely instead zips itself close and he finally whisks himself into his office, coat still on and briefcase still in hand, and slams the door shut.
But not without glancing at you one last time.
Much has changed in the past month for the better.
Yuki was a godsend—she had been your guardian angel, your fairy godmother of sorts—because you swore your career life had taken a complete 180° the moment your closet was revamped. Ever since that makeover, you had felt so much more confident in your actions, so much lighter on your feet. The price of your efforts was beginning to pay off as well, as Geto began to slowly thaw his icier sense of self when you began to actually put effort into your appearance. His thrusts of his coat towards you began to become less aggressive, was significantly more lenient when it came to more of the impossible tasks, and had at one time actually muttered a ‘good morning’ to you and Manami after months of greeting with silence and judgemental glances.
She’d occasionally check up on you every once in a while, usually to offer new clothes that she didn’t want anymore. And by offer, it actually just meant packing them in a box from her place to yours with a post-it that’d usually read “With love, YT ❤” in neat cursive. Along with forming a close bond with Yuki, your relationship with Manami improved significantly, especially when you gave her those white Louboutins she was eyeing. She often invited you to lunch with her other friends, Larue and Remi.
The iconic John Galliano once said that, “The joy of dressing is an art.” A month ago, you would’ve never believed what you would think is a rather tacky statement, but now, you can truly see it to believe it. It never occurred to you to actually look at your surroundings closely, but you often would sometimes take a few seconds out of your day to admire the many colors and materials that would adorn your coworkers. Whether it be admiration for their sense of style or mild jealousy over luxurious pieces, you were finally understanding what makes fashion, fashion.
And your epiphany was awarded today with the task that you thought would never come into the light of your days working for Geto—being tasked with dropping off The Book.
The Book was a collection of pieces that were needed for the upcoming edition of the magazine, regarding it as being the most important item in the entire company. It was a duty that usually Manami tended to, but she hypothesized that you managed to finally get on Geto’s good side after a while and congratulated you. Manami spoke to you briefly about how trivial The Book was to both Geto and Kaizen. She told you about how you must guard it and Geto’s key to his penthouse with your life, and that you were to remain absolutely invisible to him if he was in the apartment. Manami told you because it was usually the hour he needed most concentration—it was during the later hours of the day that he usually mended last minute edits to the edition or he was working on his latest fashion collection since he was only able to work on it during the weekends as Kaizen took too much of his time.
Manami told you he would most likely be found on the second floor of his penthouse, and you were to remain on the first floor at all costs.
“The editors will finish The Book around 10:30 or 11:00 at night, wait in the office until then. Then, drop the book off at his penthouse at no later than 11:30 with his dry cleaning, too.”
Her words echo in your mind as you tiptoe out of the cab and look up to see a gleaming, glamorous building sitting in the heart of the city. It’s one you’ve passed a plenty of times—hell, you pass it on your way to work—but it never occurred to you that it’d be this antique white, Parisian-styled building that would be the abode of your boss.
“Take the elevator to the top floor and enter his apartment. Do not call out his name, don’t wander around, don’t even make a single sound. You are nothing more than a ghost when you step foot into his house.”
The only doors that are on the very top floor of the apartment complex are two large metal doors that sit before you. You enter the key into the keyhole and push them open with controlled force, closing them as quietly as possible with Manami’s whispers still floating about your head. You knew that Geto was certainly a man of luxury, but to see that wealth exempt in a form other than fashion was a sight that you weren’t sure if your eyes deserved to feast on. Sculptures and paintings decorated the foyer and hallway, adding occasional splashes of color to the ivory-adorned apartment. After hanging the dry cleaning in the designated coat closet, the first room you enter - and perhaps the only one you’ll ever be in - is the said living room with the glass coffee table sitting in the center of it.
“Place The Book on the coffee table in the living room. That’s it. Do not toddle any longer in his house and get out immediately. Don’t let curiosity get the better of you and just simply go afterwards. It’s for your own good.”
But oh, how curiosity is just a little devil of temptation that sits far too easily on your shoulder. A house holds the most of a person, and Geto is just an all too mysterious enigma for you not to at least dip your toe in. The doors at the end of the hallway are waiting for you, but so are the picture frames that sit atop the TV stand. You suppose… maybe another minute wouldn’t hurt.
Your feet carry you slowly to the stand and you crouch, adjusting your glasses to get a better look at the pictures. There’s only two of them—six by fours, both in oak brown frames. The first one is a picture of a smiling young girl with short chestnut hair sporting a smile with a cigarette between her teeth. Beside her are two boys taller than her, both making similar faces at the camera. One of them, the one that’s a little taller with silvery snow hair and opaque black sunglasses, throwing a forced, all-too wide grin that almost looks maniacal. It doesn’t require much brain power to know the other figure in the photo is a younger Geto Suguru, his hair shorter in a tight bun with a rare, but soft grin on his face, his gaze affectionate to the others.
The other picture is of the same two boys arm in arm with each other. Both of them are grinning now, with the white haired boy still smiling a little more largely than the other. It doesn’t take long for you to assume who the other boy was considering that the shade of purple sheathing his twinkling eyes is unique to only one individual in your life.
Best friends, you suggest in your mind as you study the pictures a little longer than needed. A minute, you thought, wouldn’t do much harm, but how utterly wrong your thoughts prove when you suddenly hear the slam of a door from the floor above. The crash of it makes you yelp and breaks you out of your trance from the pictures and your gaze suddenly snaps to the open stairs above you, as well as two voices echoing aloud.
“Y-you can’t—” an unknown voice wheezes. “I’ve been your muse for years. You possibly can’t just abandon me out of nowhere…”
“You say that as if I’m not doing that right now,” a familiar one replies back boredly. It’s Geto, and his voice makes your nerves electrify in fear because it’s in that moment that you remember that you can’t get caught inside of his house. “This is the last time I’m telling you, Shigemo. Get out.”
The man that you assume is Shigemo heaves heavy breaths. “You need me,” he declares.
“Needed. Past tense,” Geto corrects as he almost forces Shigemo down the stairs with an invisible force surrounding him. You can see their figures above you, Shigemo slowly stepping backwards with each step Geto takes forward. “You’ve done me well these few years, I admit, and I do thank you for that. But I suppose your expiration date has finally come.”
“I’m not a food,” Shigemo snivels. “I’m a person. Most importantly. I’m the reason your fashion line flourished, I was the inspiration for almost all your works. We’re essentially a team.”
They’re towards the end of the staircase, towards where you are still present in plain sight. Your eyes scatter about a place to hide in the meantime, but there are seemingly no places to hide that would hide you well without the notice of Geto’s eyes.
“A team?” Geto barks out a sarcastic laugh, one that makes shivers run down your spine from both the rarity of the sound and how utterly intimidating it is. “I work alone and I always have. There is no point on relying on anyone of any kind when my independence obviously pays off.”
“Who will you have then?” Shigemo retaliates with a whimper in his voice. “You know that I’m the only one that will tolerate you. It’s not like you can go crawling to Goj—“
“Finish that sentence and see what happens,” Geto hisses, causing the other man to fall into a forced silence.
Your eyes finally land on the small space between the fireplace and a pillar. It’s a space large enough for you to fill and efficient enough to hide you from sight. Unsticking your feet from the ground, you make a run for the small space, only for you to forget about the obstacle that was the ottoman sitting spitefully on the floor.
The thud that comes from your body almost rivals the volume of the door slamming open moments earlier and just like the door, it attracts unneeded attention. Geto and Shigemo stop their bickering for a moment to search for the cause of the sound, only to see you humiliatingly face first on the floor. Geto narrows his eyes at the sight of you, an unwanted visitor in his home.
A pained groan slips from your lips accidentally. You silently curse yourself for not taking the time to properly break into the tantalizing loafers Yuki bought you the day prior and wince at the pain blooming from your knees and chest. When you finally get up, you can’t help but notice that everything around you seems rather… hazy.
“Who is that…” Shigemo mutters.
Geto bites back a sigh and instead, pinches the bridge of his nose. He supposes that despite your improved mannerisms, your clumsiness still has yet to dissipate. Annoyed, he grunts out, “One of my new assistants.”
Shaking his head, Geto decides to deal with you later. His home is already suffocated with one individual, he doesn’t need another clogging the atmosphere up. He returns his attention back to Shigemo. “I thought I told you to leave,” he states, shoving his bag towards him.
Shigemo’s face paints a horrified expression once again. “Geto, please rethink this,” Shigemo pleads.
He lets out a chain of pleads and excuses for himself as Geto essentially escorts him out with just walking towards him, his face still icy. Shigemo ends up on the other side of the door to his penthouse and it’s there where his patheticness exudes the most—he falls on his hands and knees like a beggar, claiming he’d do anything and everything just to be by his side.
But his voice is suddenly cut short when Geto finally slams the door in his face, the thickness of them guarding him from Shigemo’s whines. He lets out another sigh and locks up the door securely before dealing with the other parasite in his house.
“I don’t think dropping off a book should take longer than thirty seconds,” Geto drawls as he saunters towards the living room, where you’re still on all fours on the floor, your hands tapping around. “So tell me, why are you still here?”
At the sound of his sharp tone, you freeze. You’re sure you looked utterly stupid and a mess right now, considering that you had just lost a fight to an ottoman out of all things, but you couldn’t let Geto see you in such a state. It didn’t take you long to realize that the reason why everything around you looked so blurry was because of your now-missing glasses that you attempted to look around for. But you pulled a Velma, and just like her, you can’t see without your glasses.
Everyone thinks it’s an exaggeration when you state that you felt utterly naked without them, but you truly did. You’ve been wearing glasses ever since childhood and you really didn’t appreciate the looks you had gotten when you were younger when at times you’d take them off. Some complained that your eyes were too small, too big—others mentioned you looked “off” and “weird” without them. Either way, comments from the other children stuck with you like scars, and ever since then, you refused to be seen without them.
