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psitrend · 4 years

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Interview with the Artist & Photographer Pixy Liao

New Post has been published on https://china-underground.com/2020/10/12/interview-with-the-multidisciplinary-artist-pixy-liao/

Interview with the Artist & Photographer Pixy Liao

The photography of Pixy Liao

Pixy Liao: the balance of power in a romantic relationship with authenticity and vulnerability.

Born and raised in Shanghai, Pixy Yijun Liao is a multidisciplinary artist who currently resides in Brooklyn, NY. After graduating with a Bachelor of Science degree, Pixy moved to the United States to pursue an MFA in Photography at the University of Memphis. Pixy has garnered awards and accolades for “Experimental Relationship”, an ongoing photography series she started in 2007. In her artwork, she explores the question of gender identity and women’s representation in today’s world. She restores what is being sexualized in womanhood and shifts it into an opposite weapon. Collaborating with her male muse boyfriend, Liao dismantles relationship stereotypes. She takes a deep inspection at love relationships, often reversing the power dynamics between a man and a woman to humorous effect, and challenging the expectations imposed.

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You decided to leave a career as a designer, and inspired by Michelangelo Antonioni’s “Blow-Up” you started your career as a photographer. Can you tell us about the main challenges of the beginning? What motivated and kept you determinate?

When I went to study photography in the US, my idea of becoming a photographer was very vague. I didn’t know what type of photographer I wanted to be or what type of photos I wanted to make, I just thought that I could be a photographer so that I could make work with a minimum level of other people’s interference and hopefully be as rich as the photographer in the film. It took me a while to figure out what kind of photos I truly enjoy making. I tried landscape, portraits, fashion photos, and even wedding photos. Until I started making the “Experimental Relationship” project, I finally felt I was making my own photos. I enjoy it so much that I don’t even think about quitting.

How to build a relationship with layered meanings (2008), © Pixy Liao

At the beginning of the “Experimental Relationship” series, did you have any doubts about exposing an intimate part of your relationship? What was Moro’s very first reaction? Both Chinese and Japanese cultures place a strong focus on family. Have you asked yourself any questions about their possible reactions?

I used photography as an excuse to get to know Moro. So he had always been my model since the very beginning before the Experimental Relationship project. He has always been very supportive and rarely rejected my photo request. And I didn’t think of the photos as exposing an intimate part of our relationship because these are staged photos, not documentary photos.

When I first started making the project, we were both international students in the US. We were far away from our family and peers. I purposefully kept it a secret from our families. I don’t think it was possible if I could start the same project living in Asia. It was a time that I used the advantage of living by myself in a foreign country to allow myself to grow into the person I wanted to be.

A powerful woman point of view, with a brilliant sense of humor.

Try to live like a pair of Siamese twins II (2009), © Pixy Liao

You rethought the role of the male as a muse, and you flip it with humor too. How much in the series of images is stage photography, and how much spontaneous? In some of your shoots, you are also the model. What does it mean to you?

Probably more than 90% of the image is staged. My project is concept-based. I rarely do a photoshoot without having a plan first. That being said, I don’t fully control every detail in the photos. I choose location, clothing, position, basic pose, but there’s always room for improvising. Especially for Moro, I encourage him to improvise based on the situation I created. So his facial expression and body gestures are more of his own. When I’m in the photos too that creates more uncertainty to the photos cuz I cannot see the photo when taking it. Actually, I wasn’t even sure when the photos will be taken cuz Moro is the one who takes the photos a lot of times. I think it is a performance or even a game we do in front of the camera.

Her most well-known series “Experimental Relationship”, which received a special mention at Paris Photo Festival, is an ongoing project that paints her long-time relationship with her Japanese boyfriend Moro

Homemade Sushi (2010), © Pixy Liao

Your images are also historical documentation of your relationship over time. Do you look at your early photos, even with the eyes of those who look at distant memories? How do you feel about reviewing certain moments or periods of the past? What do you hope viewers will understand through your images?

One gem of doing a long-term project like this is that you have recorded the precious time that you have spent with loved ones. When I see my old photos, I’m always more forgiving. I found many old missed photos that are worth publishing through this. When I just take a photo of myself, I’m always very critical of the image of myself. Maybe I don’t look good enough in one photo or maybe I didn’t pose the way I wanted. But years later, when I look back, I would think how silly I was. The younger self will always look better. After I get past the point of my own image issue, I can discover other good things about a photo and find some missed good old images.

She has created a vastness of different artistic projects, in which she imagines and portrays a role where women are not dominated but dominate. Her works deal with the exploration of issues such as identity and intimacy.

Image: The woman who clicks the shutter (2018), © Pixy Liao

I don’t expect the viewer to understand my images in a certain way. I want them to respond to them, whether they like them or dislike them or the images make them question something. It’s also an experiment on how people respond to this relationship.

During her photography studies orientation in the States she met her Japanese partner Moro, that was studying in the music department.

It’s never been easy to carry you (2013), © Pixy Liao

Is there one of your intimate portrayals from your series that you are more connected to or that marked a significant moment or change in your relationship? Can you share with us the story behind it or any meaningful event from the backstage of the photo shooting set?

The photos do not always come out the way I envisioned because when I take photos of us together, I could only imagine how we’re gonna look like in the photos. For example in the photo called “It’s never been easy to carry you”, there is a lot of empty space on the top part of the photo. It was not like how I planned it to be. Because Moro is quite heavy for me, his weight kept pushing me down during the photoshoot. When I saw the scanned image, I was very disappointed because the composition is not what I wanted. But later, I realized that the photograph is actually telling the truth. The fact that he is heavy for me to carry pushes me out of my ideal position in the photo, it’s also a metaphor of our life. I always imagined myself as a strong woman, but actually a lot of the time I struggle with the burden of our relationship, just like in the photo, his body pushes me down. After realizing that, I started to like this photo and named it “It’s never been easy to carry you”. There’s always a difference between what you desire and what you actually get. Even with all the staging, there are always things out of my control. I’m just learning to accept those.

Wu Zetian is a female figure who made a great impression on me when I was a girl. … It’s hard to imagine growing up without even one queen in your culture, which is why I think she is really important, especially to Chinese girls.” – Pixy Liao

Ping Pong balls (2013), © Pixy Liao

From Shanghai to the States. You have lived in Memphis, and now you are based in Brooklyn. Which were the biggest advantages, which main differences did you notice that helped you to grow as a person and as a photographer?

I started studying photography in the US. The biggest advantage is that I live in a new environment away from my family and peers. That gave me a great space for me to grow without being interfered with. The difference between Memphis & Brooklyn is huge. Memphis is a very photo genetic city. And there are many places to take photos. When I moved to Brooklyn, the photo opportunity is much much less. But it’s a great place to live as an immigrant in the US. Now, most of my photos were taken when I’m traveling.

Play Station (2013), © Pixy Liao

You have been working in the world of photography and art for many years. What do you think the role of gender has in contemporary photography? Does gender still matter? Are women slowly changing art and photography?

I think gender always matters. It helps people to see things from a different point of view, a photographer’s point of view. Everything about the photographer matters, his/her gender, race, cultural background, etc,. Are women changing art and photography? That’s not depending on the photographers. The photographers are just making their own photos. It depends on the platforms and audience who want to see those photos. I think the world today definitely wants to see more female photographers’ work or LGBTQ or BIPOC photographers’ work. It’s a good sign that we have a more diverse view of the art world now. I hope it’s not just a trend.

I make art based on my feelings growing up as a girl in China, and on how I feel as a woman in today’s world.” – Pixy Liao

Soft Heeled Shoes (2013), © Pixy Liao

In the age of social media, do you think that world cultural differences in love relationships have leveled off? Do you think that the new generations overcome prejudices and taboos more easily than those of the past? What do you think has changed since you started your project “Experimental Relationship”?

Yes. I definitely notice that people of my generation and the generation before me think about love relationships much differently than the younger generation like Gen Z. For them, it’s much more common to accept the idea of gender fluidity and they don’t judge people much who are in minority groups. I also know it doesn’t come easily. It comes from generation and generation of people’s hard work to make those “taboo” things more seen. Thinking about the artists/people that influenced me and the people who influenced them. And it’s slowly changing the world. I have been making this project for more than a decade. I just recently (in 2018) felt comfortable showing the work in public in China (in a photo festival). The response I got from the audience was encouraging. That is not something I could imagine happening 10 years ago, maybe not even 5 years ago. But it’s getting ok now.

Me, him and the audience are all connected by the cable release.” – Pixy Liao

Golden Mouse (2014), © Pixy Liao

You used the “female gaze” also in other artwork, sculpture, and other processes, like A Collection of Penises, Man Bags, Soft Heeled Shoes, and Breast Spray. Are they collateral projects or somehow related to your main photography work? Are you working on something new?

Yes, my work is based on my female experiences. I think my other works are equal to my photo work. They might be not so much about the heterosexual relationship, but more focus on the female experience. I am working on a conceptual work about female leadership.

In China, girls are normally encouraged not to work hard and rather to find a man to rely on; conversely, men are told to man up and to be brave.” – Pixy Liao

Red Nails (2014), © Pixy Liao

In addition to photography partners, you and Moro have together a band: PIMO. Can you tell us about this project?

Our band PIMO is a totally different story. Moro is a musician. Our roles switched to what we do in photography. We started collaborating in music in 2011. In our band, Moro is the leader. He would compose, perform, record, basically do everything, while I just sing in the band. We usually work on lyrics together. We call ourselves a toy rock band. We sing songs about our common interests in life, like cats and grandmas. You can listen to our music at pimo.bandcamp.com

youtube

PIMO – Oppai Is Everywhere Live from Home

Hang in there (2015), © Pixy Liao

Carry the Weight of You (2017), © Pixy Liao

What limits of your relationship did working together in photos and music projects help you to overcome, and what did it help you strengthen? Being involved in a synergetic multileveled artwork collaboration evolved your relationship?

The photo project has made us partners. This project is based on our relationship and grows with our relationship. At the same time, this project has become part of our life. In the beginning, he would just do as I said, but now he participates more. He truly understands what I’m doing and he contributes his ideas or reactions during the photoshoots. If I stop shooting for a long time, he encourages me to take photos again. The more we continue in the project, the better we know each other and trust each other.

And the music project is a good balance for us. In photos, I’m the director. In music, he is the leader. For me, it’s both an enjoyment and also my way of paying him back.

Two Heads (2019), © Pixy Liao

Temple for her installation (2019), © Pixy Liao

Featured image: The woman in the red robe (2018), © Pixy Liao Photo courtesy of Pixy Liao

#ChineseContemporaryArtist, #ChinesePhotographer, #ChinesePhotography, #FemalePhotographers

#chinese contemporary artist #chinese photographer #chinese photography #female photographers

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needleandhammer · 3 years

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Fruition

Pairing: Ransom Drysdale x Female!Reader

Word Count: 6216

Summary: You're the Governor's daughter and you've caught the eye of Boston's most eligible bachelor.

Warnings: Explicit sexual content. Unprotected sex. P in v. Reader's first time having sex. Cunnilingus. Dub con. Possessive!Ransom. Sort of Dark!Ransom. Historically inaccurate. Slight breeding kink. 18+ only!

A/N: Period au. I kept the time period and nobility ranking real vague because I'm not about to research and actually world-build a mashed 19th century American colonies and Victorian period au :D It's not quite as dark!Ransom as I had intended, mostly soft. Inspired by Bridgerton, yes. And the amazing debauchery of @stargazingfangirl18 for their Soft Dark 5k challenge. Congrats and thank you for such amazing stories!

Yet another season of balls, picnics, and courtship.

“Have you heard the news? The young Drysdale is to be named heir to the Thrombey estates.”

“That makes him heir to both Thrombey and Drysdale legacies.”

“Do you think he’s in search of a wife?”

“It’s Drysdale we’re talking about. The only thing he’s in search of is someone to warm his bed for one night.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. All that inheritance must require a wife to keep in order.”

“I wouldn’t mind warming his bed even for one night.”

“Shh! That’s scandalous!”

You heard your name and looked up to see your friend Vincenza approach. “Have you heard? Drysdale is to be—“

“Must I endure an entire evening of talk about that boorish man?”

She giggled at your complaint. “But it’s the talk of the city. Lord Thrombey has replaced his own son with his grandson as heir. And…” She glanced around, leaning close to you to whisper. “I heard that the transfer of inheritance was all due to Drysdale’s uncle’s inability to produce a child.”

Your brow folded, unsure whether such a decision was fair. “Well it’s not our business, Vinnie.”

“But that’s the thing!” Her whisper grew breathless with excitement. “It’s all of our business. Well, those of us not determined to narrow our marriage choices in the name of love.” She shook her head at you with good nature. “If Drysdale is to produce an heir, he needs a wife! It’s certain that all the available ladies of Boston will be trying to earn his favor.”

You sighed as Vinnie hooked her arm around your elbow, both of you weaving slowly through the ballroom.

It wasn’t like you weren’t used to this, hearing gossip about the infamous Drysdale son, the eldest grandson to the retired Lord Thrombey. How such a noble scholar could be related to the notorious heartbreaker sometimes stretched your comprehension. And even more ridiculous, autumn found you as Drysdale’s target for humiliation. You knew such a flirt had no intentions of settling down, yet, he had endeavored to make sure he danced with you at every ball thus far this season, and even called on you at your city townhome. You were quick to inform him that you were uninterested, yet he seemed unbothered. In fact, upon your firm rejection, Drysdale seemed to make it his goal to visit your brother as often as possible - as the two were college pals - ensuring you encountered him several times a week. Drysdale was not outright courting you, but he made his attentions evident to you. Most frustrating of all, he seemed to have a knack for cornering you under the guise of innocently keeping his friend’s sister company. It irked you that your family could not see what you saw.

You caught sight of your brother waving at you, so you led Vinnie in his direction.

Perhaps Vinnie was correct and you were closing doors that were better left open in the opulent realm of nobility courtship. Your chances of marrying for love were slim, but that didn’t mean you could not at least try to maneuver your way closer to those slim chances. Even in Boston’s ruthless high society of meddling mothers, envious debutantes, and arrogant “gentlemen.” But you were the Governor’s first-born daughter – beauty praised by all, poised and sharp, and most accomplished at a number of activities thanks to the Governor and your mother encouraging a diverse array of talents since you were young. Theirs was a happy and long marriage resulting in five children, and supported by a successful political career that you were proud to celebrate. You had no doubt that no matter the pressures of society, your parents would support you if you opposed an incompatible proposal in your search for the right person.

As long as you navigated the nobility’s courtship rituals with the wits you inherited from your own mother, there should be no reason you should lose the romantic interests of countless eligible bachelors, or heaven forbid, fall upon a scandal that may prevent a proposal of love.

Well, there was one reason you might end the season in scandal, by way of delivering a swift knee to the vulnerable private area of one particularly irritating gentleman in full public view of hundreds of good folk who have gathered to enjoy the Senator’s autumn ball. Alas, you were not going to bring that kind of shame to your parents.

The particular reason, the gentleman who irritated you so, was currently greeting your elder brother quietly, whilst his penetrating gaze remained on you. Determined not to be ruffled by his attention, you kept your shoulders back and chin high, sweeping your eyes through the crowd and dancers.

Your attention returned to your group of family and friends when your hand was captured. By him. Hugh Ransom Drysdale Thrombey.

“My, don’t you look breath-taking. It is my pleasure to get to see you tonight, Miss Y/L/N.” Drysdale’s eyes flowed down your form, and much to your chagrin, his smirk widened. No doubt the warm flush on your bare collar would be apparent to him.

You couldn’t help yourself, with those glowing azure eyes of his so clearly admiring your figure. The man was completely inappropriate.

“Yes, it surely is.” You offered a pursed barely-there smile and tugged your hand. He tightened his grip upon your fingers, raising them to meet his lips. You cursed yourself for choosing the delicate lace gloves this evening, as you felt his warm breath feather through the lace onto your skin. He deliberately kept his lips upon your fingers for longer than necessary, curved in that signature smirk.

“Mr. Drysdale, if I may have my hand back. I must obtain a beverage for my sister.”

Mischief twinkled back at you from his eyes. “Allow me to accompany you. I’m sure your brother and mother would both enjoy a drink,” he was quick to close down the objection posed on your lips.

Your brother thanked Drysdale with a clap on his shoulder and motioned for you to go on. You could only give Vinnie a frown as she preened at you with excitement. You proceeded without protest, knowing your brother’s attention was occupied, searching for a Miss Amarea Dane, whom you were certain you would welcome as sister-in-law very soon.

You smiled quietly to yourself, once again dreaming of following in your brother’s footsteps and finding a match so certain and true, so compelled by love and affection, rather than simply honor and title. To think, it had been Drysdale who had introduced the couple.

Suddenly, a man backed up straight into your path. You couldn’t avoid stumbling aside and directly into the arms of Drysdale.

“Watch yourself, Chen. Maybe go easy on the wine,” Drysdale called to the man who raised an empty glass at him with a laugh.

You attempted to straighten up, aware you were surrounded by several people and had just fallen into the embrace of Drysdale, who was notorious for seducing the city’s ladies.

“Let go,” you insisted quietly, dropping your gaze to your wrist which he held on to.

Drysdale gave you stern glance and led you close behind him, keeping his grasp on you hidden as he pulled you through the room.

When the two of you made it beyond the side entrance, you tried retrieving your hand.

“Mr. Drysdale, let go.” You had not wanted to draw attention with so many guests around you. You would die of embarrassment to allow anyone to see Drysdale’s hand on yours beyond the required polite greeting.

“Come, my lady. You cannot blame me for wishing to acquire your attention all to myself.”

“You are being most inappropriate.” You huffed as he pulled into the gardens. “Let go of me this instant.”

“So eager to return to your suitors? I’m sure I saw at least five gentleman who have called on you this month.”

“How can you know of the gentlemen who have called on me?” You dug your heels into the gravel, drawing up short when Drysdale stopped and rounded on you.

“Well, Barber makes no secret of his admiration for you. Or that idiot colonel’s son? And that Wilson fellow makes such noise at the gentlemen’s club about his intent to propose.”

You smiled at his apparent crossness. “Are you tracking my proposals? Are you requesting a fee for updating me about the intentions of my suitors?”

Drysdale stepped closer, his sharp jawline clenched. “So you’re pleased then?”

“Why shouldn’t I be?” You bit back a gasp when he tugged you forward, his hands on your waist which pressed against his front. “If you don’t let go—“

“What will you do?” His smirk returned and your fists pushed against the solid muscle of his arms. “What would you do?” He asked again, dipping his face close to yours. “If someone saw the Governor’s honorable eldest daughter, the pearl of the city, alone in the dark with a man?”

“How dare you? You better let go or my brother –“

“Would only be too happy to welcome me into the family.”

You did not miss his meaning. If you were discovered in this position by anyone, your brother would demand that your honor be redeemed by marriage to Drysdale. As handsome as the man was, you had no wish to pair the rest of your life with a man who flirted with dozens of women each season and broke just as many hearts.

“Well I am certain, sir, he would never force me to marry someone so crude as yourself. He is familiar with your outrageous behavior, so he knows you would make an ill match and I would never consent to it.” You tried leaning back from Drysdale, feeling a growl work from his chest. You couldn’t show him fear, no. You had enough of this man making your life miserable just because he was bored.

He didn’t relent, his palms flexing around your waist tighter. “You think that just because your father protects you, you are beyond the pressures, the claws of people of our standing?” He chuckled darkly. “I assure you, if it was between your happiness and ensuring your family avoids falling from grace, your parents would not hesitate to throw you to the wolves, to sacrifice your childish dreams in order to uphold their status. That’s what you’re searching for, isn’t it? Behind that pretty face are the same silly fancies as all the other girls. Dreams of love.”

“I don’t expect you to understand, so mock me all you want.” You continued struggling, determined to not back down from his burning gaze, but drawing short of breath all the same to have him so close. “Everyone knows you’re too busy fooling around and playing with women who, yes, want to find love. I only pity them for believing you have the ability to give that to them.”

He whispered your name low in warning, his voice sending a flutter down your stomach. You arranged a fierce scowl at him.

“It’s the truth. All you care about are your family’s riches and living like you have no responsibility to your community. Well, go on. Find some poor woman and give your family an heir so you can secure your fortune and continue your wild ways in comfort. But rest assured, I’d rather be thrown to wolves than end up paired with a man like you.”

Your squeak of shock was cut short when Drysdale crashed his mouth on yours. He molded your lips, swallowing your gasp as he sucked your lower lip. You felt suffocated with an intense heat blossoming from your stomach and growing further as you sensed the wet lick of his tongue.

Drysdale knew every time he pushed your buttons he got to enjoy your soft features lighting up just the way he liked; and at the same time he suffered your blatant disdain. For months he had told himself he was only after some entertainment in the form of your admittedly beautiful displeasure directed at him to liven up the droll season. Yet, here he was, unable to restrain himself from touching you, your warm smile haunting his thoughts, the silk of your skin an insufferable craving that occupied him at every hour.

You tried to twist out of his arms, but he held you pressed against him, a soft whimper from you further igniting his desire to wrap you up and make sure no other man witnessed you like this. Breathless. Vulnerable. So, so sweet, just as he imagined you would be.

You were unsure how to respond, failing to escape from his hold. So you fought back with your mouth, lips pushing against his, much to Drysdale’s delight. He barely allowed you to draw breath as he tilted his head, hand caressing the back of your neck to keep you close, quickly sneaking his tongue into the hot cavern of your mouth. He felt you tremble at his invasion, your hands gripping his jacket. He opened his eyes, appreciating the moon’s gleam on your cheek, your lashes fluttering. Despite your drawn brow, he could tell you were no longer opposed to his ministrations. He groaned when your tongue whirled against his.

It was the familiar quiver in your core that struck you and had you thrashing until you had pushed Drysdale away. You could not allow this man to awaken desires within you. You covered your mouth, panting, feeling tears sting your eyes.

You heard your name from him.

“Don’t!” You kept your face hidden with a hand, as though you could hide what had just happened. “Don’t every come near me again, Drysdale.”

“You can’t mean that.”

You stepped back before he could reach you. “I’m sorry. I am to call you Thrombey now, correct? You’ve inherited a title and doubled your worth. Well, don’t for one second think that makes me care for you.”

You rushed out of the garden, praying he wouldn’t catch up. Drysdale breathed deep. Your words stung him.

He shook himself, making a vow. Darling, you’re not getting away from me.

------------------

No, no, this could not be happening. It was still early in the day and your life was ruined. Or, it would be very soon.

