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a-nice-and-interpretive-fanzine · 3 years

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[ID: A cream-colored banner that says "A Nice and Interpretive Fanzine: essays and art about the meanings we've found in Good Omens." There is a photo of a book page with a key on it behind the banner text. The photo source is rosy_photo on Pixabay. /end ID]

A Nice and Interpretive Fanzine: Information Masterpost

Welcome!

This is a zine for those of us who love the subtle, complex work that is Good Omens, and who’ve enjoyed the thoughtfulness of the fandom as people interpret how the many moving pieces of the story come together, creating a slightly different meaning for each of us.

To put it simply, it’s a book full of the fandom’s own analysis and commentary about the Good Omens TV show, enhanced with illustrations from our brilliant artists.

This zine is analytical in the sense that all the writers are expressing their own nonfiction thoughts and feelings about the show, rather than writing fanfic, but it is not meant to be heavily academic. Anybody who likes to pick apart the series and discuss it should be able to enjoy it.

The zine will contain essays by fans who are passionate about analyzing and interpreting different parts of Good Omens - the characters, the plot, the writing techniques for the book and script, the cinematography of the TV show, the popular content of the fandom itself. Accompanying these essays will be black and white illustrations from our artists.

How are you organizing this process?

May 1-May 15: Everyone submits their application to do writing or art through a Google form. Behind the scenes, I’ll be setting up a separate email and Discord.

May 16-20: Applicants will be screened during this time.

May 20: I’ll email everyone to let them know the outcomes of their applications. The final participants will get a link to the Discord server for the zine (totally optional, of course).

May 21: If there’s any clarification or solidifying of ideas that needs to happen, I’ll contact you and discuss with you by this point. This is also when artists will be matched up with essays.

May 22 to August 14: This will be a period of just working on our essays and art. The Discord chat and Tumblr will be there for support and for exchanging ideas!

August 15: Participants need to email their full works to the zine’s email address by this date. No special formatting is needed; I’ll do that in InDesign.

August 15 to August 31: I’ll be putting the zine together in InDesign.

September 1: Preorders will open.

September 30: Preorders will close.

October 1: The zine order will be placed!

October 15: Assuming all goes well with printing and shipping, the zines will be shipped out in waves starting on this date. If the printing or shipping from the manufacturer is delayed, then shipping will just start ASAP.

Writer Application HERE Artist Application HERE Asked and Answered Questions on Tumblr The Fanzine's Page on Twitter

Read below for more detailed information about the zine in a Q and A format!

What are the specifications for the zine contributions?

For writers, I’m starting with 3k words or fewer per essay (approximately 10 pages at the size of this book). This depends heavily on how many participants we actually get, so it may change!

For artists, I’d be looking at black and white works, 300 DPI, 5.5 x 8.5 inches or smaller. If your art is supposed to fill up the entire page (i.e. no white space), please make it a total of 5.75 x 8.75 inches with nothing too important around the edges to account for bleed during the printing process.

Can I submit an essay to this zine if I’ve already posted it on Tumblr?

Not as you’ve already posted it. We don’t want to just copy/paste the exact thing that hundreds or perhaps even thousands of people have already read.

However, it IS fine and maybe even a good idea to take the same thought from your post and refine it, preserving your same thesis. For example, a lot of Tumblr posts are just us fans jotting down 5 or 6 paragraphs of random thoughts at 2 AM, but some of them are really cool thoughts! Expanding them and turning them into a bona-fide Essay would make those posts into excellent zine chapters. And you can copy small pieces of your own language as long as the whole thing isn’t just pasted word-for-word.

How long do essays have to be? Is there a limit?

With the number of writers we have, I've calculated that each person should ideally keep their essay to about 6000 words. There is wiggle room.

There’s no real minimum for your contribution; some analytical ideas are really good but can be expressed concisely, so it’s okay if your essays only come out to a few pages typed. For reference, with our book size, a page is about 300 words.

What happens if the zine sells a lot and you end up not only breaking even, but turning a profit?

It’ll go to charity. While I’ll ask the participants what they want to do for certain if we do make enough money, my suggestion will be donating it to Alzheimer’s Research UK in honor of Sir Terry Pratchett.

I’m not really comfortable calling this a “charity zine” up front since I simply don’t know if it will raise a significant amount. For the most part, I just want the thing to physically exist, which means breaking even, and don’t want to make it more expensive for buyers than it needs to be to afford the printing costs.

What kinds of essays are you talking about? What could be included?

In short, any analytical thoughts about the Good Omens TV show - and possibly even the fandom as it interacts with the show - are possible inclusions for the zine.

To expand a bit, think about the meta posts you see floating around Tumblr. Often these involve analyzing characters, or picking up on patterns in the plot. Sometimes fans use their own background knowledge to write posts about the significance of certain costume choices or the way music plays into each individual scene. Some posts examine the ways the series approaches gender, while others might discuss ways that the characters present as neurodivergent. That’s how diverse the pool of possibilities is for subjects in this zine.

How does art come into this?

Images will be black and white, to match the bookish mood of the project overall. Images can range in size from a half page to a full page.

I’m planning to talk to the artists and authors and loosely pair artists with essays that appeal to their personal interests.

I know how to illustrate a story, but how do I illustrate an essay?

There are infinite answers to this! I’ve seen some beautiful symbolic artwork in the fandom already (e.g. a number of takes on Aziraphale munching on an apple with Crowley in snake form curving around him), and there are tons of symbolic motifs to draw from, but these are not the only options. An artist illustrating an essay about cinematography, for example, could draw a well-known scene from an alternative angle. An essay about Heaven as a capitalist corporation could be illustrated with a cartoon of Gabriel giving some sort of excruciating PowerPoint presentation. A character analysis could be accompanied by a simple portrait. And on and on. I’m not interested in limiting the possibilities by trying to make a list, but just know that there are many and you don’t have to make it complicated if you don’t want to.

If the writers can reuse their essay ideas, can artists reuse their drawings?

Similarly to the writers, if you already have an interpretive drawing that you’re in love with, artists can use the same ideas and the same fundamental composition that is present in their own existing work. However, it has to be redone in some significant way. Whether it’s taking something you drew in 2019 and redrawing it using an updated style, taking a sketch and turning it into a lined and shaded piece, or redoing a full-color drawing so it presents more strikingly in black and white, it shouldn’t be identical to the thing you’ve already posted.

So how are you choosing participants here?

It’ll be based on what people are interested in writing about (or illustrating). I’ll be looking for people who are passionate about their essays, but I’ll also be looking for variety. It all depends on what people want to offer, so I won’t know for sure what it will look like put together until everyone’s application is in.

For artists, I’ll be trying to figure out whose style looks like it would adapt well to illustrations in black and white, and also who demonstrates an interest in the same subjects as the writers.

If we don’t get a lot of applicants, I’d love to simply include everyone, but I can’t commit to that without knowing for sure how many people are involved.

Do I have to use a formal writing style to participate?

No. You should use a style that makes your thoughts and ideas as clear as possible, but as long as it’s understandable, you can also get a little artistic with it. You can “write like you speak,” though perhaps in a more organized way. You definitely don’t need to worry about stylistic rules like not using the first person. This is not academia.

Is this zine going to center only on Crowley and Aziraphale?

That remains to be seen! It depends on what ideas show up in the applications. There will be a lot of the ineffable partners for sure, but whether the whole zine will center on them or whether there’s plentiful stuff about other characters will depend on what the participants suggest.

Do we have to agree with all your personal interpretations of Good Omens to be in the zine?

No! In fact, I’m assuming that a number of essays will contradict each other, too, and that’s perfectly okay. The zine is a sampler of fan interpretations meant to inspire, not instruct. It’s not “Here’s a fan-made guide on how to understand this TV show,” it’s “Look at all these moving parts and how many meanings we can find in them. What does it mean to you?”

However, there are some basic rules and assumptions by which I’m working here.

I don’t personally have the energy to include essays that are highly critical (“negative”) in this zine. It’s analytical but also meant to be fun.

I’m pretty focused on the TV adaptation. This isn’t “no book analysis allowed” but just that the essays will end up being weighted toward subjects that apply to either the TV show or both the book and the show.

Each writer should focus on making their own points over disproving other fan interpretations. If you’re writing in an expository style, it’s normal for the essay to contain rebuttals to opposing ideas, but these should be minor supporting points, not the heart and soul of your essay. For reference, I’d say the majority of meta I see floating around on tumblr would follow this rule just fine.

Essay ideas that seem to contain bigoted or exclusionary sentiments will not be accepted (no TERFy stuff, for example).

What kinds of editing will go into the zine? Are you going to argue with us about the contents of our writing?

While I might ask you to elaborate on certain points in your writing or clarify your thoughts about your subject, I’m absolutely not here to ask you to change the thesis, opinions, or headcanons on which your writing is based. If I really have a problem with your initial idea, I’ll tell you that up front and politely decline the contribution.

While formatting the zine, I’ll make minor edits if I think I see a typo or misspelling, something small and obviously unintentional. As with any other zine, your content won’t be changed without consulting you.

Is this a SFW zine?

Yes. If people want to discuss sexuality in a theoretical way, like erotic subtext, that would be allowed. There are canon references like Newt and Anathema’s moment under the bed that might come up, too. But there will be nothing explicit, and since these are essays instead of stories, there will be no “action” going on between characters. Let’s just say sex isn’t a forbidden topic, but it will be like discussing it in English class.

As for other topics that could make the zine NSFW, like gore or extreme language, I don’t think they will be an issue. Some dark topics, like abuse by Heaven and Hell, may be discussed, but they will be warned for, and these are not stories, so you aren’t going to see violent actions playing out.

Will there be any “extras” like charms or stickers?

I’m not sure yet. I’m most inclined to keep it simple, because of the nature of the zine, but would be open to including some bonus items if there’s an artist who’s really passionate about it.

With that said, I am pretty committed to making a hardcover edition of the book available, in addition to the standard softcover version.

You’re doing this with only one mod?!

Yes. I personally find it easiest. While I’ve worked on multi-mod projects in other domains and adore all of my co-mods, it’s a little bit different when it’s a project with this many moving pieces that includes real-life components like printing and shipping. Though there are a lot of individual things to be done, I am experienced with all of them, so it’s less overwhelming to just take on the whole project. That way, I know exactly what needs to be done and when, and there are no issues with assigning tasks.

What qualifies you to run this zine?

The résumé answer: in fandom, I successfully solo-modded a large not-for-profit zine in the past, the @soulmakazine2018, and while I can’t speak for the whole fandom, it definitely seemed to be well-received. <3 In real life, I’m a case manager and this involves coordinating and communicating with a lot of different people including my 100-person caseload, budgeting services, and filling out all kinds of paperwork on the fly, all skills that can be imported into zine work.

The practical answer: well, I’m the one who decided to start this project, so if you like the sound of it, you're stuck with me. I say with encouragement and enthusiasm that if you’d like to do a different take on a commentary zine, you should absolutely do it.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #ineffable partners #fanzine #good omens zine

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imasimpforstevengrant · 4 years

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His (Part one)

Edit by the wonderful 💕💕💕 joker_jessica295

Instagram: @joker_jessica295

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Special thanks to @neon-umbrella-for-stella (thank you so much for the ideas!) and @darkshadow90 for the tips on certain scenes 💕💕

• Author’s note¹: Another Arthur/Harley smut. Yes. It took me more than seven months to write it, based one a suggestion from a reader on a different take.

• A/N ²: 447 FOLLOWERS? WHEN tHE HELL DID I GET SO MANY?! THANK YOU SO MUCH OMG

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Summary: A piece more centered in Harleen and her feelings towards Arthur, Flashbacks to the first meeting and kiss. More sex comes after their first night together as they open up about each other. Meanwhile, a clown has stirred Gotham City by murdering three young Wayne employees, awakening a popular fascination which not even Harleen won’t escape from. She doesn’t know this (wrongly) crowned hero is closer than she thinks.

Warnings: insecurity, self-hatred, swearing, darker Arthur ahead (possessive, lusty, crossing boundaries), age gap, strong sexual themes, sexual humor, oral sex (male receiving), fluff, breast oral stimulation, dirty talk, mild praise kink, possessive, unprotected sex.

WC: +9.946 (IT’S LONG I KNOW… I hope you don’t get bored!)

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November would mark one year since she got to Bronx Apartment after finishing her studies in Gotham’s University, obtaining a degree as a psychologist. Harleen was blessed with an exceptional intuition and a brilliant memory, this preventing her to burn her eyes away studying day and night for exams.

Once finished, she got a job as a therapist in social services. It had been hard to get but Harleen used her charm to convince the man she was ardently committed to social causes. A few smiles to the old, drooling creep during interviews and she got what she wanted. But with the unemployment rate increasing in the city, Harleen knew crisis couldn’t be avoided with a charming smile. Resenting her situation but with no other option, Harleen obtained a job as a bartender in shifts, most of them at night.

She was a frequent target of blatant ogling and indecent comments from men of all ages to which Harleen always replied with sarcasm that either scared them off or ended up with men insulting her under their breath. The first two months in the building were boring and gloomy, until she saw him.

Harleen had seen him a few times. He always seemed so mad, so drawn within himself and yet there was something oddly attractive about him. If not beautiful, it was certainly intriguing. He was the neighbor the other residents warned her about: the laughing guy from the eighth floor. Some told her he was ugly, deranged and creepy. Harleen got her first impression of him during a day off: she went for a drink when the mail boxes, surrounded by a small cage, were checked by the mysterious man.

There he was. The guy was wearing the usual yellow hoodie, navy blue pants, brown vest and a white polka-dotted shirt. Shoes were worn as much as his outfit, hair slicked back, gaze focused on the box that seemed eternally empty. She then noticed the frown that hardened his features, reinforcing the idea that he was always angry, while asking herself some questions about him. Who was he? What did he do for a living? Was he married? Did he have children? He looked old enough to have them.

What was his name?

She would have never imagined she’d figured it out months later. It was one particular night she went out to a party just to return home a little drunk. A catchy song refused to leave her mouth, while dancing in a lively way were enough to get the attention of the loner. He returned from getting his medicines. Hunched pace tracing his way back home, Arthur saw the young recently graduated young lady dancing shamelessly in the hall. She wore a short red dress and her lips shone in crimson gloss.

The image of her hair flowing, creating a blue and pink spectrum of colors turned out to be so unusual and beautiful that immediately sent involuntary visions of her in sexual situations. He hated the idea of her being out of his reach but felt a modest share of satisfaction just by seeing her. This became a common practice on his routine, with Harleen being completely unaware of it. She only saw her mysterious neighbor a few times from then, probably because he had to work. A lot, from what she could tell.

It was Thursday in the evening when she returned from the theater. Harleen was thankful she was on the taxi when the rain started. It was a small luxury she could gift herself after working so hard. She thought her day couldn’t get better when back home when she’d finally get what she wanted for so long.

Once in the elevator bag, in hand, she saw him. The door opening revealed the crestfallen individual, always withdrawn in his thoughts. That would explain why he almost jumped out in shock when he saw her, as if she was some kind of ghost. Harleen finally found the courage to grin and speak up.

“Hi”. One kind greet was enough to freeze him. At the same time, Arthur stared at her, examining the funny hairstyle that embellished her. Simple but pretty: a white sweater and jeans with short boots and a blue bag hanging from her left arm. Buns held her hair, blue the left one, pink the other one. A few platinum locks fell over her neck.

“Hi”, he finally replied. Doubt made his vocal chords tremble. His stare betrayed everything he felt for her, showing even how surprised he was for a woman like her to talk to him. He did his best to return the grin, his lips curving into a sneaky, playful one. Something inside Harleen trembled. Of all the reactions she expected, this was certainly an unexpected surprise. It was like a powerful bolt whipping her body. The odd attractiveness of her older neighbor caught her off guard. She did not expect him to actually have… charm.

There was something that tainted his unique beauty, however. She couldn’t help but stare in silent horror at the small bruise on his eye and a dry trace of blood on the bottom lip. His deep silence and mirthless look on his eyes despite the smile carved a deep wound in Harleen’s soul. He looked so destroyed and yet he managed to be polite enough to reply. She now paid attention to the adorable dimples embellishing his smile. The only thing she could do was smile back, not imagining the magnitude of the feelings she would unleash on him.

The bell rang. Harleen suddenly felt bad to leave for her flat, desiring just a few more seconds to appreciate his features. But she wasn’t willing to lose and her generosity gifted him an awkward but cute hand gesture, which Arthur took a long time to respond to. The absolute amazement in his eyes turned out to be an unexpectedly pleasant shock. That smile… so distant from the serious expression that usually carved his features, lost inside his thoughts.

Once in her flat, Harleen was incapable to stop thinking about him. And that wasn’t the only problem. Thoughts replayed the charming smile over and over again and became particularly intrusive while undressing to take a hot shower. She wanted to know more about him by being subtle, to increase the thrill this stranger had caused to her.

Probably the premise of “opposites attract” took a special meaning for the two of them, causing an authentic interest over the loner’s magnetism, not imagining how much of a surprise he’d turn out to be. What Harleen would have never thought was that the loner was also immensely interested in her…

Through fleeting glimpses of a yellow hoodie, she learned she had a secret admirer (this being a soft epithet for what it was actually an stalker).

Harleen became aware of it after noticing there was always a tall, thin man lurking in the shadows of the buildings in front of the playground she was always in during nighttime. It also happened while she was jogging or hanging on a rope to avoid any further danger lately. The latter was more interesting for him, given she could notice him better: still, predacious, not missing any second of watching her involved in such graceful moves, like floating in the air.

Harleen was sly, of course. She knew she was gorgeous. And the notion of being unreachable was highlighted by adding more sensual moves in this effective way to attract him, assuming the unpleasant cost of being constantly catcalled by other men. But of course her efforts paid off: the long expected meeting would occur on September. She actually expected another day to play innocent and let him stare at her instead of an actual interaction. A few pedestrians passed by, following a series of unpleasant whistling and blatant sexual commentaries.

But she couldn’t care less now, noticing it took him longer for him to show himself up through the dim lights in comparison to other days.

Harleen kept doing her job, however, repeating and extending the same moves to maintain her anxiety at bay. This resulted in more pirouettes so she could catch the familiar glimpse of the yellow hoodie near the darkened corner he usually stopped by to stare. The exercise turned out to be so pleasant that almost made her forget her initial goal, her focus now being to make a risky but stylish twirl.

There were no whistles or any indecent comments this time. Just a soft chuckle that evidently showed his amazement at the pirouette broke the deaf car honks, far screams from angry people that shattered the already silent place. Her swinging form immediately got down while trying not to lose the composure, calling him.

But far from what she expected, the man reacted horrified just to run away. She wasn’t going to give up, quickly jogging towards the fence that separated them.