“I a-apologize,” you stutter, shuffling your body to hide behind the recliner so Geto wouldn’t see how much of a clutter you are. You’ve humiliated yourself too much already in the office and the last thing you truly need is for you to get fired merely because your curiosity got the better of you. “I was about to head out and th-then I heard your voice from upstairs and—”
Your words fall deaf on Geto’s ears. He lets out another groan while stretching the aching muscles in his neck as he closes in on your disorderedness. A hand goes to shield your face—you don’t want him to see the bareness of your face, especially since you didn’t bother wearing makeup today. You can’t even bear the thought of him looking at it. In a rushed state, you wander around for your glasses with your head tucked in, using the remnants of your hair to curtain your face.
A jumble of excuses tumble out of your quivering lip, but Geto is too preoccupied with the gleam of something catching his eye. Laying flat on the floor are a pair of glasses that doesn’t take Geto long to presume who they belong to. He plucks them from the ground and examines them for a brief moment before holding them above you.
“I assume these are yours,” he asserts with a cocked brow.
Your head snaps up at the sound of his voice directly right above you and through your foggy field of vision is the seraphic figure of Geto holding what seems to be your glasses. Lips escaping a relieved gasp, you hurriedly scramble to your feet. Your eyes are too poor to see it properly, but Geto also shares surprise, but for an entirely different reason.
He doesn’t give you the sanity that is your glasses right away, because he’s much too preoccupied studying your face. It’s so… fresh. Your glasses were hiding such a view, like curtains to a window that unveiled the utmost rare and breathtaking sights. The way your eyes are wide open, pupils blown with a touch of singularity makes him even more intrigued because of how they’re uniquely placed onto your face along with the rest of your features. Your lips, plump with a natural sheen to them—your cheekbones, perfectly rounded. The slope of your nose fell just right. Geto studies it like an artist to a blank canvas, devoid of anything yet holding just the perfect amount of space—wanting, waiting to be filled with anything and everything.
When his eyes stare at you in what seems to be bewilderment, you swallow thickly and look away. But you can only glance at your surroundings for less than a second before Geto takes your chin between his thumb and forefinger, turning your face toward him again. It’s then that you realize that Geto isn’t staring at you, but your face as a whole. His eyes flick with small movements, dancing about as they go from eyebrow to lips, freckle to lash, examining each and every single particle that your face has to offer.
You feel a heat creep onto your cheeks. You’re not sure whether it’s because of the closeness you and him share or the fact that you can’t detect his opinions on the one thing you’ve been disclosed about for years, but either way, you feel weak in the knees; it only worsens when Geto’s thumb brushes over the entirety of your bottom lip, feeling the plushness of it on his the pad of his finger.
“Has your face always been this open…?” he murmurs softly as he studies the various angles of your face.
You aren’t sure whether it’s a compliment or insult, either or neither. Geto’s tone always had a sort of bleakness to it, but in this very moment, you truly can’t tell what he’s thinking.
“My glasses…” is all you manage to squeak out, fighting the urge to squirm in his grasp. Another gulp goes down your dry throat when Geto’s face contorts to an irritated confusion before he realizes his other hand holds the one thing dear to your heart.
“Oh,” he mutters and hands them back to you. His opposing hand finally goes to release your face. “Right.”
Shaking hands go to put them back onto your face again. Sighing internally of relief of your now crystal-clear surroundings, you dust yourself off with your head once more, tucked into your chest.
“I’m so sorry for this,” you whisper. The heat on your face has now spread to the entirety of your body, your nerves alight with the rush of adrenaline. “I-I’ll make sure this never happens again… good night.”
With that, you scurry yourself out before Geto has the chance to falter. All words to urge you to stay to either scold you or excuse you evaporate on his tongue. He can only watch in a strange silence as your figure rushes down the hall and out the doors, the click of them ringing out in his penthouse.
After moments of self-paralysis, an unknown feeling boils inside the pit of Geto’s stomach. He thinks he’s seen your face before with the familiarity of it unsettling him. The ghost of your face prances about in his mind as he slowly climbs the stairs to his sewing room, ignoring the shattered wine glass on the floor thrown by Shigemo. He instead, refills his own glass again with the nearby bottle of merlot wine and savoring the thickness of it running down his dry throat, embellishing in its warmth.
A single, large window faces the busy nighttime street and Geto walks and stills near it, watching carefully as the speck of your figure on the street below calls for a cab. He eyes how you turn towards the building one more time, doing your usual adjustment of your glasses (it’s a habit you often do in times of nervousness, he’s picked up) before you shuffle yourself into a cab that speeds off into the night.
Geto lets out an annoyed click of his tongue. Something about your face seems haunting and he doesn’t enjoy it. The last thing that he needed for today was even more plaguing thoughts in his head after the loss of his muse not even just ten minutes ago, but now with your face staining the back of his head, his jaw grits in irritation. In a poor attempt to take his mind off the excursion of today and the future, he shuffles about his many sketchbooks to look for any designs he could pluck out for his latest collection.
It’s an hour in, two glasses of wine later, and somehow, he still hasn’t found a single piece to begin working on that fits into his theme. Miraculously, through the vast array of what is thought to be thousands of sketches, Geto hasn’t found one that stood out to him until he gets to the last sketchbook. It’s an early one—he thinks it dates back to his early college days, when he was just beginning to peek into the world of fashion. A pang of nostalgia hits him all of a sudden when he flips to a specific page that was the start of his history.
It’s the very design that had the attention of many designers. The sketch featured a gold and red embellished outfit, a sheen of glittering flickers adorning it. The shirt features a mosaic of gold and small flecks of color here and there, imitating the many church mosaics he’d often admired as a child. The skirt and collar of the shirt were the same shade of blood red, crimson gems bespeckling them.
It’s not the outfit, however, that makes his eyes harden. Why would it? He’s seen it many times before. It’s been brought up over and over again—in interviews, in magazines. It’s one of the staples that made Geto the pillar that he is. He knows every detail of it, much like his other designs, so it isn’t the design of the outfit that made him appalled. It’s instead, the person that’s wearing it.
Because somehow, the eerie sketch of the model’s face that he had drawn years ago…
… somehow replicates your own face perfectly.
a/n: first jjk fic in forever! wowie it's been much too long... also if u need a refresher on who shigemo is, he's the guy with the ponytail that nanami pulled kekeke
10.2k is hefty i know but i couldn't help myself my bad lolol T_T currently just a test run of what i hope to be is a series that some may be interested in because clearly this barely scratches the surface of what i want to embed haha so please let me know how you like it so far :))
continuing, i hope you enjoyed and thank you for taking time out of your day to enjoy my craft, whether it be your first time or your hundredth! once more, likes/comments/reblogs are always noticed and are always appreciated (´｡• ᵕ •｡`) ♡ !!!
#jujutsu kaisen#jjk#jjk x reader#jujutsu kaisen x reader#geto suguru#getou suguru#geto suguru x reader#geto x reader#geto x you#getou x reader#geto fluff#geto smut#takuma ino#manami suda#gojo satoru#gojo x reader#nanami x reader#gojo satoru x reader#gender neutral reader#gn!reader
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stay gold, baby boy
rating: 18+ (expliiiiicit)
pairing: dieter bravo x f!reader
word count: almost 6K
summary: six months into your friends-with-benefits situation, you institute a new game. A gold star on the board every time Dieter is a good boy. Today, he gets bingo . . . for wearing real pants.
warnings: friends with benefits (with more feelings), oral (m receiving), dom/sub dynamics (guess who subs today!), talks of edging, hair pulling, creampie, piv sex, praise kink, my mother raised me to have better taste in men but fuck it
a/n: remember when i posted this picture? And then this one? Remember how you could hear me yelling from space? Well, @sp00kymulderr has added fuel to the fire – Dieter and stickers. I can’t explain myself except that I was horny and I wanted to take his pants off with my teeth. So I did.
✨gif credit goes to the ever incredible, talented, and enabler of my dieter fantasies @perotovar! she saw me floundering with the header and immediately was like 'hold please i can make his baby cow eyes even better'✨
🤍Masterlist
With your foot on the low table, your ass firmly planted on the middle poofy cushion of the dumpster bin couch at the back of the trailer, thumbnail nibbled between your teeth, you have to admit it’s starting to get a little embarrassing. It’s honestly such a bad look.
Not that he would ever shame you for it. In fact, he’d probably like it.
And it’s not like you waited for him here all day. You had things to do as one of the co-screenwriters on this film. You had things to do and people to see and stuff to organize – all of which had nothing to do with Dieter fucking Bravo.
Okay, so a lot of it actually had to do with him. Lots of scene rewrites, lots of notes from the studio, lots of instances where the two of you had to put your heads together and come up with a solution that made the studio happy and didn’t make you want to claw your eyes out artistically speaking.
Which had led to this.
And the past six months of whatever this is. Working together led to seeing each other (outside of work), to eating with each other, to fucking each other – with the line firmly drawn there.
Whatever you may say about Dieter, the man could compartmentalize in a way that would make Marie Kondo weep with joy. By the way he treated you on set, no one in their right mind would ever have guessed he knew what you looked like naked. Or that he knew your left nostril twitched just before you came.
The same could be said for you too. Out of boredom one morning in the grocery store, you bought a trashy magazine with his face emblazoned across the top – Dieter Bravo and His Lonely Hearts Club. You weren’t one for the gossip rags, but flipping through it, not a single one of his “club members” mentioned his raging praise kink. You bought the damn thing on the spot, giving them all a consolation prize of some sort. Sorry, ladies, guess I win. Ha. Ha.
But, at the edge of the cushion, eyes occasionally flicking between the door and the failing darkness outside, you didn’t feel much like you’d won anything.
In fact, you’d lost. Big time. When all of this had been your stupid idea in the first place.
