#biscuit tin camera

[worldendpinhole]

テスト撮影

Biscuit tin pinhole camera

ILFORD HP5 PLUS 400

[jayteacups]

Got me thinking of Levi going to get his wisdom teeth removed. Everyone is suuuper excited with phones at the ready because he’s no doubt going to say some weird ass shit. They gotta record him. 📸

Instead he’s super super normal and straight faced. Super tired 😪 It’s only once they put their phones away that he starts mumbling nonsense.

TAY i’m so sorry this has taken so long. I’m FINALLY clearing out my inbox and drafts folder and completely forgot that this has been sitting here for like... months. It’s been finished for ages, I just forgot to queue it up to post 😭😭 pls forgive me

Anyways enjoy these hcs. hope this isn’t too cringe

Levi getting his wisdom teeth removed

Now, he obviously did not want anybody other than you to know he was getting his wisdom teeth removed, clearly because he a) actually gets pretty nervous for any medical procedure, and b) does not want people to record him high on pain meds 

Somehow, though, Hange finds out (because they always find out) 

And they set up camp at your and Levi’s shared apartment to surprise you two when you drive him home from the appointment 

You groan and sigh upon unlocking the door and just hearing many footsteps pattering towards the front door, and you instantly raise your eyebrows at the culprit. Hange just shrugs and says they had to be there

Connie’s struggling to contain his laughter as he and Sasha not-so-discreetly take their phones out and start recording him. You try and whack the phones away but Mikasa, with a straight face, pulls up her hand-held DS camera saying something about this going in the family home-made videos (because the Ackerman family--and by that I mean Kuchel because she’s alive and well in this universe--always makes home-made video compilations of the year), Historia high-fives Mikasa, and you sigh. To his credit Eren looks terrified that he even got roped into this at all, the poor boy is sweating like CRAZY. Jean’s not faring much better to be completely honest. Weirdly enough, Armin looks mildly entertained.

They’re expecting Levi to be super loopy and out of it, but other than feeling a little woozy and needing to put an arm around you so that he can stumble into the house without the risk of tripping, he seems perfectly lucid. More like he has a bad headache than being on pain meds.

Immediately upon seeing the audience, he gives them his trademark glare, swipes for Connie’s phone and successfully snatches it out of the boy’s hand, and gives it to you for safekeeping. He’s cussing them out as normal, telling them to ‘get out of [his] hair and leave him be’ without any actual bite to it, and even though there’s gauze in his mouth and his jaw is swollen he sounds relatively normal. 

Sighing in disappointment everyone puts away their phones, which makes you sigh with relief as everybody skirts around you, letting you help Levi get settled on the sofa, even as he continues to protest that he can sit down and get cozy by his damn self, thank you very much. 

Though they did initially show up in the hopes they’d catch him saying something stupid, the group is willing to help you take care of him (to which he protests that he doesn’t need half a dozen mother hens) so they stick around, make soup, clean up after the mess they made (because Sasha broke into the biscuit tins whilst they were waiting for you and Levi to come home)

All the while, you’re preparing an ice pack for his swollen face and constantly reciting to yourself the exact words the doctors told you about how long the bandages and gauze need to stay on etc. etc., and everybody is now so hyperfocused on making sure he’s comfortable that they almost miss it when Levi slowly shuffles up to you on the couch, swaddled in blankets, and mumbles ‘if i was a coffee order at starbucks, what would i be?’

Everyone who’s in earshot freezes. You stifle a laugh. ‘you don’t even drink coffee let alone like it, why’d you wanna know? besides, i’m sure there’s a buzzfeed quiz for that if you’re really curious.’ 

He’s shaking his head, mumbling something incoherently, and when you ask him to speak up, he says ‘I don’t trust buzzfeed’. 

‘Why not?’

It goes onto a very strange tangent about a conspiracy theory that buzzfeed is one huge social experiment by some shady private corporation that keeps their identity a secret, then he talks a bunch about how he can hear the voices of all the flies and bugs he’s squished over his lifetime. 

you usher everybody out before they can begin recording or witness him tearing up over all the bugs he’s killed, but then he turns around and says ‘but if I were a coffee i’d be black coffee. black like my soul’

This is the breaking point for you and you cackle. ‘sure,’ you’re getting out inbetween wheezes, ‘sure you are’. He’s immediately falling asleep afterwards leaving you to just sit there on the couch giggling. 

You tell Levi everything he says when he’s lucid again and he vehemently denies everything. especially the part where he felt sorry about all the creepy crawlies he’d killed. 

Levi x Reader Masterlist | AOT Masterlist

[ecoamerica]

Watch the 2024 American Climate Leadership Awards for High School Students now: https://youtu.be/5C-bb9PoRLc

The recording is now available on ecoAmerica's YouTube channel for viewers to be inspired by student climate leaders! Join Aishah-Nyeta Brown & Jerome Foster II and be inspired by student climate leaders as we recognize the High School Student finalists. Watch now to find out which student received the $25,000 grand prize and top recognition!

[teepeecider]

Cider bringing people together! 

23 years after a chance juxtaposition at the First Battle of Gaza, a chance encounter in a South Hams pub, The Exeter Inn, at Modbury, in 1941 brought together Harry Meatherel and Bert Causey. South Hams is a renowed cider producing area of Devon.

The meeting, over a pint of cider, brought together Modbury men Harry Meatherel with Bert Causey, the landlord and a former Infantry Sergeant, and the poignant photograph he took. 

The photo shows a derelict 45 ton British tank, lying astride Turkish trenches near Gaza, a tank that Harry drove into the first battle of Gaza in 1917.

The photo very nearly didn’t exist as the troops were banned from taking cameras into action, but they used to hide cameras in biscuit tins and then bury them in the sand to be retired later.

Harry Meatherel set his mug of cider on the bar of the Devonshire inn, and gazed wistfully at the picture he held. ‘That’s her,’ he said softly. ‘That’s her. She was a beauty before she was knocked about.”

A few days before, Harry had been chatting to a stranger about mechanised warfare in the Western Desert. He explained that he drove in the first tank at the first battle of Gaza in 1917.

To which Bert replied: “I saw you scramble out of that tank. I took a picture of her afterwards hoping I should meet you some day. The picture is at home. It’s yours.”

Bert Cawsey had gone into battle alongside Harry’s tank, before ending up as the “jovial” landlord of the Exeter Inn! 

Harry then hung it on his landing  so when he went to bed, he could see how lucky he was

“Out of a crew of five, there were two survivors - one was blinded, and Harry who was injured #cider #ciderstories #cidertales

[rjh2082]

Real-life Animation

This is a short animation demonstrating a slow-in-slow-out ability, with real footage to serve as a setting. 

I had a lot of fun with this animation, particularly because the design for the cat character depicted was very easy to work with, consisting of merely a pitch-black mass. I chose such a simple design as I wanted to focus more on my animating abilities themselves, as well as not wanting it to clash with the background and footage too much. There is demonstration of a slow-in-slow-out movement in the cat losing balance and falling, but also of a wave cycle with the tail. I liked my idea to include a quick pan down at the end to really sell the cat’s “presence” in the room, anchoring it to a single spot in the clip (on top of my biscuit tin, in this case) so that it remained there and didn’t move with the camera.

I suppose what I would like to explore next time is more smoothness, as well as more attention to the detail of the character itself if I have the time to spare. Perhaps it could do with more keyframes and longer delays so that it does not rush the viewer too much, but I appreciate the short sweetness of this animation.

[berlinbisque]

Highlights: My Mini Barista

Mini Post bigger article had been pre-scheduled along with this post on www.lilacnights.com/post/my-little-barista

Click on the images for better quality, it looks best however in my camera roll cuz it gets rasterised once published on twitter or other social media apps

Part 1 I realised I wasn't the only one to be obsessed with bears 🐻 when as a grown up, I came across Ralph Lauren's mascot, we both love that classic British heritage style & Varsity, Ivy League stuff, well like minds think alike... I have a lot of items with bears on them, including my phone cover, a chenille velvet sweater, bedroom booties, socks... I can't resist anything with a bear print or motif. I got the small sign board for 250/- it was on special offer and it comes with a chord I wanted something small there as I already have a lot of paintings, the antler jar is for mini marshmallows and that Vintage Coffee Tin is one of my most favourite purchases, it was also on sale (599/-) and what's so special is that it has a golden metal latch instead of an ordinary lid, I wanted a tin box cuz they are lighter than ceramic ones so I got it to avoid weighing down the counter, the lid has a deep brown espresso shade in matte plastic, overall quality is really good, next, that Emerald green marble tray has beautiful matte golden handles which look very stylish and sophisticated. I was not able to find anything like that on other sites as in such handles in particular... I'll be getting golden spoons/stirrers to keep there (I wanted the antler ones but they are currently sold out, I wish I would've taken them earlier) the sprinklers are great too they come in a mini basket tray and I picked croissants & biscuits instead cupcake cuz these look more realistic and croissants go better with coffee and I'm very happy with my choice cuz they look even more cute in real life, better than the photos. I'll be keeping another small creamer for condensed milk (cold coffee).

Click on the image for better quality

Part 2 This table is my favourite, I won't weigh it down much, it comes with a small section at the back for cable wires and chords and you can use them in a concealed manner by keeping the cover which also has a slit for tablets, iPad etc. I can use this table later on as a writing desk or work station. I'll be keeping it clean and covering all the necessary areas with lilac and cream coloured table mats (they are intricately woven with golden metallic thread) and adding a mini wooden rack below for Syrups and Fudges - for now I have picked Caramel & Chocolate fudge and Dark Chocolate Cookie & Vanilla. I also added this mini Turkish pourer (click on it to open the pic) for warm Chocolate Sauce 450/- I managed to get that Barista bear somehow as RL's bears were obviously very expensive and this one was not from the kid's range, he has a gingham shirt in the same green colour & grey dungarees, it's difficult to find good quality Teddy bears in India (they are usually very garish, either red, yellow or magenta, maroon :/ or cheesy for gf/bf 6 ft tall) but I managed to get this one, I also realised I had a refund voucher of 500/- since 2019 luckily they had kept it there so I was surprised when I saw the total bill amount, my bear just costed me 590/-

Please click on it for better quality

That is my Barista Bear... doesn't he look straight out of Ralph's Coffee shop? I was a bit worried about the rose but now I feel it'll add that old world charm as in it reminds me of those romantic novelty gifts you would get in the 90s.

Xoxo

Zara Sauleh

[jeongyunhoed]

8 Stories, 8 Movies from the Golden Age (1930s to 1960s).

It’s the golden age and 8 men are the most sought-after actors in Hollywood. Lights, camera, action!

A tale of love and suspense, Park Seonghwa is haunted by the memory of his deceased wife, a shadow looming over the halls of his mansion. When he marries again, his new wife now comes to realize that even in death, his wife still remains. 

Daphne

Warnings: Mentions of murder, death, suicide, and illness. Might have some innuendos, might not. But I’m putting these warnings out there regardless. 

Other things to note: There are OCs. I might mention other idols (most likely NCT). 

A/N: This is the first series of 8, and broken into three parts. Tag list is open if anyone is interested. Enjoy. 

Masterlist

Part 1 

An overcast day at a resort. She managed to get away from the crowds of men in suits and women snootily drinking cups of coffee and tea, among those women being her employer, Mrs. Oh. She walked along the pathways, sketchbook and pencils tucked under her arm as she admired the perfectly manicured gardens. She had been here before, they always made it a point to come back every now and then, mostly for her employer to rub elbows with the elite. That didn’t interest her much. She preferred the simpler things and was more than content with her situation, save for her employer herself. 

From a slight distance, she could see a figure standing near the edge of the cliff. It was a man, tall and lean and fashionably dressed with jet-black hair and his hands were in the pockets of his trousers. She stopped in her place, observing what he was doing. He seemed to be looking over the cliff a little too closely, almost as if he was about to jump off. 

“No! Don’t do it!” She yelled, hurrying towards him. 

The man turned around. He was incredibly handsome yet his expression only betrayed confusion. “Excuse me?” 

She paused. “I-I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to stare, it’s just because you were standing way too close to the edge, I thought you were about to-” 

“Jump off?” He said. “I wasn’t going to jump off. What are you doing here?”

“I was only walking by when I saw you and I-” 

“Then keep walking.”  

“Sorry,” She muttered, feeling the embarrassment sink in. He passed by her without another word. He looked troubled, and she was certain that if he wasn’t thinking of jumping off, he seemed to be thinking of something else that was just as sad, or as his expression was, troubling. She watched him get in his car and drive away. She turned to go back down the path where she came from, figuring that Mrs. Oh was probably yelling for her already, or at least sending a waiter to look for her. 

That was her life, a paid companion to an aging socialite or as what many might have bluntly described it, caregiver. Of course, she also knew Mrs. Oh would never dare use the more direct term, as it would only imply that she was getting too old and that she couldn’t keep up with her peers, both young and those of her age. 

By the time she arrived, she saw Mrs. Oh already sitting by the door, sipping coffee and helping herself with a few biscuits from the tin on the table. She sat down across from her employer. 

“I don’t think I’d want to come back here after the peak season. There’s hardly a single well-known person in this place,” Mrs. Oh frowned, putting her cup down. “This coffee’s gotten cold, waiter!” She raised her hand to try and get a server’s attention. 

“I don’t think they can hear you,” She replied. 

“Then make yourself useful, will you? What are you being paid for?” Mrs. Oh said, almost gesturing for her to get up from her seat until she stopped, her eyes lighting up like a wolf having seen its prey. “Oh my, that’s Park Seonghwa, look, he’s coming this way,” She gestured for her to look over. 

Her eyes widened slightly when she saw the same man she saw earlier by the cliff now coming towards them. Mrs. Oh knew him, and she figured it wasn’t surprising that she did, from the way he was dressed and the air about him as he approached them. “What are you looking so surprised for?” Mrs. Oh asked her, having noticed her expression. 

“Nothing, I just-I just saw him earlier on my walk,” She said quietly. 

