#A LONG TIME AWAY FROM THE BEST STUFF THE MEDIUM EVER PRODUCED

[ufonaut]

“Green Lantern! I-- I couldn’t have missed you!”

“What do you think?”

“I don’t see how--? I fired at point blank range! I must’ve hit you!”

“You’re missing now!”

Alan Scott in Green Lantern (1941) #37

(Robert Kanigher, Alex Toth)

[1kook]

kissanime & foreplay

this is part of my netflix & chill collection !

summary; You get a glimpse of the KissAnime screen for a good two seconds before about seven ads pop up. Another tab to a raunchy hentai website opens, and Jungkook groans. warnings; mentions of hentai yes u read right, kook leads most of it, cunnilingus, masturbation (f), oral (f), use of a sex toy, fingering, nipple play, face sitting/fucking/riding idk (f), praise kink, hints of dumbification, cum eating, jk is like passive aggressive in this one, 4 (f) orgasms, this is the kicker: sub kook at the end😳, like 2 sec of dom yn lol, & u get 0.002 sec of adams apple kink misc; more dumb story lines, made up sex stores bc my creativity knows no bounds, Jungkook plays nice but is actually mean for the majority of it, once again doyeon plays a pivotal role in the furthering of women empowerment, internal love monologues about jk best boy<3 wc; 8.2k

notes; back when kissanime was offed I remember looking at this fic in the drafts like what the hell we gone do now.. n almost deleting it but I was like yknow what this isn’t a 1kook fic unless there’s smthn weird going on so here we are. also yes I know ohshc is on Netflix shut up!!!!! 

HAPPY BDAY MY LOVE AND MUSE JEON JUNGKOOK !!!! 🥺💜

—

The good thing about getting your own apartment is that you finally have a place to call your own. There’s no limit on how many potted plants you can squeeze into a one bedroom, one bathroom apartment, and if there was one, you’re twelve in and no one has said anything to you yet. You don’t have to share the shower space with anyone, label all your products with a hastily scribbled name. There’s a bathtub—something you haven’t had the pleasure of using during college—and a fairly open living space. There’s so many empty spots to fill with useless decorations and family heirlooms and that ugly plastic rooster Jungkook won you at the summer kick-off fair last month.

The bad thing about having your own place is that the entire world and their mothers seem to know now. Despite graduating from college, you still keep in touch with your trusted graduate mentor Kim Namjoon, who is still very much in school, and has made it his mission to bring you a new plant every week, hence your growing collection. Your childhood friend comes over every Saturday morning to lounge around after her Friday nights out. Jungkook, although the only one who is ever actually invited, runs through your strawberry scented body wash like a madman.

And of course, Doyeon.

Your beloved college roommate of four years, Kim Doyeon, has been the bane of your apartment experience so far. Unlike you, who had slaved away for four years, saving every penny you made during college for this moment, Doyeon was a big spender. She blew every dollar she ever came across, which is why she’s going to be stuck living at her parent’s house for at least a couple more years.

Nothing wrong with that, of course, if she wasn’t the most maniac online shopper in existence. It hadn’t been a problem in college because she was always good old pals with the students who worked the mailroom. If they saw something questionable, they’d let it slide as long as it was under Miss Kim Doyeon, Room 229.

The reason it became an issue for her now is because it’s poor Mrs. Kim who signs over the package from Sexuality Unleashed: The Best Toys Worldwide! one Tuesday afternoon as it is delivered to their suburban home.

So now she’s taken to ordering all her freaky stuff to your new apartment, where the small cabinet by the door has quickly become home to her impulsive shopping habits. Truthfully, you don’t mind accepting Doyeon’s weird packages, and have long since grown used to the uncomfortable looks the mail carrier gives you.

Jungkook’s supposed to come over today and you really hope he doesn’t ask about the state of your hall cabinet. Now that you work at a small company outside of your degree to make ends meet, time with Jungkook has been significantly decreased. You weren’t in college anymore, so you didn’t have the luxury of dropping by his house whenever you wanted to in between classes. Of course, it’s mostly your schedule that conflicts with your planned hangouts, because Jungkook is still working his dream job from home.

However, because Jungkook is quite possibly the most amazing person on this planet, he’s started coming over every Saturday night to make sure you’re still alive and not dying. And so weekly media binges are a thing, and it’s currently week four.

He gave up on showing you the Marvel movie franchise last week, after you had asked where Wonder Woman was three times in a row. Since the Barbie Movie Debacle of last month, you’ve found a nice medium between who picks when. Jungkook picks most of the time, because most of the time you don’t really care. It’s become a running joke between the two of you that movie binges are usually just terribly masked excuses to go to town on each other, so you don’t mind missing an entire 15th Century French Revolution documentary if it means Jungkook is deep in your guts by the time King Louis XIV gets beheaded or whatever they did to him. Is it too obvious you didn’t watch the documentary?

Occasionally, there are instances where one of you genuinely does want to watch something, in which case you have an intense match of rock-paper-scissors to decide who’s picking that night. Most of the time, Jungkook wins. But for every match Jungkook wins, he promises you’ll pick the next one so you’ve long since stopped trying to actually beat him.

Long story short, last weekend you sat through a two part Ancient Aliens episode on the connection between aliens and American presidents.

It was the most god-awful conspiracy theory you’ve ever heard of, but Jungkook ate up every minute of it. By the time the two hosts announced their conclusion you were just about ready to rip your own ears off and single-handedly fist fight every producer on the channel for allowing the production of such an atrocious show.

Anyway, because you had so bravely sat through the entire evening without complaints— well, no complaints towards Jungkook’s terrible taste; the show, however, was not safe from your wicked tongue —Jungkook has so graciously allowed you to pick the media for this weekend.

You’ve been telling him for the longest time that you were going to hook him on anime. It was one of the few interests you always believed Jungkook should possess, being a weeb and all, because it was only fair that he had one questionable trait to balance out the rest of his perfection. Liking anime isn’t bad— if a hottie like you enjoyed it, then it obviously had its perks. However, you know a lot of other people are turned off by anime-enthusiasts due to preconceived notions of the genre and the viewer-base.

Now, it was a widely known fact that you always had ulterior motives. So maybe turning Jungkook into a weeb was just a ploy to turn other women off from him and keep your jealousy at bay. Sue you, your boyfriend was a walking wet dream, and you’d do anything to keep him to yourself.

After long deliberation, you’ve decided on introducing Jungkook to anime with a classic: Ouran High School Host Club, a god among anime, a true Beyonce among shoujos. The only problem was that you absolutely refused to pay Crunchyroll or Funimation when you could so easily find the entire show on KissAnime.com, home to only the finest of hentai ads and Are You a Robot? questions.

He sends you a text when he’s outside your building, and five minutes later there’s a rap against your door.

“Hi,” you smile up at him, heart fluttering in that same trademark way it did whenever Jungkook was within a five foot radius. He smiles back softly, leaning down to peck your lips as you step aside for him to enter. He’s got on those cotton sweats that you love, the ones that send your brain into a censored frenzy. But he’s also got that soft curl to his hair that lets you know he came here straight out of the shower in his hurry to see you. How you managed to bag a dream boyfriend like him was beyond you.

You bask in the overwhelming feeling of unannounced love for all of ten seconds before Jungkook is lifting up a square package you hadn’t seen at his hip. “Mailman gave me this,” he says, waving around the signature bright pink packaging of Sexuality Unleashed. Jungkook, for all his politeness and respect, seemed to falter in those categories when it came to you. He turns the box over, reading the big fat name of the company on the side. “Since when did you start buying sex toys?” he asks rather loudly in the hallway.

You yank him inside, hurriedly slamming the door shut before any of your neighbors can come out into the hallway and get a peek of this avid sex toy consumer. “They’re not mine!” you hiss, standing still when he uses you to balance himself as he tugs off his shoes. You snatch the box out of his hands, turning it around to make sure it is actually addressed to your home. Sure enough, it’s for you. Couldn’t there have been some other sex toy fanatic on this floor?

With his shoes off, Jungkook wastes no time enveloping you in a hug, the Sexuality Unleashed box tumbling to the ground. “It’s okay, baby, no need to be embarrassed.”

You groan, leaning your forehead against his shoulder as he continues to pat your back like you’re actually embarrassed to be caught buying toys— you’re not. You’re embarrassed he caught you with a sex toy you simply can’t put to use. “Whatever,” you sigh, “your gross popcorn is in my bedroom and it’s probably stale.”

He releases you, not before pulling you into a slow and languid kiss that has you clutching tightly at the front of his shirt. He pulls away with a soft smooch, right eye falling into a wink. “Bring the box, gorgeous,” he teases, before sauntering off in the direction of your bedroom.

You groan loudly. “It’s not mine!” you repeat, but for some reason do as he says.

Not only do you have no idea what’s in this package, but you’re frankly not too keen on finding out. You’re more interested in Jungkook’s reaction to one of your favorite animes of all time. The package is tossed onto the end of the bed, where Jungkook has already stripped himself of his socks and cuddled beneath your covers.

Your laptop has gone dark from inactivity so you slam down on the space bar to bring it back to life. Your first mistake was pressing anything at all. It flickers back on alright, but you forget that you are working with a minefield of ads ready to explode. You get a glimpse of the KissAnime screen for a good two seconds before about seven ads pop up. Another tab to a raunchy hentai website opens, and Jungkook groans.

“What the hell is this?” he asks in a tone that screams he has never had to fight viruses off his computer just to watch something at two in the morning.

You ignore him, cuddling into his side as you hurriedly type in the title of the anime before another annoying ad can intercept you. “KissAnime,” you answer for now, accidentally clicking down on the mousepad with the heel of your palm. Another tab opens up to some sketchy credit site. You huff.

“Baby, I swear I just saw like twelve viruses,” he says. “And what even are these?” he scoffs, jabbing a finger at one of the many ads that lines the perimeter of the website. “Animated teacher porn?”

By the grace of god, you somehow manage to get onto the episode selection screen without having another tab open on you. You smile in relief, turning the power of your excitement onto Jungkook… only to find his eyes narrowed in on the square advertisement for some hentai website. “What? You wanna watch hentai now?” you snort, placing the laptop on his legs as you cuddle into his side.

Jungkook sputters, cheeks tinting red at the mere insinuation he would ever consume such media. “No,” he glares, releasing the arm around your shoulders to huffily cross them over his chest. “I am not going to watch anatomically incorrect illustrations of a woman teacher relieving herself, ___,” he says rather matter-of-factly.

You snort, repeating, “a woman teacher,” mockingly and in a high pitched voice that, honestly, doesn't sound anything like him. You click play on the video box that appears after only about twenty more pop-up ads. “Silence, you nymphomaniac, the episode is starting.” Jungkook pulls you close with a displeased expression, finally quieting down when you put it on full screen and the ads disappear from his view.

You’re beginning to wonder if Jungkook really is the script and plot dissector he claims to be, or if he just lives to get under your skin. He doesn’t make it three minutes without finding something to critique. First it’s the quality of the frames, and then it’s the characterization of the lead character. He nitpicks everything about the best anime in existence, and by the end of the first episode you’re considering breaking up with him.

“Oh my god,” you groan, tearing yourself away from him. He’s all laid up against your mountain of pillows, tongue prodding at the insides of his mouth in that ridiculously attractive habit of his. Usually, you’d be tripping over yourself to kiss him, but you’re about two seconds from ripping his head off. “I mean this in the nicest way possible, baby,” you sigh, picking up his hand in yours. “You gotta shut up.”

Jungkook rolls his eyes. “I have to shut up?” he asks in a scandalized tone. “You sang through the entire intro, off tune may I add.”

At this rate you’re getting nowhere, so you just snatch the laptop back up before you actually hurt his feelings. You escape the full screen, met with those hentai ads that are slowly becoming the bane of Jungkook’s existence.

“Who actually watches those anyway?” he mumbles, covering the sidebar full of naked cartoon ladies with his palm for you, a real gentleman if you ever saw one. “Really?” he says, knocking his pointer finger against a particularly raunchy ad with the caption Be a Good Boy and Let her Play beneath it.

You snort. “You are such a baby,” you tease, pinching his cheek much to his annoyance. “What? Can’t handle seeing some anime titties?”

Jungkook shoves your hand away, leaning back to become one with the pillows as you continue onto the next episode. “They’re just weird,” he admits. “And make unrealistic faces.”

“Unrealistic,” you repeat, finally giving one of the ads the time of day. There’s an adorably drawn character making the most perverted expression, knees hiked up to her chest. Her face is twisted up, drooling like a dog and with her eyes crossed in ecstasy. You shrug. “Just because you can’t get those faces out of me doesn’t mean they’re unreal.”

The second the words leave your mouth Jungkook is letting out a scandalized scoff, sitting up to level you with another glare. “First of all, I can get you like that,” he defends, tapping his finger against the ad on screen. “In fact, I can get you like that without even trying, so let’s not say anything too drastic now, okay?”

His sudden bout of defensiveness makes something playful in you switch on, laying back down beside him with a smirk. “Oh, you can make me all stupid like this?”

Jungkook scoffs. “Yes.”

“Uh huh,” you drawl, tracing a finger up his chest teasingly; Jungkook knocks your knuckles away, obviously still butt hurt about your comment. That’s fine, because a slightly riled up Jungkook was always the best Jungkook. You sit up and lean in close, letting your hand slip beneath his hoodie, palm running over his bare shoulder and around the top of his back. You give his nape a light squeeze, lips pressed against the shell of his ear. “Why don’t you prove it to me, Jungkookie?” you purr, before pulling away.

His jaw twitches at the nickname, one shapely brow unconsciously arching as he regards you with a calculative expression.

The thing about Jungkook was that, after almost a year of dating, you know just how to push his buttons. He has a rather calm and collected exterior to him, the same one he’s had since the day you met him, but beneath it all was a childish competitiveness that raged with the heat of ten suns. He disliked being taunted like you were doing now, especially when his credibility was at stake.

Honestly speaking, you don’t doubt Jungkook can make you look as goofy and messy as those hentai ads. In fact you’re rather confident he can. Either way, him being right or you being right, you would still get some fun out of it.

“Hm?” you add, tracing your hand up to dance over the skin of his cheek, pads of your fingers running over that stiff jaw. “Are you scared I’m right and you’re wrong?”

A hand snaps up to catch your wrist, fingers tight around your skin until you’re shivering against him. “Oh baby, I can make you cum until you cry,” he murmurs, his usual sweet and lilting tone dropping to a low vibration that makes your pussy throb beneath your panties. Your heart leaps in your chest, lips falling open when he ducks down to brush them against yours. It’s too light, just a simple touch that makes you follow his mouth when he pulls back.

With one firm shove, the laptop is tumbling off the bed, thudding loudly against your bedside rug. Jungkook leans over you, his usual trademark doe eyes zeroed in on you with the focus of a laser. “Have a little faith in me,” he teases, and when he presses close you can feel his fattening cock flush against your thigh. Your body is begging to be touched, every brush of his fingers against your skin searing trails in their wake.

Suddenly, he’s drawing back. “Kook?” you frown, barely biting down on a childish whimper when he snuggles back into your mountain of pillows, one arm stretched behind his head.

He flashes you a smile. “Go on,” he says, arms behind his head. “Show me how to get you like that.”

“By myself?” you ask, shifting onto your knees anyway. Jungkook nods, a soft jut of his chin as he gives you another one of those easy going smiles of his. His goal seems a little unclear, but you had a ridiculous amount of trust in your boyfriend that whatever he had planned was certain to be good. With one final skeptical glance his way, you sink down onto your bum, knees spreading and giving him a clear view of your little pink boy shorts, elastic band hugging your waist.

The material of your t-shirt is guided away, held to your chest by the hand currently not traversing the length of your stomach, gliding across soft skin, over your belly button and past that band until it slips beneath. You chance another look Jungkook’s way, only to find his eyes wonderfully downcast in the direction of your core. That smile is gone now, replaced with a somber look as he watches your hand move mysteriously beneath the fabric of your undergarments.

The first brush of your forefinger against your swollen button makes you twitch, back arching at the sensation that is magnified by his watchful gaze. “Mmh,” you bite down, hand twisting in the material of your shirt. Jungkook’s eyes glare a molten path across your skin, from the comfy bra that peeks out from beneath your rumpled shirt to the wrist slowly working beneath your panties.

A hand falls over your thigh, tattooed fingers giving the skin a light squeeze as you get to work swirling your bud around. The sight of his inked skin on yours makes something warm blossom in your lower abdomen, your eyes following the inky swirls up, up, up. They lead you to the face of your very handsome boyfriend, long lashes fanning across his cheekbones as he watches you play with yourself. “Wanna take these off for me?” he says, the tip of his pointer finger wiggling beneath the fabric of your shorts.

You nod hurriedly, wiggling around on the bed until you’re on your back, legs bent in front of you. The shorts come down your legs; the simplest press of your thighs makes something quiver in your abdomen. You toss them off to the side, and just as you go to sit back up, Jungkook places a hand on your knee. “Stay like this for me,” he says, sitting up from his mountain of pillows to glance down at you. You melt into the plush mattress beneath you, staring down at him between your legs. He’s got that adoring look in his eyes, the one that makes you feel so warm and in love, it’s only natural your hand slips down to play with your bare clit again. “That’s my girl,” he smiles, rubbing a hand down the outside of your thigh, urging your legs to fall open.

There’s this overflowing vat of arousal that builds up inside of you everytime Jungkook is around, like the moment your eyes land on him you’re reminded of every position he’s ever had you in. You remember the soft brush of his hands on your body, the way his lips feel on yours, the soft tickle of his hair when he gets too close. It makes your heart lurch in your chest, like if you don’t grab onto him tightly this feeling will slip through your fingers and out of your life. So you were crazily in love with your boyfriend— now what?

A puckered set of lips meets the inside of your thigh, the action ripping you from your overly gooey, overly soft inner rambling. Your hand trails down your quivering pussy lips, collecting your dripping wetness as you go. At the same time, Jungkook kisses down the inside of your thigh, soft smacks of his lips against your skin filling the air with an emotion that makes you bite down a whimper. Your hole puckers at the brush of your fingers, anticipating an entrance that you yearn to give into soon.

His mouth is on you before your finger can go deeper than a centimeter in. But Jungkook doesn’t brush your hand off, doesn’t shove you away to prove his mouth was undoubtedly better. He places a kiss over your knuckles, before swallowing up your significantly smaller hand with his, that of which he clasps together over your navel.

You groan, head rolling from side to side. “Don’t be so soft with me,” you whine, leg twitching when he presses a kiss against your engorged bundle of nerves. “Push me around like that one time, you know I like it.”

Jungkook grins, mouthing over your clit with practiced ease that has you releasing all kinds of whimpers and sighs. He’s got his other hand wrapped around your thigh, strong arm pulling you closer to that devious mouth and tongue that lavished attention on your clit. “Need me to be mean to you, baby?” he purrs, curling his tongue in such a way that it makes your entire body tense up, muscles pulled tight. “Want me to push you around like the stupid little girl you are?” You moan, head bobbing up and down at the ideas he stuffs in your mind. As he moves down the length of your cunt, that round nose you love brushes against your bud, and the cheeky shit takes an obnoxiously loud sniff of it, a soft groan breathed against your lower lips. “But isn’t this better?” he hums, languidly molding his lips against your lower ones, much in the same way he does with the ones on your face; he moves slowly, slips his tongue in every few seconds before eventually diving in head on. “Slow... and so easy.”

“Kook,” you mewl, getting this overwhelming urge to cover your face with your hands. But you can’t, because he’s knotted one hand with yours and his fingers only tighten when you try to yank them apart. Instead you’re left pressing one knuckle against your mouth, brows pinching as he begins slowly fucking his tongue into your cunt. “F-Faster,” you beg. He, of course, ignores your plea.

The wet mass moves past the clenched muscles around your hole, nose brushing against your lips with every intrusion. Every few cycles he stops to press a kiss against your pussy, so hard and wet that it hurts when he pulls off. You’re left writhing and moaning, your heel knocking against his shoulder when he pushes your leg up closer to your chest. “It’s enough,” you cry, your entire body shivering.

Jungkook pulls off with a loud pop, lips glistening with your arousal. He’s got this glint on his eyes, like he’s thoroughly entertained by your reactions. He shuffles around to get comfortable, finally releasing that grip on your hand. Immediately, your newly freed hand jumps forward to tangle in the hair above his ear, tracing down the delicate curve of his cheekbone. Jungkook turns his head, pressing a soft peck against your open palm that makes your heartbeat thunder in your ears.

As he moves around, his leg bumps against something that has both of you pausing. It sounds out of place next to your shallow breaths, and both of you glance down only to catch sight of that stupid package from Sexuality Unleashed teetering on the edge of the bed.

The moment you see it, it’s like you’re transported into an omnipresent view of the scene, the next few hours flashing before your eyes as Jungkook snorts. You know he’s going to reach for it in two seconds, and you know he’s going to tear the hot pink packaging apart with his bare hands. He does so with a scary amount of power, the industrial tape not standing a chance against him. A box roughly the same size as the package falls out, and before you can kick it away and save yourself from suffering beneath Jungkook’s teasing antics, he’s snatching up the box.

“The Bullet Bestie,” he reads aloud, dark eyes flying across the text with lightning speed before that box is also being ripped open. (Briefly, there’s a voice in your head that thinks of Doyeon, but you’re not sure why.) Out tumbles a little pink bullet with a strap on one end that bounces against your thigh and an even smaller remote.

“Baby,” you rush out, the sight of the tiny toy making your heart thunder in your chest. “We can look at it another time,” you try, hands coming up to brush against his face again. “Why don’t you finish off here?” you ask, a sickeningly sweet politeness dripping off your tongue as the knot in your tummy fades into the background of his attention.

Jungkook ignores you, picking up the remote with a wondrous look in his eyes. Before you can try to persuade him back between your legs, a quiet click cuts you off and the little bullet whirls to life. You yelp at the sudden vibrations against the inside of your thigh, so close to your throbbing core. The jump of your thighs has it falling onto the mattress below you, wide eyes snapping back to the smirk that grows on his face.

“No,” you say slowly, sitting back up, “no, no,” you try, your usual assertiveness melting into a whiny cry as you try to wiggle away from him and the nefarious ideas infesting his lust-addled mind. You’re barely turning, ready to make a run for it and hand him his victory by forfeit, when Jungkook is catching you by the waist. Your hips get pulled up, arms clawing uselessly at the sheets beneath you as he drags you close to him. He’s fast, already having moved onto his knees behind you, and when he yanks you up, you can feel every hot plane of his body aligned with your backside. “Kook, please just make me cum,” you gasp.