It had been your idea (and your initiative) to buy a packet of gold star stickers. Like the kind teachers use with their first graders. Actually, exactly like the ones teachers use for their first graders. You couldn’t form words when the woman at the education supply store ringing you up asked, “oh, what grade do you teach?”. You just tossed a twenty at her and booked it, your face painfully hot for a fairly innocuous purchase.
But all of that was his fault for dropping a praise kink and a teacher kink on you all at once the night after you jokingly spanked him with a ruler in front of the director, in-front of his co-star, because he wouldn’t agree to a line change, and he had to excuse himself from the room.
A month later and he forgoes touching himself for a gold star. He agrees to your line changes without argument for a gold star. He picks you up in the morning and drives you home at night for a gold star (you could drive yourself, but there’s always that last minute thing you need to talk to him about so you do it just because it’s easier, really).
He lets you come, over and over again, and keeps nothing for himself – all for a gold star.
Someone is bound to figure it out. They have to. Six months in and you’re getting sloppy. Obvious. What the fuck would you be doing in his trailer at seven o’clock at night after a full day of shooting unless you’re fucking him?
But you, worryingly, can’t find it in you to care.
You had lost your mind, that’s what you lost. Because tonight is the night Dieter gets his final gold star. It’s his reward but you’re about to vibrate out of your skin with want.
(It didn’t matter that you hadn’t seen each other in two weeks and by the third day, an ache had settled in behind your breastbone, one that clutched your phone in your hand, and forced your eyes to the screen every minute, checking for a new text message.
He called on day five, by the way.)
Your neck snaps up when you hear voices outside of the trailer. Laughter, his.
You suddenly feel the need to flatline against the floor in case anyone might see you.
Fuck, and how are you supposed to explain yourself if the someone he is with follows him into the trailer? Too many frightfully bad scenarios and you’re rooted to the floor, unable to make a single decision.
The metal latch clinks and his trailer door swings wide open.
“Yeah, man, I’ll catch you tomorrow.”
You can hear a deep, “see ya” from the other side (maybe Daryl from craft services?) and the scrap-metal trailer squeaks, as the lock clicks shut.
Dieter scratches his cheek, surveying the trailer as if some part of him knows something is different, but his conscious mind can’t figure it out.
Until he turns. And nearly leaps out of his skin.
“Fuckin’ – what are you doing in here? Wait – I thought you left town to scope out the new location in San Diego.”
You want to answer him. You know how – open your mouth and tell him the trip’s been delayed for a few days, nothing serious, timeline bullshit – but you can’t.
It’s officially embarrassing.
It’s embarrassing how turned on by Dieter Bravo you are.
Hair in all kinds of directions, skinny cloth bracelet loose around his wrist, he had pushed up the sleeves of his henley shirt, exposing the thickly drawn triangle over his forearm and the clear one near his wrist. His hand with the rings hangs by his side and something inside of you silently whines.
But what really sets you off, what really makes this embarrassing and terrible because there’s no bluffing here, no hiding your cards and folding – nothing you can do to keep spit from flooding your mouth the longer you look –
He’s wearing pants.
Black with loose belt loops. Zipper and all. A silver button sitting between his hips. Fuck. Just like you told him to. Fuck fuckfuck.
You’re briefly aware when he says your name and you have to make a physical effort to tear your eyes away from that glinting silver eye winking up at you.
Dieter’s frowning, knowing silence isn’t really your thing.
“Are you okay? Why are you –,”
As though it had called his name, his gaze drifts from your face to the table between you and him. Where his scorecard rests with four stars in the Good column, and shockingly, none in the Bad.
His mouth parts, eyes going dark, as the realization hits him like a mack truck.
“Delays,” you say suddenly, preemptively, knowing that normal people usually have some sort of preamble before tearing each other’s clothes off. You stand up a bit straighter, tilt your jaw away from him, gaze leveling him from the end of your nose. You have got to get this thing under control. “Frank ran into some scheduling issues with the boat for the lake scene so, until further notice, the trip to San Diego has been delayed.”
He blinks slowly as if he’d been struck over the back of the heat, mouth parted. He has such fucking gorgeous, fucking perfect lips –
“So you’re here?” he asks, his voice low, disbelieving.
You scoop up the scorecard and step over the table, your shoes long since gone. It’s like his vision narrows the closer you come; he is transfixed, gaze on you as if molded at the seams, as you step up to him. You tap him on the chest once with the corner of the scorecard, excitement and nerves and that ache making you tremble despite your confident appearance.
“So I’m here.”
“On the last day of the week.” Words thick, as if all the moisture had been sucked out of his mouth.
“On the last day of the week.”
“When I,” he swallows thickly, “when I should get my reward.”
God, this kind of power trip should not be making you this wet.
You lift your gaze from his chest, taking in his beautifully dumb-struck face.
“You will.” You nod. “And do you know why?”
His breath quickens, lip between his teeth, when you scratch off the final star from the package and stick it to the Good column.
“Because I was a good boy?”
You toss the scorecard behind you, it clatters onto the table, and you cup the back of his hot neck.
“Because you were a very good boy.”
He stumbles back, knees unsteady, when you kiss him. You see his eyes a split second before you close yours and hot electricity swoops down to the pit of your stomach. It would be mortifying if you just fucked him right here and now – he does deserve something extra special – but fuck – you want his whole hand inside of you.
His warm palm slides across your jaw, pulling you into him, and Dieter breathes, deep and long, inhaling as much as he can. You don’t think he realizes that he’s picked you up off the ground with his arm around your back until he opens his eyes, vision hazy and off-center.
“Go lock the door, baby.”
He nods and puts you back down. You slip off your jacket as he bolts the trailer door shut.
Dieter’s mouth drops open when he turns around and sees you on your knees.
Shit, you should have stolen some knee pads from the costume department.
“Really?”
You smile at him because he asks like a kid that just got offered a puppy for Christmas. You reach towards him and he takes your hand, unsteady on weak knees
“For as long and as much as you want.”
You palm him and Dieter groans, mouth-closed at the sensation, the hard ridge of the metal zipper not one he is entirely familiar with. At least, not like this. Beneath the warm press of your palm, you feel him thicken, harden, and you press more, digging your fingers into his thighs. The muscles in his legs tense, his mouth falls open, as his hips cant forward, desperate for the new weight of the zipper.
“And I won’t make you wait, Dieter,” you say, eyes tripping up from where your hand sits, up to the flash of exposed tummy where his pants have ridden down and his shirt slid up, into his almost surprised gaze. “You’ve been very good, wearing this for me, but I want you to learn why it’s important to wear pants with buttons.”
“I-I t-t-thought,” he tries, voice abruptly cutting off when you nuzzle the constrained bulge in his pants. He tries again, eyes slamming shut as if to stifle the sensation of your warm breath so near to where he needs you the most. “I thought i-it was so I d-din’t – didn’t look bad.”
Your face still pressed into his crotch, you briefly massage his calves, then the backs of his thighs. You cup the curve of his ass through the starchy back pockets, which is remarkably prominent now that he’s in something else than baggy sweatpants.
You shake your head, nose dragging along his hot length, against the space between his hip bone and his cock, smiling.
“Baby, you know I like how you look. I always want you to be comfortable.” You look up and meet his eyes. The remaining brown not yet wholly consumed by a blurry, heated darkness softens. Somewhere beneath the hazy, disarming feelings of lust currently filling his head like a bike tire, he’s still your Dieter. Or – well, wait – at least the Dieter you know. The Dieter you have impossibly fun times with. The Dieter who makes you laugh like no one else. The Dieter that can make you fall apart until you’re a gooey, dripping mess and he still manages to stitch you back together. The Dieter that keeps you up at night thinking he might possibly want something more. “But this is so much more fun.”
Grounding your chest against his thighs, holding yourself against him as leverage, you sink your teeth into the corner of the fabric fastening his pants together. Eyes up at him again, you tug and his cock is pushed up against your tits from the force of the pull. He rocks forward, an airy gasp escaping his mouth, and the button gives, the lip of the fabric sliding back as the silver disk slips through the hole. Now your touch is unimpeded by rough fabric when you lean forward and kiss him just below the waistband of his black boxers.
It takes you a second to realize that Dieter Bravo is wearing underwear at all and you smirk up at him.
Something about your gaze makes the tips of his ears go red, as if he had been caught being very naughty. His big hand cups from your jaw to your ear, as if trying to placate you, beg you not to be mad this close to his cock.
“You said I had to dress u-up,” he says, eyes wide and round. God, he’s trying to be so good. One week of the rating system and Dieter Bravo is a trembling mess. Despite your wildly beating heart, you smirk, your thighs shaking briefly at the sudden rush of tenderness you feel for the man in front of you. You hide your own blush by mouthing that open spot just below his tummy and above his cock, wetting the black material with your tongue. Before he can whine about it, you pull back just barely, enough to curl your fingers around both his black underwear and the pants he wore for you. Just as you begin to pull down, you nip the zipper between your teeth and slowly, slowly, rubbing your nose against him, tug the metal teeth apart. His pants open and Dieter groans loudly. He’s already so sensitive.
For a mouthy, ego-driven bastard, he really did have a magnificent cock. Flushed at the base, thickest you’d ever had inside you, and he’s leaking silvery threads from the head. The vein thickly pulsating on the side makes you wonder how he hasn’t passed out from all the blood rushing to his cock.
You lick that vein, that beating pulse, and his knees buckle. His massive hand grips your shoulder and Dieter shakes his head, his mouth wrenching open.
“Please, please — mhmm — don’t tease. I-I can’t – you haven’t – please.”
As if you would be cruel to him. You feel rather dizzy, elated on the idea that you wield this much power over him. That he trusts you with all of him. There it comes again, that arching ache in your chest.
“I’m just trying to get myself ready for you,” you confess quietly. “I’m not trying to hurt you.”
Dieter swallows something large in his throat, panic receding from his eyes. His smile is small and his touch on your cheek is light.