“If you don’t accept my proposal, I will ensure that the whole city hears about your little moonlight tryst with Drysdale. We all know he’s not the type to step up for a woman’s honor. So you’ll be left with a scandal and no further suitors, you can be sure of it.”

That was the threat from Mr. Mildred, the colonel’s son who creeped on the edges of parties and was known to mistreat the help of his household.

You couldn’t stand the thought of marrying Mildred. Yet, what were your options? Your parents would heed your wishes, but the shame of a scandal would be hard for your family to recover from. You father’s reelection might even be impacted. Boston may be a modern city but progress was slow when it came to the rules of courtship amongst upper social circles. And your marriage prospects, well, very few bachelors would come calling once they heard you described as a loose woman.

It had been too much to hope that no one witnessed what happened in the garden.

You stood, restless and angry with yourself. How could you have melted into Drysdale’s touch? That was just as agonizing to you as Mildred’s words. Ever since you first met Drysdale, heard of his leisurely bachelor ways and his aversion to marriage and family, you had vowed to never fraternize with anyone of his nature. He was everything you did not want for a stable, loving family and spouse.

So many months, you had been forced to hear him mock you with pleasantries, intrude on your homely comforts, charm your mother and sisters, monopolize your brother’s time. And yet. His broad form hovering close to you as you practiced pianoforte. His many glances with those sky blue eyes during park strolls. The low purr of his voice that followed you into your dreams. Drysdale had managed to worm his way into your subconscious. At one point, you had thought he was tolerable, kind, and perhaps capable of sincerity; but that night in the garden had shown you his true colors.

Two days later, you fared no better. Your mother summoned you into the parlor, sharing that she had encountered Mr. Mildred at a tea party and he mentioned a dreadful whisper he believed to be about you and a gentleman together without chaperones in the Senator’s garden.

Had Mildred run out of patience already? Your mother’s tight frown was your answer. You apologized profusely, tears escaping as you tried to hold yourself together in the presence of someone you had sworn never to disappoint.

Apparently, Mildred informed your mother that such a whisper had not spread far, but he could not be certain of preventing its spread.

You were interrupted by the house maid, bringing a letter to your mother informing of a dinner visit.

The rest of your day, your head ached with the decision you had to make. Drysdale would not be affected by the gossip but you would not remain unscathed for long. Even with the respect your father received as Governor, your prospects grew slimmer than ever. Yet you could not accept a sacred vow of lifelong marriage to the conniving Mildred.

And Drysdale, well, you told yourself you would not entertain the idea. You had rejected his advances once already. You told yourself he had only courted you to add to his conquests and he only continued to antagonize you to alleviate his boredom.

It wasn’t until you entered the dining room that you realized your mother’s dinner guests were the Drysdales, including Lord Thrombey. You lowered yourself into a seat next to your sister, forcing a smile at Lady Drysdale before her strident tones returned to a conversation with your mother. Movement to your other side prompted you, but your smile fell flat to see Ransom Drysdale beside you. He only nodded to you, though you caught his eyes glinting with purpose before he turned to your brother.

It was halfway through dinner that Drysdale made the announcement. He had requested your father’s permission and was proposing to you this very night.

You scarcely noted your two families’ reactions, excusing yourself from the table and winding up in the dimly lit back yard of your home.

“Why?” you asked as soon as you heard footsteps behind you. Turning to Drysdale, you demanded, “Why are you doing this?”

He watched you, eyes dark and framed by thick lashes. His jaw tensed and then he stepped up to you, looking down at you.

“As you said. I have to earn my inheritance. I need an heir for my grandfather. For that to happen, I need a wife.”

You shook your head, his words striking at your heart.

“You’ll do just fine, I suppose,” he finished.

“No!” You shoved at his chest, barely swaying him. “You don’t get to do this. This is my life.”

“I heard what Mildred was going to do,” he said, swallowing hard. “If I didn’t propose, you’d have to marry him. Or –“

“I would deal with the gossip however I see fit! How could you come to my home and propose in front of our entire families. How could you—“

He wrapped his hands around your biceps, dragging you close. “You can’t say no.”

Helpless, you could only silently deny his ruthless words with an anguished shake of your head.

“You can’t say no to me. No matter what you tell yourself about how merciful your lovely society friends will be. We both know if you don’t accept my proposal…” He glanced away with a chuckle before eying you, his grin cocky, sneering. “And don’t even bother thinking you might escape from this by actually marrying Mildred. He’ll back off as soon as he hears the new Lord Thrombey has proposed. Either way, looks like you’re not going to the wolves.”

One hand grasped your neck and jaw, drawing your lips to his. He could sigh with relief. He had not been able to rest ever since tasting you.

“Drysdale –“

“Ransom,” he whispered, rubbing his lips to yours before reclaiming them in a deeper kiss that consumed all of your senses. You couldn’t gather your wits to question how he managed to force all thoughts from your mind. Surely your anger was the source of the sparks lit in your breast as you felt his tongue sweep into your mouth roughly. You sagged against him. Ransom’s lips released you, trailing along your skin.

“Call me Ransom.” His order came firm as he dropped kisses down the corner of your mouth to your ear. It pained him to be the cause of your tears, but he would be damned if he let that weasel Mildred sully your name, or get to twist his fingers in your dark tresses, learn your curves, taste your lips. No, Ransom would be your villain.

“R-Ransom,” you gasped out, so aware of his body heat rolling against you, his thick arms encircling you.

“Accept my proposal.” He knew he had crushed his very slight chances of being on the receiving end of your kind heart, forcing your hand like this.

He pressed his forehead to yours, warm hands framing either side of your face. His thumbs stroked away your tears, and you were struck by the earnest plea in his eyes.

"Alright."

He took a deep breath and stepped back from you, his face a cool mask. "Let us inform our families."

This may be another game to him, an easy means to an end. For you, it wasn’t a choice.

--‐-------------------------------------------------------------------------

You made it through your short engagement and overly grand wedding by devoting your entire energy to convincing your family that you were the eager, blushing bride. You offered minimal answers as your dear sister asked about how Drysdale – no, how Ransom had claimed your heart. You dutifully picked out wedding bouquets with your mother and responded to the well wishes of your father’s friends.

All the while, your busy schedule served as an excuse to avoid your groom-to-be. With middling success. Now that he had claimed your hand, and more, proved your dreams were all for naught, he couldn’t resist reminding you to your face how naïve you had been. Worse, he took advantage of his status as your fiancé.

He took the opportunity at every lunch to sit close to you and toss that triumphant smirk your way. He invited you to the park with your family, leading you ahead and lacing his fingers through yours as he put on a show of holding you steady upon the walkways. He played the love-struck bachelor, dragging you between the far shelves of your father’s library and exploring your mouth with a frenzy that left you dizzy. Your resistance was no match for his determination to overpower you, to flaunt his victory. Yet, you could almost see the arrogant curl of his mouth morphing with each kiss as his eyes softened. And each time, you grew more hopeless - conflicted - as his touch grew familiar, satisfying a part of you which you could not control. You were truly out of your depth when it came to Ransom.

It mattered not. You could not take back your word. The Governor’s daughter that you were so proud to be could not collapse in your own despair. As far as anyone was concerned, you and Ransom had both discovered an unlikely, passionate love for one another and wished very badly to wed.

You should have been exhausted after the early day of wedding celebration you had endured with Ransom, the incomparably handsome and gallant groom. And after many hours riding out to Halifax, the Thrombey country home. Your new home.

But a new challenge was upon you this late night - your wedding night. At least, that had been your sole problem up until Ransom had deposited you in your marital chamber and excused himself. You had absentmindedly, nervously, glided around the room to admire the woodwork. Only to notice a parchment corner peeking from the drawer of an antique desk. Which led you to open the drawer and pluck at the papers with your name upon them.

The pearl of the city. An apt title, yet it fails to define your beauty, Y/N…

…Is it a gift or a curse that I should be visited with visions of your sweet face as I sleep…

Barry speaks highly of you, his sister, and your affinity for family, your desire for a true love. A shame that such an exquisite soul should be beyond my grasp. No, I have earned this torture. I could never deserve you, nor offer you what you deserve…

So many lines speaking of admiration for your character, yearning to learn what would be worthy of your affections, admissions that you were too sweet, too good to be burdened with him. Words hinting of curiosity, of desire for a future with you, a family unlike the one he grew up with.

…I can only laugh at myself for daring to dream God might have mercy on me and lead me into your arms, and lead us to the dreams you and I share…

The sound of the door swinging open had you looking up to meet Ransom’s gaze. He slowed in his entrance, seeing the pile you clasped in hand.

“Those are mine,” he said, voice tight. His hands curled with your big eyes shining upon him full of question.

“My name is on them. They’re mine,” you countered.

“Forget them,” he commanded. “They are only…”

“Fancies? Silly dreams of…love?” you asked. “You’re a talented writer.” You smiled seeing his flushed cheeks, his averted, shy grimace.

“I used to sit with my grandfather for long hours. Reading. Discussing stories.”

“Did your grandfather also help you practice writing love letters?”

He smiled without mirth. “No. I figured I wanted to make a fool of myself so I documented foolish musings.”

You closed the distance between you. Your face was uplifted, beseeching Ransom to meet your eyes. He could not ignore your presence, attention intense on him and almost more than he could bear.

“Is there truth in these words?” you asked quietly, careful not to spook this man, this loud, cocky man who had presented you with such a convincing disdain for anything sincere.

“It does not matter.”

“It matters. Because you chose me.” You pressed your fingertips to his lip, stopping his protest. Ransom closed his eyes for moment, barely believing you were touching him of your own will. He breathed in your perfume, disoriented by your proximity, your discovery. “Why did you never…?”

“Because I’ve always known such things were childish. My own parents proved to me a long time ago love has little value in a family.”

You shook your head in protest of such cynicism. But the bitter turn of his mouth reminded you of various instances in his family's presence - his parent's demand for recognition and power, his uncle scoffing at expressions of kindness.

“Because I felt foolish for even wanting something different. You were right. Anyone would be lucky to avoid me and my family. We’re a sham. There’s nothing beneath the surface for my parents and they’ve taught me well.”

“There’s more,” you insisted.

“Well then I’m a coward because I can’t bring myself to go in search for more. You were right. I am content with my family’s fortune. I would have been fine growing old alone, but I had to trap you with me. Now, you won’t achieve your marriage of love, your desire for a warm family.”

You cupped his cheeks, forcing him to look at you. “I was the coward.” You drew him down, closing your eyes and pressing your foreheads together. “I saw more in you, but I was afraid. Afraid of risking my heart, afraid I might achieve the very thing that I have been yearning for.”

He whispered your name. You hushed him.

“Tell me. Do you truly love me?”

His breath feathered against your lips. “I love you.” There was such a raw vulnerability in his confession.

“Then that is all that matters. You and I will build the family we dreamed of. I promise.”

Like your vow had snipped him loose of his control, he yanked you in and kissed you hard.

“Be mine,” he murmured between sucks of your lips, drinking you in. “Give me all of you, and I swear, love, I’ll be your family. I’ll give you anything.”

You believed him. Cupped his head in yearning. “Yes. Yes, Ransom.”

His hands tugged impatiently at your gown, dragging the outer layers down. Long fingers pulled at your skirts. You worked at undoing his vest and shirt. Your hands trembled to feel his bare skin, the tickle of chest hair and such warmth emanating against you as he drew you close. You gasped to feel his hands squeezing your curves through your thin shift, seeking with greed for more. He walked you both to the bed and placed you in the middle, laid out for him as he had dreamt for months.

His touch dipped under your shift, setting your heart racing. As his mouth danced lower, he growled, tearing the top of your shift to expose your bare tits and mouth hungrily at them. You couldn’t stop wriggling, clutching around his neck and shoulders, arching up to his tongue that flicked a nipple before sucking.

“I’ve wanted you so long. Want to taste you.”

Before you knew it, you felt him panting at the delicate flesh between your legs, no article of clothing remotely hiding your body from him. He stopped you from closing your thighs, fingertips bruising as he held you open and licked broad stripes at your sex. You had never imagined such sensations, such a heat as Ransom so thoroughly pulled you apart with his mouth.

He watched through his lashes as you writhed, testing what you enjoyed most. His tongue teased at your entrance and then breached you to lash your inner walls. Your sharp cry had him groaning as his hard cock begged for friction. Your gasps bordered on sobs and he needed to see you fall off that edge.

His lips closed around your increasingly wet petals, shaking his head back and forth and sucking hard. When his teeth scraped your clit, your mouth froze open, your back arched off the bed and locked in feverish pleasure. Your rapture pulsed through you as he pressed his tongue flat to your throbbing bud.

“Darling, look at you.” How glorious you looked, soft and panting. Ransom climbed forward to kiss you, sharing the earthy tang of your pleasure. You hummed into his mouth, still drifting in a hazy cloud.

“Look at me, love,” he whispered. You opened your eyes. He watched you, lust and joy burning in his gaze. “You’re mine.”

You nuzzled his nose, whispered, “I’m yours.” Your breath left you as his cock, thick and insistent, pressed into you, pushing in and in until you felt nothing but full.

His lips never stopped kissing your face, your jaw, your mouth. As if he could tell the very instant the sting receded for you, Ransom moved, thrusting shallow. You found yourself wrapped around him, clinging as you had never been so desperate for another person before.

His moans and grunts joined you as he sped up. Everything he was doing, his hips clapping your thighs, his weight caging you, rekindled the thrill in you, the pleasure mounting more when he managed to slide his hand between you and swipe at your clit. You keened, unable to beg him to finish you off, but you knew he would do it. Knew he wouldn’t stop. His mouth sucked at your neck and he angled his thrust just so. You were lost to the world, grinding up against Ransom, chasing the pleasure that crackled from your core. Ransom nearly crushed you to the mattress as his rhythm rose to a frantic end and he released his seed through his swelling cock to fill you.

Your name rasped from him as he ground his hips into you with the instinctual need to ram his seed into your womb.

Long hours later, after Ransom’s need to claim you again resulted in multiple releases for you both, when you had caught your breath, you let him wind his naked form around yours.

You drifted off to his sleepy murmurs of, “I’m yours.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

A month later and Ransom maintained firm control of your attentions, both mental and physical. He seemed intent on desecrating every room of the vast country home. One afternoon, the two of you had toured the family’s art collection. He had lured you into an alcove to view a Verocchio sculpture. You ended up with his face buried between your legs under the sculpture’s shadow, biting your fist to quiet your moans as Ransom’s tongue thrust into you. Right before you came, he slipped out from your skirts, bunching them at your waist and pushing you up against the wall. Your faced pressed into his neck with relief to feel his cock stretch you. Opened you up with rough jolts as your legs drew tight around him. His hips snapped urgently, quickly blazing flames within you until your explosive climax overwhelmed you. He fucked you until he came, biting your shoulder as he rutted hard to push his release deep into you, until you were overfilled and his spend seeped out and trailed between the two of you to mix with your own juices.

Tonight, his desire for you was unrestrained. Already, he had kissed and licked what seemed like every inch of your skin. Your release dripped from you and into his greedy mouth latched to your folds as you came down from your high, tugging his dark locks of hair.

“Ransom, please.”

“Yes, love?” His lips grazed a path up your stomach, then up between your breasts littered with red love bites. He rubbed his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent.

“Need to feel you.”

Ransom grinned. He pulled you upward, lifting and turning you so you rested in his lap with your shoulder blades meeting his chest dusted with fine hair. You arched your back, feeling his hard, leaking cock so hot against your skin. His fingers combed your hair aside, mouth nipping and kissing from your neck to your shoulder.

His hand cupped your sex, groaning at the soaked heat of you. He guided you, lifting up just enough to run the sensitive head of his cock through your folds. Your whine forced more precum to dribble from his slit. He could resist no longer, his cock splitting you open as he drew you down upon his lap until he was buried to the hilt in your tight heat. Soft curses met your ears. You bit your lip, grinding back and forth. Ransom squeezed your waist, held you still.

“Ransom…”

Damned, how he loved the sound of his name falling from you, needy and wrecked from pleasure. And still wanting more of him. He couldn’t begin to guess how someone like him could deserve your affections and loyalty. Good thing he was a greedy bastard, unrepentant of his actions that had blessed his home and bed with you.

Shivers wracked your spine when he cooed at you with his gravelly tone. “You want me, love?”

“Want you so bad.”

He smirked at your whimper when he swirled his groin slow beneath you. His tongue teased along your earlobe, driving a plea from you.

“Want you, Ransom. Oh, please.”

“And you’ll give me what I desire, yes? Will you, love?”

You managed jerky nods, choking when he slid agonizingly slow from your cunt and pushed back into you. Only to stop and hold himself there, speared maddeningly in you.

His breath tickled your ear. “You, love, are going to give me a baby. Yes?”

He drove his hips up, drawing a moan from you.

“Isn’t that right, darling?”

“Y-yes…Rans…ah” You stuttered with his deep, hard strokes.

“Is that what you want? Hm? Big, beautiful family with me?”

“Yes.” Your response rushed out, breathy.

“Love you. Want to fill you up over and over.”

You whined loud, his words and the drag of his thick cock inside you driving you crazy.

“Because you’re mine. You’re all mine.” His hand curled over yours, pressing your palm and fingers to your core where the two of you were joined beneath dark curls. “Feel that?”

“Oh god.” You surely felt what he wanted you to. His steely member claiming you again and again.

“Yes, feel me and you? This.” He kept your hand there, feeling every push and pull of his cock, from inside and out, so you couldn’t escape him. “Feel how you belong to me? All of you. You’re mine forever.”

“I’m yours….” You cried out as his rhythm sped up. “Ransom!”

You threw your head back, both yours and his fingers circling the nub of your inflamed clit, his harsh breaths beating against your neck as his words blended.

“Mine,” he grunted.

Your pleasure burst like a dam, your release splashed and squirted out, then throbbed with his relentless touch. The wave spread outward, tensing your muscles, buzzing upon your skin. Feeling you squeeze and flutter around him drove Ransom to the brink until all he could think of was filling you, rooting his seed into you so you grew soft and big with his child. You were the beginning and finish of his everything.

Ransom couldn’t stop himself. His strokes grew uneven but remained deep, hard, determined. His arm wrapped around you tight as he launched you both forward, driving you onto your hands and knees so he could rut as deep as possible. You moaned, overcome with the hot rush of his seed filling you and his cock pounding it deeper into you.

You both settled into the bed with tangled limbs, slowing your breaths and the ache of desire. Your toes curled, enjoying the pressure of his cock nestled in you still, content that you both were looking forward to your first child. To a family all your own.

#siris5ksoftdarkchallenge #fanfiction #ransom drysdale #ransom drysdale x reader #smut #ransom drysdale x woc!reader

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thedamageofherdays · 3 years

Text

This week's (16-08-2021 - 22-08-2021) reading log is here. This week's reading log is super duper long and filled with lots of good things (my apologies for the long post, I really could not find a good spot to do a read more). I discovered some new favourites and re-read some old favourites and while I had an intense week personally at least the fics I read were absolutely phenomenal. I do recommend checking out the warnings as some fics are a bit heavier/angstier and you might wanna be prepared. Most of these fics are Stucky but there are a couple of other ships in between.

If you are looking for more fun and/or good things make sure to check out the @marveldisabilitycelebration as well to see all the awesome art, fics, meta, etcetera people created! And while I am mentioning events I am a mod for let me also just quickly mention that sign-ups for the @stuckygiftexchange are still open until the end of the month <3

Favourites are marked with a 🌻 Fics that are only available to AO3 users are marked with a 🔒 and Tumblr fics are marked with a 🍀

🌻 The Bends by dreamsinthewitchouse @dreamsinthewitchouse [Danbeau, side Stucky, 2k words, Teen]

Memory is not a house you can just walk back into after finding the key you thought you’d lost. It’s a thing you wade into and out of, rewriting it as it rewrites you.

It’s not without its rewards, either - recovering a memory about Maria and Monica, about her life, feels better than socking a thousand bad guys in the face, better than all the photon blasts in the world.

Then again, realising there’s still memories she can’t access, even after all this time, feels like drowning in space.

Not the one out there - the one inside her.

🌻 Sweet & Salty by musette22 @musette22 [Stucky, 3k words, Teen]

Idiots in love. That's it. That's the fic.

When life gives you lemons by moonythejedi394 @moonythejedi394 [Stucky, 34k words, Explicit] (11/15 chapters)

Or 13 Terrible Things to Do With Lemons Other Than Making Lemonade

Steve Rogers is a home health nurse. He works for an agency, which assigned him to the aging Winifred Barnes, the one and only Silent Era Hollywood darling. As her needs increased, she requested the agency assign Steve to her full-time. She could pay for it, so she got it. Steve then moved in with her, becoming her caregiver; he cooked, he cleaned, he managed her medications, he made sure she was comfortable.

Winifred's children treated him less than ideally. He was the help, after all. And then Steve had the audacity to go and turn out to be eldest son James Barnes's soulmate. No one saw that coming.

🍀 SamRhodey Tumblr Fic by ipoiledi [SamRhodey, ? words, Teen?]

“Wilson, this is Rhodey; Rhodey, Wilson,” Tony Stark says, and suddenly some six foot tall sexy guy is shoved right in front of Sam, and they both stumble a little, bumping into each other. This is a crowded party. “You guys have things in common, right?” Stark asks. “Uh, Army stuff. Talk about that. I hate wallflowers; stop wallflowering and talk to each other.”

Shorteralls by moonythejedi394 [Stucky, 6k words, Explicit]

The first time Bucky ever saw Steve Rogers, he was struck by how Neanderthal-like his response was. It was immediately followed by a bout of mental scolding. The second time was just about the same. The third time, it was actually appropriate for Bucky to start a conversation with him, at which point he was determined to be the gentleman.

No such luck. Steve Rogers is, always has been and always will be, a relentless flirt. These days, Bucky's Neanderthal-ist feelings about Steve are consensual and highly appreciated. More so now that they're having a baby.

what the fuck are perfect places anyway by tigerlilycorinne [Stucky, 6k words, Teen]

Steve clears his throat and stands. “Well, I should head in. I might want to begin packing.”

Bucky stills. “You won’t,” he says, trying to sound commanding. It only comes out uncertain. “Don’t.”

Steve shakes his head. “Maybe not tonight,” he says, and Bucky knows they’ll be discussing this again soon.

“Then stay. Play… play cards with me or something.”

Steve’s eyebrows jump up, his mouth tugging up in another of his bemused smiles that do things to Bucky’s insides, but he drops his hand from the doorway and steps back into Bucky’s room. Somehow, Bucky feels as if he’s won—not the war, just the battle.

