#friends of the costume institute

[archiveofkloss]

may 4, 2024 / new york city, new york

karlie kloss with wendi murdoch and daniel roseberry at the friends of the costume institute’s celebration of “sleeping beauties: reawakening fashion”

[heritageposts]

🇵🇸 From BDS:

This year’s Israeli Apartheid Week will be the most important since IAW was launched 20 years ago! With the ongoing Nakba at its height, Israel is carrying out the world’s first ever live-streamed genocide against 2.3 million Palestinians in Gaza while it continues to entrench its 75-year-old settler-colonial apartheid regime against all Indigenous Palestinians. Over the past few months, people around the world have carried out inspiring actions building people power to end state, corporate and institutional complicity in Israel’s #GazaGenocide and contribute to the Palestinian struggle for freedom, justice, and equality. With the failure of the international system, under US and Western hegemony, on full display, we will organize IAW throughout the month of March to bring justice from below. Save the date - March 1st - March 30th; an entire month of action and BDS mobilizations to end complicity in genocide, build grassroots power towards liberation and the dismantling of Israel’s settler-colonial apartheid regime. Let’s make this year’s IAW our most impactful ever!

In anticipation of the upcoming Israeli Apartheid Week, BDS has called for an escalation of our boycott campaigns.

To find out how you can join a specific BDS campaign, or how you can contribute towards IAW, you can use the search function on their website to find a BDS-affiliated organization in your country.

If you and your organization have an event planned for Israeli Apartheid Week (IAW), you can register them with BDS here.

🇵🇸 For individuals unaffiliated with an org, you can still support and participate in IAW by:

Boycotting all products from Israel and from companies profiting off the occupation of Palestine. Here are the official BDS targets. For a more extensive list of products, check in with one of the BDS affiliated organizations in your country (they might tell you, for instance, what processed food items at your local grocery store should be avoided).

Share information about BDS on social media, with friends and family, and with your local community.

For BDS targeted brands, refrain from making or sharing any content that helps that company's outreach and branding. No more memes mentioning the brand, no pictures showing their logo, no more free advertising. Boycotting here isn't just about the loss you as a costumer can inflict on the company by not purchasing their product, it's also about damaging the brand's reputation, and limiting their customer outreach.

I highly encourage you to join a BDS-affiliated org, but if for whatever reason you can't, then these are concrete and actionable steps you can take.

Again, for more information about BDS and Israeli Apartheid Week, you check in with the official BDS website.

[nthflower]

I used basketball hoops orange chandeliers and that electric thingies that I forgot their name and do amazing lampposts to my sanctuary hills.

Also now it has shops. Beautiful. I wanna live in there.

[mrrharper]

Not In The Exhibit Brochure

It was a hot summer day and the city was filled with people coming to be a part of one of the biggest fantasy conventions in the country. Video games, board games, tabletop RPGs, LARP, movies, TV shows, theater shows, even musicals. If one fancied themselves a fan of a franchise that existed in any of these forms, they could be found spending a sunny August weekend in the convention center.

Mark meandered between countless people in the Second Pavilion, getting tired having spent the last five hours walking around the convention area, being asked for pictures and catching up with his friends. This year he came wearing a full cosplay of one of the characters from his favorite first person shooter. He put on a tactical vest, helmet with a full headset, a tactical belt with a bunch of accessories and camo pants. In his hands he was bearing a perfect replica of the most famous gun from the game.

He spent a long time perfecting the costume, both by searching for just the right gear and by spending hours in the gym. Now his broad and thick shoulders, football-sized biceps and veiny forearms were visible for all attendees, which garnered Mark a lot of attention, which he enjoyed.

It was exhausting, however. The temperature inside the convention center got uncomfortably high at times, so he decided to take a break. He fold the few friends who joined him during the day that he was leaving for a while to take in some relatively fresh air, then pushed his way through the crowds until he got to the exit.

Thanks to the fact that the center was basically in the middle of the city he didn't have to go far to get to a park and relax, then find a place to eat and just take a walk through the city.

Mark was aware that many businesses and institutions had various perks for the convention ticket holders, to keep the attendees in the city for longer and spread the economic effects of the convention. He was reminded of this fact just as he was walking by the giant building of the art museum. His curiosity was piqued and he checked if he would get a discount of a ticket. It turned out he could walk in for free, the only requirement was to show his pass at the entrance.

What Mark saw after getting through a quick but awkward security check truly amazed him. He slowly walked from one part of the building to the next, taking his time to watch every piece, all displayed in a well air-conditioned space, which was a nice bonus. The museum had a bunch of different special exhibits currently open to the public and they were all pretty stunning, each in its own way.

Finally, Mark made his way to a part of the museum furthest away from the entrance where he saw a recent collection of sculptures from a local artist. Each statue was an extremely realistic depiction of a person, and they were supposed to collectively represent modern society. There were athletes mid-run, businessmen in the middle of walking in between offices, chefs tasting their newest creations, it was all incredible to watch, every sculpture most likely taking weeks or months to complete. Mark stood in the middle of the room as he looked around and every time he managed to find a new detail in one of the statues. While his eyes were jumping from one piece to another, inspecting every curve and small detail, he was unaware of just how much time has passed since he entered this space.

And then he tried to move.

Mark heard his phone buzz loudly in his pocket. It was probably one of his friends wanting to check up on him. He tried to move his hand to take the phone and answer the call, but it wouldn't move. Neither would his head. Or any part of his body. He was immediately alarmed. Mark tried as hard as he could to get any element within his human form to move even an inch, but it didn't work. His whole body was suddenly completely stationary and he could not control its movements, because he couldn't cause any movements. He started to panic and hoped someone would notice that he wasn't well. There were a lot of people at the museum so it would be just a matter of time before one of them came to this room and noticed a guy in a military cosplay was standing weirdly still.

Except this did not happen. Visitors just passed by him with no interest in the person standing frozen in the middle of the room. As Mark looked with his unmovable eyes at the tourists wandering around the space right in front of him he felt like he was losing the track of time. Was it a minute ago that he realized he couldn't move? No it mus have been almost an hour by then. Nah, it couldn't be.

Then Mark realized something horrifying. Not only was no one coming up to help him, they began to stop in front of him and just look at him, as if he was just another...

Did he turn into a fucking statue?! That terrifying thought seeped deep into his mind wreaking havoc along the way. How could this have happened? Magic? But magic wasn't real! That was impossible, this was a dream, for sure! He tried to move his body even a little bit, but again he failed every time. He desperately tried to force his hand to move so that he could pinch himself and wake up from this terrifying nightmare. But no part of his arm changed position, not even an inch.

A larger group of tourists, mostly retirees, led by a young woman slowly moved through the exhibition space and passed by Mark, who continued to struggle and try to move.

"Huh, the guide didn't say anything about this one. Did that lovely lady talk about this soldier, Harold?" An elderly couple stopped in front of Mark and they stood there and admired him for a moment.

"No, Mary, I'm pretty sure I'd remember" The man, Harold, took a step closer towards the statue.

"Harold!" The woman shouted at him. "You can't walk up too close to the sculptures dear."

"Oh, calm down" Harold responded, slightly annoyed at his wife's comment. "I'm in an art museum so don't tell me to not look at the art." The older man stood just a few steps away from Mark. "There's no plaque or rope or anything, this is a free country, Mary!" He was a few inches shorter than Mark, so he couldn't clearly see everything but it seemed he was just looking at Mark's gear.

"Look. The artist — that Gary what's-his-name — knew what he was doing with this one. I recognize all that gear this man is wearing. Nice work." Harold's tone of voice suggested he was weirdly pleased with the statue that used to be Mark. "This is what a real man's supposed to look like. Not some sissy sitting behind the desk all day."

"Of course Harold, of course" The woman walked up to her husband and put her arm around him, then started gently pushing him towards the other statues.

Mark's brain struggled to comprehend what he had just witnessed. He had really turned into a statue! People thought he was a part of the exhibit! How could this have happened? He couldn't come up with any even remotely plausible explanation for what he was experiencing. He then thought that his only hope would be his friends - they knew he was downtown, maybe some would guess that he used the opportunity to get into the art museum for free, which would lead them to the place where Mark was currently stranded.