“Hey!” she extended one hand, clawing herself with the other one. The hooded shadow stood there, panicking. He couldn’t bring himself to disappear in the dark, which made him look like a malevolent spirit.

“Come back!” she yelled, waving her hand incessantly to convince him to return, daring him to answer for such tenebrous and creepy attraction for her. It seemed her call paid off, since the man had no intentions to keep running, choosing to walk his uncertainty away through disoriented circles. He suddenly stopped walking, standing completely still now. Harleen rose an eyebrow, honestly expecting what he would do now.

That man had issues for sure.

The idea soon morphed into a fact. Once she saw him coming closer to her to finally face her, she found herself unable to hold back a gasp to discover it was precisely her handsome but distant neighbor she had seen so many times and the reason why she had let him cross the line. She liked intense emotions, and something told her this man could give her a good thrill. The loner, for his part, turned around and almost tripped once realizing the short proximity between them.

It was certainly shocking to see an apparently cold, aloof individual who never talked with such searing lust in his eyes. Her hands now clawed at the fence, her icy blue eyes stared at him, feeling a shiver down her spine while she their glare revealed more things about him, one being his complete bewitch (or more like aroused) hearing his breath becoming more and more shortened. But there was also a glimpse of guilt, lips twitching as if he was repressing a word or even a kiss, she’d dared to say.

The darkness highlighted the odd yet irresistible attractiveness that stole her heart, tracing a smile on her lips. He set his eyes down her body, ending the visual enjoyment focusing on the striking, extravagant mane that reached the upper part of her hips.

“You’ve been enjoying my show, have you?”, she went straight to the point.

A reply came out ringing in a remorseful, broken whisper:

“Yeah”

His name was Arthur. Harleen couldn’t be happier to finally know it, repeating it while taking her time to savor it.

Arthur Fleck.

Nothing prepared her to witness the very thing he was known for, however: the pained, cursed laugh that now resounded through the air.

At first she thought it was genuine but the horrifying shameful look warned her about his desperate attempt to stop and to breathe. The cackles were frustrating and, worse yet, exhausting to the point it made him lose balance while trying his best to look for something inside his pocket. She climbed up the fence to finally make direct contact with him. That seemed to shock him enough to distract his features in a more skeptical expression at the first time someone showing him kindness rather than giving him the usual disgusted stare.

A plastic, worn out card explaining his condition came from his pocket. The fit diminished to painful hiccups to tired sobs, relieved by a few reassuring words to make the stranger stay. It followed with a small talk about Thomas Wayne, unemployment in Gotham City and revealing each other’s “do for a living” but the topic of conversation seemed off. She could tell Arthur wasn’t used to social interaction, noticing how much it took him to find a tone and words to reply coherently. He never lost a sight of her, never taking his gaze off her as she spoke. The blonde felt actual amazement on the intense lust she had awakened on him, motivating her to test him, to see what things he would do to her in a more intimate place.

They arrived to the building. Harleen led her guest to her humble flat. Arthur was fascinated by the pink neon lights that banished the darkness to plunge his senses in a pleasurable, dreamlike numbness. They continued talking. Her flirty attitude and smiles made Arthur feel he was living the best night of his life. The loner was too lost in her bicoloured mane. A small smirk traced his lips, forming those dimples she secretly admired so much.

“It looks like cotton candy”, his mutter rang through her mind, resounding like a small demeanor confessed with relief. The sweet compliment was rewarded, subsequently, with a short, noisy kiss on his forehead. The action quickly makes him recoil for a few seconds, as her memory remembered, just to feel confident enough now to unleash a furious, hungry kiss on her lips. This violent outburst of passion had her lips against his dry, cracked lips, shocking her at first to eventually surrender and responding to the kiss. His inexperience was clear from the beginning but she had more of a convincing proof that the vehemence of the touch starved was, sometimes, more arousing than the dexterity of an experienced lover.

The sound of their lips breaking the caress made the sexual tension even more unbearable. He apologized; covering his mouth like punishing himself for behaving like a deranged creep but Harleen was just too impressed and lost after the spontaneous gesture, praising him for his passion instead of screaming at him. She had already accepted she’d never yearn for another lips except his.

It wasn’t easy for him, however. His rigid posture put in evidence his shame at the (obvious) first intimate contact he held with an actual person. With her head tilting tenderly, Harleen put a rebel curl behind his ear. He shrugged, stepping back, maybe processing the word she chose to describe him. As if that wasn’t enough, Arthur was too self-absorbed in his visible fascination over her chest. There was more than mere lust in his gaze over his disturbing fixation on her bosom, a far cry for the abandonment and yearning for intimacy but being too afraid to show it. Harleen fought the persistent (and reckless, utterly reckless, she had to recognize) urge to grab his hand and let them knead her soft forms, getting him to know her more personally.

Instead, Harleen took his hands on hers, caressing them tenderly. A defeated sigh, at last, made him regain composure. His whisper sounded broken but clear, much to her joy.

“Can you please...?” Arthur wasn’t able to even to complete the plea as the blonde closed her eyes slowly as her face broke distance with his to once again experiment the clouding, soaring euphoria their careless closeness brought with it. The party clown had a hard time processing the warm and maddening sensation of her lips on his, convincing himself that this was no hallucination. They took their time, finding the perfect angle to get a better caress from each other: Harleen had the initiative throwing her arms to his neck, causing the loner to respond by locking his arms around her waist.

Intimacy became too overwhelming when her tongue tried to play with his. The lovers laughed the nervousness off as the kiss finished momentarily to recover from the numbness. But he went back to devouring her to memorize every little sensation, growing more and more confident, tilting his head now to obtain a better taste of her mouth. It proved to be too much for him, however. She sadly felt him distancing from the embrace, most probably because his old fashioned ways deemed improper to sleep with a woman he just had met.

She felt so many things that fateful night misting her senses to verbalize her thoughts. But one thing was for sure:

She would burn Gotham to see him smile.

*-*-*

It was 09:33 am according to the green bluish digits on the old clock, light drizzle falling over Gotham City. A disheveled, yawing Harleen woke up by herself. Laziness held her muscles still until her stomach made clear that breakfast was a must.

She put on black shorts and a grey, long sleeved-shirt, combing her hair to then make a couple pretty braids that fell over her torso. The combination of pink and electric blue was pleasant to the sight, as the mirror revealed. Soon after the observation, she contemplated the empty space left by her lover: Arthur Fleck. She closed her eyes.

That name sounded (or more like tasted) so different now. The memory of this lonely, sad man turned into a sex crazed lunatic still shocked her, as her facial expressions brought out. The fierce passion he had just loved her with turned out to be hard to be believed considering how deprived he was of human contact.

It wasn't just the thrill of surprise but the tenderness of his vulnerability, an aspect whose contrast between despite looking twice as older than her and being a late bloomer just highlighted their affair: Arthur was so different in intimacy, letting go of that repression that harmed his soul since he understood his needs as a man. She smiled, still thinking about what they had done. The thought led her to look for him while her vision became sharper, slowly overcoming the persistent need to go back to sleep.

When she stepped outside her room, a chuckle reverberated through the air, making her come to her senses. Eyes blinking, a pleasant feel of lightheadedness befogging her mind as the silence was broken by a familiar voice.

“Knock, knock”. Harleen was still too sleepy to catch a clear glimpse of the loner behind her who, in turn, locked her form as if she was a prey.

"Huh?" she hummed, confused. But there was no verbal response from him. Arthur reacted kissing her neck with ferocious passion, holding her figure possessively, absorbing her scent. The blonde made an instinctive futile attempt to free herself to recover from the scare the sudden grasp had caused on her. A breathy whisper in her ear dissuaded any intention to undo the embrace.

“You’re supposed to ask who's there”

Harleen turned around, her long blond hair tickling his face. He wasn't gone but by God, she was thankful for that. Arthur undid the hug, directing his hands to her face to press kisses on it repeatedly.

"Mr. Fleck--" the blonde murmured, "I thought you were back on the business making people smile". Arthur smirked. A high pitched giggle left his mouth. He now directed his fingers to feel those attention drawn to her gorgeous, full pink lips.

"I am right now" the loner leaned his forehead against hers. Now that her vision was slightly clearer, she noticed Arthur had left her flat for a moment, given he was wearing a red sweater he didn't bring before. The loner then proceeded to take a black wand off his sleeve, offering it to her. Harleen giggled and took it, deciding to play his game. The object lost its rigid shape, causing Arthur to laugh at her disappointed reaction. He demonstrated his aptitudes as a party clown taking back the wand just for it to regain rigidity once on his hand. He whistled, adding a funny sound as he shook it against his other hand, checking its stiffness.

"What are you doing?" Harleen seemed completely taken by the action, her smile encouraging him to finally offer her the aforementioned wand as a bunch of flowers while humming a song. A tender, excited scream made him chuckle as her hands stopped shaking to hold carefully the gift. It had plenty of feathers of different colors but she loved the simplicity of it.

"Thank you" she placed them in the table, along a small pot of flowers.

Harleen stared at him, tenderly. All Arthur could do was smile, holding her hands briefly on his to then slide one up her arm to reach her face. She suppressed a gasp, which seemed to change the course of the original touch in thought, as his hand recoiled for a moment to return with more intensity to her face.

"We had one hell of a good fuck, Mr. Fleck" Harleen whispered, intertwining her fingers with his. Arthur burst out laughing as her swearing manners still made a great impact against his older ways. But he liked her honesty, nonetheless.

"I think we woke up the whole building" Harleen laughed.

“I don’t see the problem with that”.

“I never said it was“, Arthur replied, cocky. A deep intake of breath then happened, “You know I—“he stammered, nervous. With a cute giggle, the blonde slid down her hands through the soft fabric of his half buttoned shirt that left a glimpse of his chest, invigorating him to keep on. Arthur stared at her, not a word from his mouth, enticingly.

“I-- was just wondering-- what else we can do", he kept on after seconds passed by, trying to catch her mouth with his, nuzzling her face, “’because-- I told my mother I had a call—“, he continued, “from work… so I'd stay away from my apartment for a while. I need some—“he took another deep breath, trying to find the courage to look at her in the eye to pronounce his intentions.

“I need some space, Harleen…” Arthur stared up and down at her figure, hands sliding up the collarbone to rub her shoulders, persuading her to be an accomplice of this reprehensible deed, "but not alone”. The words, though flawed in pronunciation, were perfect to keep her gaze lost as if Arthur had cast a spell on her.

“I plan to have you all for myself today and I'm--" he closed his eyes, hiding his face in her neck, sniffing her hair while trying to voice his intentions despite the nervousness that made him stammer, "I'm eager to know you more personally".

Harleen was actually shocked with what she just heard. A mixture of utter tenderness and searing lust made her blood boil. Did he lie to his own mom to spend more time with her?

"Well with the riots out there, bar is closed for a couple of days so consider it your lucky day” her voice chirped in joy. His eyes shone with modest but genuine happiness at the good news. Then he smiled, flaunting those crooked teeth Harleen loved so much.

The blonde felt she was about to kneel and unzip his pants to give him the reward he deserved for such gesture when her stomach claimed for some food, impeding the spontaneous sexual fantasy to become real, earning a disapproving look on his face. It took them time to regain calmness, as their laborious breaths tried to cool down the fire inside them.

“Why are you doing that?” his tone of voice revealed impatience, leading her to express the idea to have some good meal before any intimacy could take place, causing his displeased expression to turn into a wide smirk.

“Great!” Arthur chuckled, granting her some personal space.

They made their way to the kitchen. Arthur took a sit while waiting, taking a cigarette to light it. Harleen quickly prepared the table, taking the electric kettle to fill it with water to pour it on the coffee machine, putting bread on the toaster and turning the radio on in hopes to increase the domestic bliss. The smoke filled the room but she couldn't care less. The news announced a cold, rainy week while announcing a new episode of the Murray Franklin’s show presenting a famous actor as a guest next week given the release of the film he recently starred in the next week. The announcement ended with a shortened version of the groovy organ of Frank Sinatra’s anthem “That’s Life” which Arthur hummed along. But as soon as the theme song ended on a fade out, he silenced himself to hear, much to his annoyance according to the tired, throaty groan that followed the happy hum, a reporter pronouncing the news related to the continuation of the garbage strike.

Both stood completely silent as the report that exposed most of Gotham's slums to insalubrities. The fear of the possibility to catch a severe disease was reinforced by the citizens who claimed to have seen the rat population increase. The piece of news changed to the Mayoral election, which seemed difficult given the riots and general dissatisfaction of Gotham citizens with unemployment rate and apparent authority's indifference in the matter. The note ended with Thomas Wayne promising order and prosperity if elected. More announcements followed, but the lovers didn’t pay any attention to it. His great displeasure caused Harleen to turn off the device.

"I just can't understand how my mother thinks he's gonna help us" his hand took the cigarette back to his mouth, adding that just because she worked for him more than thirty years ago did not mean he had the obligation to run in aid for her. Arthur rolled his eyes, making clear his profound dislike for people like him and the insufferable infatuation Penny felt for him.

“I’ve told her so many times she doesn’t have to worry about money. Everyone is telling me my stand ups are ready to make it on the big clubs”.

Harleen nodded, enthusiastic at the possibility of Arthur getting a name for himself in the stage.

“I’m not the man of the house for nothing”.

Harleen took the toasted bread and coffee kettle to the table.

“Man of the house, huh?”

“Yes, since I can remember. But even I need a break” he took another long drag, his lost look causing a deep sorrow on Harleen.

She lamented the prolonged solitude that caused him to pronounce such wounded words, hoping (maybe in an unconscious way to cope with stress) to get out the pain it caused him. The blonde extended her hand towards his, in a sweet attempt to cure or, at least, relieve his pain.

His absent gaze combined with the smile caused Harleen to feel a shiver down her spine. She laughed nervously to later pour the coffee in his mug to fill her own later. He didn’t laugh, staring at her and rubbing his forehead with his thumb. This dark glint promised her so many things, and few of them were good. He wasn’t afraid anymore to hide his intentions from her, seeing the affection was mutual. She could also see a spark of pride, engulfing his mind in another deep state of absent thoughtfulness. He pronounced no words, looking now at the recently poured coffee, whose steam slowly diminished to long twirls to nearly invisible white lines. She slowly and carefully extended her hand to his arm to convince him to leave the cigarette aside just to grab the large plate full of breads.

“Aren’t you a cute, little pleaser?”

The tender name immediately washed the worry away from her face while a reddish hue colored her cheeks. Arthur finally gave it a bite, cigarette finally left on the ashtray. The crunchy sound gave Harleen almost a cathartic relief. Whenever the chance to nurture him showed up she didn’t think twice to do it. He left the half eaten piece of bread aside to divert his attention to her.

“You wanna hear a joke?” the playful tone of voice and mischievous smirk made his face adopt such a devilishly appeal Harleen was unable to resist.

“Yes!” she said it as if that could convince him to have one more toast.

“Why are poor people so confused?” his grin drew those adorable dimples in his face again.

“I don’t know” a frisky look gleamed in her eyes.

“Because they don’t have any cents” he answered, before his voice exploded in a loud cackle. Harleen laughed at the simplicity of it. He was actually a funny guy, if only life could have been more generous to him. Bless his soul for making people laugh in such hard times.

Harleen was too lost in his joyful expression beyond if the joke was funny or not. His green eyes shone with a special light in the rare moments he could be in tune with his surroundings. It was as magical as seeing a shooting star. How she wished to take away the pain from him just to see his beautiful smile more often.

Throwing a smoking puff to the air, Arthur leaned in as if to tell her a secret.

“This is the first time someone is so nice to me", the loner confessed, shaking his head. He looked so lost, eyes following the smoke elevating in a single line undone by the move to breathe in the last remains of the cigarette. His personal battle against his warped perception of reality still gnawed his trust on her. A tender pout formed in her lips.

“You’re the first person who doesn’t feel uncomfortable around me” he muttered.

Her thoughts drifted to a greater, sadder horror: to make a difference in such a dark, mirthless man’s life just for being kind barely managed to even imagine the inhuman hardships he had been through during all his life. She lowered her head, trying to resist the actual pain in her chest. How a sentence that was so heartbreaking could also be so beautiful?

“I’m sorry, Arthur”. Her eyebrows arch in a sad expression that seemed to make him reconnect with reality.

“For what?” he frowned, confused. She tightened her eyelids, trying not to embarrass herself in front of him with such an explosive display of emotions, silencing her sobs the best way she could allow herself.

“Everything” Harleen finished. His instinct ordered him to show distrust, unconsciously trying to find any trace of lies. Nobody ever had apologized or even shed a tear for him. As he realized her care was genuine, his mind replayed the phrase over and over again while trying to process these intense, new feelings blooming in his heart over the typical, negative thoughts ghosting around his mind.

“Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no. Don’t do that” Arthur reacted panicked, “please…” his fingers dried the watery creeks, “don’t make that face to me. I’m here to put a smile on your face”.

He inhaled deeply, before continuing:

“You know… a famous comedian used to say… uh –“ his troubled mind tried to remember the name but then opted to articulate a coherent word to elude anything that could ridicule him –‘a day without a smile is a wasted day’.

A soft hum left her mouth, though a far shadow of sadness still haunted the tender quote.

“You know what I like about you, Arthur?”

“Yeah?” he was genuinely intrigued to know.

“You could even put the fun in a funeral”

His wide and evil grin, made her put a loose lock of hair behind her ear as a result of an involuntary move to cope with the nervousness.

“Fun in a funeral?” he repeated, a loud and moved hum sounding like a purr, staring at her while a chuckle shook his shoulders, “How sweet”.

How didn’t he realize how attractive he actually was? She asked herself surprised.

“Come here” Arthur patted his thigh loud enough for her to listen to it for her to reply. After drying the creeks coming from her reddened eyes, Harleen calmly got up from the chair. Arthur took distance from the table to allow her a comfortable sit. His fingers held her cheeks to create a smile despite her watery eyes.

Harleen blinked, and a tear escaped. Arthur brushed it away once it ran over her face. He thought she looked pretty when she cried, though. She gave him a sad smile and soon found solace in his face, ruffling the fluffy hair to distract her mind from any unhappy thought. Arthur closed his eyes, slowly caressing her thighs in sensual payback for her little attentions.

Once their foreheads found each other, the blonde muttered:

“How’s that feel?”

“Feels… good” he hummed against her mouth. His lungs inhaled deep before adding:

“I thought I felt better when I was locked in the hospital”.

Harleen widened her eyes in surprise, taking a short distance from him, not knowing if it was another self deprecating joke or the truth, given the defeated tone the sentence was pronounced in.