“I know.”
And you weren’t lying. You’d never forget the sound of your jaw popping and cracking the morning after you sucked him off three times before you let him come. Dieter is shockingly big, annoyingly only when he uses it against you or makes you tell him over and over just how big he is before giving it to you. For now, you just want to remind him how very appreciative you are that he gives it to you at all.
Eyes decidedly looking away from the warmth on his face, you squeeze the backs of his thighs as you relax your jaw as much as you can. Above you hear him huff with his mouth shut as you start to take him in, your tongue wetting that soft skin on the underside of his cock. One move forward and you’ve wet him halfway, tongue massaging that vein. Another drop of your head and you’ve taken him completely.
“Fuck,” Dieter murmurs, the hand on your shoulder tightening. Your heart pounds in your chest all the harder when he takes his other hand and knots your hair with his fingers. By the twitching of his thighs beneath your palms, you know it’s taking every ounce of his restraint to not buck his hips forward. “That’s it that’s my girl you take me so fucking good you feel so fucking good.”
The thing about your mouth that is markedly different from your pussy: you can’t release your gag reflex to take more of him. But fuck, you want him to fuck the back of your throat – you just might drown before it happens.
He smells surprisingly clean as your nose inches closer and closer to his skin. With each pull, you slide your tongue down the other side, until it pokes through and licks where you haven’t reached with your mouth yet, inches from his pelvis. He shudders when you use the tip of your tongue.
“Oh my god, your mouth, baby, your mouth.” The words dribble out of his slack mouth, fingers flexing in your hair as if he can mimic pushing your head down further. You pull all the way off him, tongue catching the rim of his cock and he drops his head back against his shoulders and moans. The sound of it makes your pussy throb and you breathe out your nose to stifle your own noises. This is about him. He did good. He was a good boy the whole week.
You replace your mouth with your hand. Sufficiently wet from the way you slobbered all over his cock, you use a fist around his flushed head to smear pre-cum all the way down to the base of him. You brush his balls with your knuckles, just as you fit the tip between your lips, sucking – and Dieter bucks, hard.
“Ngh – shit! S-sorry!” His nails dig into his thighs, eyes squeezing shut as silvery threads spurt out from his cock.
Maybe you’d gone too far with the whole sticker thing and he really thought this was another test. His cheeks are burnt pink, his chest heaving and it’s one of the most beautiful things you’ve ever seen.
“Dieter,” you cry softly, gently, comfortingly. He still doesn’t open his eyes, not even when you resume stroking him. You lick the soft skin of his balls and his gasp punches the air out of his lungs, his eyes splitting open. He looks down at you, thighs trembling and you squeeze him gently. Not to edge him or punish him, but to make this last a bit longer for him. “Dieter, take your shirt off and sit down.”
He can’t move fast enough. He yanks the henley over his shoulders, the collar scraping his hair up in wild directions. He goes to sit but his thighs are shaking too much and he just sort of tumbles onto his ass. Smiling, you take your own shirt off, hoping to save this particular bra reveal for another time, but fuck, this time is as good as any. Despite his panting and squirming, his gaze rolls from your face to your tits. Emerald green with black lace, this is far too nice for a work bra and it properly communicates to him that you were going to fuck him whether or not he was going to get that final gold star. The realization is visible as it crosses his mind, bleeding hungry black in his eyes.
You take off his pants all the way, before sliding your own jeans down and to the floor. His roving gaze catches the matching panties and the noise in his throat is deep, like a smothered grunt.
“Now, I’m going to suck you off no matter what,” you say as you crawl in between his legs, before leaning back and sitting on your heels. You smooth your hands down his thighs, near his red, stark cock, but not touching. Dieter’s breathing hitches in anticipation, not sure where to put his hands or his gaze. “But I want you to answer one question for me first.”
He nods rapidly, spreading his knees further for you as if to remind you there’s other places he could be fucked.
“Why did you think I was going to punish you today?”
You’ve asked this question paraphrased a dozen times, usually when you both know the answer: he came without asking, or he came by himself, or any of the dozen reasons Dieter liked to push your buttons, only for you to break him as far as he can go. But today, there’s no sultry edge, no double meaning. Your question is sincere and it takes him a moment to understand. He swallows as his eyebrows tug down on his forehead, something vulnerable flashing in his eyes before a look of uncertainty crosses his face.
“We’ve never had sex just to have sex.” He says it like a question. He settles into the floor one hand going behind his head, the linear tattoo on his forearm dark like a third eye. “Not that I’m complaining but it’s always a competition, or because we’re bored, or you wanna work out some personal shit because of the costume department. I know this is my reward, but I figured there had to be some kinda catch to it.”
You frown deeper than him. “There’s no way we haven’t had normal sex.”
Something like a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Define normal sex.”
Now it’s your turn to go warm across the cheeks. “I mean, like . . . outside of . . . our roles. Where there aren’t roles at all. It’s just . . .”
You break off for the third time, the look in his eyes forcing you to snap your mouth shut before you say something incriminating like, just us.
Dieter shakes his head. “No, we haven’t.”
“You’re telling me in six months, that’s never happened once?” You adjust on your heels and cross your arms. “It’s not like you can remember every time we’ve had sex.”
“I do.” This, coming from him, is not a question. It’s an irrefutable statement that you don’t seem able to refute with a no you don’t. There is no room for arguing.
Driving right on through the heat of your cheeks, that ache returning, you shake your head. “Then doesn’t that get old? Having to play games every single time?”
Dieter pouts as he thinks, eyes on the roof of the trailer. “Sometimes, but I don’t mind. Not enough to want to stop fucking you.”
“So, after a week of nothing, you were totally willing to let me edge you within an inch of your life? Let me treat you badly?”
Dieter smirks and it suddenly feels like you’re the one under him. “Sure, but you like me too much to keep it going for too long. And you like watching me come.”
Your teeth grind together at this very bold accusation, your entire face blazing. Weren’t you supposed to be domming him today??
His feet slide out beside you and Dieter is the very picture of arrogance, his arm still tucked behind his head. He drums his fingers on his stomach.
“If it makes you feel any better,” he says, the smirk around his mouth soft, “I like you too.”
It doesn’t. Not really. Not when his words spear through you hot and hard, landing in your chest like a landmine. Fuck.
Fuck.
“Oh, so this is all for me, then?” You ignore the fact that you’ve slipped back into your role in active defiance of talking about this anymore, and crawl forward until your forearms frame his head. That teasing contentment fades from his face as he watches you, eyes following a line that only he can see from your nose, lips, chin, throat and tits. Your hair slips off your shoulder, darkening the light on his face when you straddle his waist. “But what about you? Don’t you want to come?”
He nods, slower than before, but only to keep from breaking eye contact with you. Light as feathers, Dieter trails his fingers up the backs of your thighs, over the curve of your ass, to settle into your hips. His mouth parts in anticipation, pink tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip.
“I do,” he says, rolling his neck as if he can see more of you this way. “I really fuckin’ do.”
“What a coincidence.” You shift down, dragging the wet patch on the emerald green underwear beneath your drooling cunt, shift until it slides across his half-hard cock and Dieter’s hands dig into your hips, a groan breaking off in the back of his throat. His eyes slip half-closed, a thick, smoky black enveloping that beautiful brown. “So do I.”
Grinding down over so slightly, you roll your hips once more – Dieter tenses, his hands easing to the tops of your thighs – before sitting back on his knees.
“Now relax, baby, you’ve earned it.”
You drop forward over his hips, open your mouth, and slurp him up between your lips.
The noise that comes out of his chest is broken, knocked loose, split down the middle. You take him all in one, down until your nose is tickled by his coarse hairs, and you swallow. He is immediately, instantly, rock hard and dribbling. You swallow again and his hands dive into your hair, knotting the strands around his fingers, the way a rider draws up the reins of his horse. He goads you down with just gentle pressure, needy and demanding all at once, and you take him, and you take him, and you take him until the blunt head prods the back of your throat and you gag, throat constricting, and Dieter’s eyes roll back in his head.
“Shit, that’s too fucking good.”
You breathe out your nose, pulling up just enough to keep him off your reflex, but instead you hollow out your cheeks and suck, tongue pressing up against him and around that hammering vein.
And here, here comes the sound you’ve wanted from him all night –
Dieter whines, high and keening, his neck straining, your skull pinching from where he pulls. Between your thighs, the emerald green is completely ruined, buffed out dark in the wet.
The vein throbs again and you nearly drop onto your elbows, not caring if you choke or drown or sputter, you want him in your mouth, you want that salty, gooey taste of him that you find you can’t seem to lick up enough. You want him inside you –
With a grunt that morphs into a groan as it rises up his chest, he tugs hard enough on your hair that the pain splits your mouth open, head tugged back enough that he slips out of you, a thread of pre-cum from your puffy lips to the tip of his blunt head.
You lied. This wasn’t entirely for him.
You can feel your lips twist into a snarl. “Dieter, what are you –,”
He kisses you with such a force, that noise in his chest is transferred to yours, a collision that sparks a causal nexus and his own desperation bleeds with your own. The kiss is messy, dizzying, spit and pre-cum smearing across swollen lips and wet tongues. He twists his fingers deeper into your hair, as if he can consume you through the bowl of your skull.
Your name is something that tumbles, falls, drips from him, his mouth tilted a fraction of an inch away from yours. Eyes dark, full, a beast that howls for the moon in your eyes.
He’s going to fuck your brains out on the floor of this rickety-ass trailer.
Dieter tugs you forward, drags you onto your knees over him as he settles beneath you. Your fingers knock with his in a fight to reach your panties first, to shove them down your hips and thighs, get them to the floor.
Dieter’s flushed, pupils dark, big hands grappling against the weight of you as he pulls you onto him. You are so aroused, so sunken into the smoke of lust, you go as you are moved, his cock smearing apart your wet pussy. Dieter sits up, eyes locking onto where you’ve nearly become a single creature, and then he hesitates.