The group of retirees came back, walked next to Mark and was about to leave the room when the tour guide looked at him and murmured to herself.

"This statue was not a part of the exhibit. How did it get here?" She grabbed her phone and quickly led her group towards the rest of the museum.

Mark again realized he couldn't tell how much time had passed since any of the recent events. It was as if his internal clock had stopped working, ran out of batteries. This whole experience was so confusing that he had issues fully registering everything. He tried counting in his head, but got lost after 20, maybe? The only thing he was sure of, for now, was that the day had not yet ended, but he could not tell what part of the day it was, as the whole museum was constantly lit with this slightly weird diffused lighting.

Three people suddenly came into view and stood some distance away from Mark, clearly looking at him. He couldn't hear the conversation they were having because of the noise from surrounding visitors, but he could clearly see that they were all agitated, talking over each other and aggressively pointing at themselves and Mark. As he looked closer he realized they were all museum employees, meaning they were probably debating what to do with a statue which has suddenly appeared within the premises of the musem they worked for, a rather uncommon occurrence.

Not long after they left Mark's view and he was once again stuck in this feeling ot timelessness. Tourists stopped in front of him every now and then, looked at him for a moment and moved on, while he stood still, holding the gun in his hands as if ready to fight, and yet incapable of it because of some indescribable force.

The employees from before came back, one of them holding in their hands a metal stand of come kind. It had something written on it at the top, but Mark couldn't see what it was. What he could see was the employee putting the stand in front of him and them all looking at it.

"That will have to do for now" One of them said. This time they were standing closer and Mark was able to hear what they were saying.

"Yeah, I won't be able to make a proper one until tomorrow."

"Okay, but it has to be there by Monday afternoon, otherwise we're fucked. Jesus Christ, still'can't believe this happened."

"No time for moaning, Jacob. We have work to do." Another one replied. They all nodded their heads, took one last look at the stand and quickly left the scene.

Mark thought about what he had just witnessed, and it took him a moment to understand - this was a stand with information about the statue, which meant him. It was the same kind as dozens more throughout the museum that visitors could look at for further information that was meant to enrich their experiences. This was meant to hide the fact that he was not here just mere hours, or minutes, or days, or-- he was certainly not here when the exhibition was opened. That fact was probably what had made them so angry and confused before - from their perspective a random statue of a soldier randomly appeared in the museum.

His mind immediately asked one question - I wonder what did they write on there? What was his title, his author, his artistic description or statement? Wait, his author? That was a strange line of thought, Mark realized.

I am Uncontrolled Power.

Wait, what was that? Who said that? Where was that deep voice coming from?

I was created by Greg Duchaime Arreman.

Was there someone standing behind him?

I am meant to represent unchecked aggression and power of the Military Industrial Complex.

Wait a second, what this voice inside his head?

I am the physical manifestation of toxic masculinity and bravado.

Holy fuck, this was a voice inside his head. Was this... what they had written about him on this stand?

Fuck yeah, I'm an alpha who follows orders and crushes any sign of disloyalty.

The voice was talking to Mark. Shit, the voice was talking to him! What the fuck?

You scum, get ready to experience the primal, animalistic force of a toxic man! I'm gonna crush you!

Mark wanted to sigh loudly, but of course he couldn't. Great, the museum employees with their great art wisdom made him a stereotypical aggressive soldier. Obedient muscle. The armored tool of American imperialism. And this soldier character seemed to have appeared inside his head.

I am here to blindly follow orders, enforce them and show everyone what masculinity really means!

If Mark could have rolled his eyes, he would. He was stuck, like an NPC frozen mid-frame, standing in the middle of an art museum, possibly forever. And from now on he would represent toxic masculinity, aggression and military prowess.

Whoever stands in my way will be violently crushed with the power of the American Military and my primal force! Toxic and proud, that's who I am!

[fantastic-nonsense]

I have a fun [citation needed] hypothetical for you. Say you have been granted the authority to make FIVE editorial directives for DC comics that will be followed for at least the next five years. What are you demanding?

No company events.

No major events with ten thousand tie-in comics.

No big crossover events.

No big gimmick events.

No event comics.

Okay, I kid, but only slightly. I'm actually going cheat slightly and give you five plus an extra one that needs a bit more explanation:

No company-wide crossover events or gimmick events that derail major ongoing stories in individual books shall be made. If an event comic is published, any tie-ins will be published separately from the character's ongoing/mini (for reference: like the Blackest Night tie-in specials).

Institute a lore consistency team within the Archives department. Mandate that every single creative team MUST read and utilize a character/story bible before writing any scripts. The scripts will be looked over by a member of the lore team as well as the book editor before being approved for publication.

The Young Justice generation is finally allowed to grow up and, where necessary, get new hero names. In particular, Tim Drake finally gets to age and stop being Robin. He picks 'Blackbird' as his new name, gets a cool new red-and-black costume, and stars in a rebooted Young Justice book alongside his friends.

Barbara Gordon has to formally retire from the Batgirl role and become Oracle full time again. This is handled in a way that is respectful of her character and her disability. Cassandra Cain will be Batgirl full-time again while Stephanie Brown goes back to Spoiler; Cass gets a Batgirl solo ongoing while Steph would join a rebooted Gotham Knights team book that includes her, Kate, Helena, Luke Fox, and Jean-Paul Valley.

Wonder Woman's established lore is acknowledged, respected, and re-emphasized. Diana is a clay baby again, Cassie is Zeus's daughter again, The Return of Donna Troy is acknowledged as the definitive explanation of Donna's multiple-choice backstory (while the fire origin stays the definitive origin), Artemis gets her original origin back, etc. Full acceptance of the Rucka Rebirth retcon to reset Diana's origins and childhood back to the post-Crisis status quo. No references to the Zeus origin or the New 52 Amazons are allowed to be made except in context of Rucka's "it was a lie" explanation.

In priority order, those editorial mandates probably fall out to be something like 2>1>5>3 and 4 in a tie; 3 and 4 are kinda interchangable since they collectively would fix a wide swath of what's wrong with the Bat books right now.

My "extra" mandate would be that writers must utilize existing characters where possible for their stories. No new "major" heroes are to be introduced unless a writer can prove that a book needs a new character to fill an identified gap. Prioritization should go to a) characters who used to be used on a regular basis in a given book but have not been seen in 10+ years and b) characters introduced within the past 5-7 years.

I'd want this one for two reasons: one, there's a ton of pre-existing characters who used to be staple or regularly recurring characters who have failed to get regular appearances since 2011, for a variety of reasons. Forcing writers to use them instead of creating new characters would allow DC to rebuild some continuity, bring back old favorites, and provide closure to lingering storylines that were cut short or never followed up on. Two, there's a hell of a lot of new characters have been introduced and discarded without actually building them out properly the last few years. I would honestly only put this one in place for around 3 years...long enough to force DC to actually flesh out the underutilized newbies and provide some closure and new beginnings for some old favorites.

[tiaramania]

Today is a big day for tiaras so everyone brace yourselves.

All three Scandinavian monarchies will be bringing out their tiaras with a state visit from Denmark to Sweden and one from Moldova to Norway.

The highlight will of course be seeing which tiara Queen Mary chooses for her first state visit. I can't decide if it will be the Pearl Poiré Tiara or the Ruby Parure Tiara. The pearls are probably the second most important Danish tiara after the Emerald Parure Tiara that she debuted last week for a gala portrait but those can not be taken out of the country.

Or she may decide to stick with the rubies and save the pearls for the state visit to Norway in a few weeks. That spaces out the new tiaras a bit and the rubies were originally made for the first Bernadotte queen of Sweden so there's a great Swedish connection there.

The livestream for the Danish/Swedish state banquet starts at 7:15pm local time and you can watch it here.

Then it's also the Met Gala which usually provides a few tiara appearances depending on the theme. This year the Costume Institute's exhibition is titled 'Sleeping Beauties: Reawakening Fashion' and the dress code is 'The Garden of Time' inspired by the short story by J.G. Ballard. I think we will probably see a lot of flower crowns but hopefully a few of those flowers will be made out of gemstones.