“What?” but a castdown look was all she needed to figure out the sadness such place caused on him. It wasn’t a secret Arkham was a human dump, considering it held Gotham’s most demented and dangerous criminals and unfortunate souls who couldn’t go anywhere else. Harleen’s eyes widen in a horrified expression.

“Arthur” her hand caressed his cheek, worried about the lightness he seemed to take his life, she tenderly tilted her head, “why were you locked up in that place?”

His tone of voice revealed his annoyance mentioning that place. He shamelessly nuzzled her right breast, trying to avoid the subject:

“Who knows, maybe I lost it or tried to kill myself...I just didn't want to feel so bad”. Arthur gazed up to her. He had never been more honest in his life.

Her horrified reaction to be told being locked up, bashing his head against the wall almost everyday just reminded him how much worse was to have a significant other who made him feel alone. Months surrounded by people in white outfits, convincing him to take the pills to make him, at least, presentable to the world and also deprived of any loving contact from Penny’s part under the excuse of fright caused by doctor or anything related to hospitals. It reminded him how pathetic his life was. Sometimes he forgot how much forgiving he was with his mother’s recklessness concerning his own wellbeing.

Her kiss on his forehead, however, seemed to bring him back to reality. Arthur felt he had awakened of a bad dream, but found himself amazed as he noticed he wasn’t alone with a blanket on while an alarm buzzed, as it was his usual routine. The loner stared at her as if he was seeing her for the first time. Her blue eyes, dilated pupils, body full given in to him. The loner blinked, eyes half closed, fighting the dissociation.

“Arthur” she called him. He looked dizzy. The blonde felt a pulsing heat making a place between her legs when the loner held her waist to lift her figure in order for it to adopt a riding position. She gasped, clawing to his shoulder once her figure obtains the desired position.

“What is it?” she whispered. But there was nothing except for a dead silence. Maybe it was another relapse of a dissociative episode, which made his mind to distract so any negative thought would fade. He panted, hiding his face against the silky platinum braid falling over her breast. The blonde didn’t move an inch, anxiously expecting to know what he would do now. He was so hard to read most of the times, leaving so many doubts and thoughts capable to drift anyone off sanity. Maybe he just didn’t want to talk. Maybe he just wanted to bond through touches.

Harleen felt a shiver once his mouth kissed the covered breast, playfully nuzzling with the erect nipple highlighted by the thin fabric. Blood boiled, as if her body demanded immediately to respond to such attentions.

She could tell Arthur was immensely pleased at her receptiveness concerning sex. His breath shortened, fighting the lightheadedness their suggestive position caused on him, loving how her body rode his hips, like a thrilling prelude before any intimate encounter could take place.

An impish, seductive smile must have given him the hint to keep on but he was way too shocked at first to react immediately. Harleen tugged on the shirt for it to loosen enough in order to offer him a privileged view of her bare breast, awaiting his mouth to finish what it just started, setting aside a few obstructing locks. Arthur’s jaw dropped, a line traced by pleasure soon contorted his lips. She hummed softly, admiring the sight of the loner hungrily lapping his tongue over the pink areola.

“You’re such a surprise for a late bloomer” the blonde leaves a beautiful, mischievous expression take over her face. Arthur detached his lips from her to ask:

“You calling me ‘old’, Harleen?”

“No!” she rushed to explain herself. The sassy tone of the question eased down any thought of annoyance, “I just—”

“I may look old, but I’m a fast learner” he cut her off, mouth back on the sensitive part. Harleen threw her head back, not showing any sign of opposition while Arthur clumsily undid the garment to leave her topless. This only ignited the fire inside of him, hanging on to her waist to sink his head between her breasts, rejoicing in the softness of her skin as his arms imprison her body. The elation wasn’t strong enough yet to stun her muscles entirely, gaining a little strength to make paused (or more like patient) undulatory moves against his body. His eyelashes flutter, causing tickles up her chest.

"I want you to put more than just a smile on my face" she caught his bottom lip to devour his mouth hungrily. He consented the kiss but didn’t respond to it, not even bothering to close his eyes.

"And what would that be, Harleen?" he looked genuinely puzzled, intense hue of green piercing her soul. She combed his hair back, sliding her hands down to hold his face in them. Arthur felt like a youngling in love for the first time. And having her covered intimacy grinding the growing bulge swept away all rational thoughts, making him listen to his needs as a man for the first time without overthinking ruining it.

Harleen supported on his shoulders, intensifying the sinful friction. Arthur groaned, relaxing when she generously offered his body another warm rub that was close to send him to heaven. On his face a deep feel of pride and complacency traces his lines given the arousing effects he had on her. Shuddered and impressed gasps left their mouths, until her voice sounds again:

“You’re so hard. That’s a very good thing” a secretive whisper kept him enchanted, her flirtatious glare invites him to get up. Arthur frowned but let himself guide by her when the steps were directed towards the wall, where Harleen didn't hesitate to corner him with famished kisses, feeling his chest underneath the red shirt.

The blonde slowly undid his shirt to obtain a proper look of his upper body to worship with her mouth, starting with the neck, nuzzling a few curls out of the way to brush her lips against the curve lining down his collarbone.

His whole form shrugged, writhing and panting. The dubious nature of this situation slowly dissipated to allow him to enjoy the treatment her mouth gifted now to the notorious prominence coming from his neck, not missing any inch of skin with her lips.

It didn’t take long for his pants to turn into needy groans as soon as his chest was blessed with kisses, then his abdomen, the blonde was careful to not overwhelm him, holding on a few seconds before continuing to reach her goal: Mouth waters at the sight of his the rigid manhood covered by his pants, giving it a tiny nibble.

The mood was immediately killed when Arthur jolted in shock when he finally realized what she was going to do.

The irruption visibly took her by surprise, facial expressions changing from excitement to disappointment.

“Did I…?” she stammered, shrugging in fear, “did I do something wrong?”

He sighed, sliding his hand on his hair in a nervous reflex. Harleen then remembered this was new for him, despite how much enthusiastic he was. How much violence had he faced during all his life, she would never know.

Arthur cleared his throat, inhaling deeply, still processing all those hands on his body with the sole purpose to pleasure him.

“No, no”, he rushed. His voice quavers, afraid a laughing fit could ruin a intimate moment he had longed for so much with a girl, trying to put his mind in order, “This is the first time someone does this to me... and that feels like a good thing to begin…”

A bright smile returned to her face when one hand held up her chin while the other one caressed her cheek in a tender approval of what she was going to perform on him.

“You want this…” she seductively stared up to him, while her hands unbuttoned his pants, obtaining what she just craved: the underwear contains the hardened member, which she frees with a quick fumble on the clothing.

Arthur stared at his private spectacle in hypnotized ecstasy, still trembling.

“Yes…” he hissed, “oh yes, I do”.

Harleen took a few seconds to admire the twitching, aching arousal held in her hand. She smiled as her eyes were up to look at him.

“Then feed me some candy, Arthur Fleck..." his jaw dropped, felt his legs tremble, lust slowly dissipating any other thought. Being addressed by his full name, certainly had an impact on him. The enticing image of a partially undressed Harleen between his legs surely made him forgot how vulnerable he was before her by exposing his almost completely bare body.

However there was not verbal response from Harleen’s part. Her firm hand caressed his erected intimacy for a delightful prolusion, keeping her lover completely in a trance, causing his nervous hands to grab in a contained, almost angry fistful of hair. Nothing prepared him for the next.

Her tongue, of course, did its wonders. First a few, paused licks to the tip while giving him sensual, playful looks to then leave wet traces down that soon derived to long, hungrier licks sent the loner in a desperate, ecstatic state.

“Godfuckingdamni--!” was all he could be capable of articulate, before any feeble attempt to form a word distorted into desirous gasps and screams, Harleen rejoices at his reactions. To be the first woman to see him free from inhibitions, given in to his instincts, shaking away his polite, silent manners felt like a privilege.

“Keep doing that” his demand was desperate, dealing with it by uncoiling a few locks. A wide smirk approved her tongue to explore and taste more of him, feasting now on the tip to absorb it, so he could become more familiar with her mouth. The explicit image gave him the confidence to stop repressing his desires for the sake of decency.

Her greed to have a different taste of him made her take turns between moistening the full erect manhood to partially engulf it later.

He now couldn’t even stand still, writhing like a dying animal, incapable now to look at her in the eye, believing the mere sight would make him unleash his climax, hands held on to his thighs, climbing up to his hips, looking to elicit more sounds out of his throat.

His chest heavily went up and down while Harleen kept on her voluptuous routine: first oiling him with her tongue to then make the tip disappear in her mouth.

His closed eyes, completely given in with an overjoyed expression on his face moved her to cause a greater gratification on him. She waited for the right moment to make Arthur look at her so he could cherish what she had in store for him. For a more dramatic reaction, she choose to disconnect her mouth from him, the sound of her lips detaching from the tip had him about to pass out.

“You’ll love this” were the only words she said. No further explanations. Her tongue gifted him another paused, devoted lick. It worked to make the full intake more enjoyable for him. Arthur’s body rears up violently. Raspy, loud groans and moans elicited by the tease tore the air.

Harleen placed her hands on his hips, helping herself to feel more of him between her lips, staring up to him as she received his swollen, overstimulated masculinity.

Arthur gathered enough oxygen to talk to her.

“Harleen—“ his eyes widened in awe, focusing on not passing out. His chest shook violently still recovering from the initial shock, “you nev-- you never cease to amaze me”.

She let a sweetly sinful smile trace around him, bobbing her head in a faster pace, muffled moans struggling to come out as she savored the stiffened sex with voracious appetite.

“That’s it… that’s better” he hissed, lip twitching, completely bewitched by the scene, “you’re such a good fucking girl for me”.

A happy hum vibrated through his skin.

“Am I, mister Fleck?” her squeaky voice in false innocence crowned an scene so obscenely explicit with a comic touch.

"Yeah… Like that... Just--" he gently slammed his back against the wall. Further vocal expressions of elation came from his mouth, trying to appease the urge to scream his lungs out for whole fucking Gotham to hear him. A shiver ran down his spine. It was so difficult to keep eyes open in that moment but the need to set his sight on her triumphed over any sense of exhaustion. His worn out hand slid down to hold her nape to obey the instinct to thrust into her mouth, just to better cope with the wet, narrow warmth Harleen welcomed his manliness with.

The blonde placed her hands over his hips, executing a very subtle move to contribute to deepen the intrusion that maddened Arthur so much. The slowness of this action made her push him away to then bring him back into her over and over again, gradually increasing the rhythm that turned the party clown into a noisy, urging mess. The rapturing and breathtaking routine of her mouth colliding with his unrelenting length sparked a merciless shiver that weakened his thighs, a stunning reminder of the glorious pinnacle he was about to reach.

“Stop”, his tortured plea was unexpected.

The mesmerizing image of a joyful Harleen with him appearing and disappearing from her lips right below him at incessant speed was more than he could take without going insane. The situation was getting out of his hands when Harleen also gave it firm caresses and long, rushed licks.

“Please”, he whined, voice too weak, covering his mouth in order to quieten the moans, “oh, God--Stop!”

His command finally made Harleen react, seeing it was actually too much. It took him a moment to catch his breath and recover his strength to pronounce about his intentions.

“Arthur? Is everything okay?” she muttered.

“Take that off” his instincts took over his mind, leaning to get her up and direct his hands towards her shorts, lowering them. She doesn’t oppose, unable to respond verbally, having the feeling the behest was actually told to himself. It didn’t matter anymore. She smiled as she saw the impatient hands lining her curves, fingers clutching at the cloth to whisper, “I like it how it looks but I want it off”.

Harleen eyes the action in fervid silence while he couldn’t stop staring down at her fascinating nudity, directing one hand in a sinuous move to part her intimacy to delicately rummage the silky smooth folds he wanted so much to be wrapped around.

Harleen jolted, lolling her head back, amazed vocal expression resounded in his ears. Her eyes gleamed with resolution about his intentions, and a shivering gasp follows the brash action. A vocal expression of mischievous complicity comes from her.

“I see… you want to fill up the tank?” she chirped with a frisky giggle.

Arthur nodded in impatient muteness, while crashing his lips on hers in such a reckless way their feet ended up nearly tripping on the way to the couch. At the same time, he got rid of his underwear, undoing her braids, bicolored mane perfectly lining her curves now.

A firm push to throw her to the couch was just the beginning. She almost landed completely on her back, if it weren’t for her arms avoiding it.

“Easy, clown man!” her expression turned out to be so funny for the loner to let a cackle loose. From her angle, Arthur looked so frighteningly dominant. It embellished his figure like a statue, his disheveled hair highlighting the hungry and desperate expression which his carnal urges claim to be sated.

The magnificent preface maintains him from a considerable distance from her, surrounding the blonde like a prey, unable to decide what to do to her first.

Harleen makes the first move. to fulfill her purpose, she held her legs with a provocative glare, limbs hardly exposed her undressed figure to him. The wavy moves made Arthur crawl his way to her like a starving beast.

Her receptive reaction to the kiss motivated his hands to roam over her thighs, directing them up to the knee to untangle her legs, eventually.

A devilish smile approves the suggestive image of her pressing now his waist, sensing they were so close yet so far of each other. He devoured her mouth avidly at the same time his sense of newfound dominance urged him to place himself above her.

Harleen slid her hands up his battered back, breaking the kiss to hold and scratch his scalp to mumble:

“I want you deep inside me”.

Arthur hid his face on her neck, wallowing in the gentleness of her touches. She clings to his arms, abandoning all defenses, letting him know she was totally his to possess.

His biceps accentuate by supporting himself. Long, brow curls fell over the curve of his neck, eyes on her when his hips moved even closer to her. Harleen diverted her attention to it, but she immediately crumpled her lungs for air as Arthur teased the burning folds with the tip, becoming familiar with the part he was going to invade soon.

“More… more, oh, please” her lewd smile, cute little hums and whines mixed with his own shortened breath and surprised but satisfied groans made them forget about the world for a short while. Arthur constantly rubbed his manhood against her moistened entrance, exulting at the furious grunts the sweet torture elicited.

In exchange, she pressed her legs as a slight punishment for such daring move. But she was loving every second of it. Her eyes appreciated the paused caress between their bodies.

Seconds passed when his prolonged absence began to cause her actual pain, wrapping her legs around his hips. He let his hands fell beside her head, to plant a last kiss before proceeding.

"Knock knock" he muttered against her lips.

"Who's there?" She replied with anxious anticipation.

"It’s the mailman, miss. I’ve got an special delivery. It can hardly wait for you to see it"

She widened her eyes in surprise before his boldness to even joke in a moment too intimate as this but ended up exploding in loud cackles that left her breathless. Her reaction caused an expression of fascinated disbelief to take over his face. Both laughed it off shortly to resume were they left off.

His stare, predacious and craving, petrified Harleen.

Once his bare sex perfectly fit her hot, silky intimacy, Harleen threw her head on the pink velvety pillow, dramatically panting as her body focuses on adhering to this desired invader. His name leaves her mouth as a desperate prayer, as if he was her only saviour, much to his delight.

"You like that, don't you?" he hissed while giving her body another brutal thrust so she could feel him inside her as intensely as possible.

“Yes!” Harleen replied, not giving a fuck if it sounded indecent, “Arthur, I want all of it, please! Please!”

“All of it?” he smirked, reinforcing his invasion, obtaining louder screams from Harleen, doing her best to deal with the urging length in, searing walls flexing around him.

“Allofit…” but it was unintelligible for him. Arthur was too busy indulging in a deeper intrusion, eyes closed for a better focus. His thrusts were taken over by an animalistic despair, not hesitating to harden the pace even more as the eventual natural need for release set aside any sense of self control.

Nothing could take the wide smile off her.

“You are so good at this, mister Fleck…” the playful praise sounded more like a helpless little whimper, arousing Arthur in ways he would have never imagined. It lead him to lean into her, but she quickly took advantage of it by captivating his form, legs pressing his hips to deepen the intrusion even more.

Arthur threw his head back, stopping for a moment to process the pleasure the abrupt move had caused on him. Harleen contemplated in silent joy how his arms had taken a more muscular shape, gifting him an evil, yet charming smile when she held his face with both hands to pepper it with kisses, holding to his back as if her life depends on it, body ready and eager to obtain more of him.

He slowly made his way out of her just to violently slam back in, causing soft sobs that ended in more desperate praises, which played an important part during the act.

“Keep fucking me like that… I beg you” he closed his eyes, ecstatic, lips parted.

“I will” he gasped.

As soon as she moans his name, Arthur sensed his last sense of self control disappear. He could feel her nails in the skin of his back, which doubled the joy of another brutal thrust into her, exhausted groans leaving his throat. Harleen squirmed while dealing with the intense pleasure his unmerciful pace caused on her.

“Arthurarthurarthurarthurarthur” the blonde called him before losing her own sense of reality, the last coherent word before a lovely, mellifluous mixture of moans, groans, grunts and sobs seized her lips.

Him.

It was all about him, she realized. She swore everything had lost into oblivion. There was nothing except the throbbing welcome her tight walls granted to his twitching gristle.

In that moment she finally comprehended his impact on her life, remembering all the good moments they had shared, everything that led them to this moment, so close to end the act with thunderous moans.

She wasn’t afraid to accept this man had become her entire life since she had lied eyes on him, the first and last person she thought about every time she woke up and certainly the reason why sudden smiles traced her lips during work.

However, her body warned them about the proximity of the peak when the pulsing grip around him intensified, interrupting the happy daydreaming about him, returning her to the raw reality she was protagonist of.

The gorgeous moaning mess he had done from her had encouraged the loner to fasten the rhythm, loving to bring her to the brink, frantic spasms whipping his nerves while her moans echoed louder and louder. Her features showed an agonizing expression, lips partly open but unable to utter anything, mind fogged by lightheadedness.

“Arthur, I can’t— I—” the violent, feverish orgasm caught her unprepared: a blaring, euphoric cry served as the glorious conclusion of their union.

Arthur found the strength to distance himself from her, far too weak to resist the temptation to earn a good vision of her naked body in that moment. Harleen was still numb, hair covering her face like a curtain, blue strands all over her chest, contrasting with her pale skin. He followed the long mane down, eyeing her quivering figure, so full of him. He stopped to stare at their sexes still caught in a sore and reddened embrace.

The loner eventually surrendered with a powerful groan, exploding inside of her. He exhaled in stunned relief and sexual bliss. His eyes behold such beauty so full of him, retaining him even when her moans indicate that it was too much for her to bear. This let an even wilder side of him to appear when pushing slightly deeper, thinking it would go unnoticed, but she was too immersed in her thoughts about the man who lied over her. The stillness helped her to put her mind in order, dimensioning this feelings blooming in her heart.