There’s a smile pressed against your shoulder, lips still wet from before, kissing along the side of your neck. “Look at my girl,” he murmurs, and you nearly jump out of your skin when something smooth is traced along your thigh. One hand slips beneath the material of your shirt, soothingly rubbing circled against your skin. This hand also holds the tiny remote between two fingers, and every nerve in your body is on edge waiting for it to be used. “Where’s that smartmouth now?”

“Jungkook,” you try to warn. But there’s no bite to your words, only an anticipation that grows the closer he moves that damned toy between your thighs. “Baby, we-we can play another time, okay? Just please—“

A soft click, and suddenly your spine is giving out on you, upper body flopping forward as Jungkook runs the vibrations over your clit. Of course Jungkook follows, never letting you slip far from his reach. A loud moan spills from your lips, lower lip wobbling at the unreal amounts of pleasure he bestows upon you with such a small toy. “W-Wait,” you sob, the coil from before suddenly magnified tenfold. It makes your orgasm loom over you bigger than ever, a wave that threatens to spill over and drown you in one go. “No-please.”

His mouth presses against your ear, hot breaths fanning against the skin there. “Hey pretty girl, does it feel good?” he husks out, kissing just below your ear. “Aw fuck,” he groans, something stiff pressing against the cleft between your cheeks, “can’t even see if you’re making that stupid face right now.”

You are, but you don’t even have the words to tell him that. The moment the vibrator had made contact with your already ravished clit, your eyes had rolled into the back of your head. You don’t doubt you look like those silly ads you’d laughed at earlier, mouth opening and closing every few seconds as he circles the toy around your bud. You settle on a high-pitched whimper that has Jungkook laughing meanly against your ear.

It ends too soon, the stimulation from Jungkook eating you out for a few minutes combining with the bullet to form a powerful duo that swallows you whole. An embarrassingly loud moan rips itself from your throat, hands twisting in the sheets beneath you as it washes over you. It’s so powerful, it blinds you, pussy spasming. Jungkook’s name is repeated about a thousand times in between, your body eventually melting back into the mattress as the final shocks run through you.

The vibrator clicks off just as quietly as it turned on, your harsh breaths filling the room in its place. “Good girl,” Jungkook praises, raining down a parade of kisses against your shoulder. You mewl in appreciation, still awkwardly shoving your face into the mattress, and your hips in the air. From the corner of your eyes, you watch him set the glistening toy off to the side, and you’re just about ready to thank the heavens for such an experience with your boyfriend, when said boyfriend hits you with a curveball.

The gentle pecks against yours shoulder dissolve into harsh kisses, rough hands trailing up your waist. The t-shirt gathers around his knuckles, pushed and pushed until he’s got those same hands cupping your breasts. “Did you like that?” he asks, biting down against your shoulder; the sensation is dulled by your shirt being in the way but it still makes you whine. You moan softly, nodding against the mattress as he gets to kneading your breasts over your bra. “Mm,” Jungkook sighs, “my pretty girl was so good for me, wasn’t she?”

Those deft fingers run back down, crawl beneath the elastic of your lounge bra and push it away until your breasts are bouncing out of their cage. “Kook,” you sigh, eyes fluttering shut as he traces circles around your nipples. “W-Wait,” you whimper, suddenly reminded of the swollen cock pressed against your backside when he leans closer.

“Shhh,” he soothes, tweaking your nipples. “Relax for me, sweetheart,” he coos, flicking your hardened nipples with his fingers. You can’t relax, not with your body still so sensitive and him playing with you. Still, the low intonation makes something soft and warm settle in your chest, the kisses against your jaw making your eyes fall shut. “That’s it,” he says, giving one nipple a playful twist that draws a high-pitched moan from you.

Just as you’re beginning to fall into the rhythm of Jungkook’s caresses and voice, he releases one breast to traverse his hand down and over your tummy, to your sensitive pussy. You gasp, biting down on your lip as he teasingly flicks your clit with his fingers. “Bet you could come again now,” he murmurs, taking the tip of your earlobe into his mouth and nibbling softly. You groan, shoving your face into the sheets as if that will save you from your doom. “Bet your pretty little pussy can cream itself just like this, isn’t that right, sweet girl?”

You whimper, hips bucking back against him when he begins nudging your bud, lewd sounds reaching your ears. His other hand remains on your breast, no longer toying with your nipple but simply holding it almost comfortingly. There’s a smirk pressed against your skin, that pearly white smile you usually adore so much teasing you as he circles your nub.

“Come on,” he encourages quietly, kissing up the column of your neck again. You moan, thighs quivering as he strokes a second orgasm out of you with no struggle. Your eyes and throat burn at the heat that washes over you, and you release a hoarse scream into the mattress— Jungkook chuckles at the sound, egging you on with that low voice until your muscles go limp a second time.

When he rolls you onto your stomach again, you try desperately to cover the tears that blur your vision, turning away from him like a child when he tries to look. “Crybaby, crybaby,” he sings teasingly, prying your hands away to capture your mouth with his for the first time that night. “Lemme see those tears, baby,” he purrs.

He tastes like you, tongue dripping with that sweet tang of your pussy, and he smells like you too. It strokes the flames of you ego, arms eventually wrapping around his shoulders as he settles above you. He pulls off with a curl of his tongue against your swollen lips, brown eyes lazily staring down at you. It’s embarrassing how well kept he still was compared to your half-nude state of dress. His skin is all glowy and pretty, not a single tear track in sight, and his grin is still too relaxed for your liking.

Jungkook’s body feels so warm and comforting against yours, muscles keeping the heat trapped between your bodies. You go to brush a hand through his hair, needing to feel the familiarity of those silky locks, before he’s suddenly leaning away. He shuffles onto his knees again, glancing down at your thoroughly abused cunt with a quirk in his brows.

“God,” you groan, knocking your foot against his side. “Just fuck me already,” you huff despite your earlier fatigue. You could only go so long without feeling Jungkook’s fat demon cock inside of you.

He snorts at your snappy tone, cutely tilting his head to the side to move his hair out of his face. His jaw looks sharp from this angle, facial features covered in shadows the lamplight behind him can’t touch. “Can’t,” he announces, and you could pull your hair out from all this unnecessary build up.

Truth to be told, you and Jungkook were both equally as unrestrained when it came to each other. Most of the time, the lead up to actual, penetrative, key-in-lock sex included a couple minutes of heavy petting from his end, and maybe a half assed handjob from you. Sometimes if you felt extra attentive, he’d eat you out and you'd him off. But for the most part, the two of you jumped straight into it after an orgasm, like horny teenagers despite the two of you being twenty-three now.

The most adventurous you’d ever gotten up until the point was maybe two orgasms bestowed upon you by a crazed Jungkook. And, well. You had hit two orgasms now. You were ready for his monster cock.

“Kook,” you whine childishly.

Jungkook shakes you off, placing a palm on both your knees. Slowly, he spreads your thighs apart again, eyes zeroed in on the glossy folds that come into view, the sparkling pearly cum that leaks out of your hole. “I can’t, baby,” he says, almost pained. “I gotta clean you up first,” he insists, and before you can tell him how counterproductive it is to lick you clean of your arousal before fucking you, he’s diving face first into your cunt.

But the biggest surprise doesn’t come from Jungkook going in for thirds, but from the hands he clasps around your thighs, the sheer strength he uses to roll you over (ignoring the shriek you let out) to sit you on his face. “No, no,” you yelp immediately, “I-I‘ll break you,” you cry, trying to escape from his hold.

From beneath your thighs, dark eyes peering up at you daringly, you can see the clear warning on Jungkook’s face. It’s a look that loudly says don’t you dare fucking move, shapely brows sending a jolt of genuine fear down your spine for a moment. “Jungkook,” you fret, trying to ignore the arousal that only continues to blossom as his tongue laps against your folds for the second time that night. “I’m, I’m,” you stammer, hands burying themselves in his hair as he ignores your cries. “I’ll break you,” you try again, spine arching when he slurps your clit into his mouth. “I-I’ll—“

He pulls off with a pop. “Fuck my face, baby,” he says, as if he hadn’t heard a single of your concerns at all. His nose nudges against your clit, a whimper catching in your throat. Briefly, his hand disappears from around your thigh, and when it returns, that tiny bullet vibrator from earlier is pressed against your thigh. “You got that?”

You nod, internally torn apart by your fear of crushing him and your need to drag your cunt all over your boyfriend’s handsome face. You glance down at him, watch him slip that vibrator into his mouth for just a second and lewdly coat it in his saliva, before he’s reaching around to shove it past your pussy lips. They’re still swollen and puffy, but have long since relaxed enough for him to slip it in. “B-But what if—“

“You won’t,” he cuts off, readjusting himself closer to your cunt again, “come on, pretty girl.”

The reason you think you and Jungkook click so well was because he was able to bring that vulnerable side out of you every now and then. He knew you liked to parade around with that huge superiority complex, and he loved it. But he also knew there were things you liked and disliked, and sometimes it took a little pushing for you to reveal them.

For a second, that horny cloud over his irises lifts, and he gives you one of those cute, sloppy winks as he taps your thigh gently. “Fuck my face, sweetheart,” he whispers, “drag that pretty cunt all over me until I can’t breathe.” A gasp catches in your throat, hands unconsciously curling against his scalp. He notices, and flashes you a lazy smirk. “You can do that, can’t you?”

Something akin to adoration blooms in your chest, and before you can blurt out something embarrassing—like I love you—there’s a soft click that has The Bullet Bestie revving up inside of you. You gasp, the sudden vibrations deep inside your pussy making your hips snap forward, clit rubbing against Jungkook’s nose.

“O-Oh,” you cry, and that’s all it takes for you to lose it. Your hips start off slow, at first just savoring the wet drag of his tongue against your lips, his nose against your clit. He sticks his tongue out for you, and part of you wants to tell him he’s a good boy, that corny hentai ad flashing in your mind, but you doubt you’ll survive the aftermath of that. Once you find that perfect pace, your hands are practically yanking at his hair, pushing him further into the mattress as you ride his face like he’s nothing but a toy. “Kook, Jungkook,” you pant, grinding your lower lips against his all too eager mouth.

It feels oddly weird being over him like this, using him like this. You like to think you and Jungkook have equal power in the bedroom, but you will admit that more often than not, he assumes control by default. You’re not particularly bothered by that, because you doubt you’d ever come up with the crazy ideas Jungkook did when he was horny (okay, a lie, because you definitely have thought of crazy sex schemes before).

But, this moment…

The power was quickly going to your head. “Fuck,” you sob, roughly dragging the length of your pussy over and over his face. The hands around your thighs are pressing against your skin with a strength that would hurt were you not blinded by arousal. His eyes are shut, lids fluttering open every now and then as he watches you buck wildly over his face like he was a pillow in high school and your parents were gone for the weekend.

It doesn’t help that the rhythmic pulses of the vibrator inside of you are doing their job well, the tongue that slips into your pussy joining together to form a powerful combination. It’s ultimately what has you halting your manic thrusts, instead falling into a slow grind over him. Your hips circle, eyes squeezed shut as you lose yourself in the lapping of his tongue against your dripping hole. “Mmmf,” you mewl, biting down on your lower lip as the wet muscle prods against a delicate spot within you. You hear feels light, view of the gorgeous man beneath you obstructed by the eyelids that can't seem to stay open. “N-No,” you cry, pulling his hair more roughly than you intended to in order to redirect him. “There, there,” you whimper, holding him tight against your pussy.

Beneath you, Jungkook exhales harshly against your lips, hands moving frantically over your thighs as he works his tongue inside of you alongside the bullet vibrator. If you weren’t so caught up in your own pleasure, all kinds of sounds spilling from your lips, you would have heard the quiet moans that fall from his. Alas.

It takes a few more pulses from the toy and a few more licks from Jungkook until you’re coming for the third time that night, features twisting up as your pussy clenches around his tongue before spilling down his mouth. Your back arches, a defeated moan escaping you as you release the same mess he’d claimed to clean up onto his lovely face. You can barely breathe afterwards, mouth dry and head dizzy when Jungkook finally pops back out from between your thighs. You barely have enough time to lift yourself up, pussy lightly brushing across his Adam’s apple as you stop yourself from crushing his windpipe. It makes you twitch.

“Good girl,” Jungkook praises with a cheeky smile that distracts you from the bullet toy he retrieves from your quivering cunt. His face is absolutely glistening from your arousal, skin warm and flush. He’s looking up at you like you’re some mythical goddess and he’s but a humble villager coming to pay his respects at the temple that is your body. Fuck, were you okay? You don’t think you’ve ever felt this good in your entire life, and Jungkook’s mushy gaze was doing things to your heart.

He presses a kiss against the inside of your thigh before helping you off of him, laughing meanly when you flop limply down beside him. He’s still fully clothed, a fact that irks you when he leans over to kiss you with that glossy face of his. “D’you like it?” he mumbles, kissing softly down your face. You nod, legs twitching from the aftermath of that wild ride. “I saw it, y’know,” he says suddenly.

“Saw what?” you mumble, mindlessly rolling your head to the side and exposing more skin when he begins kissing along your neck.

Jungkook says nothing, just rolls over you. Part of you thinks he’s crazy, but you’re suddenly hit with the realization that while Jungkook’s drawn three orgasms out of you in the course of an hour, you hadn’t done anything for him. Before you can dive head first into swallowing his cock, he’s kissing you softly. “That stupid face,” he smirks, slotting his mouth against yours. “That weird, now realistic face,” he tacks on.

You huff out a laugh, throwing your leg around his waist comfortably. Jungkook smiles, kisses you one last time before settling in your arms, face cutely pressed in between your boobs. “Hey,” you call, “don't you wanna cum too?”

He shakes his head, a soft sigh filling the air. “Nah,” he says, cuddles closer into you. “Rest now, baby.”

You roll your eyes. “I can feel your dick against my thigh,” you point out, wiggling your pelvis upward to brush against his throbbing erection. Jungkook holds you down in an effort to stop you. “Fuck me.”

He groans against your collarbone. “No, you’re tired,” he tries to convince you, but his skin is warm and flushed in the way it always gets when he’s riled up. “Sleep.”

With the leg around his hip, you pull him closer. “Fuck me, Jungkookie,” you purr, using the hands in his hair to turn his face up towards yours. His dark eyes are drawn down cutely, pouty lips too. “Use my body,” you suggest, “I’m yours anyway.”

His eyes flutter shut, a quiet whimper falling from his lips. “Don’t say that,” he sighs, “makes me wanna do very mean things to you.”

You smile. “You can do whatever you want to me, don’t you know that?” Another groan, his head falling forward until he’s hiding in your neck. Still, there’s movement from below, he sweats slipping down at his hips until that throbbing cock is pressed into the tiny crease where your thigh meets your pelvis. There’s a moment of hesitation, and you wonder if this is what he felt like earlier when he’d managed to get you to sit on his face. “Inside, Jungkookie,” you murmur, reaching down to line him up with your sensitive entrance. He whines softly, arms wrapping around you as he pulls you close. “Good boy.”

Despite your earlier belief that you’d never survive an encounter with Jungkook after using such a term on him, the result is much different from what you had anticipated. He visibly melts into your arms, cock slipping past your folds easily. “No,” he says, his voice feathery and whiny against your ear. “I can’t.”

You soothe a hand down his back, eyes fluttering shut as he begins slowly rutting against your swollen lips. “That’s it,” you encourage, tugging softly at his wavy hair. Jungkook moans wantonly against your neck, rolling his hips harshly against you until his arms are the only things keeping you from jostling out of his hold. “Do you like this pussy?” you ask, purposefully clenching around him, tummy tightening at the stimulation you keep packing on.

Jungkook shudders, pace growing slipping inside of you. “Yes,” he pants, “s-so wet… creamy.”

“Yeah?” you huff, pressing a smiley kiss against his forehead. “It’s yours.”

“Ffffuck,” Jungkook chokes, picking up his pace as his well-deserved orgasm reaches its peak. He’s breathing harshly now, and it’s taking everything in you to keep your pussy tight around him. But after the night he’d given you, the sounds and faces he pulled from you, it’s the least you can do. Besides, your body, after being so thoroughly pleased, still rears up for one final orgasm with him. “Mine,” he growls, bucking his hips into you. “You’re mine, baby, mine,” he seethes, ending his little tryst with a piston of his hips that makes you gasp, body almost unconsciously spasming around him. It’s painful, but so, so delicious how he manages to pull this last orgasm from you as he finally busts inside of you.

He comes with a stuttering garble of words, none of which you catch as he collapses into your hold for the final time that night. “Fuck,” he pants afterwards, leaning into your touch when he finally registers the soft combing of fingers through his hair. “That was evil.”

You laugh, pulling him closer. “As evil as you making me suffer through three orgasms before putting your dick in me?” you tease. Jungkook slips out of you, and you know it’ll be a hassle to clean your sheets tomorrow but it’s worth it.

“It’s called building the scene,” he weakly defends, blindly tugging the puffy blanket over the two of you. “I was gonna rhyme it with that horrible website you made me use but I already forgot it’s name.”

“Rude,” you snap, “it’s called KissAnime.”

“And fore-play,” he suddenly says, and you almost yank his eyeballs out of their sockets for doing that stupid thing again.

—

epilogue 

Two weeks later, your favorite website and home to hentai ads is shut down after years of piracy. Jungkook laughs at your demise, sits and actually cackles at your heartbreak, until he eventually comforts you with his flaming demon cock and a subscription to both Crunchyroll and Funimation. Doyeon spends weeks tracking down a missing package, apparently some freebie she’d gotten for being such an avid customer on Sexuality Unleashed: The Best Toys Worldwide! before eventually finding it in your drawer. And because her and Jungkook have some awkward life-long rivalry for your attention, he doesn’t pay for that. 

—

Copyright © 2020, 1kook on tumblr. absolutely NO reposts allowed.

[ifuckinglovestvincent]

THE FORTY-FIVE: ST. VINCENT

Sleazy, gritty, grimy – these are the words used to describe the latest iteration of St. Vincent, Annie Clark’s alter ego. As she teases the release of her upcoming new album, ‘Daddy’s Home’, Eve Barlow finds out who’s wearing the trousers now.

Photos: Zackery Michael

Yellow may be the colour of gold, the hue of a perfect blonde or the shade of the sun, but when it’s too garish, yellow denotes the stain of sickness and the luridness of sleaze. On ‘Pay Your Way In Pain’ – the first single from St. Vincent’s forthcoming sixth album ‘Daddy’s Home’ – Annie Clark basks in the palette of cheap 1970s yellows; a dirty, salacious yellow that even the most prudish of individuals find difficult to avert their gaze from. It’s a yellow that recalls the smell of cigarettes on fingers, the tape across tomorrow’s crime scene or the dull ache of bad penetration.

The video for the single, which dropped last Thursday, features Clark in a blonde wig and suit, channeling a John Cassavetes anti-heroine (think Gena Rowlands in Gloria) and ‘Fame’-era Bowie. She twists in front of too-bright disco lights. She roughs up her voice. She sings about the price we pay for searching for acceptance while being outcast from society. “So I went to the park just to watch the little children/ The mothers saw my heels and they said I wasn’t welcome,” she coos, and you immediately recognise the scene of a free woman threatening the post-nuclear families aspiring to innocence. Clark is here to pervert them.

She laughs. “That’s how I feel!” From her studio in Los Angeles, she begins quoting lyrics from Jimi Hendrix’s ‘Red House’. “It’s a blues song for 2021.” LA is a city Clark reluctantly only half calls home, and one that is opposed to her vastly preferred New York. “I don’t feel any romantic attachment to Los Angeles,” she says of the place she coined the song ‘Los Ageless’ about on 2017’s ‘Masseduction’ (“The Los Ageless hang out by the bar/ Burn the pages of unwritten memoirs”).“The best that could be said of LA is, ‘Yeah it’s nice.’ And it is! LA is easy and pleasant. But if you were a person the last thing you’d want someone to say about you is: ‘She’s nice!’”

On ‘Daddy’s Home’, Clark writes about a past derelict New York; a place Los Angeles would suffocate in. “The idea of New York, the art that came out of it, and my living there,” she says. “I’ve not given up my card. I don’t feel in any way ready to renounce my New York citizenship. I bought an apartment so I didn’t have to.” Her down-and-out New York is one a true masochist would love, and it’s sleazy in excess. Sleaze is usually the thing men flaunt at a woman’s expense. In 2021, the proverbial Daddy in the title is Clark. But there’s also a literal Daddy. He came home in the winter of 2019.

On the title track, Clark sings about “inmate 502”: her father. He was sentenced to 12 years in prison for his involvement in a $43m stock fraud scheme. He went away in May 2010. Clark reacted by writing her third breakthrough album ‘Strange Mercy’ in 2011; inspired not just by her father’s imprisonment but the effects it had on her life.“I mean it was rough stuff,” she says. “It was a fuck show. Absolutely terrible. Gut-wrenching. Like so many times in life, music saved me from all kinds of personal peril. I was angry. I was devastated. There’s a sort of dullness to incarceration where you don’t have any control. It’s like a thud at the basement of your being. So I wrote all about it,” she says.

Back then, she was aloof about meaning. In an interview we did that year, she called from a hotel rooftop in Phoenix and was fried from analytical questions. She excused her lack of desire to talk about ‘Strange Mercy’ as a means of protecting fans who could interpret it at will. Really she was protecting an audience closer to home. It’s clear now that the title track is about her father’s imprisonment (“Our father in exile/ For God only knows how many years”). Clark’s parents divorced when she was a child, and they have eight children in their mixed family, some of whom were very young when ‘Strange Mercy’ came out. She explains this discretion now as her method of sheltering them.

“I am protective of my family,” she says. “It didn’t feel safe to me. I disliked the fact that it was taken as malicious obfuscations. No.” Clark wanted to deal with the family drama in art but not in press. She managed to remain tight-lipped until she became the subject of a different intrusion. As St. Vincent’s star continued to rocket, Clark found herself in a relationship with British model Cara Delevingne from 2014 to 2016, and attracted celebrity tabloid attention. Details of her family’s past were exposed. The Daily Mail came knocking on her sister’s door in Texas, where Clark is from.