Personally, I think It's the perfect opportunity to break out this tiara with a watch hidden behind the central flower. It was made circa 1960 and was last sold at Bonhams' in 2015 for 6,250 GBP. I just really want to see someone bending down so that their friend can check the time on their tiara.

The livestream for the Met Gala red carpet starts at 6:00pm local time and you can watch it here.

[oftenwantedafton]

Revival - Steve Raglan/William Afton x Female Nurse Reader

Rating - Explicit

Warnings - none for this chapter

Also available on AO3

The pain is excruciating.

William Afton has endured this before, under very different circumstances. A springlock failure, an experiment gone awry, but how else was he to know if they worked properly or not, no risk without reward, and his business partner, his friend, had been so convincing of their probable success. Probable being the key operative word.

He’s sitting now in a collapsed heap he’s been unceremoniously dragged and dropped to, tossed like a bag of garbage, left to rot. Every breath is agony. Each constricted slight attempt at movement torture. His fingers flex weakly within their steel confines of the mascot suit. Reaching for salvation he feels will never come. He has just enough energy to remove the headpiece. His skin is the color of parchment, saturated with perspiration. Graying hair clings in wet tendrils to his face. His lips are pale, bloodless. His body is already shutting off supplies to his extremities in an effort to keep the core alive a little while longer. He feels the slow trickle of the blood weeping out of him. The very jagged edges leaking his lifeforce also partially holding it in place. Extending the torment. New wounds ripping open old scars. He cannot hear the ghost children any longer, the final sound a bellowing roar as the spirit within had finally realized the truth of his deception. The ceiling has collapsed in places, the tiles now littering the floor, the fluorescent lighting dangling like grim party streamers.

He’s dying, alone, in the darkness.

In an ironic twist of fate, William Afton is saved by the very people he’s been trying so hard to keep out of his pizzeria. Vagrants. Thieves. Urban explorers. One of these has chosen this night to intrude. Lured inward by whatever motivating factors drive them there. Curiosity. Desperation. Shelter. Wealth. The trespassers find him. For a split second the man in the yellow rabbit suit thinks they will flee, thinking him a ghost. Afraid of being blamed for the ruination of the abandoned restaurant, implicated in his harm and imminent death. But one lingers, hesitating when his voice croaks out a plea. The last bit of air he’s been hoarding. Vocal chords straining. An anonymous 911 call made from an office phone that miraculously still functions.

It’s enough.

***

The man in the ravaged mascot suit lying on a stretcher is wheeled into the ER a little before dawn.

The hospital staff sees a fair amount of action, considering the location is not a busy city institution. An occasional gunshot wound, usually from a child gaining access to a parent’s unsecured firearm. Sometimes a gas station convenience store robbery gone wrong. Car accident victims. Overdoses. Someone who’s been sober for years falling off the wagon, now violent, cursing out staff as they struggle. A variety of situations, but all manageable.

This case though. There is nothing normal or routine about this. It does not take much of an assessment to realize this is beyond the capabilities of the local hospital, and time is not on their side. An immediate transfer up north. The man’s vital signs are weak. High flow supplemental oxygen fed through the mask strapped to his face. Metal glove removed, intravenous line started. The costume takes up so much space in an already cramped area. The helicopter lands. They’ve arrived.

The extrication process is delicate work. His body repositioned multiple times. Traditional tools are insufficient. Laser metal cutting finally frees the injured man. The victim has lost consciousness. A failure of the springlocks to release properly has somehow left many vital organs free of puncture. A failure of a failure. The man might have chuckled bitterly over that if he was still alert. The suit was getting older. Damaged with so much activity. The fight with the Schmidt boy. The electrical discharges. The gunshot from his daughter. It’s a wonder it had any structural integrity left.

He’s not out of the woods yet. The remains of the springlocks, damaged as they are, are unforgiving. They do not pierce through his flesh cleanly. The edges are jagged. Pincers that dig into his body. An Iron Maiden, a second set of ribs, these alloys that curl in a vice grip. Trying to merge and meld with him. An unforgiving embrace.

Blood transfusions. Strong intravenous antibiotics. The suit is not clean. The restaurant hadn’t been either. The risk of infection is extremely high. Tainted metal and foreign bodies. His lungs are the most damaged part of him. Touch and go. Cardiac arrest. Defibrillated, brought back. In the aftermath, the man survives.

There is still a long road of recovery ahead of him.

***

The man who’d been trapped in the mascot suit is transferred from the ICU to a medical surgical floor. Stable. Awake again. And somehow, miraculously, still absolved of any guilt.

The pizzeria had been searched. The most recent casualties found. He himself an assumed victim in a string of unexplained disappearances. The baby sitter and her brother, the former decapitated and the latter shoved inside of an animatronic suit. Their two accomplices, their bodies mangled. All of them found in the service workroom. Now this social worker, who, when he’s recovered enough to speak, insists he was going there on a site visit to check on the new hire. Whatever Mike tells them seems to fall on deaf ears and he doesn’t press the matter, perhaps just grateful he and his sister are safe. The man’s own daughter is still in a coma. He knows she’ll keep silent, going along with whatever story he concocts, covering for him. She always does.

So his real identity is still concealed. Steve Raglan remains a trusted alias. There are cards and flowers from his coworkers. A news story marveling over his recovery. How brave he was to confront this killer, the owner, William Afton. The man behind the slaughter.

If they only knew.

***

You flip through the patient’s chart in front of you. So many notes. Physician orders. What a journey this patient has had. One that began in spring. Now it’s fall.

Your patient load is light this evening. There isn’t much for you to do for the man at this stage. He’ll be discharged soon. He’ll still need more rehabilitation to regain his strength and recover from the deconditioning his body has undergone due to his long hospital stay.

You sling your stethoscope around your neck and knock before entering the room.

It’s the last one at the end of the hallway. The illuminated landing pad for the medi flight helicopter is visible from here, the blinds open and raised over the bottom third of the windows. Television off. The wall light on the lowest setting. The man’s eyes are closed. His breathing is regular. Sometimes his lungs struggle a bit and he requires a bronchodilator, either a nebulizer or an inhaler. Probably something he’ll require for the rest of his life. He has a likely susceptibility to respiratory illnesses as well now. The damage had been severe, his exposure to contaminants unforgiving.

His graying hair and beard have grown out, making him look rather unkempt. You can see he’s long overdue for a trim. You gently set your stethoscope on his chest to listen to his heart and lungs. His eyes open. Pale. Intense. You freeze.

“Sorry to disturb you, I’m just doing my assessments.” You hate having to wake people up so late at night. “I’ll be fast, I promise.”

“It’s alright, I’m used to it. Do what you have to do.” His voice is coarse but pleasant. You find yourself staring at his features and become distracted from listening to his apical pulse and respirations. Early fifties his chart had said. Skin in good shape. Light crows feet at the corners of those wide set piercing eyes. The untidy hair makes your fingers itch to try to tame it.

Without any guidance he withdraws his arm from beneath the sheet draped over him. Cuing you to take his blood pressure, startling you from your reverie. Your cheeks flush. You notice the scars on his arms immediately. Such strange markings. Rings and slashes. You can’t even imagine how frightening that must have been. Shoved inside an animatronic by some maniac serial killer. Amazing he had survived. You press your fingers against his wrist, your eyes on the clock on the wall as you calculate his pulse. His skin is very warm.

The manual cuff fits easily over the bearded man’s upper arm. He’s lost weight since he’s been in the hospital, but you think he was probably lean to begin with. “This is going to get tight. Still better than the machines. And more accurate.” You’re old school. You prefer obtaining vital signs manually yourself. The aides have enough work to do. You press the stethoscope to the antecubital space, tucking it slightly underneath the cuff, fingers curling around his elbow to help hold it in place. You tighten the grooved metal air release valve and begin squeezing the bulb. Your eyes lock on the gauge. You’ve done this long enough now that you can see the changes as the systolic and diastolic readings register, the audible portion just confirmation of what you’re visualizing when the needle beats along in accompaniment before being reduced to a smooth sweep. The velcro parts with a harsh rasp of sound as you remove the cuff, replacing it into the storage bin behind the bed.