Mrs. Oh ignored her. “Mr. Park Seonghwa! How do you do? I’m Mrs. Oh, do sit down and have some coffee,” She held her hand out to him and Seonghwa gently shook it. “You can go now, Mr. Park and I will have coffee.” 

As soon as she was about to get up, Seonghwa shook his head. “I think you’re mistaken,” He glanced at her. “Both of you should have coffee with me,” He stopped a waiter that was passing by. “Excuse me, I’d like three coffees at this table.” 

The waiter nodded and walked off, and Seonghwa sat down across from them. She felt his gaze from time to time and the more she couldn’t help but look back, the more she noticed how handsome he really was. Yet, there was also a kind look to him, a big shift from his troubled aura earlier. 

“I recognized you just as soon as you came in. So, how are you enjoying your stay here, Mr. Park? I assume you’ve been playing the tables at the nearby casino? You must be very good at baccarat,” Mrs. Oh said, her voice dripping with sweetness that it almost made her a little sick. 

Seonghwa smiled, thanking the waiter for bringing over the pot and pouring coffee for them before walking off. “I’m afraid I’ve gotten bored of those games,” He answered, taking a sip. 

“I don’t blame you one bit. If I lived in a place like the Fontaine, I would never really come here anyway,” Mrs. Oh replied with a high-pitched chuckle that she reserved when talking to someone in her social circle in public. “I heard it’s one of the biggest places in the country.” 

“Would you like some more coffee?” Seonghwa sat up, one hand already holding the pot and poised to pour. 

“Oh yes, thank you, Mr. Park,” Mrs. Oh smiled, as the man poured some in her cup. 

“And you?” Seonghwa turned to her. “Would you like some more coffee?” He asked. 

“Oh, n-no thank you, I’m fine,” She managed to say. 

“How are you enjoying this place? Or aren’t you enjoying it?” He asked, his tone was a lot softer this time. 

She felt her cheeks heat up. “It’s slightly artificial, at least to me,” She muttered, putting her cup down. 

Mrs. Oh side-eyed her. “Girls her age, spoiled, aren’t they? Anyone would give their eyes just to be able to come here.” 

“Wouldn’t that defeat the purpose?” Seonghwa smiled from behind his cup and she couldn’t help but purse her lips to stifle a laugh. 

“Are you staying here very long? Now that we’ve found each other again, I hope we do see each other a lot here,” Mrs. Oh asked him. 

“No I’m not, I’m afraid,” He replied. “Are you?” 

“We’re staying quite a bit, yes,” Mrs. Oh replied. “Maybe she can make herself useful and help you with your bags.” 

“I’m afraid I don’t have much of those either. I’ve always said, he who travels fast tends to travel alone, you probably haven’t heard of it, excuse me,” Seonghwa put his cup down, got up and walked off. 

The two of them exchanged looks, Mrs. Oh looking particularly taken aback by his abrupt departure. She helped her stand, handing over her cane that she had leaning by the chair. “Well, what do you make of that?” She muttered. “...Was he intending to be funny? He must not have realized-” 

She led Mrs. Oh to the elevator, glancing back every now and then in case he was still around. The doors opened. “Going up?” The elevator operator asked, and they nodded, Mrs. Oh still trying to make sense of what just happened. 

“He probably mustn’t have realized it, poor thing. He’s probably still trying to cope with his wife’s death,” Mrs. Oh said as they got in. “They said he simply adored her.” 

~ 

She went to sleep that night thinking of her unusual encounter with Seonghwa. It seemed too good to be true what happened the previous day. He told her off one moment, he was having coffee with her the next. Even with his shift in mood, she found him charming, and it wasn’t at all surprising knowing that he was once off the market. But knowing that he was once married and now a widower as Mrs. Oh had said, made her think that men like him don’t usually hang around with girls of her sort. 

Leaving Mrs. Oh to eat her lunch the next day, she brought her sketchbook and pencils to go on another walk along the path, partly hoping that she would see him again. She entered the hotel’s restaurant, making a beeline for the table that only seated one person and as she sat down, she accidentally knocked over the small vase of flowers on the table. Water spilled out and she got up, flustered and trying her hardest to clean it up before the water could flow out any further. “Oh I’m so sorry,” She apologized profusely, while a few waiters gathered around the small puddle to try and clear up. 

As she stood back up, clearing herself from the mess, she saw Seonghwa, seated at the next table. “You can leave that, you can join me here at my table,” He said to her, standing up as if to greet her and gestured to the empty seat across from him. 

“That’s-that’s very kind of you but I couldn’t-” 

“I wasn’t trying to be polite,” Seonghwa pointed out. “I should’ve already asked you to join me earlier if I knew you were that clumsy, but even if you weren’t, I’d still have invited you. Come, have lunch with me instead,” He said. “We don’t need to talk to each other if we don’t feel like it.” 

He was unlike anyone she had ever met, and it fascinated her all the more as she accepted his offer, carefully seating herself down at his table. It almost felt like she wasn’t worthy yet she couldn’t refuse his offer any more than she did the first time. “Thank you.” 

“Where’s your friend?” He asked. 

“She’s having her lunch in her room. She came down with a cold last night,” She replied. 

“I’m sorry for my rudeness yesterday,” Seonghwa said. “I don’t have much of an excuse but that I guess I’ve become a little more standoffish since I’ve been living on my own at the Fontaine,” He explained. “Is Mrs. Oh a relation to you? Or is she just a friend?”

“No, she’s my employer,” She said quietly. “I’m what you call a paid companion.” 

“I didn’t know companionship could be bought,” Seonghwa looked down at his cup of coffee. “Are you going out to sketch again?” He said. 

“Yes, yes I was,” She nodded, glancing at the thick book and the pencil case at the side of their table. 

“Where are you planning to go?” He asked. 

“I-I don’t know yet.” 

“I could drive you in my car,” Seonghwa offered. 

“That’s very kind of you, but-” 

“I insist,” Seonghwa reached over, his hand on top of hers. “Let me drive you around, you’ll get to a place you might like much faster.” 

She felt her heart pound at the contact. She was finding it hard to look him in the eye yet she could see from her peripheral vision that he was smiling. If he smiled at her any longer, she might’ve already fallen in love, and she had a feeling that she was going to. 

~ 

The drive outside the hotel and around the scenic parts of the resort was quiet between them. Even when Seonghwa was at the wheel, she couldn’t help but admire his features, and the calm look on his face as he steered, slowing down every now and then in front of spots that he felt she might like. She felt like Cinderella, being taken around by a handsome prince. Cinderella with a sketchbook in hand, she thought as they finally stopped at the spot she preferred. If anything, she’d want to sketch him instead of the view. 

She brought out her pencils and flipped her sketchbook open as she sat on the bench overlooking the view of the ocean. She noticed Seonghwa get out of the car as well, pacing back and forth at the side as the wind hit their faces. The troubled look on his face had returned, and it made her cross out the drawing she already had in front of her and turn the page over to a fresh one. 

“A perfectionist?” Seonghwa suddenly asked her, having observed her this whole time. 

“You’re not exactly a very easy subject,” She admitted. “Your expression keeps changing.”

Seonghwa looked a little surprised. “Wouldn’t it be better that you draw the view instead of me? The view out here is a lot nicer,” He said. 

She didn’t argue, and instead started sketching the waves that crashed against the rocks and the sky. She didn’t want to keep him waiting, and she paused, noticing that he was staring at the boat that was tied next to the rocks. It was making her curious as to what he was thinking and why he looked as troubled as he did, especially whenever he was looking out at the sea. 

“I went on vacation in this seaside village once,” She tried to keep up the conversation again. “I was at the souvenir shop when I saw a postcard that had a very big, very beautiful house on it,” She recalled. “I asked whose house it is and they said it’s the Fontaine.” 

“Yes, the Fontaine is beautiful, to everyone,” Seonghwa mumbled, sounding grim. “To me it’s just the place I was born in and the place I’ve lived in all my life.”

She sensed that there was something with the way he said it. She looked over at her drawing. It was of him, standing at the side, his handsome side profile prominent against the backdrop of the ocean. “Well, at least we came here when the weather is good, right? At least the weather is good here at this time of the year. The water’s warm, I could stay here all day,” She said. “It’s terrible when it rains, I heard a man drowned here last year, but I’m not really afraid of drowning, are you?” 

Seonghwa’s expression changed, from slightly troubled to even more so. “Why did you say that?” 

“I- Did I say something offensive? I didn’t mean to, Mr. Park,” She said. 

“Let’s go, I’ll take you home.” 

He passed by her again without another word, this time to go back to the car where he sat in the driver’s seat. She glanced over at him. She felt the need to apologize, yet there seemed to be no point in doing it. It made her remember what Mrs. Oh said about him. Seonghwa must still be grieving over his wife’s death. 

She returned to their suite at the hotel a little while later, still trying to process the definite shift in mood earlier. As she removed her shoes and jacket, she overheard Mrs. Oh talking to someone on the phone. 

“Yes, yes, I knew him well. I knew his wife too,” Mrs. Oh said. “She was the beautiful Daphne Yoo, you know. The most glamorous woman in this part of the world. She drowned, poor thing, while she was sailing near the Fontaine, god bless her soul.” 

It hit her. There it was, the reason why Seonghwa got upset. 

~ 

The days after that seemed like a blur to her, as they spent mornings driving around, taking the scenic routes. It was Seonghwa’s suggestion, that she spend hours in a day away from Mrs. Oh at a time, but she didn’t complain. She wouldn’t have it any other way when it came to him. He was really like a prince, mood swings and all. Every time he was near, she felt her heart pound, and her cheeks would heat up whenever his hand touched hers and it made her wonder how on Earth did she get the chance to spend time with someone as prominent as Park Seonghwa. 

“Sometimes I wish someone invented a machine that could bottle up a memory like how you do with perfume,” She mused as they looked out at the view from the car. “So whenever I wanted to revisit a memory, I’d just open it.” 

“What kind of moment would you like to keep?” Seonghwa turned to her, a small smile on his face as he turned the engine on and began to drive. 

“These-these last few days,” She said, a dreamy sigh escaping her. 

“Those bottles can sometimes hold demons that have their ways of popping out at you just when you’re desperate to forget about them,” He muttered. 

“Of course, of course,” She nodded. 

“Stop biting your nails,” He suddenly said. 

It made her sit up and put her hand down. “Sorry, I didn’t know I was,” She said quietly. “Can I ask you something, Mr. Park? Why did you ask me to come out here with you? I know you want to be kind, but why did you think of choosing me for your charity?” 

Seonghwa slowed down on the gas. “I asked you to come out with me because I wanted your company,” He said. “You’ve somehow blotted out the past for me more than all the lights in this place, but if you think I just asked you out of kindness or charity, you can get out and walk home instead,” He snapped as he stopped the car and pulled over. 

Before she knew it, hot tears were streaming down her face and she looked down, not wanting Seonghwa to see her cry. But he did, and his expression fell upon realizing what he said. “I’m-I’m sorry, I’m sorry for snapping at you like this, I didn’t mean to, it just came out,” He took the handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to her. “Wipe your eyes, blow your nose,” He murmured. 

“Thank you, Mr. Park,” She said, wiping the tears away from her face. 

“Please don’t call me Mr. Park,” He said. “Seonghwa, just Seonghwa. Sometimes my family calls me Mars.” 

The nickname made her chuckle in the midst of wiping her eyes. “That’s a cute nickname.” 

“I’m glad you think so,” He said. “Hwaseong, Seonghwa. Just call me Seonghwa, or Mars, whichever one you prefer.” 

“Okay,” She paused. “Seonghwa.” 

“But I did mean what I said, that I wanted your company, in fact I enjoy your company very much,” He admitted. “Can I ask you something this time?” He said, turning in his seat to face her. 

“Yes” She said. 

“I really want to kiss you, may I?” Seonghwa asked. 

She stopped, having wiped off what she hoped was the last tear that rolled down her face. She felt her heart soar, the butterflies in her stomach fluttering, and relief that he looked at her in that way. “Yes you may, Seonghwa.” 

He leaned in, pressing his lips on hers. 

~ 

She felt like she was on cloud nine, still in disbelief that a man like Seonghwa, Park Seonghwa, would take an interest in her. But she would later be presented with a rude awakening in the morning, when Mrs. Oh told her that they were leaving to go overseas. Just when she was going to be with Seonghwa that they had to leave. She had to tell him the news. She knocked on the door.

“Come in!” She heard him say, and she opened it, carefully stepping inside. 

Seonghwa was in his robe, his black hair slightly tousled but it only made him more handsome. “Hello” She said, wondering how she could break it to him. 

“What brings you here?” He asked, approaching her and enveloping her in an embrace. 

“I’ve come here to say goodbye, Seonghwa,” She said. “We’re leaving now.” 

Seonghwa pulled away, staring at her. “What do you mean?” 

“It’s true, we’re going now, and I’m-I was afraid I wasn’t going to see you again so I had to come here and tell you,” She said, her hands clasped in his. 

“Where is Mrs. Oh taking you to?” He asked, his voice laced with concern. 

“Overseas. New York, to be exact,” She looked down. “I know I’ll hate it. I’ll be miserable knowing I won’t get to see you.” 

Seonghwa squeezed her hand, catching a glimpse of himself at the mirror. “I’ll just finish getting ready. I won’t be long,” He said, pulling away completely and walking into the bathroom. 

“But I can’t stay much longer,” She said. 

“Can I ask you something? Which would you prefer, New York or the Fontaine?” He suddenly asked, his voice muffled from behind the slightly open bathroom door. 

She sighed. “Don’t joke about it. Mrs. Oh is waiting and I-I should probably say goodbye now.” 

“I’ll say it again,” Seonghwa peeked over. “Either you go to New York with Mrs. Oh or you come home to the Fontaine with me.” 

She stared at the sliver of his face, watching him finish brushing his teeth. “You mean you want an assistant or something?” She asked. 

“I’m asking you to marry me.” 

Her eyes widened at the sudden proposal. “Marry you?” 

Seonghwa returned, wiping his mouth with a hand towel. He approached her. “What do you think?” He looked into her eyes, as if trying to search for an answer in the way she looked at him. “Well, I guess my suggestion was a little too sudden, wasn’t it? I’m sorry for springing that onto you.” 