“Luckily I’m super tight with my family and the Daily Mail didn’t find anybody who was gonna sell me out,” she says. “They were looking for it. Clark girls are a fucking impenetrable force. We will cut a bitch.”

Four years later, Clark gets to own the narrative herself in the medium that’s most apt: music. “The story has evolved. I’ve evolved. People have grown up. I would rather be the one to tell my story,” she says, ruminating on the misfortune that this was robbed from her: a story that writes itself. “My father’s release from prison is a great starting point, right?” Between tours and whenever she could manage, Clark would go and visit him in prison and would be signing autographs in the visitation room for the inmates, who all followed her success with every album release, press clipping and late night TV spot. She joked to her sisters that she’d become the belle of the ball there. “I don’t have to make that up,” she says.

There’s an ease to Clark’s interview manner that hasn’t existed before. She seems ready not just to discuss her father’s story, but to own certain elements of herself. “Hell where can you run when the outlaw’s inside you,” she sings on the title track, alluding to her common traits with her father. “I’ve always had a relationship with my dad and a good one. We’re very similar,” she says. “The movies we like, the books, he liked fashion. He’s really funny, he’s a good time.” Her father’s release gave Clark and her brothers and sisters permission to joke. “The title, ‘Daddy’s Home’ makes me laugh. It sounds fucking pervy as hell. But it’s about a real father ten years later. I’m Daddy now!”

The question of who’s fathering who is a serious one, but it’s also not serious. Clark wears the idea of Daddy as a costume. She likes to play. She joins today’s Zoom in a pair of sunglasses wider than her face and a silk scarf framing her head. The sunglasses come off, and the scarf is a tool for distraction. She ties it above her forehead, attempts a neckerchief, eventually tosses it aside. Clark can only be earnest for so long before she seeks some mischief. She doesn’t like to stay in reality for extensive periods. “I like to create a world and then I get to live in it and be somebody new every two or three years,” she says. “Who wants to be themselves all the time?”

‘Daddy’s Home‘ began in New York at Electric Lady studios before COVID hit and was finished in her studio in LA. She worked on it with “my friend Jack” [Jack Antonoff, producer for Lana Del Rey, Lorde, Taylor Swift]. Antonoff and Clark worked on ‘Masseduction’ and found a winning formula, pushing Clark’s guitar-orientated electronic universe to its poppiest maximum, without compromising her idiosyncrasies. “We’re simpatico. He’s a dream,” she says. “He played the hell outta instruments on this record. He’s crushing it on drums, crushing it on Wurlitzer.” The pair let loose. They began with ‘The Holiday Party’, one of the warmest tracks Clark’s ever written. It’s as inviting as a winter fireplace, stoked by soulful horns, acoustic guitar and backing singers. “Every time they sang something I’d say, ‘Yeah but can you do it sleazier? Make your voice sound like you’ve been up for three days.” Clark speaks of an unspoken understanding with Antonoff as regards the vibe: “Familiar sounds. The opposite of my hands coming out of the speaker to choke you till you like it. This is not submission. Just inviting. I can tell a story in a different way.”

The entire record is familiar, giving the listener the satisfaction that they’ve heard the songs before but can’t quite place them. It’s a satisfying accompaniment to a pandemic that encouraged nostalgic listening. Clark was nostalgic too. She reverted to records she enjoyed with her father: Stevie Wonder’s catalogue from the 1970s (‘Songs In The Key Of Life’, ‘Innervisions’, ‘Talking Book’) and Steely Dan. “Not to be the dude at the record store but it’s specifically post-flower child idealism of the ’60s,” she explains. “It’s when it flipped into nihilism, which I much prefer. Pre disco, pre punk. That music is in me in a deep way. It’s in my ears.”

On ‘The Melting Of The Sun’ she has a delicious time creating a psychedelic Pink Floyd odyssey while exploring the path tread by her heroes Marilyn Monroe, Joni Mitchell, Joan Didion and Nina Simone. It’s a series of beautiful vignettes of brilliant women who were met with a hostile environment. Clark considers what they did to overcome that. “I’m thanking all these women for making it easier for me to do it. I hope I didn’t totally let them down.” Clark is often the only woman sharing a stage with rock luminaries such as Dave Grohl, Damon Albarn and David Byrne, and has appeared to have shattered a male-centric glass ceiling. She’s unsure she’s doing enough to redress the imbalance. “There are little things I can do and control,” she says of hiring women on her team. “God! Now I feel like I should do more. What should I do? It’s a big question. You know what I have seen a lot more from when I started to now? Girls playing guitar.”

If one woman reinvented the guitar in the past decade, it’s Clark. Behind her is a rack of them. The pandemic has taken her out of the wild in which she’s accustomed to tantalising audiences at night with her displays of riffing and heel-balancing. Instead, she’s chained to her desk. Her obsession with heels in the lyrics of ‘Daddy’s Home’ she reckons may be a reflection of her nights performing ‘Masseduction’ in thigh highs. “I made sure that nothing I wore was comfortable,” she recalls. “Everything was about stricture and structure and latex. I had to train all the time to make sure I could handle it.” Is she taking the heels off when live shows return? “Absofuckinglutely not.”

Clark is interested in the new generation. She’s recently tweeted about Arlo Parks and has become a big fan of Russian singer-songwriter Kate NV. “I’m obsessed with Russia,” she says. In a recent LA Times profile, she professed to a pandemic intellectual fixation on Stalin. “Yeah! I mean right now my computer is propped up on stuff. You are sitting on The Gulag Archipelago, The Best Short Stories Of Dostoyevsky andThe Plays Of Chekhov. I’m kinda in it.” The pop world interests Clark, too. She was credited with a co-write on Swift’s 2019 album ‘Lover’. At last year’s Grammys she performed a duet with Dua Lipa. It was one of the queerest performances the Grammys has ever aired. Clark interrupts.

“What about it seemed queer?!”

You know… The lip bite, for one!

“Wait. Did she bite her lip?”

No, you bit your lip.

“I did?!”

Everyone was talking about it. Come on, Annie.

“Serious? I…”

You both waltzed around each other with matching hairdos, making eyes…

“I have no memory of it.”

Frustrating as it may be in a world of too much information, Clark’s lack of willingness to overanalyse every creative decision she makes or participates in is something to treasure. “I want to be a writer who can write great songs,” she says. “I’m so glad I can play guitar and fuck around in the studio to my heart’s desire but it’s about what you can say. What’s a great song? What lyric is gonna rip your guts open. Just make great shit! That’s where I was with this record. That’s all I wanna do with my life.”

More than a decade into St. Vincent, Clark doesn’t reflect. She looks strictly forward. “I’m like a horse with blinders,” she says. She did make an exception to take stock lately when the phone rang. “I saw a +44 and that gets me excited,” she says. “Who could this be?” Well, who was it? “Paul McCartney,” she says, in disbelief. “Anything I’ve done, any mistake I’ve made, somehow it’s forgiven, assuaged. I did something right in my life if a fucking Beatle called me.”

Now there’s a get out of jail free card if ever she needed one.

Daddy’s Home by St. Vincent is out May 14, 2021.

[meruz]

Aforementioned long ask post please excuse me while i try to figure out tumblr's new text editor. I’ll get into the art meme questions first and then the rest at the end.

Ok first of all thank you all for sending in questions! Giving me an excuse to talk hehe. I’ll address these in number order. Here’s a link to the ask meme for reference but also I’ll restate the question for ease of reading.

1. When did you get into art?

Super cliche answer but I don’t remember a time where I WASN’T the weird art kid! I started keeping a dedicated sketchbook when I was about 12? But here’s a page from my kindergarten journal about what I want to be when I grow up.

2. What art-related sites have you ever signed up for? 

LOL this is a weird question. Not sure why so many people want to know. Anyways I definitely had a dA. more than one dA account. I used to browse oekakis when I was a kid but I think I was only signed up to some small ones that internet friends owned. What else...? Mangabullet,Tegakie, Paintberri, iscribble back when that was a thing, instagram if that COUNTs, I used to post art on livejournal and dreamwidth too. Patreon, I guess. Gumroad, inprnt, bigcartel, storenvy all for selling stuff.

In terms of resources.. I have a schoolism account that I’m sharing with friends. Used to take classes on coursera for free. I signed up to textures.com for work recently haha. I can’t remember if I ever had an account on posemaniacs. Did they have accounts...? I definitely used to visit all the time.

3. Show us your oldest piece of art you have on hand.

Alright here’s me actually logging into my old deviantart account. These are from September 2008 So I was 13 years old. I don’t have a deviantart account from before then because 13 was the required age for having an account and I didn’t want to lie about my age because I wanted people to be impressed by how young yet clearly incredible at art I was LOL.

4. What defines your artistic style?

You guys are probably more equipped to answer this than me but uh... I wanna say... Focus on colors. And... a slightly heavy hand? Like confident... not always well-considered mark making HAH...

Also I think I have a pretty healthy mix of american comics/manga influences. I feel like people who are into american comics always think my art is too manga and people who are into anime/manga always think my art is too american. And I’m taking that as a good sign.

5. Do you practice other styles/have you tried other styles in the past?

I like to think I switch it up a bunch! I mean, these are pretty different, right?

I think I’ve mentioned this before but one thing I really took away from art school is that, for an illustrator at least, art style shouldn’t be consistent. Your greatest weapon is changing the aspects of your style based on the task, the emotions and message you want to illustrate etc. So depending on the project I’m working on, the fandom I’m drawing for, whether I want something to be funny or serious or dramatic, I’ll change things about my style all the time.

One thing I don’t rly post on here is really tight polished work and that’s because I do that for my day job haha. If you’re not paying me... I’m probably not gonna color in the lines.

6. What levels of artistic education have you had?

I have a whole ass diploma LOL. Bachelor of Fine Arts in Illustration. from the Rhode Island School of Design. And I had a great college experience tbh. Besides the student loans. If any of you guys are thinking about art school feel free to e-mail or message me questions or concerns, I’ll be happy to help. Be as honest as I can be.

7. Show us at least one picture you drew or sketched recently that you did not put on a public site.

heres the wandavision kids. Uhh what else do I have...I feel like I’m rummaging for loose change here...

assorted valentines prep doodles

8. What is your favourite piece that you have done?

Well, obviously this is gonna change all the time and generally it’s gonna be my most recent piece LOL. So yeah, why the hell not. I’ll say it’s this one. I have a pretty short memory which I count as a blessing for an artist. I don’t dwell that long on older work and it keeps me moving forward.

10. What do you like most about your art?

I like that it’s something that only I would make! I had this thought fairly recently and I wrote it down in my sketchbook, it’s pretty cheesy and rambling but it felt revolutionary at the time:

So yeah. I like my art best when it’s the most me and for me. And I like it least when it feels like I’m just making something for social media or for other people’s expectations or whatever.

14. What do you like drawing the most?

Kids in baggy clothing are like my go-to LOL idk if that’s obvious. but also I like being challenged so lately I’ve really loved drawing multi-character compositions, environments, weird angles, etc.

oh i LOVE drawing the underside of shoes lol. And bandages. People that are kinda beat up.. I think it comes from getting a bunch of cuts all the time. I’m always patching myself up and I want to patch characters up too.

15. What do you like drawing the least?

mmm I try to find something to like in every drawing but lets see... I don’t like doing commissions of people’s dogs. Just because it’s normally like... a family friend and my mom volunteered me without my consent and I don’t even really know what they’re expecting me to draw and I don’t even get to meet the dog. Also I’m not that great at dog anatomy. Trying to learn though.

18. What is your purpose for drawing?

This could have a million answers! Uhhh to GIT GOOD??? But also to express myself... and also to make money... I mean it depends on what the drawing IS. I draw fanart mostly to connect to people in the fandom so if you ever see me drawing fanart please take it as like an open invitation to talk to me about the character haha. 

20. How would you rank your art? (poor, mediocre, good, etc.)

Good!!! I have a lot of self-confidence primarily born out of ignorance and a short attention span. If I don’t think too hard about how many other artists are mindblowingly unfathombly good... its easy to think I’m good too! LOL

In all seriousness though, I think the opinion a person has of their art is like a crazy balancing act, right? Like you have to think you suck enough to want to get better but also you have to think you’re good enough to not want to give up. I think we’re all walking that line, I know I am! But also I’m a glass half-full type of person so. Most of the time I feel good about it.

22. List at least one of your “artspirations.”

This is a good question because I’ve been trying and failing to put together one of those “influence map” memes for like a full month now. What’s giving me a hard time is I feel like none of these are actually really obvious “““influences”““ in my art? Like it’s hard to see a lot of them in the work I make...? But idk maybe you guys’ll see what I can’t.

And these are just a couple! God there’s so many more. I could talk about other artists for ages, from all different genres of art. Daumier, Rockwell like every illustrator out there, Dana Gibson, Alex Toth, Hiroshi Yoshida, a lot of the Brandywine School. Lots of current working artists too, Karl Kerschl, frikkin Masashi Kishimoto lol, Jake Wyatt, Richie Pope, Edouard Caplain, Matt Cook, Sachin Teng, - lots of big internet artists, Sophie Li, Freddy Carrasco, Milliofish, Angela Sung... like all my friends from art school too. I could just keep going but I’ll stop for now lol.

24. Do you have a shameful art past? (recolour sprite comics, tracing art, etc.)

I mean if that’s how we’re defining shameful?? sure LOL. It’s not sprite comics but I used to do pokemon sprite recolors all the time. And I used to trace manga panels and color them... Granted this was all when I was like under 12 yrs old so it’s not even embarrassing. Can you really call it shameful when a 7 year old wets the bed or whatever? Not really. In fact some of these are cool as fuck. Look

25. Draw a picture!

Man I’m so tired now but here.

I used to get a lot of compliments for drawing people smiling lol but I don’t think I’ve drawn a lot of smiling lately.. here’s proof I’ve still got it.

OK MEME DONE. onto the rest.

I read this ask first thing when i opened my computer in the morning and it made me really emotional.. I’m so glad my sketches could help you!!

I think a lot of artists on social media talk about the struggle of making art but imo not enough people talk about the joy! Like I know it’s corny but. I really meant what I said at the beginning of that sketchbook about re-contextualizing art around process and progress > product and perfection. I think its super important..! The strength of messy, unfinished, and energetic art! For the feeling of it, for the love it!

That's crazy!!! I hope you like 'em. The whole line of x-books is really good rn imo.

Hi! I totally have the answer for digital stuff on my faq lol. But in terms of drawing on paper.. it varies! I tend to use sketchbooking and any on-paper doodling I do as a way to loosen up/warm-up or experiment. But right now my go-to aresenal is:

from top > bottom

- kuretake no.55 doublesided brush pen

- tombow fudenosuke

- muji 0.38 ballpoint

- medium size poscas

- grey tombow double brush pens

- good ol bic mechanical pencil

not EXACTly sure which inking you referring to from my sketchbook but if I had to take a guess it'd probably be the kuretake no55. That's been my main inker, lately. Great for sketching with the thin end too.

You can print out and eat my art if you like. Just please don't mass produce or re-sell. <3

Thanks! I've come to accept that my art is always gonna be sort of gestural and painty naturally. It's getting it to tighten up enough to be legible that's hard lol...

uh yeah lol I agree actually. I think yolei is great.

I assume these asks are related? LOL

1) Yeah totally true. I love David.

2) I don’t take requests, sorry! But if you want to commission me to draw Legion i would be MORE than happy to. Just e-mail me at isellhotdogs@gmail.com.

<33333333333333333333333333

[not-xpr-art]

Art Advice #3 - Drawing tips!

Hi everyone!

As you may know, every week or so I’m writing blog posts with art advice hints and tips for artists of any skill level in the hopes of helping some people out a bit! The tag is here so feel free to check out some of my other posts!

This week’s post is going to be some drawing tips I’ve picked up over the years that could hopefully be useful for beginner artists! 

(this is about 1800 words altogether btw)

Drawings tips!

I’m going to split this post up into little sections which will hopefully make it easier for you to scroll to find certain advice you’re particularly interested in!

Part 1 - How to get started?

I’m a firm believer that anyone can be an artist, regardless of what materials or equipment they have. So when it comes to my advice on what kind of materials I recommend for beginner artists, I’d mainly say ‘whatever you have’. 

But if that’s a bit vague, I’d essentially recommend you have a set of pencils which you can usually get relatively inexpensive online or in craft/art shops which range from 6B all the way to 6H (’B’ being for softer, darker pencils, often good for shading, and ‘H’ for the harder pencil leads which are best for much lighter shading or if you want a really faint sketch. Something important to note about ‘H’ pencils is not to press too hard with them since they’re a lot more likely to leave indents in the paper than ‘B’ pencils! For general sketching I personally use 2B or 3B pencils since they have the perfect balance of soft & hardness in my opinion!) 

Of course, you can just draw with whatever pens or pencils you already have, so definitely don’t feel you have to go out of your way to buy something new or expensive just because your favourite artists use a particular brand of pencil or pen... Of course, often higher quality pens or pencils (especially colouring pencils) will have better pigment payoff than the cheaper alternatives, but as someone who’s been using the same WHSmith pencils they got when they were a child, I definitely think that as long as you have something to draw with, you’re all set to produce masterpieces of your own!

A lot of my art education got us using charcoal for a lot of our drawing practise. It’s not a medium I’m particularly fond of personally, but it is a great way to practise being a lot quicker and expressive with drawing, so definitely if you’re up for the challenge you can try some charcoal stuff! Only piece of advice is that I wouldn’t really recommend those ‘charcoal pencils’ you can buy in some shops, since they mostly just break apart every time you try and sharpen them... Regular charcoal is messy, though, and smudges very easily, so if you are interested in using it I’d say to do a little bit of research before hand! 

(Or feel free to send me an ask if you want any further advice on using it!)

If you’re wanting to get into digital art, I’m planning on making a post discussing my tips for beginners to digital so... keep an eye out for that in the near future lol!

~

Part 2 - Getting over ‘Drawing Anxiety’

Drawing can be a daunting thing, particularly when artists who are already pretty good at it can seemingly produce a perfectly proportioned face out of thin air. But these artists weren’t magically born with this skill, of course, so with practise and some perseverance, I can assure you that you’ll be at that stage one day!

So my first piece of advice here is to be patient with yourself. Don’t expect yourself to be perfect straight away. 

Second piece of advice is to sketch constantly!! I notice a lot of people who haven’t been drawing long are really careful about how they draw, almost like they’re afraid to be rough with the pencil. So I’d really recommend just starting to sketch a lot: be rough, be messy, draw things you can see and things from your imagination! 

Observational drawing is another thing I think is crucial in improving your drawing skills (and I’ll go into more detail with this in a bit), but honestly just sketching things you like is such a great way to help you grow as an artist! And yes this includes drawing anime fanart or drawings of your original characters! 

Below is some comparisons of my attempts at drawing Freema Agyeman from 2013 to 2019... Is the latest version of this perfect? Of course not. But I just want to show what constant practise can achieve!

~

Part 3 - Observational drawing

I honestly think that observational drawing was one of the most important things I learnt in my years of art education. 

Observational drawing can take on many meanings. Perhaps it’s drawing a still life of a fruit bowl, or a life drawing class with a naked dude in front of you, or even drawing from a photo. The point of observational drawing is to improve how you translate the world around you onto a 2D surface, essentially. 

And you don’t need anything fancy to do observational drawing either! Just placing an array of things in front of you and trying to sketch them (try and focus on a mix of textures and surfaces for the objects. So, for example, including a cup along side a woolly hat will help you get a handle on how to create texture with your drawing, and drawing anything with a reflective surface like cutlery is both challenging and interesting to do! Basically just use what you have around you!)

If you’re lucky (or unlucky, depending on how fond you are of seeing naked people lol) enough to have the chance to do life drawing, I would honestly recommend it! Often the final results aren’t great, but it’s a really good way of practising your observational skills! And even if you don’t have the opportunity, just trying to sketch a friend or family member from across a room, for example, is something that can really help you improve! 

Top tip: a teacher once told me that when you’re drawing something like a face, for example, a way to improve how you draw is to see the face not as a ‘face’, but instead as a collections of shapes. Because our brains have a preconceived idea of what a face looks like that we end up drawing what we think we can see rather than what we can actually see! 

There’s a lot of art snobs who believe that drawing from reference images is ‘cheating’ in comparison to life drawing, Of course, this is bs, and I’d say I’ve learnt just as much from using reference photos for the basis of my art as I have from drawing from ‘real life’. For more information about my thoughts on references and how to use them, see This post!

~

Part 4 - Drawing from references: Tracing, Grids and Freehand (which is best?)

Tracing in the world of art is a ... Contentious subject to say the least. And I’m not really interested in getting into the ‘moral’ implications of whether it is ‘cheating’ or not.

Instead I want to focus on the pros of using something like tracing when you’re starting out. I think particularly if you’re trying to improve how you shade things, colour things or how to get better at blending, then I do think that tracing can be a useful tool! Even I used tracing in the very start of my delve into digital art, but soon found that tracing wasn’t really something that was helping me in the long run so moved onto freehand stuff. 

Overall, I think tracing is good as a starting point when you’re still learning about art, and also if you’re not too comfortable with your freehand drawing skills yet. I’d also recommend you mention if you have traced a piece if you share art to social media. Of course, no one is obligated to do this though! 

This is an example of an artwork that I traced (it’s from 2013, hence why it looks... like That lol)

But if you’re someone who perhaps has used tracing in the past and found it doesn’t really work for you, or if you don’t want to start with tracing at all, then a good ‘next step’ I’ve seen other artists get into is using grids. 

Now I have to admit, I’m not the best person to talk about grids since I’ve actually never used them lol... But I know a lot of artists who do, particularly people who do a lot of traditional work, since it makes it a lot easier to translate the reference image to your piece of paper or canvas. 

And in a way I would recommend grids more for people starting out in drawing than tracing, and this is mainly due to the fact grids force you to use a lot more observational drawing skills than tracing! If you’re interested in getting into using grids I’d recommend doing a bit of research yourself! 

The final technique of drawing from references I want to talk about is freehand! Now this is the one I’ve been doing for the majority of my art ‘career’ and honestly is probably the most ‘difficult’ to do of the three techniques. 

But I find freehand drawing particularly rewarding with the ways it can make you reimagine an artwork in ways you never intended! Like what I mentioned in my Reference advice post, I have found that making ‘mistakes’ in freehand drawing can actually lead to more interesting and unique works of art than tracing or grid work could ever do! 