“Okay, good. Temperature next.” You slide the probe cover on and his lips part so you can tuck the thermometer under his tongue. A very prominent tongue. Agile. Curling. You know you’re blushing again and you stare hard at the digital display. Afebrile. You withdraw the probe and depress the button to drop the cover in the small wastebin beside the bed. Pulse oximetry next. Saturation in the low 90s. Not ideal, but decent all things considered. He’s got lovely hands. Long, slender fingers. “Any trouble breathing?”

“I still cough when I take a deep breath sometimes but otherwise okay. And no, not coughing up anything. Nonproductive.”

“You have been here awhile, huh? We could probably put you to work. Train the new grads.” The turnover rate at the hospital is high. A lot of temporary agency staff. Recent graduates that put in six months or a year for a reference and then move on to whatever specialty they decide on. You like med surge. You enjoy the reward of seeing people get better and go home. “You must be dying to get out of here. Where are you from again? Hurricane, was it?”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t have time to go through your whole chart and it’s obviously more than can be given in any detail on report, but. Yeah. You’ve clearly been through a lot. I’m sure your family will be glad to have you back.”

“I don’t know about that. My daughter and I have…our differences.”

“Does she live with you?”

“No, she’s grown. Long out of the nest. I live alone now.”

“Oh.” You return your stethoscope to its drape over the nape of your neck. “Well, glad to be out of here, in any case. I need to check your chest. From what I got on report everything is healing well. Any pain?”

“I’m alright.” He shifts, lifting the blue diamond patterned hospital gown.

You almost gasp, managing to stifle it at the last moment. Keep it professional.

The damage is so, so much worse here. So many deep scars. Nothing like the fainter ones marring his upper extremities. Puckered gouges. Taut, shiny dark red lines bordered by dots where the surgical staples that had held his wounds closed had been. More irregular patterns you cannot discern the origin of. What had been inside that suit?

“On a scale of one to ten, ten being the worst—”

“Zero. I’m fine, honestly.”

You sense he’s not being entirely truthful despite his reassurances. You notice the slight wince when he moves. Still tender.

“If you need something—”

“—I don’t need pain medication.”

You blink, slowly removing your stethoscope again. Stubborn. Well, you’ll leave it for now. “I’m going to check your abdomen. I’m sorry, my hands are always cold.” You listen, then percuss and press in each quadrant. The faintest silver stretch marks on his belly near the umbilicus. He was much heavier, once. You note a faint happy trail that disappears into navy blue boxer briefs and quickly shove that from your thoughts. “Any tenderness?”

“No.” His eyes have not left your face since you’ve begun examining him.

“Okay. Would you mind sitting up for me so I can listen to your lungs and check your skin?”

He complies. There is a knot at the top of the johnny. The rest is open. You don’t even have to instruct him to breathe deeply. He really is familiar with the routine. The scars are not as pronounced here. The majority of the damage looks like it was on the front of his torso.

You flip the sheet back to check his lower extremities once he’s settled again. No edema. Color good. Well perfused. The same light patterns as on his upper extremities. His legs are so long. He’s well over six feet, you think. His feet have to rest on either side of the footboard with the bed adjustment controls.

You readjust the sheet so it’s draped neatly over your patient’s frame once more. “Okay, we’re all set. Everything looks good.” You tap on the call button hung over the side rail. “You call me if you need anything, okay? I’ll check on you later, Mr. Raglan.”

“Steve, please.” He smiles. Such even white teeth. Dimples. The creases at the corners of his eyes deepening. Butterflies in your stomach. He really is quite attractive. He’s also your patient. Be professional.

“Goodnight, Steve.” You hear him pull the string to switch the light off as you leave the room.

He does not call for assistance. When you peek in later, the room is dimly lit by the nightlight set in the wall. He seems to be sleeping. Your shift ends.

***

Steve’s back on your assignment two nights later.

“Have you always worked third shift?”

“Since I became a nurse, yes. I’m a night owl. I don’t know how you do it. Getting up early five days a week. I’d rather stay up then get up. I didn’t last long in the hairdresser business.”

“You get used to it.”

“I guess. Open, please.” You slip the thermometer under his tongue. No fever, but he still feels impossibly warm. You realize that’s just his baseline.

“Since you mentioned it, I wonder if I might ask a favor of you. If your assignment isn’t too heavy. The day shift aides seem very occupied and the nurses much the same.”

“We actually discharged four people earlier tonight. I only have you and one other patient. Nursing home. Sweet lady. So yes, I’ll have down time. What’s up?”

“How would you feel about cutting my hair? This mess is absolutely driving me mad.” He rakes a hand through his graying locks.

“Oh, sure, I can do that, provided I find some decent scissors. If you trust me over someone in the salon. I think they’re short on help, like every other department. How short do you want it?”

“I trust your judgment and I’m tired of waiting. Would my driver’s license picture help?”

“Oh, yeah, good idea.”

“Top drawer of the bedside table.”

You find a weathered looking leather billfold inside. Deep creases. You remove the card from the vinyl window sleeve so you can see his picture more clearly. Side part. Layered. Facial hair much more neatly trimmed. And gold framed aviators. “You wear glasses?”

“Sometimes. Mainly for driving. I’m near sighted.”

“Oh. Well, I can manage this, no problem.” You tuck the license back inside the slot and fold the wallet, setting it back in the drawer. “You can lock this drawer, you know. I mean, I think all of our staff is trustworthy, but you never know.”

“There’s really nothing valuable left. In there.”

A definite pause. You wonder what’s buried in those words. Your eyes fall on the pile of greeting cards from well wishers. “Have you heard from your daughter?” You’d heard she’d been stabbed and had been in a coma for quite some time. Recovered now. A police officer.

“No, and I don’t expect to. We’re accustomed to long pauses without speaking.”

You see the man tense up and decide to shelve the topic. “It’ll be easier to cut your hair if it’s wet.”

“I’ll take a shower.”

“I’ll bring you some towels.”

He’s out of bed, standing beside it when you return. Very tall, as you’d predicted. “I put them in the bathroom. Just let me know when you’re ready.”

“I will.”

You close the door softly behind you.

***

“You’re in luck. The security guard I’m friendly with is on tonight. I invaded the hair salon.”

“Friendly, hmm?” He settles into the hardbacked chair you’ve pulled out from against the wall and you tuck a towel around his neck.

“Well, not that friendly.” You comb your fingers through the damp tresses, trying to decide where to begin.

“That feels nice.”

You let your hands scrape his scalp a little and he hums appreciatively. You’re so accustomed to quick in and outs, doing your assessments, administering medication, moving on to the next patient, repeating the process until it’s time for documentation. It’s nice to be doing something more leisurely for a change. Meeting other needs.

“You have really nice hair.” The texture of it. The coloring. You like the mixture of shades. Combing with an actual plastic tool now. Dragging everything even. Fingers marking off a swathe. You begin.

Muscle memory. You’d done enough trims in your previous profession. Men are so much easier to style than women. Pieces fall to the floor, catch on the towel. He needs a lot of layering. The soft sound of the shears snipping, a whisk of metal blades. Working near his ears. At his neck now. A thick neck, something else you’d noticed right away during your assessment. His eyes on you when you move to stand in front of him. Pressing close. The furniture seems so absurdly small. His knee bumping into you. Pajama pants on. Still the hospital gown on top. This one’s tie at the neck is ripped, instead fastened mid spine. Some of the buttons on the sleeves not snapped. Your fingers touch his face, adjusting his head so you can view his hairstyle from different angles. The scent of the baby shampoo the hospital supplies. Antibacterial soap.

“Not too shabby if I do say so myself. Maybe go have a look in the bathroom mirror?” You carefully gather the towel to minimize the mess and he rises. So tall. You keep forgetting. Looming beside you. Older tree and young sapling.

Departs. Returns. “It’s perfect.”

“I’m glad you like it. Want me to do your beard too?”

“If you wouldn’t mind.”

You don’t. It seems silly not to. Like leaving a job unfinished. The beard trimming feels more intimate. His eyes always on you. You finish. A near replica of how he’d looked previously, disregarding the weight loss.