Steve won’t stay forever. But he’ll stay for cards.

Steve and Bucky, on the run after Civil War (with a few alterations to canon), are laying low in Wakanda. But they can’t stay there forever.

🌻 honestly thought i’d be dead by now, but what you can trust is that i need your touch by moonythejedi394 [Stucky, 105k words, Explicit]

Bucky is 37 years old; he’s unmarried, hasn’t had a Sub of his own, is definitely not ripped, comfortable at his job as an Advanced Practice RN at Brooklyn General ER, and just got his Five Years coin from AA.

Steve is 26 years old; he’s unmarried, his last and only Dom has Alzheimer's, he's worryingly muscular, uncomfortable in his job as the government’s poster Alpha for masculinity and strength, and worries more than he should about his BMI.

Unfortunately, Steve and Bucky meet initially in a not-cute moment. Bucky’s tired as shit thanks to the sudden alien invasion that shook New York and Steve is tired as shit because he hasn’t slept more than 20 minutes at a time in – well, since 1936, probably. Bucky’s Alpha instincts get irritated at the sudden presence of another "Alpha" into his territory and Steve’s suppressed submissive tendencies latch onto this grumpy bachelor Alpha and he only suppresses it further.

Bucky’s grumpiness and Steve’s duckling impressionism aside, both of them are a mess. But since both of them are a mess? Their messes seem to fit pretty well together.

Deep Sea Diving by Aida Ronan [Stucky, 5k words, Explicit]

Steve's wallowing in heat-related misery under a shade tree in Central Park when a man walks by in bright red booty shorts and a crop top. RIP Steve Rogers. It was nice knowing you.

honey, make this easy by steebadore [Stucky, 8k words, Explicit]

Bucky likes the way he looks. His silk button up with the tiny gold polka dots feels soft on his skin and is tailored perfectly; no pulling at his chest or belly. His hair falls in shiny dark waves and his skin is smooth and dewy. He looks expensive. He looks taken care of. He looks like Steve’s.

🌻 let's take it back to the start by howdoyousleep @howdoyousleep3 [Stucky, 6k words, Teen]

How it all began.

This sleepwalking through my life. by barthelme [Stucky, 1k words, Explicit]

The internet is an interesting place and when Bucky came home (or, when he came to live with Steve), Steve did a lot of research. Apparently, it’s not safe to wake a sleepwalker. He assumes that waking a sleepwalker with traumatic dreams and PTSD is beyond just being frowned upon.

And he tells himself--has told himself--that this is safer for Bucky. That if he were to stop him and wake him up, that Bucky would be mortified to be slurping on his best friend’s cock. That all of the improvements he’s made would be lost, would be repressed, would be just--

They’d be back at square one.

So he lets Bucky do it.

🌻 the way i've been craving by howdoyousleep [Stucky, 3k words, Explicit]

"Lunch break at 12:30. My office. Hope you’re hungry…"

It’s the ellipsis that sends Bucky’s insides swimming warmly, his heart beating twice as fast against his ribs where he sits in class. Senator Rogers is concise, direct, to the point. Without an ellipsis this is lunch, this is a meeting. With it though?

This is a booty call.

nasty but classy by howdoyousleep [Stucky, 4k words, Explicit]

“No, you don’t have to know the purpose, that doesn’t matter. Nat showed me this challenge where couples drink a lot of wine and get drunk together but they can’t touch each other. And whoever touches the other first has to...has to give the other head.”

🌻 Put It on Repeat, It Stays the Same by giselleslash [Stucky, 20k words, Explicit]

Steve and Bucky have a one night stand that turns into a friends with benefits situation. A weekend snowed in at Bucky’s apartment brings to light how much that really doesn’t suit either one of them.

Greetings to the New Brunette by victoria_p (musesfool) [Stucky, 10k words, General]

"You said he should have a hobby. That it would help."

"I meant, like, knitting or coin collecting. Motocross, if he was feeling antsy. A baby's not a hobby. It's lifetime commitment."

🌻 Rogers & Barnes: Partners by triedunture [Stucky, 10k words, Teen]

Steve and Bucky have to pose as a couple for a mission. Nat insists it really is the only option. She's checked.

The complication: unbeknownst to even Natasha, Steve and Bucky's friendship has been rocky ever since Bucky confessed his tender feelings and Steve left him out in the cold. Can asexual, completely-in-love-with-his-angry-best-friend Steve complete the mission and win Bucky's heart?

(The answer is yes. Yay!)

this will be our year (took a long time to come) by biblionerd07 [Stucky, 4k words, General]

Bucky's therapist is worried he's using Steve as a crutch and wants him to try going on outings without Steve. It wouldn't be terrible, honestly, if Bucky could just manage to open his mouth and say something to Steve.

I'll hold my breath by Little_Lottie (tfwatson) [Stucky, 8k words, Mature]

Sometimes Bucky’s hands flex in Steve's direction. Neither of them knows exactly why, but at least one of them has a hunch.

Bucky touches everything but Steve, even though Steve is all he really wants to touch.

Start from the Beginning by Mumble_Bee [Stucky, 13k words, Explicit]

What about a sex pollen fic where the pollen-ed one doesn’t remember getting hit in the face with a sex flower, and wakes up midway through the depollenating?

Or: the one where Steve wakes up on his back with a stranger buried balls-deep in his ass.

Match by emphasisonem [Stucky, 4k words, Mature]

The situation’s actually kind of funny from the right perspective, Bucky thinks as he reads the message for what feels like the hundredth time. He’s finally matched with a hot, funny guy. Tall and broad and clean cut. An absolutely breathtaking smile. Bucky’s walking wet dream. And he’s good. They haven’t messaged on the app, but Bucky already knows him.

He knows him because Steve Rogers is an art history professor at his university. His art history professor.

Best friends and married since childhood by StuckySituation [Stucky, 1k words, General]

Inspired by @/peterssquill's post in tumblr: "bucky and steve got married on the playground when they were like eight and though neither of them would ever admit it to anyone, even each other, they still consider it official"

~♥~ ♥~ ♥~

“Natasha, stop trying to set me up with every woman you meet, I’m-”

“Too shy? Too scared?”

“No, I’m-”

“Too busy? You’re mostly retired these days, not a good excuse anymore.” Natasha smirks and then drawls: “Or just too gay?”

Steve flushes at that, even if isn’t true -- he’s bisexual, not gay. “Let it go, Nat, I’m not looking for anything. I’m already married, for fuck’s sake.”

Clearly not what she expected. “What.”

Steve grimaces. He didn’t mean to tell anyone that, ever.

“Sorry, can’t talk about it right now!” he says and jumps out of the plane.

Nobody Should Be Alone on a Holiday by emphasisonem [Stucky, 2k words, Teen]

“So, um-” Bucky begins speaking again, pulling Steve from his less-than-work-appropriate thoughts. The brunet has shoved his hands into the pockets of his dark slacks, and he’s shifting from one foot to the other as he smiles shyly. “I have a question for you.”

“Shoot,” Steve grins, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his broad chest. Bucky swallows deeply as one of his hands comes up to pull at the collar of his button-up, and Steve can’t help following the motion of his Adam’s apple.

“I was, uh-” Bucky continues- “That is, I heard you don’t have Thanksgiving plans?”

In which Bucky finds out that Steve's going to be alone on Thanksgiving and invites his coworker to spend the holiday with him.

🌻 It's Been A Long Season Through by thiccbuckybarnes @thiccbuckybarnesfic [Stucky, 49k words, Explicit]

Bucky Barnes is in desperate need of a change in scenery, which is why he makes the foolhardy decision to quit his job, leave his asshole of a fiance, pack up his life, and move to his grandfather’s old farm all within a single day.

He expects confusion, hardship, and maybe even failure. But love? He wasn’t expecting that.

Or, a Stucky Stardew Valley AU that nobody but me wanted and that’s ok.

oh, peach pit, where'd the hours go? by thiccbuckybarnes [Stucky, 10k words, Explicit]

Can't see the forest for the trees.

Or, Steve learns that just because he and Bucky got their happily ever after, it doesn’t mean the past won’t come back to bite them.

I'll find my way by rainbow_nerds [Stucky, 725 words, Teen]

Steve had watched Bucky fall, and nothing had been the same since.

AU-gust day 19: Daemons

special delivery by glim @glim [Stucky, 6k words, Teen]

It's not that Steve's bad at taking care of himself when he gets sick; he just wishes he didn't have to all the time.

At least he can order most of what he needs online. That's some small comfort, that he can have soup and ice cream and everything else brought to his door.

at first chance i'd take the bed warmed by the body by spacebuck @spacebuck [Stucky, 8k words, Explicit]

This close, Steve can see exactly how beautiful his hands are. He’s never really noticed before, or at least he’s never really had a reason to notice, but the man’s hands are large, tanned like he works outside all day. There’s an endearing callus on the heel of one of his palms, and Steve can’t quite work out when calluses became endearing.

Steve pauses the video. Swallows hard. Casts his eyes around for anything that’ll keep his mind off the hands on his screen, off the words inked into those hands, the delicate shape of a bird’s wing, the curling edge of a vine.

He looks down. The name of the channel is right there, blaring the man’s name right into Steve’s brain until it feels like he’s known it all along.

Bucky Barnes.

OR: the one where Bucky's a youtuber who solves puzzles on camera, and steve's smitten and horny

🌻 Rock On! by millesable @marvelousescapism [Clintasha, 700 words, General]

“Hey, Romanoff!”

He lifted his hand, index finger and pinky finger raised, thumb out, all other fingers tucked. Their secret sign; their confession for the world to see, safe in the knowledge that the world wasn’t listening.

“Rock on!”

🌻 You Like the Way I Look by dontcallmebree @iamthe-wo-manwhocan [Stucky, 2k words, Explicit]

Bucky sidles up to him, hand boldly coming to rest on his chest. “What about you, big guy? Care for a dance?” Steve watches Bucky’s eyes twinkle with satisfaction, somehow already knowing he’s got Steve on the hook.

A decade out of the ice, Steve Rogers returns to New York. Reeling from a battle against the Chitauri, a night with the troublesome Bucky Barnes might be just what he needs.

Join the Rebellion by rainbow_nerds [Stucky, 765 words, Teen]

Bucky knew he shouldn't be out after curfew, but he couldn't resist the urge. He didn’t know where he was going, but he knew it was where he wanted to be.

AU-gust day 20: Dystopia

🔒 Five Days in December by mywingsareonwheels @mywingsareonwheels [Evanstan, 4k words, Teen]

“Shit shit shit shit...” muttered Chris to himself, glad that the sound of piped Christmas carols was drowning out his swearing amid the picture books. Most of the store was heaving even though it was Sunday, he’d been recognised at least three times, finding presents for all of his nieces and nephews was proving far more of a headache than expected, and he’d just sent a pile of copies of "Strictly No Elephants" tumbling off the bookshelf.

He scrambled about trying to pick them all up, and then dropped them again as someone bumped right into his backside. He lost his balance, caught himself against a bookcase, and a landslide of "Carter Is a Painter’s Cat" joined "Strictly No Elephants" on the floor. He yelped.

“Ah fuck, I’m so sorry… Chris!”

* * * * * * * * * *

London, December 2021. Amid cats, books, and the cold English drizzle, Chris finds everything he was hoping for and thought he would never have.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Reaching for Fire by dixons_mama @dixons-mama [Stucky, 7k words, Explicit]

Bucky has always felt a fire in his heart (and other body parts) when it came to his boss, Steve Rogers, but he's made sure to never feed those flames. When he finds out about Steve's second job, though, he's tempted to let that fire out.

i've been dreaming of a face like yours by thiccbuckybarnes [Stucky, 3k words, Explicit]

Bucky is about to busy himself with making a small dinner for himself when he stops in his tracks at the figure drinking a cup of coffee in the kitchen, leaning against the counter and smirking at him.

It’s Steve.

“Surprise, sweet boy,” he says before setting his cup down.

Or, PWP reunion sex

🌻 Somewhere, Under Your Skin by thiccbuckybarnes [Stucky, 16k words, Explicit]

Bucky Barnes treats himself to a one-night stand after having a very bad no good day.

The sex is good--great, even. Might be the best sex of his life.

But Bucky wouldn’t have slept with the guy if he had known that he was going to continuously run into him every day for the next fucking month.

Or, a Big Grump Bucky has a hot one night stand with a college kid who is popping up everywhere in his everyday life and he doesn’t know how to deal with it.

(Written for HYBB Bingo Square: Grumpy Bucky)

i've played heartstrings before but not in your key by thiccbuckybarnes [Stucky, 11k words, Explicit]

He glances down, seeing a folded couple of papers, before peering up at Bucky. The older man is biting his bottom lip, making it pretty and red. Steve wants to run his tongue across where his teeth are digging into his flesh.

"What's this?" Steve asks, setting his phone down, emails forgotten. Bucky shrugs and looks away.

"I dunno. You tell me, genius," he says, sounding bratty enough that it makes Steve's dick twitch in his pants. Jesus, there has to be something wrong with him.

Steve glances once more at Bucky, who now has his arms crossed against his chest and is pointedly not looking at Steve, before picking up the stack of folded papers. He opens them, seeing a collection of maybe five or six sheets of paper. His eyes immediately land on the list of familiar words with negative next to each one. -- Or, Steve Rogers is a jealous, possessive little shit that wants nothing more than to mark up his boyfriend and stake his claim. And Bucky knows it. (And he likes it.)

🌻 I'm Home (With You) by BonkyBornes @padfoot-and-the-marauders [Stucky, 2k words, General]

In any other circumstance, the apartment would've been perfect. But it was today, and the fact that he was here meant he wasn’t out searching. He knew they hadn’t had any leads for weeks and he knew Natasha was right; all three of them were exhausted and a break would do them good. It just felt wrong to Steve that he was comfortable while Bucky was still out there—somewhere. Probably cold. Probably hungry.

The knock came again. Sighing, Steve unwrapped his hand from the dog tags and remembered how to move. Cold wind and snow greeted him when he opened the door. The solitary figure was walking down the steps, collar popped against the chill.

“Did you need something?” he called.

The person stopped. They were still. And then they turned. *

Or, the Christmas Steve deserved after Winter Soldier.

The portrait by rainbow_nerds [Stucky, 915 words, General]

Steve Rogers has a Gift. He can help people find their soulmates, all he needs is some art supplies, a quiet place, and eye contact.

AU-gust day 21: soulmates

Maybe A Muse by buckybarnesdeservestobehappy [Stucky, 2k words, Mature]

When Bucky Barnes needs extra money, he’s appalled that his best friends think he should become a model for the art department on campus. Shy, nerdy, and socially awkward, he’s not sure that’s something he feels comfortable doing. Still, he needs money, and he likes the idea of becoming someone’s muse. The problem is he had no idea two things would happen. First, one of the students in the class is exactly his type; second, he has to model nude.

#my reading log #r's reading log #fic rec #stucky fic rec #fics recs #stucky #danbeau #samrhodey #longpost #long post #clintasha #evanstan

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wiypt-writes · 3 years

Text

Murder, He Wrote

Epilogue

Summary: You and Ransom attend the launch of his book and the cover closes on your story.

Warnings: Bad language, Mature (NSFW, 18+) NON-CON situations, kidnap, violence. Blood. DO NOT READ IF ANY OF THOSE TRIGGER…READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED…YOU HAVE BEENWARNED.

Pairing: DARK! Ransom Drysdale x Reader

A/N: The end! I can’t believe all this span from @jtargaryen18’s Halloween Challenge last year. I hope you have enjoyed his as much as I have.

Word Count: 3.6k

READ THE WARNINGS!!!! This is a DARK series so don’t @me if you can’t follow simple instructions and end up with butt-hurt. And if you’re under 18 get off my blog!

Disclaimer: This is a pure work of fiction and by writing it does NOT mean I agree with or condone the acts contained within. This fiction is classified as 18+. Please respect this and do not read if you are underage. I do not own any characters in this series bar reader and any other OCs that may or may not be mentioned. By reading beyond this point you understand and accept the terms of this disclaimer.

Murder, He Wrote Masterlist // Main Masterlist.

Part 7

The town car and it's driver took you to whatever swanky hotel Ransom and his publishers had decided upon, you not caring the slightest inwardly, outwardly only half paying attention. You glanced out the window watching the lights of downtown pass by as your husband of merely three weeks held your hand and rubbed the back of it with his thumb.

It was a warm July evening, the two of you dressed to the nines in formal attire. Ransom had insisted the launch be an invite only, formal event. Therefore, he was dressed in a two-piece suit, black of course, with a crisp white button down, silken black tie, and you, you looked like an ice queen's slutty sister. The powder blue silk dress you wore tied together with thin straps on each shoulder, your feet already hurting in your nude six inch sandals. Your free hand tapped a neatly manicured finger over your clutch that matched your shoes. A delicate white gold and diamond tennis bracelet adorned your wrist whilst the necklace you'd been gifted at Christmas hung around your neck. You wore your hair the way he said he loved it, in a ponytail full of waves and wisps framing your face.

After the incident on Valentine’s Day, you’d spent another two weeks in the confines of the basement. All luxuries removed and you were used and abused in exactly the way you had been when Ransom had first taken you, until he’d once more sucked the fight out of you. Only this time you didn’t have the strength to find it again.

You played the part you’d been cast in his sick little fantasy and became totally passive to his whims. You let him fuck you which, in all honesty, wasn’t an entirely unpleasant situation as he knew his way around your body and it felt good. You had given up denying it, and for the moments he was teasing those carnal reactions out of you, you escaped, let yourself imagine you were with someone who you wanted. And by keeping him sweet, you fooled him into thinking you were content. And things settled down, you had that halfway to normal life that you’d achieved before you discovered his manuscript.

But it was bullshit. A means to an end. And you deserved a fucking Oscar.

He’d had the audacity to propose to you, too. In a restaurant. Surrounded by people. He asked you the question, like you had a fucking choice.

Angry, desperate tears had filled your eyes as you’d simply gaped at him, tears the deluded cunt took for you being overwhelmed with happiness. With a smile he slipped the gaudily large diamond on your finger, sealing your fate.

It weighed as heavy on your hand as the grief for your lost life, and the despair at your situation did in your heart.

You’d had a small wedding. Attended simply by your parents and sister. He sent an invite to his mother and father but they didn’t show up. Your dad walked you down the aisle and as you walked towards the man you hated with every breath in your body, your father kissed your cheek and asked you if you were sure you wanted to do this. And no, of course you didn’t, but what could you do?

There was no way out.

“You look as gorgeous tonight as you did on our wedding day.” Ransom’s voice slightly startled you and you turned to face him.

You smiled at him, the smile you knew he wanted to see, as he placed a soft kiss to your cheek before doing the same to your hand, his lips ghosted over the top of the obscene rock and matching band on your finger which caught the lights of the city, sparkling with all the ferocity of a supernova.

Before you needed to reply with some half assed compliment back, the town car stopped as the driver got out and opened Ransom's door.

"Wait here," he instructed and walked around with the driver on the other side, escorting you out the minute your own door opened.

Flashbulbs fired off in your eyes, no doubt the press there for some absolutely ridiculous notion that this book was anything but its true nature of terror and disgust.

Ransom’s hand pressed into the base of your back as he guided you along in front of him, various members of the press calling his name, and you heard the excited shouts from some as they spotted the bands on both yours and Ransom’s hands, positively shrieking as they asked when you’d gotten married.

The headlines flashed in your mind now, 'Grandson of the Great Harlan Thrombey Releases First Suspense Novel'. 'One of Boston's Most Notorious and Eligible Bachelors is Strictly Off The Market' . 'Trust Fund Playboy Sinks His Bunny'.

It made you want to puke.

In fact, as the press line faded and you stepped foot into the lobby, you swallowed back the bile forcing its way up. A tray with champagne flutes passed you by and you immediately snagged one.

When Ransom had been distracted for a brief moment, you quickly glanced around and swallowed back the entire flute of the bubbly drink. Delightfully enjoying the brief taste and quick head rush it gave you.

The further you walked into the event, his hand still against your bare back, the louder it grew and the more trays of champagne and appetizers were floating by.

As typical, the two of you were fashionably late so, you had little chance to take part in any nibble or further, a drink, because the supposed "man of the hour", more like terror of life, was due to give a speech.

His agent pulled the two of you aside and made mention that it was time for Ransom to greet his guests. He pressed a sickening sweet kiss to your lips and confidently took to the small podium atop a small stage nearby.

“First and foremost, thank you to everyone who came out tonight. But more importantly, thank you to my beautiful wife, without you Sweetheart, this wouldn't be possible.”

The smile he flashed you was loaded with meaning as the pair of you looked at one another, his eyes shining with the depraved private understanding you shared.

And you hated him then just about as much as you ever had.

Excited muttering spread around the room as he had knowingly referred to you as his wife. It was the first time he’d announced your marriage to the world but, as he smiled and held his hands up, nodding smugly and confirming whatever people were asking him, you felt nothing but an overwhelming sense of nausea. To everyone else it was a sweet dedication, to you it was a sickening truth. This book was based on what he’d done to you. What he was saying was literal truth.

And the fact that the people currently applauding whatever he had said would never realise the true nature of those words on the pages of his book made you want to vomit in your handbag.

Applause rang around the room and you realised everyone was turned in your direction. Drawing your shoulders back you stood tall and once more fixed that fake smile on your face before Ransom cleared his throat and began to speak again.

But you didn't listen, you drowned him out, the sound of his voice distant and murky like Charlie Brown's teacher. You allowed you mind to think of anything but the present, other than the fact that these people were in unknowing full support of the hell you'd been through the last nine months.

Eventually a loud, rapturous applause signalled the end of his speech and he stepped back, smiling and then turned to the man from his publishers who shook his hand furiously, before the pair of them posed for photos.

That was when he beckoned you to him, looking at you in such a way that made your skin crawl and your teeth seethe with each breath. This bastard expected a photo op from you above all this, commemorating this disaster.

On autopilot you headed towards him, indifference obedience now your specialty and his arm curled possessively round your waist, fingers splaying on your hip. You posed and smiled as the flashes went off, but as you stole a glance at the large, ornate clock on the wall, you suddenly felt your head beginning to swim.

Seeing a convenient way out of this bullshit, you made sure to falter just a little, placing your hand to your chest. It caused Ransom's attention to turn to you.

"Sweetheart, are you alright?"

“I’m feeling a little light headed and warm.” You looked up at him. “Could we maybe get some air?”

"Sure, yeah," he looked to his agent and they nodded towards a side door in the room.