It was hard to stare at each other at this point, but she slowly turned her head to see him despite the blue mane hinders a proper sight of him. Sunlight shone brightly on his face, curls tousled, from what she could see. It was like a little light of happiness shining at last. For the others, he was a deranged creep, but in that moment, Harleen felt he was the most beautiful man she had ever met in her life.

The blurred image eventually became sharper when his face came closer to hers, oozing his seed inside Harleen through his spurred flesh. It felt like hours passed by.

Small beads of sweat formed on his forehead, his open mouthed expression was of pure astonishment and fascination. The slender fingers set aside her hair, touching her lips, probably to kiss her again.

But nothing happened. Instead, Arthur decided to break the contact, paying attention to the zone in question.

With slow vehemence, he was finally gone.

The action left a thin, niveous line dripping from the tip, leaking from her in small creeks in a beautiful way their bodies demanded to reconnect each other.

“Fuck” he muttered, grinning. Despite the exhaustion, Harleen mimicked it. They couldn’t say anything else, for words were unnecessary. He wouldn’t know it, but Harleen had already accepted a great truth about him.

She was madly in love with Arthur Fleck. _______________________________________

Weeks passed. It was raining in a cold Thursday on Gotham City when Harleen returned home from work. The garbage strike was worsening, rioters looting any store they could and the mayoral candidate being the focus of criticism and repudiation of people. The reason behind it? She would find it out soon.

A taxi honking distracted from her quest for an answer but that didn’t stop her for too long. She heard people talking about nowadays and what Thomas Wayne had said about people in Gotham after something horrible had happened in the filthy subway. The macabre part awakened her curiosity. Was there something she didn’t know about? She looked for a kiosk at the end of the every block to see if there were papers about the aforementioned topic.

It was near a telephone cabin when Harleen finally found what she was looking for… but she didn’t know where to start. Just a headline in bold was enough to freeze her:

KILLER CLOWN ON THE LOOSE

LATEST NEWS ON THE MURDERS

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sl-walker · 3 years

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All right, since I’m in the middle of a flare and have to work manual labor for the next four days despite it, I figured I would make myself -- and hopefully other people -- laugh by talking about one of my favorite OG Captain Marvel stories. Namely, from Whiz #50, with a cover date of January, 1944, meaning it was probably produced sometime in late 1943.

I want to share it because why not, this is some absurdly charming stuff.

I’ll get more into why it’s one of my favorites as we go, in the form of running commentary. So, full story (with said commentary) under the cut. If you wanna just read the story without my commentary, stick to the pictures. XD

First, let me say that the cover and splash page definitely live up to the story, though the cover’s a bit more sensationalized. But the premise is pretty damn simple: Our intrepid hero and his newsboy alter ego are on vacation. Cap decides to go swimming. It goes hilariously wrong and thus ensues a bit of a madcap adventure, no puns intended.

Second, the fact that Cap and Billy are depicted as essentially different entities makes what Billy does next the ultimate trolling:

Gee, airing out the stolen laundry on the radio? Really? I’ll leave it up to you, gentle reader, whether Billy actually was trolling his own alter-ego for ratings or whether he was just innocently sharing the story while his other-self winced quietly in whatever ether-space he exists in when not front-and-center.

Either way, I love it.

Continuing on...

I get a kick out of the fact that Billy’s monologue is that he’s no dare-devil. One, because that’s so obviously not true in any way -- (that kid is awesomely, sometimes recklessly brave on the regular even without Cap) -- but two, because the bridge is actually named Dare-Devil Bridge. We aren’t given any reason why this dangerous potential death-trap is there, hanging without so much as a gate or a warning sign or anything, because we don’t need one. It’s there specifically for what happens next.

Which, of course, is Billy calling in Captain Marvel, who does some light complaining about the situation Billy left him in. There’s no bite to it, which I find adorable -- Cap actually does get frustrated once or twice in other issues with Billy calling on him for mundane stuff, though he’s never mean about it -- but there is a bit of the sense of being put-upon there that’s just-- I dunno, cute. It’s something I miss a lot in the various post-crisis takes on the character: That duality, that difference in personality, and the way each of them responds to different situations. Often, they’re on the same page, but notably, sometimes, they aren’t.

Someday, I promise, I need to sit down and write how I think that works between those two without being a truly frightening mental illness manifested, what with them being the same person but not the same person. Because I have so many ideas, and I’ve only had since the early-2000s to percolate them. LOL! But until then, just enjoy this.

Here is another reason why I love the Golden Age Captain Marvel books and why I love this specific story: This is an absolutely normal, mundane thing to do. It’s the human thing to do. These aren’t the actions of some super-serious superdude. These are the actions of a pretty shockingly normal guy doing something mundane. And a whole story is built around that normalcy.

It’s cute. It’s funny. It’s the reader already knowing that he’s getting himself into a situation that he absolutely could have avoided, but also completely understanding how it happened anyway. It’s pretty brilliant writing: I say this as a pretty damned good writer myself.

So much of the reason why, I think, Cap was so endearing as a hero is that humanity. He’s got pretty much god-tier power in the Golden Age, once his powerset is established. He’s utterly invulnerable to all physical harm while powered up. But-- he’s human. He knows he’s human. He acts like it, and decides, ��You know what? I’m going skinny-dipping.”

He and Billy are both characters it’s so easy to empathize with.

Also, a reminder that the art under Chief Artist C.C. Beck is really, really good. (He had a whole stable of artists to help produce this stuff!) Ignoring registration issues on the printing press, the actual line art is amazingly good; proportion and perspective and consistency.

But anyway--Cap does get to enjoy his swim. But, then, oh no.

I love the idea of a world where the prime hero -- and he definitely is in that world -- can take off his suit and go swimming, and where someone else is bold enough to steal the damn suit off of him. The first time I read this, I started laughing here. Not at him, but at the situation he’s found himself in. At the idea that some random passer-by saw Captain Marvel’s costume and went yoink!

Another thing I love about this particular story is how much Cap and Billy have to work together, just by necessity. Like-- it’s just really good. But anyway, thank everything Billy Batson is on the ball, coming to the rescue.

Sheer bad luck via the weather keeps this story rolling along in hilarious misdirections. Realistically, that uniform probably wouldn’t be all buttoned together (we see Cap take off pieces of it aside the pants in other issues, including socks!), but who cares? The point of the story is that giant bear rug on the floor’s gonna get put to use.

Man, when have you ever seen Superman creeping naked through some stranger’s house wearing nothing but a random polar bear because he went skinny dipping? No wonder these comics sold so well. This next panel is when I start wheezing, though, and pretty much keep wheezing.

“A lady, too! I’ve got to get away from here!”

I’m dying at this point. That’s such a characteristic response, and yet, I think that’s why it’s funny.

Anyway, because this is an excellent story (I mean this without an ounce of irony, too), our dynamic duo stumbles across a plot in play to rob the hotel they’re staying at.

Here’s a big part of why this is such a good tale: Everything fits. Even when it isn’t explained, like Dare-Devil Bridge, it still fits. Why is the tree down? Because there was just a thunder storm, the same one that blew Cap’s suit into the room with the gangsters.

I don’t know if this is Otto Binder’s story, but I wouldn’t be surprised in the least. It’s a complete story told in relatively few pages that accomplishes everything it’s meant to.

Anyway, using foliage as cover, Cap gets to be heroic----then Billy gets to get back to the business of trying to stop the robbery of the hotel and get his heroic alter-ego dressed again. Which leads to a rather adorable and funny scene of Billy not only trying to describe what Captain Marvel wears, but what size it would need to be tailored in.

(Cap is supposedly a 44 for a suit coat, we find in some earlier appearance, which would refer to his chest size. So, an XL for shirts and suit-coats. He’s a big guy, but he’s actually not a hulking huge guy. But more on that later.)

I love the fact Billy tries to like-- use himself as a model. Maybe in another ten years, kiddo. Billy’s actually pretty buff for like a 12-14 year old, he’s not a scrawny kid at this point, but yeah, no. LOL!

Another thing I also really, really love about this style, though, is that they draw Captain Marvel as being strong, as having a powerful build-- but not as a dehydrated body-builder with deep cuts. He’s got human proportions, regardless of his strength; he’s got a human build, not a superhuman one.

C.C. Beck had a lot of things to say about superheroes who were just muscles on top of muscles, all clearly defined, and he didn’t like it. As someone who first got into comics in the early 90s with Jim Lee’s X-Men--

I do get Beck’s point. I not only get it, but I really highly approve of it. He maintained to the end that he drew (and oversaw) the Marvel family to look like high school and college athletes, and I can see that. I think the one person who’s gotten it right in the modern era is Evan “Doc” Shaner, who did Convergence: Shazam! He not only nailed that strong-but-not-hulking build for Cap, but also how young he looked. College-age, in fact.

But anyway, enough digression into art and why I like this better than most modern takes on the character. Also, that’s just a cute set of panels.

I also like that there wasn’t an easy fix there. Cap’s still in his not-birthday suit, and Billy’s still stuck running around trying to solve the issues at hand. Next comes some other really good panels:

-snorts- He’s locked in. Yeah, that’ll hold him.

Anyway, what I really liked here was again that tandem working; Billy can’t punch through a wall, but Cap can. Cap can’t crawl out while he’s au natural -- well, he could, but he’d probably rather die first -- but Billy’s got no such issue. It’s just fun when you get to see them doing something like that. You have to really think for a minute about the trust each of them must have in their alter-ego.

ANYWAY, we get the rare treat then--

--of Captain Marvel not only yoinking a dude into a dark room, but then stealing his clothes. Except, not his underwear. Because that’s nasty. LOL!

I love that in this series, you do actually get to see him wear other stuff. Go incognito. Get his red suit messed up enough to take it to a dry cleaner’s, wherein he ends up dressed like a musketeer after. Jerry Ordway’s series is, I think, the only other time we see Cap not wearing his famous suit, but it happened enough in the Golden Age that it wasn’t a shock.

Like, I hate to be the one to say this, but I do think DC drops the ball often on just how much you can do with Captain Marvel (or Shazam, depending on timeline, but that’s the wizard’s name to me so mostly I’ll stick with the original name) if you unbend enough to. It’s not just the costume change, or the duality of him and Billy being the same but not, but also his inherent, essential humanity.

But I am digressing again, sorry. XD I just feel strongly enough about these versions of these characters to spend hours writing this.

Anyway, only a single panel later:

And that’s that! Billy Batson has just outed his own alter-ego’s most embarrassing moment to whomever’s listening to WHIZ radio -- thank everything podcasts and the internet weren’t available then, ha! -- and we get to see a recounting of a very fun story.

Like I said earlier, I love this one for its essential humanity. The hero got himself into this mess, he and Billy got him out of this mess, and stopping the criminals was actually just kind of a lucky stroke thrown in there. But even though Cap got himself into this, the story never treats him like he’s stupid. It never treats him like he’s some kind of idiot. You’re laughing, but-- not in a mean way.

I love how human it is. How complete it is. How genuinely funny it is. It’s a thousand times more funny when you genuinely love and respect Captain Marvel and Billy Batson, too.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this dissertation on a skinny-dipping hero. LOL! I enjoyed sharing it with you.

#dc captain marvel #billy batson #shazam #whiz comics

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lilydalexf · 4 years

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Old School X is a project interviewing X-Files fanfic authors who were posting fic during the original run of the show. New interviews are posted every Tuesday.

Interview with Syntax6

Syntax6 has 17 stories at Gossamer, but you should visit her website for the complete collection of her fics and to see the cover art that comes with many of the stories (and to find her pro writing!). She's written some of the most beloved casefiles in the fandom. I've recced literally all of them here before. Twice. Big thanks to Syntax6 for doing this interview.

Does it surprise you that people are still interested in reading your X-Files fanfics and others that were posted during the original run of the show (1993-2002)?

I’m delighted but not surprised because I’ve written and read fanfic for shows even older than XF. Also, I joined the XF fandom relatively late, at the end of 1999, so there were already hundreds of “classic” fics out there, stories that were theoretically superseded or dated by canon developments that came after them, but which nonetheless remained compelling in their own right. That is the beauty of fanfic: it is inspired by its original creators but not bound by them. It’s a world of “what if” and each story gets to run in a new direction, irrespective of the canon and all the other stories spinning off in their own universes. In this way, fanfic becomes almost timeless.

What do you think of when you think about your X-Files fandom experience? What did you take away from it? What did you take away from your experience with X-Files fic or with the fandom in general?

(I feel these are similar, at least for me, so I will combine them here.)

First and foremost, I found friends. There was a table full of XF fanfic writers at my wedding. Bugs was my maid of honor. I still talk to someone from XF fandom pretty much every day. Lysandra, Maybe Amanda, Michelle Kiefer, bugs…these are just some of the people who’ve been part of my life for half my existence now. Sometimes I get to have dinner with Audrey Roget or Anjou or MCA. Deb Wells and Sarah Ellen Parsons are part of my pro fic beta team. I have a similar list from the Hunter fandom, terrific people who have enriched my life in numerous ways and I am honored to count as friends.

Second, I learned a lot about writing during my years in XF fandom. I grew up there. Part of this growth experience was simply due to practice. I wrote about 1.2 million words of XF fanfic, which is the equivalent of 15 novels. I made mistakes and learned from them. But another essential part of learning is absorbing different kinds of well-told tales, and XF had these in spades. Some stories were funny. Others were lyrical. Some were short pieces with nary a word wasted while others were sprawling epics that took you on an adventure. The neat thing about XF is that it has space for many different kinds of stories, from hard-core sci-fi to historical romance. You can watch other authors executing these varied pieces and learn from them. You can form critique groups and ask for betas and get direct feedback on how to improve. It’s collaborative and fun, and this can’t be underestimated, generally supportive. The underlying shared love of the original product means that everyone comes into your work predisposed to enjoy it. I am grateful for all the encouragement and the critiques I received over my years in fandom.

Finally, I think a valuable lesson for writers that you can find in fandom, but not in your local author critique group, is how to handle yourself when your work goes public. Not everyone is going to like your work and they will make sure you know it. Some people will like it maybe too much, to the point where they cross boundaries. Learning to disengage yourself from public reaction to your work is a difficult but crucial aspect of being a writer. You control the story. You can’t control reaction to it. It’s frustrating at first, perhaps, but in the end, it’s freeing.

Social media didn't really exist during the show's original run. How were you most involved with the X-Files online (atxc, message board, email mailing list, etc.)?

I participated in ATXC, the Haven message boards, and the Scullyfic mailing list/news group. For a number of years, I also ran a fic discussion group with bugs called The Why Incision.

What got you involved with X-Files fanfic?

I started reading XF fanfic before I began watching the show. I had watched one season two episode (Soft Light) and then seen bits and pieces of a few others from season four. I’d seen Fight the Future. Basically, I’d seen enough to know which one was Mulder and which one was Scully, and which one believed in aliens. An acquaintance linked me to a rec site for XF fanfic (Gertie’s, maybe?) so that I could see how fic was formatted for the web. I clicked a fic, I think it was one by Lydia Bower dealing with Scully’s cancer arc, and basically did not stop reading. Soon I was printing off 300K of fic to take home with me each night. I could not believe the level of talent in the fandom, and that there were so many excellent writers just giving away their works for free. I wanted to play in this sandbox, too, so I started renting the VHS tapes to catch up on old episodes (see, I am An Old). After a few months, I began writing my own stuff.

What was it that got you hooked on the X-Files as a show?

I had to be dragged kicking and screaming to The X-Files. I’m not a sci-fi person by nature. I think my main objection is that, when done poorly, it feels lazy to me. Who did the thing? A ghost! Maybe an alien? I guess we’ll never know. You can always just shrug and play some spooky music and the “truth will always be out there…” somewhere beyond the story in front of you. You never have to commit to any kind of truth because you can invent some magical power or new kind of alien to change the story. I think, by the bitter end, the XF had devolved into this kind of storytelling. The mytharc made no kind of sense even in its own universe. But for years the XF achieved the best aspects of sci-fi storytelling—narrative flexibility and an apotheosis of our current fears dressed up as a super entertaining yarn.

What eventually sold me on the XF as a show is all of the smart storytelling and the sheer amount of ideas contained within its run. At its best, it’s a brilliant show. You have mediations on good versus evil, the role of government in a free society, is there a God, are we alone in the universe, and what are the elements that make us who we are? If Mulder and Morris Fletcher switch bodies, how do we know it’s really “them”? The tonal shifts from week to week were clever and engaging. For Vince Gilligan, truth was always found in fellow human beings. For Darin Morgan, humans were the biggest monster of all. The show was big enough to contain both these premises, and indeed, was stronger for it. The deep questions, the character quirks, the unsolved mysteries and all that went unsaid in the Mulder-Scully relationship left so much room for fanfic writers to do their own work. As such, the fandom attracted and continues to attract both dabbling writers and those who are serious craftspeople. People who like the mystery and those who like the sci-fi angle. Scientists and true believers. Like the show, it’s big enough for all.

What is your relationship like now to X-Files fandom?

I look at it like an old friend I catch up with once in a while. We’ve been close for so long that there’s no awkwardness—we just get each other! I love seeing people post screen shots and commentary, and I think it’s wonderful that so many writers are still inventing new adventures for Mulder and Scully. That is how the characters live on, and indeed how any of us lives on, through the stories that others tell about us.

Were you involved with any fandoms after the X-Files? If so, what was it like compared to X-Files?

I ran the Hunter fandom for about five years, mostly because when I poked my head back in, I found the person in change was a bully who’d shut down everything due to her own waning interest. A person would try to start a topic for discussion, and she’d say, “We’ve already covered that.” Well, yes, in a 30-year-old show, there’s not a lot of new ground…

Most other shows, Hunter included, have smaller fandoms and thus don’t attract the depth of fan talent. I don’t just mean fanfic writers. I mean those who do visual art, fan vids, critiques, etc. The XF fandom has all these in droves, which makes it a rare and special place. But all fandoms have the particular joy of geeking out over favorite scenes and reveling in the meeting of shared minds. It will always look odd to those not contained within it, which brings me to the part of modern fandom I find somewhat uncomfortable…the creators are often in fan-space.

In Hunter, the female lead joins fan groups and participates. This is more common now in the age of social media, where writers, producers, actors, etc., are on the same platforms as the rest of us. Fan and creator interaction used to be highly circumscribed: fans wrote letters and maybe received a signed headshot in return. There were cons where show runners gave panels and took questions from the audience. You could stand in line to meet your favorite star. Now, you can @ your favorite star on Twitter, message her on Facebook or follow him on Instagram. In some ways, this is so fun! In other ways, it blurs in the lines in ways that make me uncomfortable. I think it’s rude, for example, if a fan were to go on a star’s social media and post fanfic there or say, “I thought the episode you wrote was terrible.” But what if it’s fan space and the actor is sitting right there, watching you? Is it rude to post fanfic in front of her, especially if she says it makes her uncomfortable? Is it mean to tell a writer his episode sucked right to his face?