“What do you miss the most, being in here for so long?” As if he is confined in a prison. It is a sort of holding cell, in a way. Trapped until the physician determines he’s able to return home. Or insurance runs out. Or unless he leaves AMA.

He hums thoughtfully. “I would kill for a cheeseburger and a cold beer. And a cigarette,” he adds with a heavy sigh of longing.

You blink in surprise. “You smoke?” You’re fairly certain it had said he was a non smoker in his chart.

“Not for years. Longer than you’ve been alive.”

You blush at this reminder of your age gap. “You want me to smuggle in some contraband?”

“Would you?”

“Yes. Tomorrow night. Tell me what you want specifically, brands and such, and I’ll try my best to get it for you.”

“How kind of you. Yet devious.” He grins again.

You’re starting to enjoy this dark smile of his.

***

You lead Steve up the stairs onto the hospital roof.

Clear autumn sky. Harvest moon. Air brisk. He’s wearing a gray sweatshirt and blue flannel pajama pants and slippers that don’t look like they quite fit right. You’ve got a cardigan on over your scrubs. Your companion sounds a little winded. Still adjusting to exercise. Therapy said he’d been progressing well. They’d done a home visit to assess what he’d have to manage physically independently. His discharge paperwork was now underway.

“If I thought we could get away with smoking in your room, I’d have just cracked the window, but there’s no way the alarm wouldn’t go off.” You hand him the pack and a lighter you’d tucked into your pocket. “You shouldn’t make a habit of this, though. I’m worried about your breathing.”

“I’ll be alright.” A flame illuminates his features. “It’ll take more than one cigarette to do me in.” He inhales shallowly, testing that theory. A sighed exhale. A little cough at the end that he’s trying to stifle.

“Steve,” you say warningly.

He waves the hand holding the cigarette. “I’m fine. I appreciate all of your efforts, really. The cheeseburger was divine. The beer the same. This is exactly what I needed.” He takes another drag. No coughing this time.

You fold your arms across your chest, leaning back against the small brick structure that houses the roof access.

“Do you ever treat yourself to something you enjoy? I imagine being a caregiver is rather draining.”

“I enjoy my days off. It’s a good schedule. I can’t really complain.”

“When’s the last time you went on vacation?”

You frown. “I have no idea. It’s been years.”

“Maybe it’s time you took one.”

“I don’t even know where I’d go.”

Raglan flicks the end of the cigarette. “You could visit Hurricane.” So casually said. Your breath hitches.

“You mean visit you?”

“I would hope you’d stop by if you were in the area.” He blows a stream of smoke.

“I would.”

“You would or you will?” Another drag, followed by a cough. Longer this time.

You move closer, touching his sleeve. “You should stop, Steve. I’m really worried.”

The man sighs, letting the cigarette drop from his fingers and grinding it beneath the sole of his shoe. “Maybe you’re right.” He tucks the lighter and the pack back into the pocket of your cardigan. “Will you?”

“Will I what?”

“Will you come to me, in Hurricane?” The wind lifts a stray strand of your hair and he tucks it back behind your ear. The casual touch lingers, evolving, his thumb now stroking deliberately along your jaw. You have just enough time to answer affirmatively before his lips dust across yours.

[imagining-in-the-margins]

Do you have any or would you be interested in something where Spencer fucks the reader but doesn’t even take her clothes off all the way? Something about a hiked skirt and panties pushed to the side

Hey friend! I have quite a few fics with partially clothed sex. I've listed most of them here 🥰

Teacher’s Pet: Reader insists on being a problem for her favorite Professor.

My Boss’s Daughter: Spencer’s fling with his boss’s daughter is definitely going to get him fired.

Truce: Spencer doesn’t like his new boss.

Be Still: When Spencer is given the all clear to “exercise” after he was shot, his girlfriend decides to go for a ride.

Jazz & Jealousy: On a visit from New Orleans, Ethan takes a liking to Spencer’s crush. He is not thrilled.

Opposing Counsel: Spencer runs into his childhood rival at trial for a case. Now that they’re older, they found a new way to resolve their differences.

I Like It Like That: Spencer is jealous after a rowdy party.

Funhouse Mirror: SSA Reader promised Spencer he’d be surprised by her costume of the Doctor for the Halloween Party. To her credit, he definitely was.

The Objective & The Occult: Reader is a witch and Spencer is a scientist, can I make it any more obvious.

“Bro Code” Be Damned: Spencer decides that the Bro Code isn’t really a code to be taken seriously when Derek’s girlfriend is feeling neglected.

Devil in the Backseat: Reader is a little too much for Spencer (and he’s into it).

Schrödinger’s Relationship (Part 1, Part 2): Reader finds out Spencer has been dating a kind and cute woman (when he’s not spending the night at her house).

Lily of the Valley ❤️ (Part 1 , Part 2 , Part 3): Unsub!Reid. Spencer was found guilty but mentally ill after the torture and murder of several men. He finds solace in his psychiatrist at the institution.

Dark Side (Part 1, Part 2): What can Reader say? Spencer in a prison jumpsuit is just too hard to resist.

As well as several chapters of my series:

[COMPLETE] Here to Misbehave: Spencer meets a girl he can’t get enough of at the nightclub, then quickly realizes she is not supposed to be there. Series Masterlist

[CURRENT] The Birds & The Bees: Prof!Spencer, Virgin!Reader. Reader interviews for a position as Dr. Spencer Reid’s Teaching Assistant, and Spencer learns something special about her. Series Masterlist

I hope you enjoy!

Thanks for reading ☺️

[chronically-ghosted]

dieter bravo x masterlist

[xx.masterlist.xx]

[Series]

🤍Recovery Road

status: complete

rating: Explicit 18+

summary: (AU) Dieter Bravo is on his last chance. Six months out of a two year stint in rehab, his marriage on the rocks, and his starlight fading, he reunites with an old director friend on a project that might save his career and his personal life in a single go. Enter Natalie Lorraine, his new enigmatic co-star. Together, they go on to lead a film that comes to define a generation – and are both mysteriously absent the night the film receives an Oscar for Best Picture. Their reasons for missing such a landmark event are their own. Amidst affairs and acrimony, the temptation of relapse, and the intoxicating allure of wanting what you can’t have, Dieter and Natalie have become a ticking time bomb, primed to explode.

[Oneshots]

you can never keep a soul (18+) A storm and a dead phone leaves you at the front door of your uncle’s mansion in LA. Thing is, you haven’t seen each other in over a decade and neither of you quite remember the other one looking like that. But what’s one night gonna do? Well, as it turns out – as Dieter spirals at a breaking point in his career and you’re so lost in life you can’t see up from down – a whole fucking lot. 

Little Monsters (18+) **100 follower event** A phone call home to your family has you missing them desperately . . . especially your husband, who always knows exactly what you need.

can you see my reflection in the snow covered hills? (T) **100 follower event** a year into secretly dating, you are overwhelmed by your feelings for Dieter Bravo, confident and resigned to the fact that he doesn’t feel the same way. But on Oscar’s night, drunk on sparkling wine and a terrific win, Dieter gives you a reason to doubt your fears. 

delicious (T) **100 follower event** in order to make a fundraising event bearable, you and Dieter take edibles. When the event runs long, your only chance to make it out alive is to find something to eat. 

Bite Me (T) Halloween 2023! before a Halloween party, you and Dieter show off your “communal” costumes.

i crawl home to her (18+) **Merry Thanksgiving Nonsense 2023** you bring dieter home to meet your family over the holidays.

Stay Gold, Baby Boy (18+) six months into your friends-with-benefits situation, you institute a new game. A gold star on the board every time Dieter is a good boy. Today, he gets bingo . . . for wearing real pants. 

stay sexy and don't get murdered (18+) Trapped behind a secret wall to hide from a murderer, the close proximity forces you and Dieter to confront feelings you rather bury underneath your case to prove your favorite neighbor didn’t commit suicide.  (This is the Only Murders in the Building smut fic in the chaotic stylings of Dieter Bravo.)

fade into you (18+) **1K Follower Celebration** counting down the days until the new baby arrives, you’re already wound to a breaking point. Fortunately, Dieter is as good a husband as he is a father. 