Sanity seems to ring his bell, for just a moment. Without waiting, he sucks two fingers into his mouth, coating them with his spit, and you can see what he’s about to do just before he moves. You shake your head, knees aching from carrying your weight against the flat trailer floor, and sit up off him, your fingers digging into his shoulders.
“Don’t need it,” you mutter before licking into his mouth. He drops his head back to let you sink your tongue between his lips. Both hands wrapped around his jaw, you thumb his earring and he grunts out the side of his mouth. “I want –,”
His big hands settle and it’s like he dropped a thousand pound weight between your ribs. You drop, right onto him, his cock forcibly shoving you apart in a single thrust. Dieter barks out a moan, his hands clutching your spine, teeth going for your shoulder to muffle anything else that threatens to escape him.
You swear your nerves are on fire.
He always takes his time with you, for your benefit, and his. He can be maddening and incessant and demanding, right up until this part, the part where he could actually hurt you. Right then, he waits. Lets you come to him. Let you take as much as you want and he holds you tight.
But this, this is you taking all you want and then some.
In the split second you allow for your bodies to recognize the give and the take, the swell and the invasion, you meet his gaze.
No roles. No games. No landmines.
Exposure.
Blistering and brittle.
Safety.
You curl your toes underneath you, grip his shoulders, and slide up on an inhale. On an exhale, you thrust down and you don’t know who cries out louder.
Dieter pulls you to him, arm banded around your back, the other to balance as he leans back to meet your downward strokes with his upward thrusts. His fingers pinch the clasp of your bra and the straps slide off your shoulders, your frantic bouncing knocking those emerald cups loose.
“Oh, yeah, oh fuck yeah.” He mouths at your collarbone, tonguing the sweat that blooms across your skin. Your short huffs have your chest trembling, a shudder disrupting your breath when he uses the blunt edge of his teeth against the soft curve of your breast. His nose against your skin, he turns his head and licks your nipple into his mouth. He sucks, licks, your rapid rise and fall catching your sensitive peak against the tops and bottoms of his teeth. He uses the barest hint of pressure and your back arches. He sucks your other nipple into his mouth, repeating that same pattern with his tongue, while his fingers flick your hardened bud.
You think you’re going to melt, fracture and ooze into this hot pool of pleasure that hums between your legs.
“Fuck, Dieter,” your own voice is unrecognizable, breathy and high, cut short every time his hips meet yours in a harsh slap, “I can’t –,”
He rubs up against something truly devastating inside of you and immediately your legs give out. You topple into him, arms around his neck, nose pressed up against his jaw. You feel his overheated skin, a balm, a solidifying force, against your cheek. The whirling inferno in your head soothes. A drop of sweat from his hairline trails down by your eye and you lick it.
“Make me come, Dieter,” you whisper for him, of him, beg in a way that only he can hear. You nuzzle his earring and he keens. “Please – I need it – n-n-need you.”
Open-mouthed, breath hot, flush down to his chest, he slithers the hand against your back between your warm bodies and finds your clit. Drags his thumb across it as his hips pound up into you – you can’t hear what he says in your ear, the edge you’re dangling over loud and pulsing – and then there’s a softness against your throat.
The white spark between your thighs erupts and you come so hard you scream. A release. Controlled and contained brightness now spilling out everywhere, you can feel it as you soak his lap. It drips and winds down, and it drunkenly slides off you. Finally, you curl into him, a muddled tingle radiating out across your nerves.
You sink into your skin again and hear him, still whispering, still talking.
“You’re so fucking beautiful when you come it’s okay baby I’ve got you I’ve got you I’m here – I’m gonna – g-gonna – oh, shit,”
His hips thrust up one more time before a full body shudder yanks his words and the air right out of his mouth. You melt as his cum floods your insides, the warm pulses intoxicating in the place he so forcefully claimed for his own. His shoulders curved towards you, his hand pinches the knot of your spine as if to steady himself, palm scalding against your skin. In your exhaustion, your sweaty forehead falls against his.
He doesn’t seem to mind.
Seconds mold into minutes, minutes into maybe hours then days.
Dieter’s trembling elbow finally weakens and with his arm around your back, he tips you both backwards.
His cock rubs up inside of you in a new way and your cunt clenches involuntarily. You both groan when his cum leaks out of you, squeezed out by the contraction. You shift your hips to lay fully on him, and his cock slides out, but his arm around you remains.
It remains long after your breathing settles, long after the sweat dries and your exposed skin grows cold. The longer you lay together, the more you feel he’s going to start stroking you, touching you in a way that a fuck buddy shouldn’t. But he doesn’t. He keeps you close but doesn’t move.
The feeling, the ache in your chest. It’s soothed and hastened by the beating of his heart beneath yours, your ear lying flat against his chest. It beats so loudly for you.
For some unfathomable reason, you glance up at the window. It’s dark out, the sun set and gone. For all you know, you two might be the only two people on the entire lot.
“Dieter.” His name sticks in your mouth. “Dieter, I –,”
“Five stars?”
You blink, lifting your head for the first time in ages, sweat on his skin almost suctioning your ear to his chest. He’s grinning, curls matted and damp against his forehead.
He reaches up to the table behind him and snags that stupid bingo card, along with that packet of shiny gold star stickers.
This feeling, you can contain it.
For now.
Smirking down at him, you peel off one of the bigger stars and with your thumb, you press it into the center of his forehead.
“Five stars, Dieter. Five star dick.”
His smile widens.
#dieter bravo#dieter bravo x f!reader#dieter bravo x reader#dieter bravo x you#dieter bravo fanfiction#pedro pascal fanfiction#pedro pascal characters#the bubble fanfic#the bubble 2016#the bubble fic#the bubble fanfiction#pedro pascal#dieter bravo fic#dieter bravo x female reader#dieter bravo x oc#pedro pascal character#pedro pascal character fanfic#the bubble
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On Being a Published Writer: Without a Degree
This is a bit of a vulnerable share today, and I am writing it after a sleepless night, the monster of anxiety and shame weighing heavily on my chest. However, I have come far in life and undergone an incredible amount of healing, and refuse to be ashamed of my past. I hope sharing this can help even one person like me remember that when it comes to craft, when it comes to art, the only thing stopping you from being worthy is you.
This year, I became a published writer. After years of hard work and dedication to my craft, I finally felt good enough to begin submitting my work to literary magazines. I'm proud of that accomplishment. It's a little tag I get to add to my bio now as I submit work that helps make me feel *valid.* But that quickly, all it takes is for someone to remind me that I did not have access to a degree, that I did not learn from the best, and I will spend the rest of my life without a formal education behind my writing, and they achieve the goal they set out: to make me feel less than for not having their background.
In America, the education system is for profit and public school system inconsistent. There are many factors that can contribute to whether or not a person gets through it successfully, and it often has little to do with intelligence, work ethic, or strength of character and drive before the age of 18.
So here is my story:
I graduated high school with a 2.1 GPA.
My first hospitalization (out of the 17 I would have in my life) for edometriomas happened at age 15. I spent the majority of high school struggling with chronic pain, stage four endometriosis and the accompanying endometriomas cysts, and illness. By age 16, social services was threatened by my school to be called on my home for suspected neglect and abuse. I moved out of my house that year, and was given temporary guardianship by a friends family.
By the end of my senior year, I continued to bounce around between friends houses, sometimes sleeping in my car, and struggled to keep on top of my coursework. I was enrolled in the work study program designed for students who had to keep a job during their high school years, and earned school credits for staying employed.
Despite all of this, I still maintained high grades in Advance Placement literature and language, proceeded to get 5's on my AP tests (a perfect score, and a rare accomplishment) as well as near perfect scores on my ACT's. I spent every spare second reading and writing from the moment I learned how. My intelligence and comprehension were not the issue. My health and my home life were.
The only reason I got into college at all was because I decided to audition for a school play freshman year. Much to my surprise, I was cast in the lead role, and thus the course of my life was set. I poured everything I had into acting, I finally had a purpose and something to keep me out of having to go home after school. Still, applying for colleges was one of the most stressful and shame inducing experiences of my life. I got into many top performance programs in the country, then would not get into the university itself with my GPA. The conservatories that did not look into school performance did not provide the financial assistance required for me to attend.
There was one university that offered limited talent admissions that would allow the university admission requirements to be overlooked for students that had displayed exceptional talent in their specialized field of study. I had to put together a request for the school board, complete with letters from my high school teachers providing context for my low GPA paired with high test scores, character assessments on my likely ability to maintain the minimum required GPA in college, as well as a letter from the head of the performing arts department of the university stating that I was worthy of this talent exception. The wait was unbearable. But I was accepted. And I was approved for the work study program that allowed me to gain employment at the university to help offset the cost.
I felt like my whole life had changed in college. I had gotten in. I had gotten out. I was a new person, no one knowing about my past or the stain of my struggles. I had a fresh start. While I continued to battle my illness throughout college, it was manageable with a consistent bed to sleep in every night, as well as access to physical and mental health services. And although I tested out of being required to take any English classes with AP, I still filled my elective credits with writing classes. Screenwriting, playwriting, poetry, creative writing. Performing became my work, and writing became my joy. I took every class that sounded remotely interesting, often filling my schedule more than required on top of my work and performance load.
I am withholding some of the more personal details of my life, but when I finally moved out to LA, I hit the ground running. I accomplished more in a few years than fellow artists and performers who had been out there for more than a decade. And I valued every person I met. I was in small, independent theatre shows with Juliard grads. I was on professional sets with wildly naturally talented people working to get their GED with no formal education but that undeniable *it* factor. People from all walks of life set out for the Angel City to make it, and I was one of them. I also began writing again, this time short films and audition monologues. I began writing pieces for friends and classmates at their request. I secured my first talent agent with a performance piece that I wrote, along with an offer to renegotiate my contract to include literary representation should I complete a script worth shopping. I began to organize applications for writing fellowships at top studios, when my condition became so severe the only option to move forward with my life was surgery. And then my life completely changed again.