She shook her head. “No, no, I know what you said, it’s just, I don’t think I’m the sort of person men marry.” 

He tilted his head in slight confusion. “What do you mean?” 

“I mean, it’s just- I don’t belong in your world,” She looked down slightly, avoiding his gaze. 

“What kind of world do you think I live in?” Seonghwa took her hands in his. 

“The Fontaine, well, you know what I mean,” She admitted, squeezing his hands. She didn’t want to let go. 

“Shouldn’t I decide whether you belong in my world or not?” Seonghwa let go of one hand to tilt her chin up. “Of course, if you don’t love me, that’s something else entirely.” 

“I do love you,” She said. “I love you very much. I was crying all morning because I thought I wouldn’t be able to see you again.” 

Seonghwa smiled and cupped her face. “I’ll have to remind you of this one day, and you won’t believe me. Is it a yes?” 

“Yes,” She nodded. “I’ll marry you,” and he kissed her. 

~ 

She knew Mrs. Oh wasn’t going to take the news of her sudden engagement to Seonghwa well, at least as well as she would expect. In front of Seonghwa, she displayed the smile she knew all too well from her years working for her. It was the smile of someone who absolutely hated what was going on. 

When the two of them were alone, Mrs. Oh’s expression fell. “But of course you know why he’s marrying someone like you, don’t you?” She asked. “The empty house got on his nerves, he didn’t want to go on living on his own. Did you really think he actually loves you? He was married to Daphne Yoo, the most beautiful and the most cultured woman in this part of the world? Well goodbye, and good luck,” She turned to leave. “Mrs. Park.” 

[ecoamerica]

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[tinydooms]

Amuse me.... Rick and Evy ;)

Sorry for the delay! It’s been a crazy weekend over here and things are getting even more bonkers. I hope you like your story!

Tea and Ginger Biscuits

“Do you know, I’ve spent a part of nearly every year of my life in Egypt and I’ve never been to Aswan?”

Rick turned from the tiny hot plate on Evelyn’s office sideboard and raised his eyebrows. The statement had come from nowhere. “Miss Carnahan, I find that fact shocking in the extreme.”

“Don’t tease,” Evie said, signing off a catalogue card and adding it to the stack at her elbow. “You’re right, though. It is odd. Mother and Father always preferred to work in the Valley of the Kings, and I can’t say I blame them considering the luck they had there, but for some reason they disdained Aswan. I can’t imagine why.”

Rick took the kettle off the hot plate and poured boiling water into a teapot. “Maybe they went there once and somebody was rude to your mother?”

“I doubt that; people were often rude to Mother, but she never let it stop her from doing what she wanted. I wonder--”

Evie prattled on, leaning on her elbows as Rick arranged the tea tray, adding milk from a bottle he kept cooling in an ice-filled vase and adding a plateful of ginger biscuits from a tin on the sideboard. He listened with one ear, letting Evie’s words wash over him, content as he had never been before. They had been re-organizing the card catalogue all afternoon, re-filing the cards into new sections and writing up new ones. It was work that Rick enjoyed, simple and repetitive, but never boring. He had paused to make them a snack. One thing Rick had learned about Evelyn was that when she was really absorbed in something, she would forget to eat; thus, he had set up provisions. He carried the tea tray to the desk and set it down, pouring her out strong tea with milk and one sugar, just how she liked it. 

Rick loved this. He had jokingly called himself Evie’s assistant that first day with her at the library, but now he simply was, and it was wonderful. Helping her clean up the library, picking up books and putting them away, organizing and repairing and alphabetizing then, going home with her after a long day and relaxing at  the Zamalek house that Rick had begun to identify as home: this was medicine to him after the long, lost years after the War. It reminded him of the happy times in Marrakech, back before the War, when he had been a burgeoning antiquities dealer, a young man with a trade and hope. Only it was so much better now, in every possible way. Now Rick had Evie and she was the most wonderful, the best thing that had ever happened to him. He poured her tea and passed her the ginger biscuits and leaned on his elbow, watching her as she talked, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“...on Elephantine Island; I don’t think anyone’s excavated the temple there in something like twenty years. And certainly no one has done a really thorough photographic examination of the carvings and stele since at least 1910--”

A great surge of affection filled Rick for this indefatigable, adventurous librarian. Barely four weeks had passed since they had fought for their lives at Hamunaptra and survived and already Evelyn wanted to go out again. Seeing the smile on his face, Evie faltered. 

“Do you think I’m being foolish?”

“No, Evie,” Rick said. “I think you’re wonderful.”

“Oh, good.” Evie brightened again. “We could make it a holiday, you know. Sail up to Aswan and stay at the Old Cataract Hotel and go to the Island with cameras--”

Nodding his agreement, Rick took up a pencil and a blank index card and wrote on it. Evelyn, will you marry me? He slid the card across the table to Evie, who picked it up almost absentmindedly. Her voice trailed off as she read and registered the question. Her lips parted; she looked up at Rick with her glowing green eyes very wide. 

“Well?” His heart was pounding; his voice was shy. “What do you think?”

A grin broke across Evie’s face. Lifting her pen, she scribbled a word on the card and pushed it back across the desk to him. Yes. 

Joy flooded Rick like water bursting from a dam. He and Evie grinned at each other, laughing, giddy, and she came around the desk to sit on his lap and kiss him. Rick cuddled her close and leaned his forehead against hers. He couldn’t wait to see what adventures lay in store for them.

[zephyrofalltrades]

Day 9: Possession

CW: Partial demonic possession, strangulation, self-harm, graphic depictions of demonic wounds, swearing

“I can’t believe you talked me into this,” Aziraphale tugged at the hem of his sweater vest looking at the old abandoned house at the side of the road.

“I like spooky-looking places remember?” Crowley said pulling out his camera from the back seat of his car. “Besides, this place is aesthetic - perfect for my photography class!” he grinned as he looked back at his friend.

“Yes, well, I also heard demons live there,” the blonde shivered.

“Demons aren’t real, angel. They’re just the construct of bed time stories and the magic of cinematography,” he hummed tying his long red locks so as not get caught in the camera straps. “Besides, we’ll be out of there before you could say 'tickety-boo',” he laughed.

"I've got supplies, just in case." Aziraphale piped up, taking out a crucifix, a rosary then a water pistol from his pockets. He patted the last with reverence. "Holiest of holy waters," he announced proudly. "From a bottle my parents got when they visited the Vatican then promptly forgot in a box in the garage."

Crowley bit his tongue from making a comment. He'll be damned if he'll ruin the blonde's fun. But he ought to show a little bout of annoyance to keep his image.

Crowley rolled his eyes at the paraphernalia, and held out the crucifix. "Planning to play as an exorcist dressed like that?" the red-head gestured to his cream sweater vest and tan trousers.

"Hopefully, it won't come to an exorcism," the other sniffed. "Which reminds me, give me your arm."

"Which one?" Aziraphale shrugged so he cast in his right.

The blonde took the rosary and wound it around a sinewy wrist, knowing that the red-head would cuss vehemently if he hung it around his neck. "There," he said with a wiggle. Crowley felt the charged contact and his brain was fried for a moment or two before his senses came back. Looking ridiculous was a small price to pay to keep his angel happy.

Soon they managed to finally step out to the door and let themselves in. It was a usual haunt for teens giving innocent dares or those with questionable hobbies. The graffiti was everywhere. 

“Oh demons! Come say 'hello!'” Crowley giggled as they entered.

“I don’t think you should do that, Crowley. What if it gets mad?”

“Aww, come on angel, the demon can’t get mad because it’s not real!” he laughed aloud, earning a huff from his friend.

After a few shots of the main rooms, the pair decided to venture down the basement. It had the standard level of spookiness with an added bonus of a crudely scribbled occultist's pentagram in one of the musty corners. He gave the blonde a mischievous look and proceeded to flop himself down unto the floor, torso in the middle of the drawing.

"Crowley!" Aziraphale hissed.

"Hey, demons!" the red-head called. "Come get me!"

"Oh dear, please don't…" his friend's voice trembled.

"It's just a bit of fun, angel," he complained, but got up anyway to dust himself off. "If there are demons, they ought to show themselves more if they want to be known. Waste of time to just keep hiding in the dark, if you ask me."

His left hand suddenly came up to slap his cheek.

"Shit! That stings! What the fu-" another slap.

"Crowley, what are you doing? Is this another one of your pranks?"

"This isn't me! This is -" The hand grabbed hold of his sunglasses and threw it against a wall, hard enough to shatter the lenses and bend the frame. "Oi! Those were new!"

The sunglasses were the last straw, Aziraphale knew then that his friend wasn't playing a game. He took his crucifix and advanced towards Crowley. "Now you listen here," he addressed the limb, which Crowley was restraining with his other hand from punching himself in the face again. "Leave him alone!"

They heard an unearthly chuckle from all around them and the room's darkness felt heavier than before.

The blonde jumped and whirled about, searching for the voice's source. Before he could turn back to Crowley however, the errant hand slapped the wrist holding on to the crucifix. The wood fell from his grip but a part of it touched the demonic palm.

Crowley yelped and the hand recoiled. "That burned!" he said more out of surprise than actual pain. They could try exorcising his arm! But how? he thought frantically. Before he could think of a plan, the limb grabbed for a new target.

This time he watched his hand curl around the blonde’s throat. “Stop! No!” he screamed, but his limb took no heed. Aziraphale was holding on to it with both hands to no avail, lifting him from the ground.

Crowley pressed the rosary hanging from his right wrist at it but although it stung the same way, it didn't make it let go of the blonde. Panicked, he looked for the crucifix but it had been knocked far from his reach.

"Po-pocket," Aziraphale gasped out, still doing his best to pry the fingers away.

With wide eyes, Crowley searched his friend's pockets. His fingers touched plastic. The handle of the water pistol. He hoped it was holy enough to combat the demonic arm. He snatched it and pulled the trigger, first aiming at the hand then soaking the rest of his arm for good measure. The pain blinded him but he kept going, wringing every drop of the holy water from the toy. Finally, the fingers slackened.

Aziraphale fell to the floor gasping and watch as his attacker jerked in pain. The skin of Crowley's arm was steaming a sickly green. Bumps were forming from underneath, cracking the skin then popping to excrete a blackish sludge, oozing down to the floor.

Crowley tried not to howl but he couldn't suppress the whimpers. He retched as the smell of sulfur and decaying flesh reached his nostrils. Finally succumbing to the torture, he fainted.

When he woke, the first thing he saw was a crucifix nailed high on clean white walls. He grimaced at it before turning his head to look at the rest of the room. Cots were lined along the walls. It was a ward, he surmised, burrowing beneath the blankets once more and hissing as the sheets slid against his heavily bandaged arm.

"Ah, you're finally awake," came a voice from the other end of the room. A nun was striding towards him with a pitcher of water, a glass, cups and a pot of tea. Behind her was a smiling Aziraphale clutching a tin of biscuits. "Gave us all a fright you, did," the nun chastised. "We patched your friend up as best we could, but you were worse for wear."

She took the pitcher and poured him a glass. He did his best to not choke as he gulped the liquid down. He looked up to find both nun and blonde peering at him curiously.

"Wot? I was thirsty," he said defensively.

Aziraphale chuckled. "It appears you're good to go dear boy. If drinking holy water doesn't bother you, then we have nothing more to worry about."

[staysaneathome]

Faking Dating For Dummies (And Other Avatars of the Stranger)

The being currently known as Sasha James cards her fingers through her hair as she waits at her table.

It’s an odd habit, one that’s more likely to get her stares rather than let her blend in with the lunchtime crowd, but she can’t quite help it. It feels so good to be able to straighten her hair again, luxuriating in the gentle heat and methodical styling, the weight of the straightener like an old friend even in her new hands. If she’s careful enough with her touch, she can pretend the warmth of her fingers is actually some residual heat left over from this morning.

It’s an indulgence, certainly, like when she’d bought that yellow cake for her “birthday” and eaten every slice while riding the nearest ferris wheel she could find, or slipping several tins of the nice Marks & Spencer shortbread into the break room cupboards at the Magnus Institute alongside the worn packets of rich tea biscuits, hobnobs, and jammy dodgers.

But she’s been stuck in that table for so long, unable to even struggle or scream against those awful, choking threads of the Web, with only the taste of dust and table polish for company. Even now, she can feel the most of her still held there, pinned like an insect on a corkboard under the glare of that hideous Eye.

Nikola may not entirely approve, but she’s not the one risking her skin to monitor the Eye, now is she? Sasha James is.

(Or, well. Was.)

So all in all, the being going by Sasha James feels she’s entitled to some little idiosyncrasies, just for herself.

The Stranger doesn’t let her have too many of those.

But still, she has work to do, and they can’t go attracting the Eye’s attention just yet. So she’s meeting up with someone outside of Madame Tussaud’s and the Trophy Room to be on the safe side.

She won’t know them, but that’s never been an issue for the Stranger. In fact, some would argue it’s the entire point.

Nevertheless, when a slightly-too-pretty person with a smile that couldn’t be more camera copied slides into the seat across from her, Sasha can’t shake the feeling of…recognition that suddenly strikes her.

“Here we are again.” The person says, voice a lower tenor that suggests masculinity.

“Here we are again.” Sasha returns the password blithely. She peers closer. “…Have I seen you perform?”

The way this person startles is lovely, all fluid starts and sharp stops, like a dancer following the line. “Oh. Uh?”

“Petrograd, 1916? Nikola was going through her ballet phase?” She hazards, lighting up when the backing dancer nods hesitantly. “I thought so! You were wonderful, I always thought it was a shame the audience wasn’t fleeing in terror sooner…Ilona?”

“It’s, it’s Tom now, actually.” The very pretty ex-dancer says, rubbing the back of his (?) head bashfully. “Nikola let me choose this one, as a promotion of sorts.”

“It’s about time. You always were too good to just be backup.” Sasha smiles, trying to ignore the way blood is circulating to her cheeks.

That makes him(?) laugh, which has the oddest aftereffect of making her palms go gently clammy.