I also think that freehand allows you to create your own characters or concepts in a much more free way. For example, my Spirit of Somerset piece was something I created from a variety of references (I seem to remember I used Isak from SKAM’s mouth as a basis for the girls’ mouth?) and the dragon was based on a real mishmash of references, which is something that I I feel I couldn’t have done if I’d have been using grids or tracing!

With this I’m not trying to say that freehand is the ‘best’ way of drawing, it is just the one that I personally have found to fit me the best, which is the entire point of this post! All of my advice is just pointers I think could be useful for new artists, it is up to you to find which ‘path’ in art suits you best!

And of course, I’ve phrased these techniques as separate purely for the sake of explaining them easier, but the fact of the matter is that you can use a combination of these in your art if you wish! 

If you struggle with drawing the outlines of hands, perhaps use tracing as a way to get a handle of the shape and then maybe use freehand to fill in the colour of them! Use a grid to draw a tree but freehand the leaves and bench below it! 

Remember that your art is your art, and no one can tell you how to draw things! 

~

I think I’ll leave this here for now! But I may do a part two at some point in the future! & my ask box is always open for anyone who wants any specific advice!

I really hope you found this at least moderately helpful, and a massive thank you to everyone for the constant support of these posts and my art!

[monstersdownthepath]

Monster Spotlight: Vault Builder Xiomorn

CR 20/MR 8

Lawful Neutral Medium Outsider

Planar Adventures, pg. 252~253

Today, we have a big one. The Xiomorn here are divided into two castes, the Mythic-tier Vault Builders, which we will be reviewing, and the lesser guardians, the Vault Keepers, which we won’t be, as the Keepers are merely tragically neutered versions of the Builders. In ages long ago there was no division between the castes, just the perfect Xiomorn numbering exactly 65,536, the number of facets in the “perfect” gem found by the benevolent and kind Elemental Lady of Earth, Sairazul. Originally Good-aligned, the Xiomorn were corrupted by the significantly more malevolent Elemental Lord of Earth, Ayrzul, who showed them (possibly fabricated) visions of their future destruction at the hands of the Yithians, driving the poor race mad with desperation to escape their foretold doom. Without their goddess to guide them--Sairazul imprisoned by her vile counterpart--they’ve turned countless worlds and races into their petri dishes in their hopes of changing their future.

In exchange for knowledge, they sacrificed the Mythic power of exactly half of their number, assuring that there will always be exactly 32,768 Keepers and Builders, this number utterly impossible to increase through any means the Xiomorn have found... but painfully simple to shrink. Vault Keepers can be created through the might of the Vault Seed, the artifacts responsible for the alien Vaults of Orv deep below Golarion’s surface, but if a Vault Builder is killed through violence, they are forever destroyed. This makes them extremely cautious creatures, paranoid of their future and of any creature that can potentially destroy them and end their lineage, but in their attempts to avert their destruction, they’ve become unholy forces in and of themselves. Ayrzul was right to covet their power, but even smarter in fearing it, for if they ever find out the truth of their future, there is no force that could stop a march of 30,000 of these creatures.

Undoubtedly, one of the most powerful features a Xiomorn has at its disposal is their Item Shaper ability. They are treated as though they possessed all item creation feats, and require a mere hour of work per 1,000gp in the item’s cost rather than a full day... Unless the item in question is made of stone or crystal, in which case the item requires 30 minutes to craft and costs the Xiomorn only half as much GP to make. This ability even allows them to make Constructs at this accelerated pace, assuring they can make and ARM entire armies in just a few short days and assures that, if they know you’re coming, you’re going to have to contend with every terrible device capable of countering you they can put together. Not even just the stuff in the books, either; as travelers across the Great Beyond, they may have access to items and technology unseen on Golarion, giving the DM the perfect excuse to outfit them with all sorts of horrible devices with which to malice the party!

As creatures from the Plane of Earth their wealth is effectively limitless already, but they go a step further by not even needing to really mine their home plane; they can use Create Demiplane to manifest bubbles from which they can draw what they need. What, it doesn’t work like that? Maybe not for you, but for the infinite power of these perfect creatures, it’s child’s play. Their Xiomorn Spellcasting allows them to select 40 levels worth of spells from the Wizard spell list to cast each day (though each spell may only be cast once), not only eliminating what petty inconveniences stood between them and crafting more advanced items, but allows them to manipulate the confines of their created demiplanes to generate endless wealth for themselves. How, you may ask? I could go into the exact method, but that can get boring when we have so much more to talk about! Plus, as a DM using one of these creatures, you can merely handwave it away. They can use Mythic magic, for god’s sake! Anything is possible! And through Xiomorn Magic, they also get Create Demiplane, Mythic Move Earth, and the Mythic spell Terraform for free on top of whatever other spells they get and ALSO on top of their normal spell-likes, which includes PERMANENCY 1/day to assure their demiplanes stick around until their experiments are finished.

It’s through their incredible magical potential that they know how best to utilize the Secret of the Vault Seeds as well. Though the method of producing them was gifted to them by Ayrzul in an attempt to corrupt them to unknown ends, the Xiomorn quickly perfected them, able to nurse the Vault Seeds to create miniature self-contained worlds. Able to Gate across the cosmos as needed (or select Interplanetary Teleport through their magic), Xiomorn capture and summon creatures from everywhere to place inside their Vaults for reasons only they’re fully canny to. Not only do their Vaults form beautiful, alien environments below the world, but while in a Vault they created, the Vault Builders have insurmountable Regeneration, and their existence as an Elemental assures that the most reliable methods of shutting them out nonlethally (paralysis, stunning, and sleep) are impossible. Protected by DR 10 that’s only bypassed by the tall order of a weapon being adamantine, bludgeoning, and Epic, and shielded by SR 31, combating one of these Xiomorn on their home turf is next to impossible without some wacky Mythic shenanigans of your own!

Which it can turn against you. Swiftly.

Being struck by any one of a Xiomorn’s four claws not only deals 2d4+10 damage, but causes flesh and bone to transmute into green crystal. This Crystalization manifests as 2 Dexterity drain, which is doubled to 4 if the claw critically struck. The drain is dangerous enough, but suffering from even 1 point of Crystalization “gifts” the victim with the Earth creature subtype, making the victim vulnerable to the Xiomorn’s 3/day Command Stone, which acts as Dominate Creature to any creature made primarily of crystal or stone... or anything with the Earth subtype. Command Stone can even work on Constructs normally immune to being Dominated, though it will “only” last 27 rounds in that case. I’ve said it before but I’ll say it again: oftentimes, the most dangerous thing to the party are its own members, and a Xiomorn can hijack up to three of them a day to its own ends.

The final unique trick Xiomorn possess is their Crystal Burst, able to manifest an explosion of razor-sharp but beautiful crystals anywhere within 120ft of them once every 1d4 rounds, the burst dealing 20d6 slashing and piercing damage to everything within 30ft of the epicenter. With Wall of Stone and Spike Stone available to them 3/day, Xiomorn can easily cut allies away from one another or shrink the battlefield to the point their Crystal Burst can slam everyone at the same time, or hedge out anyone capable of actually harming them so they can close in on something softer, squishier... and seize control of them. Or just use Flesh to Stone on them and contort their bodily horribly with Stone Shape.

All’s fair when survival is on the line, and Xiomorn will fight harder than almost anything to remove any and all threats to themselves. Such is what they’ve been tragically reduced to.

You can read more about them here.

[frodos-bizarre-adventure]

@gingerreggg ooo the lore deepens

Heads Up- Part 10 (Joseph x Bust! Caesar)

▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪

With Joseph going to university every couple of days, and Suzi visiting often but still usually sleeping at her own home, there were days that Caesar was left home alone.

Joseph had invested in extra door locks to keep him safe, makeshift mini-elevators to help the bodiless bust get up and down the kitchen and living room tables, and put up canvasses and customized paint holders to encourage his fondness for painting to pass the time.

Caesar was a great painter-- especially for someone with no hands.

With much practice in holding a paintbrush in his mouth, something that Caesar found much easier as opposed to colored pencils that broke when pressed too hard, Joseph's artistic masterpieces had begun producing masterpieces of his own. Simple, abstract scribbles at first, but over time began to make art of the things he saw around the house. Still lifes of tables, furniture, windows, in his own crude, mouth-scribbly style.

Today was one such day. Joseph was away at the art school, working on projects of his own. And Suzi hadn't called for today, and probably wasn't coming for a while.

And so Caesar spent his time painting. But he was tired of the things within the confines of the apartment, and opted for a new medium.

Pulling the blinds of the window open with his teeth, Caesar exposed the view of the vacant lot behind Joseph's house. One that was somewhat still a wild region, overgrown with grasses, with a few sparse trees, and further into the horizon, the skyline of the big city with towering skyscrapers that seemed like mere toys from such a distance.

A smile crept across Caesar's face. This seemed like a perfect muse for another painting.

And as Joseph created art with a purpose, he wondered if this was his.

---------

Suzi looked over at the bag Joseph had given her.

She was in her own home, an apartment somewhat smaller than Joseph's. The post-graduate artist hadn't really done very much in the past year, and her house reflected it: it was quite a mess, with many boxes, items and inexplicable odds and ends cluttering every tabletop and shelf, a problem compounded by the artist's somewhat scatterbrained nature at times.

She sat on her couch, typing away at her laptop. She'd been very curious about the past few days about where exactly that design on the bag came from-- definitely a Mesoamerican influence, perhaps some sort of mystical trinket from long ago.

It had been the bag that Joseph had found in his attic, that had contained the lump of clay that had become Caesar. As Joseph had said before, it didn't seem like a particularly special material at first: yet now, given that it literally was alive, there certainly was something unique about it. Especially given that all other clay they attached to Caesar, in their failed attempts to give him a body, had invariably remained lifeless and cold.

And as she scrolled through pictures on her laptop, she happened upon something extraordinary.

A site cataloguing local folklore, with details that seemed oddly familiar.

Legends told in ancient Central America about sacred soils that could channel strange energies. One myth, in particular, caught her attention: a tale of a talented artist who, in her sheer devotion to detail in her work, managed to usher in spirits of inspiration to take new life into her work.

Idols that harbored the souls of the ancestors that led them to convene with their successors generations on.

Suzi scoffed. This seemed like strange superstitious magic, wasn't it?

Yet deep down, as much of a mature, rational woman as she was, a small part deep within her had always believed in magic, wished to believe. Perhaps it was the hopeful, wide-eyed child within her now enveloped in the shell of a responsible adult, that sometimes shone through when she was around people she was comfortable, like Joseph, and now, Caesar too.

Perhaps that was why she wasn't too surprised about Caesar when she first met the living sculpture in Joseph's apartment a couple of weeks earlier.

Because a bit of her had always believed in magic-- and Caesar's very existence served only to confirm it.

---------

Joseph strolled around the art gallery of the university, beholding in wonder at the vast, museum-like halls bearing the works of its many previous students.

Statues, sculptures, paintings and murals of all shapes and styles adorned the walls, platforms and shelves of nearly every corner of the building's interior. Everything was art, they said, and the masterpieces certainly reflected it.

And as much as Joseph was in awe of the beauty of the gallery, something made him uneasy, as he looked at them, especially the sculpted statues that resided in glass cases, carved in eternal repose with their lifeless eyes gazing blankly into empty space.

Would this have been Caesar's fate?

Joseph couldn't bear the thought of Caesar, his roommate, his friend and companion, spending the rest of his existence like this.

What kind of life would that be?

Joseph's disturbed thoughts were interrupted when he bumped into somebody, as he was too preoccupied with the art to look where he was going.

"Oh, I'm sorry, young man," said an old, throaty voice, with a prominent Italian accent. "You need to be careful around here too."

"Apologies, Mr. Zeppeli," Joseph said awkwardly, with an uncertain scratch of his head.

Mr. William Zeppeli was one of the oldest professors in the university, and had long taught the class on the subject of three-dimensional art. Instantly recognizable by his trademark moustache and top hat, Mr. Zeppeli had mentored Joseph in his first year in the university, and was quite familiar with him.

"I'm glad to see you've come so far, Mr. Joestar," Mr. Zeppeli said with a pat on Joseph's back. "I believe you would be graduating this year, are you not?"

Joseph smiled proudly. "I sure will be, sir!"

Mr. Zeppeli gave a warm chuckle. "That's the spirit!" he said. "So, the final project is due next month. What is your grand masterpiece?"

"A bust sculpture," Joseph said impulsively, before realizing he probably shouldn't have said it out loud.

A proud, yet solemn smile emerged on Mr. Zeppeli's weathered features. "Come with me," he told Joseph.

He led Joseph towards the hall of statues, where Joseph was amazed to see a vast array of clay figures, of people, objects and places, all impressively detailed even for him. Sculptures of birds in flight, each feather intricately carved in astonishing perfection. Miniature models of famous landmarks around the world, such as a replica of the Colosseum in Rome. Faces of people molded in clay, so expressive they seemed they almost could speak.

Something that, at this point, wouldn't have surprised Joseph anymore.

"He would have loved to meet you," Mr. Zeppeli said woefully. "I've seen some of the sculptures you've made before and they remind me of him so much."

"W-who?" Joseph asked, curious at the person Mr. Zeppeli had referred to.

"My grandson," replied the old teacher with a bittersweet note in his voice.

"He went to this school a decade ago, and was one of the best students this institution had ever known. All these, the figures you see before you, are his creations, and I...I am proud to call him my grandson," said Mr. Zeppeli, as he wiped away a tear.

The old professor gestured to a small sign next to the case displaying his grandson's masterpieces. "He was a jolly fellow, if not without a strange sense of humor. You two might have become friends."

Joseph looked closely at the sign. There was something very familiar.

And as its contents sank in, his heart nearly stopped.

"IN MEMORY OF ANTHONIO ZEPPELI (1983-2008), GONE BUT FOREVER REMEMBERED," said the caption.

But what captured his attention, and struck him to the very center of his being, was the picture of the late artist displayed on the sign.

He had no pink cheek marks, and he, of course, had a body.

But he was, unmistakably and otherwise identically, Caesar.

"Is--is this him?" gasped Joseph in disbelief.

"I guess you'd recognize that face," Mr. Zeppeli gave a faint laugh. "Remember that statue of Julius Caesar displayed here, several years ago? He based it off himself. That isn't even remotely close to what the real Julius Caesar looked like, he was a talented, if strange, boy who found it amusing to stick his own likeness onto his art."

Julius Caesar, Joseph thought. His reference.

He felt a strange sensation, as if his whole world was suddenly shattered, and was slowly piecing itself back together like a jigsaw puzzle, into a new reality that seemed way too fateful for his peace of mind.

"Uh...uh...I just suddenly remembered I have a class to go to," said a flustered Joseph, quickly conjuring up an alibi. "See you later, Mr. Zeppeli!" he said, and promptly dashed off in a hurry.

-------

"Jojo? You would not believe what I just found," Suzi said, as she entered Joseph's house later that evening.

"Well, you wouldn't believe what I found out today," Joseph replied, with a shell-shocked look on his face.

Suzi was taken aback. "Looks like you've seen some serious stuff," she gasped. "Y-you go first."

"Do you know a certain Anthonio Zeppeli?" Joseph asked her.

"As in...the student who died a while back?" she said. "I've...I've heard of him, he was talked about a couple of times by my friends one year ahead of your batch. And about...what happened to him."

Caesar, who at just the right moment, had been bouncing by, was intrigued. "Happened to who?" he asked, pausing in his tracks.

Suzi sat down on the sofa. "They say he was a student from a few batches prior. He was a talented sculptor who was great at working with clay, marble, concrete..."

"Yeah, I've seen his stuff," interjected Joseph.

"Well, the thing is, they told he had been commissioned to carve a mural into a hotel's front lobby, nearly ten years ago," she told. "He was perched up on a ladder, chipping away at the wall, when suddenly, he broke a support on a stone ornament, shaped like a cross--"

"--and he was so startled when it began to topple, that he stumbled right off his ladder, fell to his death...and then the stone cross fell and landed right on top of him."

Joseph winced. That sounded like a terrible way to go.

"Well, there's something you wouldn't believe," Joseph said, pulling out a yearbook he'd borrowed from the library. Look at his face."

Suzi leaned closer for a look, and gasped in shock.

"I'd never seen what he'd looked like, but...but..."

"Caesar. It's you."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Caesar exclaimed. "I can't see anything from down here!"

Suzi picked up the bust with some effort and rested him onto the tabletop. He hopped over to the book to check out what all the commotion was about--

--and was silent for an uncomfortably long time.

"See, this is what I was gonna tell you," Suzi said. "I'd been reading on the design on the bag that you found Caesar's clay in. There were legends in ancient Mesoamerica that artists who were talented enough would be able to usher in spirits of predescessors into idols of a special sacred clay to serve as inspiration," she said.

"And maybe, just maybe, Caesar is alive-- because he is Anthonio Zeppeli's soul."

"So am I a ghost?!" Caesar screamed in terrified confusion, hopping backwards a few bounces from sheer terror. "I'm a dead man in a clay head?!" he cried, disturbed by the revelation.

"More like a reincarnation," Suzi explained. "The legends told that they became spirit guides to their creators, that they held the wisdom and knowledge of the past, but remembered little of their past lives-- rather, they carried over some traits, but were their own, unique person."

"Did they have bodies?" Joseph asked right off the bat.

"Yes... you were just unlucky to not have enough clay," she added.

Caesar groaned in frustration.

"You know, I honestly wouldn't have believed some ancient mythology," Joseph said, "but given I've been living with a talking, walking sculpture--"

"Not exactly walking," Caesar corrected.

"...er, bouncing, sculpture for the last couple of weeks, I'd take any explanation at this point." he admitted.

"I think he chose you, Joseph," Suzi said with a smile.

Caesar looked at Anthonio's picture in the yearbook, and saw only himself. The same green eyes, blond hair, unmistakable face. He lacked the pink cheek patches, however, which Joseph admitted he'd tacked on to Caesar just for kicks. Anthonio had a body.

Could he really be Anthonio Zeppeli returned from the dead? Caesar pondered. If that was true, he remembered nothing of being Anthonio.

The idea of having once been a living human unsettled Caesar.

But at the same time, he couldn't help but feel oddly vindicated.

He'd wondered often recently why he even existed, as just another of Joseph's art. What use did he serve?

But now he wondered, upon hearing of Suzi's tale-- maybe this was his purpose.

--------

(Previous Chapter)

(Next Chapter)

[sparklywaistcoat]

I find the online version of the 1967 TV Times interview with Diana Rigg unreadable online, so I’m reproducing it here for anyone else who has difficulty with accessibility due to the web page’s design.

The Girl Behind Emma Peel, TV Times, 12/10/1967 (reprinted here from http://deadline.theavengers.tv/tvt1067a.htm)

...the two worlds of actress Rigg... above, as Emma Peel of THE AVENGERS; a series seen in 40 countries; men feast their eyes on her while muttering endearments in 22 languages.  Right, Diana as she is to herself...

Diana Rigg has returned to Shakespearean acting - she is the female lead in a film version of "A Midsummer Night's Dream".

As far as she was concerned, it was the most wonderful thing that had happened to her in years.

She had been Emma Peel's alter ego so long she had to get away - - or else.

"I had become paranoid," she assured me, "with an underlying urge to pack and run.  It is a curious thing.   People who have never been subjected to it can never really understand what it means.

"I can only describe it as a sense of panic that seizes you when you are Diana to yourself and you are walking down the street.   An instant later, you are somebody else to a lot of people who behave as if you belong to them.

"If you are quite a private person, which I am, this seems an intrusion on my privacy.  I just have to run.

"Mind you," she adds, with an apologetic smile, "I am not ungrateful.  I will be the last to minimise what television has done for me.  It is a phenomenon, a miracle medium, that can accomplish in six months what takes years on the stage.  Suddenly, you are famous.  Suddenly, everybody knows you.

"The point is, though, that you are not yourself.  Only the other person you portray in the series.  That person is, of necessity, imposed by television, one-dimensional.  You ask yourself - - is it worth it?

It should be.  In the three years that Diana Rigg has spent in THE AVENGERS she has been catapulted into a position of bargaining power.

Hollywood producers have offered £100,000 to work in one film.  It seem they would go higher, if that is what she wants.  But she has turned them down.

"So far I have not been offered anything I want," she says.  "I don't want a long-term contract.  As an actress I will work where and for whom I want, if the script is exciting enough.

"If a script is good and they have a director I can trust, then I will do it."

Really it is a matter of time.  The big, international film-makers are confident they will have lassoed this high-spirited long-legged English girl long before Emma Peel loses her hold on the masses - if she ever does.

THE AVENGERS is eagerly watched each week in 40 countries, and Emma Peel (Mrs.) is the series' irrepressible whimsical Amazon of the jet set.  Men feast their eyes on her while muttering endearments in 22 languages, and their women try to emulate her - - but they never will, of course.

Consumption of champagne the world over has been increasing ever since John Steed and Emma Peel began toasting each other in bubbly stuff, from the television tube.

"Avengerwear" - - Emma's fancy "cat" suits and things - - is reaching the shelves and racks of department stores all over the world.

"Emma Peel's" international fan mail, still growing by leaps and bounds, promises to assume astronomical figures before the winter is out.

Diana never touches this mail and has enlisted mother, in Leeds, to head the Emma Peel fan mail operation.

Says Diana: "We have this room at home, measuring 20ft. by 15ft., and it is full of letters.  More are delivered each day - all addressed to me.

"I am supposed to answer them.  But I can't, and that worries me deeply.  I get persecuted by the mere thought that there's an obligation which I am not willing to fulfil.

"That is where mother comes in.  She reads, and she answers.  And I feel ashamed.  But I can't help it.

"People have made up their minds to identify me with a fantasy of theirs on television.  In their minds they want to have a relationship with me based on fantasy which can take any form.

"I have heard from my mother that there have been letters from children saying: "You look like my dead mother and so I write to you."  I think that is terrifying."

The story of Diana Rigg is, in a way, the story of two women - the real one and the imaginary one.  They are identical twins.

The conflict within this beautiful and intelligent young woman, who is just a little older than 29, reminds me of the case of Sean Connery, alias James Bond.

In Connery's case, though, there was resentment.  Connery, the man, gradually developing such a passionate hatred for the image he had created that he refused to continue as Bond even at a million dollars a throw.