His arm still round you, playing the doting husband, he led you towards it and opened it with a flourish, allowing you to step out in front of him.

You emerged into the alley at the side of the building and took a huge gulp of air, steadying yourself.

"Y/N, what's wrong?"

You were warm, flushed, your skin tingling as the now cooling air hit your slightly damp skin, your nipples perking at the temperature change were visible through the silk dress, and you didn’t miss the heated glance he gave them as you spoke. "I, I don't know. I think it's all the commotion."

“You do look a little flushed.” His eyes moved back to yours and he studied you for a moment, his large hands gently cupping your face as he kissed your forehead before his lips pressed to yours. “Wanna take a walk?”

Despite the fact you really couldn’t walk far in the ridiculous shoes you were in, you nodded. Anything to avoid going back in there and listening to all those sycophants kissing his ass.

He took your hand and started walking slowly down the alley. You were mid-way down when a man jumped out from behind the dumpster. You screamed and instinctively Ransom jumped to the side, pulling you slightly behind him.

“Give me the money and the jewellery, no one gets hurt.” The man spoke gruffly and you felt Ransom draw himself up to his full height as he glared at the dirty, dishevelled man, disdain on his face.

“Eat shit.”

“Ransom, just... please give him what he wants.” Your voice trembled as your body shook, your right hand already removing the rings on your left.

“I’d listen to your pretty wife, if I were you.” The man spoke as he reached into his pocket and when he withdrew his hand you swallowed at the unmistakable flash of metal.

“Fuck, Ransom, he’s got a knife!” You clutched his arm. “Please just give it to him!”

"Fuck, no," he started reaching for his phone but the man lunged toward him.

In the melee that followed, you were thrown to the side, your rings clanging to the floor somewhere along with your clutch, your palms and knees scraping painfully on the floor. By the time you’d pushed yourself up, you saw the man scrambling to his feet, Ransom’s watch and wallet in his hand. He turned to look at you and you backed away, stumbling once more to the ground letting out a blood curdling scream as he advanced. He stopped, picked up your rings and your bag, before he turned, bolting up the alley and rounding the corner, disappearing from sight.

"Y/N," the croaking voice came from your husband as he staggered towards you, a deep red seeping through his white dress shirt, his one hand attempting to stave off the bleeding. The other, cradling his phone. But he didn't get more than a few steps as he collapsed nearby.

"Ransom!" You shrieked and heels be damned, you ran to him, looking around, "help!"

"Call 9-1-1, Baby," he begged, trying to thrust the phone into your hand and you leaned over him.

With a jittery hand you swiped over to the emergency call option and hit the first two digits before you glanced around again and hesitated, rising slowly to your feet.

“What...” Ransom’s chest heaved as he looked up at you, his face white with shock as you turned the phone in your hand and shrugged.

“Yeah, you see, I could call for help but...” with that you tossed his phone to the hard ground and crunched it with your stupidly high heel, rotating your foot to make double sure, the glass and metal grinding between the stiletto and the tarmac. “Whoops, looks like it got smashed in the fight.” You gave a little chuckle. “And of course, mine was in my bag which he took. Isn’t that ironic? I mean the first time you permit me to use it for something other than to contact you or my mom, I can’t.” You made a little tutting noise. “Guess I’ll just have to keep yelling and hope someone hears.”

With that you turned and screamed, a frantic yell. “Please, someone help us! Please, he’s been stabbed, call 9-1-1.” You slowly dropped back to a kneel, ignoring the sting of your grazed knees and smirked. “Dammed, I really am good at this acting shit, don’t you think, handsome?”

Ransom coughed a harsh and wet cough. His chest heaving raggedly as he struggled between catching a breath and bleeding out.

“Y/N...” he spluttered, “you...please...”

"So many criminal junkies in Boston, Sweetheart. Plenty who will take the fall for a little hit,” you emphasised the 't' of the last word as you spoke the very same line that he had delivered to you months ago, the threat he had held over you and used to keep you in check whenever you stepped over that line.

His eyes widened further as the realisation set in, you could see his brain working and it gave you a buzz, a sense of satisfaction to know that he understood this was your doing.

You wanted the last thing this bastard thought about to be how you were responsible for his death. But more so, his narcissistic and sociopathic tendencies be damned, you wanted him to completely understand exactly how it was his fault.

And given the way he was bleeding and struggling for breath, you didn’t have long.

Another scream for help flew from your mouth as you pressed one hand on top of his which were now both clutched to the wound in his stomach, the other brushing his hair back slightly as you smiled down at him.

“I told you when you threw me back in the basement that the way you treat people would come back to haunt you.” You gave a little shrug. “And, when you told the homeless guy looking in the bins on collection day a few months back to eat shit and get a job, well, he took it kinda personally. He didn’t even blink when I asked how much it would take to knock you off.”

"You..." choking on blood, "vicious..." choke,

At that you gave another loud hysteric yell for help before you turned your head back to look at him.

“See, once upon a time I thought you’d changed. But here’s the thing, a person like you doesn’t change, Hugh. You’re incapable of love. You take what you want when you want for no reason other than it pleases you.”

Another scream for help, and this time you could hear someone answering and a lot of yells as people started running towards you.

“Well, now I’ve taken your life like you took mine.” You bent down, your forehead pressing to his as you smirked. His arm reached up to grab you, his blood soaked hand curling over your cheek and side of your neck. "And you know what? It feels good."

His palm was warm and slick against your skin and his eyes blazed with anger as his fingers squeezed. You knew he was desperately trying to hurt you but you felt nothing. You smiled, as you placed a soft kiss to his lips, your words whispered as you pulled back ever so slightly. “Karma’s a bitch, and so am I. See you in hell.”

As the fake tears started to pool in your eyes once more, you allowed your lip to tremble for distraught emphasis. Blood was now trickling out of Ransom's mouth, along down his ear and to the tarmac. You pulled back just a little so as to see his eyes. You wanted to watch him choke on his own blood as he took that final breath. You started sputtering words incoherently as you amped up the hysteria, hearing the footfalls now just behind you.

He didn’t even make it to the hospital.

Hugh Ransom Drysdale was pronounced dead at 21:05 hours on Friday 17th July where he lay in a pool of his own blood, in that dark alleyway down the side of the hotel.

Leaving you a widow.

And free.

***10 months later***

It was as simple as it sounded, closing your eyes and pointing to a spot on a map. Your finger ended up on Boulder.

Colorado was far enough from the last year or so of your life that you could feel comfortable. You'd researched it, finding it to be something worth interest. Affordable. Breath-taking scenery. Incredible life altering activities and quaint little towns. The summers were supposedly warm but rarely did the temperature rise above ninety-five, the winters were supposedly very cold, dry and windy; rarely dropping below six degrees with partly cloudy skies year round.

The months following Ransom’s death had been as draining as humanly possible. The investigation had involved countless interviews before the police and authorities settled for it being a mugging gone wrong. But then there had been the months of wrangling and private law cases his parents had attempted to bring against you to prevent you getting his money, despite the probate law being fairly simple. You were married. He left no will. It was yours by default.

Eventually, when the Drysdales had exhausted every last option, they were forced to concede and that was when you made the decision to leave, a decision of which your parents were highly encouraging. They practically talked you into this whole thing to begin with. Helping you leave your nightmares behind. Despite them not suspecting anything at first, you weren't blind to the fact that things still had not sat right with them. You knew they had suspected a level coercion, that maybe you'd had a manic episode of mental illness, but you never had divulged the full details and by the time he was gone, they hadn't cared. Your relationship with them had strengthened and healed and that was what you cared about.

Now, you were newly nestled in Boulder with a great condo downtown, a stone’s throw from the historic district that was filled with cliché shops and bars. Whilst you didn’t need the money, you’d taken a job working in the media department of a private law firm. It was a far cry from your journalist days, but it suited you just fine.

The more distance you put between who you were now and who you had been, the better.

You were at peace.

The May evening air was temperate as you crossed the street and opened the door to the designated bar in which you were meeting your new group of friends, mostly gathered from work, for a girl's night out. You’d been held up a little in the office so they were already waiting at a table. You waved and gestured to the bar, indicating you were going to get a drink.

As you sidled up to the wooden counter, you were jolted a little into a man to your right. You turned to apologise and gave a little double take. You recognised him instantly. But you didn’t want to make that obvious and cause him to feel uncomfortable. You knew how it felt, to have everyone looking at you, hushed whispered comments as you went about your business, people trying to figure out if you were who they thought you were.

That was part of the reason you had moved, and you sure as hell weren’t about to subject the man next to you to the same, uncomfortable experiences.

Recovering quickly, you hastily apologised and he smiled.

“Don’t worry about it.” His Boston accent was evident and you smiled.

“I miss that accent.”

The man chuckled, his warm blue eyes creasing slightly as he looked at you. “You from Boston, too?”

“Concord.”

“Newton.” He replied, “well, I lived there anyway, but I’m sure you already knew that.”

You wrinkled your nose. “Should I? Know that, I mean?”

He studied you for a moment, and you kept your face as passive as possible. You could tell he knew that you knew, but you gave a shrug none-the-less and he smiled, a gorgeous smile that lit up his entire face, perfect white teeth flashing from beneath an immaculately groomed beard, as he extended his arm towards you.

“Andy Barber.” His fingers gently brushed the back of your knuckles, as you shook his hand, his grip warm and gentle.

“Oh, of course.” You smiled back. “One of our attorneys.”

“Our?”

“Yeah, sorry, I’m Y/N. I work in the media department. I mean I only started a few weeks ago but...”

“Well, in that case, I’m pleased to meet you, Y/N, and welcome aboard.” His smile didn’t falter as he let go of your hand and gestured to the bar. “Can I get you a drink?”

You paused for a moment before you took a deep breath.

And nodded.

“Sure, that’d be great.”

******

Sequel: Follow Andy and reader’s story in Consciousness Of Guilt.

#murder he wrote #dark ransom drysdale #dark ransom drysdale x reader #dark ransom x reader #dark ransom drysdale x you #ransom drysdale #ransom drysdale x reader #ransom drysdale x you #ransom drysdale fic #chris evans #chris evans characters

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wakraya · 2 years

Note

I didn't know you had test anxiety. How was school then? Did you do anything to help there? I was lucky enough to go to a separate room and do my testing there. 🥵

Oh uh, no, okay so. ... If you wanna know the full story:

I used to be one of the 'smart kids' in Class. I have really good memory and recollection, so for the longest time I essentially read and understood what I needed to learn for a test, and it stuck in my mind first try, so I could just spit it all back out easily on the tests. Through all of primary and a huge chunk of secondary school, I was acing tests with full scores and 9's all across the board.

Because I was one of the 'smart kids' in class, though, my mother often associated a sense of pride to my grades, and Teachers were particularly amicable and proud of me as well. I was put in the Advanced Math Class. Little by little my grades started to waver a bit, because I started leaving the Comfort Zone of being able to 'just read it', and things weren't as easy to grasp. Because of how I'd always been doing things, too, I had No Idea how to properly take notes. And on top of that, my handwriting has always been bad- I've always used my pen 'wrong', and I learned to write almost exclusively in Cursive, which some teachers said was very hard to discern, so to compensate I started using a whole new writing style- Which in turn made me significantly slower, which made taking tests more stressful.

Math and Chem classes were starting to go Not Well™, and then I moved on from Secondary School and started getting a Bachelor's Degree. Here in Spain you go through Bachelor's, then you do a Selectivity Test, and then based on the performance on that, you can apply to various Universities and career paths, right? Except Bachelor's posed a challenge I didn't expect: My Philosophy Teacher Fucking Sucked.

I don't mean she was a bad teacher in the sense she taught badly (That was my Math Teacher, but ssh-), I mean that she was a spiteful old woman who barely even looked at the tests, who everyone hated, whose grading methods she didn't reveal, who told you to 'figure out' the way she REQUIRED essays to be delivered to her because 'how are you going to learn otherwise?' as if we could just Read Her Fucking Mind. She was genuinely so awful at the end of the year, she had to hand-pick people who passed and didn't, because she didn't reach the minimum amount required by law for students to be passed, so a few '4's were bumped to '5's. I remember she went to a friend of mine and told him, to his face, "I have deducted literally every possible decimal from your score. You have, exactly, a five. If you had a single grammar mistake more I could have deducted you for, you would NOT have passed, with a 4.99'. THAT is the kind of woman she was.

So like, suddenly I am failing, hard, right? Math is going south, Chem is going south, Philosophy I am skipping classes entirely because I hate it there, I can't handle her, I fucking despise it. But also... I've never. Failed. I've never actually failed my classes, you know? Even with dips and fluctuations, and I am one of the "smart kids", right??? My parents have high hopes for me! And my teachers are all trying to help, too, right? I panic. I have no idea how to address any of this. So what I do is... Shut down.

I just ignore the issue and pretend it's all fine in class, tell my mother fake grades, and hope that I can somehow 'fix it all' by the end of the year!

Spoiler Alert: I don't fix it by the end of the year. I am found out because my philosophy teacher calls my mother because I've been skipping classes, calls HER out to be at fault, makes HER cry, which leads to her accusing me in a very selfish way, too, because "I made her look like a bad mother", instead of asking why I have been skipping classes or what has been going on. My parents have a very hard time grasping why I am struggling. In their eyes, they 'know I have potential'. They 'know I can do it'. So I latch onto those words.

I pass everything except Math and Philosophy. I spend the Summer studying. I suddenly realize something. Philosophy is fucking amazing? I love it. Now that I am actually sitting down and learning instead of refusing to even buy the book to study in a class like my teacher's, I am realizing that I Really Actually Fucking Love Philosophy! All these different takes and views on reality! People's attempts to explain the human experience! I love it! I sink my teeth HARD into the book, and for the first time in two years, I feel like I can actually do well with this subject! Math proves a bit more difficult, but eventually, the end of the Summer comes, and I pass. I have graduated! I have a Bachelor's Degree! Fuck Yeah!

So I go get my grades. The last time I will be going to this building. I get the papers, I smile. I am happy. I am proud. I pushed through!

I bump into my Philosophy Teacher.

I am in a good mood, so I bring up the topic of the grades, my excitement about Philosophy. She replies concisely. "Oh yeah uh, no. You didn't pass Philosophy."

...?

Note that when it was time to do the test, the specific subjects I had to write about were my favorite. I knew Descartes' vibes really well. I did a lovely essay that I felt proud of. I was certain I passed, and the grades said I passed, so what the fuck was she talking about?

"Yeah, you actually failed that exam. However- My subject was the only one you didn't pass. And it felt like a really ugly blemish in your grades."

"So I decided to bump your grade up."

"Because you're a smart kid."

I have never been so close to physically assaulting someone in my entire life.

At that exact moment something shattered in me. Suddenly my passion and understanding of a subject wasn't enough. Suddenly there were so many arbitrary rules. I 'passed' on a whim. Despite learning and Loving the subject. A subject I didn't realize I loved because this teacher was fucking awful and spiteful in the first place. I passed because I was 'smart'. I passed because she felt 'pity'.

I hate putting too much weight on the word 'smart' to this day.

So, I look at my options for the future. There's no way I am doing the Selectivity Exam. I cannot study So Many Subjects, specially when the grade I get will DIRECTLY INFLUENCE my career options. Instead I try another route: I can go to a specialized course, get a minor degree in computer science, and enter an University without needing to do the Selectivity Exam! Woo!

Except.

At this point I am burnt out. I am skeptical. There's so much bullshit built up in me about the educative system. And when I get here? It's not any better.

A guy arrives literally 1 minute late, because he has work on the side, and the train schedule is tight. He arrives when we haven't even turned our computers on. The teacher still kicks him out of class. Refuses to listen to him.

Our SQL teacher gives us our first test on database stuff. He puts a piece of paper in front of me. I tilt my head in confusion. But... This is about Databases. Computer Science. You will never be doing any of this without a computer. Why... Why do we have to write it in paper? why do I have to write code on paper?????

And then, the kicker: There's a change to the educative system. Instead of learning a chapter on the subject, and taking a test- Making sure to space tests out with other subjects? Suddenly tests are Only Allowed To Be Had before the holiday break, on the same week. Instead of testing us subject by subject and chapter by chapter, suddenly we are just continuing through it all, we are doing 2 to 3 chapters per subject, and lumping every single subject in the same week.

This is the exact same thing that scared me from Selectivity and made me seek an alternate way.

Little by little I start losing faith in... Just. The entire establishment. I am confused, I am tired. I don't think I can learn That Much in time for the SAME FUCKING WEEK. I start stressing out. Memories of Philosophy. Memories of Math. I like this subject- I love coding. But I am not coding anymore. I no longer look forward to what I may be able to do, to getting a degree and finding a job in computer science. Lines of code blur in my mind. Personal projects crash and burn. I have no friends in class. I start skipping classes again, hiding in corners of the school, for hours, waiting, waiting for something to happen, waiting for god knows what.

I have an English Test that evening. English is the easiest subject. Even at my lowest, I have never failed an English Test. I regularly speak English with friends online. I speak English more than Spanish at this point. English isn't a subject that can feasibly give me any problem.

I skip the test. As the hour starts to draw near, I am filled with dread, and anxiety. Why can't I fucking do it? Why can't I go to class? Why can't I take the test? Why am I letting it all go down the drain again? Why? Why? Why? Why?

I have a breakdown at home. My parents INSIST that I can do this. I can't. I have a breakdown at home. Dark thoughts of mine come to light in the argument. My mother almost beats me. I get an appointment with a therapist, and I find out I'm autistic. Big surprise.

Mom asks how I can 'fix' my autism.

Mom insists that I have to go back to classes, in tears.

Dad dissapointedly does not comprehend why I can't do this, 'he knows' that 'I am smart enough'.

I cave in, amidst doubts, and start taking the course again, fully online, except for the tests, which need to be taken in person.

I am... Somewhat learning again. The subjects are interesting, I guess.

The tests are drawing near.

I start skipping assignments. Delivering things at the last possible moment.

The tests are drawing near.

I continue to hide how badly I am doing. I continue to wait. For what? What am I waiting for? Why don't I DO things? I can't do it. I can't do it.

Tests are tomorrow.

I haven't studied.

I have another breakdown. I can't do it. I can't do it.

I couldn't do it. I dropped out and I have not gone back.

To this day I still have recurring dreams, where I am back, taking classes. They're subjects I don't dislike. The teachers seem nice. But then I look at the test. Then I remember I have to take a test. I start becoming anxious. I start wondering, hey wait, why am I here? Didn't I drop out? I can't do this. I can't do this. I leave the school, in my dreams, too. I return home, terrified, knowing that I am dragging things out. I know that I can't do it. I know I won't pass. I have to confront my family about it. Again. I am a failure. And I am terrified of telling them. So I don't. I just let it build up in me and eat away at me.

I wake up, filled with anxiety. The relief of it being a dream soon overshadowed by the reminder that these are somehow my scariest recurring nightmares. The scenario is a product of my imagination. The reaction to it is genuine.

It's one of the few things that for me I would genuinely consider a Trigger.

And at this point I don't know if I can ever go back to continue any kind of education and face this bullshit again. I've become apathetic to it, and it's created a schism in my family that's only grown over the years.

#anxiety #depression #self doubt #educative system #tests #standarized tests #personal #ask #abuse

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pear-pies · 3 years

Photo

Placebo in Rock & Folk magazine - April 2003

Words by Jerome Soligny, photos by Carole Epinette

Wonky translation under the cut:

These three did it all. Shot with the QOTSAs and posed with Indo. They survived "Velvet Goldmine" and the Top Bab. They come back after the ordeal of the fourth album. Danger interview: “Jerome, what if you came out?” They ask our charming reporter.

"We do not regret anything"

Everything begins again with "Bulletproof Cupid", a punky instrument that pulls everything off. Then "English Summer Rein", mechanico-depressive spinning punctuated by twisted keyboards, and "Sleeping With Ghosts", the lament which advances while blistering during cooking, confirm the tone. Against all expectations, because you never know how will age the groups that the previous album installed at the Top, Placebo took over. And stuffed it in an iron glove. Further on, "The Bitter End" tumbles through yapping guitars which would stick to the hatches the thickest of the sailors. Be careful, Placebo is on the way out of being one. At the end of the record, Brian Molko, Stefan Olsdal and Steve Hewitt do not even run out of steam. The cows. They drop a "Centerfolds" which frolic like a cynical top under a shower of saving doubts. What augur still other perspectives.

The fourth album: a horror for all who have faced it. Often a stupid trap. Returning from the Gothic directly inherited from the glam of pageantry and from these hasty and harmful certainties which congest the face and the veins, Placebo publishes its first real great disc. Oh, not the marvel of wonders, not the album from the third millennium, but something very strong, compact, tenacious in listening, which proves that the future is indeed there, in front, where the light is most blinding. Calfeucée in their Parisian hotel (the Costes, of course), our three lads do not make the blow of the revelation, of the luminous questioning. Simply, they now think with their heads, a good plan most often Likewise, reality no longer frightens them, and it is probably she who is hiding behind this "Sleeping With Ghosts" which relates the sorrows only for the better. melt into hopes At the moment when rock brings us back to life and when we just want to ask them everything, the Placebo have decided to say everything. Not even in a hurry, they settle down on the couch, ready to talk like never before. Despite new batteries embedded in the carcass, the Panasonic barely a Brian Molko: Hey Jerome, you came to talk to us this time when you had not come to the previous album ...

Rock & Folk: Uh yes but I was there for the first two, that says a lot, right?

Brian Molko: Certainly, I also believe that over time, we finally appreciate the true nature of the problem: we were mainly criticized for the sound of the previous album, which I can understand but, paradoxically, it is the one that brought us to the Top.

R&F: Legitimately, we have the right to expect a lot from the people we love: while "Black Market Music" sounded a bit like a sequel, this new record is all about a renaissance.

Brian Molko: Actually, we were finally able to live a little. After having existed in a small bubble for a very long time, we forced ourselves to take an eight-month break. The album-tour rhythm put us on the sidelines: we no longer had normal contact with anything. We were losing ourselves. We have fully lived the old cliché which claims that we spend the first years of our life writing a first record and six months on the second. It turned out to be very true. We had to get back to the situation of the first album, see friends, go shopping, look at the buildings in our city.

R&F: So the freshness would come from there ...

Brian Molko: Yes, and it was essential spiritually, emotionally and physically.

Steve Hewitt: We had to be in tune with reality again.