“Well enough about me.” His (?) eyelashes are long and soft looking as he (?) flutters them at her. “We’re here to talk about you. How is it going at work?”

She groans, burying her face in her hands.

“…Is that a good sound?” Tom asks, hesitantly.

“They’re just—” She waves her hands around. “How can they be so. Weird?? I mean, I know they’re Eye avatars, but come on.”

And then she’s off, ranting about Tim Stoker and his constant jokes about invading people’s privacy and seducing civil servants for their public and personal secrets, about the person whose life she’s living who apparently thought everyone’s private lives and social media were merely another puzzle she was entitled to solve and get the answers to, about Martin Blackwood and how he looks soft and scare-able but he seems to have committed a new crime almost every time she enters the office and he somehow got ashes of the Hive to please the Archivist when she hadn’t, to Sasha’s knowledge, ever been burned??

And that’s not even getting Archivist and his paranoid little breakdowns, constantly muttering about how since Gertrude was murdered, of course it must mean that he’s going to be murdered too, when he’s not even half the strength she used to be?? Like wow, Jonathan, maybe the murder’s not about you, did you ever consider that? Like she might murder him, but that’s besides the point. And he keeps trying to break into these tunnels under the archives, with just his skinny little noodle arms three times this past week alone, and recently she saw him going through the rubbish?? To find Martin’s poems and record himself verbally tear them apart, as if that will hide the blatantly obvious crush the two of them are nursing on each other?? Honestly—

And through it all, Tom is an avid listener, gasping at the appropriate points, sputtering with helpless laughter at others, particularly when she describes Martin’s growing grudge against this policewoman investigating the Archivist for Gertrude Robinson’s murder, seemingly for spending too much time talking to him.

She finds she particularly likes his (?) laugh, a throaty chuckle that grows louder and makes people at the tables around them look over and then quickly look away.

This is the most fun she’s had since she was released from the table for this assignment, and she feels herself relaxing, leaning in closer, able to ignore the lingering itch of being Watched for just a moment.

So of course, it can’t last.

“Sasha.”

She nearly jumps at the sound of her new name, looks up to see the Archivist glaring down at her.

She plasters on a fake smile. “Oh, hi Jon. It’s not already the end of lunch break already, is it?”

“It’s close enough.” He lies, poorly. She can see on the face of his battered watch that she still has half an hour left. His eyes are fixed unsettlingly on her, as if he’s trying to peel the layers of her apart with his gaze alone. She’s not sure whether he’s blinked at any point during this exchange.

Sasha has been alive for a long time, can very faintly recall pale masks and groups singing from her earliest memories, so she doesn’t flinch under the Eye’s gaze. Instead, she begins picking up the wrapper for the sandwich and hula hoops she was eating before Tom got here, starting to stand. “I’m so sorry, I lost track of time. I’ll get back to the Archives now—”

“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend here? You’ve certainly been talking to him long enough.” The Archivist’s tone is a solid weight, curling around her like chains, like nets, like webs. “Who is he?”

Sasha doesn’t thrash, doesn’t shriek like she so dearly wants to, even as her tongue fights the rest of her to obey the Archivist’s demand, to tell all if it will just make that awful scrutiny stop.

“This is Tom.” She grits out through an increasingly plastic smile. The Archivist might be flush and clumsy with the Eye’s power, but he’s still untrained enough that even if he can make her answer, she can avoid giving any more than the bare minimum. “Tom, this is my boss at the Magnus Institute, Jonathan Sims.”

This clearly doesn’t satisfy the paranoid little weasel of a man, because he opens his mouth again. “And what—”

“I’m her boyfriend.”

Sasha takes a moment to goggle at Tom.

He’s standing up from the table, chest out and trying to meet the Archivist’s gaze head-on, as if his tentative connection with his new skin doesn’t make him the more vulnerable of the two of them.

She feels an odd protectiveness as the Archivist’s head cocks, studying Tom. “Since when?”

“Since we met in the group therapy that Elias recommended I go to after Prentiss.” She lies, praying the Pupil still considers her infiltration diverting enough to support this. “This was before any of us came back from leave, and when Tom and I met we just…hit it off. We’ve only been going out for a few weeks now.”

The Archivist doesn’t look as placated as she’d hoped he’d be, clearly gearing up for another interrogation—

Something warm and plush covers her hand. Part of her wants to compare the sensation to the softest linens, the smoothest mahogany.

Tom is frowning at the Archivist, the very picture of a concerned partner. “Excuse me for saying so, but do you usually get so involved in your subordinates’ love lives? Only, I don’t mean to pry, but Sasha mentioned something about you and a coworker, Martin—”

Jonathan Sims splutters. “Wh—! N—why, what, what are you even talking about?! What about me and Martin?! There’s nothing about, I don’t—no. No. Martin is just—! And it is none, none of your business, anyway! I do not have, have any interest in what my assistants do that doesn’t concern the Archives. None.”

“My mistake.” Tom says, sitting back down. He hasn’t removed his hand from where it’s curled over hers. “Well. It was nice to meet you, Mr. Sims.”

“A shame I can’t say likewise.” The Archivist mutters, turning his attention back to her. “I’ll see you back in the office, Sasha. Soon.”

“Soon.” Sasha replies, watching as he turns and speedwalks away. A few small, green leaves flit down in his wake—was. Was he hiding in the bushes across the road, watching them?

She and Tom seem to deflate at the same moment once the Archivist is out of sight.

“Now do you see what I mean about them being weird?” She asks wryly, gratified when that startles another throaty laugh out of him (?).

“And here I thought you were exaggerating.” Tom grins at her and Sasha grins back, heart pumping hard from residual adrenaline.

But then the expression falters, Tom’s eyebrows drawing together. “Was. Was that okay? The, uh, boyfriend thing. It’s just, he was right there and I didn’t want him doing—doing that thing again, and it was the first—”

“Hey, hey.” She places her hand atop Tom’s this time, “That was excellent thinking on your part, and you acted the role brilliantly. We needed a cover story in case any of the others noticed us meeting up, and a boyfriend is better than just an out-of-work friend or a family member. More reasons to contact each other regularly, if you know what I mean.”

Tom nods, even if he (?) clearly doesn’t. His gaze is fixed on their hands, and Sasha realizes with embarrassment that she’s just been absentmindedly stroking his knuckles with her thumb.

She removes her hand and places it under the table, clearing her throat. “So, um. Is boyfriend, alright with you? Not, not the idea of being, being my romantic partner, but, being, well. He/him.”

“Hm? Oh, oh yes, I like those.” Tom has pulled his hand back towards himself, gently rubbing it with his other hand. “But I’ve never been a, a boyfriend before. And we need to really sell this role, otherwise the Archivist will Know, right? For the good of the assignment.”

Sasha nods tentatively, “The good of the assignment. Right.”

Tom continues. “So who should I ask about it? About how to be a good boyfriend? Would Nikola know?”

Sasha can’t help the face she pulls at that. Nikola’s never going to let her live this down once she hears about it, is she.

“I’d ask Breekon and Hope, myself.”

[ducktracy]

186. september in the rain (1937)

disclaimer: this review contains racist content and imagery. i do not condone any of this content whatsoever—it’s being displayed purely for educational and historical reasons. with that said, i have much to learn myself. PLEASE let me know if i say something wrong or offensive. it’s never my intention to do so, yet i want to learn from my mistakes and own up to them provided that should happen. thank you for your patience and understanding.

release date: december 18th, 1937

series: merrie melodies

director: friz freleng

starring: james c. morton (various), danny webb (various), wini shaw (blue dye bottle, morton salt girl), mel blanc (louis armstrong’s speaking voice)

(original title card courtesy of jerry beck.)

the final cartoon of 1937 is an interesting one: it’s the shortest cartoon in the WB library, with a runtime of about 5 minutes and 50 seconds. when the cartoon aired on TV in the ‘90s, the blackface caricatures were cut, further shortening the runtime to about 3-4 minutes. not only that, but a bulk of the animation is recycled from previous cartoons, such as how do i know it’s sunday? and clean pastures—both freleng entries.

like we’ve seen from many a cartoon before, this short chronicles the adventures of store products coming to life and putting on various acts.

open to the interior of a store on a rainy night (hence the title), the eponymous song underscoring the scene. the camera pans right, closing into a bottle of blueing singing “am i blue?”.

the gags, at least in the first half, are relatively disjointed: immediately after the blueing sequence, a snake charmer prompts a bottle of toothpaste to squirt out a strand of toothpaste and wave in the air like a snake. little time is wasted cutting to a can of searchlight (salmon), a searchlight on the can’s label sparking to life for a full 3 seconds before moving onto the next gag: maids from “old maid cleanser” doing a dance, a gag repurposed from how do i know it’s sunday?

a loose precursor to the camel’s breakdown in porky in egypt (which is much more thrilling than what is presented here), a rubber glove comes to life, inflating itself and serving as a makeshift pair of bagpipes, accompanying a line of camels strutting along on the camel cigarettes logo. reused from freleng’s 1935 entry flowers for madame, two dandelions perform the highland fling along to the music. 

wipe to a bunch of apples, where a worm pokes its head out from a hole and tentatively crawls along. stalling’s bumpkin score of “in the shade of the old apple tree” is fitting and fun to listen to, as are treg brown’s sound effects of the worm inching its way along. however, bad news for the worm: a line of hungry chicks plastered on the bon ami powder cans (here labeled “my am i”) pursue the worm, who flees like he’s never fleed before. stalling’s score is masterful, the score morphing into a flurry of excitement as the chicks all gang up on the worm. one of the chicks manages to swallow the worm, who thus is thrown about and inches along like the worm as it struggles to be freed. finally, the worm manages to separate itself from the chick, and hurries back into an apple for safety. while nothing new, stalling’s music score manages to breathe some life into a tired scene.

the next scene is directly reused from how do i know it’s sunday, just with different vocals: the morton salt girl and the u-needa biscuit boy sing a duet together beneath the “rain” from the shredded wheat box’s waterfall. if anything, it’s interesting to see old footage now colorized.

cue the barrage of blackface caricatures: the al jolson caricature from clean pastures sings the title song--the jolson way, of course. the premise of jolson singing this song would be reused in future cartoons, such as the grand finale to 1941′s porky’s preview. he and aunt emma (a parody of aunt jemima) engage in the whole “sonny boy” shtick--i suppose if anything, subtle movements on jolson such as the head tilts bring a nice feeling of depth and construction to him (i wonder if this is the work of bob mckimson?), but the entire sequence is merely too gross and uncomfortable for it to have any merit. jolson finishes the performance by singing “good evening, frieeeeends!”, an opening/closing line that he sung on his radio show shell chateu. daffy would borrow this as late as 1950, closing out his own rendition of “the merry go round broke down” in bob mckimson’s boobs in the woods.

caricatures of fred astaire and ginger rogers dance together to a perky waltz rendition of “september in the rain” as an interlude. the animation is rotoscoped, and therefore quite elegant, though i do wish they had attempted to push the caricatures just a bit more, especially when the two of them begin their tap dance routine--the graceful, realistic human designs fit well with the waltz, but seem a bit out of place with the mood shift brought on by the ending tap dance. nevertheless, props to carl stalling for finding a way to turn the title song into a waltz. his music is the highlight of the cartoon.

 (friz freleng’s september in the rain on the left, 1937, bob clampett’s 1943 tin pan alley cats on the right.)

fats waller and louis armstrong (whose caricatures are reused from clean pastures) don a box labeled “gold rust twins”, a parody of fairbank’s gold dust washing powder (warning for blackface with the link). mel blanc voice’s louis’ cry of “SWING IT, BROTHER!” cue an admittedly rousing rendition of “nagasaki”, with fats waller on the piano and louis on the vocals. the animation of waller playing the piano would be directly reused in bob clampett’s tin pan alley cats in 1943, proving to be a rather anachronistic caricature in comparison to the more streamlined--yet equally offensive--caricatures brought on in that cartoon.

though the entire sequence is gross and uncomfortable, the energy it possesses is much needed in comparison to the rest of the cartoon. it feels much more on par with the energy in clean pastures. ken harris does some great smear animation of two chickens angrily bobbing their heads to the music, and the animation of aunt emma dancing to the music is snappy and jaunty. all of this is being analyzed from a technical standpoint--good animation does NOT make the caricatures or content being animated any more okay, but the techniques put into conveying the animation do constitute some recognition. at the very least, here, it feels as though freleng actually has his heart in the cartoon. the rest of it, not so much.

the sequence draws to a close, as does the cartoon: we do one last pan across the shop, trucking in to the shop’s window, revealing the rain pouring in the night sky. iris out.

this cartoon is not one of freleng’s stellar entries, even without all of the disgusting caricatures. if anything, this is more of an obligation than a cartoon, something to please the boss with song and dance numbers and tired gags that have been antiquated since the mid ‘30s. reprehensible as the caricatures are, the “nagasaki” number at the end was admittedly the short’s highlight. the animation is snappy, fun, energetic, and stalling’s score is infectiously energetic. however, that doesn’t redeem any of the content being animated, or the short in total for that matter. you are not missing anything by skipping this entry.

but, despite such a sour end to a great year, 1937 has been a GREAT year for WB, undeniably the best year of cartoons thus far. the acquisition of mel blanc was the turning point. porky is finally growing some personality and is able to display it, more and more notable characters (such as daffy and even elmer, despite being a prototype) are popping up, the directors are all feeding off of each other and competing to put out funnier cartoons, etc. this is the year where the tunes become truly loony. and 1938 is even better! porky and daffy become an established duo, tex avery hits the sweet spot with his cartoons, chuck jones becomes a director of his own... there’s much to look forward to. we’re only just getting started!

as per tradition, here’s a link to the cartoon--obviously view this with discretion.

[ecoamerica]

Watch the 2024 American Climate Leadership Awards for High School Students now: https://youtu.be/5C-bb9PoRLc

The recording is now available on ecoAmerica's YouTube channel for viewers to be inspired by student climate leaders! Join Aishah-Nyeta Brown & Jerome Foster II and be inspired by student climate leaders as we recognize the High School Student finalists. Watch now to find out which student received the $25,000 grand prize and top recognition!