He made his last two Bond films under protest.  Bond made him a multi-millionaire, but you cannot escape the feeling that he would settle for half this amount if his identity remained - that of himself and not that of the slick, women-loving, superb and deadly Secret Agent 007.

Emma Peel has some of the same qualities as 007, well-screened and suppressed, to fit into a family-watching hour on television.

The innuendo, contained in the name has been a source of Rigg's unconcealed unhappiness.

Asked what innuendo, she blushes and confides in a conspiratorial whisper: "Believe it or not, Emma Peel is a phonetical transposition of "M Appeal", the M in this case standing for Men.  In other words, "Men Appeal."  Isn't it a scream?  Sorry that I blush."

She adds wistfully: "I wanted to be Lady Peel, not for any grandiose reasons, but simply because it seemed to get some rather good comments over on the English aristocracy.  Of course they wouldn't do it."

"They" being the producers who have been running the show like a tightly-run ship.

Not unlike Sean Connery after "Goldfinger", Diana Rigg said goodbye to THE AVENGERS on the last day of a contractual stay at an ITV studio in Borehamwood, Hertfordshire, last August 31st.

"They" were highly hopeful that she would be back, if not immediately, then later.

The production schedule could be stretched to accommodate her, she was reminded.  A new regime was taking command of the series, and this, it was felt, would offer Diana an incentive.

She was not sure.  But on the last day of the last batch at the close of shooting at 5.20pm she produced a bottle of champagne to toast her co-star and co-workers.

They had become a closely-knit family, and she would miss them if she were not to come back.

"I am devoted to Patrick," she says, referring to co-star Patrick Macnee, who plays John Steed.  "I'm frightened of minimising him by talking about him, because it always sounds so glib, but he's an extremely generous and gentle and marvellous man."

They are comrades-in-arms on television.   Off screen they are the best of friends, but that is all.  Macnee married a second time during the series.  Again to quote her, she is "totally committed" to another man.

Diana is simply devoted to a number of other people on the series, including her stand-in, Diana Enright, and her double, stunt-woman, Cyd Child, who resembles her so much that all three directors of the series have dared to have Cyd perform her stunts in full-face and semi-close-up.

Viewers have yet to write to complain that the girl hurling herself through the air at an adversary is not Diana Rigg.

And then, there's Diana's studio chauffeur, John Taylor, who is also her "Man Friday".

"I wouldn't know what to do without him," she says.  A confidante, he also does her shopping while she is working, and has the ability to always be there when needed.

Diana didn't join the series under duress.   She was tested for the role, as were others after John Steed's leading lady Cathy Gale (actress Honor Blackman) left the series - - ironically for a Bond flick, "Goldfinger".

Why did a promising young Shakespearean actress offer her services to a television series Shakespearean actors have looked down on with patronising dismay?  To quote the lovely Diana: "I did it because I had left the Royal Shakespeare Company knowing that if I renewed my contract and stayed on for three or four years, I would have progressed and played good parts, but I was yearning for additional scope.

"To accomplish this I would have to plunge into the deep end, and nothing seemed deeper than this.  I was right.  Nothing is deeper."

Before dawn in a delightfully feminine bedroom the phone jangles.  The young woman sleepily answers.  Then struggles out of bed, just like a scene from THE AVENGERS.

But the call was from the telephone service Diana Rigg instructed to wake her.  It is still only 6.30 a.m.  She gropes through the house, takes her luke-warm bath, drinks a glass of lemon juice.  Into the street by 6.50 a.m. - without a touch of make-up.  "I've got no vanity at that time of the morning."

North London's suburb of St. John's Wood is still fast asleep and there's no one to catch sight of Diana Rigg below her perfectly-groomed best.  Except John Taylor, her chauffeur.  He arrives a few minutes earlier, but his instructions are to wait .... about two lines are incoherent here...

"I'm never late," she shudders, "comatose that I still am, and I hate that sound of the bell - at this ghastly hour."

Off to the studios in Borehamwood, Herts.   She reads the morning paper on the way.

"It isn't my paper," she says, "It's John'.  I don't like it but it's the only paper there, so I read it.  Every morning."  Apparently it had never occurred to her to ask John to bring her a paper.  And so... another day in the life of Emma Peel.

This has been her routine since she became a television star.  Diana moved to this house, a lot more compatible with her status, from an old mews cottage she has lived in for five years.  Not that she was so concerned with status symbols.  Diana Rigg couldn't care less about such things.

She simply fell in love with the old house in St. John's Wood.  And her accountant approved of the move.

At her new address previously lived the artist Augustus John; and once Dame Laura Knight.

There, Diana Rigg now lives in the style and comfort of her private world revolving around a specially designed kitchen and window boxes sprouting home-grown herbs.

The house is out of bounds.  Except close friends.  Not that she is a recluse.  She feels that her life is her "own ruddy business".  But when in the mood, she will readily explain that she is every jealous of preserving her own privacy.

She insists on leading a life she considers right for her; not concerned with what she defines as "other people's social consciousness.  I like to do because I wish to, not because I ought to."

Diana was born in Doncaster, in Yorkshire, on July 20th, 1938.  She had spent the early part of her life at Jodhpur in Rajputna.  Her family was in the Indian Government Service.  Later, she was sent home to school at Great Missenden in Bucks.  Eventually, her parents returned to Yorkshire to settle in Leeds, where they now live.

There, Diana finished her education at Fulneck Girls' School, enrolled at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art (The RADA) and two years later graduated to an acting career.  Was she withdrawn as a child?  "No, I don't think so.  I had the ability to withdraw and I still have it.  But above all I always has a strong sense of personal identity.

"One thing that I never did was dream.  I was always very practical.  I grew interested in the theatre when I was small but not because it offered me an entrance to a world of fantasy, but because it gave me a chance to assert myself.  And I loved its freedom.  I thought of it as a challenge."

Diana reflects: "I can still remember the first time I met an audience on these terms.  I was an understudy at Stratford-on-Avon, when I was called on to replace the principal in 'Alls Well That Ends Well'.  Her name was Priscilla Morgan.

"They gave me maybe an hour's rehearsal.  By a coincidence my parents were out front that night.  I didn't tell them that I was going on, so that when I came out and started shaking, they thought I was just walking on.  Then they realised, and sort of clutched each other in absolute fear.

"My fear was of a different kind.  I was simply not sufficiently prepared and so I was annoyed with myself.  Still, the audience was very kind as it always is when an understudy takes over and doesn't want to make a complete mess of the play, and I was led forward and allowed to take a solo bow.

"I played it for about a week, I guess.  And it was about the end of the week only that I began to enjoy it."

Then Diana was 20 years old and earning £7 10 shillings a week.  "To make ends meet, I was living on faggots, scraps of meat put inside intestines you still get at the butchers in the provinces.  Poor people's food.  They cost fourpence each.

"Four times a week, my dinner would consist of two faggots and maybe some potatoes and another vegetable, and fruit.  And you know what?  I was very healthy.  And very happy."

Diana had an old second-hand bicycle for transport around Stratford.  "And not only did I make the £7 10s stretch, but I could never do without perfume.  I guess I was so very young and this particular perfume was very heavy and musky and made me feel extremely sensual ... I never changed my perfume in all these years!"

Her faggot-eating period came to an end when she moved to London to appear in the London productions of the Royal Shakespeare Company.

The bicycle went.  Now she drives a green Mini.  She lived in the mews cottage, all this still modestly.  No more faggots, but all the perfume that she felt was required, by a young actress, not too bad-looking.

She took a small bottle when she travelled to the United States, appearing in 'King Lear' and 'The Comedy of Errors' on alternate nights.

The company also toured the Continent, as far as Moscow.  From her experience on this tour comes Diana's boundless admiration for actor Paul Scofield.

"He's been my ideal since I first saw him on the stage.  I was working with him in 'King Lear' when I became aware of his sense of identity, a strong totally compromising identity."

She says: "The beauty of it is that here is a man who has just won an Oscar in an Oscar-winning film and Hollywood is after him.  What does he do?  He's gone back to Stratford.  Obviously, he doesn't care for the money.  And he's right.  Of course, it's your beliefs that matter.

"In a way I followed his example when I agreed to film "A Midsummer Night's Dream".  Peter Brook was doing it and I believe in him and I grew up with him, so I had to answer his call.  Professionally speaking, I am part of his troupe.

"Even though I think I'm too bad for the part.  The pay?  Obviously a pittance by comparison with what I'm making, but then, money is so transitory ...  I will not forget that I could, when forced to, live on £7 and 10 Shillings.

Tourists at Athens airport could swear that the young woman killing time in the long drab waiting room  by stopping at souvenir counters to inspect, for the umpteenth time, the pseudo-Grecian vases for sale was... Emma Peel.

She wore her auburn hair loose, letting it flow to her shoulders in the manner of the star of THE AVENGERS.  And her mini-skirt revealed a pair of very feminine, familiar and beautiful legs.

"It was not easy to say I was not Mrs. Peel," Diana Rigg recalls, "because I dislike lies.  But I would have had to explain why and what I was doing there, and it was a long story."

Actually, she was changing planes, going from London to a little-known place in Western Greece.

Eventually a shaky little plane which flies up into the mountains over some breathtakingly lovely countryside delivered her there, to make the trip worth her while.

Two days later, she took the same route back to London and Borehamwood, Herts., to resume where Emma Peel had left off.

It was an unconventional way to spend two days off the series.  "I go to the craziest places for the weekend," she said, dismissing all attempts to explain herself.

In the case of the Greek place, a British film unit was there shooting "Oedipus, The King", and lots of friends were there.

One weekend last winter she flew to Zurich, rented a car at the airport and set out, a map in her lap, for Klosters, the Swiss ski resort.

"I drove through the night, with the craziest Swiss drivers whizzing past me over the ice-covered road," she said.   "It twisted its way through the mountains, and I just hung on the wheel and prayed.  I could have turned back, but I didn't.  Too proud."

Until this experience, she had never motored on the Continent before, much less had snow-covered mountains by herself.

All of which seems to indicate that, not unlike Emma Peel, Diana Rigg is a rather unusual person.

It was she - and not Emma Peel - who helped to launch the mini-skirt, in an attempt to be different.

"The designer and the other men were horrified," she said, chuckling at memories of production executives looking aghast at the abbreviated skirt she was wearing and which she wanted Emma to wear.

"They pulled their hair ... said you can't do that, it's impossible ... I argued that one must look forward and not back and by wearing these brief skirts, one was looking forward.

"In fact, one was creating fashion very avant-garde, rather than remaining at the tail end of last year's styles.  And it turned out that I couldn't have been more right."

Not that she has profited financially from the so-called "Avenger-wear" that mirrors her ideas.  After all, she's an actress!

Nor does she care to identify with an image.  "I never wear the clothes in the series outside," she said.

"But there's a style there that I think is common to both of us, and I have no intention of changing my appearance after Emma Peel is no more.  After all, it was I who affected her."

She has no intention either of abandoning the mini-skirt, which, as far as she is concerned, was from the beginning Diana Rigg expressing herself.

Where the tastes of Emma Peel and Diana Rigg meet is champagne.  Emma loves it, Diana loves it.  And, for the record, she loved it before she became Emma Peel.

"I'm always very well stocked," she said, "but I never drink it at the studio.

"The stuff Patrick Macnee and I drink on camera is bubbly lemonade, very harmless.  I don't touch the stuff then.  You mustn't when you work.  At home, well, that's another story ..."

Diana's secret passion is to cook, and to have friends come to her house in London's St. John's Wood to enjoy her meals, without much ceremony, exquisitely prepared with the help of her home-grown herbs.

"I'm not joking," she proudly expounded on the subject of her herbs.  "They are all mine, and they all grow in window boxes outside my kitchen.  Every window has its own herbs.

"Left to right, I have sage, thyme, marjoram, rosemary, which is very beautiful, chervil, and two kinds of mint, sorrel and my bay trees.

"Bay tree leaves are marvellous for fish ... true mine are more like baby trees.  And basil, and fennel, and chives.  And that's it.  Except that they all live and prosper, outside my kitchen windows in London."  The secret passion of Diana Rigg ...

"I had always wanted to grow my own herbs," she said.  "This was my obsession.  So I got the address of a herb farm 95 miles out of town, and one morning I went there.

"A little old lady took me around and she muttered under her breath and said they would never grow in the London smoke.  I said I'd like to try anyway.  So, she shook her head and gave me what I wanted.

"They came in little pots, as I brought them back to London they were all looking sad and sick.

"So I put them in larger pots and stuck them in my window boxes and every day I watered them out of a jug.  And the miracle came to pass."

Diana Rigg has become enriched as an actress in the years at Stratford-on-Avon; on tours and the three years that she has played Emma Peel in THE AVENGERS.

She tells about the director she met at a party who told her he had a marvellous script for her.  She had it sent over.

"Well, if I wasn't the girl who comes tearing through the door with a gun in one hand and a flame-thrower in the other," she reported in mock despair, "I was the sexy siren sneaking through the door in Veronica Lake style.  I lost my temper, for the first time.

"I sent them a message saying that I couldn't do it."

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Why I won't buy an Ipad: ten years later

Ten years ago, Apple released the Ipad. I was in a hotel room in Seattle, jetlagged and awake at 4AM while my wife and daughter slept.

I had been thinking about Apple's impending Ipad release and what a reversal it meant for everything I loved about tech: taking away your right to decide whose code you'd run -- even your right to change the battery! I wrote about my feelings and many people read it. It even rated a mention in Walter Isaacson's biography of Steve Jobs.

A decade later, the Ipad is ten years old and Apple has killed 20 state Right to Repair bills, in part to lock out third parties who might change you batteries for you.

I just reread that piece, and I still stand by it.

Why I won't buy an iPad (and think you shouldn't, either)

I've spent ten years now on Boing Boing, finding cool things that people have done and made and writing about them. Most of the really exciting stuff hasn't come from big corporations with enormous budgets, it's come from experimentalist amateurs. These people were able to make stuff and put it in the public's eye and even sell it without having to submit to the whims of a single company that had declared itself gatekeeper for your phone and other personal technology.

Danny O'Brien does a very good job of explaining why I'm completely uninterested in buying an iPad -- it really feels like the second coming of the CD-ROM "revolution" in which "content" people proclaimed that they were going to remake media by producing expensive (to make and to buy) products. I was a CD-ROM programmer at the start of my tech career, and I felt that excitement, too, and lived through it to see how wrong I was, how open platforms and experimental amateurs would eventually beat out the spendy, slick pros.

I remember the early days of the web -- and the last days of CD ROM -- when there was this mainstream consensus that the web and PCs were too durned geeky and difficult and unpredictable for "my mom" (it's amazing how many tech people have an incredibly low opinion of their mothers). If I had a share of AOL for every time someone told me that the web would die because AOL was so easy and the web was full of garbage, I'd have a lot of AOL shares.

And they wouldn't be worth much.

Incumbents made bad revolutionaries Relying on incumbents to produce your revolutions is not a good strategy. They're apt to take all the stuff that makes their products great and try to use technology to charge you extra for it, or prohibit it altogether.

I mean, look at that Marvel app (just look at it). I was a comic-book kid, and I'm a comic-book grownup, and the thing that made comics for me was sharing them. If there was ever a medium that relied on kids swapping their purchases around to build an audience, it was comics. And the used market for comics! It was -- and is -- huge, and vital. I can't even count how many times I've gone spelunking in the used comic-bins at a great and musty store to find back issues that I'd missed, or sample new titles on the cheap. (It's part of a multigenerational tradition in my family -- my mom's father used to take her and her sibs down to Dragon Lady Comics on Queen Street in Toronto every weekend to swap their old comics for credit and get new ones).

So what does Marvel do to "enhance" its comics? They take away the right to give, sell or loan your comics. What an improvement. Way to take the joyous, marvellous sharing and bonding experience of comic reading and turn it into a passive, lonely undertaking that isolates, rather than unites. Nice one, Misney.

Infantalizing hardware Then there's the device itself: clearly there's a lot of thoughtfulness and smarts that went into the design. But there's also a palpable contempt for the owner. I believe -- really believe -- in the stirring words of the Maker Manifesto: if you can't open it, you don't own it. Screws not glue. The original Apple ][+ came with schematics for the circuit boards, and birthed a generation of hardware and software hackers who upended the world for the better. If you wanted your kid to grow up to be a confident, entrepreneurial, and firmly in the camp that believes that you should forever be rearranging the world to make it better, you bought her an Apple ][+.

But with the iPad, it seems like Apple's model customer is that same stupid stereotype of a technophobic, timid, scatterbrained mother as appears in a billion renditions of "that's too complicated for my mom" (listen to the pundits extol the virtues of the iPad and time how long it takes for them to explain that here, finally, is something that isn't too complicated for their poor old mothers).

The model of interaction with the iPad is to be a "consumer," what William Gibson memorably described as "something the size of a baby hippo, the color of a week-old boiled potato, that lives by itself, in the dark, in a double-wide on the outskirts of Topeka. It's covered with eyes and it sweats constantly. The sweat runs into those eyes and makes them sting. It has no mouth... no genitals, and can only express its mute extremes of murderous rage and infantile desire by changing the channels on a universal remote."

The way you improve your iPad isn't to figure out how it works and making it better. The way you improve the iPad is to buy iApps. Buying an iPad for your kids isn't a means of jump-starting the realization that the world is yours to take apart and reassemble; it's a way of telling your offspring that even changing the batteries is something you have to leave to the professionals.

Dale Dougherty's piece on Hypercard and its influence on a generation of young hackers is a must-read on this. I got my start as a Hypercard programmer, and it was Hypercard's gentle and intuitive introduction to the idea of remaking the world that made me consider a career in computers.

Wal-Martization of the software channel And let's look at the iStore. For a company whose CEO professes a hatred of DRM, Apple sure has made DRM its alpha and omega. Having gotten into business with the two industries that most believe that you shouldn't be able to modify your hardware, load your own software on it, write software for it, override instructions given to it by the mothership (the entertainment industry and the phone companies), Apple has defined its business around these principles. It uses DRM to control what can run on your devices, which means that Apple's customers can't take their "iContent" with them to competing devices, and Apple developers can't sell on their own terms.

The iStore lock-in doesn't make life better for Apple's customers or Apple's developers. As an adult, I want to be able to choose whose stuff I buy and whom I trust to evaluate that stuff. I don't want my universe of apps constrained to the stuff that the Cupertino Politburo decides to allow for its platform. And as a copyright holder and creator, I don't want a single, Wal-Mart-like channel that controls access to my audience and dictates what is and is not acceptable material for me to create. The last time I posted about this, we got a string of apologies for Apple's abusive contractual terms for developers, but the best one was, "Did you think that access to a platform where you can make a fortune would come without strings attached?" I read it in Don Corleone's voice and it sounded just right. Of course I believe in a market where competition can take place without bending my knee to a company that has erected a drawbridge between me and my customers!

Journalism is looking for a daddy figure I think that the press has been all over the iPad because Apple puts on a good show, and because everyone in journalism-land is looking for a daddy figure who'll promise them that their audience will go back to paying for their stuff. The reason people have stopped paying for a lot of "content" isn't just that they can get it for free, though: it's that they can get lots of competing stuff for free, too. The open platform has allowed for an explosion of new material, some of it rough-hewn, some of it slick as the pros, most of it targetted more narrowly than the old media ever managed. Rupert Murdoch can rattle his saber all he likes about taking his content out of Google, but I say do it, Rupert. We'll miss your fraction of a fraction of a fraction of a percent of the Web so little that we'll hardly notice it, and we'll have no trouble finding material to fill the void.

Just like the gadget press is full of devices that gadget bloggers need (and that no one else cares about), the mainstream press is full of stories that affirm the internal media consensus. Yesterday's empires do something sacred and vital and most of all grown up, and that other adults will eventually come along to move us all away from the kids' playground that is the wild web, with its amateur content and lack of proprietary channels where exclusive deals can be made. We'll move back into the walled gardens that best return shareholder value to the investors who haven't updated their portfolios since before eTrade came online.

But the real economics of iPad publishing tell a different story: even a stellar iPad sales performance isn't going to do much to stanch the bleeding from traditional publishing. Wishful thinking and a nostalgia for the good old days of lockdown won't bring customers back through the door.

Gadgets come and gadgets go Gadgets come and gadgets go. The iPad you buy today will be e-waste in a year or two (less, if you decide not to pay to have the battery changed for you). The real issue isn't the capabilities of the piece of plastic you unwrap today, but the technical and social infrastructure that accompanies it.

If you want to live in the creative universe where anyone with a cool idea can make it and give it to you to run on your hardware, the iPad isn't for you.

If you want to live in the fair world where you get to keep (or give away) the stuff you buy, the iPad isn't for you.

If you want to write code for a platform where the only thing that determines whether you're going to succeed with it is whether your audience loves it, the iPad isn't for you.

https://boingboing.net/2020/01/27/nascent-boulangism.html

[evien-stark]

✧I Need You✧  Chapter 193

It was nice to be able to allow yourself a break in the middle of the weekday after such… adventures. Sure, it was only one day. But sleeping in on a Wednesday was not a gift you would look the other way on. Nor was it something you would complain about. Especially when you woke up right next to the only person worth waking up to. You sleeping in was one thing. Tony sleeping in was a whole other fantasy world that only happened a few times a year. There was no reason to spoil it. 

So delight in your Wednesday off you did. Mostly in the company of each other. ...alright, entirely in each other’s company. No reason to go out. No reason to do anything but get lost in one another as long as the world would let you. It was why wishful thinking got a little too heavy. And the universe, as always, wanted to deliver on its promises to keep you working. 

The very next morning,  as snow continued to fall in the city, Damage Control put in a frantic call to your office. You weren’t there, of course, still cozied up under the covers pretending life was perfect. But Pepper calling up to the penthouse was more than enough to get you out of bed and dressed. ...and because it wasn’t fair, you tried to do so as quietly as possible. 

Tony deserved more sleep still. 

Two of the Hammer warehouses had been emptied out completely already. DC seemed particularly on top of things this time around. What you weren’t too excited about, however, was the sight of Maria Hill (...you hoped it was Maria, anyway, but were keen to play stupid if it wasn’t) standing outside the warehouse you had busted into only two days prior. Clipboard in hand, barking orders. Feeling particularly stressed about something. 