[Drabbles]

Vampire!Dieter (T) you're a journalist and you finally get to interview the current generation of the Bravo Hollywood Legacy.

i breathe you in (and it changes me) (T) **1K Follower Celebration** you've been here with him before - rock bottom. But this time, he gives you reason to hope for something new.

[brainrockets]

I think that the Steel moment from this first episode of Arc 3 is so juicy.

There's some thread about trust and family and how it intersects with the machinery of Empire.

Sort of like, Steel is Suvi's mom, but also her boss commanding officer. And when you work with/for family, there are some lines that can get blurred. We've already seen how this has some benefit to Suvi. In the leeway she has for messing up. But now we see how it cuts the other way when Steel is using the trust she has as her mom to get Suvi to comply with her orders for her job.

Aabria played it brilliantly, sort of noting that she's having this moment where her friends have damaged her trust in them (and Steel really made a hard case to her last arc about trusting anyone but her... like trust me, trust us, maybe don't trust whoever gave you that prophecy tho... oh how sad everyone is too wrapped up in secrets to trust. >.>) and needing fundamentally someone to trust in, so in a situation where she wants to push back, she feels cornered by this need and her need for acceptance and love.

And as I've seen others note, Steel setting the scene super casually as to invoke her family tie rather than her official tie is epic manipulation tactics.

I love the way Aabria and Brennan are building this world together.

And I think it's the tension in Steel's character that Wren observed, that Steel is of the Citadel first and everything else second. Which is why she didn't refer to Steel as someone to be implicitly trusted.

And someone who belongs to an institution first, particularly an imperial institution, can be a lovely person who is nice and who loves their family and who also turns around and does fully horrific acts for their institution. Steel could have been responsible for Suvi's parents' demise and still sleep decently at night if she took those actions for the good of The Citadel/Empire.

Brennan: let's explore how the doers of evil deeds are sometimes nice people interpersonally. An excellent nuance to learn.

Yeah some bad guys are mustache twirling bastards who are rotten to their core. And some bad guys are nice normal seeming folks just doing banality of evil stuff as part of a system.

It's like in real life you have your active pursuit of bigoted behavior folks, full blown fascists, costumes and all. And then you have your folks who are perpetrating the violence of the established imperialist system on folks. And the "if they weren't guilty, why didn't they do thing that wouldn't have stopped or helped the situation" folks.

Brennan:

[thecrazygamingzombie]

Helluva Boss/Hazbin Hotel corporate AU:

Wrote this AU with some friends last night and it was too good not to share publically:

Hell is replaced with a massive afterlife based corporation called 'Hell Inc' that handles the production, distribution, and management of all the various types of evil in the world; while also acting as the largest employeer of damned souls in existence and a direct competitor to Heaven LLC.

The company is headed by it's Chief Pride Officer and founder, Lucifer Morningstar, beneath him is the company's Vice President Charlie Morningstar after the former VP retired and disappeared under odd circumstances. Charlie has been trying (and failing) to get the company in some semblance of order and addressing the horrible working conditions that arose as a result of her father's near endless apathy and depression stemming from a millennia of accumulated burnout.

Below them are the six members of Hell inc's board of directors who run the various company departments:

Mammon, Chief Greed Officer (CGRO) and head of the greed department. Which manages the company finances as well as several financial institutions on earth like Banks and Casinos

Beelzebub, Chief Gluttony Officer (CGLO) and head of the gluttony department. They run Hell Inc's marketing campaigns and manages several fast food chains in the human world such as Bee Burger

Asmodeus, Chief Lust Officer (CLO) and head of the lust department. They run Hell inc's production lines in the underworld and various media conglomerates on earth.

Satan, Chief Wrath Officer (CWO) and head of the wrath department. Which handles all security related matters along with war and conflict in the human world, primarily arms manufacturers

Leviathan, Chief Envy Officer (CEO) and head of the Envy department. Which runs Hell Inc's research and development and various construction ventures on earth

And Belphagor, Chief Sloth Officer (CSO) and head of the Sloth department. Which is in charge of all health related company matters along with various hospitals and insurance companies on earth.

Each has their own unique management problems and while they once worked in tandem, which has resulted in a slough of issues from a lack of individual oversight. Such as Greed's severe budget cuts, Envy's ridiculously long working hours coupled with high standards, and employees in Wrath that spend more time arguing than getting things done.

Beneath them are the middle managers, the Ars Goetia, but they're among some of the most useless members of the company. Holding nothing more than figurehead positions to create the illusion of a centralized hierarchy when in reality they just pass their work onto the various supervisors within each department. Recent hire Stella is particularly bad in this way as the only reason she has the position at all was due to the nepotism provided by her brother Andrephelus who works alongside her in the Envy department.

(the only exception is Lust's middle manager Stolas)

Then we have the supervisors, the actual managers of the department divisions who occupy the role of authority figure that the Ars Goetia fail to fill themselves. Notable supervisors include:

Crimson Knolastname: Greed department supervisor overseeing most organized crime with a focus on blackmail activities

Wally Wackford: Greed department supervisor in charge of scams and white collar crimes.

Verosika Mayday: Lust department supervisor and PR manager for the department

Fizzarolli: originally an intern in greed, he was later transferred over to Lust and supervises the roleplay and costume divisions of the lust department

Vortex: the primary event coordinator for the Gluttony department along with new employee orientation

Striker: Wrath department supervisor, handling any and all matters relating to mercenary work and assassinations

Joe and Lin: Wrath department supervisors, the former managing the hand to hand combat division while the latter runs the in house medical center and trains all Wrath Department employees in battlefield aid.

And last but not least are all the rank and file employees that makeup Hell inc's primary workforce. They're usually sorted by species: Baphomets work for the Sloth Department, Imps work for the Wrath department, Succubi and Incubi work for the Lust department, etc. However this is only for their initial probational period, if their skills prove to be more suitable elsewhere in the company then can be transferred into another department.

With one exception: Pride. The department in charge of processing all damned souls at the time of death and general evil relations in the human world

The Pride department is the largest and most chaotic of all of Hell Inc's departments, it's facing an ever increasing workload that it struggles to manage and even with the steady flow of Sinners rolling in to fill vacancies the department is constantly short staffed. So not only are sinners forbidden from being transferred to other departments, but any hellborn that get transferred in Never. Ever. Leave. Getting assigned to the Pride Department is basically a life sentence and it doesn't help that the department itself has basically gained a reputation as a dumping ground for misfit employees that can't properly function in any other department.

To make matters worse, while the other departments have some level of rules and standards when it comes to employee conduct. The Pride Department is left in almost total disarray thanks to every supervisor in the department being blood thirsty corporate climbers who are constantly screwing one another over to gain more recognition in the overall company. The supervisors affectionately nicknamed the Vees: Velvette (social media manager), Vox (IT supervisor), and Valentino (employee recruitment manager) are the absolute worst when it comes to this backstabbing.

However, the biggest problem facing the Pride department is none other than the man eaters in the Demon Resources division. Ran by two supervisors known as Rosie and Alastor, the former handling employee disputes while the later is in charge of terminating employee contracts...and employees. If you get called into Alastor's office, that's usually the last anyone hears of you. The rest of HR isn't much better either as they all tend to be of a similar temperament to their supervisors.

But for all it's mess, VP Charlie genuinely believes she can clean up the company one department at a time; starting with the Pride Department. With the backing of both her father and the HR rep Alastor, she's assembled a solid team of employees willing to help her with the task.

And by that I mean employees that were voluntold to help her:

Husk, former supervisor in charge of managing Hell inc's gambling holdings that had been partially outsourced from Greed's own workers. Alastor had personally handled his demotion after it was found the cat demon had been skimming off the top.