[moonshroooms]

So like, here’s a part-angst-part-fluff Ponytail!Dib AU oneshot here ya go! I kinda imagined this lil scenario to be after but not-too-long after these Sad Idiots confessed their Undying Love to each other (I’m totally positive that’s the exact scenario reyna’s gonna take her au, trust me on this I’m a doctor).

Now the beginning of this is definitely more angst and Sad but it do get cuter at the end I promise VwV But anyways, here! *throws this on the ground and runs away*

=

Dib laid out all the ingredients on the counter, double checking he had everything the recipe called for. Flour, eggs, sugar, check, check, check. Getting everything without alerting Zim what he was up to had been more than a challenge but somehow he’d managed to get past the sneaky bug. All that was left to do was wait for Zim to be busy long enough to enact his plan.

“Alright, it’s a shortcake, how hard could it be?” He pulled up the recipe on his phone, mumbling to himself. Somewhere in the back of his mind a voice taunted that he’d mess it up somehow. He mentally shoved it into a box and sealed the lid. It’s fine, he’d be fine. Just follow the instructions, he could do that.

With his best attempt at a determined nod Dib opened up the flour, pulling a large bowl out of the cupboard, giving a glance at the instructions.

“Mix strawberries with sugar and ffuh mhmm…” His sentence trailed off as his brain rewired itself to focus on the strawberries. “Alright, strawberries first, then.” He dumped the carton of berries in a little bowl of their own, scooping out a few spoonfuls of sugar and stirring. And put them in the fridge. Okay, step one done. See? Wasn’t so bad. A part of him felt kind of dump pep-talking himself, but he knew how much his self-deprecation bothered Zim, so he was trying to fight it. Most said step one was talking positively, even if you didn’t really believe it, so that’s what he was gonna do.

Dib pulled out the flour and measured it, pouring it in the mixing bowl once it was at the right level. Next was baking powder, baking soda, sugar, and heavy cream. Dib ran his eyes across the bottle of cream for not the first time. The store didn’t exactly have just “heavy cream.” “Heavy whipping cream,” it read. The names were pretty close and he was going to try and make whipped cream anyways. It was probably the same, right? He couldn’t find anything saying it was different (not that he found anything saying it was the same, either). Somewhere that voice trapped in the box whispered that he was already fucking up. He was probably fine. If it was the only one the store had it was probably the most common one anyways.

As he mixed the ingredients together Dib allowed his mind to wander. That cold winter in his car, being sick in his apartment, lunch after lunch of carefully crafted meals, all wrapped in hearts and flowers. He found himself thinking about those times a lot. A large part of him laughed, wondering how he was able to jump through so many hoops to explain why Zim would go through all that trouble, what nefarious plot they could possibly be apart of, when the answer was (quite literally) written in front of him. A larger part said he was stupid if he really thought this was real, that this wasn’t just some long con at his expense and the ball would drop soon enough.

It wasn’t surprising the lunches were on his mind now, anyways. It’s what spurred the baking adventure he was currently on. Zim tried so hard despite Dib’s bad attitude, his denial, even his blatant refusal to eat at times. He wanted to return the favor, at least a little bit.

Dib let out a sigh as the mixture was finally done, rolling his shoulder a bit. Somehow the mixing was surprisingly tiring. Sure, he could keep up with the plots of an alien invader with technology far more advanced than his own since he was 12, but mixing cake batter was the real test of strength. Repetitive motion, he supposed. He poured the mix into the baking pan and stuffed it in the oven. Oh, shit, he forgot to preheat it. Did anyone really even do that? Seemed like a waste of power, honestly. He set his phone timer for an extra 10 minutes than the recipe called for, hoping that’d make up for it.

Alright, all that was left to do was the whipped cream. He was breezing through this recipe! He could almost imagine the look on Zim’s face when he got back. Sure, Dib didn’t have fancy wrapping paper, and honestly, the cake would probably look like shit. But as long as it tasted fine that was the most important part, right?

Dib pulled a separate bowl from the upper cupboard, combined the whipped cream ingredients, and got to work on stirring. The recipe said to use a mixer but he didn’t exactly have one of those, so he was stuck using good ol’ elbow grease. He tried to make up for it by mixing faster but figured the speed wasn’t gonna be a huge factor in the outcome.

Or, so he thought, at least.

Five minutes of mixing later and the cream hadn’t taken on any kind of fluffy quality. Just the same white goop. It was supposed to get light and fluffy two minutes in. Did he forget something? He rechecked the recipe. Cream, sugar, vanilla, lemon zest. It was all in there. Was he just not going fast enough? Maybe the mixer was more crucial than he thought. He plopped himself on the ground and kicked his whisking up a notch. Another few minutes and the only significant change was that the goop was maybe a little thicker. That, and he definitely got a good portion of it all over his shirt. Great.

Alright, the recipe did stress the heavy cream needed to be chilled before mixing. Did he let it sit outside the fridge too long? He could leave it in the freezer for a bit, let the cold firm it up a little? He swallowed down the rising disgust at himself, he was such a fucking idiot, he didn’t even know how to fix his mistake. Yeah, that’d work. With a grunt he got to his feet-

SMACK.

“Shit, goddamn it!” Dib instantly recoiled, clutching at the back of his head where the open cupboard lovingly smacked into his skull. He slammed the door shut with bang, the loud sound satisfying his anger a little bit. Stomping over to the freezer he shoved aside the assortment of raw meats and frozen veggies (things Zim planned on cooking at some point), and stuffed the whipped cream in, slamming the door shut.

“It’s fine, you’re fine. Nothing’s ruined, it’ll be fine.” Wow you’re trying really hard to sell this, huh? Can’t even convince yourself to buy your own words without lying first.

Dib leaned against the kitchen counter, silently fuming at the throb on the back of his head. He could feel self-loathing spilling into his brain like a fog, seeping out from that mental lockbox he tried to shove it in. He shook his head and did his best to focus on the goal. Zim would be so happy Dib made him a present, he’d get to see that huge smile that had his heart squeezing funny, ruby eyes lighting up with appreciation. The idea soothed his mind a bit. He could get through a few hang-ups if he got to see that expression and…

Was something burning?

“Seriously?!” Dib yelled as he pushed away from the counter. He threw the oven open and grabbed the baking tin only to recoil back in pain as his hand came into contact with the hot metal. Dib cursed, shaking out his hand and grabbing the oven mitt staring him in the face. Sure, go ahead, just fucking break yourself while making your thank you gift. Nothing says “I appreciate you” like making him clean up your fucking mess.

The tin landed on the stove with a clatter as Dib quickly turned away to grab ice for his hand.

Only to be greeted with a freezer that had whipped cream spilled all over it. The half-empty mixing bowl clattered to the floor as the door swung open, a few splatters of not-quite-frozen whipped cream leaping to the floor as it did. No, it’s fine, it’s okay. They could always just buy whipped cream at the store. He was pretty sure Zim wasn’t allergic to normal whipped cream anyways. You can’t even put something in the fridge without fucking it up? Why are you even bothering?

Dib stuffed a few ice cubes into a plastic bag and clutched his fingers around it. With a grimace he turned off the phone timer that only decided to start ringing just now and looked over the cake. Honestly, it wasn’t even burned that much, they could just not eat the bottom. Geez, you’re really going for a record trying to screw up every stage of this project huh?

Was the cake… supposed to look like a biscuit? He tore off a piece and popped it in his mouth. Was it also supposed to taste bland as hell like a biscuit, too?

Despite the bag of ice pain stabbed through the skin of Dib’s hand anyways, only adding to the misery of his failed creation. Look, he couldn’t expect things to be perfect. It was his first time trying to bake something. Plenty of people probably messed things like this up. You couldn’t even make a damn cake. Honestly, why did you even bother trying? How many other things have you fucked up that were way easier than cooking and you couldn’t even do those right? What made you think you could get this right?

Dib slid to the floor, focusing on the quiet sting of his burned hand. He felt that urge to visit the nearby drugstore. He might’ve bought a bottle of something, too, were his wallet not thoroughly cleaned out from buying all the cake ingredients. Couldn’t get drunk if he wanted to.

And damn he wanted to right now.

Amber eyes glanced around the kitchen, taking in the few splatters of whipped cream on the floor, quickly melting into puddles now. He… could at least up the mess he made before Zim got back.

The frown on his face deepened.

Well, knowing you, you’ll probably find a way to fuck that up, too.

 =

 Zim slid the window to the apartment open, wasting no time scurrying in and ripping off his disguise. How Gir escaped view of his cameras long enough to floor half the base he’d never know. Computer wasn’t any help telling him what happened either. Zim suspected whatever started the whole “beach party” idea was both Gir and Computer’s idea.

Zim’s internal ranting didn’t have long to continue before his now-freed antenna picked up the scent of something burnt, as well as something sweet and almost… milky? Compound eyes were greeted with a less-than-clean kitchen, used and abandoned cooking utensils, and a few tiny puddles of something melted on the floor. Confusion buzzed around the Irken’s mind before worry crept up his throat when he realized he couldn’t see Dib in the small space around him.

Slow-creeping dread dropped like a rock in his gut as anxiety moved his limbs. “Dib?” Zim called, receiving no answer. As terrifying rooftop rescues were at least they were known. What was Zim supposed to do for this new situation? What was the protocol?

His panic didn’t last for long as he skidded past the kitchen and caught sight of his human’s familiar form. Relief quickly flooded over him and he ran to Dib’s side.

“Dib-beast, what happened, are you okay?”

Dib jumped a little, as if startled from sleep, and looked at Zim. “Oh, hey space boy, welcome back.”

Zim frowned. Dib had that… look in his eyes that he didn’t like. That faraway look he often had during drunken hazes, staring off into nothing like there was a storm brewing in his head with threats of nothing good.

The alien grabbed Dib’s face with both hands, turning him left and right to check for injuries, Dib scrunching his eyes as he did. Zim pursed his lips when he noticed the melting pack of ice in his human’s grip.

“Burned myself on the stove, no biggie.” Dib shrugged. Zim’s brow furrowed, giving Dib’s cheeks a squeeze before getting up to grab some first-aid things.

“So, were you going to tell me what happened here or do I have to check the cameras?” Zim plopped back down next to Dib, pulling the injured hand into his lap to treat it.

Dib snorted. “Ha, nice try, I already found ‘em all.”

“Mhm, yup, you certainly did. No use looking for more, they’re all gone.”

Zim couldn’t resist a grin at the glare and eyeroll he received. He didn’t know if Dib had actually found all his cameras yet, but no sense in letting the stinky know if there were actually more or not.

“Sorry about the mess,” Dib mumbled. “I was gonna clean it up before you got back. I got kinda...” A sigh. “Distracted.”

Zim finished wrapping up Dib’s injury with a band-aid and glanced around the kitchen once more. It seemed to have been some sort of… baking attempt, from what he could gather. But why wait until he was gone to do it?

“You are forgiven… only if you tell Zim was all this-” he gestured to the mess “-was about.”

Zim watched his human’s expression as he started back at him, seeming to debate whether he wanted to elaborate or not. Finally, he looked away with a sigh and Zim thought he saw the slightest hint of a blush on his cheeks.

“I was uh, trying to bake.” Zim could only just barely understand Dib through his purposeful mumbling. “A cake. For, uh, for you. To say thanks, you know. For all the food you’re always making me.” As he spoke his cheeks got redder and he started scratching at the back of his neck, a habit Zim noticed he usually did when he was nervous. “As you can see it didn’t really work out that well.” Dib gave a laugh but it felt so hollow to Zim’s antenna. The kind of laugh you did when you were trying to assure others you were fine but couldn’t really put any effort in it.

As the Irken glanced around he could spot all the different bowls, measuring spoons, and other utensils his Dib used. He… tried really hard, didn’t he? And now he was on the floor, looking like the entire world was crashing down and it was his own fault. Sad and warm feelings both swirled around Zim’s gut, a confusing swirl of emotion he wasn’t sure how to process.

Zim placed his hand on Dib’s leg and leaned up to press his lips to Dib’s, much to the human’s surprise. Zim felt Dib stiffen only slightly before relaxing in his hold, reciprocating the kiss. Zim’s antenna instinctively wrapped themselves around the untied scythe of hair atop Dib’s head. Hmm, it was getting long. They’d need to cut it again soon.

Zim pulled back from the kiss only slightly, resting his forehead against Dib’s as he brought up a hand to stroke Dib’s cheek. “Thank you, Dib-beast.”

Despite the slightly flustered look Dib managed to pull himself together enough to furrow his brows. “For what? The cake’s not even good. Trust me, I tried it. All I managed to make is a huge mess.”

One of Zim’s antenna bent down to lightly bop Dib’s cheek. “For trying so hard to make something special for me. For going out of your way to make it a surprise. For telling me you appreciated the things I did.” Zim leaned forward to nuzzle against Dib. “Thank you for all of that.”

Dib let out a sigh and Zim felt arms wrap around his waist and hoist him into Dib’s lap. His human easily nuzzled into his shoulder and Zim did the same, feeling long legs bending up and resting against his PAK. They fell into their embrace so easily, like they were supposed to fit together. Zim was sure he’d be perfectly happy just sitting like this with Dib for the rest of time.

The two stayed like that for a long while, Dib’s lanky arms wrapped around Zim in a tight vice, Zim content to breathe in Dib’s presence. Eventually they were interrupted by a low grumbling centered at Dib’s stomach. Zim let out a snicker at the very graceful noise, earning him a slightly embarrassed “shut up” from Dib. Zim gave a smell peck on the lips to placate his human and rose to his feet, offering Dib a hand to help hoist him up.

“What do you say we try and make a cake some other time?” Zim offered. “Now that I know I’m owed a gift, of course.”

Dib looked down with a rueful smile. “Not worried I’ll mess it up?” He said with a slight scoff.

Zim’s brows furrowed as he rose up on his PAK legs to be at eye-level with his human. “Not at all because I know how smart you are. Besides,” Zim said, running a finger along a glob of wet goop and popping it in his mouth. Hm, slightly sweet. “You know baking is like, level 20 cooking, right?”

“Hah?”