Do you ever still watch The X-Files or think about Mulder and Scully?

I own the first seven seasons on DVD and will pull them out from time to time to rewatch old faves. I’ve shown a few episodes over the spring and summer to my ten-year-old daughter, and it’s been fun to see the series through her eyes. We’ve mostly opted for the comedic episodes because there’s enough going on in the real world to give her nightmares. Her favorite so far is Je Souhaite.

Do you ever still read X-Files fic? Fic in another fandom?

I don’t have much bandwidth to read fanfic these days. My job as a mystery/thriller author means I have to keep up with the market so I do most of my reading there right now. I also beta read for some pro-fic friends and betaing a novel will keep you busy.

Do you have any favorite X-Files fanfic stories or authors?

I read so much back in the day that this answer could go on for pages. Alas, it also hasn’t changed much over the past fifteen years because I haven’t read much since then. But, as we’re talking Golden Oldies today, here are a bunch:

All the Mulders, by Alloway I find this short story both hilarious and haunting. Scully embraces her power in the upside down post-apocalyptic world.

Strangers and the Strange Dead, by Kipler Taut prose and an intriguing 3rd party POV make this story a winner, and that’s before the kicker of an ending, which presaged 1013’s.

Cellphone, by Marasmus Talk about your killer twists! Also one of the cleverest titles coming or going.

Arizona Highways, by Fialka I think this is one of the best-crafted stories to come out of the XF. It’s majestic in scope, full of complex literary structure and theme, and yet the plot moves like a runaway freight train. Both the Mulder and Scully characterizations are handled with tender care.

So, We Kissed, by Alelou What I love about this one is how it grounds Mulder and Scully in the ordinary. Mulder’s terrible secret doesn’t involve a UFO or some CSM-conspiracy. Scully goes to therapy that actually looks like therapy. I guess what I’m saying is that I utterly believe this version of M & S in addition to just enjoying reading about them.

Sore Luck at the Luxor, by Anubis Hot, funny, atmospheric. What’s not to love?

Black Hole Season, by Penumbra Nobody does wordsmithing like Penumbra. I use her in arguments with professional writers when they try to tell me that adverbs and adjectives MUST GO. Just gorgeous, sly, insightful prose.

The Dreaming Sea, by Revely This one reads like a fairytale in all the best ways. Revely creates such loving, beautiful worlds for M & S to live in, and I wish they could stay there always.

Malus Genius, by Plausible Deniability and MaybeAmanda Funny and fun, with great original characters, a sly casefile and some clear-eyed musings on the perils of getting older. This one resonates more and more the older I get. ;)

Riding the Whirlpool, by Pufferdeux I look this one up periodically to prove to people that it exists. Scully gets off on a washing machine while Mulder helps. Yet it’s in character? And kinda works? This one has to be read to be believed.

Bone of Contention (part 1, part 2), by Michelle Kiefer and Kel People used to tell me all the time that casefiles are super easy to write while the poetic vignette is hard. Well, I can’t say which is harder but there much fewer well-done casefiles in the fandom than there are poetic vignettes. This is one of the great ones.

Antidote, by Rachel Howard A fic that manages to be both hot and cold as it imagines Mulder and Scully trying to stay alive in the frosty wilderness while a deadly virus is on the loose. This is an ooooold fic that holds up impressively well given everything that followed it!

Falling Down in Four Acts, by Anubis Anubis was actually a bunch of different writers sharing a single author name. This particular one paints an angry, vivid world for Our Heroes and their compatriots. There is no happy ending here, but I read this once and it stayed with me forever.

The Opposite of Impulse, by Maria Nicole A sweet slice of life on a sunny day. When I imagine a gentler universe for Mulder and Scully, this is the kind of place I’d put them.

What is your favorite of your own fics, X-Files and/or otherwise?

Bait and Switch is probably the most sophisticated and tightly plotted. It was late in my fanfic “career” and so it shows the benefits to all that learning. My favorite varies a lot, but I’ll say Universal Invariants because that one was nothing but fun.

Do you think you'll ever write another X-Files story? Or dust off and post an oldie that for whatever reason never made it online?

I never say never! I don’t have any oldies sitting around, though. Everything I wrote, I posted.

Do you still write fic now? Or other creative work?

I write casefiles…er, I mean mysteries, under my own name now, Joanna Schaffhausen. My main series with Reed and Ellery consists of a male-female crime solving team, so I get a little bit of my XF kick that way. Their first book, The Vanishing Season, started its life as an XF fanfic back in the day. I had to rewrite it from the ground up to get it published, but if you know both stories, you can spot the similarities.

Where do you get ideas for stories?

The answer any writer will tell you is “everywhere.” Ideas are cheap and they’re all around us—on the news, on the subway, in conversations with friends, from Twitter memes, on a walk through the woods. My mysteries are often rooted in true crime, often more than one of them.

Each idea is like a strand of colored thread, and you have to braid them together into a coherent story. This is the tricky part, determining which threads belong in which story. If the ideas enhance one another or if they just create an ugly tangent.

Mostly, though, stories begin by asking “what if?” What if Scully’s boyfriend Ethan had never been cut from the pilot? What if Scully had moved to Utah after Fight the Future? What if the Lone Gunmen financed their toys by writing a successful comic book starring a thinly veiled Mulder and Scully?

Growing up, I had a sweet old lady for a neighbor. Her name was Doris and she gave me coffee ice cream while we watched Wheel of Fortune together. Every time there was a snow storm, the snow melted in her backyard in a such way that suggested she had numerous bodies buried out there. How’s that for a “what if?”

What's the story behind your pen name?

I’ve had a few of them and honestly can’t tell you where they came from, it’s been so long ago. The “6” part of syntax6 is because I joke that 6 is my lucky number. In eighth grade, my algebra teacher would go around the room in order, asking each student their answer to the previous night’s homework problems. I realized quickly that I didn’t have to do all the problems, just the fifteenth one because my desk was 15th on her list. This worked well until the day she decided to call on kids in random order. When she got to me and asked me the answer to the problem I had not done, I just invented something on the spot. “Uh…six?”

Her: “You mean 0.6, don’t you?”

Me, nodding vigorously: “YES, I DO.”

Her: “Very good. Moving on…”

Do your friends and family know about your fic and, if so, what have been their reactions?

My close friends and family have always known, and reactions have varied from mild befuddlement to enthusiastic support. My father voted in the Spookies one year, and you can believe he read the nominated stories before casting his vote. I think the most common reaction was: Why are you doing this for free? Why aren’t you trying to be a paid writer?

Well, having done both now, I can tell you that each kind of writing brings its own rewards. Fanfic is freeing because there is no pressure to make money from it. You can take risks and try new things and not have to worry if it fits into your business plan.

(Posted by Lilydale on September 15, 2020)

#new post #old school x #xfiles fanfic #xf fanfic #xf fanfic author interviews #syntax6

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grimmseye · 4 years

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Business

Read on Ao3 Here

Rating: Gen

Fandom: She-ra

Relationships: Hordak & Entrapta, Hordak/Entrapta (pre-relationship

Chapter Characters: Hordak, Entrapta

Chapter Tags/Warnings: Once again, 1500+ words of Hordak’s thoughts about Entrapta, Season 1, The Battle of Bright Moon

— — — — — — — —

They were so close — the closest they have ever been. Outside was a breathtaking scene: the glow of the Fright Zone, black clouds funneling about, shards of red light fracturing the sky and casting his empire in its glow.

It was marvelous.

As he stood on a high balcony, Hordak realized he couldn’t recall the last he’d breathed open air. His days would keep him locked tight inside his lab, occupied with projects or pain, but this was a sight to behold. He only wished he could see its true glory, in what were soon to be the ruins of Bright Moon. Were his armor functioning properly, he would be there now, commanding troops in the field to ensure victory.

As it was, he could only wait and direct from afar. Force Captain Catra had proved to be an effective leader, despite her record showing no such conditioning. All of Shadow Weaver’s focus had gone to She-ra,neglecting four cadets in favor of a future traitor. And yet, he’d found she needed little intervention in his observations of her work. This had been her discovery, after all. Catra could be trusted with the frontal assault on Bright Moon. It was her fellow captains who needed a guiding hand.

Almost on cue, his communications pad chirped. It was an alarm, a reminder. His troops were due to make their first strike soon.

Hordak took one last, lingering glance at the sky. It was an image he hoped his brother would one day see through his eyes, the fruits of his labor. And not just his, but those he held at his side. Force Captain Catra, whom his empire had raised, who had in turn found the key to their success and led them to victory now.

He committed this moment to memory, and then headed for the Black Garnet chamber.

Princess Entrapta had commandeered the room for this assault. A web of monitors had been arranged to display various video feeds through his soldiers’ helmets. They were still in the Whispering Woods, nearly unrecognizable through the blizzard. From a speaker in a console below came a voice: “Arriving in Bright Moon in ten minutes. Force Captains Catra, Scorpia, Howler, Grizzlor, are you ready?”

Catra was the first to respond. “Ready. Cannons will be set to charge two minutes to arrival.”

The others echoed similar statements. As they spoke, the audio feed buzzed out as it was overridden by Catra’s line. “Entrapta, report.”

At that, a grate moved. Hordak’s eye ridge lifted as he saw a stout form drop from the ceiling, hair extended like great limbs to carry her body from above and below. She swung in midair, going from a headfirst drop to let her shoes hit the floor, bouncing to the console and leaning down towards its mic. “Everything is going great!” She chirped. “The power drain has stabilized. It should only take a few minutes for the Moonstone to become vulnerable; without it’s magical support, it will become brittle enough for focused fire to shatter it.”

It was unexpected how her voice went soft instead of peaking into a shout. Imp’s recordings had given a certain impression of Dryl’s princess, the little fiend finding it amusing to capture her excitable moments and shriek them back into Hordak’s ears. Yet now, from her profile, Hordak saw her face go blank.

A tendril of hair pulled her mask into place, and she continued, voice still chipper, “Anyway, you said I should tell you when there’s nothing new to report so: there’s nothing new to report! Good luck Catra!” She toggled a button, linking another communications line. “And good luck Scorpia!”

“Awww, thanks. Good luck with your, um, science!” came Force Captain Scorpia’s voice.

“Thanks!” Entrapta said. Another lock of hair turned a knob, quieting the audio feeds until they dimmed to a background murmur.

Hordak took that moment to announce himself, heavy footfalls catching the princess’ attention. He folded his arms behind his back, keeping his posture straight and looking down his nasal ridge towards her as she turned.

“Oh, Lord Hordak! Hello!” Her mask flipped up in an instant, and rather than a bow she greeted him with a beaming grin. “Have you come to observe the experiment?”

He might have corrected her if there weren’t more pressing matters. Instead, Hordak narrowed his eyes, giving a curt, “Indeed.”

“Great!” A tendril of hair reached for his wrist. He growled and smacked it away, making Entrapta cringe. “Oh, sorry!” She gave an apologetic grin, redirecting her hair to point to the monitors. “I meant to tell you that you can watch everything right here. There’s audio as well but I’d appreciate it if you used the headset instead of the speakers, all the chatter makes it hard to focus.”

He grunted, finding the headset as she requested. He left one ear uncovered, listening to the stream of voices through the other. All the while, eyes tracked the princess as she worked. From time to time she would spot him looking, give a smile, and then return to her task.

It was unusual. Hordak was used to his gaze earning him flinches and pale complexions, but Princess Entrapta hardly seemed to mind his presence. She narrated as she worked, a stream of noise he found far more interesting than the captains’ pre-battle checklist.

Her commentary about the Garnet’s status had his gaze shifting to it, the looming crystal now rigged with cables. They couldn’t bore into it, but the First Ones’ tech the princess had acquired allowed them to somehow integrate tech without installing ports. How Entrapta was combining magic with technology, he wasn’t completely certain.

It was aggravating.

“Princess Entrapta,” Hordak called, then realized that in looking away, he’d lost track of her. It took him a few moments for him to spot her, dangling upside down where one cable ran into the ceiling. Her gaze was directed towards him, so he continued, “I would like you to walk me through precisely what you have done with the Black Garnet.”

The haste of their mission meant she hadn’t submitted a proper report. It was humiliating to not understand how they’d gotten this close to victory. To think that this princess had knowledge he lacked, on this primitive world.

When he realized she wasn’t speaking, Hordak scowled. “That was an order. I hope I do not need to remind you that authority in the Fright Zone is held by me.” And not any wretched princess.

“Oh, I understand!” Entrapta said, her voice muffled. He looked to her again, finding her hands covering her mouth, eyes squinted up like she was — smiling?

She flipped in midair, landing heavily on the floor and bouncing in place, her hands squeezing around a thick lock of hair thrown in front of her shoulder. “Sorry, I just — you want me to explain?” Her voice came out in a gush, eyes wide.

“That is what I said,” Hordak ground out. “In as much detail as possible.”

There was a — squealing. He squinted, realized she was emitting the noise, and was about to inquire about her condition when she leaped for a table. She scooped no less than four data pads up, flipping rapidly through each one and shoving them in his face. He squinted, pushing one tendril back so he could actually take in the screen.

It was, to put it simply, brilliant. She had to have been experimenting with First Ones’ tech for a long time to have such a sophisticated understanding of how it worked. She was a princess without a Runestone, and yet her breakdown of magic nearly had it making sense. Despite its erratic nature, there were rules it followed — the conditions that made a storm, that formed gales lightning. It was more than he could process all at once, he would need more detail in the future, but the broad picture? Suddenly magic had stopped being something volatile and unknowable, and started being another force of nature.

It was a ping to his direct communication line that finally interrupted them, irritation spiking through him before he remembered what was on the line. Time had slid by without his noticing.

He answered to a display of Force Captain Catra, a smile twisting her lips.

“Lord Hordak,” she started, “we’re two minutes out from Bright Moon. Cannons are charging currently. After the first volley we’ll be sending in the first wave of foot soldiers. We’ll blaze through the city and move directly for the castle from the front. Aerial transport will deliver our troops from the sides and back. I’ll be occupying She-ra while our drones go for the Moonstone.” Her smile grew, vicious. “We’re ready.”

There was such vitriol in those last words. Hordak echoed her expression, teeth bared in a smile. “Then proceed.”

The video ended, and he turned his gaze back to the various screens to watch soldiers take their final positions, illuminated by the cannons’ glow.

“When we are victorious,” Hordak said, looking down at Entrapta, “I will require a full report on what we’ve just discussed.”

She was still smiling at him. Discomfort started to well in his chest, chased by annoyance. This wasn’t the sharp grin that came with new discovery or conquering enemies — it was soft. He couldn’t comprehend what could possibly be provoking such an expression.

“Sure thing,” she said. After a pause, she added, “Thanks, by the way. I don’t usually get to talk with people about this stuff. Bow kind of got it, but we really only talked for a few minutes.” Her smile faded for a moment, but then her expression brightened. “But Catra and Scorpia ask me about my projects, and Scorpia even listens, even if she doesn’t get it. And you do. Get it, I mean.” The smile grew. “It’s been fun talking with you.”

Fun. He squinted at her. “This is for the purpose of conquering Etheria, not for fun,” he sneered, crossing his arms.

“Maybe not, but I still enjoyed it at least.” She shrugged, then walked over towards the monitors. On the screen, through one soldier’s visor, he could see as they broke the boundary of the woods, the cliffs of Bright Moon rising up and topped with its opulent castle. The scene was bathed in the toxic glow of plasma, brightening as each cannon signaled its charge.

Entrapta flipped her mask down as the first shots rained against the cliffs, and into the city built upon them.

#entrapdak #entrapta #hordak #spop #she ra #my writing

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toaarcan · 4 years

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Now that I think about, while we've heard your opinions on the big writers on Archie, I don't think we ever really heard your opinions on some of the pre-Genesis storyline stuff in great detail. In particular, what's your opinion/commentary on the Knuckles series as a whole, Return to Angel Island, and the Knuckles-as-Enerjak storylines?

I have not read the Knuckles comic, because that was “Penders’ Personal Fanfic Land” and reading it will deal more psychic damage than my fragile mind can withstand.

Penders without other writers to provide not-shit writing between it all is not something that needs to be experienced, or even should be experienced. It’s why I haven’t gone back to read the Hell Run (Sonic after Penders gained full control of it), and I’m not going to read Knuckles. It’s a shame because I do like Knuckles, and a good chunk of his supporting cast, but I like them as they’re written by people that aren’t Penders, and I don’t think there are all that many characters who don’t stop acting like themselves when he gets his claws on them.

Return to Angel Island, however, is one of the best stories in the whole book. Bollers’ status quo shakeup was honestly a great idea when it comes to Angel Island. It introduced Finitevus, one of the Sonic franchise’s best antagonists, and Gray’s art makes him look so damn sinister that you have to wonder why anyone trusted him, but somehow I find myself not caring.

Also I love the depiction of Super Knuckles (Hyper Knuckles?), he looks so goddamn powerful and that’s the vibe I want out of Super forms. By contrast I never really got much of any sort of feeling from the Super forms in other runs. They either just sort of happened or felt kinda... mandatory.

Enerjak Reborn is probably Ian’s peak as a writer. It’s been a while since I read it, as I don’t generally reread Archie unless I need to, but I really enjoyed it.

I have a lot of negative stuff to say about Ian’s handling of Sonic, and in that regard I don’t think he’ll ever be as good as Akinori Nishiyama or Shiro Maekawa, but his Knuckles... is basically the best Knuckles, no questions asked. With the exception of Endangered Species, which didn’t need to exist, was yet more pointless filler in the middle of Mecha Sally because Ian had to stretch it out to 250 somehow, and was then cut to ribbons by legal disputes, I don’t think he wrote a bad Knuckles story until Archie was cancelled and IDW was forced to use SEGA’s modern dumbass Knuckles.

And Enerjak Reborn was the perfect ending to that era of the character. Finitevus is a fantastic villain, he always will be, even if his choice of minions is suspect. Knuckles himself becoming Enerjak is a brilliant twist on the idea, and the battles he has with Sonic, Shadow, etc are all pretty good, and that’s saying something considering most of Ian’s fight scenes read like each character only has three attacks.

There’s a lot I could say, but I’ll sum it up with this: This story is so good that even the presence of Scourge can’t drag it down. If anything, it helps me by providing some of that handy ammunition I need for saying that 172 is full of shit, and Scourge is a total shitheel.

#Sonic #Sonic the Hedgehog #Archie Sonic #Knuckles the Echidna #Doctor Finitevus #Enerjak Reborn #Return to Angel Island #Ken Penders #Ian Flynn #Karl Bollers #Akinori Nishiyama #Shiro Maekawa #Anonymous

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ahsnewsupdates · 4 years

Text

Exclusive Interview with Xander Smith: ‘AHS’ Concept Artist!