Vaggie, the head of the security division of the Pride Department and Charlie's girlfriend. The rumors of her rise to power via nepotism are matched only by the rumors that she transferred in from Hell inc's rival company, Heaven LLC

Angel, a rank and file employee of pride with no particular specialization who's working directly under Val. He claims he's only on board with Charlie's plan in hopes of getting a promotion, but it's rather obvious he really just wants to get away from his current boss by any means necessary

Sir Pentious, part of the R&D team and widely considered to be one of the worst researchers in the entire company due to the numerous cases of collateral damage he's caused. Charlie's project is not only his last chance to avoid getting a pink slip for both his job and his life, but also to get the professional recognition he so desperately craves

Niffty, once a member of the janitorial team. Nobody knows where she came from or how long she's been working her, only that she's some what of an oddity even by Hell inc standards. The only thing that's certain about her is that she's an employee you should give a wide berth to if you value your personal safety

Meanwhile in the Pride department, a small little clique has formed of low level demons that have transferred in from other departments and work in the revenge division:

Blitzo, the supervisor of the division who's quite skilled at falling upwards. He is completely and utterly incompetent at his job, choosing instead to slack off with the toy ponies he spends his salary on or flirt/sexually harass his coworkers rather than actually performing any administrative duties. The only reason he still has his job is likely due to a 'friend' he has in middle management that keeps covering for him.

Moxxie, an accounting intern that transferred in from greed after a disastrous project with now ex-employee Chaz that resulted in massive losses for the greed department, causing Mammon to dump the 'useless' imp into the Pride department. Usually the one doing Blitzo's job for him, very begrudgingly I might add, and frequently grumbles about his station but secretly enjoys the group he's found. Especially his wife...

Millie, a security guard transferred from Wrath after several complaints in regards to 'excessive force' were leveled against her. Luckily she's adjusted quite well to her new position in the Pride Department even if she tends to drift under the radar more often than not, but she remains optimistic that she'll get a worthwhile promotion someday. In the meantime, she makes use of her spare time tending to her weapon collection or having sexual encounters with her husband around the office; away from most prying eyes

Loona, one of Hell inc's newest hires. Originally slated to be an intern in the Gluttony department, her attitude problems forced Beelzebub to personally see to it that the hound was relocated to a position in the Pride Department for both her own safety and that of her coworkers. Takes after her supervisors slacker tendencies in an apathetic way, spending practically every waking moment glued to her phone, much to Moxxie's frustration.

And that's the lot of the company! We hope you enjoy your stay at Hell Inc! Remember: Today is the first day of your eternal life....

(P.S. you didn't hear this from me, but rumor has it that Heaven LLC has been experiencing plenty of problems of it's own. Such as poor leadership, communication issues, and nepotism even worse than anything seen at Hell Inc. And there's even a few sources that claim that former VP Lilith was seen on their board of directors, but you know how people like to talk.)

[davidtennantgenderenvy]

Things That Happened At Dallas Fan Expo Day 2

Got to do Ineffable Husbands with Merlin, my first couples cosplay ever and it was everything I ever could’ve hoped for :)

cosplay came complete with a genderfluid bracelet thanks boyfriend!!!

Merlin’s mom had a handmade Touchstone As You Like It costume and it was GORGEOUS

saw so many fellow Aziraphales and Crowleys today, the couple that we talked to were just so lovely!

got recognized on sight by someone who watches my videos which has NEVER happened before

Photo with David and Catherine was so goofy we tried to do the hand pose and no one knew what face to make except David, then I almost went out the wrong way and David was like “you’re walking with purpose!”

they instituted a no hug policy before I could get my single photo with him bc some asshole decided to ruin it for everyone, but the photo was sweet anyway I got an arm around and he touched my hair it was neat

he loved mine and Merlin’s outfits!

I had David Matranga (voice of Shoto Todoroki) make a video message for a couple of my friends and he was lovely and generous with his time

David’s autograph line was super clogged again but it did go better, I apologized for the weirdness and he was like “there’s no weirdness!” And he was so kind and I told him he was so kind and generous, and then I asked the One Question I had time for which was “what’s your favorite proclaimers song” which made him VERY happy he was like “that’s NOT one question” and I was like FIRST ONE THAT COMES TO MIND and he was like “let’s get married!” And I was like “mine’s life with you! Which you walked down the aisle to at your wedding!” Which made him very happy. It was sweet and a good memory I’m totally okay with how it went

@kookiecamera @better-be-daydreams

[kwanzaa-wakanda]

Why you don't know anyone who celebrates Kwanzaa

"Because no one cares"

"Because it's a sham holiday made by a con artist"

"Because it's dumb"

"Because no True African would ever celebrate Kwanzaa."

These are all bad faith arguments. They aren't meant to actually explain why, and do more to devalue the holiday as well as people who celebrate it or at least respect it.

So, why don't you know people who celebrate Kwanzaa? After all, you have so many Black friends, or maybe even you are Black yourself, shouldn't Kwanzaa be everywhere?

This post is a bit long, and some points are explored more deeper than others, but I think this will provide an explanation that's actually pretty fair and common sense. The short version:

Kwanzaa is a newer, anti-consumerist holiday that does not appeal to every single Black person. And that's okay!

1. Kwanzaa is a newer holiday.

Kwanzaa is only about 60 years old. It's not going to be as popular as Christmas. Other holidays, say Veteran's Day, Memorial Day, or Martin Luther King Jr. Day are about as old or even younger than Kwanzaa, so why are they celebrated more widely? Well, it helps that they're all federal holidays with a state structure to back them up. Individual people can celebrate those holidays, but they don't have to, institutions celebrate them for us by giving us time off work and making a public statement (maybe a donation or two). Other than that, those holidays are largely upheld by community events, just like Kwanzaa (more on this later).

The types of family traditions we associate with Christmas take generations to build. Even other older holidays like Mother's Day don't have any real traditions inherently associated with them--we all give our moms a gift but beyond that, everyone engages with it differently.

New holidays need time to catch on. Institutional structures help speed that process along, but Kwanzaa doesn't really have that. So it's going to be slower than others in terms of attracting people.

2. Kwanzaa is anti-consumerist inherently.

In America, consumerism makes up a very large part of how people engage in holidays. Note that I'm not saying "people only celebrate other holidays for consumerist reasons", I am saying that a lot of the driving forces that 'remind' us to take holidays seriously in the US are market forces. We're inundated with advertisements, sales, and decorations that help create a 'feeling' of the holiday (be it Christmas, Valentine's Day, Halloween, etc) which also make it easier to engage with the holiday. We can get the supplies we need at the store. If we don't have plans then there's probably a business throwing a party around that time to keep us entertained. Gift-giving and feast preparation is expressed through buying products en masse so we prepare financially. Holiday specific media sculpts our collective understanding of the holiday's themes even if we don't engage directly.

Kwanzaa, as an explicitlyanti-consumerist holiday, doesn't lend itself to that level of cultural zeitgeist in the US. People exchange gifts and decorate places for Kwanzaa, but commerce during Kwanzaa is typically kept within Black communities through dealing directly with (small) Black Owned businesses. Given that most corporations in the US are white owned, there's very little reason for the market structure to incentive our continued engagement in Kwanzaa. The passive acknowledgement that it's a holiday that exists is the most we can really hope for.

Imagine Halloween without candy sales, Spirit Halloween stores, Halloween parties or costume nights at our favorite restaurants and bars. Imagine no horror movies coming out in October! In a world like that, I and many other people would still celebrate Halloween, but it wouldn't be as easy, and a lot of people probably wouldn't acknowledge it at all, because it isn't as easy.

Kwanzaa explicitly resists the market forces that help holidays stay in our daily lives. We all value our holidays beyond those forces, but we can't deny the very heavy role they play. We can argue that such market forces are morally neutral or even good, but not in this post--whatever your view of holiday consumerism, it's critical to understand that Kwanzaa was organized specifically for people who don't appreciate such consumerism.

3. Kwanzaa does not appeal to all Black people equally.

I think this is one of the hardest points for people both within and outside the community to grasp. The holiday is for Black people, and is meant to appeal to as broad a sampling of Black people as possible. That doesn't mean it will appeal to everyone, though.

The target audience for Kwanzaa is Black people, regardless of nationality, who believe in a shared political unity, heritage, and cultural engagement of all Black people regardless of nationality.