I came out of that surgery with nerve damage that left me unable to walk for six months, as well as developed a new permanent nervous system disorder.
My career and my life never recovered. I was permanently changed. However, during that time, I turned one of my sci-fi short films I had written into a 160k word novel, with outlines for a trilogy. While it was one of the darkest times of my life, writing got me through it. I moved out of Los Angeles to a more affordable city and threw myself into writing. I learned that ivy league schools like Stanford, Harvard, and Yale shared their syllabi for continued study coursework online, including the required textbooks for the courses. Example here. I took myself through the textbooks and coursework of top schools, I took every local workshop possible when it was in budget. Any education on craft that was within my means, I reached for.
I will never be able to change the course of my life. I will likely never be able to go back to school. However, this amazing video by Bandon Sanderson helped me overcome my shame, my lack of access to returning to higher education when my life and career were irrevocably changed: Be Anything But an English Major
I had already done what he had encouraged, pick a subject I was passionate about, fill my college coursework with things I found interesting, and let it inform my writing. While this is not to disrespect or degrade English majors or say successful authors think the degree is worthless, I am simply sharing to say this video helped ME combat against English majors who made me feel worthless for not having access to their diploma.
So to anyone feeling insecure today, you do not need a degree in the arts. Whether you want to be an author, an actor, a painter, a fashion designer, a poet. And I say this as someone whose greatest privilege and joy in life was getting a performing arts degree.
We must continue to prioritize art being accessible, value diverse backgrounds, and wish for it to be open and available to all. We must continue to treat art as subjective, and reject ideals that learning from a certain set of paid individuals makes all other opinions, choices, or ideas invalid.
There is no dollar amount I could give to a piece of paper that would make my mind, my intelligence, and my ability to organize and understand words in an impactful way that would make me more valid than I am today. There is no degree that could replace my work ethic, my empathy, my desire to write stories to do good. To give something to the world and help people survive in the ways that I had needed to survive.
Maybe I'll tell this story again one day, and it will help another young person with my background believe there may be more in life than the cards they were dealt. Maybe this will be the first and last time sharing these words. Maybe I'll never get another piece published, but will continue to write fanfic and poetry and prose pieces to share on the internet for free because I believe in my heart it is valuable. To look at myself, and my work, and deem myself worthy of my efforts and passion.
I am proud to be a member of the community of published writers without a degree.
I am even more proud to be a member of online fandoms full of writers, artists, creators, contributors and more who give their free time and energy towards something that does nothing more than make others happy.
So,
to the people who look at the stars and wish.
to the stars who listen— and the dreams that are answered,
this one is for you.
#elriel fic writers#fic writing#writers on tumblr#a03 fanfic#a03 writer#elriel fic#writing#aspiring writer
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https://theknowledgereview.in/the-most-excellent-institute-to-study-psychology-and-commerce-2024-january2024/
The Most Excellent Institute to Study Psychology and Commerce
This edition features a handful of business The Most Excellent Institute to Study Psychology and Commerce that are at the forefront of leading us into a digital future
#Educational Magazine in India#Education Leaders in India#Best Educational Magazine in India#Top Education Magazine
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Rejection Is Just Redirection
Luke Hughes x reader
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Listen, you didn’t really need college. You broke into the entertainment industry at 16, so college was just a plan b you put on the back burner. Being one of the most famous names and faces in the entire world, you easily had enough money to afford college, so why not give it a shot? After all, your boyfriend went to college, though he did kind of drop out to play hockey.
Once you made up your mind that you’d be going back to school, your next step what choosing your major and what schools to apply to. You write songs and sometimes write poems and books, so maybe English or journalism? Maybe Communications would help you answer some of the dodgy questions the paparazzi ask you. Heck, even political science or economics or business would be a good idea. They would allow you to make a difference in the world. Business sounds like a safe choice. You could do a lot with a business degree. Now to apply to schools.
So here’s the thing, you’re finally in a real relationship that you really don’t want to mess up. Staying in LA would allow you to go to school and continue working, so you could still be in the limelight when you want to be. USC and UCLA would be great choices for that and they’re extremely accredited schools. However, maybe Rutgers is the school you should choose, since it’s close to Luke. NYU might even be an interesting choice since it wouldn’t raise too many questions if you’re going to school in the city because you want to or if it’s because you want to be closer to your boyfriend. It has always been your dream school when you were a kid. Well, it’s decided then!
You honestly weren’t expecting the application and admissions process to be so complicated and grueling. It’s like the education system is trying to torture kids to see who would come out on top as the victor. College really is like the Hunger Games, isn’t it? You hadn’t the slightest idea of how to fill out your major requirement classes or send your high school transcript to the admissions office and your essays were mid at best. You’re a celebrity, it’s not like you needed to try all that hard to graduate high school since you did homeschooling since you were 16. Though, you gotta admit that the feeling of finally being done with the application process was a relief. It’s just a waiting game now for admissions decisions.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“T-minus 2 hours until decisions come out. You nervous?” Luke asked as you guys were laying on the couch before he had to go to practice.
“A little, but it’s not the end of the world if I don’t get in. I mean, i’ve already got my career, so why would I worry about getting in so that I could work more to get a degree that would allow me to work even more? Why did i do this again?” you questioned back, joking with him. “If I don’t get in, I’ll just grab my bag and go back to LA and star in the highest grossing movie of the decade… again”
Luke laughed at your comment, despite hearing the quiet hesitation in your voice. He didn’t realize how much you actually wanted to get in. He didn’t know how much you wanted to prove that you’re more than just some face in gossip magazines or the most talked about name in the headlines. You wanted to be seen and treated like a person, someone who people respected because you worked just as hard as they did to get to the same place as them. You always advocated for equality for everyone and yet people always worshipped you and put you on a pedestal.
“Would that be such a bad thing?” he countered.
“I’m not sure yet. Part of me regrets applying, because I don’t want to get in for nepotism or for being famous, but I also want to get in, because I want to make everyone proud of me.” You replied.
It broke Luke’s heart a little to hear you talk about this in the way you are, because how could anyone not be proud of you and what you accomplished at such a young age? You had 6 Oscars, 4 Emmys, the most nominations at the Grammy’s this year, and you were named the most powerful person of the year by Time Magazine, Forbes Magazine, AND Vogue. You were a sensation that was still only just beginning. You had the entire world eating in the lam of your hand.
“Well, no matter what happens, I’m proud of you for trying. You don’t need college, but I applaud your efforts anyway. You could honestly be anything you want, be anyone you want, all you have to do is try and not everyone can do that.” He said, and his heart absolutely MELTED at the tiny smile you tried to hide by hiding your face further in his chest.
He heard you mumble the most adorable, embarrassed “Thanks” from his chest and he couldn’t help but giggle.
“Let’s not think about it for a while, please?” you asked, politely.
“Ok. We can just rewatch the movie where you play a real life version of one of the most famous dolls in the world.” He says, purposefully teasing you!!
“Oh God.” You laughed out.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You held your breath as you opened the email concealing your admissions decisions. It felt as if the world was telling everyone to be quiet and listen.
“I got it.” You whispered as quietly as possible.
“You got in?!” Luke shouted, jumping nearly 7 feet high as he got up to look at you.
“No. I got the email that says if I got in or not.” You answered.
“Oh. Sorry for freaking out.” He looks away, slightly embarrassed. You give him a small look and smile full of adoration before turning back to your phone.
“Here goes nothing.” You say as you click on the email. “What? I don’t get it? Oh! I have to log into the admissions portal in order to see the decision.”
You click on the portal login link and enter your login id username and password, fingers slightly trembling with anticipation. Hesitantly, you click on the link that states “An update has been made about your decision.”
Taking a deep breath, you read a letter that says:
“Dear Y/n, Thank you for applying to New York University. We are humbled by the overwhelming interest in attending NYU and the outstanding quality of the applications we received this year. After careful consideration and thorough examination, it is with regret we must inform you were are unable to offer you admission for the Fall 2024 semester.”
“I didn’t get in.” You confessed barely loud enough for a mouse to hear.
Instantly, Luke had his arms around your shoulders and pulled you into his chest, fiercely protective. You were so disappointed that you weren’t even crying, almost as if you were expecting to be rejected.
“Whatever. Fuck them anyway. They didn’t deserve you to begin with. You belong somewhere like UMich or in an Ivy League school. You’re too good for them.” He tries to reassure you. “Look at it this way, you can continue doing what you love most and stay here with me. In the end, you learned something.”
“And what’s that?” you questioned him.
“Rejection is just redirection, that’s all. College wasn’t in the cards for you and life thinks you’re better off in the spotlight, making more money in a single year than those lousy admissions officers make in their entire lives. You were meant to be somebody great. You ARE somebody great and you’re becoming somebody even more perfect than I ever thought possible.”
His words struck a chord in your heart so deeply that you couldn’t help but hold on to him for dear life. You felt your eyes begin to prick with tears. As the first one fell out of your right eye, you knew automatically that they were tears of joy. Your heart swelled with pride and love for Luke as you laughed into his chest.
“Yeah. Fuck them. I don’t need them. I’m a star! You’re all I need.” You teased back. Deep down, you were incredibly disappointed, but Luke’s words of affirmation and love meant more to you than the rejection letter did. Nothing could beat that.
“That’s right, baby.” He laughed as he tighten his grip over you. He gently kissed the top of your head and repeated quiet “I love you’s” for at least 10 minutes.
“What time is it?” You asked.
“It’s…5:30.” He responded gently leaning over to turn on his phone to check. “Oh Shit! I’m gonna be late!”
“Go! Go! Go!” You laughed at him.
God, this boy. You thought, shaking your head. That’s MY boy.