Brian Molko: In fact, we find ourselves in a bit of the same state of mind as when we released "Without You I'm Nothing", although "Sleeping With Ghosts" is a lot less gloomy. The heroin has since stopped leaking. In fact, I feel like I've pulled myself out of what I consider my second teenage years, between twenty and thirty. I conquered the self-destruction, exorcised some demons, understood what had happened to me. I held on to what I had learned. As a human being, I am now able to continue living, to try to answer the big questions posed by existence.

R&F: Maybe that's why the melodies are needed this time. It took me four records to get a favorite Placebo track.

The whole group in chorus: Which one?

R&F: "Protect Me From What I Want", of course ...

Brian Molko: The most paradoxical is that this song dates from the end of the "Black Market Music" sessions. I was not married at the time, but I was trying to get out of a particularly vicious divorce.just started. Then we wait for the lyrics, which don't arrive, it's rather intriguing. We especially wanted to avoid the big Rican producer side, we needed someone who shakes us up a bit. Jim could do that because he comes from dance and his pedigree is impressive. We have all his records at home, Bjôrk, Massive Attack, Sneaker Pimps and especially DJ Shadow. It is believed that guitar rock can only evolve by incorporating new genres, this is the only way to remain a modern rock band. At home, we practically only listen to hip hop.

R&F: Still, he didn't betray you.

Brian Molko: No because he actually brought out our rock side, which I'm particularly proud of. In fact, because we always wanted to control everything, it was not easy to be forced, to do certain things backwards, to walk on the head. But in truth, that's what we wanted: yes, there was some tension in the studio but we all took advantage of it. The challenge is necessary and it is also valid for the public. We opened up and rediscovered ourselves.

Stefan Olsdal (emerging from his chair): We found ourselves in front of the mirror, at the foot of the wall: someone had to kick our ass.

Brian Molko: Jim was like, "Why are you doing this?" We would answer him: "Because we always do it like that!" He would say: "All the more reason not to do it."

Stefan Olsdal: On the first day, he messed up all the demos, changed the tones, the tempos ...

R&F: Like Brian Eno ...

Steve Hewitt: Yeah, but with a lot more compassion. Eno is a bit (silence) ... We don't really like being told our actions, but at the same time, we are still young, still absorbing. Jim knew how to preserve us while making a modern sound.

R&F: Modern and rock'n'roll at the same time, a characteristic which does not necessarily apply to all the young groups in The which recycle the past gently but are convinced to have found the virus of the AIDS.

Steve Hewitt: Placebo doesn't belong to any current, has nothing to do with fashion.

R&F: You always pose as outsiders.

Brian Molko: It's the only way to survive.

Steve Hewitt: These bands, like The Strokes, play the nostalgia card.

Stefan Olsdal: And what happens next? I would not like to be in their place.

Brian Molko: If you want good New York pop, you better listen to Blondie.

R&F: In 2003, 11 seems that you have abandoned all the androgynous paraphernalia, sexual ambiguity, glam references ...

Brian Molko: I think today everyone knows what there is to know. Our sexual inclinations haven't changed, and we still wear makeup. It is just more expensive and better applied. We are ourselves, in our music and in private. I went through my travelo period (in French in the interview - Editor's note), and I understood that being androgynous was not wearing skirts. It is a way of being on the spiritual plane. It is not an image but a state of mind.

Steve Hewitt: It's like being punk, it's an attitude.

Brian Molko: At the same time, I don't regret any of my eccentricities. I grew up in the spotlight and it all kind of makes me smile.

Stefan Olsdal: People still talk to us about certain outfits or positions, as if it still shocks them.

R&F: Yes, and particularly in France, a particularly homophobic country which bumps heartily on gay artists.

Brian Molko: And you, coincidentally, you still hang out with.

Stefan Olsdal: Jérôme, it's coming out time (laughs) ...

Brian Molko: All that has to change, that all of France becomes gay (laughs)!

R&F: "Protect Me From What I Want" precisely, here is a title heavy with meaning. What was the idea behind this song?

Brian Molko: For me, it's a study of the pathological need people have to copulate, the search for meaning in copulation. As if bachelors or monogamists were aliens. As if we were only one when we were two. The song is about the fact that one relationship has destroyed me but I can't help but look for another ... why do I keep coming back to this?

R&F: Wow, we're bathing in philosophy here!

Brian Molko: Yes and it's the same elsewhere in the record: in "Plasticine", I insist on the fact that you have to be yourself above all while asking myself all these questions. Why do we have to do a lot of forbidden things, bad or harmful?

R&F: It's therapy in public.

Brian Molko: At least I find some balance in it. These are not songs about compassion or self-pity. They came out like this because it was vital for me. I am in this privileged situation where I can express myself and the world hears me. Otherwise, I would be really frustrated and I would have suffered a lot more in the last fifteen years.

R&F: Music saved your life.

Brian Molko: Sure.

Steve Hewitt: Everyone: I think we can say that. Without Placebo, we would not be not even alive.

Brian Molko: Spitting it all out is not necessarily the right solution. There are things with which to live. In fact, I've always been afraid to go see a psychiatrist ...

R&F: Yet, listening to you speak earlier, you could have the feeling that Jim Abiss acted a bit like a shrink with you.

Brian Molko: That's right. You could say that.

R&F: At a time when Bush and Blair want to play World War III, what attitude do you adopt? What do you think of these Englishmen who left for Iraq to constitute a human shield?

Brian Molko: Let's say we stand together. We participated in the March for Peace on February 14th with Damon Albarn and 3D from Massive Attack. We were also surprised that so few groups mobilized, which increased our desire to participate tenfold.

R&F: Do you consider that it is the role of the artist to give voice in such circumstances?

Steve Hewitt: Yes, in the sense that we can help with general motivation.

Brian Molko: I'm very interested in seeing if Blair is going to let Bush bomb Iraq with the British present on the soil of the country. If he ever allows that, the consequences will be dire.

R&F: It will only be one more religious war, in the name of oil and money ...

Brian Molko: It seems absurd that we can still fight for that. And curiously, nobody speaks more, or almost, of Bin Laden. Wouldn't it all come from him, by chance, as a huge consequence of September 11? On the other hand, we have such a feeling that Bush wants to finish the job that daddy started. Its image is so bad that it needs at least one war to restore its image.

Steve Hewitt: And reinvigorate its dying economy.

R&F: The method is lamentable, deceitful. Like those employed by the recording industry which claims to be doing well by selling pop in damaged boxes to ignoramuses.

Brian Molko: The ability of this job to ingest people, bribe them and then spit them out is impressive. This is what happened here at Canal +.R&F: Business is the beast.

Brian Molko: All these pre-made artists are young and naff ...

Steve Hewitt: They'll all end up in a labor camp for ex-pop stars.

R&F: Warhol was talking about fifteen minute glory, we're brutally passed to fifteen seconds.

Brian Molko: We should have called them Karaoke idols from the start.

Steve Hewitt: And it only works because of the TV ...

R&F: Who washes the poor, helpless brains.

Steve Hewitt: You can tell how much people want to think less

R&F: And spend less. For many, music should be free: one in five thirteen-year-olds doesn't know that a disc doesn't have to be a computer-burnt puck. Some are flabbergasted when they see a cover for the first time.

Stefan Olsdal: And those who don't buy records put pressure on those who have them to pass them on at all costs, just long enough to copy them.

R&F: Exactly.

Brian Molko: That's why we blame Robbie Williams so much. Scooping 80 million pounds off EMI and then declaring that pirating music is a fantastic thing just makes him want to stick a chunk in his face.

R&F .: And then piracy is not a matter of environment. It's not a suburban thing. There are rich kids who find it normal to burn 80 CDs during their weekend and sometimes sell them to their friends ...

Brian Molko: What do these people believe? That we are there, the face in the stream with a syringe stuck in the arm singing "La Vie En Rose"? And who will pay for our children's school? Not them, anyway. Our mentality is quite different: we always want to buy records from people we love, from our friends. Personally, we are partly out of the woods, but it will be particularly difficult for new groups to make a living from music in five or ten years.

R&F: Come on, we're not going to leave each other on this, a little humor won't hurt anyone. If you were to be banned from any of these three things, which would you choose: making music, making money or making love?

Steve Hewitt (almost tit for tat): I would stop making money, without hesitation. It's because I love music and sex too much. And then, well, you have to choose.

Brian Molko (completely overwhelmed): Oh damn, that's not true. What a dilemma!

R&F: No Brian, that doesn't count, make an effort (laughs).

Brian Molko: Ah, I don't know. And then if. I would stop making money and get on well with someone super rich.

R&F: Or you would be pimp ...

Brian Molko: Yes, that's it. Good plan.

Stefan Olsdal: Stop making love does not mean to stop loving ...

Brian Molko (preparing his shot): And we can always masturbate (general laughter).

Stefan Olsdal: OK then, I would stop making love.

R&F: Okay, it will be written in black and white for all eternity.

Brian Molko: Will we live long enough to regret it? This is the real question.

*COLLECTED BY JEROME SOLIGNY

[Inset, Trash Palace]

Already present on the first album by Trash Palace which he had adorned with his presence one unhealthy recovery of "I Love You, Me No More "in duet with Asia Argento, Brian Molko is coming to re-stack. This time he cosigns directly "The Metric System " with Dimitri Trash Palace Tikovoi, an electro saw boosted to bleeps fundamentals available in two remix and its clip on an enhanced single recently published at Discograph. The result is particularly (d) amazing and sounds good logical, like of Placebo cyber.Placebo in Rock & Folk magazine - April 2003

#the cows.#placebo #brian molko #stefan olsdal #steve hewitt #the metric system is so chaotic i love it

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nasa · 5 years

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Celebrating Women’s Equality Day Across NASA

August 26 is celebrated in the United States as Women’s Equality Day. On this day in 1920, the Nineteenth Amendment was signed into law and American women were granted the constitutional right to vote. The suffragists who fought hard for a woman’s right to vote opened up doors for trailblazers who have helped shape our story of spaceflight, research and discovery. On Women’s Equality Day, we celebrate women at NASA who have broken barriers, challenged stereotypes and paved the way for future generations. This list is by no means exhaustive.

Rocket Girls and the Advent of the Space Age

In the earliest days of space exploration, most calculations for early space missions were done by “human computers,” and most of these computers were women. These women's calculations helped the U.S. launch its first satellite, Explorer 1. This image from 1953, five years before the launch of Explorer 1, shows some of those women on the campus of the Jet Propulsion Laboratory (JPL).

These women were trailblazers at a time when most technical fields were dominated by white men. Janez Lawson (seen in this photo), was the first African American hired into a technical position at JPL. Having graduated from UCLA with a bachelor's degree in chemical engineering, she later went on to have a successful career as a chemical engineer.

Katherine Johnson: A Champion for Women’s Equality

Mathematician Katherine Johnson, whose life story was told in the book and film "Hidden Figures," is 101 years old today! Coincidentally, Johnson’s birthday falls on August 26: which is appropriate, considering all the ways that she has stood for women’s equality at NASA and the country as a whole.

Johnson began her career in 1953 at the National Advisory Committee for Aeronautics (NACA), the agency that preceded NASA, one of a number of African-American women hired to work as "human computers.” Johnson became known for her training in geometry, her leadership and her inquisitive nature; she was the only woman at the time to be pulled from the computing pool to work with engineers on other programs.

Johnson was responsible for calculating the trajectory of the 1961 flight of Alan Shepard, the first American in space, as well as verifying the calculations made by electronic computers of John Glenn’s 1962 launch to orbit and the 1969 Apollo 11 trajectory to the moon. She was awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom, the nation's highest civilian honor, by President Barack Obama on Nov. 24, 2015.

JoAnn Morgan: Rocket Fuel in Her Blood

JoAnn Morgan was an engineer at Kennedy Space Center at a time when the launch room was crowded with men. In spite of working for all of the Mercury, Gemini and Apollo programs, and being promoted to a senior engineer, Morgan was still not permitted in the firing room at liftoff — until Apollo 11, when her supervisor advocated for her because of her superior communication skills. Because of this, Morgan was the instrumentation controller — and the only woman — in the launch room for the Apollo 11 liftoff.

Morgan’s career at NASA spanned over 45 years, and she continued to break ceiling after ceiling for women involved with the space program. She excelled in many other roles, including deputy of Expendable Launch Vehicles, director of Payload Projects Management and director of Safety and Mission Assurance. She was one of the last two people who verified the space shuttle was ready to launch and the first woman at KSC to serve in an executive position, associate director of the center.

Oceola (Ocie) Hall: An Advocate for NASA Women

Oceola Hall worked in NASA’s Office of Diversity and Equal Opportunity for over 25 years. She was NASA’s first agency-wide Federal Women’s program manager, from 1974 – 1978. Hall advanced opportunities for NASA women in science, engineering and administrative occupations. She was instrumental in initiating education programs for women, including the Simmons College Strategic Leadership for Women Program.

Hall’s outstanding leadership abilities and vast knowledge of equal employment laws culminated in her tenure as deputy associate administrator for Equal Opportunity Programs, a position she held for five years. Hall was one among the first African-American women to be appointed to the senior executive service of NASA. This photo was taken at Marshall during a Federal Women’s Week Luncheon on November 11, 1977 where Hall served as guest speaker.

Hall was known for saying, “You have to earn your wings every day.”

Sally Ride: Setting the Stage for Women in Space

The Astronaut Class of 1978, otherwise known as the “Thirty-Five New Guys,” was NASA’s first new group of astronauts since 1969. This class was notable for many reasons, including having the first African-American and first Asian-American astronauts and the first women.

Among the first women astronauts selected was Sally Ride. On June 18, 1983, Ride became the first American woman in space, when she launched with her four crewmates aboard the Space Shuttle Challenger on mission STS-7. On that day, Ride made history and paved the way for future explorers.

When those first six women joined the astronaut corps in 1978, they made up nearly 10 percent of the active astronaut corps. In the 40 years since that selection, NASA selected its first astronaut candidate class with equal numbers of women and men, and women now comprise 34 percent of the active astronauts at NASA.

Charlie Blackwell-Thompson: First Female Launch Director

As a part of our Artemis missions to return humans to the Moon and prepare for journeys to Mars, the Space Launch System, or SLS, rocket will carry the Orion spacecraft on an important flight test. Veteran spaceflight engineer Charlie Blackwell-Thompson will helm the launch team at Kennedy Space Center in Florida. Her selection as launch director means she will be the first woman to oversee a NASA liftoff and launch team.

"A couple of firsts here all make me smile," Blackwell-Thompson said. "First launch director for the world's most powerful rocket — that's humbling. And I am honored to be the first female launch director at Kennedy Space Center. So many amazing women that have contributed to human space flight, and they blazed the trail for all of us.”

The Future of Women at NASA

In this image, NASA astronauts Anne McClain and Christina Koch pose for a portrait inside the Kibo laboratory module on the International Space Station. Both Expedition 59 flight engineers are members of NASA's 2013 class of astronauts.

As we move forward as a space agency, embarking on future missions to the Moon, Mars and beyond, we reflect on the women who blazed the trail and broke glass ceilings. Without their perseverance and determination, we would not be where we are today.

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Follow Women@NASA for more stories like this one and make sure to follow us on Tumblr for your regular dose of space: http://nasa.tumblr.com.

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rainymoodlet · 1 year

Text

Or, how an otherwise incredibly private man came out to the world because when I play-tested his first challenge he physically refused to flirt with women.

Kiss Me in Komorebi 🌹 New Save+

Below you'll find an explanation of why I'm starting this Challenge from the ground up, an apology for my former applicants, and the form to follow for your submissions! Thank you for indulging me for so long in my obsession with this blorbo of mine.

Why the plus? Because otomes will smack lil' plus signs on updated versions of their dating games, and I'm a dork.

Deadline for applications is April 1st! 🌸

Let's be real - I bit off a little more than I could chew the first time around! This new version of KMIK will feature gameplay-heavy storytelling with posed scenes in-between!

I want to make it up to the applicants who waited so long to see this Bachelor Challenge come to fruition, and I genuinely want Daniel to have a fair shot at meeting someone truly meant for him - so I'm opening twenty one slots: seven for my former Contestants (two of which are taken by Daithi Calloway and Josiah Bolton), seven for my former Outsiders, and seven slots for new sims! Of course, the final number will be decided by the number of slots filled!

These three houses will rotate group dates and challenges with Daniel as he whittles down the numbers. In-universe, Dan hates the spotlight of fame, and was an incredibly private man (bar his new cult following on SimTok) before being influenced to be the star of his own Bachelor Challenge by his (well-meaning) agent and siblings. He went into this in the hopes that the contracted work would mean he'd not have to worry about his mother's health bills or his nieces and nephews' college funds for a little while.

However, when he got actual applications in, pictures of real sims who had applied just for the chance to meet him, to fall in love with him... well, it gave him a cold shock of reality. After a period of radio silence, the studio released a statement that said Daniel was deeply sorry, but that he wanted to give this a fair shot, and that meant he'd have to be more open and honest about himself than he was ever comfortable being.

🌸 THE APPLICATION 🌸

Name: Age: (lifestage and number, please) Traits: Aspiration: - please feel free to include any fun facts about your sim that you'd like to list! - i'm a dork and i love writing prompts based on the autonomous actions sims choose in-game. developing your sims' skills and likes will help them act more like themselves! - i will be using height sliders when i can, so feel free to include your sim's height! (for posing/gameplay purposes)

Please tag your application with #kmikapp! 🌸

Though I am excited for this clean start, I do want to apologize to all of my former applicants - both for the time it took for me to go through the acceptance process, and the time it took you waiting for me to get back to my desktop... only to learn that the sims you made weren't even going to be used. Believe me, I am no stranger to the loss of a Challenge sim: and I hope that by offering you all an automatic spot in this new save, I can make it up to you a little!

The two existing male contestants (Daithi Calloway by @buglaur and Josiah Bolton by @retro-plasma) will remain in the competition, seeing as they were already written to participate as contestants. But given that I'm forgoing the Outsiders concept for the ease of the Bachelor Challenge format, I thought I would offer all of my Outsider applicants the chance to make contestants! As some of my former participants are inactive, I thought this was the best way to reach out - I am really going to be better about talking one-on-one, though.

ANYWAY, I'm so excited to go on this journey with Daniel, and I can only hope you guys are as eager to see what awaits us as I am! Thank you for reading this far - let's try this again, shall we? 🌹

@hauntedtrait @kawaiishitty @wastelandwhisperer @occultpuppy @gothoffspring @foxsimthings @king-tower @morrigan-sims @akitasimblr @wormsimblr @10000and1dreams

#ts4 #ts4 edit #ts4 bachelor challenge #ts4 screenshots #simblr #ts4 challenge #sim: daniel #;kmik #oh my god okay so when i tell you i am terrified to post this dfhf why does it look like ~ g r a p h i c d e s i g n i s m y p a s s i o n #i am terrified of confrontation so here!!! learn ur sims were for nothin with this fun goofy ahh post #but seriously i am so excited to show you all more of dan #and more of what i can do #and i think following neluun's model of weeding out a crop of sims from a good variety #so that dan can meet who will really compliment him #is just the best plan moving forward #NO it doesnt make SENSE bc technically its seven more SIMS #but lbr i wont get twenty one submissions hddjkdf its just so that #all of my former applicants will have a guaranteed space ;u;#bc i feel HORRENDOUSLY GUILTY :))))#but also... still made a fancy graphic so #dkfklsd okay i will shut up #BLEASE LOVE MY DUMB HIMBO COWBOY #HIM SAD

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and-then-yoi-happened · 4 years

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YOI fanfic recommendations: Historical AUs

There’s a surprising number of Historical AUs for Victuuri/YOI on ao3. I haven’t read them all, and there’re still unfinished historical AUs in my to read. I decided to just go ahead and share the post as it is and eventually make a second post, or a reblog with additions. In this post I will focus on those that are only historical AUs, and primarily based on our world (meaning I won’t name fics that also have timetravel/fantasy/etc. elements, or made up countries, those deserve a separate post).

The order in which I name the fics goes by oldest to youngest in terms of historical setting. The fics I marked with *** fall into the category of heavy angst / are a heavy read.

I’m sorry for not going into detail about what I loved about them or leave comments here, because I’m trying to keep the post’s length under control. All of these fics deserve a commentary and a detailed recommendation post of their own, but that wouldn’t be managable for me timewise.

Please share this post (and the love), so more people can see the recommendations. Also if you start reading some of these, please consider leaving the writers Kudos and maybe even a comment. We writers love feeling recognised and cherished! It motivates us to write on ♡ Also this is a hecking long post, so you’ll find them under the cut.

Oneshots and Stories under 20k words

Becoming a Tenant for Life by Dawn on ICE (Dawn_Blossom) [ T | no warnings | Victuuri | regency AU | inspired by Jane Austen | 2928 words ] Summary: “You said something about my brother, didn’t you! And now Mr. Katsuki’s run off like a coward because of it!” “I only told Mr. Katsuki the truth—that Mr. Nikiforov is friendly with everyone, and he shouldn’t risk his future and his money on a man that doesn’t love him,” Lord Leroy explains defensively. Yuri has to save Victor's love life. God, he hates high society.

Private Theatricals by Watergaw [ G | no warnings | Victuuri | regency AU | inspired by Jane Austen | 1411 words ] Summary: Mr Victor Nikiforov, rich, handsome, accomplished, and quite the most eligible bachelor in four counties, has a problem. His friend Giacometti has a solution.

when pain is over, the remembrance of it often becomes a pleasure by thewalrus_said [ G | no warnings | Victuuri | regency AU | inspired by Jane Austen | 19.072 words ] Summary: Yuuri felt his body grow cold at the name; he had known a Mr. Nikiforov, once upon a time. Five years after the implosion of their acquaintance, Mr. Viktor Nikiforov returns to —shire society, bringing in tow a young cousin. Mr. Katsuki must navigate these once-familiar waters without giving further offense, all while keeping his own heart firmly protected. (A Persuasion AU)

Warm as the Ruby/Pure as the Pearl by Ravensmores [ M | no warnings | Victuuri | regency AU | 2391 words ] Summary: He’d told himself it was ridiculous to feel self-conscious at his own engagement party, that greeting guests on Victor’s arm was going to be the greatest pleasure, yet no sooner had they entered the ballroom than the pointed stares of his friends and colleagues were already proving too much. He could feel the words like stones being hurled at the back of his head as they toured the room, crudely hidden behind gloves and fans. Common Cheap Mistake (...)

a truth universally acknowledged by FullmetalChords [ E | no warnings | Victuuri | regency AU | 1995 words ] Summary: A mid-banquet blizzard strands Yuuri and Lord Nikiforov at Lord Giacometti's mansion, requiring them to share a bedchamber until the end of the storm.