When you got out of the car, asking Happy not to go far, she gave you a brief once over and then hooked her thumb over her shoulder. “I have to show you something. You’re not gonna like it.” 

“Do I ever?” Beyond tired at this point. She was the head of Damage Control. So if she was calling you at seven in the morning, it was probably pretty bad. And boy. You were just so over everything being bad.

While most of the warehouse had been emptied of its contents, no doubt already miles away on trucks headed to your own warehouses for dismantling, there were more than a few large crates sitting in the middle of the floor. Probably put there after inspection. After one manager turned to another with shrugs and scratches of their heads, not knowing what to do. 

Seems Maria Hill didn’t know what to do either. So what did everyone do when nobody knew what to do? Why. They called you of course. 

The fact that there were people on guard made you just a little bit leery, too. It wasn’t like they were expecting people to bust in and try to steal whatever contents were left over. What was everyone so jumpy about? The people with weapons poised gave Maria- and you- a salute as you approached, and then they yanked one of the lids off the crate closest. 

Inside was… Well. Not something you wanted to see. 

Metals that had been dismantled and repurposed, reshaped and retooled- but you remembered them. And you realized tired was a useless thought at this point. You were well beyond tired. Now you were just sort of numb. Yet strangely at the same time getting angry. 

How many god damn times were you going to come face to face with this stuff? 

You crossed your arms tightly. “So. Hammer Industries scooped themselves up some Chitauri parts. Color me shocked.” Of course being entirely facetious. It seemed at this point that everyone and their mother had gone out into the streets of New York City and grabbed a dead body, a gun, a part of a space whale- anything. This shit was all over.

And you had tasked Damage Control with getting all of it. Yet here- again- you were being faced with evidence that they hadn’t. Again. How many times was too many? How many people from Hydra had to show up with this stuff? Now Hammer Industries, too? There was no telling what they’d been trying to do with it. 

Maria’s expression was as dry as the Sahara. “Wait ‘till you see what they were doing with the stuff.” The next item on her tour, no doubt. 

One of the soldiers stepped aside, opening up a silver briefcase. Probably found in that office upstairs. Maybe the people inside of it had been negotiating a sale for what you were currently looking at. Five large bullets in perfect foam lining. All branded. Hammer Industries. Not even trying to hide it. They were huge, probably 50 cal. ...this was a huge problem. Wedging one out of the case, you held it closer. “These were made with Chitauri metals?” 

“Almost exclusively.” Maria crossed her arms. “They call them Judas Bullets. And they were created with one thing in mind.” 

You tore your gaze away from that monstrous weapon to look at her. And just the way she was staring at you spoke volumes. These weren’t ordinary bullets for ordinary people. These were superbullets. 

For superhumans. 

Was this what Justin had been talking about? These were flooding the streets? Nothing good could come out of this. Arming citizens who were already starting to get spooked about enhanced individuals with overkill methods of actually hurting them… your heart skipped a beat. Maybe two. But you kept a calm face. “I want every ledger of every sale on my desk. And I want you to go after every buyer. Down whatever rabbit hole- whatever leads you have to- to whatever chain of command it takes you. I want these gone.” 

“You think it’s wise to startle people who are already frightened?” Maria’s brow arched as she asked this. 

And you weren’t quite sure what she was getting at. “I think it’s wise to disarm a war before it starts. Be quiet about it. Do your job. And put details on buyers that have the exact kind of means it takes to start a war like the one they’re afraid of.” This was probably not the exact right move. Maria may have had a point. 

People wanted to even the playing field. They wanted to feel safe where they may have started to feel like enhanced people were threatening them. But your team would handle those people. And your team was going to be the first one shot at when that simply wasn’t enough. You couldn’t let that happen. Not now and not ever. 

Maria stared at you for just a few seconds longer before nodding. “Understood. We’ll send these to Stark’s lab. We’ll have a head start before any of this becomes serious.” Because Tony would get to work. He’d figure out what made these work and then would figure out exactly what it took to make them not work. That was what Tony did. 

But the thought of having to make him do that hurt your heart a little. He was already worried about a million things. It was terrible to put one more thing on his plate. ...but at the same time… It was Tony or no one. He was the only one capable. 

You wished you were smart enough to shoulder some of that world for him. But you just weren’t. No one was. 

Thoughts were swirling in your brain. “This isn’t a coincidence.” Nothing in your world was. 

Maria was silent for a moment before she connected the dots. “With the ATCU?” 

“It can’t be a coincidence.” Doubling down. “But- Hammer Industries had their military contracts pulled after the Expo.” That was forever ago. But all of it seemed to be coming back now. All of it seemed to matter now. Why? “Someone has a need for this- someone wants this. We have to find out who.” 

“I think I know who.” 

The voice that called from the mouth of the warehouse was wholly unfamiliar, and as you and Maria both turned, so was the person it came from. A fairly normal looking woman, medium length dark tight curly hair, and a very displeased expression about her. The DC guards that were there raised their guns but both you and Maria were quick to raise an arm to get them to relax. 

Happy was hot behind her. “I said you can’t go in there!” Diligently trying to do his job, as always.

You walked a little closer towards her. “This is private property.” Really not in the mood for whatever little game this was. You raised a hand to Happy to get him to relax a little. You could handle whatever this was. 

“Sorry. Let me introduce myself.” She dipped into her jacket pocket and produced a gold police shield. Waving it so that everyone could see. “Detective Misty Knight.” 

“Well, detective, since you didn’t hear me before- this is private property. So you’re going to have to leave.” Police or not, she had no right to be here. 

She dared to come closer, so you met her halfway. The two of you mirrored each other, crossing your arms. She peered up at you, brow arching. “I’m in the middle of an investigation.” 

Your lips quirked. “Glad to hear it. Do you have a warrant?” Not interested at all what investigation that was or why it brought her here. All you knew was that she needed to go away. Now. 

“No. But I’ll get one.” Very sure of herself. 

You nodded. “Well, come back when you do. Now, are you going to leave? Or am I going to have to have you escorted off the property?” 

Her stare was calm and calculating as she fixed it on you. After a long pause, “What’s your involvement with Luke Cage?” 

This surprised you- that she’d ask such a thing- that name even. But you held it all in and continued to outwardly express only the best impassiveness you could muster. “None.” 

“Really? What about Mariah Dillard?” Misty quickly held a hand up. “Let me just say- the timing of you taking down these warehouses lines up perfectly with her little speech the other day. Considering what’s going on with Luke Cage and… your affiliation… my intuition says this is a little more than nothing.” 

You leaned in just a little, enough to encroach her personal space. Because you were in charge here. Not her. “Your intuition is wrong. And you better hope that hasn’t been your guiding light on every case you’ve ever ran. If it’s wrong now, who knows what else it was wrong about?” Threatening her. 

Very plainly. 

Being who you were- where you were- your position in the world- you were not someone to be trifled with. You’d bury her so far underneath paperwork she’d never see the light of day, as she watched all her cases get reopened. And for what? Threatening you? 

Gray areas were getting grayer every day. 

It helped, a little, knowing you were in the right here. Your affiliation with Luke Cage ran about as thin as a sheet of paper. You’d barely had more than four conversations with the man. If he was getting himself into trouble- or more likely, trouble had found him, you knew- that was none of your business. And you had nothing to do with it. And Mariah Dillard…? Some random councilwoman in Harlem? You had even less knowledge about. 

So whatever tree Detective Misty Knight was barking up, it was the wrong one. And the only reason she’d be here now was that she’d exhausted every other lead on whatever she was working on. You had a very loose connection with Luke. She was hoping to work that towards her advantage. But what you wouldn’t stand for was that double-faced definition of affiliation. 

She knew what she was saying. And so did you. 

The two of you were staring each other down. You had all the power here, but she still dared. Why? What would it gain her to stay here any longer? You had nothing to offer her. And her getting escorted out of what was now Stark Industries property would not be a very good look for her. 

She softened. Just a little. “Believe it or not, I’m actually trying to help Luke.” Whether or not this was true- and it was, something only you would know- made no difference. It was bait either way. 

Which was why you remained firm. “Last chance. Walk. Or security takes you out.” 

She was terribly bold as she smiled, and even leaned a little bit into your personal space. “I’ll be seeing you.” Waiting a moment, then turning, putting her hands in her pockets, and walking out. 

                                                              ---

In the backseat of the car, you held your phone up. LUNA had pulled exactly what you were looking for. Exactly what Misty Knight had been talking about. Mariah Dillard giving a speech to the people of Harlem. 

“Goddamn vigilantes who call themselves heroes, like Luke Cage, they are dangerous. They are a menace to the safety, the security, and the sanctity of our community.” 

It really didn’t take a lot more digging to find out what she was so upset about. The supposed murder of her cousin, Cornell Stokes- who was better known as a big crimelord named Cottonmouth. None of this had to do with you. And what it had to do with Luke…? 

You waited until you were back in the sanctity of your office to figure that out. Getting his number wasn’t that hard. You didn’t really expect him to pick up. Luckily, for both of you, he did. “Hello?” He sounded terribly tired. Seemed to be going around. 

“Luke it’s-” 

“I know who it is. What can I do for you?” Considering what he was stuck in the middle of, you didn’t take offense to his curt tone. The last you’d seen him, he’d been pretty grateful for your help. 

“Detective Misty Knight came to see me. About you. Are you in trouble?” 

“Nothing I can’t figure out myself.” 

“Why does she think I’m involved?” 

“Take a wild guess.” 

It had everything to do with that affiliation, and the fact that Mariah Dillard was stoking up fears all over the city about enhanced individuals. Reckless vigilantes. “I respect that this doesn’t have anything to do with me personally, but all that wild guessing is asking for trouble.” 

Luke sighed heavily. “I hear you. But- listen- don’t take too much offense to this- but Harlem is already a mess. You charging in here is only gonna make it worse. I’ll fix this.” You had no idea what this was, and it was probably better that way. “And for the record, Misty Knight is a good person.” 

“I figured. Said she was trying to help you.” This was not a productive discussion. He was telling you to stay off his turf, more or less. You had to respect that… until the moment it bit you in the ass. Still. Luke had always been pretty fair with you, in what little interaction you’d had with him. You had to trust him on this one. “Okay. I’m officially continuing to look the other way.” 

“I appreciate it.” With the call over you were about one second from hanging up- “Wait.” 

“Hmn?” Curious now. 

It took him a little while to build up the courage. To ask for something. But when he did… “There’s this app that’s getting in my way. Called Harlem’s Hero. Don’t know who made it. But now people are tracking me down with it. Can you… do something about that?” 

It wasn’t right and you didn’t know him enough to be ribbing him, but still. You couldn’t help your small smile. “And what would you like me to do?” 

“I don’t know. But if anyone can do something about it- out of the people I know- it’s you. Can you help me out?” 

“I’ll look into it.” 

                                                                ---

An few hours later you were just barely able to get yourself out from underneath several mountains of paperwork- personal- and two sides of professional, Stark Industries and Avengers- 

Practically unaware that you were on the move until the elevator stopped and you stepped out into Tony’s private labs. You were seeking him out. Probably for comfort. Too many things were swirling about in your mind. The ATCU- now these Judas Bullets- whatever Ross was up to- were they all connected somehow? 

People getting riled up about vigilantes- Charles Xavier and the mutants- Inhumans-

Kree- Skrulls- Chitauri- 

Flames licked the side of your face. An explosion went off somewhere. Above you- “Honey?” 

You blinked yourself awake to see Tony staring at you. He had been sitting at a workbench, one of those bullets dismantled in front of him. Holograms of multiple known Chitauri weaponry were sitting in the air. Along with chemical compounds- equations- things far beyond you. And while he had been working, he was now making his way over to you. 

Your mouth felt thick. Words wouldn’t come out. He stopped just in front of you, reaching a grounding touch out to you. One careful caress at the side of your neck. “You okay?” 

You swallowed hard and nodded to his desk. “You figure out what those do?” 

He half glanced back but then put his attention back on you fully. “Think of them as armor piercing but for enhanced skin. And they have a nice little detonation package. Nothing I can’t work around. ...is that what’s upsetting you?” 

That and a million other things. It was a stupid thing to ask but you couldn’t help yourself, instinctively trying to push all the bad things away and insist you were fine. To the one person who wouldn’t buy that in a million years. “Why do you think I’m upset?” 

His hands drifted down taking hold of yours. And it was when he squeezed, you realized. “You’re shaking.” 

Tony was just being nice. You weren’t shaking.

You were trembling. 

 “Let’s sit down, okay?” His voice flitted in and out. You let him guide you to his workbench nearest, sit you there. And as you looked up at him you barely registered yourself talking about all of your current worries. Everything that seemed like it was looming on the horizon, all the things that were mixing together now. The non-coincidences. Just… just all of it.

 And when you were finished, he ran a hand through your hair, soothing the ache of anxiety that had you tied up so tight. That gentle familiar touch strayed, down along your temple, over the line of your jaw, and then just underneath your chin. He didn’t direct you, but you looked up anyway.

 His answer was a simple one, “I thought we were retiring.” Grin tired. Tired, because he was consuming all your worries. Whether he wanted to or not.

 Reaching up, you put your hand around his wrist. Holding on. As always. “Feels like we haven’t done much retirement at all since we said we were gonna.”

 “We can’t fix everything. And the things that we can, we will. But for now, a lot of the things you’re talking about haven’t even happened yet.”

 “The man who has a plan for everything is telling me to plan for nothing. Seriously?” Smirking up at him just a little, although you weren’t feeling much of it.

 His expression shifted into a devastating smile. “Yeah. That’s exactly what’s happening.”

 And the only reason Tony would do something like that… was because he was already doing all the planning.

[harrystylescocktailhour]

The beginners guide to cocktails

Hello everyone!

Thanks for following along, and welcome to the Harry Styles Cocktail Hour. I’ve been mulling over this concept for over 2 years now, and now that it’s finally come to fruition (thanks quarantine) I really wanted to sit down and do this properly.

This isn’t going to be some hardcore cocktailing. I don’t expect you to have super expensive bar tools (heck, I don’t even have super expensive bar tools), and I don’t want you to go out and do the first bartending course you can find (although they are knowledgeable and sure if in your free time you want to do it, you can!!! New skills ftw!), but there will be things that I will try to explain in better detail for those of you who are fairly new to making fancy-ish cocktails.

Still with me? Let’s get to it!

I was about 20 when I really got into nice cocktails. There’s something kind of magical about concocting your own brews and mixes, finding flavours that pair well together, etc. It wasn’t until later on in life when I was a bartender that I really got into it, and was able to bring some ideas to life.

And of course, there is the added benefit of being able to taste your masterpieces when you’re done. It’s a good bonus.

Now: don’t be disheartened if you muck something up. Even the best bartenders can slip. I will do my best to keep instructions and terminology as simple as possible, but if ever you need clarification, I’ll be here for you!

In terms of what I do believe you should have if you plan on following- I have a simple list:

shot glass: generally they come in 1 oz or 2 oz. There are varying types, glass or metal doesn’t matter, but I use a Jigger that has a 1 oz shot on one end and a 2 oz shot on the other. Amazon has a set for under $10 if you’re interested!

shaker: this doesn’t need to be a fancy one (though if you want to buy yourself an actual cocktail shaker - most kitchen stores carry different versions, but a metal one will always work better than a plastic one) - and I actually use a mason jar these days to shake up my cocktails. Anything that’s durable and has a tight sealing lid will do.

bar spoon/muddler: ideally yes, this is a tool that I will use a lot when I make cocktails, and if you can find a bar spoon that has a muddler attached, then you’re golden. However, if you’re not wanting to purchase anything: a wooden spoon with a long handle will also do the trick.

strainer: If you decide to buy a shaker, many already come with a strainer. This isn’t an absolute must, but as you go along it’s always a nice piece to have, especially when a recipe calls to strain the liquid.

Again: there are tons of bar products out there, but these are the four that I think are the most important for what we’re trying to achieve!

In terms of glassware: I am not really fussy. A cocktail still tastes great whether its in a rocks glass or a highball or out of a plastic cup. As you go on, and you decide that making nice drinks is something you’re interested in, then sure- invest in nice glassware, but it isn’t a necessary step right now. I will use terminology when it comes to glasses that will sound weird but I promise it isn’t a big deal if you don’t have the right glass.

Alcohol. Ok so.

I’m on the older side of the fandom, and have had my fair share of cocktails and drinks. My palate when I was 20 is vastly different to what it is now. I do favour nicer, higher end or ‘craft’ liquors over the cheaper mass produced stuff, because when it comes down to it: the craft brands have a better flavour (less like rubbing alcohol or turpentine) and most of the time they’re local and I support that. I will suggest brands that I think are good for each cocktail- but that doesn’t mean you have to run out and get it - cocktailing can be expensive - but I do suggest you have 5 in your arsenal:

vodka - a no-brainer.I would stay away from Smirnoff or Absolut, but if its what you have that is totally okay. I favour Tito’s when I work with cocktails.

rum - a dark one if you can - I find it more flavourful than a white rum, but again: if it’s what you have we can work with it. I’d stick to a Caribbean or Jamaican made rum. (Rum isn’t always my jam but I am happy to make suggestions if need be!!)

whiskey/bourbon - there are so many varients out there, and it can be overwhelming, and not every place has the same thing. (which is frustrating when you’re trying to run a cocktail blog, truly!) Currently I have a bottle of Ezra Brooks bourbon whiskey (not super expensive) and a bottle of Bulleit bourbon (a little more on the expensive side) on my shelf.

gin - again, not my favourite liquor when it’s on its own , but for cocktail purposes it’s so, so good. I use a local gin from Ontario called Dillon’s (and they make a whole bunch of amazing different spirits, so if you’re from ON, check them out), but the only advice I can give you is to stay away from the super pine-y gins. If you can get craft, amazing - but if you go with Beefeater or Tanqueray that’s okay too.

tequila - I won’t budge generally on tequila: you need a good one if you’re going to make cocktails. I’m using Casamigos blanco at the moment, but there are plenty of tequilas out there (that aren’t Souza or Jose Cuervo) that will work. Try to stay to the ‘blanco’ side, though!

And there will be times I ask for additional liquors, such as Aperol (a bitter appertif) or St Germain (an elderflower liqueur) but don’t feel the need to buy them right away. They can get fairly expensive and I will try to always find substitutes when I can. I want everyone to be able to try these cocktails, and I will do my best to curate and adapt them the best I can. 

Simple syrup. Ah yes, my baby.

For those who don’t know, a simple syrup is an equal mix of sugar and hot water, simmered down until all the sugar is dissolved - making a sweet syrup for cocktails, and much easier to use than sugar alone (though sometimes I’ll use sugar alone, it’ll depend on the drink!!). I will use different variations of simple syrup in my cocktails, but the basic recipe is this:

1 cup white sugar

1 cup water

add ingredients to a saucepan and stir over medium heat until sugar has dissolved. Lower heat and let sit for 5 minutes before taking pan off the heat. Cool completely before use.

Simple syrup can last for up to a month in the fridge! I talk a lot about infusing the simple syrup - and basically you’re adding a flavouring agent to the syrup while it’s simmering. Kind of like steeping tea. The longer you steep a flavour into your syrup, the stronger it will be.

Bitters

I will talk about bitters a lot. It is an aromatic made of herbs and spices and sometimes liquor and adds a certain depth and flavour to cocktails.  I make my own (because I am a nerd) but if you don’t feel like being that extra, Angostura bitters is usually the one to use, as every bar everywhere has been using it for centuries. There are different flavours, too, but the one with the yellow cap (the traditional bitters) is the one to get.

I think that’s it for now: hopefully I’ve not lost any of you yet! The askbox is open, so please feel free to drop a line and I will do my best to answer. And if there’s certain techniques or things you want to see, I am happy to get some feedback as well!

Again, thanks for following along- I can’t wait to go on this journey with all of you. And if you’re not yet: I’m on instagram, too!

xo

[itsclydebitches]

I'm not sure the best way to ask this but I'll try, sorry if I send a bunch of anons. I got into a discussion about what constitutes "bad writing" and as a writer who views writing as art, I personally have a hard time actually saying any writing is bad (even when it is literally hard or cringe to read lol). I personally tend to read stories and if there's stuff that doesn't make sense or lacks continuity, I tend to naturally change the story to make sense/be "better" (for myself). (Cont)

It’s a crazy complicated subject, isn’t it? I too view writing (any craft, really) as art. Which, for me, doesn’t mean that writing can’t be bad, but rather I acknowledge that “bad” is a subjective label and there’s no art in the world that’s “bad” to every single person. Which is why censorship can’t exist. The art that one group deems “bad” in an ethical manner can’t have the power to destroy it when another group needs and thrives on that art. (And I’ve spoken before about that careful balance between allowing art to exist/allowing for its creation but making your morals known regarding individual pieces. e.g. “I’m not going to blindly fight against everyone who creates kink art but if you created something that, say, fetishizes a group in an offensive and potentially dangerous way, people have the right to speak up about that.”) 

But here we’re not talking about “bad” moral writing, but rather “bad” entertainment writing. Even though, in reality, the two are rarely separate issues. But let’s assume they are for a moment. Yes, I wholeheartedly agree that from one perspective “bad” writing simply does not exist. The cringeiest YA novel is going to be some teen’s favorite book. The song that sounds like nonsense noise to you may be another’s anthem. Someone fell in love with that fic, or that drawing, or the lopsided sweater you knit. So right in those examples we can see how “good” art often depends on: 

Your relationships (a “bad” drawing by a child is going to mean something to their mother) 

Your age (people adore books as teens that they later realize were “bad,” but it wasn’t “bad” according to who you were at the time) 

Previous skill level (if you just started knitting and you could barely manage a scarf last year, that sweater is “good” now, comparatively) 

Experience (someone with very little knowledge of animation might be blown away by a show that’s sneered at by someone who consumes the medium regularly) 

What you as an individual prioritize (when people talk about a “good” story one might be referencing the plot, the other might be referencing the world building, the third relatable characters, and everyone has a different list of requirements for what makes a “good” tale) 

Something unidentifiable based on our tastes that, notably, are always changing

So obviously art is subjective. However, when we’re talking about art in the media that’s meant to be consumed by the masses, we need to introduce two crucial elements: 

This is art that (usually) someone paid for, in one manner or another. Producing this art was someone’s job. Thus, there are expectations attached to the experience that help people determine whether it’s “good” or “bad.” If you paid for a show that implied it would have solid continuity and then it failed to produce that, that’s now an issue between a buyer and a seller. Like going to a restaurant, paying for a burger, and getting a sandwich instead. We can argue that they’re very similar foods. We can argue that the sandwich is still a delicious food to receive. We can argue that you have to power to go home to your own kitchen and make a burger yourself if you’re that picky... but at the end of the day you ordered something (or, to be clearer regarding media, were encouraged to expect something) and then didn’t receive it. That makes people mad. Or at best, disappointed. People may naturally be inclined to do the work of the writers tasked with providing their entertainment - making things “better” as you say - but that shouldn’t be a requirement. When I pay someone to make my food it’s not a part of the unspoken contract that I will doctor the meal extensively until it resembles what I thought I was paying for. 