#mine#x male reader#x reader#x gn!reader#x gn reader#x gender neutral reader#gender neutral reader#hockey gender neutral#hockey x male reader#hockey x reader#nhl fic#nhl x male reader#nhl imagine#nhl players#nhl hockey#nhl#luke hughes x reader#luke hughes x male reader#luke hughes#male readers exist too#x male reader imagine#male reader imagine#gender neutral y/n#male reader
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Splatband Analysis: Ink Theory
(Disclaimer: This analysis in based on what I get out of looking into the character descriptions we have of the splatband characters. If you disagree with what I say, that is fine, we are all beheld to our opinions. Just don’t be a jerk about it.)
Edit: Put a Read More on this cuz now I realize this is long.
I’m gonna start this series with Ink Theory. You might have expected this to go in chronological order and have started with Squid Squad, but I have a good explanation for that. None of the other bands are Ink Theory. Plus this band has at least three pieces of artwork to them (and Yoko has an additional one thanks to Yoko and the Gold Bazookas, that’s how you know she’s special. Kitamura as well, but we’ll get into that later), so I feel there’s more to work with.
So, let’s start off with a band wide reading, since I feel they warrant it.
To start with, here’s the main thing we know about the girls, their knowledge of academic music theory and classical training. They’ve all been practicing since youth, making music a big part of their life, and studied music theory. However, of the six, Mayaya, Bibi and Karen are the ones noted to have graduated from music academies, while Yoko, Kitamura and Oonie are left unmentioned of their education. While it could be the writers simply didn’t want to repeat themselves too much, it’s just as likely that Yoko, Kitamura and Oonie went to less notable institutions like regular colleges that didn’t warrant mentioning. Just a thought.
The second thing to note is their rivalry with Bottom Feeders. While most of what we know comes from the Bottom Feeders side of the rivalry, which is appropriate considering their more volatile, chaotic personalities, the Haikara Walker magazine does mention the two bands got into a music battle during a concert in ZAPP square, fueled by their rivalry into an epic performance. So while it is clear Bottom Feeders started it, it’s also clear that Ink Theory reciprocates the rivalry, or at the very least indulge it for their own reasons.
With that out of the way, let’s focus on our ladies, starting with best girl:
Yoko
The first and foremost thing we know of her is her mutation and her unknown illness. Her hair is multicolored due to a mutation that is only aesthetically pleasing and not useful otherwise. Considering that her hair turns gray as it reaches the top of her head, and even her eyebrows appear to be gray, it’s safe to say it involves her ink color not being able to properly change. As well, she has a weakness to atmospheric pressure that essentially makes her always miserable. Despite that, her determination and hard work is highlighted as a strong suit of hers, being the frontwoman of the band and absolutely slaying on the trumpet. She’s someone who works through everything, regardless of her obstacles.
On the other hand, she’s described as being insecure about being overshadowed by her own bandmantes’ personalities (you should read how they describe her on Inkipedia, it’s just rude). It’s safe to say that at least three of her bandmates being well regarded academy graduates might have something to do with it. It’s probably why she gets nervous before large performances too. She feels she needs to work hard to keep up with the others and gets nervous because of it. It makes sense why she went off to “reinvent” herself in Splatsville according to Splatoon Base. Speaking of Splatoon Base, it mentions she comes from a conservatory background. Looking it up, the meaning I get out of it is that she studied at a smaller university where the focus was on the practical basics of performing, with less focus on the academic side (If I’m wrong, please tell.)
On the more minor stuff, she clearly likes the design of her hat. Like, it sounds like a stretch, but when you own three hats that share the same design element (the horns), then there’s probably something going on. Three makes a pattern after all, or however it goes. Also, in the Valentine’s day artwork, while everyone except Oonie and Mayaya has ice cream, she has fries and a drink. She’s probably not a fan of sweets.
I forgot to mention in the Valentine's Day artwork that Yoko wears a hat (shocker). But on that hat is text that, oddly enough, is not in the Splatoon font, but in perfectly legible Japanese. 可憐, which translates to “pretty”... and is pronounced “Karen”. Seriously, find one of those translators that speaks out the word, that’s what it says. Now, what this means is entirely unknown. The most obvious of course is that the artist is a Yoko x Karen shipper (how romantic to wear your girlfriend's name on a hat), and deliberately left the word as is to fuel the flames of shippers everywhere. Or we are all just insane and it means nothing. I know it keeps me up at night thinking about it.
Karen
The only based Karen in existence. She’s one of Ink Theory’s big name graduates, having been top of her class in her university, and even having gone on several competitions overseas. She went around the same time as Taka, who was her senior and is the main inspiration for the formation of Ink Theory. She’s clearly the main Eralien of the band, though the rest of the band doesn’t seem to mind having to wear uniforms inspired by Hightide Era.
She’s mentioned to be nervous about her popularity in Ink Theory, despite looking self-assured otherwise. Considering she’s been in several competitions and has won a ton of awards, it’s a safe bet to say she’s not used to the lack of attention she’s getting as part of the band. Not that she seems to want to bother the others with it. She provides emotional support to the team (Yoko lucked out on that), so she doesn’t really intend to feel that way. Trying to be humble but failing internally or something along those lines.
Bibi
Bibi’s another academy graduate in the band, and plays the kazoo because apparently she’s so good she can just do that (and it works). Much attention is put on the fact she’s essentially “The Face” of the band. She’s closer to the public, the fans adore her enough to pull her in front of the camera, and they even call her Queen Bibi. Clearly someone who’s aware of her popularity and relishes in it (Yoko and Karen are in the corner right now, just pointing that out). She’s also implied to be from a wealthy background, as she’s a large spender who’s never much struggled financially.
It’s never actually explained why she chose the kazoo over any other instrument for the band. Maybe she wants to show off a goofier side? Or maybe just regular show off? Food for thought.
Oonie
Now we return to one of the none-famous academy graduates. Oonie is stated to have parents who are famous musicians, possibly the classical kind, and who were strict with her upbringing. As a result she favored music genres of a different style before she eventually started appreciating classical again. Classic rebellious teenager case here, observing other genres as a form of rebellion and who only started appreciating classical music under her own terms. Her new outfit in Splatoon 3 outright supports it. Someone managed to find a pinterest picture a while back of someone in the exact same fit as her, it’s called Harajuku. Look up the word to learn more.
She’s also described as romantically inexperienced, and with a habit of falling for self-degrading people. She must be hunting for a relationship but keeps ending up with the self-deprecating type. I kinda have a theory on that, but I’ll save it for a headcanon post. And the final thing is the observation in the valentine’s day image that she’s ridiculously indecisive. She’s still staring at the menu after everyone else already has their orders. Also, she’s a Squid Squad fan, she’s got a charm of them on her bass case. Cute.
Kitamura
Kitamura has the shortest description, but I feel it tells plenty. Another not famous academy graduate, instead she’s highlighted as the mascot of the band. Everyone seems to know she’s cute and she’s fine taking advantage of that it seems. She’s mentioned to have a high singing voice, so she must sing, either casually or as part of the band and we just got unlucky in not getting any vocal music. Bummer.
She’s stated to live on her own, but following a curfew. Outside of implying she’s independent and diligent, adulting on her own and following her own strict rules, it also implies that the rest of the band lives with other people. Possibly with families or other friends they have. She’s also a trend chaser, following whatever new fads she hears about. She does seem to have some set in stone tastes though. If we can believe the urchin in that one Octo Expansion chat image is her (the one about Pearl’s early metal days, there’s an urchin wearing bows on their hair. If so, that gives her artwork number 5), then she’s got a taste for punk/metal stuff. Her new outfit in Splatoon 3 supports that, being a flowery white shawl worn over a dress studded with spikes around the base. I love that fit so much.
And for her place in the Valentine’s day image, she’s about to eat an ice cream sundae the size of her own head. And Yoko’s looking at her with what I assume is concern. Small people eating big food is a trope you never get tired of.
Mayaya
The final big name graduate of the band. Well, just graduate, as unlike Karen and Bibi, they just say “musical academy” without the famous adjective. Maybe they left it out? Anyway, she at least impressed her professor enough that they recommended she start teaching music immediately after graduating. She likely showcased that potential in a way, maybe as a tutor for other students, and she also had a close enough relationship with said professor to willingly listen to that recommendation. As is clear with Ink Theory, she chose instead to go out and make her own music first, to develop her skills before she decides when she wants to become an instructor.
She’s a freelance percussionist. Ink Theory seems to be her main band, but she also performs with other ones. Like she said, she’s focusing on creating her own music first, so freelancing is a nice avenue in getting tons of experience in other genres.
---
The first band is done. seven to go. Give me your thoughts if you have them, and criticisms too. Discussions are good for getting multiple perspectives after all. Especially if you all know something I don't.
#splatoon#splatbands#ink theory#yoko#karen#bibi#oonie#kitamura#mayaya#splatband analysis#my work#in case you're wondering' I just really like Oonie's name over Aachin
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Ignite curiosity and foster learning with our educational magazines for high school students. Packed with captivating articles, interactive features, and thought-provoking content, each issue provides a wealth of knowledge to inspire young minds on their academic journey.
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(I wanted to apologize for my lack of activity on this page. I had so many plans for posts I wanted to make for Ramadan, but this past month has been so horribly stressful. Whenever I have time free from schoolwork I'm so incredibly burnt out I lack the motivation to post. Now there's barely any time left before Ramadan is over, even though there were other posts I wanted to make. I'll probably still make them in the future, though, and highlight Islamic culture through dolls however and whenever I can!)
With that said, I'd like to introduce you to the most recently-released Muslim doll, Umm Amirah!
As far as I can tell, Umm Amirah was released in February of 2023 by the company Allova, a family-owned company based in the UK.
While the name "Umm" literally translates to "Mother" or "Mother of", it can also be used as an additive prefix for whatever trait follows. "Amirah", meanwhile, means "Princess", so (as far as I can tell) her name roughly means "she who is like a princess".