Xander Smith, the über skilled and talented concept artist who worked on four seasons of American Horror Story (Hotel, Roanoke, Cult, Apocalypse), was generous enough to answer some of our burning questions about the designs that he created for the show!

Throughout this interview, we will attach images of Xander’s work that pertain to the questions asked. You can check out his full, expansive portfolio by clicking here.

Thank you so much for agreeing to this interview! How did your involvement with American Horror Story begin? Were you a fan of the show beforehand?

Thanks, it's one of my favorite projects to have been a part of, so happy to talk about AHS!

I've loved the genre of horror my whole life, to me it's the one genre that you can push all emotions to their limits, and explore the human experience on a much deeper level than other genres. I think this accounts for some of the greatest stories being so horrific in nature: because it's innately human. This also accounts for the genre having the most lame movies too, haha, because it prompts storytellers to try to push boundaries, and oftentimes there's no reason to push a boundary if there's nothing substantive behind it. I think with American Horror Story though, that's not the case. It's deep, it's intricate, and it's very culturally significant.

I had seen the first season on television, and I remember thinking beforehand, 'this is going to be lame, you can't go as deep with TV as you can with an R rated film...' man was I wrong. It pushed boundaries and asked dark, human questions, all while staying relevant and mysterious. I never once thought that they were holding back due to it being on television.

As for the beginnings of my involvement with the franchise, that actually starts with my parent's love of genre films. When I was a kid they would take me to conventions, like Comic-Con, to learn more about film making and meet the cast and crews of various films. That's where my love of design came from. When I was in college, my Dad met Heather Langenkamp at a horror convention, and told her about my pursuit of concept art when I was going to school in Los Angeles. Heather was really kind, and said that when I graduate, I should send her my portfolio; her and her husband, David Anderson, own the legendary special FX studio, AFX. When I graduated in 2014 I did exactly that, they loved my work, and they hired me to work on American Horror Story: Hotel which would come out later that year. Since then, they've hired me to work on the next 3 seasons, I've also been hired by 20th Century Fox on 2 seasons, and by legendary Costume Designer Lou Eyrich for 2 seasons. I'm very fortunate and always have a blast working with the diverse teams that bring AHS to life.

Starting with American Horror Story: Hotel, you were part of the design process for the Addiction Demon [see above]. Can you talk about that? It was such an obscene being, but at the same time so true to form for the show.

Ah yes, the lovely Addiction Demon. That's one hell of a design to have worked on, ha.

I read that part of the script with David Anderson at AFX Studio, as they would be building the prosthetics, and the infamous 'drilldo'. He looked at me and just, 'alright, do your thing, make it horrific.' And that's what I did. I've seen people in the throes of addiction, and actually lost a good friend in my teen years to drug addiction, so when designing the Demon, I wanted it to be really visceral, painful to even look at. In the script, the Demon rapes a character, and as horrific of a concept as that is, I knew that it's one of those concepts that fits with AHS; pushing the limits, but for a good reason. That's exactly what addiction is: you think it's going to be like great consensual sex when it starts, but quickly the Addiction Demon materializes and it has its way with you whether you like it or not. Truly disgusting, but that's what I thought the design should encompass. So I sketched about 20 different versions, and 1 of those versions stuck, and we decided to take that one further. I sculpted the final design in Zbrush, and that's the concept that Ryan Murphy picked. The brilliant team at AFX brought it to life, and that's the demon you see in the show.

You also produced fantastic concept artwork for Lady Gaga’s character’s chain mail glove [see above], alongside costume designer Lou Eyrich and designer Michael Schmidt. How did that design develop? Was it fun designing for Gaga?

Thanks! Yes that might actually be my favorite piece I worked on. Lou Eyrich and Michael Schmidt were awesome, I think we came up with an iconic piece that's uniquely elegant and fit for a horror queen. It was very motivating knowing that it would be worn by Gaga, so as I was translating Michael's sketch, I wanted to maintain a balance of stylishness and darkness, something that both Lady Gaga and American Horror Story is known for. It was incredible to see it in the posters. Definitely a highlight for me.

Moving on to American Horror Story: Roanoke, you produced terrifyingly good concept art for another one of the show’s iconic villains, the Piggyman entity [see above]. Since that same figure was also featured in the first season, did you look back for inspiration?

Great question, because for Piggyman I was back at AFX Studio, working on the design with David Anderson, and we certainly had a lot of the same inspiration and ideas on how to do the design justice for such a horrific piece. There was a lot of shocking content surrounding him, like pig fetuses and butchery, and we just went all out on letting the character bathe in so much debauchery. It was also really fascinating to be designing while their FX team was sculpting the prosthetics (the production schedule was very intense), and I got to see sculptor Glen Eisner working on the pig head and stomach pieces in clay, only a few days after I had worked on the concept art. Incredible process.

On the same season you collaborated quite closely with the makeup department to design concept art for some of the season’s makeup looks, including illustrations for Kathy Bates’ and Finn Wittrock’s characters [see above]. Wittrock played incestuous hillbilly Jether Polk and the final product was quite frightening. How did that process go?

Also a really fun process, I got to meet some of the actors as they came in for face castings, while I was deforming their faces in the concept art- I almost felt guilty! We pulled a lot of inspiration from medical journals relating to birth defects, and we stayed pretty close to reality, as we saw fit for the Roanoke season. I was also busy terrorizing Kathy Bates image while designing what the character's demise would look like. Since there are a lot of complicated practical effects involved in the gory scenes, we spent time illustrating what the wounds would look like ahead of time. By the end of it, I had like 2 full pages of various gory ways Kathy Bates could meet her end that we presented to production, and they chose one of the most horrific ways that fit with the script (of course). Hopefully Kathy is used to it after so many years as a horror icon!

Arguably your most prolific designs for the show were for season seven, Cult. You produced some stunning concept art for the clown masks and general appearance [see above], some of which weren’t seen in the show but absolutely should’ve been. They look slightly ‘mechanical’. What was Ryan Murphy’s pitch there?

Completely agree, I really love the final designs. Unfortunately, for as much art as I did for this season, none of my designs fit the script well enough, I just couldn't hit the mark, and so my work did not make it to production. It happens, and that's why there are many artists on a project! I appreciate you saying they should have been in the show though! I think I focussed too much on the clown/mask angle, and less on the political/cultish angle, which is where the magic of that script was. In true American Horror Story form, it is a cultural commentary on the times, and I feel I was not paying as much attention as I could have. That being said though, I had a blast working with the crew at AFX Studio again, and we worked on a lot of pieces that at least helped move production forward. Sometimes it's useful to see a design that's not quite right, just to move the production in the right direction.

The last season you worked on was of course the crossover season, Apocalypse, for which you designed the Outpost Three hazmat suits [see above]. The plague doctor influences in those designs was a stroke of genius. How was it blending dystopia with 17th century Europe? Also, were you aware that Apocalypse was the crossover season when you started work on it?

I think I got my mojo back on this season, since not only were my illustrations on those hazmat suits finalized for the script, but I was also able to do some of the 3D modeling for the Plague Doctor masks that were 3D printed and worn by the cast as props in the show. That was a really rewarding experience, and I was working under Lou Eyrich again who is the genius behind the blend of dystopia and 17th Century Europe that characterizes Apocalypse. We did probably about 50 different sketches of those suits, and explored such a wide variety of directions and blends of dated technologies, medieval influences, hazmat suits, and gas masks. When we had a solid direction, I did a tighter illustration of a generic suit that could be worn by any one of those characters (one of the keys to the design was that they could be worn by several different body types, as per the script), and then did a final piece that showed Kathy Bates wearing the mask. I'm really pleased to have come up with the idea of the 'plastic plague doctor' design, and thrilled to see it on screen.

I wasn't aware that it was the crossover season either, I wasn't given that part of the script, but that let me watch the revelation in real time with the rest of the world!

Lastly, would you like to design for American Horror Story again in the future? What is your “dream theme” that you’d like the show to explore?

Absolutely I would love to return some day and help flesh out some new designs. Some of the later seasons have been less concept-heavy, but I've also had to pass on the work as I've been involved in other projects, and of course have been busy helping found my current company, Aliza Technologies.

But you never know what the future holds!

As for a 'dream theme', that's such a good question because I feel there are so many interesting directions the show could take. They've built such a rich world where stories can take place across a range of time periods and genres, and that's a real gift to horror fans. One of the elements I really love about AHS is that when it delves into the supernatural, it does it in a really measured way. I've always found ghost stories to be a little bland and heavy-handed, but since AHS is so nuanced in its supernatural material, especially in season 1, I think it would be really interesting to see them go the heavy handed way, lead the audience down a super super-natural route for half a season, and then absolutely pull the rig from underneath them halfway through, and have a natural explanation for all the 'supernatural' elements. It would be a complete mind-f**k, like 'wait, there were no ghosts at all??' and have that realization be even more horrifying. I'm no writer, but I think a concept like that could be really interesting... Also set the mystery across several different generations so that the supernatural explanation is more appropriate for an older generation, and is busted open by the modern take. Image what the flashback reveals could look like, and imagine the types of 'ghosts' I could illustrate...

Thanks for the questions, now I'm off to do some script-writing myself...

(Also, special mention to Eryn Krueger Mekash and Mike Mekash who designed the makeup looks!)

Xander’s links:

Official Website: https://www.xandersmithdesign.com/

ArtStation: https://www.artstation.com/xandersmith

Behance: https://www.behance.net/XanderSmithDesign

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/xandersmith_design/

#xander smith #ahs #american horror story #art #concept art

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daebak-dreams · 5 years

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Ｖｅｎｅｒａｔｉｏｎ

Anon asked: Hi, I’m a new follower, but could I request a mafia/slight yandere Zico scenario where his s/o is one of his maids, and he falls for her??❤️

Oh my gosh! I love this! I had been writing something along the lines of a ZICO and Dean mafia AU last year but never got around to posting it, but this is brilliant! Maybe I will post it after all! But here you go sweetie!

Zico + Reader

Rated: (M)

Gender: Mafia | Light Yandere | Romance

“We met less than a week ago and in that time I've done nothing but lie and cheat and betray you. I know. But if you give me a chance...all I want is to protect you. To be near you. For as long as I'm able.”

It was you. It had always been you. Well, only since the beginning of that month where he had met you, but still, it was you.

He had never yearned for anything so bad in his life, besides money, and power; but he was never one to flock after someone else. Most women gravitated towards him, and for what? His money? Looks? Status perhaps? That’s what made him so cold and bored when it came to “catching feelings” or dare he say the “L” word.

Love.

Sure he loved things too. Seeing a beautiful, voluptuous lady, dancing on him in the silhouette of the club’s colorful, flashing lights. Taking a swig from a malt whiskey on the rocks, that would surely burn his throat at first, but bring him a feeling of calm soon after. Money. And most of all, the woman who brought him into this world, his mother.

But other people? There was no way he could use that word towards them. Not even the word liked, crossed his mind, until you.

You needed a job, desperately enough to even consider taking such a job as tending to the house of a well known mobster. You had previously worked for helping to tend a local cafe down the street from this job, but that was soon pulled from under your feet as it came to a close from slow work and less money coming in. The owner, whom you had known for years, had mentioned that his older brother knew a friend who was looking for someone to help with housekeeping, but of course didn’t give too much detail. It wasn’t until you had been brought into the lavish palace that you had suspicions, still you decided not to ask questions.

It was a job, and a job you instantly got so there was no reason to question or complain about it.

The first week was hell. You put up with the berrading and sleezy comments from other men that came in and out the house while you did your cleaning duties. They continued to harass you with comments about your outfit to the way you were cleaning certain things. You admit, it hurt and you just wanted out, but you couldn’t quit now. You just had to push through.

However, after another two weeks of that, you had had enough. Instead of quitting you decided that it was best to try and talk with the head of household. That’s where you first met him. Jiho Woo. He wasn’t as easy on the eyes, that matched his sharp personality. He was indeed handsome, but you his narrow and cold eyes, that starred you down as you were escorted inside, made you freeze up, making you forget what you had went in there for in the first place, for a quick minute.

He opened his mouth as he began.

“What’ya need sweetheart?” He asked as he gave you another quick glance over before going back to writing something down.

This took you by surprise, being as the way he looked, you thought his voice would match. “Uh- well I was wondering if you could tell the other men if they could wait to make commentary until I’ve left for the day? It really makes me uncomfortable if I’m being honest..”

“Huh..?” This made him look up and over at you again, only this time with a small smirk of amusement. “My men are free to say and do what they want. This is partially their humble abode too,” He continued as he leaned back in his chair while propping up his feet on one corner of the giant crafted desk. “You’re just the guest, and I’m paying you, am I not?”

“Yes sir..” it took you a while to gather words, any words, as after he said that, it felt as if he had shoved all you just said, right back down your throat until it grew into a right and painful ball. “I’m sorry.” You said abruptly as you made your way out the room and back to work.

“Why did you say that?!..Idiot...”

Jiho stood there, beating him up about the first time he officially talked with you, as he stood there in the same place that it took place. The door handle turned and pulled back as the door opened, before one of his men walked in, dragging another man into the room who was curssing at the top of his lungs.

“Let me go you stupid f*ck! I’ll *uckin’ k*ll you!”

“Shut up!” The man holding him yelled back while thrusting his fist into his mouth.

Jiho calmly walked over to him as put a foot against his head with a serious expression. “Is this him? The rat that has been sending information to the others!”

“Yep- This is him boss. What do you want us to do with him?”

He sniffed as he watched him start to squirm again and grow loud with a blank stare, before slamming his foot down on him. “You know what we do with rats..” He said as he pulled his foot away, and stood upright, watching as the man who yelled out just a second ago, lay there now in a painful daze.

“You got it boss” The tall, slender man said as he started to say as he dragged him away. “Want me to go get that pretty piece and have her clean this blood up? She would probably look better on her hands and knees huh boss?” He stifled a laugh but it didn’t last long as he was struck on the side of the face by Jiho’s burning fist.

“You better stop with the way you f*ckin’ talk bout her, you hear? Otherwise, you’ll end up joining this rat too. That goes for everyone, let them know too.” He said with an ice cold tone as he watched him hurrying out the room with a look of shock while nodding. “Of course sir- I’m sorry-“

“F*ck-“ He sighed as he leaned against the front of the desk while looking down at the bruise that started to form on his define knuckle. “Why the hell did I do that..?”

You had seen the whole thing from a sliver from the door that was open just slightly. This now confirmed it. You heard from friends that the house you had worked at was that of a dangerous mobster and his men. At first this didn’t scare you, as you didn’t believe it. There was no way that they would let someone such as yourself inside their hideaway, but now after seeing all of what just happened, you felt scared. You knew you had to get out of there, but how-

“(y/n)?” You felt your body grow stuck in place as the door creaked open, revealing Jiho standing there, his bruised hand, above you, holding the door, the other hand on his hip.

“Mr. Woo- I.” You panicked, but your body felt so heavy that you just couldn’t move. And how could you? If you ran after he knew what you had see, there’s no way he would let you leave. You were now a witness to the beating, or even worse, death, of that man. “ I didn’t see anything..I just...”

“Can you just get some ice and bring it here?” He exhaled and spoke out in an exhausted tone. He couldn’t help it. Seeing you, in so much fear and confusion, made him recoil. All the pent up frustration, made him tired in the end. He just needed a stiff drink.

“O-okay.” You said before zooming downstairs and going towards the kitchen. You could have just left, but you knew he had your information and could easily track you down, knowing that now he was a gang leader. There was no use. You decided you would take him the ice, then try and come up with a reason you had to go home. There was no way you could quit now; you thought that if you did he was sure to get to you before you could. It would just make things more suspicious.

You made your way back upstairs, each step feeling heavier than the last. Finally there you were, meeting him, and him alone in the office.

“Here you go.” You said softly as you walked over to where he was, sitting on the chair a few good inches from the desk, and grabbed his hand to place the bag of ice on it, to which he quickly pulled away.

“The hell are you doing?!” He asked in surprise, though it sounded like anger. This made you take a step back to which he lowered his voice and arched eyebrows. “Sorry- I just meant that the ice was for my glass.” He said as he opened the bag, and pour the cubes into his glass with a clink, before pouring himself a stiff drink of that amber liquid. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” He could feel the fine follicles on the back of his neck stiffen as his face grew hot in embarrassment. What the hell was this? Had you just made him anxious? No one had even done that before, not even when it came to his enemies and the many times they looked him in the eyes as they got close to taking his life.

Although you were at first, you could then sense the sincery in his voice and took a step towards him. “it’s okay..”

The air was thick and heavy as you waited for him to take a long and hard few gulps from his glass before setting it down again. You looked around the giant, dim room, only to stop your sight on the speckled blood that stained the rug.

“I- let me go get my materials to come clean that up before it seeps into it!” You started to say as turned to rush out, more so from this awkward atmosphere.

“(y/n) wait a minute-“ Jiho said abruptly as he started to get up from his seat.

You stopped in your tracks, still afraid from the scene before, worrried if you didn’t listen to him, you would get the same treatment as that unfortunate man.

“You don’t have to worry about it, m’kay?” He said reassuringly as he sat back down in his chair. “All I really want you to do, is stay, and listen.”

You were surprised by all of this but nodded as you came back and stood with your hands clasped together in front of you next to the desk he sat at.

Jiho knew in this moment, it was a big mistake for him to call you back in as you stood there, looking pretty, seriously pretty to him. He noticed your lovely features that made you, you. Your hair, the hues you had to your body, eyes, strands, lips, fingertips. How had he never seen you in this light before?

He reached for his glass to get another drink, but accidentally knocked it over onto him with a low and and frustrated growl, to which made you smile and giggle. You had never seen him so clumsy, but cool all the time so seeing his was a rare sight.

He quickly looked up at you just in time to see your smile, followed by your giggle, and couldn’t help but stare. This scared you though, thinking that you had made him mad for laughing at him, but that didn’t seem like the case as he smirked. “Wow- that’s the first time I’ve seen you smile around this crummy place.” This moment confirmed it. He had taken interest in you.

You could feel the air lessen and feel lighter as you blinked a few times before giving a small smile and shrug, “It’s because this is the first I’ve seen you being clumsy-“ You paused as your smile faded. “Sorry.”

“Sorry for what?”

“Laughing at you- which I’m not! I just thought it was a little funny..”

“Sweetheart, you don’t have to explain yourself or emotions. I should be the one apologizing.”

“What? For what?”

“I was a real d*ck to you, and so were my boys. You were just doing your job, and that’s not a way to treat a lady. That, and you having to see that mess from earlier.”

You looked down back towards the stained rug. That was sure to stick with you for sometime, but you were happy to have him acknowledge the treatment you were getting and felt happy to have an apology.