Take My Breath Away by IncandescentAntelope [ E | no warnings | Victuuri | regency AU | angst with a happy ending | 17.380 words ] Summary: The son of Earl Dmitry Nikiforov, Viktor lives a rather dull life; he has no want to take his father’s title, but he must. Viktor’s family insists on an updated portrait, and though Viktor despises the idea, he certainly is interested in the artist.

In Thine Own Heart by EmHunter [ E | creator choose not to use archive warnings | Victuuri | Victorian AU | Prostitution | 17.964 words ] Summary: Lord Victor Nikiforov knows nothing about physical pleasures and is given time with a rent boy of his choice. This is how Yuuri comes into Victor’s life, a rent boy from London’s most exclusive establishment, one of its best kept secrets. A gift bestowed on Victor by his best friend for a limited time.

Let Me call You Sweetheart*** by deripmaver [ T | graphic depictions of violence | Victuuri | Post WW1/1920s | PTSD | Angst and Hurt/Comfort | 9410 words ] Summary: The Great War is over, the Jazz Age is in full swing - and Yuuri Katsuki wanders aimlessly around Paris, looking for something he lost, long ago.

Auld Lang Syne*** by IncandescentAntelope [ T | no warnings | Victuuri | Post WW2 | angst with a happy ending | 4034 words ] Summary: It's New Year's Eve, 1945, and it has been four years since Yuuri and Viktor were separated to serve in the war. The war has ended, but Yuuri hasn't heard from his husband since August.

Multi Chapter Fics above 20k words

Healthy Impropriety by mtothedestiel [ E | no warnings | Victuuri | regency AU | slow burn | angst with a happy ending | discrimination free | 29.496 words | completed ] Summary: Victor is the wealthy master of the Nikiforov estate. At a society party he's swept off his feet by the mysterious, suave, and very drunk Katsuki Yuuri. Victor aims to declare his love and secure Mr. Katsuki's hand in marriage, but first he has to find him!

pulses that beat double by threerings [ E | no warnings | Victuuri | victorian AU | slow burn | angst with a happy ending | no homophobia | 75.611 words | completed ] Summary: Katsuki Yuuri traveled all the way from Japan to study medicine in London, but finds himself very short on funds. He's long had a fascination with the scandalous Baron Viktor Nikiforov, so he's shocked when the baron takes an interest in him. So shocked he runs away as quickly as possible. But Viktor Nikiforov is a persistent man when he sees something he wants. AKA The Victorian Era Sugar Daddy AU

Love in Exile*** by MartyMuses [ E | no warnings | Victuuri | 1881 onwards | slow burn | angst with a happy ending | hurt/comfort | 99.247 words | completed ] Summary: Once a well know ballet dancer in St. Petersburg, Victor Nikiforov finds himself exiled to Sakhalin Island as a political convict in 1881. As a man sentenced to katorga he will never return to European Russia or his life on the stage. Known as the "Edge of the World," his life on Sakhalin could not be further from the life he once knew. Strange circumstances lead his path to cross that of a young Japanese man, one of the very few still living on the island. Katsuki Yuuri leads a life of exile of a different kind, one that is largely self-imposed. Drawn to each other, despite their differences, something slowly begins to grow between them. When a narrowly avoided tragedy leaves them stranded together for a long, cold Sakhalin winter, they are challenged to face what their relationship really means, and what future it could possibly have.

The Tsesarevich lives! by mtothedestiel [ E | no warnings | Victuuri | 1920/30s | Anastasia AU | royalty | 50.123 words | completed ] Summary: An Anastasia AU. Victor is an orphan with no name, no family, and no memory of a time before he was ten years old. Could he really be the missing Nikiforov heir? An adventure across Europe with two conmen will lead him to the answer.

Blackbird*** by sixpences [ M | graphic depictions of violence | Victuuri | WW2 and Cold War | spies and secret agents | angst with a happy ending | homophobia & racism | 102.617 words | completed ] Summary: The year is 1942, and Europe is at war. Captain Victor Nikiforov, an intelligence operative for the NKVD, has been trapped in Berlin by the German invasion of the USSR. Posing as a Nazi industrialist, his days are spent charming information out of Axis diplomats to try and keep the Red Army fighting another day. Yuuri Katsuki, a foreign-educated bureaucrat in the Japanese Embassy, has secrets of his own concealed beneath his unremarkable demeanour. When he uncovers Victor’s real identity, it will alter the course of both of their lives forever.

#yuri on ice #victuuri #fanfic #yoi fanfics #my fanfic recommendations #au #historical au #long post

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queenmylovely · 4 years

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Wedding Party III

Summary: Ben hardy x fem!reader. The night before the wedding is for the bachelorette party and the bachelorette party only, right?

Word Count: 2.9k

Warnings: cussing, building tension, flirty texting, spoiler alert: heavy make-out section (very light smut, no underwear is removed, pretty much just descriptive grinding lol)

A/N: Part 3 to part 3 of the celebration! Thank you so much again to everyone who follows me, including the people that have since I hit 500, cause it’s been quite a minute. This one’s a little shorter, but it gets the job done I think. Make sure to catch reader’s Freudian slip lol. Yell at me if you must. Any feedback is super appreciated but especially replies, messages, and asks are super helpful for my writing ‘cause I get to hear what you think!

Part I, Part II, Part IV, Mini i, Mini ii, Masterlist

(dorky cutie, gif by @catspawzz-yeahyeahyeahthedrummer)

💖💖💖

How you were up at 3:00am the night before your best friend’s rehearsal dinner and subsequent bachelorette party was beyond you. Well, it wasn’t really beyond you because you knew why. It was that damn Ben. You and he had been texting since that first game night and some nights it lasted until one of you fell asleep in the very early morning, phone in hand.

It stayed… mostly friendly, but every so often it ventured towards flirtation, which you thoroughly appreciated. But then the morning would come and one of you would inevitably make the switch back to just friendly. All in person interactions followed the same type of pattern. A couple more game nights as each other’s partners, dinner parties sitting across from each other and sharing looks and laughs, and brunches with free flowing mimosas and bloody mary’s that turned you both into tipsy, touchy flirts were enough to make both of you desperately want a quick fuck in a wedding reception bathroom (or anyplace and anytime sooner), and maybe more too.

In any sort of wedding related event, the two of you were paired up, and usually by the happy couple themselves. It was some sort of sweet torture that the two of you were walking together. You both greatly enjoyed spending so much time together, talking, flirting, whatever, but the damn rules were always on the edge of your minds.

Not that either of you knew the other was aware of the rules as well. Ben had the tiniest inkling that you might be, but he didn’t want to risk bringing it up in case you didn’t because he would’ve been a little embarrassed. You were completely clueless and were more focused on not breaking the rules than figuring out if Ben had any idea about it, because boy was it getting hard not to break them.

Anyway, it was 3:00am and you were struggling to keep your eyes open, but Ben’s texts always came right when they were about to close.

Ben: So what r u guys doing for Luce’s party?

Y/N: umm i think that’s a secret

Ben: A secret? I already told u what we’re doing 😤

Y/N: that’s on you bud

Ben: Rude

Ben: Whatever it is try not to get too drunk so I don't have to deal with u complaining of a hangover at the wedding

Y/N: says the guy who shows up to most of the brunches hungover or half drunk from the night before. besides, it’ll be hard to get drunk when i don’t have my personal drink maker there

Ben: Ah ur dependent on me now? No one else does it quite like me?

Y/N: that’s right, hardy. no one else keeps me filled up the way you do, it’s why i keep you around

Y/N: *my cup

Ben: It’s not the stimulating conversation or my charming good looks?

Y/N: those help, but no it’s your usefulness as a personal bartender

Ben: If I’m ur personal bartender, where are my tips?

Y/N: i’ll settle up after the wedding

Ben: Looking forward to it

_____

About 16 hours and a rehearsal and rehearsal dinner later, the wedding party was splitting into two groups for the respective bachelor and bachelorette parties.

You saw the boys gathered by one of the tables where the rehearsal dinner had been. Lucy and Rami were talking so everyone was taking a minute before it was time to leave. From where you were you could see Joe and Sami talking in hushed tones and counting what looked like a few hundred dollars in bills ranging from ones to twenties.

Catching Ben’s eye as he was scowling at you, you couldn’t help but laugh. Since he had told you that they were going on a chartered boat that had been set up for poker, you knew exactly what the money was for. Ben walked quickly over to you, crossing his arms and giving you a look once he got there.

When he didn’t say anything you asked, “Can I help you?”

“You haven’t told anyone have you?” Ben asked, still frowning. The little crease between his eyebrows and the slight pout of his lips made it hard to remember to answer his question.

“Of— of course not, I’m not gonna risk ruining the surprise for Rami,” you said, placing your hand on his still crossed forearm before smirking and saying, “Unlike you.”

Ben’s frown deepened for a second and you worried if you had been too mean, but then he just started laughing. You joined in and both of you took a step closer without realizing.

“Shut up,” Ben said, still chuckling.

You looked up at him with a challenge in your eyes and replied, “Make me.”

Ben suppressed a groan and looked down at you, biting his lip. There were a few seconds of heated silence and you felt yourself moving closer to Ben as he was doing the same.

“Y/N, we’re ready to head out, are you?” Emma called from where she and the rest of the bridesmaids were.

Ben cleared his throat and you turned around to tell her yeah. Then you turned back to Ben, putting your hand on his arm again, “See you tomorrow, then.”

“Have fun, be safe,” he told you.

“You too, don’t go falling off the boat,” you said with a smile that he returned.

Then he leaned down and kissed your cheek quickly, saying bye as he stepped back and you waved before turning around and following the group out the door.

_____

The bachelorette party was set up at your apartment because it was bigger than Emma’s and so that it could maintain the surprise for Lucy. It had required a bit of thinking for you and Emma to figure out what to do because Lucy didn’t want to go to a stripclub or anything of the like. Plus, since she was having the party the night before her wedding, she didn’t want a wicked hangover. She also wanted her mom, aunt, and young cousin to come, so it had to be something that they could participate in too.

Everyone went inside, seeing the multiple tables set up in the living room, wondering aloud what the plan was. It was only a couple minutes before there was a knock on the door. Just outside, there were two women wearing aprons that you let in with a smile.

Emma stood up to introduce them, “Everyone, this is Katy and Jay, they’ll be teaching us how to make cocktails tonight!”

Everyone exclaimed happily, and you were glad to see Lucy smiling brightly in excitement. You went to the kitchen and wheeled out a bar cart that had all of the equipment, alcohol, and mixers that would be needed. There were enough tables for everyone to be in pairs, and you were paired with Lucy so that Emma could be with her cousin, May.

One from each pair grabbed one of each of the items that Katy and Jay said to grab. The group included one pregnant bridesmaid, one who just didn’t drink, and the fourteen year old May, so your instructors had planned drinks that would still be good without alcohol.

The class ended up being a lot of fun; they taught different types of martinis, spritzes, mojitos, and G&T’s, so that by the time they were all made and everyone that was drinking tried them all, it was enough to be more than a little tipsy.

Jay and Katy took their leave after many thanks and promises of more cocktail parties in the future. Then you announced the next part of the evening.

“It-- it is now time for a fashion ex-- extara--vangza!” you exclaimed, stumbling over the long word and causing everyone to crack up with you.

Then Emma came out of your room, pulling, along with the help of her mom and aunt, two giant racks of clothes that you and she had spent the past few weeks collecting at different thrift and second-hand stores. You had gotten old wedding dresses, prom dresses, funky patterned shirts, bohemian skirts, oversized blazers with giant shoulder pads, sparkly bralettes, and everything in between.

Seeing the clothes, Lucy jumped up and ran over, immediately looking through them and soon there was a little crowd around the racks.

Emma tried to shout over everyone, “We have seven minutes to create an entire outfit and then we will have our fashion show! Don’t worry, this is only the first of many!”

The whole affair was full of laughs, shouts of excitement, and a couple quick arguments over who got what. Then the runway had to be prepared, which meant turning on the color changing LED lights you had and turning on a playlist of Beyoncé, ABBA, Rihanna, Adele, Lizzo, Lady Gaga, Billie Eilish, and Queen, though only the upbeat songs.

Everyone did their best struts down the runway and then posed strikingly at the end, channeling their inner model. The crowd said their oohs and ahhs and clapped for each one. You and Emma took turns modelling and being a photographer each round so that all of the outfits were captured during their walk.

After about five rounds, the fashion show devolved into a dance party where everyone was laughing and singing along with the songs.

Around midnight, you lost Lucy’s mom, her aunt, and May to tiredness. And once the first group had left, it wasn’t long before others started leaving as well. By 12:30am, the only ones left were Lucy and Emma, to help clean up. But you both tried to make Lucy sit and relax since she was the bride and shouldn’t have to clean up after her own party. She refused and helped anyway, hanging up the clothes that had gotten left on the couches and floor. Though a lot of them ended up in a large tote bag she found in your room that she planned to take home with her.

Once all the trash was thrown away, the dishwasher was running, and the last stray glittery shirt was hung up, you ushered Emma and Lucy out the door with hugs, kisses, and reminders to get a good night’s sleep.

You flopped on your couch, tired out but also somehow wired with energy and you debated over watching one episode of TV or just going to sleep. You were reaching to grab the remote to turn off the music when there was a knock at the door.

Rolling your eyes and smiling on the way, you unlocked it and threw it open, the question, “What, did you realize you left one of the pairs of cute trousers behind?” halfway out of your mouth before you realized that it wasn’t Lucy and Emma.

“Ben,” you said in surprise. Probably the last person you were expecting at this moment was Ben, but there he was, in dark jeans and a plain white t-shirt that fit him too well to leave anything to your imagination, his hair a little messy like he had been running his hands through it and his cheeks flushed pink due to what you could only assume was alcohol.

You opened the door wider and let him in, after you remembered to stop just staring at him and trying to imagine what he’d look like with those clothes off.

Ben smiled at you sweetly and said hi. Then he looked you up and down and a brief look of confusion crossed his face.

You looked down at yourself and realized that you were still wearing one of the sequin bralettes, a black mesh t-shirt underneath that, a high waisted neon purple skater skirt, and a houndstooth yellow and pink blazer with shoulder pads. Chuckling at yourself, you explained, “Oh, we had a fashion show.”

As the two of you walked into your living room, Ben nodded in understanding.

“Sit. How was the boat? Who won big in poker?” you asked as you sat on your feet, kneeling. You asked a little more enthusiastically than usual, but you were still kinda tipsy.

“Boat was good. Ummm I think maybe Rami won, yeah, he has a good poker face, he’s a good actor. Has an Oscar, you know,” Ben rambled, and you nodded with a smile as you thought that he must be kinda tipsy himself. Then he turned so he was facing you more and closed his eyes, shaking his head, “But we didn’t even play poker for long.”

“No?” you asked, leaning closer to him.

“No,” he said, opening his eyes slowly and smiling, “We did karaoke instead.”

“That sounds fun,” you whispered, looking down to his hand that was very close to yours. If you had been sober, you would’ve just looked, but you weren’t, so you grabbed it in yours and started playing with his fingers.

“Mmmm,” Ben hummed and you wondered whether it was in agreement to your statement or because he enjoyed what you were doing.

“What did you sing?” you asked curiously.

Ben flipped your hands so that he was the one doing the playing as he responded, “Me and Joe did a duet of ‘Greased Lightnin’’ from Grease. He was Danny and I was Kenickie.”

“Kenickie was always my favorite,” you commented, looking up from your hands to his eyes.

Ben looked up to your eyes as well, leaning in and asking, “Really?”

You moved closer too, and as you nodded, you felt his breath on your lips yet again.

This time, there were no interruptions and you closed the last few inches together, your lips finally meeting. The first kiss was soft, but the next one was a little more urgent, and the next even more so. Before you knew it, you were parting your mouth for Ben’s tongue and he was teasing along your lower lip, daring you to follow into his mouth.

You moaned as Ben’s hands came to your waist and he helped you straddle his lap. Your hands went to his chest and down to his stomach, feeling the taught muscles that you had seen through his shirt. Ben pushed your blazer off your shoulders and then one of his hands moved to tangle in your hair and the other slid lower and underneath your skirt to your ass

Breaking the kiss, you instead moved to placing kisses along his jaw then down his neck, scraping your teeth lightly on his pulse point and making Ben shudder. He moved his hands back to your waist and pushed down, at the same time grinding his hips up into you from below. You gasped and moaned, feeling his hardness pressing against you through only your underwear.

Kissing back up to his mouth, you bit his lower lip, getting a groan and another grind of his hips in return. Your hands slid up his torso and then to his hair, tugging it lightly and Ben continued to help you move with him as he moaned. Each pass of his hard cock on your clothed pussy made you a little more desperate for more and you whined whenever he grazed your clit.

When you tilted your head back in pleasure, Ben took the opportunity to move to your neck, kissing down the column of your throat before starting a search for your sweet spot. He found it quickly, and started sucking, but as good as it felt, you had to stop him.

“Ben, no marks, the wedding.”

Just that simple sentence knocked the sense back into both of you and you each leaned back, your hands all moving to your own sides.

“We can’t do this,” you said in unison, and then looked at each other in confusion.

“Wait--” you started.

“What--” Ben said at the same time.

“Why can’t we?” you asked him, a few thoughts falling into place as you remembered that initial conversation when Lucy had singled out Ben.

“Well, I’m just not supposed to-- I mean, I probably shouldn’t say…” he trailed off awkwardly and you got off his lap quickly, pacing in front of the couch as you came to a conclusion.

“Did Lucy tell you not to sleep with me?” you asked, turning to Ben quickly.

“No, well yes, well kind of. I guess it’s fine. Rami told me not to sleep with anyone from the wedding party, he didn’t single out you. But I assumed that Lucy felt the same way,” Ben said sheepishly, a blush covering his cheeks.

“Don’t be embarrassed, Lucy told me not to sleep with anyone either. Except she did single you out. She excused that it was because we’re walking together, but it’s probably because we’re both sluts. Nice to know I’ve got an ally out here,” you said wryly but when you looked over at Ben he just looked very confused. You quickly added, “That wasn’t meant as an insult.”

“No, it’s fine. I’m just surprised that they would go to such lengths. And I’m a little mad,” he commented.

You nodded and flopped back down on the couch next to him, “Yeah, me too, but I can see their point.”

Both of you sighed and then laughed.

“And we probably shouldn’t do anything tonight?” you asked, wanting his agreement, because you were close to just saying fuck it and doing something anyway.

“Yeah, we probably shouldn’t tonight,” he said, facing you and you could see that there was still a healthy amount of desire in his eyes. “But I make no promises for the reception.”

💖💖💖

Permanent taglist: @riseetothesun @caborhapch @drowseoftaylor @queenlover05 @johndeaconshands @supersonicfreddie

Series taglist: @killer-queen-87 @theprettyandthereckless @radiob-l-a-hblah @theonsasheart @hannafuckingsucks

If you would like to be added to the taglist for this little series or my permanent one, just send me a message or ask!

#my roommate yelled at me for this #called me a tease #I aim to frustrate #bohemian rhapsody #borhap #ben hardy #ben jones #fic #series #wedding party #queenmylovely #bohemian rhapsody x reader #borhap boys #borhap cast #borhap x reader #bohemian rapsody movie

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psitrend · 4 years

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Interview with the Artist & Photographer Pixy Liao

New Post has been published on https://china-underground.com/2020/10/12/interview-with-the-multidisciplinary-artist-pixy-liao/

Interview with the Artist & Photographer Pixy Liao

The photography of Pixy Liao

Pixy Liao: the balance of power in a romantic relationship with authenticity and vulnerability.

Official site | Instagram | Youtube | Pimoband

A powerful woman point of view, with a brilliant sense of humor.

During her photography studies orientation in the States she met her Japanese partner Moro, that was studying in the music department.

I make art based on my feelings growing up as a girl in China, and on how I feel as a woman in today’s world.” – Pixy Liao

Me, him and the audience are all connected by the cable release.” – Pixy Liao

In China, girls are normally encouraged not to work hard and rather to find a man to rely on; conversely, men are told to man up and to be brave.” – Pixy Liao

In addition to photography partners, you and Moro have together a band: PIMO. Can you tell us about this project?

youtube

PIMO – Oppai Is Everywhere Live from Home

And the music project is a good balance for us. In photos, I’m the director. In music, he is the leader. For me, it’s both an enjoyment and also my way of paying him back.

#ChineseContemporaryArtist, #ChinesePhotographer, #ChinesePhotography, #FemalePhotographers

#chinese contemporary artist #chinese photographer #chinese photography #female photographers

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benchgenderstudies · 3 years

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An address of the similarities to Beauty Pageants and use of women as cultural capital.

Opening/

Introduction to Regulating of the Fashion (Model) and Casino/Luxury Industry

By Michael Bench, MEP WGSGC

Exercise Physiology Masters, Gender Anthropologist

Author of Native Supremacy.

In calling for the regulation of the fashion industry and fashion model sizes; there is a freakish pushback by the victims themselves:the models The models still believe they are indebt to a talent agency network. The talent agency has signed them on, sent them to events with a positive initial experience to remember.. and subsequently start charging them outrageous fees. Fees that ultimately keep a model quiet about the unhealthy conditions of the industry. She's mistaken that her earnings are somehow supposed to be diverted to the talent agency instead. The fashion industry borrows a common strategy used by Russian and illegal immigrant sexshops; confiscating their girls' passports and identity until they 'pay off' visa costs and other miscellaneous compounding expenses.

The talent agencies are further bold in their exploitation of the models that they would start sending her to unpaid events while holding substantial debt against her. They would send her to accused rapists and molesters in the photography/marketing industry for it is the photographer that holds the industry bottlenecked no matter what abuse he might choose to visit on his lesser known clients.

Very little research is conducted on measuring fashion model, porn actress, or pageant model intelligence. Definitions of intelligence are hotly debated to rid Science of once accepted credentials of the First World, the Third World and Civilization spheres as they were known to the Early British Empire. I will here address this debate in brevity: the pageant models and runway fashion models are a multiracial collective. Those who have previously experienced lives devoid of privilege tend to reward and guard their modeling experiences with higher levels of positivity than her Anglo coworkers. This does not mean (she) also regards modeling more positively than her coworkers. I propose across the board those with suspicious objective perspectives as underprivileged/oppressed races and ethnicities before new academic challenges will be much better educational prospects in quality learning environments.