And that name certainly fits! While her outfit is relatively simple (which makes sense, since her primary demographic is those aged 3-7), the sparkling tulle outer skirt shows that subtle princess-y influence!
The doll comes in pink and purple outfit variants, and comes with a prayer mat, a pink bag to carry it, and a pink hairbrush. She has fair skin, blue eyes, dark or blonde hair beneath her hijab, and 11 points of articulation! Umm Amirah's is meant to be a cultural education tool, and introduce the practice of Salah to children.
As I mentioned in a previous post regarding the Morning (Fajr) and Evening Prayers (Isha), Salah is the daily process of giving prayer to Allah. It is the second pillar of Islam, and must be done facing Mecca.
A couple of months ago in February 2024, Allova also released this Princess Fashion Set. While it's not an official Umm Amirah fashion pack, I still feel like it could somewhat be classified as such with its name and their doll used for modelling.
The pack comes with 6 dresses: pale pink with dotted skirt; pink with puffed sleeves and ruffle skirt; blue with silver detailing, top, and belt; a blue summer dress with white and yellow pattern; purple; and black and white with white flower buttons and a polka-dot skirt. It also comes with four headscarves in blue, lilac, black, and gold, 3 handbags (tan, white, and pink) , and 3 pairs of shoes (black, silver, and fuschia(?))
I obviously cant post for each outfit combination, but I would definitely say that the blue summer dress is my least favorite of those available. The material looks the cheapest out of those in the pack, its design is comparatively simple, and the pattern is sorta tacky. I feel like the central concept could've been executed better.
My favorite looks, though, would have to be:
The full black and white look sorta gives me girlboss vibes, like something she could wear at her desk writing articles or modeling for the cover of a magazine! The blue dress, meanwhile, is sooooo elegant, like she's going to a fancy party in the evening! My absolute favorite though would have to be the gold hijab with the pink frilly dress, which takes the "princess" part of Umm Amirah to a whole new level!
In spite of my thoughts on the summer dress of the pack, I'm in love with this doll and its outfits as a whole! It's been fun putting out this post I'd been meaning to make for a while. A lot of the Muslim dolls I've found, while impressive, unfortunately don't seem to be in production much in the current year, so it's nice to see there's still options available! If you're still looking for a potential Eid gift, I'd highly recommend getting her from Allova's website!
Ramadan Kareem!
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definitely a longer piece so these excerpts are far from showcasing everything this piece has to offer! read the whole thing on your own time, and in general, just check out jewish currents, an educational, leftist, anti-zionist jewish magazine!
Every August, the township of Edison, New Jersey—where one in five residents is of Indian origin—holds a parade to celebrate India’s Independence Day. In 2022, a long line of floats rolled through the streets, decked out in images of Hindu deities and colorful advertisements for local businesses. People cheered from the sidelines or joined the cavalcade, dancing to pulsing Bollywood music. In the middle of the procession came another kind of vehicle: A wheel loader, which looks like a small bulldozer, rumbled along the route bearing an image of Indian Prime Minister Narendra Modi aloft in its bucket.
For South Asian Muslims, the meaning of the addition was hard to miss. A few months earlier, during the month of Ramadan, Indian government officials had sent bulldozers into Delhi’s Muslim neighborhoods, where they damaged a mosque and leveled homes and storefronts. The Washington Post called the bulldozer “a polarizing symbol of state power under Narendra Modi,” whose ruling Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) is increasingly enacting a program of Hindu supremacy and Muslim subjugation. In the weeks after the parade, one Muslim resident of Edison, who is of Indian origin, told The New York Times that he understood the bulldozer much as Jews would a swastika or Black Americans would a Klansman’s hood. Its inclusion underscored the parade’s other nods to the ideology known as Hindutva, which seeks to transform India into an ethnonationalist Hindu state. The event’s grand marshal was the BJP’s national spokesperson, Sambit Patra, who flew in from India. Other invitees were affiliated with the Hindu Swayamsevak Sangh (HSS), the international arm of the Hindu nationalist paramilitary force Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (RSS), of which Modi is a longtime member.
...
On December 6th, 1992, a mob of 150,000 Hindus, many of whom were affiliated with the paramilitary group the RSS, gathered at the Babri Masjid, a centuries-old mosque that is one of the most contested sacred sites in the world. Over the preceding century, far-right Hindus had claimed that the mosque, located in the North Indian city of Ayodhya, was built not only upon the site where the Hindu deity Ram was born but atop the foundations of a demolished Hindu temple. The RSS and its affiliates had been campaigning to, in the words of a BJP minister, correct the “historical mistake” of the mosque’s existence, a task the mob completed that December afternoon. “They climbed on top of the domes and tombs,” one witness told NPR. “They were carrying hammers and these three-pronged spears from Hindu scripture. They started hacking at the mosque. By night, it was destroyed.” The demolition sparked riots that lasted months and killed an estimated 2,000 people across the country.
The destruction of the Babri Masjid was arguably Hindu nationalism’s greatest triumph to date. Since its establishment in 1925, the RSS—whose founders sought what one of them called a “military regeneration of the Hindus,” inspired by Mussolini’s Black Shirts and Nazi “race pride”—had been a marginal presence in India: Its members held no elected office, and it was temporarily designated a terrorist organization after one of its affiliates shot and killed Mohandas Gandhi in 1948. But the leveling of the Babri Masjid activated a virulently ethnonationalist base and paved the way for three decades of Hindutva ascendance. In 1998, the BJP formed a government for the first time; in 2014, it returned to power, winning a staggering 282 out of 543 seats in parliament and propelling Modi into India’s highest office. Since then, journalist Samanth Subramanian notes, all of the country’s governmental and civil society institutions “have been pressured to fall in line” with a Hindutva agenda—a phenomenon on full display in 2019, when the Supreme Court of India awarded the land where the Babri Masjid once stood to a government run by the very Hindu nationalists who illegally destroyed it. (Modi has since laid a foundation stone for a new Ram temple in Ayodhya, an event that a prominent RSS activist celebrated with a billboard in Times Square.) The Ayodhya verdict came in the same year that Modi stripped constitutional protections from residents of the Muslim-majority region of Kashmir and passed a law that creates a fast track to citizenship for non-Muslim immigrants, laying the groundwork for a religious test for Indian nationality. Under Modi, “the Hinduization of India is almost complete,” as journalist Yasmeen Serhan has written in The Atlantic.
To achieve its goals, the RSS has worked via a dense network of organizations that call themselves the “Sangh Parivar” (“joint family”) of Hindu nationalism. The BJP, which holds more seats in the Indian parliament than every other party combined, is the Sangh’s electoral face. The Vishwa Hindu Parishad (VHP) is the movement’s cultural wing, responsible for “Hinduizing” Indian society at the grassroots level. The Bajrang Dal is the project’s militant arm, which enforces Hindu supremacy through violence. Dozens of other organizations contribute money and platforms to the Sangh. The sheer number of groups affords the Sangh what human rights activist Pranay Somayajula has referred to as a “tactical politics of plausible deniability,” in which the many degrees of separation between the governing elements and their vigilante partners shields the former from backlash. This explains how, until 2018, the CIA could describe the VHP and Bajrang Dal as “militant religious organizations”—a designation that applies to non-electoral groups exerting political pressure—even as successive US governments have maintained a warm relationship with their parliamentary counterpart, the BJP.
...
The most extreme figures in the Hindu nationalist and Zionist movements were especially frank about the nature of their partnership: “Whether you call them Palestinians, Afghans, or Pakistanis, the root of the problem for Hindus and Jews is Islam,” Bajrang Dal affiliate Rohit Vyasmaan told The New York Times of his friendly relationship with Mike Guzofsky, a member of a violent militant group connected to the infamous Jewish supremacist Meir Kahane’s Kach Party.
...
In 2003, Gary Ackerman—a Jewish former congressman who was awarded India’s third-highest civilian honor for helping to found the Congressional Caucus on India—told a gathering of AJC and AIPAC representatives and their Indian counterparts that “Israel [is] surrounded by 120 million Muslims,” while “India has 120 million [within].” Tom Lantos, another Jewish member of the caucus, likewise enjoined the two communities to collaborate: “We are drawn together by mindless, vicious, fanatic, Islamic terrorism.”
#reaux speaks#hindutva#nationalism#islam#religion#india#narendra modi#south asia#muslim#new jersey#Bharatiya Janata Party#history#resources#jewish currents#anti zionism#palestine#islamophobia#afghanistan#hindu#jewish#free palestine#israel
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Reasons to Make a Library Card
(A list written by someone who has worked at a public library in the states for a year now)
Books/Traditional Materials: As you've likely heard many times before, libraries are a great place to get free books (normal and large print), DVDs, CDs, magazines, and audiobooks
E-Library: With your library card, you will also be to access Ebooks on websites like Hoopla and Libby. Library streaming services like Kanopy will also allow you to watch movies and tv shows for free! On top of these websites, libraries pay for subscriptions to databases like Creativebug that have tutorials for learning new crafts
Programming: Making new friends can be difficult, and finding fun things to do is expensive! Libraries offer fun programs for people to do activities (like crafts, yoga, dancing, and book clubs) and meet new friends! Most programs are free, and many libraries don't require you to have a library card to participate. Have a program you'd like to do but don't see on the website calendar? Many libraries are happy to take suggestions!
Free Wifi: In addition to free wifi and computers offered in the building, the library where I work also offers mobile hotspots patrons can check out for free wifi on the go. These devices are quite popular, so you may need to wait on a list, but they are a great resource for people who otherwise may not have access to the internet
Other Resources: Passes to local museums, video games (my library has a switch game collection), educational materials for all ages, and more!
You making a library card and using these resources helps libraries stay open and get the funding they need! Please use libraries, they're there for you!
#I may come back to add more resources as I think of them#library#public libraries#librarian#libraries#librarians#books and libraries#cottagecore-raccoon
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