“Thank you.” You gave him a smile, to which he smiled back at. In this moment he didn’t seem like the scary gangster you had met back then. “I should get back to it then.”

“Stay.” He said as he stood up, gently putting his hand near yours, gently touching his fingers against yours. Usually he had always gotten what he wanted, and as bad as he wanted to grab your hand, or just all of you within his arms, he knew that patients was important so he didn’t scare you away, let alone disrespected you. “I mean, I’d rather you stick close until my men are done downstairs. Don’t want you running into anymore violence today.”

That last sentence made him pause.

Violence

That was one thing you were sure to be around if he pursued you. He couldn’t have that, it hurt him to let you go, but maybe it was the best thing. No- He has never felt this way for someone before, and he wasn’t sure if he would ever again. He had to at least try even if it might have meant that you were to be in danger, but he knew one thing. If you were to somehow magically give him a chance, he would give you the world and make sure that no one would ever touch you.

With a tight expression, he looked over at you and pursed his lips together before opening his mouth. “(y/n)..I have something I want to ask, would a pretty gal like yourself want to go out?”

Your eyes almost popped out of your head as you looked at him in a surprised manner. “Go out? Like a date?”

“Just one night, give it some thought at least okay? I’ll be honest in saying that I’ve never done this before, asked someone else out, but I’m hopping to get a chance to talk with you in a less formal setting.”

All the fear and anxiety you felt before wasn’t quite there anymore. You sighed as he spoke, but happily. You wanted to give him the ne edit of the doubt and get to know him since you would be working with him.

“Yes, I would love to.”

He smiled and leaned back in his seat, wondering how this would all play out.

-Admin Bonbori

#zico #zico angst #zico oneshot #zico mafia #block b #yandere #yandere lpop #yandere kpop #kpop blog #kpop reaction #zico rections #zico scenarios

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mediaevalmusereads · 4 years

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The Lady’s Guide to Celestial Mechanics. By Olivia Waite. New York: Avon Impulse, 2019.

Rating: 2.5/5 stars

Genre: historical romance, wlw romance

Part of a Series? Yes, Feminine Pursuits #1

Summary: As Lucy Muchelney watches her ex-lover’s sham of a wedding, she wishes herself anywhere else. It isn’t until she finds a letter from the Countess of Moth, looking for someone to translate a groundbreaking French astronomy text, that she knows where to go. Showing up at the Countess’ London home, she hoped to find a challenge, not a woman who takes her breath away.

Catherine St Day looks forward to a quiet widowhood once her late husband’s scientific legacy is fulfilled. She expected to hand off the translation and wash her hands of the project—instead, she is intrigued by the young woman who turns up at her door, begging to be allowed to do the work, and she agrees to let Lucy stay. But as Catherine finds herself longing for Lucy, everything she believes about herself and her life is tested.

While Lucy spends her days interpreting the complicated French text, she spends her nights falling in love with the alluring Catherine. But sabotage and old wounds threaten to sever the threads that bind them. Can Lucy and Catherine find the strength to stay together or are they doomed to be star-crossed lovers?

***Full review under the cut.***

Content Warnings: sexism, allusions to homophobia

Overview: I feel like I’m in the minority of not loving this book as much as I wanted to. Based on content alone, it should have been a perfect storm for me: a historical sapphic romance, a lady scientist, debates about the value of art and women’s contributions... but while the romance genre doesn’t have nearly enough wlw stories, representation alone wasn’t enough to sustain my interest in this novel. It had the threads of a good story - something along the lines of The Countess Conspiracy or The Suffragette Scandal - but in my opinion, too much of the focus was on needless interpersonal drama, which left the plot dragging for the bulk of the story. So though the representation is great, and there are a number of feminist themes that I think are valuable, I didn’t enjoy this book enough to give it more than 2 or 3 stars.

Writing: Waite’s prose is about what you’d expect from the romance genre. It’s simple and straightforward, getting to the point without leaving the reader wondering what’s going on. My main criticism would perhaps be that Waite sometimes does a little head-hopping in the middle of a chapter without a section break. One minute, we’ll be seeing things from Lucy’s POV, and the next, we’ll get something from Catherine, then back to Lucy. It was a little jarring, but not too distracting - I could still immerse myself in the story ok.

Plot: The Lady’s Guide follows Lucy Muchelney as she translates, expands, and publishes M. Oleron’s Mechanique celeste (an astronomy text) under the patronage of Lady Catherine St. Day, Countess of Moth. After being rebuffed by the male members of the Polite Science Society, Lucy endeavors to render her own translation in hopes of educating readers who are interested in astronomy, but may not have had access to the range of texts needed to understand Oleron’s work. Catherine, for her part, funds the printing of Lucy’s work, while also discovering her own value as an embroiderer.

On the surface, this plot had all the things I love: women in science, valuing women’s art, a social commentary on patriarchy. But despite the interesting threads, I didn’t feel as if Waite used them to the greatest advantage. Aside from a few scenes, there wasn’t a lot of external pressure from the Polite Society; any drama that arose from their sexism was easily dismissed or avoided with a trip to the country, and I felt as if sexism in this book was more of a nuisance than a threat. This isn’t to say I wanted the characters to be constantly suffering or be miserable from an onslaught of male meddling, but I would like to have seen more of a sustained plotline where the Polite Society attempts to thwart Lucy’s efforts, thereby creating more suspense and giving Lucy and Catherine some external challenges to face together.

I also think the subplots could have been strengthened so that they enhanced the main conflict. The plot involving Eliza, the maid with a talent for sketching, was a good parallel to Catherine’s arc, which involved finding and rewarding women’s talents in art, but Eliza wasn’t a compelling character on her own, nor did I think Catherine reflect enough on the paradox of how she encouraged Eliza but not herself. I also think more could have been done with Lucy’s brother, Stephen, so that his meddling in Lucy’s career paralleled the Polite Society’s - just in a more subtle way, thereby showing different forms of sexism. Granted, there is a little of that, but like the Polite Society, Stephen pops up at convenient times before disappearing a page or two later.

Characters: I hate to say it, but I didn’t feel as if I could connect to the characters. Lucy, one of our heroines, is a mathematician and astronomer who inspires Catherine to see herself as an artist... and that’s mostly it. I guess she’s also bold and headstrong, but honestly, she felt more like an archetype than a fully-fledged character.

Catherine, for her part, is meek on account of being mistreated by her husband, but has brilliant skills as an embroiderer and is generous with her financial support. I did like the depth that Catherine had with regards to her insecurity over whether or not she could call herself an artist, and I liked that she respected Lucy’s feelings and didn’t allow her desires to be too selfish. But I also felt like she had no ambition or desires of her own until maybe 75% of the way through the book, and she mainly existed to support Lucy.

Side characters were hit or miss. I liked the idea of Eliza, the maid who gets to put her drawing skills to use as an engraver, but she wasn’t a fully-fleshed out character and didn’t hold my interest on her own. Stephen, Lucy’s brother, had the potential to be interesting, as he is an artist and acts as a foil to Lucy in many ways, but he flits in and out of the story as needed. Even Lucy’s ex, Pricilla, seems only to exist to make petty drama; there was no pining, no angst, and I didn’t see why Lucy had once loved her. There wasn’t even any commentary on how both Pris and Catherine were blond women who were skilled at embroidery.

Polite Society members had the potential to be good antagonists, but because their appearances were so contained, I don’t think they were used to their full potential. They provided some nice commentary, but I would have liked to see them meddle more often in Lucy’s translation process.

Romance: This is personal preference: I don’t like it when the love interests get together too early in the story. It usually means the rest of the romance is going to revolve around petty drama, and I think that’s what I got here. Lucy and Catherine become a couple some 25% of the way through the book, and for the life of me, I couldn’t see why they wanted to be together other than they were interested in women and happened to be sharing a house. Over time, their reasons for loving one another became a little more clear: Lucy loves that Catherine believes in her and lets her forge her own path, whereas Catherine loves that Lucy values her skills and lifts her up, rather than dismissing her (as Catherine’s deceased husband did). While these are certainly nice, I wanted there to be a little more to their romance. Because they got together so quickly, there was very little pining, very little growth in their affections.

I also think all the angst and relationship drama that happened after they got together was a little tedious. Lucy spends some time pining for her ex, which causes Catherine to be jealous. Catherine also sees the relationship as being incompatible at one point because Lucy likes science and she likes art, so of course that means they’re on different paths that can’t be reconciled. Most of the barriers to the relationship could have been overcome by either talking it out or getting to know one another a little better, so rather than good tension (in the form of suspense), I felt like there was pointless tension. I would have much rather seen Waite dive into the very real concerns, such as the economic inequality between them or the lack of permanence that comes with not being able to marry - I think those are real, life-altering concerns that could have tied in well with the non-romance plot, but unfortunately, those concerns seemed to be resolved a little too neatly.

TL;DR: Despite having some much-needed wlw representation and a number of feminist themes, The Lady’s Guide to Celestial Mechanics does little to cultivate a compelling plot and relies on misunderstandings to drive the romantic tension.

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mediaeval-muse · 4 years

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Book Review

Know My Name. By Chanel Miller. New York: Viking, 2019.

Rating: 3/5 stars

Genre: memoir

Part of a Series? No.

Summary: She was known to the world as Emily Doe when she stunned millions with a letter. Brock Turner had been sentenced to just six months in county jail after he was found sexually assaulting her on Stanford’s campus. Her victim impact statement was posted on BuzzFeed, where it instantly went viral–viewed by eleven million people within four days, it was translated globally and read on the floor of Congress; it inspired changes in California law and the recall of the judge in the case. Thousands wrote to say that she had given them the courage to share their own experiences of assault for the first time. Now she reclaims her identity to tell her story of trauma, transcendence, and the power of words. It was the perfect case, in many ways–there were eyewitnesses, Turner ran away, physical evidence was immediately secured. But her struggles with isolation and shame during the aftermath and the trial reveal the oppression victims face in even the best-case scenarios. Her story illuminates a culture biased to protect perpetrators, indicts a criminal justice system designed to fail the most vulnerable, and, ultimately, shines with the courage required to move through suffering and live a full and beautiful life.

***Full review under the cut.***

Content/Trigger Warnings: descriptions of sexual assault and violence, trauma

Since this book is non-fiction (and thus, has no plot or characters), this review will be structured a little differently than usual.

I first became aware of this book after hearing YouTuber Cindy (readwithcindy) gush about it in one of her monthly wrap-ups. Because I am passionate about women’s rights, feminism, and sexual assault survivor advocacy, I thought Know My Name would be an illuminating read. Though I do admire Miller’s courage and I do think her story is important and deserves to be told, I do not think this memoir was as strong as it could have been. Don’t get me wrong - there are some brilliant moments in this book. Any time Miller describes what her emotions were like during different parts of the investigation and trial process, as well as the moments when she links her personal experience to broader social phenomena (such as rape culture, sexism, etc.)... all of those were brilliant. For example, I really liked how she debunked the idea that a person can be either bad or good when talking about Brock Turner’s character witnesses; Miller rather put emphasis on the fact that a person can be both someone who does charity work or cares for friends and someone who commits sexual assault (p. 194). I also really liked how she described her emotions during the trial and went through what it was like to essentially be gaslighted by the court system. It shed a light on an experience that many, many victims never even get to, while also uncovering systemic problems. So, if all that is good, why didn’t I give this memoir a higher rating?

Craft.

The first thing that struck me was the inclusion of seemingly “superfluous” events which didn’t seem to have much significance in the memoir as a whole. In addition to descriptions of what it was like going through a trial, there are also sections that are more or less mundane - an account of Miller flying across the country to attend art class, living in Philly and doing stand-up comedy, going scuba diving with her boyfriend in the Philippines. On the one hand, I think it was a good attempt to make Miller come across like more than a victim - with all these events, she shows the reader that she has a life and is a person with interests, not just a woman who was assaulted. However, Miller had the tendency to let readers infer significance or suggest that an experience was more profound for her than it comes across to the reader. For example, her account of going scuba diving feels very much like padding: there are multiple pages describing going to the Philippines and learning to scuba dive, but the most reflection we get is the vague idea that Miller had to learn to “listen to her body” (without connecting the concept to the healing process, p. 140) and a declaration that living through the trial was akin to needing emergency air and using a backup regulator (p. 141). There are also random things that seem to make no sense at all, like the brief description of a man having a seizure on a plane (all Miller says is that she identifies with the family’s wish for privacy, but the point is so brief that I questioned if the anecdote was needed at all). As a result, the book felt padded and overwritten.

The second thing that struck me was the seeming lack of structure. While I do think that form can match function in writing, and an aimless, loose structure could have been used to mirror the aimless feeling of Miller’s life post-assault (or even the directionless feelings associated with constantly putting off the trial), I don’t think Miller executed this technique well. Instead, it felt like she was writing things in order as she thought of them or the order in which they happened without much regard for relevance. For example, Miller shifts from descriptions preparing for the trial to descriptions of her travels to having lunch with a friend without much transition or thought as to how one section of her chapter leads into the next (or how the chapters lead into one another). While I can understand a chronological narrative, I don’t think it quite works here because Miller tends to wander from point to point without much thought as to how individual pieces are coming together as a whole. The only places where I think her structure works is in the description of being cross-examined by the defense and the jury’s verdict, and that’s because they were more extended and unbroken than any of the other “scenes” in her book. Additionally, she includes some bits at the end of her book about Christine Ford, Donald Trump, Philando Castile, the #MeToo movement, etc., and while all these things felt thematically relevant to her story, she seemed to move through them too quickly for her commentary to have a real impact on me as a reader.

The third thing that struck me was Miller’s prose. Miller pads her writing with a lot of metaphors and adjectives, and for me, the attempts to make her book feel poetic or artistic only distracted from her story. For example, Miller likes to use “poetic” language to give readers a feel for what a setting was like (the court room, the hospital, the streets of Philly, etc.), but I think many of her sentences could have been condensed. For example, she uses ants to describe her surroundings three times in a single chapter (Ch. 4), and tends to put in multiple descriptors for things which don’t really have much significance in her story, even from a form=function perspective (such as the “stacked squares of gridded lights” on buildings and “warm steam” from the streets of Philly).

Overall, I found Know My Name to be a mixed bag. While I do think Miller wrote a brilliant, impactful victim statement, and some of her insights in her memoir are valuable, I ultimately think the book could have been condensed and more tightly (or at least “purposefully”) structured. In my opinion, the most valuable parts of this book are the descriptions of her emotions during the trial, the “fight” with Stanford after the trial, and the affirming words for victims that are peppered throughout the memoir as a whole. But that’s just me - I do recommend that readers make the decision for themselves, and if others find value in this memoir, then that’s what really matters.

#book reviews

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dustedmagazine · 4 years

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Punk’d History, Vol. VII: Sick Tunes*

In 1977, when punk rock was coming to the attention of institutional politics and mass media, the music and its culture were frequently compared to illness. In an infamously priggish rant about the Sex Pistols, English MP Bernard Brook Partridge used the word “nauseating” three times in forty seconds. Even the tentatively friendly coverage the Pistols were getting in some venues in the American musical press was informed by the comparison. In October of 1977, a Rolling Stone cover story declaimed, “Rock Is Sick and Living in London.” Charles M. Young, the cover story’s author, insistently characterizes the Pistols and their punky kin as suffering the effects of some sort of physical malady. When he meets Paul Cook, he notes that Cook’s “skin [is] pallid” and “his hand is limp.” Malcolm McLaren has “a pale face”; his assistants at the Sex Pistols’ Piccadilly Circus office space “are also dingy and gray.” Young’s description of Johnny Rotten is spectacularly rife with the imagery of disease: “All misshapen, hunchbacked, translucently pale…the vilest geezer [Young has] ever met.” Rotten is a “sickly dwarf.”

It’s not surprising that music so rigorously focused on negation should be at least metaphorically associated with illness and decline. By now it amounts to obviousness to note that the mid-1970s Anglo-American historical milieu (during which punk suddenly became fodder for political hysteria and journalistic hyperventilating) was not especially possessed of health or vigor. In England and in the States, multiple economic recessions, seemingly countless governmental scandals and failures and a general sense of social malaise constituted the dominant structure of feeling and informed the cultural environment. But punk wasn’t only subject to comparisons to disease. Punk songs were also deploying the imagery and concept of sickness to effect a variety of responses to their times. Sickness became a symbolic weapon.

Few bands were more fascinated and freaked out by weaponized sickness than Dead Kennedys. “Chemical Warfare” was a mainstay in the band’s live set from its formation in the late 1970s. The song’s focus on militarized and terroristic applications of bioweaponry was exemplary of Dead Kennedys’ deep-seated dread for dark perversions of scientific research and the medical rationality of the clinic. “Chemical Warfare” seeks some satiric recompense: its demented lyric speaker raids an armory and unleashes mustard gas on a fairway “full of Saturday golfers”; the tune acquires an even more vicious, antic charge when East Bay Ray plucks out “Sobre Las Olas” as the gas wafts toward “The stuffed country club / Effervescent ladies, so carefree….” The bitter, sardonic humor is characteristic of Biafra’s desire to invoke violence, even as he ironically distances himself from it. From such a distance, one can more broadly claim just desserts: Who better to suffer from the effects of such insidious illness than those who have benefited from the weaponry’s production?

More frequently, Biafra would assume the guise of a corrupt apparatchik or evil undercover agent, doling out disease-laden punishment to enemies of the State and brainwashed rubes alike: see his speaker’s command to “Die on organic poison gas” in “California Uber Alles” (“organic” is a key element there); or “Trust Your Mechanic,” which observes, “TV invents a disease you think you have / So you buy our drugs and soon you depend on them.” Biafra gives those various anxieties a song-length treatment in one of the band’s most truculent recordings.

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The buzzy, muscular opening riff of “Government Flu” is as close to crossover metal as Dead Kennedys ever got, and the rest of the song is suitably breathless, matching the song’s descriptions of sickness. The band plays with razoring precision, a zippy sprint, as Biafra barks, “Got a head cold, got a chest cold, and it’s three days old / Goin’ on forever / Make you hazy, make you lazy, drive you crazy / For days ‘n days ‘n days ‘n days ‘n days and years!” Yikes. A dire prescription. But Biafra’s technocratic voice assures us that it’s all for a good cause: “Slip it abroad / Keep a-slowin’ down the USSR!”

The lyrics’ conspiratorial extremities oddly presage some of the crankier contemporary commentary on coronavirus. On March 13th, Jerry Falwell, Jr., joined the jolly morons on Fox and Friends and winked-and-nodded his way through a typically paranoid routine, speculating that North Korea and China had cooked up and loosed COVID-19 on the world in a plot to bring down the Trump presidency. There’s a weird symmetry to the way Falwell, Jr., and Biafra follow their visions out to geopolitical scales, especially given the frequency with which Falwell’s father was a target of Biafra’s wrath. History is always stranger than fiction.