Though subjective, there are types of art that the majority of people tend to prefer. Consistency being a major one. Are there abstract forms of art that deliberately work to confuse or frustrate viewers and do people find that engaging? Absolutely. Do the majority of people want to work hard to follow/understand/explain the story they sat down to watch at the end of a long day? Nope. It’s the safe bet of “Yeah, some people might not care if we retcon this but more people are probably going to be upset that we can’t follow our own story rules.” That consistency spreads to everything, including things like character arcs and endings. If you look at controversial shows like How I Met Your Mother or Dexter, when people say “This was a bad ending” they rarely mean “No one could ever like this conclusion.” Rather, they mean that “The vast majority of us expected something based on what you previously produced and then you failed to provide that. This doesn’t make sense and thus we feel lied to.” 

The purpose of (most) stories isn’t to produce feelings of betrayal, anger, frustration, and disappointment in your audience. So if a story does produce those feelings via all that you mention - lost potential, lack of continuity, numerous mistakes, etc. - then it has failed to do what (most) stories seek to do. Again, not all stories are like this. Many do try to produce such feelings. But for the majority of mainstream works if your audience doesn’t experience feelings of happiness (or catharsis) and satisfaction... then the story is “bad.” In the way that a car that won’t run is “bad.” The car might still look good and maybe you can use it for something else if you put your mind to it, but it has failed to complete its purpose as a car. 

That for me makes a “bad” story. It has failed to function as that particular type of story should. When we sit down to something like RWBY we have certain expectations. They’re produced by what the show has already introduced, its genre, its tone, what RT says during panels, how much money the company has, etc. Expectations like “Characterization will remain logical and consistent” or “If you introduce this concept you’ll come back to it,” or “We’re not going to have a whole bunch of animation mistakes.” Failing to meet these expectations doesn’t produce an objectively bad story - someone out there will like it - but it does produce a “bad” story in relation to what the majority of audience remembers had hoped and expected the story would be. Every story in the world is compared against its potential and the expectations it produces along the way (even if one of the expectations is a story’s ability to creatively undermine expectations: “We thought we were going one way but then there was a twist. Crucially the twist makes sense so that’s still satisfying, even though it’s not what we thought we’d get). How well the story manages that determines whether the majority considers it “good” or not. 

[shinrasfirst]

Goodbye.

For @rcdwrxck​.

THEY GIVE YOU A KEY. It’s all that’s left of him now. A small inconspicuous key, not even particularly pretty. Random, standard issue; he left a note with it, asking for you to be the one to receive it in case of his death. A damn key to a damn locker at the Turk HQ. It fills you with equal frustration, anger and hope to imagine what could possibly be in there. You’re not sure you want to find out, because as desperate as you are to feel his presence again, you know it’ll be the last time you’ll ever feel it.

You head down to the lockers, a room you’ve been in plenty of times. Now that you stand there, in front of T-12 you wonder why you never asked yourself what Rude keeps in there. Probably because you expected it to be the same as yours: boring, everyday things. Or nothing. With a lump the size of a ShinRa reactor in your throat and cold clumsy fingers you raise the key to the lock, push it in and turn it. The door opens with a quiet click.

Something about that day was different. Something about the whole damn mission. Rude usually knew better than to let anxieties or superstitions affect his work, but that morning he woke up with a bad feeling and hours later it was still sitting in his chest like a monster lurking in the shadows, waiting to strike. Disliking the helplessness it made him feel, Rude tried to rationalize it. Maybe it was normal to feel like that every now and then, in their position. They couldn’t be lucky forever. This was a job with a bad outlook on a future that didn’t entail lasting injury or death; they all knew that when they signed up for it.

Rude did his best to keep it hidden and act professional, but his partner knew him too well to miss the subtle changes in his behavior. It was something Rude never pointed out, but appreciated quietly. Acting like he didn’t care was like a sport for Reno, but anyone who actually cared to get to know him could tell that it was only skin-deep. He cared more than he’d ever admit out loud - to anyone he knew at that point in time, anyway. Maybe he’d meet someone he could love enough to entrust them with his heart someday-- but that was not a trail of thought Rude entertained for long. It usually led nowhere good.

He simply nodded along to the things Reno said while they sat in the helicopter, the update on his weapon, some joke he told him before, how he couldn’t wait to go back and treat himself to a whole bowl of fried noodles after this mission. It was nice to listen to Reno’s voice, calming in a way no one else ever understood. I’ll treat you, he almost offered, but thought the better of it in the last moment. Maybe it was bad luck to make promises before missions. (So much for not being superstitious.)

When the helicopter landed and they stepped out the air was warm, unnaturally so, and they were welcomed by the terrible stench of burned cables and gasoline. The facility - or what was left of it - was still standing, thick clouds of black smoke rising from its carcass. It was impossible to say how great the damage really was, considering most of the lab was built underground; but that was precisely why they’d been sent here, wasn’t it?      “Let’s be careful. Could be hell down there,” Rude said, deliberately phrasing it as advice for the both of them. Reno didn’t appreciate being told what to do (not even by his boss).

And with the heat and the stench rising around them, it did, quite literally, feel like a descent into hell.

A book. A calendar, to be precise. That’s all that’s in there. A simple black leather calendar, filled to the brim with notes and pieces of paper of various color and texture that have been shoved between the actual pages until the whole thing bulged. You don’t know how to feel (not that you’ve felt much of anything since then), underwhelmed? Curious? Confused? What could possibly be in this calendar - diary? - that looks so worn and unorganized and entirely un-Rude. It’s like a dirt stain on his perfect white shirt: something that just doesn’t exist. Messy and random and so unlike him. And yet, when you finally take it out of the locker, feel the weight of it in your hands, you can tell it is so clearly his.

It’s real leather, nothing cheap but something he bought with an intention. A calendar from years ago he scribbled into like a diary and then just kept filling it with extra notes. It smells like him; and you can tell he’s held it in his hands many many times. You open it up and are greeted by Rude’s enigma of a handwriting: neat and proper and yet somehow illegible - well, for anyone who hasn’t been his partner for years. You can read every single word (or maybe 99%) and it hits you like a slap in the face when you see the first two words on the first loose sheet of paper.

Dear Reno---

The air was hot and tasted of ashes and metal. They had to act fast in retrieving any data that could be salvaged - not only because they were sitting on a ticking time bomb, but because the very air they were breathing was poisoning them. They had a plan of the building, so finding the backup computers was easy. Getting the materia that was stored in the laboratory below, on the other hand? Rude had received two sets of orders for this. The official one: get them; they’re valuable resources and property of ShinRa. The inofficial one: no materia is worth the life of two agents and several infantrymen. They had to make a judgement call, and as usual agreed that it was worth the risk. Rude trusted Reno not to be stupidly brave about these things because they both knew making a choice like that always counted for both of them, and neither was ready to lose the other.

The laboratory had to be where disaster had struck first, judging by the shattered tanks and molten equipment. It looked like something big had exploded, leaving behind a scorched crater the size of a car. Steaming acidic liquid was covering part of the floor and dripping from the ceiling, filling the air with a sour stench.      “Let’s get this stuff and get out of here,” Rude advised, already heading for the station that supposedly held the container of experimental materia they were looking for. ---They found it in a glass case on the back wall, surprisingly well-preserved. Whatever had wrecked this lab, hadn’t reached this part of the room.

Rude reached for it and pulled his hand back with a startled scream, almost instantly hearing Reno rushing towards him. He looked at his hand where his gloves had burned away like he’d touched acid or fire, revealing pink raw skin beneath them. It burned like he was holding a piece of searing hot coal. He hissed, pulling the glove off just in case whatever was causing the reaction was still on it, discarding it to the floor like something disgusting.      “I’m okay,” he assured his partner, despite the skin on his hand looking like it was starting to blister. “Fuck this,” he heard Reno say, looking around for a creative way of picking up the container without sacrificing any other body parts.

One of the men who had come down here with them produced a chain they wrapped around the container’s handle to pick it up and carry it out of the lab. There was more to find here, more to save, stored away in shelves and cabinets or broken tanks - Rude could see that Reno thought about it too. Another judgement call, and this time he voiced his thoughts before his partner could.      “Not worth it. Let’s get out of here.” Maybe it was the toxic fumes stinging in their lungs or the remainder of concern in Reno’s eyes but he agreed without protest, and they both followed the men back upstairs. Rude coughed, telling himself the smoke in the air wasn’t getting worse, and neither was the pain in his hand.

Dear Reno, After writing all these notes I’ve come to the conclusion that the sole reason I am keeping them and leaving them for you, is that I hope you’re still here when I am not. I am not giving them to you out of a desperate need to let you know, it doesn’t matter if you read them. Just as long as you get them. If you do that means you are still here, still alive. Which means I haven’t failed you completely.

I’m still sorry.

                                                              - Rude

It’s a sheet of paper with the ShinRa logo on it. You remember seeing the re-prints not too long ago, so it must be a recent note. You turn the paper over but there’s nothing on the back. It continues with the first actual page of the calendar.

                    “We all have lifetimes upon lifetimes in our minds, combining to far more years than our bodies could ever endure. They’re made up of ideas and dreams about things and people we want but never get to have. When I met you, I knew. There will never be anything I could want more than you. These are my lifetimes, or rather fragments of them, collected in no chronological order. I never know how to say these things on any other medium, but over the years it’s become hard not to voice them at all.

And I can’t help myself when I look at you.”

The tone changes after that. It continues with entries that seem to be written at later dates, with different pens, with more or less haste, in more or less detail. They’re random and incoherent, sometimes they’re not even complete. A heartfelt attempt at a poor man’s poetry. And there’s one thing they have in common that you notice right away: they’re all about you.

The way back seemed longer, painfully so. Something wasn’t right and it didn’t take a doctor’s examination for Rude to know that. His hand-- no, his arm hurt like his skin was melting off his bones by the time they reached the upper floor. He glanced down sneakily, not wanting to alert Reno, and saw that the skin was turning white where the glove had burned away, the blisters breaking open almost as quickly as they appeared, leaving behind thin bleeding cracks that gave his skin the look of breaking marble. Taking steps forward was getting harder, keeping his eyes focused became a real challenge. Something had happened to him that he did not anticipate and in his lack of understanding it he didn’t know what to do. He had to keep it together until they were out of here in any case; even if his arm decided to fall off he wouldn’t be the cause of Reno and the others staying inside this cursed building a minute longer than necessary.

By the time they finally stepped into the clear night air again Rude almost snapped out of it like a bad dream; if only for a moment. It was like breathing air for the first time, the toxic smoke getting washed out of his lungs with every breath he took and his burning eyes clearing with a few blinks. Somewhere in front of him Reno coughed and cursed, and Rude watched him like he was seeing him for the first time. Everything seemed slowed down suddenly, paused, like the world was wrapped in cotton and put on a high shelf. He just grunted shortly when Reno asked about his hand and followed him to the helicopter. His steps were slower too, coordinating them growing harder, but he had his goal right ahead of him and tried to focus on it, not the searing pain in his shoulder.

The next thing he remembered was standing a few feet away from the helicopter, feeling the wind of its blades cutting through the air, and right in front of him Reno. He was asking something, but he couldn’t hear him, a deafening rushing sound in his ears blocking out everything else. (What was he saying?)      I’m tired, he meant to respond, or maybe, this mission sucks. None of it came over his lips but suddenly the sound was back on and he heard Reno’s voice clearly asking if he was alright. He sounded so worried it made Rude feel guilty for not telling the truth. His hand came up to gently curl Reno’s wrist in a sudden irrational need, but it only got him a look of surprise. Touching was not a common thing between them. As if he just remember that, Rude let go again, dropping his hand at his side. 

     “I’m right behind you, aibou,” he said.

You turn another page and find more post-it notes sticking together, shoved between the full pages of the calendar.

                    “I can tell that you showered just before you came to work. The tips of your hair are still wet and they’re curling just a bit. Did you go to sleep late saying you’d get up early to shower and then slept too long? You changed your shampoo. I liked the old one better.”

                    “Your eyes looked different the day we went to Goblin Island. I’ve never seen them like this, it was hard to look away. Maybe they reflected the fires that we saw, like the sea reflects the sky. Maybe I saw your soul that day. Either way it was beautiful.”

                    “Remember the day you ate a hot dog for breakfast and spilled ketchup on your shirt? You probably don’t because it happened more than once. I really wanted to kiss you that day. I know I didn’t or I would have take this note out of the pile. Continuity is important for us to make sense of things.”

                    “I dream of a day where I tell you, but that is all that it is. A dream.”

                    “Your laugh is addictive. Not that little sneer you like to do, the real thing. I wish I’d hear it more often. I could listen to it every day.”

                    “Your sunburn is finally going away and you suddenly have freckles all over your nose. It looks so cute, which I’m sure you’d hate to hear. I counted them this morning. They’re exactly 19.”

                    “I’m lucky I met you, more than I realize I think. I’m lucky to be on your side and to know you’re on mine. I wouldn’t exchange you for anything or anyone in this world.”

They were already in the air when the sight in his right eye began to go. The pain was everywhere by then, the entire right half of his body stinging and burning, and though he couldn’t see under his clothes he knew it had taken on the same sickly white color as his hand. Something was happening that he hadn’t prepared for. Something he should have been prepared for, something he thought he was, but now that it was here he didn’t want to accept it. There was no point in lying anymore, in pretending Reno was careless enough not to notice that he wasn’t okay. He was right there, hands on his jacket, looking at him, alternating between yelling at him and at the soldier flying the helicopter.

I’m sorry, Rude wanted to say, it’s going to be okay. His tongue was heavy and his throat dry, drier than it had ever been. It felt like he’d swallowed sand and razor blades, making every attempt at speaking futile and pure agony. It was spreading to his stomach, to his other leg, to his chest. He knew what that meant. It was still a long way back and if there was one thing he didn’t have anymore, it was time. He blinked a few times when a grey smudge spread before his eye, blurring out the image of Reno’s upset face. He didn’t want that to be the last thing he ever saw. He wanted to see him smile. It spread faster now, closer to his heart, and when it reached the pathetically pumping organ it felt like a blade cutting right through it. Rude’s chest contracted painfully and he sank back into the seat, his body hanging limply in the seatbelt.      “I’m right behind you, aibou---” he said.

Or maybe he didn’t.

In front of him, Reno smiled the happiest brightest smile he’d ever seen. It made him feel warm all over, and for once, he smiled back.

He didn’t die in an epic explosion. He didn’t go violently and spectacularly. It was sneaking and sudden and silent. There was no aggression, no big cataclysm, no collapsing buildings or giant monsters and yet it burned itself into your mind forever. He was just there one moment and gone the next and you never in your life felt more helpless. You almost wish it had been an explosion; you certainly wish it had swallowed you both.

As you flip the page, a single white napkin falls out of the book and sails to the ground at your feet silently. You move to pick it up, and as your fingers brush the fabric you get a sense of familiarity. You’ve seen it before. Imprinted in the corner is the logo of a bar, the Emerald Grave, faded but still legible. You remember that place. Rude took you there last year, said he’d pay for one drink to celebrate your birthday and ended up buying two bottles for the two of you. You met someone that night, can’t recall clearly how the night ended. Rude must have kept the napkin. There’s an ink stain on it, and next to it three words in shaky handwriting.

                                                                                                   “I love you.”

[dropintomanga]

On the Industry, Fans, and Piracy - My Feelings on Manga Today

This year has been quite an interesting one for anyone who’s involved in manga industry happenings with regards to piracy.

As most of you may know, an infamous manga app known as Mangarock was finally shut down this year after years of proliferating as a “legit” manga-reading app on the Apple and Google Play Stores. They finally got shut down when a Western comic artist found their work being distributed on the platform. While this was good news, there has been criticism about whether there were signs of subtle prejudice towards manga (since it’s a foreign medium) as it took a Western comic to bring things to attention.

There was also the news of Mangamura, a well-known Japanese raw scan site, and how the head honcho of the site got arrested in the Philippines this year and will face consequences for his actions. (Update: 12/21/2019 - Now Mangastream and Jaimini’s Box are out of the game with regards to scanlating popular titles)

While this is good news for people who love to support the manga industries in both Japan and overseas, things are still the same. The pirates will keep coming over and over again. I wonder when enough is enough or maybe I’m just tired of hearing the same old debate on legal vs. illegal manga.

I see multiple Twitter threads from pro-industry folks on why everyone should support buying manga. I also see threads on why manga publishers suck. They’re both right if you ask me.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about how this industry vs scanlators fight is similar to what I’ve been reading about in the mental health field recently - psychiatry vs. anti-psychiatry.

Psychiatry advocates believe that taking medicine is the best way to solve mental health problems and mental illness. They realize that things can happen in the human brain that lead to something worse. However, they think a lot of issues warrant medication when it may not be the best solution.

Anti-psychiatry advocates believes that medicine isn’t the best way to solve mental health problems and mental illness. They dislike how the mental health care system treats people with mental health problems. Yet they believe that “mental illness” doesn’t exist.

So throwing it back to manga -

The manga industry believes that supporting the industry involves purchasing their books at any costs. You buy the books, you support the mangaka drawing them. Yet the system that drives the industry is terrible. As we all know from Bakuman and tales from manga professionals, the system to become a successful mangaka involves often-poor working conditions in the form of long hours, strict deadlines, and a good amount of isolation.

Scanlators believe they are doing the manga industry a favor in providing free exposure to titles that would go undiscovered by fans. More often than not, scanlators do what they do without any care for profit. However, they tend to go a bit extreme with regards to translating certain text. Some scanlators also become a bit too egotistical for their own good and end up causing ridiculous drama among other scanlation groups over material they are technically stealing.

Tying this back all together with all regards to comparing psychiatry vs. anti-psychiatry and industry vs scanlators, there’s a third party being affected that’s ignored in both debates.

For the 1st war (psychiatry vs. anti-psychiatry), there’s not enough focus on the seriously mentally ill. The seriously mentally ill are the community suffering the most right now and present a great deal of harm to themselves and others. A 3rd party group that addresses them would utilize certain views and rejects certain views from the psychiatry and anti-psychiatry movements to help the seriously mentally ill. They are often forgotten as a lot of money goes to those whose mental health issues aren’t as bad on both sides. 

For the 2nd war (scanlations vs. legal manga), you can argue that there’s a huge crowd of fans that are willing to pay for manga as long as you give them almost everything on one platform a la Steam/Netflix at a very low price. That platform also needs to be easily accessible with little-to-no regional restrictions. There are so many fans in certain parts of the world that can’t purchase manga due to lack of access to bookstores/libraries or availability of them. I’ll put this in caps in case people don’t get it - THE WHOLE WORLD IS NOT THE UNITED STATES OR ANY OTHER NOTABLE AND PROLIFIC COUNTRY. I sometimes think certain fans that are able to buy manga forget how lucky they are.

A side note: While a huge step forward for legit digital manga, Viz’s Shonen Jump isn’t enough because not everyone likes shonen. All the other subscription services are fine, but everything’s kind of fragmented a bit compared to how Crunchyroll has almost everything anime-related (though they are going through a big streaming war that’s causing fragmentation as well).  Though to be honest, I think the scanlation community and the manga industry have to band together on one thing I think both sides can all agree on - it’s the relative value of manga compared to other forms of media in general.

To explain, I watched a video feature on the mangaka Shinichi Sakamoto, creator of Innocent and Innocent Rouge. Sakamoto goes into a discussion about manga’s value that really got me thinking. He talks about how manga is treated as “disposable” and how he tries to make his works worth keeping and remembering.

In the end of the video, Sakamoto says: “I feel manga is something that is read, then thrown away. For example, people would read a manga during their work commute and throw it away once they finish reading it. Or they would read a manga at a restaurant during lunch break. Then they would close it once the food is served and forget about it. I thought at first, manga was something that was read then thrown away. However recently, since I started to adopt my current style, I now want to make something that stays close to readers. Something that remains. It’s what currently motivates me to draw manga.

I ask myself what to do in order to make something that stays for a long time, using themes or opinions that they stay engraved in the minds of readers without being forgotten. I keep this in mind in order to leave something behind. It is what motivates me.”

The quality of manga made in Japan isn’t the best. The paper is comparable to toilet paper. If you ever browsed through a manga magazine in person, it feels like going through a super-thick newspaper. Compare that to overseas volumes of manga and it’s a world of difference. I’ll admit that publishers like Viz Media, Kodansha Comics, and Yen Press do a great job in making their printed manga high-quality albeit at a higher cost to fans.

Yet I realized that there’s a larger number of manga fans who don’t care about quality as long as what they want is accessible and cheap. That’s a big reason why scanlations have exploded and will continue to do so. Convenience is something that a lot of outside forces now push onto everyone. I frankly love print books, but I wonder what if the price of printed manga volumes reaches a certain point that makes me go “Yeah, I don’t think I can buy printed manga anymore.”

In the end of the day, even if you make it look pretty as hell and close to a luxury product, manga is still a “throw-away” item with little relative value to a lot of fans thanks to how it’s originally conceived in Japan combined with how internet culture takes advantage of what the meaning of “free stuff” is. Not everyone will find a sense of belonging with manga the same way that fans do.

There are certain folks that support purchasing manga that say things like “Wages need to be raised because they’ve stagnated” and when it comes to fans reading manga on an illegal site, their views sound like “You should buy no matter what” and/or “Just don’t buy.” I know there are those who will point to manga sales and they still aren’t exactly affordable to some fans. 20%-33% off titles with a high price point to begin with may not feel like a significant discount to someone who may not be a hardcore manga collector. Maybe it’s better to say, “You know what? Let’s just smash capitalism for ruining everyone’s lives” or better yet, “Let’s promote wage growth so that manga fans can actually purchase manga and manga artists can survive.”  