In a Google Scholar search, no declared IQ research had been conducted on fashion models. I then searched for pageant model education levels with the same level of results. They appeal to girls working on a bachelors degree or younger. What material I could find revealed that one could not ask a fashion model or pageant model how smart she was. Her answer would reveal a skewed proposition that her model experience was a type of specialized skill This is first a paradox since females only enter pageants as temporary affirmations hoping to build from it. Some want to go to veterinary colleges, others still dont know. They just know they love the attention (Tonn) A Narcissist does love their attention. They make facts bend all around what they want to do.

The model and the abuser share this in common; In order to not sound foolish for justifying global attention at the expense of their health, safety and sans protection from financial crime and perverts.... she avoids admit the industry is a craven fraud scouting out young people to steal their commercial identity profits. Less so in the pageant environment where parents have a watchful eye on their children. In fashion modeling the parents try their hardest to avert their eyes from the quo sexualization of girls as young as ten. Thylane Blondeau's mother was already in modeling and celebrity culture. Its norms skewed her sense a photographer like Tom Ford could instruct her child to assume poses of actual adult erotica in posture and manner. The pictorial was displayed in Vogue.

The first pageants were meant to extend tourist season. Tourist season tends to revolve around hotels and casinos; the only venues large enough to have a pageant. Pageants like Most Beautiful Girl in Nigeria(MBGN) have a mission statement to be a competitive event on the global stage. Silverbird, the managing company of MBGN, admits it grooms female contestants in all aspects of the competition (Balogun). The grooming isnt only about the pageant competition but of contestants gender roles and sexual norms for conquest. “They are the virgins of newly found cultural capital”. Predators observe 'fresh (unrefined) meat” for their own; the casino's high rollers.

Mr. Oke, a staff member at Silverbird, commented, “I’m always scared of these girls. They are powerful. That’s why I’m always nice to them. They’re all going to dump their boyfriends after this is over. You’d be surprised, one of them might be the future wife to a minister [head of national ministries]; they might just be the one to make that phone call to make or destroy a deal.” Newly formed relationships with business leaders, celebrities, and politicians were touted as signs of emergence into new elite circles centered on transnational culture and capital to which most contestants would otherwise not have access. ( Balogun)

This quote simultaneously exposes the pageant staff starting the courting process of the upper class and defending the experience as an opportunity. The pageant presents celebrities as the appropriate bachelors to set them back in their traditional roles as housewives. Business executives, actors, and politicians are of the few occupations that can sustain a single earner household. If a pageant is the updraft for young females to bridge their social network with the social elite, then pageants are nothing more than a sterilized abonne meeting area along side the European ballet. Males of the aristocracy would solicit select ballerinas with sexual advances in return for funds to afford her ballet costumes, slippers , makeup ; her career. What makes anorexia such a common place norm in ballet is females of the aristocracy are not allowed in the backstage area of the ballet. Conclusively to shield ballerina mistresses from suspect infidelity with married men, her extreme thinness intends to stop her menstrual period and so too any chance of pregnancy. The waif is an invitation of sexual solicitation and harassment left over from European tradition.

Mr Oke is not the only pageant staff to approach contestants with sexual and relationship comments.Donald Trump is the target of many accusations. One, walking into his Miss America Pageant dressing rooms without concern to the contestants' privacy. Contestants were either naked or topless “ theres a man in here”. Again, intelligence lacks see the narcissistic pervert. Tasha Dixon reported that Trump's pageant staff were encouraging the girls to get Trumps attention.An all too common occurrence in fashion modeling photography sessions. Assistants normalize and enable the sexual/erotica/perversion repertoire of their boss while the models protest or question his professionalism. Male and female fashion models are expected to submit to photographers 'to get ahead in the industry”. This is covered in much better details with names named in the External Motivations of Anorexia Nervosa paper.

Dixon presumed Trump stayed in the pageant business because there was no one that could limit or prosecute his behaviours.(Revesz) On separate occasions Trump would approach 10-14year old girls telling them that he would one day be their boyfriend. (Zimmerman) He was so into himself that he wouldn't hesitate to tell the press he would be his then 16yo daughter's boyfriend too.(Winthall) Pageants/ couture designers feel they are the creator spectacle over models instead of aiding them. Mere contestants seem to require their favors and services to groom them and culture them. Toxic persons can't help temptations to elaborate the model's empty stock worth as a marionette puppets to their sexual lusts. What agencies are not coldly brothels exercise a minimizing collection of exercises.. including severe diets just to keep the models loyal and working for pennies. Alexia Palmer, a model from Jamaica sued Donald Trump's model agency for not finding her enough work and being underpaid. She “felt like a slave”. (Mosk et al) Allegedly dignified contests such as those run by Cory Quorino in the Philippines choose a role as what could be described surrogate philanthropy.”Beauty in Giving” The Models advertise charities and get credit for the sums of money they raise.(Alzaga) this is a clear difference between the two realms. Pageants value women as spokespeople while luxury fashion dismisses its models only by its choice not to advance the gender role of the model to be a brand spokesperson. This is partially out of a selfish spotlight hoarding by the head designer taking a lot too much credit in fear of sewing around curves of whatever plus size statures he feels are label relevant. Haute Couture is selfish of its credit toward the feminine by restricting it from the female.

Haute couture designers of the fashion industry don't register that their homosexual male preferences and recontexting 'phemininity' is not healthy for young women to sustain for themselves. Male and female couture models are said to equally oblige an androgynous look. The female is still required to be smaller than the male in order to be a suitable to simulate heterosexual relations in ads. In a true androgynous circumstance the females would be larger and butcher than the males. If Androgyny was truly nonbinary the females would be fortunately advantaged in muscling her earnings from the corrupt agency system overseen by the Council of Fashion Designers of America (Tom Ford ,president) and the New York Department of Labor. An agency system that wont protect the female employee force from norms of the waif and “Parisian Androgyny” is an agency that injures female consumers. Shaping the young female into a mold of frail vulnerability is the industry's asset of exploitation. Their return to tradition and nod to sexual coercion. A girl cant stand up for herself if her unfit legs snap in ankle breaker heels.

And lets not ignore even if Dolce & Gibbon’ah or Chanel could argue elite athletes are just as small as the runway waifs; same body mass index; their perspective is infantile at best. The elite athlete requires an offseason to recover. Athletics is not a form of health even if it provides some measure of ideal vanity. If a female distance runner chooses not to have an offseason, she does so at the expense of her bone density and emotional health. Both influence race day competition. If a ballet dancer chooses to maintain the same size from age 15 to age 27 , she is malnourished. Sport does not recontext the abuses to the body as 'fair'. Elite ballet is not a functional skillset for the real world. Flexibility can have a posterchild like yoga that doesnt require eating disorders for its practice.

Second, the paper mathematical Body Mass Index (BMI) chart comparing only height to weight is not a clinically relevant definition of body mass index or body composition; AT ALL. It should not be used by general physicians to deduce patient health statements. At the very minimum skin fold measurements and hydrostatic weighing are two representative standards of truly investigating what a persons real lean body mass is. New clinical means of deciding body composition also recruit specialized radiology. The only group that can be easily spotted are the underweight. A female underweight for her size has not adequately resistance trained her body for strength. Without strength her bones become weak without enough tension on the tendon insertions. Without enough muscle built (hypertrophy) her metabolism and immune system are damaged. The normalcy of the waif to females (models) is an abuse of their body whether they sign on for it or not. Ergo they are damaging the public to allow diet and sport supplements to broadly advertise the thin look as an all encompassing good thing. Its not. Disinformation hurts a nation. Eventually it leads to unnecessary antidepressant use; a spectacular racket also assaulting the female American public.

The homosexual male designer relies on his photographers to emphasize his clothes. His imprint on the Waif. .. the cult of personality around Dior and Balenciaga is body modifications (ie piercing,tattoos).. not merely shape. Christian Dior started his fashion fame trying to bring back the waspwaist. Body Modification , not merely body sculpting. Body abuse, not merely the pyramid of haves and havenots. Would an industry profiting on the most rare of female body types of its stars be so cruel numerous times to sexually abuse, verbally abuse, minimize, and ignore her safety? They dont care about the models image for she is a product of misery. Very young models of 14-17 are sent over oceans without any chaperones only knowing if they dont oblige the event or photo session they'll have to buy their own ticket home. They'll be stranded. Embassies should know of every contest involving Americans and make themselves available to the industry workers so they know all their rights.)(The contracts are not legit) .

Surprise limo rentals and clerical/courier fees are sprung on her. Services anyone would presume are complementary are actually extra charges and not optional. That alone is grounds to call on state and federal government to investigate the industry. Agency services operate as such: You order a single gift basket from Harry & David . Harry and David take your credit info and data mine your Facebook account and charge you for and send gift baskets to your whole friend list. This is not a Harry and David practice. All I'm saying is Harry and David's product push is unnecessary while ordering. Unlike the seasonal gift firm the fashion agency health negligence against its staff and its financial dealings are criminal and embezzling.

If the model is raped behind the scenes or dies from dieting the public asks the family and industry, why didnt you say anything? If a model is having all her earnings withheld by her agency the public asks “ Why didnt you report it to IRS or US LABOR?” The very short answer is... the fashion and pageant industry attract unsuitable examples of females who choose fame before substance. The temporary state of that transaction seems as cheap and unbecoming as the credit she must lack to stand against them. The short answer is, the pageant and fashion models are not intelligent, know very little about the business or her rights before she arrives to the business and see the pageant or modeling only as a temporary stepping stone. She should always have a lawyer and first read the contract for conflicts with state and federal law. If pageant contestants find themselves in as ruthless a pit as fashion.. they protect the pageant for short term humiliation for long term benefits of advancement. This also means models enable zero-integrity pageants, designers, and agents to prey on new entrants financially and sexually in their silence. But are they smart? Considering the sizable preparation and expense for a pageant contestant to be touring or out of school, the trueyoung intelligencia would be at home studying knowing she was preparing for an academic future rather than get-rich/famous-quick scams that only selectively privilege the obedient marionettes of a pageants/genre's grooming.

I should not be misunderstood that any contestant in a beauty pageant represents the lowest of intelligence in the community. They are not all one demographic. Pageants tend to feature the middle class specimens of a society on the presumption they have some cultural capital appreciation and enough education to be spokespeople of the campaign. The middle class are prone to believe they can become the wealthy class in good circumstances. Being middle class is one most important stigmas the pageant models want to overcome.

What would separate this new model from her old middle-class origin?

Feeling they are respected/ envied.

Are a contribution of upward movement for her family(Alzaga)

“The wife should be both parent and supporter”(Wu)

“Goal Oriented, Independent , Committed to Individualism, Assertive (Larsen)

“(According to Williams) In this way women's bodies stand in for and manage difference in a nonthreatening way”(Crawford)

'(About Texas pageants) Big Hair, flashy jewelry, wry wit, shoulder pads, artificial fingernails, confidence, (Mosel-Talavera)

What I found tying most contestants together is the belief public speaking with poise and confidence (as the pageant trained her) is the equivalent of having intelligence. Its not all bad a belief. People are not good at public speaking. Most could tolerate the tasks of directing their child's birthday party, telling a story at a campfire or summarize a prewritten essay. Public speaking before a live TV audience or academics asking to be impressed by 20-40 minutes of supported keynote address is very difficult. It's objectifying but it's objectifying uniformly. The audience hears the word choices, speaking tone, the speakers body undulations, quirks , the moles his neck or chest hair peaking out of his polo shirt. Do his clothes fit well? does his scalp have a full fill of hair? Did he shave? Did he use teeth whiteners? Are his shoes cool? Do he have bow legs? Is his ass firm while he turns around explains the powerpoint graphic? The objectification of the male body is as unspoken of as the females is abundantly. My explanation for objectification and especially censorship of the breasts sits with the immaturity of male based community standards to still sexualize his relationships through his relationship with his mother. Freud didn’t get it. The Male regards the breasts as a service instrument the same way traditional females are called Betty Homemakers. He hasnt grown up even if there’s too damn many missing dish towels balled up in the house corners .. surprisingly holding their pleats and reeking of salt deposits.

Opponents of pageants believe that females are being sexually objectified by the swimsuit contest or the ball gown event or softball questions like “ Are cats soft? Support your answer with three points. ” I feel objectification happens to everyone especially in cases of academic keynote speaking. Simultaneously, there is nothing perverse about sexual evaluation. All good things face defilement and misuse by bad people. The confidence that pageant contestants correctly identify is that they are not victimized by the circumstances and spheres of objectification because they chose the event. They endured the experience because they were prepared to see and evaluate their attention instead of being blindsided. As for the Miss New York pageant contestant exclamation “ Its all so fulfilling. For the first time people were asking me for my ideas. I liked the attention.” Indeed. The attention included in the pageant entry fee,huh? Perhaps pageant contestants don't connect being in front of crowds as a test and more of a 'gathering for their attention. “Its so Pageanty” N.A.R.C.I.S.S.I.S.T.

Observers of pageants rely on the pageants mission statement to validate a so-called finest mix of brains and beauty. The observers and TV audience are the precultured hinterlands pageants hope to save their contestants from. When very young girls are imprinted with pageant themes, they mistake their own dreams of being a beauty queen as a long term event. Pageants and modeling are not a lifelong career. Strike Two: The intelligencia would be working toward a career directly and not be misdirected by shallow endeavors; especially ones with negative reviews, accusations of sexual harassment, and limitations on her speech.

In my Equal Employment Opportunity correspondence to the US Department of Justice during the Obama administration I addressed the problem in the Fashion industry. No real female could be hired because all woman exercising responsibility for their wellbeing would not diet herself to a size she was last at age 14. What females are hired are vulnerable to victimization because they already cast their lots for fame at any cost. The thinness standards in the fashion industry for international models are not a legitimate middle ground for anyone. Androgyny is not a middle ground between male and female when male can parade it as a fetish while females must oblige an abusive tactic to become perpetually young. Perpetually young is what couture is selling retail patrons. Buy our clothes and you will be young too.. Buy our face cream and you too will be ready for our dress. The face cream doesnt stop the aging nor does models diet to flat concave chests for the 'predeveloped' look suppressing the aging process. She's actually aiding deterioration. Is the fashion model smart? No. She's constructively ignorant to become famous.

My EEOE correspondence also relates to the clamp pageants have on women's behaviors and promotion of their personal beliefs. A Miss Michigan candidate was stripped of her title for defending then Vice President Mike Pence on Twitter. A tweet consisting of “ STOP KILLING BLACK PEOPLE!!!” directed at the Vice President caused Kathy Zhu to respond in kind “Did you know the majority of black deaths are caused by other blacks? Fix problems within your own community first before blaming others”.(McClaughlin) If this is a cause to dethrone a current pageant winner then the Miss Michigan pageant should probably spend more time in the interview section vetting the political biases and outburst potential of their contestants. Even if Zhu had promoted disinformation, it would be her lack of composure/delivery that made the tweets sub-beautyqueen-standard. “Dear Sir.Madam, The seriousness and sorrow for Black people's losses also must face their own in-race exploitations among many types of daily criminal victimization. I'd like to talk with you more about it. Sincerely Kathy Zhu. ,Miss Michigan. Tra la la deedah.” There's a difference in delivery here.

Zhu is not the first pageant winner to be stripped of her title and probably not the last. Vanessa Williams was crowned Miss America in 1994. Her title was removed when it was found the African American singer had nude unauthorized photos of her sent to and purchased by Penthouse magazine. The title was given to Miss New Jersey. A scandal like this in the pageant business is unsurprising. Allegations of sexually exploitive photography surround Terry Richardson. The fashion industry claimed Richardson was just being a scapegoat. If he is, that means of rigging pageants are as simple as which photographer the pageant staff send each contestant. The also-rans get sent to the molester so he can create a pool of unfit evidence for the smut mags or tabloids.

Compensatory beliefs motivate some contestants to enter pageants. One respondent said her interest in pageants is she was mocked by her family. She was treated as though not beautiful enough and instead nurtured to be a geek. She was sent to quiz bees instead of pageants(Alzaga) For youth attention has a quicker reward than good grades or college acceptance by her 4th-9th grade peers. Out of frustration she sought out pageants because their marketing supported her affirmations she was as beautiful as she was smart.

A detriMENTAL circumstance when the overly smart become attracted to pageants is they can be excessively competitive to destructive ends. Said destructive ends come of any competition being about narcissism which is not always 'nerds' strong suit in displaying, controlling or suppressing. This could well explain archetypes like the “librarian nymphomaniac.”

“Miss American represents the highest ideals. She is a real combination of beauty, grace, and intelligence, artistic, and refined. She is a type which the American Girl might well emulate”. (Larsen)

In the fashion world, the overly competitive female will choose to race to be the thinnest girl available for ad shoots. “Even if it kills her'. It will. So far its the model forced to take blame for her voluntary choice to be thin. But is it actually voluntary? No. The fashion industry welcomes the girl in the door, starves her down to size to get working (she is the industry while conforming to the industry) and then she is stolen from while in a dizzy state of malnourishment and physical fatigue. Fatigue: 16-20 hour work days without food/breaks so the photographers can snort oodles of cocaine, have a scone and yell at them “ You're not giving me enough!!”. In a month or so , the model is working on 15% of her real earnings holed up in a crusty apartment with either 10 more models or the agent himself as his live-in burlesque show; at best. At worst she might die of starvation a day before or after Elite Models Gerard Marie rapes a live in model next to his own sleeping daughter. And she might not even have the strength to report it let alone fight it off.

Is the pageant model smart? There's no sure answer but she is an opportunist. She an opportunist invited to a cultural framework where she is near or distant to the pageant industry's Caucasian tradition and norms. “I think this is a problem within European society because to make themselves fit, thin, and lean they take lots of medicine and so on which really does no good to the body. “ Said a Nepali resident of Kathmandu. (Crawford) . So without being Secretary of Health and Human Services Azar or US Labor secretary, or a George Washington University Professor in Public Health like David Michaels or a New York State Commissioner of Labor.. a Nepali adult living in a part of the world regarded “backward” finding transparent clothing hard to digest for ad consumption still identified drug related crash dieting and Western themes of thinness unhealthy.

Former US LABOR OIG legal counsel Howard Shapiro could not. He would not adopt the Body Mass Index as a health standard from the CDC/HHS because the 1970s document founding OSHA and NIOSH made no mention of regulation of industry by Body Mass Index. In fact the goal of OSHA is to accept and enforce all and any health standards arising from NIOSH and HHS so that the industry is made safe for all Americans of any status of employment. In the market today Americans are concealed from safety behind walls of contracts (or as nonemployee contractors) instead of employees. Employees privatized and subjected to informal harassment, threat, assault, exploitation and intimidation. This situation is illegal. Americans in any form of employment must be protected from illegal and unhealthy work environments. Former OSHA director Edwin Foulk Jr believed I should be calling the Council of Fashion Designers of America... as if I hadn't considered their lack of regulation wasn't a fit enough reason to ask them to start now. I called the government and the US government protected the ongoing abuse of women under George W Bush.

Another respondent from Nepal is quoted “ To get a good figure [some teenagers] go for starvation, thats anorexia as far as I know. I dont think it should be really promoted actually, yeah. Um if they want a good figure, they should really work hard, they could exercise instead of starving themselves. (Crawford) This Nepali has noticed that the sense of beauty is absent in the results of starvation and when people exercise and develop muscle tone with a healthy relationship with food; they look better. Amazing. So far Nepali peasants have more credible public health policy than the past three US Presidential Administrations, including Obama.

Locals observed the effects of the Kathmandu beauty pageant event in girls from 10-12. Suddenly they were very obsessed with their appearance. In other research about Pageants events in Chinatown, San Francisco and among Latin Americans came to identify some polarizing differences. Larsen raised an observation in the first thirty-five years of Miss America pageants nonwhites were banned from participating. “Latina characters in television and movies are lusty and hot-tempered objects of desire.” In this frame the pageant wants to downplay sexuality as a component of beauty.

“dressmakers modified the design of the Cheong-sam to emphasize the cleavage area, creating the “poured-in look” so high desired. Furthermore, the slit up the side of the dress was increased “to endow the basically simple Cheong-sam with a touch of intrigue..., a tantalizing suggestion about the beauty of its wearer. (Wu) The Chinese American researcher felt that beauty and sexuality are entwined correctly in race -tradition contexts. It seems objectified as the west's definition of beauty invaded the Chinese culture's traditional dress. In my valuation the Latina represents the intimidating female forceful of her will. She's obedience to misogyny. The Chinese female is profiled in western terms no greater than Vietnamese village teens/ preteens some of the US military took indulgence in raping between 1955 and 1975.

Cynthia Gouw investigated the pageant field with the intent to deconstruct and criticize it from a Leftist Feminist Viewpoint. ( Wu) Having entered the pageant as a contestant she remarked “I didnt feel exploited at all. I want to show people I can be very articulate and assertive as opposed to a stereotypical beauty pageant winner.. What I want to represent to the Asian population is that I am very concerned about the community. “One benefit pageant contestants have in events distant from western norms is they are protected by their community's unique priorities and cultural norms. Pageants in Nigeria had abusive staff that heavily enforced classism. If a contestant wasn't walking with the elegance per his commands they would accuse contestants of being mere “market women”. The Queen Nigeria pageant didn’t want their female contestants at all comparable to market women, a slur for rural laborers having stereotypes as 'rough and brash”. (Balogun)

I took a moment to type in “brash” to the Google search engine to see what definition it would offer.

Brash

self-assertive in a rude, noisy, or overbearing way.

“he could be brash, cocky and arrogant”,

Strange, the pageant believes it is helping young Nigerian girls to be empowered but suppressing and denouncing parts of the Nigerian culture that are already assertive. In the west we tend to understand this brash concept as 'a ratchet bitch” of low class. In the pageant's sense of empowerment , the female is empowered to simply be a better mate but kept from being so confident and wordsmithed that she could tell off a guy in terms on an even turf of vulgarity, insult, belittling, aggression and verbal abuse.

Chaperones affiliated to the Queen Nigeria pageant remarked of contestants”Each year she comes back cleaner and cleaner”. The comment was investigated for its inner meaning. “ Each time (contestant) returns to audition her skin looks fairer” and was to mean a physical change in the condition of the contestants skin from makeup treatments. (Balogun) Balogun found other research suggesting that this skin change was also a lightening to improve chances of upward mobility. I reference this quote especially because it is an absolute parallel to the arrogance haute couture designers and runway specialized model agencies have in objectifying their models as a property of creation rather than the individual within of blood, bone, estrogen and diet coke. Maybe the fashion model has never been an individual and why all the reason more she chases having a meaningful identity. She takes the pageants brand, is milked for her camera appeal, moos a few times for the question/answer bit and heads off to slaughter as an aged and spent heifer short of the aristocrats desires. The fashion industry has value because it attracted contestants in magazines and television to make it a goal in their lives; A superfluous goal too often.