“Yeah.” Zim reached into the fridge, looking for some leftovers for Dib, his eye spotting the tub of strawberries soaking in sugar. Oh, those looked good, they could probably use those tomorrow. “If you’re going to try something new you’re supposed to start at level 1, stinky. Most cooking you can just kind of eyeball how much seasoning you want for things. But baking is very exact a lot of the time. You humans took cooking and decided to make it as finicky as chemistry for no good reason.” He pulled a tub of spaghetti from the fridge and popped it in the microwave.

“With both of us tackling it we’ll make a cake that rivals anything some dookie-brained ‘top chef’ could make.” Zim plopped himself on a clean section of counter, antenna sticking up as he boasted for the both of them.

Dib scoffed with a laugh and pulled the spaghetti out of the microwave once it was done. He pulled a fork from the sink of yet-to-be-put-away dishes and leaned against the counter next to Zim. “If you say so, space boy.”

Zim’s antenna quickly accosted Dib’s hair as he neared, tangling and wrapping themselves into place, vibrating with a happiness that said they were exactly where they belonged. “I know so,” he replied matter-of-factly.

=

The two made the shortcake later that week, despite Dib’s quiet protests. Zim even stole obtained an electric mixer just for the whipped cream. Dib complained that Zim was making him do all the work (Zim’s repeated answer to that was “it’s a present for me, why should I have to do the work?”) Once it was all done though Dib had to admit, it didn’t look bad. Granted, it didn’t exactly look magazine-worthy, but it was presentable. Better yet, it actually tasted pretty damn good. Good enough that he had to fight Zim over the last piece.

For once, that voice inside his mental lockbox had nothing to say.

=

How in-character is this oneshot actually? It’s a mystery, who knows, certainly not me. It’s been sent out into the world how in character they are is no longer my problem that’s a y’all kinda issue now 💅🏽

Go! Take! A gander! At! @reynaruina ‘s Ponytail Dib! AU! If! You Like! To Cry! (Though things have been looking up in those little blurbs and comics reyna’s making so hopefully there will be less crying soon 🎉)

Fun fact: a huge chunk of Dib’s failure to make a strawberry shortcake from scratch was based on my own failed attempt. I still don’t know if there’s a difference between heavy cream and heavy whipping cream or if an electric mixer mattered. No, stuffing the whipped cream into the freezer didn’t help make it fluffy either. RIP my shortcake 2019-2019 🤘🏽😔

Double fun fact: Did you know apparently classic strawberry shortcakes are actually gross disgusting lumpy buscuit-ass lookin’ mutherfuckers and not fluffy sweet cake things? Whoever the hell thought purposefully bland cake was what strawberry shortcakes needed to be should be forced to step on legos forever. They also owe me 20 bucks cuz I thought I was making the sweet fluffy kind of cake and instead of forced to eat a flavorless biscuit with strawberries on it. EVIL.

[for-emilia]

The Nursery.

6 months after two little lines sealed their fate, Emilia and Dele decided they should start decorating the little room that’d belong to their first son in his first years. Within the first few months after they found out Emilia was pregnant, she’d started thinking of nursery ideas and dusted off her old pinterest boards, driving with her husband to buy materials and browse baby stores to make the dream a reality. They’d made the decision, for their first child at least, to decorate the room themselves and make it as special as it could be. Conversations of “Dele, babe, listen to me! Not all shades of white are the same, we’ve gotta choose the right one, stop throwing things in the trolley,” but no matter how many times he looked at the swatches in her hands, he couldn’t see the tiny differences in each shade.

“For a nursery?” they heard, turning to see a precious old woman walking past, smiling up at them. “God I remember when I was in your shoes, arguing with my husband over paint colours,” she reminisced with a small laugh, “hold on to moments like these, these will be some of the best times of your lives,” she spoke warmly to the couple, holding her hand against her heart clearly bringing back memories. With a chuckle and a soft look from Dele, the woman moved on, leaving the parents-to-be looking at each other, a new perspective now. Suddenly the shade of white didn’t matter all that much, they would remember the memories created and times raising their son in that room, not whether the walls were ‘polar white’ or ‘snow white’. After a smile from both sides and a soft kiss, one of the ones you remember forever, Emilia looked down at her hands, still in Dele’s embrace, “let’s just decide.. Polar white? Or snow wh-.. Christ, did you feel that?” she looked up at Dele, slightly jolting forward as a result of the kicks erupting from her stomach. “Clearly bug wants ‘snow white’,” she giggled, rubbing her hands over her stomach as Dele reached up to place two tins of the paint in the cart, a cheeky wolf whistle sounding from his wife as his shirt rose up and exposed his v-line. “Put a baby in ya and you still don’t stop,” Dele jokingly rolled his eyes before laughing at himself, making his way to the checkouts.

Once they were home, they laid down the tarpaulin on the exposed floorboards, yet to be floored, and spread out the materials they’d need. Well.. Dele would need. The lengthy search history in both of their phones showed this particular brand of paint as 100% pregnancy safe but Del didn’t want to take risks. “What if we are the anomaly and end up in the papers for suing a paint company?” he asked, only half joking, the slight furrow in his brows showing his genuine concern. Even after reassuring him that even regular paint fumes don’t do damage to pregnancies normally, let alone the special paint, he still wouldn’t have it. So that’s how she found herself strewn across the sofa with old reruns of 90 Day Fiance on the tv with sounds of her husband’s questionable diy skills sounding from the upstairs.

As the episode came to an end, she realised there were no longer any clangs of paint buckets and ladders or bangs against the hardwood floors. Listening out again, she came to the conclusion that he must be taking a break, standing to enter the kitchen and begin making him a cup of tea. Tea in hand, and a cheeky biscuit just because, she ascended the stairs to hear muffled voices.

Initially she assumed Harry or Sally had called, maybe even Eric, but the small laughs and absence of pauses made her stop in her tracks. “What is he doing?” she wondered, getting closer to the open door. “Wait, look who's coming up to see my handy work..” she could make out just before she got to the door, turning the corner looking the definition of confusion. The second she saw him, the confusion and care of what he was doing melted away. All Emilia could focus on were the grey shorts hung low on his hips, exposing more of his Calvin Kleins than acceptable, the way his abs looked with lashings of paint glistening with sweat, his arms all tanned and veiny from the manual labour and the little amused look on his sweaty, perfect face, as she rounded the corner and took in the sight in front of her. And what a sight it was.

Coming to the conclusion he was live streaming, she quickly pulled herself together before jokingly posing with the tea and biscuit in her hand, still standing in the doorway. “There she is, baby mama of the year.. Even brought me a biscuit,” Dele smiled, still showing his wife on camera to the thousands of people watching. Turning it back to him and allowing Emilia to place his tea on the floor, he opened his mouth to indicate he wanted the biscuit now, getting more than he wanted when his wife playfully shoved it all in at once. Subsequently, Dele pretended to joke on the biscuit making Emilia roll her eyes and stick her tongue out, situating herself on a step of the ladders, looking around at what Dele had achieved so far. A sudden laugh drew her out of her gaze, “not even a dunk in the tea, Delboy?” Dele voiced Eric’s comment in his livestream comments. “Nah bro, the missus didn’t give me an option, just tried to choke me out!” he spoke out, ignoring the text on the top of his screen from Hannah reading ‘normally the other way round init’ with a winking face; it was hard trying not to laugh but reminded himself to ring her later and give her a telling off for nearly making him show himself up. Emilia continued to observe the sight in front of her, completely unaware, drinking in her man sat on his knees in the middle of their son’s nursery.

They made eye contact a few times as he spoke out and shared cheeky smirks across the room before he beckoned her over. “Someone said ‘Dele, you should wife her up’.. Gimme your hand,” he whispered the last part, “already have bro,” he smirked, seeing the reflection of the diamond on his wife’s finger glisten in the camera. He bit the tips of her fingers playfully before kissing the back of her hand, receiving a soft slap across the head from Emilia, letting the fans see their relationship that was driven on messing around and banter. “You’ve got more paint on your body and in your hair than on the walls, Del” Emilia stated, trying to rid some of his curls of the paint, “gonna have to give you a scrub down later.” Dele chose to ignore the stream of replies coming in in response to that comment and another text from Hannah reading ‘Keep it PG, you scruffs’ at the top of his screen letting him know she was clearly watching the stream together with Eric. “Maybe I’d have less on me if I wasn’t made to do it myself,” he sniggered, turning the camera up to face Emilia, capturing her reaction for all the fans to see. “Wha- don’t even start, Mr ‘what if we’re a medical anomaly?’, I tried to help!” she called out over Dele’s fits of laughter. “Nah, don’t get it twisted guys,” he pointedly spoke into the camera, wagging a finger at the lens, “it’s just straight-up slave labour”.

After receiving a firm pull to his hair, he gave in and sheepishly admitted to the fans he was just being dramatic and wanted to be doubly sure his wife and baby wouldn’t be exposed to any risk. “Right guys, before he turns into a melt, me and this one are gonna go and get back to 90 Day Fiance,” Emilia leaned down to the camera and gave a wave, rubbing her ever growing bump. “Make sure he doesn’t take too long of a break!” she jokes before turning to Dele. He leaned up on his knees to meet her bent over body and landed a kiss on her lips, then placing a smaller one on the bump in front of him. The camera couldn’t see but the fans could tell what happened, a flurry of comments expressing their love for Dele’s new life and relationship coming through a million a second.

Emilia departed from the room but stood against the wall in the hallway for a few minutes after, just listening to Dele’s waffle of nonsense to the fans. As Dele laughed at something someone must’ve said, their son kicked against her hands resting on the large bump, “you like the sound of your dad laughing, huh?”. With that, she smiled and walked back downstairs, the noise of her footsteps on the creaky stairs alerting Dele of her presence by the doorway the whole time. He quickly decided he’d given the fans (and the Diers) enough entertainment for the time being, signing off with an iconic ‘Dele wave’. He sauntered down the stairs with the knowledge his wife was hovering outside the door for god knows how long, walking immediately over to Emilia and plonking himself down next to her, “You creep.”

[obsidianarchives]

The Real House-students of Hogwarts S1E1

Episode 1: Snakes and Charmers

*Upbeat/vaguely wizarding music plays*

BLAISE ZABINI: I may be a Slytherin, but I am not a snake.

DEAN THOMAS: I’m a team player, but I’m always ahead of the pack.

DESIREE WARBECK: My cookies are always served with tea.

ALEX JOHNSON: I may be the youngest, but I can teach these old bats a thing or two.

HERMIONE GRANGER: Books and cleverness? There are more important things...like justice.

LAVENDER BROWN: You can’t predict the future, but I can.

Pan out to reveal all six wizards, each holding out their wand over the words THE REAL HOUSE-STUDENTS OF HOGWARTS.

…

A series of shots: Hogsmeade, Hagrid’s hut, the Hogwarts skyline, and then: Professor Sinistra’s classroom where BLAISE ZABINI and DESIREE WARBECK are setting up chairs for the first Hogwarts BSU meeting of their sixth year at Hogwarts. Desiree sets a tin of biscuits on the front desk, and Blaise seems a little nervous as he rolls up the sleeves of his shirt.

BLAISE CONFESSIONAL: Blaise wears a brilliant set of emerald velvet robes, hair is freshly cut. He scowls, but it is clearly because of his discomfort at being in front of the cameras. I’m Blaise Zabini, sixth year Slytherin and...President of the Hogwarts BSU. 

DESIREE CONFESSIONAL: Desiree is in black robes, but her Afro puff is decorated with sunflowers and gold powder dusts the tops of her cheeks. She beams brilliantly. I’m Desiree Warbeck, sixth year Hufflepuff and Treasurer and Resident Baker of the Hogwarts BSU. I suppose the latter isn’t really an official title but (she shrugs) I can’t eat all those biscuits and sponges on my own can I?

Back in the classroom, Blaise and Desiree are using their wands to move the desks to the perimeter of the room and the chairs in a circle in the center.

BLAISE: So...you had a good summer?

DESIREE smiles: Yeah, my Nan came to visit. She’s been touring in the States so it was good to see her.

BLAISE smiles softly: That’s nice. I’d have liked to meet her.

DESIREE blushes: Yeah, well I barely heard from you all summer. So...

BLAISE coughs: Right. Well, I was traveling a lot. With my mum.

DESIREE: Hmm.

BLAISE CONFESSIONAL: He shifts uncomfortably. Me and Des are...complicated.

DESIREE CONFESSIONAL: We’re friends. Just friends. She doesn’t look happy about it, but doesn’t say any more.

Back in the classroom, DEAN THOMAS enters. He looks relaxed as he waves to his friends.

DEAN: Hey Blaise! Hey Des!

Blaise nods in greeting.

DESIREE: Hi Dean!

DEAN CONFESSIONAL: Dean wears a West Ham football jersey under his open robes. He lounges back in his seat, his short afro freshly picked. I’m Dean Thomas, sixth year Gryffindor and Vice President of the BSU. I pretty much keep Zabini accountable (he then grins and straightens up), and I guess he does the same for me. There’s not a lot of us Black students at Hogwarts so we sort of look out for each other despite the rivalry.

Back in the classroom, ALEX JOHNSON enters behind Dean. He pulls the quill out from behind his ear as he searches in his bag for some parchment.

ALEX CONFESSIONAL: Alex is in neatly-pressed robes, the sides of his high top slowly filling in. He sits up straight, looking into the camera with confidence. I’m Alex Johnson. Most folks know me as Angelina’s kid brother, but I’m a fourth year Ravenclaw, the BSU’s Scribe, and I’ve got the highest marks in my year.

The four of them choose seats near each other. Dean turns his seat around before sitting, leaning forward on the backrest.

DEAN: So...why’d you call us here early?

BLAISE shifts in his seat beside Desiree: Well, I figured, you know, first meeting back and all. (He takes a breath and sits up straighter) And also, I wanted to talk about some changes.

Dean and Desiree exchange a glance, but Alex is too busy writing down everything to also look surprised.

DESIREE: What kind of changes?

BLAISE doesn’t look at her: I want to step down as BSU President.