California’s punk history runs wide and deep, and numerous hardcore and crust bands further explored the symbolic and political ramifications of Biafra’s fixations. Bay Area band Christ on Parade’s first EP, Sounds of Nature (1985), featured “The Plague,” a song that associated humanity’s presence on the earthball with biological malignancy: “Civilization’s a cancer… / People are only mindless cells / Spreading a terminal disease.” Band member Noah Landis would eventually move on to join Oakland heavies Neurosis, whose first LP Pain of Mind (1987) included the grimly titled instrumental “Geneticide” and a song called “Self-Taught Infection”: Scott Kelly sings, “Our world’s a disease / The germ is us.” A few years later, and some miles farther south in Orange County, crust band Dystopia added to the chorus on its excellent EP The Aftermath (1999).

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“Population Birth Control” delivers an apocalyptic elaboration of the symbols and themes: “Malignant cancer of the ecosystem / Gnawing at a mother / Children she loves / Cankered womb and body.” As the song progresses, the metaphors clarify: the “mother” is the earth, her “children” are humans and humans are a cancer. The song grinds and crawls and pummels away, like the machinery and industries it excoriates. Dino Sommese howls, “The tumors feed and grow / All the land turns to stone / Biodiversity reduced / From a parasite’s abuse.”

Of course, punk and crust bands didn’t invent these rhetorics and discursive maneuvers. Any number of SF novels—from Huxley’s Brave New World to Walter Miller’s A Canticle for Leibowitz to John Brunner’s excellent The Sheep Look Up—have inventoried, gamed out and riffed on human technologies run amuck and their production of profound ecological collapse. But we should note that crust punks who are serious about their crustiness have always been an earnest bunch. They don’t just produce art; they live it, inhabiting real, material austerities: squatting, assiduously following a vegan diet, releasing music outside of capital’s mainstream markets for exchange. Even the more performative elements of the subculture that other folks might label with the awful term “lifestyle” have material consequences for consumption: not bathing frequently, wearing the same denim and leather for weeks on end, dreadlocks.

Soon after releasing the EP version of The Aftermath, the crusty boys in Dystopia would record a cover of Rudimentary Peni’s “Cosmetic Plague.” Much of Rudimentary Peni’s work can be thought of as an extended meditation on social alienation and psychological illness, and it’s all pretty brilliant. But a number of bands active in the English anarcho-punk scene that Rudimentary Peni drifted through engaged with disease in a more politically materialist fashion.

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“Myxomatosis” concerns a disease caused by a pox virus, which proves particularly devastating to various European species of wild rabbit. In the 1950s numerous national governments intentionally introduced the virus into their populations of European rabbits to curb species proliferation. Like many of their fellow anarcho-punks, Flux of Pink Indians were strident advocates for animal rights. The band was disgusted by the deliberate spread of the virus; they saw it as exemplary of Western modernity’s insatiable desire to control nature, to impose destructive forms of human will upon other critters: “Experimentation, vivisection, devastation, starvation, torture, war / All mindless slaughter are basically the same / Manmade oppression, manmade pain.” Perhaps the most effective refrain in the song is “Oppression stinks” (and “Myxomatosis” isn’t the first song in which Flux of Pink Indians focused on a corrosive smell). Oppression signifies the idea of a coercive, politically motivated behavior. The term necessarily abstracts, a cognitive action that helpfully sets parameters for a general category; less helpfully, the abstraction operates at a distance from the lived reality—frequently a violent reality—of the behavior itself. “Stinks” is a powerfully organic term. It invokes the piles of bunnies, riddled with pox and writhing, dying and rotting. It vivifies our awareness of the full force of oppression, of how it impinges on and damages and debilitates bodies. It’s horrific.

Another 1980s English anarcho-punk band, Subhumans, recorded numerous similarly themed songs: “Us Fish Must Swim Together,” “Pigman,” “Evolution.” But more relevant are the band’s songs that address illness. “Germ” is a song from the Evolution EP; Dick Lucas sings, “I play with your health, I destroy all there is / I’m the germ in your mouth when you give her a kiss!” He almost cackles with glee—it’s a typical punky demolition of conventionally saccharine sentimentalization of bodily experience. The song’s skepticism about the efficacy of “the National Health” indicates the band’s ideological opposition to government and institutionally dictated forms of normativity. In the spring of 2020, it’s hard to hear that skepticism clearly, when we are in dire need of nationally and internationally coordinated responses to massive public health crisis.

A glib response (powered by an impoverished notion of anarchism, all too common in some reactionary punks’ selfish appropriations of the term) to that need might be some version of “reap the whirlwind.” To briefly give that perspective an airing: late capital’s systems of production have indeed propagated uneven development and ever more efficient global interlinkage, as well as industrially scaled agriculture and fossil fuels consumption, all of which have issued in world systems and climatological conditions ripe for pandemic. The less glibly observed fact must be that many of the people who will suffer the effects of COVID-19 have not benefited from the operations of late capital. They suffered them, and they will suffer more.

Subhumans address those issues with greater complexity on Worlds Apart (1985), one of the best punk records of the 1980s. “Someone Is Lying” revisits themes and symbols that are familiar by this point: careless manufacturing of toxic, hazardous substances; the substances’ escape into the lifeworld; the working class’s disproportional immiseration, both by the mode of production and the diseases that spring from it. The crisp, brisk riff underscores the song’s growing anxiety. More stirring is Dick’s vocal performance in the song’s closing minutes. He repeats, ad nauseum, “These people are dying! / Someone is lying!” The band swirls behind him with growing intensity. People are dying. Someone is lying. In 2020, the scenario has loosed itself from the song and infected our reality. To be sure, the Real is stranger than fiction. Throughout the winter and spring, institutional powers worldwide have lied and obfuscated, always in rank self-interest, in ruthless effort to maintain their grip on power. It is sick, diseased, repugnant. And the lies grow from and exacerbate deep social problems.

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In England, in 1985, the song’s phrases gestured toward specifically English ideas, with specifically English resonances: “inbred snobbery,” “wipe out the ghetto,” “the civilized nation.” It seems that we are no longer worlds apart; Dick sings about a “British Disease,” but America in 2020 suffers strikingly similar symptoms. At the song’s crescendo, when Dick is diagnosing the illness, he shouts, “Ignorance is your disease! / Ignorance and apathy! / Ignorance and bigotry!” That turns out to be an apt depiction of a significant portion of the American citizenry, credulous boosters of a “PATRIOT law” (my caps), idiotically basking under the glow of fluorescents on the floor of Target or Whole Foods, whining about an unbelievable access to plenitude: “What? No fresh jicama!” It’s easier to bask and whine than it is to consider all of the crushing injustice and violence that have made that plenitude possible. Or to live in a way that struggles to fashion an ethical response.

Some folks are more vulnerable. They have no choice but to become intimate with those crushing forces. Try walking out into the Target parking lot and adjusting your vision. You’ll likely find a car somewhere along the fringes, its driver gorked out, needle hanging from a vein. Another victim of the American disease, another person in malignant, soul-destroying pain, trying to self-medicate. You’ll walk past, plastic bags bulging. “You thought this country was so great.”

Perhaps our new disease will provide a change in perspective. Current conditions suggest otherwise. At the time of this writing (22 March 2020), in spite of the callow cynicism, repulsive preening and empty macho pose of our newly self-declared “Wartime President,” the Trump Administration’s national job approval numbers are ticking up. Ignorance and apathy. Ignorance and bigotry. When does the disease become terminal?

* N.B. This essay was written at furious pace, at the close of the first week of social distancing as COVID-19 arrived in Philadelphia, PA. There are many, many punk bands and songs that address sickness that haven’t been included: the Germs, Flipper’s “Survivors of the Plague,” GBH’s “Sick Boy,” and so on. But the essay is not interested in offering any sort of survey or comprehensive account of punk’s symbolic treatment of illness—and “Sick Boy” is a thunderingly stupid song, anyways. Additional apologies for the essay’s fast-and-loose organization. Furious writing bears the marks of the psychological dissonance its writer (ahem) suffers. And angry words likely should not be prettily put.

Jonathan Shaw

#punk'd history #jonathan shaw #dusted magazine #illness #punk #subhumans #sex pistols #dead kennedys #christ on parade #dystopia #rudimentary peni

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mw-moriearty · 4 years

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Superman III is an Anti-Capitalist Parable and Way Ahead of its Time

No seriously. Here’s the skinny.

Superman III came out in ‘83 and was directed by Richard Lester, who also directed the markedly inferior theatrical cut of Superman II three years earlier. Lester had a very different approach to the Superman series than his predecessor, Richard Donner: he insisted, ostensibly at the studio’s urging, on taking the series in a more camp comedy direction rather than the Old Hollywood epic movie tone Donner brought to the table. It makes sense, then, that audiences would push back against the goofier, lower-stakes tone of III. They were used to the (comparatively) operatic tone of the original Superman and, to a lesser extent, its sequel.

Superman III was a financial success, but it was negatively received by audiences and by critics, a negative reception that helped send the follow-ups Supergirl and Superman IV: A Quest for Peace to the bottom of the trash heap (not that they needed much help).

But, unlike those two installments, Superman III, when watched today with an unbiased eye, holds up much better than its reputation would suggest. The emphasized comedic undertones don’t stand out so much in this era of light, bantery Marvel films.

And, what’s more, Superman III is probably one of the most plainly anti-capitalist superhero movies of all time. Its maybe not “woke,” but its pretty damn close.

At the core of the film, and perhaps its most controversial element, is the comic relief character played by comedian Richard Pryor. Pryor’s character in Superman III may not be the most nuanced character of color in film, but he is also certainly not the Jar Jar Binks minstrel clown some make him out to be. What he is, is a naturally-gifted computer programmer so brilliant that he is able to hack into a government weather-controlling satellite while completely blitzed and effortlessly design a supercomputer so sophisticated it gains self-awareness. It is obvious the only reason that he lives on unemployment and can’t keep a job rather than being the next Bill Gates and giving the millionaire villain orders is the deep institutional racism upon which capitalism is founded.

The film is well aware of this racism, highlighting it in ways both big and small. Pryor is blackmailed into serving the rich white Trump-esque antagonist, played by Robert Vaughn, after being forced by his ridiculously small paycheck to commit embezzlement (the only victim of which being Vaughn himself, who is so dripping with surplus wealth that he has an artificial ski slope on the roof of his skyscraper). Their first interaction is full of condescending microaggressions on Vaughn’s part, such as cringe-inducingly calling Pryor “my man” in a manner that brings to mind the dad in Get Out.

When Pryor travels to Smallville, Kansas later in the film, he is visibly aghast at how eerily lily-white the whole place is, particularly staring in horror at a trio of porcelain-tinted mannequins in a store window. I’m sure his discomfort would be echoed by many black men taking their first step in rural southern America. Later, to infiltrate one of the businesses that he plans to hack in the small town, Pryor wears one of the awful suits worn by the aforementioned dummies and puts on an affected “white voice” to earn the trust of the drunken redneck that watches the place at night, a fitting commentary on how black men and women are expected to homogenize and “act white” to be above suspicion in white America.

And what happens when Pryor convinces Vaughn to give him the resources to construct his incredible supercomputer? Why, Vaughn and his sister appropriate it for themselves and put its unique capabilities to nefarious ends, shutting Pryor out of any control of his baby and leaving him out in the cold.

Pryor is much more than a victim through all of this, however. I already mentioned how he took the initiative to bolster his paltry computer programmer’s paycheck by using a clever scheme to embezzle from his greedy millionaire boss. He also doesn’t let said boss kick him around, either. Though his circumstances leave him with little choice but to be a cohort in Vaughn’s schemes, when push comes to shove, he stands up for himself. He refuses to allow Vaughn’s order for complete control of the oil tankers to be irreversible, he fights for his fair cut of the loot when Vaughn starts profiting off of his brilliance, and in the end he stands by Superman against his bourgeoisie bosses. He even saves Superman’s life on multiple occasions, using both his computer smarts and eventually a fire ax to come to the big guy’s rescue.

Given that Pryor has at least as much screen time as Supes throughout the picture, one is left wondering, who’s the real hero here? Why, its the guy running around in the frilly pink tablecloth, of course!

And Pryor’s not the only example of a downtrodden minority not being allowed to live to their full potential in a white supremacist patriarchal capitalist society. Perhaps the most interesting character in the film is the villain’s girlfriend, who is initially presented as a vapid, gold-digging bimbo until we learn that this is all an act on her part and she actually is a computer-wise, philosophy-reading secret genius herself. She only plays the part of the brainless trophy girl because life has left her few other options. It is a very fun subversion of the typical villain-moll dynamic, and it is a shame we don’t get more of this character, though she like Pryor is ultimately disturbed by Vaughn’s increasingly villainous actions and bails on him in the end.

But lets talk about Vaughn’s villain, and how he’s emblematic of the film’s ideas on rich white privilege as a whole. This is a guy who is so used to getting everything he wants that he sics a freaking hurricane on Colombia just because the country is competing with him in the coffee export industry. If that ain’t capitalism at its finest. He even repeats the tired adage “it is not enough that I succeed, others must fail,” misattributing it to Genghis Khan like an idiot. I mean seriously, who does this sound like?

This is the guy who gives us probably the most immortal line from the whole movie.

And that’s only the tip of the white entitlement iceberg. There’s also the running joke of the old white couple who win the Daily Planet’s vacation lottery and get sent off to Colombia, where we are treated to the wife saying things like, “look dear, a native wedding!” Cut to the most conventional looking church wedding ever. After this parody of cultural voyeurism, we have the couple later threatening to SUE Daily Planet Editor-in-Chief Perry White because A HURRICANE RUINED THEIR VACATION. What a couple of Karens.

The whole film is about the struggle between the working class and the rich. I’ll paraphrase one of the Smallville locals who, after seeing the chaos caused by the gasoline shortage brought about by Vaughn’s forced oil monopoly, says “I don’t know what’s going on, but I guarantee you, someone’s getting rich off of it. Someone’s always getting rich off of it.”

Oh yeah, and Superman is in this movie too a little. There’s a plot wherein Vaughn tries to synthesize an artificial kryptonite in an effort to kill Superman and prevent him from foiling his dastardly deeds. But, this being a kryptonite forged in the capitalist machine, its a lazy, half-assed copy that doesn’t even work right (leading to the above line).

That doesn’t mean that the kryptonite has no effect, though. Indeed, the symptoms of this knockoff kryptonite are fascinatingly similar to the effects of living under the crushing wheels of the capitalist regime.

We actually see Superman, through this physical manifestation of the exertion of capitalist oppression, deteriorate into a selfish, depressed, bitter shadow of his usual self. As this happens, the colors of his costume subtly grown more dark, drab, and dingy. Superman becomes concerned only with doing what is best for himself without regard to anyone else, giving up the whole “saving people” thing and even letting himself be coerced by the moll into ripping a giant hole into an oil tanker in exchange for a little nookie (the subsequent disturbing image of a massive oil spill creeping across the surface of the ocean is maybe the film showing its hand a little bit). Many socialist and anarchist thinkers have raised the thought that this exact selfish mindset is the natural effect of being socialized in a capitalist society.

Let’s be clear, this isn’t just “evil Superman”. This is Superman so crushed by self-loathing and the futility of his actions that at the lowest point in his decline we see him looking like this:

Indeed, this sad, alcoholic Superman very deliberately mirrors another character in the film: the aforementioned drunken yokel, who is also the former star quarterback of Clark Kent’s high school graduating class. This is a character who found, after graduating, that his celebrity status in school translated to nothing in the adult world, leaving him woefully unprepared for a real life where he is a functional nobody. Cue binge-drinking and pining for the glory days.

This all culminates in the movie’s most iconic scene, wherein Superman crash-lands in a junkyard and splits into two separate individuals: the above Superdick, and plain old Clark Kent. They then proceed to beat the shit out of each other.

Obviously, we aren’t meant to read this scene as literal; it isn’t actually, physically happening. It is a clever visualization of the internal struggle between the character’s two halves: Clark and Superman.

In fact, this very conflict is the heart of Superman’s story throughout the picture. This is examined in the form of Clark’s re-kindled relationship with childhood sweetheart Lana Lang. After the always tragic will-they-won’t-they of Superman and Lois, Clark and Lana’s romance is refreshingly positive and healthy. The obvious reason for this is that, unlike Lois, Lana isn’t just interested in the Superman persona. She loves Clark for Clark. He can be himself around her. Indeed, any romantic incursions between Superman in costume and Lana are portrayed as downright toxic, as in the unsettlingly realistic scene where Superman, first beginning to feel the effects of the faux kryptonite, makes several forceful, sexually aggressive advances on Lana in her own home. The obvious fear and discomfort on Lana’s face during this scene is incredibly telling. She isn’t interested in an inhumanly privileged, aggressive thug in spandex. She likes Clark Kent, the regular guy.

So it is no accident that in this climactic junkyard scene, Clark comes to represent the character’s “good side” and Superman the “bad”. Because this is not simply a struggle between Superman’s good and bad halves, it is a struggle between Clark Kent, the spectacularly unspectacular working man, and Superman, the ridiculously naturally privileged enforcer of statist status quo. Proletariat vs. bourgeoisie. And Clark Kent, the proletariat revolutionary fighting his way out of the bourgeois Superdick’s corruption, wins.

Not that Superman then becomes a perfect champion of the working class for the rest of the film. He does defeat Vaughnald Trump and blow up the evil computer, but he also remains something of a parody of typical movie “white savior” figures. This is mostly clearly shown in the denouement where Superman, obviously thinking he is providing some great act of charity, drops Richard Pryor’s character off at a dirty coal pit far from his home and recommends him for an entry-level computer job there. Pryor understandably decides he’d rather not slave in a coal mine in the middle of nowhere for the rest of his life, and chooses instead to walk the nine miles to the nearest bus station. There is also the final scene where Superman (who in evil mode had straightened the Leaning Tower of Pisa earlier in the film in an extreme act of pettiness) returns to Italy and “fixes” the tower, smiling and waving in smug self-satisfaction at the locals below, oblivious to the poor souvenir salesman who has just finished making his setting up his new display of now-straight replica towers.

tl;dr, I think that Superman III deserves reevaluation not as the moment where the Superman franchise began its descent into crappery, but instead as a flawed but biting satire on privilege and capitalist corruption in America.

That’s my two cents.

#superman #superman 3 #richard donner #richard lester #christoper reeve #capitalism #blm #fuck capitalism #Donald Trump #richard pryor #movie review #blog post #white privilege #socialism #anarchy #my two cents #tldr

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