The female icons in magazines like Vogue must then be empowering too. Said of a magazine with Emma Watson on the cover:”Like in Neon you have some inspiring series . But when I look through women's magazines I dont have a role model for my life (Informant A). (Put) Ellen Put's research on womens magazines revealed some other criticisms about the periodicals. Informants regarded them “flat and uninspiring”, “it was bullshit”, “it was boring when they say this is all about makeup and what to buy..”, “sometimes I read it just for fun just wondering what they are saying”, “Men are always dark, taller, though” . Ellen Put's article revealing these views was titled “ They Think We're Stupid”. We can dovetail the pageant social effects on Nepali teens, the magazine reactions, the whitening and sterilizing of the ethnicity from Ethnic specific beauty pageants and reveal a tame appealing factory of creating the ideal woman out of real women's dreams and then normalizing the ideal woman as a public health nightmare. By creating an international norm among pageants and modeling, the luxury market announces it is deaf to the anthropological heritage, biome, diet and geography that appreciates and carved out natural beauty of each continent's peoples and subgroups. There is no similar basis of lifestyle to normalize a common shape. Ever. The commonality is as the pageants product of “Female in a Can” nested on shelf among all other pageant's new talent.

What can be shown here is if the ideal female of poise and elegant, confident public address can also be trained to be shallow then she will be an ideal elite mate to be whisked away by a dominating male , possibly of a dark complexion. What could a dark complexion signal if the ideals of beauty are Caucasian-Western centric? Perhaps the fashion media have found a new way to wear Black face. I'd say they signal to ladies their obligation to the marketed Caucasian gender role rewards them with an ideal males lust and African Americans large..Luh-arge penis stereotypes. A proper pageant contestant, such as those in Nigeria, and frequenters of upperclass cultural norms are required to retire secondhand and counterfeit clothing/accessories that flood the market. Only authentic (Nigerian) couture is allowed while they are representing the pageant as winner or groomed contestant. (Balogun)

Winners of the Nepal Pageant were not allowed to marry for one year , the year representing the pageant in Miss World and at events ( Alzaga). For a pageant that allegedly“empowers women”, taking away her right to relationship seems a premium failure in respect of their freedom. (Crawford) A premium failure by contestants to oblige as well. Standards in Texas pageants also had stipulations against marriages, against having children, tolerance for annulments and further expectation that the contestants would be in high school.(Mosel-Talavera) Not all requirements related to the same pageant.

One author was also a Texas ex pageant model. She recounted her experience,.

“I am standing on stage in my highschool auditorium wearing the most expensive dress I have ever bought from Foleys, waiting for the announcer to call my name. Everyone told me I was a shoo-in to win the title. I was not even nervous as she called out the runners-up, still thinking my name would be next. “ And the winner is … What? Not Me?” Texas is also known for its biased education dept materials, being an origin of many christianity inspired sex cults and race supremacist camps. For a female to believe her high school preparation is the best source for speaking in any form to the intelligence of all women, especially here, is bald faced mockery.

A highschooler of a single mother saw pageants as a means to get money for college. Through her experience contacting attorneys and other professionals for sponsorships, building a website, and being visible to the public she was contacted by teachers to speak to their classes about her experience. “Emma” as the article infers her name.. said

“ Now I work for two different attorneys. I didn’t expect that you know. All kinds of things people messaged me about my platform and how they feel about my on-stage question, my website got a lot of people to notice it. So, I had teachers that went and saw my website and messaged me about coming and speaking to their classes and like I wish I knew all this stuff going into it. It was like I really set a foundation for myself for next year I think. It’s pretty cool. And I know that sounds cheesy or cliché but

it is honestly the truth and basically pushing myself because once I found

myself around other females who were just as ambitious as I was or as I am.” (Bowers)

The concept these females are experiencing is known as habitus. By meeting other contestants who have found meaning in pageants they too have a common vocabulary and ladder of goals neatly set before them. For women who feel baffled and smothered under the weight and anxiety of being objectified, pageants do have experiential benefits along with the potential among bad actors to be experientially sexually assaulted. That a female knows and can identify a ladder of goals may be a model of education that can be implemented elsewhere and more productively. If pageants have a credible impact on a females life, that impact is offset so severely with removing ethnic markings and norms. The pageants really just brand their contestants for events further up the hierarchy like Miss World, Miss Universe, Miss Infinity and beyond.

What I've concluded from these readings is that pageants reward the Grant Cardone proverb “ Best Known Beats Best”. A former pageant contestant working for an attorney makes the legal field seem beautiful. Wealth and fame is not just wealth , its vanity. If the lifestyles of the wealthy were papered over with ugly people, nobody would want it. Why is a good speaking 'broad' an appealing take for the Hollywood and Vegas bruno's? They need a good girl who'll manage a maid to clean the house good, sound intelligent in public, have some loyalty to criminal organizations, and announce her husbands name for all sorts of functions, awards and novelties her pride can glow alongside. Meanwhile the crowd can either respect her poise or be among the low classes remaining low class regarding the guest of honor's subtle associate. ' yeah , I'm banging her”. Perhaps its more the audience needing poise. Donald Trumps association with First Lady Melania spoke clearly of his personal codependence on her first as a White House nude centerfold. How pageants are accepted in a community is an age, state , local and national chaos of sexual maturity imbalances and education gaps.

On another angle I have captured the subtext of the pageants brand. Pageants are a measure of the females acquisition of themes from the community that are specifically dedicated to making her a good mother. “Critics from the political right, on the other hand, tend to focus on what they view as a loss of women’s purity, submissiveness, and modesty, virtues identified with nationalistic representations of ‘traditional’ cultures”(Crawford) The conservatives have made a complaint about their own side far behind the lines of rhetoric. The female is still submissive with shallow appreciations of her luxury stake. She is surely kept modest with abusive manners training and remaining under the thumb of pageant officials or talent agents for the remainder of her career. The rhetoric doesn't match the reality. Conservatives conceal that norms of oppression are not absent from the gender roles of rich couples either For each class a different type of submissive female for tradition.

Pageant and fashion event locations are hand in hand with the promotion of luxury and recreational items like sports cars, wine, cigars, yachts, boxing/mma fights, These items are considered to have high cultural capital relative to the western world. Wealth is often presumed to have high cultural capital.. Wealth is also presumed to have privileges.. like raping a girl and then threatening to humiliate her with a tabloid smear and a legal battle she couldn’t afford. Ask NFL lawyers what services their players require when police reports surface. Wealth has such cultural capital that the justice system allows criminals out of lockup based on their word to return to trial. The pageant is an advertisement of women inviting them to feel impressed by their changes when the most extensive modifications are still very above her awareness.

The only advantage a female has from the pageant developed microphone skill is to be free to say whatever wise viewpoint elevates her credibility and by whatever lengths she finds necessary to bring down anyone else.. Her voice of empowerment must be on her own terms and not under anyone elses by contract, marriage prenup or otherwise. Well, as long as she's making good decisions and prioritizing the public health ahead of her own vanity and fame. If she chooses to trade even the smallest of her rights of federally guaranteed self protection and safety then she has traded the entirety of her dignity and her own respect of being a female.

Citations

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Balogun O M Gender & SOCIETY, Vol. 26 No. 3, June 2012 357-381

Bowers E(2016) Social Stereotyping and Self-Esteem of Miss America Pageant Contestants. Walden University. Thesis

Crawford M, Khati D, Regmi A (2008.Feb)Globalizing Beauty:Attitudes Toward Beauty Pageants Among Nepali Women. Feminism & Psychology.xx

Fredrickson, B.L., Roberts, T. (1997). Objectification Theory. Psychology of Women Quarterly.,

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Larsen D (2011-2012.Winter Spring) Miss America Beauty Pageant. pg31-33

Concientización: A Journal of Chicano & Latino Experience and Thought Vol 7 (1 & 2)

Matthews, Brook. (2003). Miss America Contestants and the Self: Evidence for Empowerment. Ronai,

C.R., Zsembik, B., Feagin, J. (1997) Everyday Sexism in the Third Millenium.

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McLaughlin EC (2019.Jul 22) Ex-Miss Michigan says pageant dethroned her for conservative views.CNN

Mosel-Talavera KM(2006)Growing Up Female In Texas:The Importance of Beauty Pageants In Texas Communities.A Woman's Touch Folklore Kenneth L Untiedt. University of North Texas Press

Mosk M, Ross B, Kreider R(2016.Mar 10)Trump Model: Felt Like 'Slave' Working for Donald's Agency.

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https://abcnews.go.com/Politics/trump-model-felt-slave-working-donalds-agency/story?id=37313993

Put E(2017)”They Think We're Stupid”. Jonkoping University.Thesis

Revesz R(2016.Oct12)Donald Trump boasted about meeting semi-naked teenagers in beauty pageants.IndependentUK,https://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/americas/donald-trump-former-miss-arizona-tasha-dixon-naked-undressed-backstage-howard-stern-a7357866.html

Tonn M B(2003)Miss America Contesters and Contestants: Discourse About Social “Also-Rans”Rhetoric & Public Affairs6, no. 1 (2003): 150-60. doi:10.1353/rap.2003.0037.

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#genderstudies #slavery #sexism #wage gap #Feminism #news #us labor department #hhs #complicity to market sexism

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davidmann95 · 4 years

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All-Star Superman #3

This is gonna be a tough one.

Not the toughest, mind you - that’s probably going to be #7. But after two issues of establishing the tone, aesthetics, and thematic concerns of the series, this is one of the pair of issues in All-Star that for the most part functions as a ‘normal’ Superman adventure story, though in this case one following up on the themes established by the previous issue, while #7 will set up the one coming after it. It’s also likely the most commonly critiqued issue of the series in retrospect its use of Lois Lane as an essentially passive figure to be fought over, and while her characterization here lends some interesting dimension to that choice, it’s hard to disagree it’s the series’ most unfortunate framing and substantial missed opportunity. None of that however can overrule that on examination, there’s still considerably more going on in here than the traditional tale of Superman beating down monsters and showing up bullies, the harsh slap to the face of reality for Clark after his actions last issue and his redemption in the form of showing what makes him different from his predecessors as the strongman-savior template.

So I haven’t talked the lettering much in this series - it is, they say, the invisible art - but Phil Balsman absolutely kills it here with KRULL WILL EAT YOU!, and the decision on the next page to render the ZEE ZEE ZEE ZEE of Jimmy Olsen’s signal watch in the font of the title pages is absolutely inspired, nevermind what he does with the Ultrasphinx later on. The bombast of the bastard lizard prince of the underworld and his cronies wreaking havoc aside though, what this page succinctly does is set up the entire conflict of the issue. It’s not just a monster, it’s a monster out of the past mimicking the cover of Action Comics #1, and apparently by way of terraforming Metropolis via steam clouds, trying to take control of Superman’s ‘world’. From Krull to Steve Lombard (“You tell me what a spaceman flying around in his underwear can give her that a good old hunk of prime American manhood can’t?”) to Samson and Atlas to the Ultrasphinx, this is a story of Superman up against dinosaurs in his image.

Ironically, however, it’s this Superman vs. Bros comic that has perhaps the most Bro sensibilities in the series. Per Morrison on the subject, “For that particular story, I wanted to see Superman doing tough guy shit again, like he did in the early days and then again in the 70s, when he was written as a supremely cocky macho bastard for a while. I thought a little bit of that would be an antidote to the slightly soppy, Super–Christ portrayal that was starting to gain ground. Hence Samson’s broken arm, twisted in two directions beyond all repair. And Atlas in the hospital. And then Superman’s got his hot girlfriend dressed like a girl from Krypton and they’re making out on the moon.” That’s not unto itself a problem; it’s a precursor to Morrison’s t-shirt and jeans reinvention in that sense (which leapt back from the 70s to the 30s for inspiration), and when Superman himself finally gets his own back here it’s more than deserved. But it becomes a problem when Lois at theoretically her literal most empowered does little with her new powers and is framed narratively as a prize to be won in this ‘game’ of godlings, with Superman literally muttering “What do I have to do to make you keep your hands off my girl?” Morrison seems to be somewhat aware of the problems given Lois’s reasons for playing along (which are actually rather significant to the point of the issue) and her amused distaste at the suggestion of being ‘won’, and the issue is ultimately something of an argument against the macho storytelling tropes that drive that thinking. But it’s a far cry from the nuanced look at her and Superman’s relationship last issue offered, and there’s no virtue in overlooking it. As will be demonstrated again later on in the series in less structurally-embedded but more pointed ways, this was written almost 15 years ago, and mistakes were made.

Now we get to the book’s superheroed-up takes on Samson and Atlas, who are such delightful assholes. Occupying the Mxyzptlk/Prankster/Bizarro-in-his-friendlier-moods role of being the enemies to make Superman go ‘oh god, this guy’ as much as direct counterparts to him, they’re basically fratboys tooling around history and getting into trouble together, and Superman’s clearly had to clean up their messes before. They’re the champions of myth who operate by a morality that in no way precluded thievery, deception, and murder in pursuit of their grand ‘heroic’ conquests, the alpha male swaggering dipshit dudebro operating on Superman’s scale. And as much as they’re a pair of craven dumbasses who literally compare cock-sizes in here who Lois has no real interest in, their appearance is also the first and one of the only times in the series Superman puffs his chest out and does some traditional iconic posing, and he has good reason to be threatened - they’re trying to ply her with gifts and tales of miraculous feats basically exactly the same way he did last issue. He may have started to come clean with her, but he’s still playing his old Silver Age nervous bachelor games, and now that she’s got powers and costume to match his she’s showing him exactly where that bullshit is going to get him, teaching him a lesson just like he tried to teach her so many once upon a time.

As we’re around the midpoint of the issue, let’s talk the art. Quitely and Grant aren’t as showy with the tricks and effects as the first two issues; the one real noticeable structural thing is a consistent rhythm of zooming in-and-out on our four leads throughout the issue to keep a sense of momentum to a story mostly driven by conversation, culminating in the hyper zoom-ins of the Ultrasphnix sequence. But GOD there are so many perfect little details in here. The bow coming undone on Lois’s present, the glow of the super-serum (it feels so right that it literally glows, the ultimate alchemical potion), Lombard’s bouquet for Lois’s birthday party while Jimmy is bringing a conch of some sort as a presumed gift to whoever they’ll be meeting at Poseidonis, Jimmy’s happy-meal looking signal watch WHICH HAS A WRISTBAND SHAPED LIKE AN S, more beautiful Metropolis architecture and a good look at how the Daily Planet globe actually works, poor dopey-lookin’ Krull bursting through the satellite twirling around like a cat in a half-second of freefall, the Chronomobile, the far-off monumental stone towers of the Subterranosauri, the glow of the lava fading out as Samson reveals Superman’s fate, the bioelectric crackle around Atom-Hotep, mermaids waving up at Superman and Lois, and of course the pinup. It’s such a damn pretty book.

Just before the arrival of the Ultrasphnix, we have the mythic architecture of the series explained to us, naturally by the figure out of myth:

As noted by Morrison, the exact nature of the 12 challenges are never explained within the story because it’s only in retrospect that history will declare those specific feats as being of note in light of them being Superman’s last accomplishments before his ‘death’; Superman himself isn’t sure how many he’s done later on. It’s an apt if seemingly out-of-left-field bit of commentary on the way epics of the kind this story itself aspires towards are reinterpreted over time, but hindsight being 20/20? That this is a story of a massively iconic, archetypal take on Superman being brought out of the public eye to his physical and emotional lowest at every turn (hence the ACTUAL structure of the series being a solar arc across the sky, from day to a nighttime journey through the underworld and back again), that is now generally thought of being a fun fluffy story of how great and perfect Superman is, entirely bears it out. The 12 Labors of Superman are what Clark’s roughest year looks like to the awestruck onlookers, both in and as it turns out in large part out of text.

After Samson and Atlas seemingly show nobler colors by offering Superman aid in a genuinely stirring moment before Superman accurately dismisses it as the empty machismo posturing it is, Ultrasphinx - yet another super-champion of the past, this one an amoral god rather than a ‘hero’ on a quest - poses the unanswerable question of what happens when the unstoppable force meets the immovable object with Lois both alive and dead until he does (one of those unions of opposites Morrison loves), basically creating a high-stakes literalization of their relationship. Superman and Lois Lane had been playing will-they-or-won’t-they for almost 70 years at the time this was published (culturally at least), her trying to pry into his secrets while he screwed around with her in turn, running in circles until we finally reach the acidic psychodrama of Superman’s Forbidden Room and something has to break one way or another. And Superman answers that it’s time to surrender. Has he inspired the car ad we see at the end of the issue, or vice-versa? Either way, it’s illustrating by example what the deal is with the super-labors.

Superman, learning his lesson as he has and showing his greater heroism stems from his nobility, intellect, and willingness to transcend his worst instincts, still takes a minute to teach Samson and Atlas a well-deserved lesson (paired with that absolutely perfect shot of the rock cracking on Lois’s head), before taking us to my absolute favorite statement on why Superman loves Lois Lane which also connects back to the idea of surrender, and the iconic moon shot. And as Superman holds her as she falls asleep, his Clark voice in all its vulnerable humanity manifests itself as he tries to propose; the tough guys of the past wanted Lois for a day when she was finally operating on ‘their level’, Superman ‘lowers’ himself to his most human alongside her reassumed mortality as he tries to tell her he wants her for what lifetime he has left. We’re only halfway there at most, he still hasn’t admitted his condition and she still can’t accept that he’s Clark, but this is Superman taking his first step along his quiet character arc.

Additional notes

* Interestingly, the original solicitation for this issue declared “Meanwhile, Lex Luthor's plans simmer as the criminal mastermind exerts his charisma and intellect over the hardcore inmates who share his maximum-security prison.” One of many bits that changed in the process of actually putting the book together.

* Perhaps this story of very manly men out of time doing manly stuff and getting their asses kicked for it across generations is represented in part by Krull being the son of a king whose battle cry is KRULL WILL EAT YOUR CHILL-DRUNN! That might be reading a *bit* much into it though. That Morrison describes Krull in backmatter however as “the living embodiment of the savage, swaggering ‘R Complex’ or reptile brain” definitely plays into the ideas of the issue as I understood them.

* Jimmy’s declaration of “Ms. Grant, Mr. Lombard, I’m taking immediate steps” is a perfect little moment for him - he’s calm and on top of things, but there’s also that little touch of naive ego in thinking that it’s thanks to him that Superman’s going to notice the dinosaur invasion of Metropolis.

* In backmatter and interviews Morrison had substantially further fleshed-out backstories for several of the new characters here. Samson is indeed the original champion, plucked from his era by a pair of foolish time-travelers searching for a savior; instead, enamored and corrupted by future culture he stole their malfunctioning Chronomobile and went on adventures to slake his lust, for fortune, flesh, and adventure alike. Atlas meanwhile is the boisterous yet quietly burdened young prince of the New Mythos, a society of super-godlings torn between New Elysium and Hadia, Morrison’s vision of a Jack Kirby Olympian saga for DC following in the wake of Thor’s Norse myths rather than the full-blown invention of the New Gods. And the Ultrasphinx “is the super-champion of a lost Egyptian Atomic Age in the 80th century BC. When he crashed to Earth his otherworldly science founded the advanced, ancient dynasty of Atem-Hotep [sic], a civilization eventually destroyed by the nuclear war that left Northern Africa a desert”. A. Morrison backmatter rules and you should read it whenever you get the chance, and B. This notion of proto-civilizations mirroring the eventual legends of a mere handful of millennia past is one he followed much further in Seven Soldiers of Victory with Shining Knight and its antediluvian Camelot.

* The main inspiration for this particular story was the frequent use of ancient strongmen as rivals to the Man of Steel in the Silver Age, which Morrison noted preferring to the use of analogue characters like Majestic for their broad cultural standing, culminating in this:

...though with Atlas swapped in, as Marvel already had the definitive take on Hercules in superhero comics (and, one imagines, since putting Hercules in the comic where Superman gets 12 labors would have had to be addressed), though he’d tackle him later on in the...controversial Wonder Woman: Earth One. Morrison’s analysis of this cover in Supergods basically lays out the thesis of this issue quite cleanly: “This was what happened when you couldn’t make decisions or offer any lasting commitment. Samson pounced on your best girl. And for Superman, it was a horrific challenge to his modernity. Was he really no better than these archaic toughs? Or could he prove himself stronger, faster than any previous man-god?” Fun fact: I myself hate this comic because it’s an entirely standard issue that fully returns to status quo by the end, sullying the good name and promise of Imaginary Stories for nothing more than fooling readers into thinking this was one of the issues were anything could really happen. Shameful false advertisement.

* Worth noting this is a rare instance where the glowing-red angry heat vision eyes work for me. Those two were real dicks and had it coming, and for that matter Superman looking for all the world a wrathful god promising banishment to a very different sort of underworld more than underscores his relative position next to the suitably abashed adventurers.

* It’s an interesting choice to use Poseidonis here, the capital city of Aquaman - it’s a sensible place for Superman to travel (though the real implications regarding the Justice League in this world won’t be for awhile yet), but it’s Tritonis that’s the undersea home to Superman’s onetime love, the mermaid Lori Lemaris. Perhaps Morrison just didn’t want a subset of readers in the know and pining after all these decades for Clark to find succor in the arms of his fishy love to dwell on that particular what-could-have-been; either way, Atlantis in general as what sprung up from a devastated ancient civilization is a perfectly logical inclusion for this issue in general.

* Lois’s description of her super-senses is not only lovely, but sets up the victory of #12 right in the first act. Additionally Lois keeping a cactus is such a perfect little bit for her character - it’ll prick ya, but she’s working to keep the thing alive.

* The journeys to the moon and ‘underworld’ for this issue, but in playful and romantic contexts, marks this issue as the (depending on whether you read it as a 4 or 6 issue arc) final installment before All-Star Superman begins its structural descent into the night.

* A very happy birthday to Justin Martin (and a day-before-birthday to myself) with this, annotations of the issue of All-Star Superman about a birthday. Birthdays themselves being a signpost of time and evolution, a forward march, making it a potent occasion to highlight in this series in general and this installment in particular.

#All Star Superman #Superman #Lois Lane #Grant Morrison #Frank Quitely #Jamie Grant #Phil Balsman #Bronze Age #Sexism #Art #Opinion #Analysis

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