The camera pans around the room. Dean frowns at Blaise, Desiree looks shocked and upset, Alex is still scribbling furiously on his parchment.

DEAN CONFESSIONAL: What in Merlin’s scratchy five o’clock shadow?

CUT BACK TO BLAISE still not looking at anyone: It’s just...there’s a lot going on out there and I think it’ll be...safer...if I’m not so out in the open, you know?

BLAISE CONFESSIONAL: I started the BSU with Dean third year because I wanted to make space for other Black students at Hogwarts, and I don’t regret doing that but...but with the Dark Lord out in the open, I just feel like it would be more prudent for me to take a back seat. 

DEAN CONFESSIONAL: This is some Slytherin bullshit.

CUT TO DEAN eyebrows raised at Blaise: So does that mean you’re leaving BSU for good?

BLAISE: No, I still want to attend, but I think you should be the new President. And Des should be VP.

DEAN CONFESSIONAL: His arms are folded, face dubious. I’m not sure how my being Muggle-born and running a Black club would be more safe than it would be for Blaise to do it. 

DESIREE CONFESSIONAL: She looks confused and annoyed. Was Blaise Confunded on the way here?

CUT TO DESIREE: I’m not going to be the Vice President. Alex should do it.

ALEX finally looks up from his notes, face brightening: I have loads of ideas for where we could take the BSU this year. We could have a campaign focusing on getting Black students more support from the school, or run a drive to help younger Black wizards prepare for entering Hogwarts, or a dance where we can raise—

DEAN CONFESSIONAL: Dean lets out a long sigh, his eyes rolling to the ceiling.

CUT TO DEAN: Whoa whoa, mate, do you have all of this written down?

ALEX: Of course.

DEAN: Great, we can chat about it later.

BLAISE: So...we’re good?

DESIREE CONFESSIONAL: Her arms are folded. No, we are not ‘good.’

DEAN CONFESSIONAL: Dean snorts and shakes his head.

CUT TO DEAN: Yeah, I guess.

DESIREE mumbles: Sure.

A great bush of hair appears at the open doorway. It’s HERMIONE GRANGER, peeking in.

HERMIONE: Am I too early?

DESIREE glances at Blaise in frustration before saying: Nope, come on in!

HERMIONE CONFESSIONAL: Hermione is in plain robes and minimal makeup. Her hair is held back by a burgundy headband, and explodes all around her. She slouches a bit, but looks determinedly into the camera. I’m Hermione Granger, sixth year Gryffindor. Most people know me as the best friend of Harry Potter. Others like to call me a know-it-all, but really I just apply myself and study hard. N.E.W.T.s are only 20 months away, after all! I’m also really passionate about equality for all magical creatures, which includes freeing house-elves from the shackles of oppression put on them by wizards.

Hermione strides in, making straight for Blaise, looking determined. Blaise leans back a bit, eyeing her warily.

HERMIONE: I wanted to add something to the agenda. I’m having a knit-in for S.P.E.W. and need volunteers to help promote and run the event.

Blaise stares at her but doesn’t say anything right away, looking more and more dubious.

HERMIONE CONFESSIONAL: S.P.E.W. stands for the Society for the Protection of Elfish Welfare. We strive to create safe and free spaces for house-elves, are committed to paying them fair wages for their work, and are working to dismantle the entire system of enslavement the Wizarding World was built on. I started it in my fourth year after learning about their egregious treatment, and I have a few supporters, but we really need funding to keep our momentum.

DESIREE CONFESSIONAL: S.P.E.W. is…(she looks away from the camera and bites her lip)...a good cause I suppose.

DEAN CONFESSIONAL: I didn’t even know Spew was still a thing (he shrugs).

BLAISE CONFESSIONAL: Spew is dumb.

CUT TO BLAISE who clears his throat and motions to Dean: You should talk to Dean, he’s running the meeting today.

DEAN shoots an annoyed look at Blaise before fixing a friendly smile on his face as he looks to Hermione: Sure, er, what’s a knit-in?

HERMIONE: Well you all know house-elves can only be freed if you present them with clothes. I’m thinking of setting up in the Great Hall — since the elves here make all of our food — and everyone can knit clothing for them. By the end we’ll have raised awareness about the cause and have made more clothes to free them with!

Blaise looks like he is about to say something, but Desiree touches his hand and shakes her head. He keeps his mouth shut.

DESIREE CONFESSIONAL: Hermione is...intense. I mean, don’t get me wrong, helping house-elves is a great cause. But...I don’t know. Tricking them into freeing themselves is...a choice.

Cut back to the classroom, where other members of the BSU are filing in. Dean is watching Hermione, looking as though he’s trying not to laugh. Alex is still writing everything down despite no longer being the Scribe.

ALEX CONFESSIONAL: It just helps for me to write things down. I suppose we’ll have to find another Scribe but I want to stay on top of my game, be a great VP, you know? I’ve got some big shoes to fill.

CUT TO HERMIONE: Anyway, I know you’ve already said we can’t talk about S.P.E.W. in meetings, but I really just want to pass around a sign up sheet. No one’s required to do anything if they don’t want.

As she speaks, LAVENDER BROWN approaches, overhearing the conversation. 

LAVENDER CONFESSIONAL: Lavender wears soft pink robes, one side of her thick curly hair pinned back with glittery purple butterfly clips. She has faint pink eyeshadow and penciled-in eyebrows. I’m Lavender Brown! I’m a sixth year Gryffindor and aspiring Seer. Professor Trelawney told me my Inner Eye is blossoming, so I think it just might come true!

CUT BACK TO LAVENDER: Are you talking about your Spew event?

HERMIONE looking annoyed: It’s S.P.E.W.

LAVENDER shrugs: I can help if you’d like.

The others, including Hermione, stare at her in surprise.

DESIREE CONFESSIONAL: I have to admit, I did not see that coming.

CUT TO HERMIONE: Really?

LAVENDER: Yeah! I could set up a tea leaf reading station. People could pay a few Galleons to get their fortunes told. I’d donate the money to you, I just want the practice.

HERMIONE face dropping: Oh, er...I’ll let you know.

HERMIONE CONFESSIONAL: Absolutely not.

CUT TO DEAN who stands: Go ahead, Hermione, I don’t see the harm. (To the rest of the students who have filtered into the room). Everyone let’s take our seats. Des, you wanna pass out those biscuits?

...

BLAISE (V.O.): This season on the Real House-students of Hogwarts…

DEAN CONFESSIONAL: Burying his face in his hands. I can’t believe Blaise stuck me with this mess.

CUT TO HERMIONE running around like a Blast-Ended Skrewt is on her tail: What do you mean we don’t have green yarn?!

CUT TO ALEX CONFESSIONAL: I just don’t think I’m being heard, you know? They all think I’m just some kid.

Cut to Blaise hurrying after Desiree down the hall.

BLAISE: Come on, Des, just talk to me.

Cut to Hermione and Lavender, inches apart, fists clenched, fury on their faces. Desiree is standing between them, pushing Hermione back while PARVATI PATIL pulls Lavender back by her hand.

LAVENDER screaming: You’re so fake! That’s why no one likes you, not even Ron!

[sammyspreadyourwings]

Aww, how sweet!! Note, I kind of based this off how I manage my curls, which are so much looser than Brian’s. Anyway!

Circa 1970

The habit starts shortly after Brian made the full transition from straightening his hair. The flat iron had done him no favors, be it style or hair healthiness, and frankly, Roger was tired of looking at the unmanaged mop.

“You use a comb!” He said tossing the comb in Brian’s direction rather harshly.

It clatters noisily on the vanity after hitting Brian’s chest.

“What?”

“Use a comb, brushing breaks the curls.”

Brian blinks and picks up the cheap purple comb. He holds it away as though he’s unsure of what to do with it.

“Whatever,” Roger huffs.

⭐⭐⭐

The next time he approaches Brian about hair care, he’s less keyed up and gentler in his advice.

“I wouldn’t use that brand,” Roger rummages around in Brian’s bags.

“It’s the cheapest I could find.”

Roger wrinkles his nose. It’s fair, but he’s sure that given proper love, Brian’s hair is going to look gorgeous. He makes up his mind to enlist Freddie, the next time they meet up.

“I guess.”

Brian snatches the tin of biscuits that Roger had been looking for originally. Roger pouts as Brian sets them on the shelf that only he can reach comfortably.

“If I break something getting them, you’d be to blame,” Roger says dryly.

Brian looks at the tin and then at Roger and then drops it two shelves. Roger snorts because he hadn’t been serious about blaming Brian, but on the bright side, it’s less work for him trying to get them.

“Don’t eat all of them.”

“Course I won’t.”

⭐⭐⭐

Freddie gives him perhaps the most obvious but awkward advice in existence.

“Just offer to do it for him!”

“What?”

“Roger, it’s washing hair not having sex.”

Both are equally impossible topics to talk to Brian about. He grimaces as he sets his arm in something sticky, despite it being cheap, Roger hates coming to this bar.

“And considering how long you two have been together, I’m sure this is going to be far less awkward than the first time in the bedroom.”

Roger carefully ignores the idea of Brian under him, mostly because they’ve had their talk about that. Not like that made him love Brian any less, obviously. Just fighting over hair seems… childish.

“All you can do is ask. I’ll even lend you some things.”

“For the hair?” Roger clarifies because he does not trust the look on Freddie’s face.

Freddie rolls his eyes, “of course for the hair.”

They both start snickering, despite nothing being particularly funny. Brian takes that moment to walk into the room, and then slowly back away with wide eyes. Roger tries to assure Brian that it’s nothing, but then Freddie laughs louder and he’s unable to stop himself.

⭐⭐⭐

“Brian, please let me properly condition your hair.”

Brian blinks slowly at him and then back down to his tea, which is mostly empty.

“I’m out of tea,” he pouts.

Roger sighs and grabs the cup and pours. The kettle is almost empty, so he cleans it out and then adds his preferred brand. Brian cradles the cup with the care he does the Red Special.

“Sorry,” Brian sighs.

“I asked if I could wash your hair, I think that it would do a lot of good if I could give it a proper conditioning.”

Brian purses his lips. Roger kisses him on the cheek.

“I promise I’ll be gentle.”

“Roger…”

He sighs, “I just really want to help you with the damaged bits of your hair.”

“It’s really bothering you.”

Roger hums and notes that their ceiling light is flickering again. Fun times, that, trying to get their landlord to get someone to fix that.

“I just think it’ll look nice, all properly cared for.”

Brian turns around. Roger walks into the opened arms and spins a sad curl around his finger.

“Fine.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The light goes out. Brian jumps in surprise as Roger yelps.

“Maybe not today,” Brian says looking up, “I’m sure this will talk all morning.”

“I vote our bassist needs to be an electrician. It’s got to be the wiring making the bulbs burn out so quickly.”

Brian rubs a large hand up and down his back.

⭐⭐⭐

Sunday night, the day after the lightbulb incident, which still isn’t fixed because it is the wiring, Roger finally gets his wish. He’s lounging on the bed, freshly showered with his textbook in his lap when Brian walks in shirtless and a towel thrown around his shoulders.

Roger is excited by the sight, but also curious.

“I’ll call for you, so you can do whatever it is you’re wanting to do?”

He grins, “sounds good, babe. Looks even better!”

Brian flushes and flicks him off before heading back down the hallway to the bathroom. Roger idly sticks post-it notes on the pages that look relevant to the study guide his teacher handed out with a gleeful “this test is worth 24% of your grade.” Honestly, he’s more annoyed that it isn’t worth 25%, is it really so hard to round up the points –

“Roger!”

He tosses the textbook to the side and moves around the bedroom to grab all of Freddie’s “loaned” products. They’re all brand new and Roger knows that the other went out and bought them specifically for Brian when none of them have the money to do such things. Not that Roger can stop him exactly, that’d be like telling the moon to stop changing the tides.

Brian assures him it’s possible if something were to alter the orbit, but something like that happening has such a small chance that it’s improbable.

“Coming in!”

He hears water splash as he opens the door. Brian watches him as he enters, Roger can’t stop himself from running his eyes over Brian’s long form, which looks crowded in the small tub.

“When we get famous, we’re getting a bigger tub.”

“So, we can bathe together?” Brian rolls his eyes.

Roger snorts, “I mean, yes, but also so you don’t look so cramped.”

Brain’s eyes shine, and Roger has to look away to organize everything on the toilet.

“The floor is going to get soaked,” Roger says after a second.

Brian looks around the bathroom, “I could get out? If you grab me pants and then lean my head over the side?”

“Your neck is going to cramp.”

“Are you going to remember to clean up the bathroom?”

“It’s your neck.”

“I don’t want to lose our deposit because of water damage.”

“I’d care more if our landlord actually, you know, took care of this place.”

Brian rolls his eyes, “Roger, pants.”

Roger stands and sends a cheeky wink back at Brian before returning to their bedroom and grabbing a clean pair. Well, he assumes they’re clean because their folded and who folds dirty clothes?

He tosses the pants into the bathroom, and for one long moment, he’s afraid that they’re about to fall straight into the water. Thankfully they hit the far edge of the toilet and fall to the ground. Roger closes the door to give Brian some privacy and then opens it thirty seconds later. Brian is just situating on the floor.

“How do you do that?”

“I’ve lived with you for a year,” Roger shrugs.

He notices things, it’s what he does.

Roger grabs the cup and turns on the water, lukewarm but more cold than hot. Brian grimaces at the feeling when he dumps it on his head.

“Sorry,” he hums.

Roger is rubbing the shampoo together in his hands, it smells fresh, like mint, but faint enough he knows it won’t bother either of them. Brian hums as he runs his fingers through the tangled mane.

“Oh, I like that one.”

“Yeah? I’ve been thinking about putting it on paper.”

“You should.”

He has to straddle Brian for the best angle and to ease the cramping in his back from bending over. Brian’s hands support him at the waist.

“How’d you do on that paper you were stressing about last week?”

“I got a 91 on it, which is ridiculous because the professor didn’t like how I came to my conclusions despite it being a valid scientific process.”

“Is it that Harry guy?”

“Doctor Harrison.”

“Yeah, Harry.”