For now, let’s all be like Sakamoto and promote how valuable manga can be because appreciating the arts makes people better human beings than learning how to make a “efficient” website/software program look good for someone whose end goal is usually profit. The arts is what keeps people from turning into robots. Yes, this sounds like I’m saying “Let’s have the manga pirates keep doing what they’re doing then.” What I’m suggesting is that everyone from the top down (government, etc.) has to take charge in promotion of anything related to the arts (which manga and comics in general are a part of), not just the regular folks, as they appear to be all on-board the "let’s mindlessly consume/produce everything with ruthless efficiency” train.

I feel sympathetic towards anyone who works with on the American side of manga publishing (or anything that’s based in Japan) because Japan’s mentality on promoting their works overseas is awful. The Japanese want a level of control in how they want to be perceived outside of their own country. Compare that to a country like Korea (where K-Pop is now featured on major American TV networks), you can see how bad Japan is promoting their own brand of pop culture to the world. If you want an example, just look up Nintendo’s history of taking down anything overseas that looks to violate their principles of promoting their games.

I realize that I’m sounding like this Japanese manga creator who criticized publishers for how they handle piracy. Well, I dislike how manga publishers or professionals involved with the manga industry will shame fans for reading scanlations/raws. Almost everyone that reads scans/raws tends to be a fan of manga in general. A lot of them may not be unaware of the nature of scans (especially fans who meet mangaka in person and tell them they read them online). And even if they were aware, have you noticed how wages have stagnated for a lot of people across the world versus inflation?

Plus, how often do shame tactics work on people? They’re just as effective as most diversity training workshops hoping to change people’s bias on visible differences (spoiler alert: not very well). They never change anyone’s minds at all due to being short-term solutions that ignore the shamer’s role in perpetuating the problem. I realize changing minds takes a long time and requires a LOT of nuance (AKA not good for making immediate money), so it’s easy to focus on quick and fast.\

I also don’t like how scanlators disrespect localization efforts at times. I don’t like seeing multiple instances of swear words when most Japanese (or people in general) don’t talk like that in real life. Yes, some localization efforts are full of cringe. Appealing to a bigger array of new readers is important to having an industry thrive. Having just loyal customers isn’t enough.

Loyalty can only go so far. So many people don’t care about brands and/or will switch whenever it’s convenient to do so. There’s always a psychological disconnect between community and profit. That’s why you try to get as many new consumers as possible so they can become great word-of-mouth spokespeople for your stuff. Given how a good number of anime/manga fans stop consuming either medium after a certain age, replenishment of fans is an absolute necessity. I wish scanlators who frown at legit translators who bust their asses off to make manga accessible to a wider audience realize this.

There’s a final thing I want to address regarding the whole debate about scans and it was something I noticed at Anime NYC this year. So this year, Artists’ Alley and the Exhibit Hall were put right near each other on the same floor. In years past, they were separated via different floors or on different sections far away from one another in the same floor. I had a troubling thought and reading one convention recap reinforced it.

It’s the fact that Artists’ Alley is almost always fan works and the close proximity this time clashes with the Exhibit Hall vendors’ sale of official merchandise. There are anime industry members who dislike an arrangement like this with good reason. Bootlegs are a problem in an industry largely associated with piracy. Yet fans LOVE Artists’ Alley. Anime cons can’t just gut them to please industry folks. Supporting the fan artists at Artists’ Alley is a win-win for fans and con organizers. 

Also, some of the artists at Artists’ Alley I spoke to all read scanlations in some way, shape or form when discussing certain series. I have no damn desire to play moral police with those artists because I know they are lovable and messy people. Just enforce the golden rule - don’t be a dick in a public setting even if you have a good reason to because you will never change anyone’s views that way. 

I know some issues have to be made public, but go through proper channels first since I don’t want to see someone being labeled a mood killer without proper context in places that are supposed to be safe for fans.

Another thing - I have friends (both ‘20s and ‘30s) who work full-time jobs that read manga in not-so-legal sites. Some of them I’m very close with. I’m not ending friendships with them over the fact they may consume media differently. The one thing I can say is that even the best of the best will have questionable beliefs/do questionable things and all you can do is figure out what’s really important to you - their actions or the consequences of their actions. Don’t expect the people you idolize will think the same way you do in every thought you have. Everyone has their own closet of behaviors and thoughts that will always irk others.

So for anyone who’s confused on whose side I’m on, I’m on neither. I know the truth is a lot more complicated than what most people will tell me. I do want manga to thrive more overseas. It’s just that outside of Japan, regardless if you pay for or pirate a manga, there’s no appreciation for lifelong reading. Reading is treated as a pain than pleasure in the Western part of the world. Many anime fans are only tempted to read a manga because of how cool an anime adaptation of a certain series is or just from buzz. 

More than anything, I feel like there should be a bigger effort in promoting a sense of lifelong reading. I sometimes get jokes from corporate folks that I like to read and it’s depressing since libraries are always threatened by budget cuts. Reading books (fiction & non-fiction) has helped me processed a lot of things for my mental health. We got to do a better job in emphasizing that reading can be for fun and not just for achievement. Still, buy whatever manga you can for the artist’s sake if you really like the works (not for the publisher’s due to how I feel about capitalism sometimes). If you still want to read or prefer scans, then that’s your thing. You know, I’m glad I’m not really a pro-industry person and a pro-fan. I live in both worlds and feel like I have a balanced understanding of how people act in certain situations versus how they behave normally. I make a joke now that if anyone who works in marketing wants to really understand what their customers are like, they should go to a DMV (Department of Motor Vehicles) and see the misery there.

I guess you can say I blame Japan more than anything as I do buy what I can from the American side of things. I know the hard-working folks in the U.S. manga publishing business probably get frustrated with Japanese bureaucracy to a certain degree at times. 

Next year will be the start of a new decade after a decade of slow then fast growth in all things anime and manga. Things are going to get better and worse for anime and manga. Maybe once Luffy finally gets the One Piece treasure will manga piracy be severely hampered by then. I have some doubts because this is all reliant on what Japan will do as manga is here to stay in overseas markets. I know more Japanese manga editors have been traveling overseas to understand what’s going on outside of Japan. That’s a good start. So I just hope that the final chapter over here involves cultivating a joyful love of reading because I feel technology has to really pick up on that.

When reading really matters to everyone and takes some precedence over video in the minds of people, maybe we can see some meaningful progress in a battle where we might be fighting the wrong side(s) and/or missing a bigger part of the picture.

Regardless, it’s a fascinating and fun time to be a manga fan. I’m glad to have met many people who love and read manga regardless of how they consume it. Those experiences have provided so much value for me.

Manga may be considered “trash” in many ways, but to loosely quote a certain popular Naruto ninja, it’s at least better than giving up on the true joys of life.

Addendum (12/21/2019) - Two days after this post was made, two of the biggest manga scanlation groups on the net, Mangastream and Jaimini’s Box, decided to stop translating all Weekly Shonen Jump titles. I’m indifferent about either platform going away (or completely gone as Jaimini’s Box is still doing titles from other manga magazines). The one thing I will say is that Mangastream took advantage of the growing push for convenience in the minds of people over the last decade. I think about how much tech companies have abused “convenience” to generate unintended division and in some ways, Mangastream was like a tech company when they saw their ego being stroked by the large fanbase they were getting.

Photo Source: The Japan Times For one of my favorite takes on scanlations, read “Why Do Scanlations Persist?” from What Is Manga? There’s also this podcast from GeekNights about manga distribution in the United States which added some fuel to this post.

[blackgirlblues]

Being A Black Girl: And Chasing Your Dreams.. Yikes.

Hi, 

It’s me, your resident black girl back with some new shit to rant about. I’ve been posting a few screenshots of short poems and paragraphs I’ve been writing on my phone as a way to heal and get over Capricorn boy from my last post on here and I see you guys like and reblog. Thank you for showing love, although it makes me sad that so many of you seem to be going through the same range of emotions I am. I’m sorry. 

I know it’s a lonely place to be in. 

But, on the bright side, I’ve got a lot of new followers joining the diary/manual/rant page that is blackgirlology and it’s nice cause I think it’s becoming a little bit of a community. So, in a way, were never really going through any of these emotions alone. If you’ve found this page-you’re part of a community. Bask in it. 

Anyways, that aside, a lot has happened since I last spoke to you. I don’t know if any of you may remember, and for some new people this will be a surprise. But I’m actually a singer songwriter from Ireland. Moved to London a year and a half ago to pursue my music dream and that’s how I met Capricorn boy whos been the source of all my poems. 

Throughout this time in between, I’ve been trying to chase my dreams, and chase them relentlessly. and this summer i did just that, let me tell you, what im about to tell you guys, is to put it simply, wild. I’ll just cut to the chase. 

It all started in July. I’d been in London for quite a long time now, over a year and now have a manager who’s my best friend first and foremost. We’ll call her Maya. I met her in my first week of moving to London in the student halls I was staying at and we became best friends pretty quick. She studies music business, so it made sense and she just naturally ended up taking up the role as my music manager. Shes seen everything. The songs I wrote about Capricorn boy, the tears, everything. And she saw everything this summer. 

I saw an ad for a record label opportunity in London. It was advertised on my university facebook page; a new indie label, looking for demo submissions for a competition they were setting up to find their new signee. I sent a screenshot to Maya who agreed I should send my stuff in. I did, they liked it, I got a meeting, we were sent terms and conditions for the competition. We signed it, the rest was supposed to be history. 

Big yikes. 

There’s so many layers to this story that I will be shortening it, just because it can get very draining for me to talk about or even write about. I’ve healed from it i think, but I still want to put it here and write it about to finally close that chapter and be done with my feelings about what happened to me and my music. 

Basically, the whole competition, the record label, the dickhead CEO, it was all a scam. I had accidentally signed away the master rights to my new song to a record label started by a fake CEO who was committing fraud and known for tricking young artists into handing over their master rights so he could profit off of them, for power. 

It was a mess. Another contestant told me and Maya when we were outside of their office. Just minutes before we were under the impression that I was doing an interview for Billboard Magazine. Honestly, I never truly believed it. Shit was too good to be true. 

But she told us everything. How he was actually a run away from Spain, where he was caught and exposed for doing the exact same thing to artists there, how he didn’t have any money to fund the competition he had somehow roped all of us into, how he was illegally avoiding paying his team, how none of the creatives we had collaborated with for photoshoots etc were paid, how everything was a lie, how he didnt have any connections, and how he was trying to convince me specifically to sign a 360 deal with his label. 

Which, guys, I’m not stupid. After the first week of being with the label for the competition and letting my song live through their disastrous marketing campaign, Maya and I long decided that regardless of what they said, I would not under any circumstances be signing anything with any entity of their company. 

After being told the truth, I had to sit down. You see, when I came across this opportunity, I thought this was finally the life I’d been manifesting coming true. I had begun to grow in my spirituality and start journaling, writing down my manifestations, and getting to work with a record label who would later offer me a fair contract before I turn 20 was one of the manifestations I had written down every night before I went to bed. However, what I’d gotten was the exact opposite. 

I remember, me, Maya, and 2 of the girls from the competition all stood around in a circle outside of their new office that the CEO also hadnt paid for wondering what our next move would be with this new information. There was still 2 other contestants inside who had no idea what was really going on was an elaborate scam. One of them wanted to go in and expose them on the spot. I said no, we had to go in and pretend like everything was normal until we figured out what to do afterwards. 

So in I went, plastering the fakest smile on my face and pretended like I still thought I was about to be speaking with Billboard Magazine. Once I got out, I broke down in Maya’s arms. 

I went home to my flatmates, Ellie and Bea and cried for hours before I had to go work a 7 hour shift at a pizza place. 

I stayed in bed, and cried, and cried. and cried again. I didn’t get out of bed unless I needed too. The only people I talked too were my flatmates E and B and Maya. 

Everything was sorted out eventually, a lot more happened, but as I’ve been writing this article for you guys, I realised that all of that stuff is no longer relevant to my journey and isnt something I want to bring back into my energetic circle because I’ve made peace with the fact that a lot of people who betrayed me when I was at my lowest, peace with the fact that these contestants who wanted to “work together” to get out of this mess, actually wanted to save their own asses and leave me in the cold. 

But I still got out of it and I’m still here. 

I nearly got sued by a man with less than 20 pound to his company account online, but hey, I’m here.

I guess why I’m telling you guys this really short account of my summer is to both record it for myself but also to say its okay to flop, its okay to fail. I did both this summer. and thank god i did. it was the best thing that ever happened to me. 

following your dreams is scary, doing it as a black girl is terrifying because society has already kind of set you up to fail. there’s already misconceptions about what you do, who you are, where you come from and how good you’re going to be at what you do. its almost like we cant fail and we need to work 10 times harder to obtain half of what the average white person will get. and sometimes it can feel like we dont have any space to fail or make mistakes because of this but let me tell you thats not true. 

if anything, the universe will put you in places that will force you to grow through the mistakes you make. and thats exactly what happened to me this summer. 

i chased my dream so relentlessly i ended up in an environment i thought i manifested, i thought was good for me, only for the universe to show me that that specific environment i’d been wishing to be in is the furthest from what i need right now in my life. 

this so called failure showed me that not everybody who smiles can be trusted, and that people can be way more deceiving than i ever thought, especially when push comes to shove and they need to save themselves. you start to see the real them when it starts to get tense. the people who seem to be around you when you’re doing good will most likely dissapear when things start to go south, including some of your oldest friends. you will get radio silence on their end. be upset. cry. but after that be glad that this situation revealed their true colours. 

and then never put any more energy into them again. 

this failure showed me how fucking strong i am. how resilient and kind i am even in the face of disrespect and actual evil. it showed me how much i can care for someone who i believe is at a risk of losing it all, and showed me that this will not always be reciprocated. and for a while i thought that meant that i had to harden myself up and grow a shell. but i dont think so. i will not allow the things ive been through to make me into a hard person when i was born soft. i mean now, im a little rough around the edges, jagged enough to cut anyone who comes too close with some of that bad energy, but soft enough to hold myself tight and glue myself back together when i need to. soft enough to hold the people who held me this summer. soft enough to help people who i know deserve it. 

im a good person in a shitty world, i don’t need to match the world and become a shitty person to survive. 

after all of this happened, i stopped writing music. 

i haven’t written anything properly or produced anything in months and sometimes i get worried that ive completely lost my talent. but thats another thing that this failure taught me, i can never truly lose whats meant to be mine. i know that i was put on this earth to create change, to inspire, to be an activist and a voice for people who dont have one. i know i was put here to do it through a creative medium and right now i still think that is music. 

i think i just need to stop being so scared to start again, to learn my craft again.

i used to be so scared of failure but now i am so thankful for it and the lessons its taught me. i had so much hurt and pain and hatred in my heart for the universe for, in my head, doing this to me. but then i realised that the universe never does anything to you, it does it for you. all of this happened in my best interest and while i definitely didnt understand at the time, i get it now.

thank you universe for the worst summer of my life. 

and my black ass will be continuing to chase my dreams relentlessly, failing, tripping and falling on my ass until i get to the very top. 

besides, if everything had just gone right, that wouldnt have been very interesting, would it?

[unholyhelbig]

Prompt; Emily gets jealous of some guy and Aubrey, mostly Emily being an adorable little fluffball

A/N: I get it, I’m on one when it comes to New Orleans lately. I also get that I’ve been MIA lately and I’m sorry. Life is getting the best of me. But I’ll try to answer more of these prompts. 

Read on AO3 | Send me prompts 

He could play the trumpet, and he could play it like a master. The sound would carry across every inch of the French Quarter and bounce off the moss-covered brick walls. It would buzz and culminate in her chest until her heartbeat seemed to deepen each time, he hit a dragging note, and it annoyed her to no end.

She didn’t’ know much about him- other than his boyishly good looks and soft brown hair that would frame his face in natural curls. The way he wore a feather pendant from Sabine’s shop around his neck every single day showed her that not only had he grown up here, he thrived.

The man played on the corner under the light of the full moon with his case open and his crystal blue eyes peering against the moon in a ghostly manner. Emily hated him, hated the way he played and how many people were captivated by his music. The way Aubrey would crack the door to the shop open just a little bit so that it would move through the corridors like a stereo set to the lowest volume.

“This is just Rosewater.” The woman in front of her said, snapping her fingers in front of Emily’s face to pull her attention away from Aubrey as she leaned close to the frame and watched him play across the street. “I asked you for a love potion.”

Emily had to bite back a snort at that. A love potion. The thing simply didn’t exist but the tourism in New Orleans depended on little amber bottles with cursive labels on them. The only love potion they carried was rose water- done up to look like some mystical agent to pour into someone’s drink, expecting their pupils to morph into hearts.

“Rosewater serves to open the heart,” She tore her stare away finally. “It’s a form of protection too, it would do you well to keep some around the house.”

“that’s not what I asked for-“

“You want a spell.” Aubrey tore her attention away from the man playing the trumpet across the street. Emily hadn’t been aware that her focus had shifted to their conversation or the way the stout woman was slowly turning three different shades of red.

She walked behind the desk and rummaged through the little tin box that carried a couple of twenty’s and space for keys turned in after a night of partying on the Quarter’s streets. She made a slight noise of approval once she found what she was looking for, blonde hair falling into perfect features.

Aubrey produced a medium-length strip of twine, the woman taking it with a look of apprehension. “This is string.”

“Correct, but it’s what you do with the string that counts.” She smiled and Emily watched, captivated by the way she handled customers. She always was straight forward and lacking cowardice. “If you want this mystery person of yours to fall for you- tie seven knots in that string.”

“What for?”

Emily lifted a brow and a smile formed at the edge of her lips “For each day of the week. Keep that person in mind while you tie the knots and guaranteed each day, they’ll think of you. It’ll be gradual- but then again, love doesn’t happen all at once.”

The woman seemed satisfied with the answer before contemplating it for a moment. She gave them an affirming nod and headed for the street after shoving the rose water back into her pocket. Emily was sure both would bring her good results.

Aubrey squeezed her shoulder with tenderness before heading back to the door to watch the mystery man play his almighty trumpet once more. He watched her as much as she watched him, sending slight smiles and winks her way. Her cheeks would heat up and she’d tuck a strand of golden hair behind her ear. All while Emily stirred nearby with her patience ending and her chest fuming.

Besides, Aubrey Posen was her boss. Her superior that hired her for some extra help in the little magic shop. A founding family in New Orleans that had prominent pull with the town council as well as every small business in town. There was no way scruffy trumpet man hadn’t heard of her legacy- no way Aubrey would fall for someone without one.

Except he had one, and Emily knew that too. Word on the street was that his whole family had played these very streets, influenced jazz in the town and practically helped spread it across the country starting from this center point. A center point where Emily sat stewing while she pretended to organize the books about natural healing and the darker stuff.

“What’s bothering you today?” Aubrey asked, again not taking her eyes away from him.

“Nothing is bothering me.”

“You’re stress cleaning and you only stress clean when something is on your mind.”

Emily huffed. She had been short with Aubrey for the past couple of days against her best nature. It wasn’t her fault if she fell for the good looks and charm of another. But ever since Emily had started this place back in March, it had just been the two of them. Two weeks ago he reared his ugly head and Aubrey had been captivated beyond reason since.

“Are you not one for Jazz?” She walked up to the opposite side of the counter. Right across from where Emily stood with her fingers on the spine of a book about crystals. “More of a country girl?”

Emily grumbled, “He’s not that good.”

“Oh? You don’t think so?”

She shook her head and shoved the book back on the shelf, but shifted three notches over like it changed something about the way the shop looked. Changed who could see it and who would eventually buy it. Aubrey smiled and looked down at the old wooden desk. There were carvings across the top, some old and some new, all traceable.

Aubrey finally spoke. “Ryan is a nice enough guy. He’s offered to take me to dinner at Roussos’s tomorrow night.”

Emily’s dark eyes lifted to the woman in front of her, all joyous and smiles. She looked proud that the man who could perform. Roussos was a nice enough place with white tablecloths and little ribbed candles on the centers of the tables that created mood lighting. Add a little bit of white wine and charming looks- and all of a sudden Emily felt sick.

“That’s great,” She swallowed back nausea that cultivated in her stomach. Aubrey didn’t’ seem to buy it but resorted to tracing her fingers over the little carving of the pentagram that had been there long before Emily started her daily shifts. “He seems like a nice guy. A real catch.”

“That’s what people say when they mean the opposite.” Aubrey stood up straight, “Now, I know I seem like I’m lowering my standards for a street musician. But this isn’t like with Paul- I don’t care about status, you know that.”

Emily stared at the woman for a few moments. Her sharp features were clouded by the golden yellow lighting of the little shop. Even with the spices and remedies around them, Emily could still catch her lemon scent and her toes curled at the way her voice carried that southern twang. The patterns she wore never clashed and her eyes were rarely unkind.

The young girl felt an odd bit of warmth with the statement. Status didn’t matter to a Posen. A Posen rooted in ancestral magic and New Orleans tradition. One who had inevitably fallen for a man with the ability to coax a trumpet into submission.

“No, I mean it, Aubrey.” She said kindly “I’m happy for you, I think you two will have a wonderful time.”

She spoke carefully and drew out each syllable as to not sound too disappointed, too let down in the fact that her boss would be under the very hypotonic lights in Roussos that rooted it to its place for decades. Aubrey seemed satisfied with the answer and nodded before walking to the open sign and flipping it to its opposite.

“You should go listen to him play,” Emily suggested with a light smile that formed at the joy in Aubrey’s eyes. “Don’t worry, I’ll lock up.”

Aubrey relented easily and walked evenly to the counter before ducking behind its ancient wood and sliding on her coat. She leaned close, impossibly and stomach-churningly close, to lay a tender and soft kiss against Emily’s cheek. The touch burned like a heated needle piercing skin. “You are the absolute love of my life, you know that, right?”

“Get out of here before I change my mind.” Emily laughed, shaking her head as the sound of an echoing trumpet started to invade her thoughts. It got louder as the door opened and closed with a clang behind Aubrey, and even as she stared, hoping it would open once more to the busy Quarter streets. It never did.

She swore under her breath and moved her fingers against the molten spot where another’s lips left a mark close to skin. Burning it in like forgotten ash. Emily reached into the small metal container, ignoring the twenties and the paperclips- instead reaching for a small snippet of twine.

This had better work.