Roger dumps the cup of water over Brian’s head, carefully making sure that none of the soapy water runs into Brian’s eyes. He quickly reaches for the conditioner and lathers it from the tips upwards. Brian’s breath evens out beneath him. He smiles as he sees Brian is dozing lightly.

He counts the tiny freckles on Brian’s face, that no one believes exist because no camera can pick them up. Roger nearly falls asleep, but catches himself at the ten-minute mark and rinses out the conditioner. The water surprises Brian and he jumps awake.

“Just have to towel dry, and then we’re done.”

Brian mumbles something sleepy and incomprehensible. Roger laughs and reaches for the spare towel – they’re going to need to do laundry again – and starts to squeeze the water out gently. When he’s satisfied that most of the water is out he stands. Brian lets out a low whine.

“I know a place where we can cuddle and avoid neck cramps.”

“Mmm.”

“Love, I can’t carry you.”

Brian cracks open an eye. He sighs but slowly rises onto his feet. Roger stumbles as he leans heavily into him, Brian’s check against his head and the still damp hair whacking him in the face. The minty-coconut smell is a little overwhelming this close.

Although, he can make out the curls starting to form given life with a little more proper care than they’re used to. He makes plans to add a leave-in conditioner and some oil and maybe tying it up occasionally.

Brian’s eyes are still closed but there’s a sleepy smile on his face. Roger couldn’t stop the smile if he tried.

[ecoamerica]

Watch the American Climate Leadership Awards 2024 now: https://youtu.be/bWiW4Rp8vF0?feature=shared

The American Climate Leadership Awards 2024 broadcast recording is now available on ecoAmerica's YouTube channel for viewers to be inspired by active climate leaders. Watch to find out which finalist received the $50,000 grand prize! Hosted by Vanessa Hauc and featuring Bill McKibben and Katharine Hayhoe!

[kalluun-patangaroa]

Now you see them: It's been a long time since there was a pop phenomenon like this - frenzied fans, rhapsodising reviews . . . Suede, it seems, might be the future of rock and roll. Then again, they might not.

The Independent

Sunday, 21 March 1993 

Written by William Leith

A THURSDAY in March 1993, 7.20pm. The Top of The Pops presenter, Mark Franklin, introduces the latest video from Suede; the studio audience gives a youthful cheer. Brett Anderson, Suede's lead singer, appears on the walkway of a nasty tower block. He wears: no shirt, a tight black leather jacket, so short it reveals his midriff, black trousers low on the hips, so you can see his angular hip-bones, a cheap-looking necklace. He looks pale, almost ill, a figure from an early 1970s nightmare. His lank fringe covers his whole face.

The camera rushes down the scummy walkway into a dark room, where a coloured light flashes sickeningly; over the fuzzy guitar noise Anderson sings - or rather, he wails: 'Like his dad, you know that he's had / Animal nitrate in mind / Oh in your council home, he jumped on your bones / Now you're taking it time after time.'

This is 'Animal Nitrate', Suede's third single, a song about - what? Domestic violence, drugs, child abuse? It's thick with filthy undertones - and people are wild about it, just like they were wild about Suede's first two singles, 'The Drowners' and 'Metal Mickey', so wild that a concert-goer told me: 'It's not just girls who pack themselves at the front of the stage and try to rip Brett's clothes off - it's boys, and it's nothing to do with homosexuality . . . it's everybody, it's a mania.'

In his careless, Mick Jagger twang, which he has to a tee, Anderson tells me: 'Yeah, there's been a lot of hysteria at our gigs. But we're quite bored with playing live already. Once you have captivated a couple of thousand people, got them in the palm of your hand, and had them salivating . . . you don't really know where to go from there.'

They're still in their infancy, but Suede have snared the imagination of a certain type of rock fan - the sort of people who latch on to thin, angst-ridden white boys, the caste who worshipped the Smiths in the Eighties and David Bowie in the Seventies. Most important, Suede have become the darlings of the rock press. Melody Maker, the New Musical Express, Select, Q, Vox are wild about Suede, too; Suede have had more hype than anybody since the Smiths, or possibly even the Sex Pistols. The reviews are florid, poetic, half-crazed; they express the almost lascivious delight of journalists hungry for something to pin their hopes on. Suede, says the New Musical Express, are: 'The triumph of decadent aristo-foppery over prole pop.' They are 'Out there, so alone, brilliantly vulnerable' (Melody Maker). Or, as Select magazine put it: 'Never mind the bollocks. Here's Suede.' Needless to say, Suede's publicists, Phill Savidge and John Best, won the Music Week award for the best publicity campaign of 1992. The judges said they 'took Suede from obscurity to accolades to being hailed as the best band of the year'.

In the past year, Suede have been pictured on 19 magazine covers (including six Melody Maker covers, four New Musical Express covers, and, unprecedented for a band who have yet to release an album, the cover of Q magazine, which appeals to older fans). The Christmas edition of the NME, on which Brett Anderson posed as Sid Vicious, was the biggest-selling NME for a decade.

But Suede haven't yet released an album; their first three singles reached, respectively, 49, 17, and 7 in the chart. This is not the big-time yet; it's not U2 or Simply Red or the Cure. In an important sense, Suede haven't happened yet; they are in an interesting limbo. They might not happen. Lots of bands have got this far - or nearly this far - and no further; what happened to the Stone Roses, to Sigue Sigue Sputnik? They seemed like great ideas at the time.

What will Suede's fate be? Nobody knows; the world of rock music is too fickle to predict. When I met Brett Anderson, he said: 'I do want to have a place in history. I really do.'

'And what does it take for a band to have a place in history?'

'I think . . . three great records. Three great albums. But then again . . . the Sex Pistols did it with one, didn't they? I don't know. I don't know.'

BY THE end of 1992, when the height of Suede's chart success was still only a No 17 single, journalists were drooling over Brett Anderson. They practically had him on the couch. They loved his angst, his preoccupa-tion with himself, his ability to verbalise. He was perfect - he was everything they could possibly want.

In a typical exchange, he told Melody Maker: 'When it comes to writing, there's something to be said about being unhappy. I know I've been at my most creative when I've been sexually unsatisfied. When I'm sexually satisfied I write a load of old rubbish.'

Melody Maker: 'Are you sexually satisfied now?'

Anderson: 'Yeah.'

Melody Maker: 'So you're writing a load of old rubbish.'

Anderson: 'Yes, and it's a problem, because we're supposed to be doing our debut album . . .' He even had an exact position on sex, which was: 'I see myself as a bisexual man who's never had a homosexual experience.'

Perfect. As soon as they spotted Suede, the rock press knew they were on to something. The journalist who first wrote about Suede was John Mulvey of the NME. Suede were nobodies, playing third on the bill at the University of London Union. Mulvey says: 'They had charm, aggression, and . . . if not exactly eroticism, then something a little bit dangerous and exciting. Brett was a brilliant frontman. He has a certain edge to him which most people don't have, like Ned's Atomic Dustbin or Kingmaker, who are woefully bereft of that spice.'

'That spice' is something the rock journalist needs to find, if he is to make a living. Week in week out, you trudge to seedy bars and clubs, desperate to find something exciting. When I was a rock journalist in the Eighties, people would come into meetings every week, excited, with their discoveries. This is it! One week it was Stump, another week it was the Soup Dragons. We had the Shrubs, the June Brides, Sigue Sigue Sputnik, Half Man Half Biscuit; they were all the talk of the NME office for days, or weeks; sometimes they held out for longer, as long as there was still a chance of starting a cult, of getting people excited enough to rush out and buy the magazine. The strike-rate is very low; mostly, these discoveries fizzle out. So when the music press is faced with something that might go the whole way . . . it explodes.

'Here was a British band it was possible to get excited about,' says Danny Kelly, editor of Q magazine. 'The kids have to wait for the Smashing Pumpkins, or Hole, or Come, to come over from America. Whereas Suede is a very real, very immediate thing - they are around and playing.'

Kelly continues: 'In the last 10 years bands have been very apologetic; they've thrived on the attitude that 'we're the same as the audience'. Suede's attitude is 'we're brilliant; we're the stars, and you're the admirers'.'

Steve Sutherland, editor of the NME, says: 'When I first saw Suede, it was one of the few times I can honestly say I saw a band and I was utterly convinced they were brilliant. Often, you get a band with attitude, or a gimmick, or good songs, but seldom everything together.'

Kelly says: 'Also, Suede allude so knowingly to things that rock journalists are comfortable with - Seventies glam, Cockney Rebel, the Smiths, sexuality, asexuality, male violence. If there is a game to be played, they're playing it very well . . . they are skinny white boys speaking to other skinny white boys about their inadequacies.'

This week's NME cover story is the transcription of a meeting between Brett Anderson and David Bowie, who listened to a tape of Suede's first album sent to him by Steve Sutherland. Bowie told Sutherland: 'Of all the tapes you've ever sent me, this is the only one that I knew instantly was great.' The two singers, the 'Thin White Duke' and the star-in- waiting, chat about sex, drugs, Nazism and the ins and outs of being a pop star. Talking about Bowie's recent, relatively anonymous, period, Anderson says: 'It's funny that, when David started Tin Machine, it was the start of the cult of non-personality . . . maybe you were just feeling the times.' The article is headlined: 'One day, son, all this could be yours.

HE COULD, conceivably, be the next David Bowie, the next Mick Jagger. Or it could all come to nothing. Who knows? Brett Anderson sits with his feet up on the table, talking quietly about his chances. He wears: black corduroy trousers, cut low, a thin jumper with nothing underneath, shoes with holes in the soles, a reaction against his recent, more stylised image, which included an appearence in the NME with an elaborate shirt painted on his body.

'Are you conscious of the way you dress?'

'Yes . . . I'm feeling pressure on how to dress in that I don't like being made into a cartoon. There's a certain element of the music press that deals in comedy and turn you into a two-dimensional thing. The whole foppish thing is getting quite boring really.'

Sitting, as he is, in stardom's waiting-room, Anderson is hyper-aware of the traps he might fall into. Recently, for instance, a tabloid scoured his earlier interviews and found them to be larded with references to drugs. 'They said there was a backlash against Suede because parents were worried for their kids,' he says. 'The whole media's a huge dangerous web.'

'Do you ever think that all this might just be hype? That you might never go the whole way?'

Anderson, his knees drawn up to his chest, his head in his hands, says: 'The British music press are notorious for getting it wrong, for leading people up the garden path, because they just . . . they're too obsessed with the idea of things. But we never really felt it wouldn't happen. We knew we had a bit of substance over the style.'

Anderson believes he's going to be a star. He's happy with Suede's first album, Suede, on the cover of which is depicted a couple kissing - an ambiguous picture, which could be a man kissing a man, a man kissing a woman, or a woman kissing a woman. 'I chose it because of the ambiguity of it, but mostly because of the beauty of it,' he says.

He also says: 'There's an elegance and a beauty to our music that people haven't heard yet, and I want that to come across - the flow of it, the swoon, to a certain extent.'

Anderson comes from Haywards Heath, where he met Mat Osman, Suede's guitarist, at school. 'He's always known he was going to be a pop star. He was very arrogant,' says his childhood friend Alan Fisher.

'I'm quite glad that Haywards Heath was such an ugly place,' says Anderson. 'Being born on the outskirts of London, being able to just peer in but not quite see what's going on, is a really tantalising thing - it makes you hungry and gives you a certain amount of ambition.' He lived in a council house with his father, a taxi-driver, his mother, an artist, and his sister, who 'escaped' at the age of 15. 'I didn't go to any gigs,' he says. 'I didn't like all the bands that were around - Echo and the Bunnymen and all that stuff.' Anderson's taste was more obscure - he liked hard, punky bands - Crass, the Exploited.

After attending Manchester University for two weeks, Anderson moved to London with Osman. 'Before we met Bernard,' he says, 'it was just me and Mat in my bedroom with this rubbish drum machine, writing awful songs.' Then they auditioned for a guitarist, and chose Bernard Butler, who worried Anderson because he was 'too good'. They also auditioned for a drummer, and picked Simon Gilbert, who tells me over the telephone: 'I heard a tape of their early stuff. I said, this sounds really good, but they need a drummer.'

'And then it just . . . took off?'

'Oh, no. We played all the shitty gigs for a year and a half. We played the Amersham Arms in New Cross to one person.'

'Do you remember the moment when the rock press discovered you?'

'Yes. I remember the first few reviews. I'll get it out of my scrapbook if you like.'

BRETT Anderson, sitting precariously on the window-ledge, with his feet balanced on the radiator, talks about Suede's first album. His favourite song is 'So Young', a full-tilt anthem of slashing guitars and pained howling, a great song - which, like so much of Suede's material, recalls the prancing confidence of Marc Bolan, of early Bowie. 'It deals with the knife- edge of being young,' says Anderson, who is 25. 'There's the desperation and all the pitfalls, but then actually turning them into something hopeful and beautiful that looks forward and that isn't negative.

'It's a rejection of the traditional English character,' he goes on. 'A desire to push all the claustrophobia and tat and bits and pieces away, and stride into the future, which isn't the most original thought in the world, but maybe one of the most important.'

'So will success spoil you as a musician then? What if you get comfortable?'

'I don't really feel as though I could ever be comfortable.'

And now, a week before the release of Suede's first album, Anderson must go to a studio to meet Bernard Butler and write songs for the second album, tentatively scheduled for release early in the new year. He has also been thinking about the video for the next single. 'Up to now,' he says, 'we've been playing on the grittiness of it all. But I wanna take it all to a different level; I wanna use nature more. I've got this image in my head of these horses galloping, and then I'd have it superimposed, and make it a lot more beautiful, a lot more floating, a lot more . . . implied.'

Anderson gets down off the window-ledge. By the time the stuff he will write this afternoon is in the shops, he might be just a vague memory. Then again, meeting him is something I might boast about to my grandchildren. Who knows? Nobody, yet.

[ninjacat1515]

A nickname for the King that no one dares speak, is "Biscuit Tin" Salazar was wearing armor, but had gotten a bit out of shape, and his belly armor popped off and knocked a guy out during a battle. All caught on camera.