Thing is, not all Black people believe in or value those things. Not all Black people are Pan-Africanist, Afrocentrist, or Black Nationalist, or any other Negritude philosophy. These philosophies are widespread in politics and scholarship, but outside of those dimensions of life engagement with them gets complicated.

You may have heard that "no Africans celebrate Kwanzaa" this is largely true because Africans live in families and communities where their African heritage is already affirmed through other means, including other holidays. Kwanzaa therefore doesn't appeal to them, even if they do believe in all it's themes. Such people may go to Kwanzaa events if invited, but they likely wouldn't hold them for themselves.

Many in the African Diaspora understand their identity most immediately by the region they settled in, and only have a distant sense of African identity. They don't deny being African or having African heritage, but they see being Caribbean, or Brazilian, or American as more relevant. Kwanzaa therefore doesn't appeal to them as it's not specific enough.

Kwanzaa is not closed to any Black demographic and actively encourages all of us to celebrate it. But not all of us will find it appealing.

I would compare Kwanzaa to a holiday like Easter--its a Christian holiday meant to appeal to all Christians equally. But if you aren't church-going and have no children in the family, you probably don't celebrate Easter to any meaningful extent, or your engagement is so personal that it isn't considered very mainstream or traditional.

The point I'm trying to make is: holidays aren't guaranteed to appeal to everyone in their target demographic. Though the reasons why diverge, not every Christian celebrates Easter, not every Black person celebrates Kwanzaa.

4. Communal Kwanzaa celebration is more popular than in-home, but that also carries some drawbacks to it.

Whenever people interested in celebrating Kwanzaa ask me how to get started, I often tell them to look into community celebrations. They're usually put on by churches (perhaps even mosques), community centers, cultural activity groups, or political groups. And therein lies the problem--if you don't live in close proximity to that type of Black community, or the community is invisiblized, then even if there are communal Kwanzaa celebrations to check out you probably won't know about them.

You can't just ask a random Black person about a Kwanzaa event, typically. My advice is to tell people to check out a Black bookstore (and, if available, an African cultural store or an Afro spiritual store). The types of people organizing Kwanzaa events are usually those deeply enmeshed in cultural and political Black discourses, particularly those that affirm an African heritage. But such people aren't found everywhere. In my experience, you can find such people and spaces in most major cities, and so a Kwanzaa celebration probably isn't too far away either. Everywhere else, though...

The only other option to find Kwanzaa celebrations, in my experience, are through Black student clubs in colleges. Not all of them do Kwanzaa activities due to many factors (cost, timing, interest, etc), but my undergrad college did and I know that others throughout the country do. However, such activities may not be open to the public (again, for varying reasons -- cost, timing, interest, college policy...).

When people ask about personal celebration, they usually ask about in-home celebration, treating community celebrations or celebrations in schools as less serious or legitimate. Kwanzaa in general is itself rare, but the idyllic in-home celebration is even rarer -- I myself was raised engaging in Kwanzaa almost entirely through community rather than in-home celebrations (though I started doing in-home for myself in recent years).

---

How, then, should we treat people who celebrate Kwanzaa, or even the non-Black people who don't celebrate it but acknowledge it as a valid holiday?

Honestly, I don't get why that has to be a question. Sure, it's a very marginal holiday, but it's also harmless to treat it respectfully and try and make room in your life in case you ever come across someone who does celebrate it.

I made this post because I often see this idea that people were "tricked" about Kwanzaa. I fail to see what harm has transpired. I don't get why people use their lack of awareness of Kwanzaa or Black communities that celebrate it as a "gotcha" that proves Kwanzaa is a scheme. When I do try to understand the logic underlying this, I come back to this idea that holidays and cultures have to earn respect and validation, that being included in our American idea of "Holiday Time" requires that holidays have a certain number of people we already respect, whom would be offended otherwise.

But that isn't a perspective that I share. I can't say how many people need to celebrate a holiday in America before I stop thinking it an insult or a lie that said holiday be included next to Christmas in a holiday greeting; the number doesn't exist because I don't hold Christmas or Hannukah in so high esteem. I value Christmas in as much as I recognize other people value it, the same is true of Hannukah and Yule (and even the pagan witches I've known didn't celebrate Yule). To me, the only thing one needs to be worthy of consideration as one of The Holidays is to simply be celebrated by people around this time of year.

[metanarrates]

Okay i drafted this in docs when i saw the barbie movie yesterday against my will with my family. The Barbie movie isnt bad for what it is per se (summer hollywood blockbuster) but set it against any higher standards and it falls short in almost every department. There's a lot of incredibly tasteless leftist political jabs about the status quo and a comparison of the smallpox genocide that claimed millions of indigenous lives to Patriarchy (because it's not mainstream feminism if we don't elevate the oppression of women at the expense of other marginalizations). The choreography and costumes were nice but in regards to its messaging i cant find a whole lot to compliment. It amounts to "humans establish gender hierarchies because we dont know to think of any other way society could be arranged :( let's all pinky promise to work towards the eradication of ALL sexism***" which is massively reductive and fails to address a plethora of issues, including the fact that patriarchy as an institution is foundationally violent 🫠

***Ken's whole arc is about him resorting to establishing a superficially patriarchal system in Barbieland because he didn't have any other outlet to claim agency for his own person. The role reversal of Ken, the "man", being an accessory who can't exist outside of Barbie, the "woman", was likely intended to highlight gender inequality in a way that would be easier for regular people to sympathize with. Unfortunately I can't help but disagree with the idea that we cling to male supremacy simply because we lack the insight to seek other methods of liberation

Uhmm anywya. I dont even particuarly care for this cultural bandwagon i just needed to be a hater for a minute. If my opinion matters at all

your hater opinions ALWAYS matter to me :) we love thinking about how movies are ideologically messes here

i was talking to a friend last night abt this, but it sounds like the messaging here is very confused. it tries to make a statement abt sexism, but since there's the aforementioned issue of the writer not understanding that patriarchy is a violently enforced system of power, it comes across as the movie ending up positing that men are just Inherently Susceptible to being patriarchial and women likewise are Inherently Susceptible to being victimized by patriarchy. which is um. BAD!

also wtf is up with that smallpox comment. it sounds fucking evil!!!!!

[ghostscrown]

Don't you understand. If I get a queerplatonic partner one day, I want a queerplatonic "marriage" but you could barely even call it a "marriage". It would be more like. A platonic ceremony. Nothing official, so it wouldn't even be an official marriage, because fuck the marriage institution. I want this to be the most chaotic, confusing ceremony ever. The whole thing would be a go to hell to the relationships norms.

It would be like. A small ceremony. With the Anne With An E flower party aesthetic, ykwim? I want NONE of these wedding aesthetic. Just... A GIANT cake, that'll be the closest thing ressembling a wedding. And flowers everywhere because I love flowers, but flowers of all kind. Multicolored. Decoration theme is flowers and stars. Because it's cool.

Not too many guests, just a few, close people to us, because there's no way I'm gathering a full social event. Fuck off "guests have to be classy but not too much to not outshine whatever". I want everyone to get their fanciest, most extravagant outfits. Theme is victorian-pirate-steampunk-medieval. I want cloaks/capes, vintage dresses, top hats, pirate shirts, everything. And everyone will get a free colorfull flowercrown.

Me and QPP are wearing the biggest, most giant flowercrowns. I'm wearing the fanciest medieval cape ever.

We do vows, but like. We say so many romance spiteful things. Like. Promise we'll never downgrade this relationship to romance. But also things like. Promising to be queerplatonic partners and best friends for life (reminder that queerplatonic and best friends aren't the same, but if I get a QPP they'll probably also be my best friend, so both at the same time, because I'm like that) etc.

Instead of wedding rings, we exchange friendship bracelets.

There's an officer, just for the sake of it, even tho it's not an official thing - so it could just be anyone really. They have to wear a fancy costume too of course. And at the end they'll say "I declare you... Best friends forever." (It would be more appropriate to say queerplatonic partners or something, but this is funnier.)

And then. Instead of kissing, even in the case we wouldn't mind kissing, we fistbump. Just because it's funny.

[justforbooks]

Iris Apfel was finally recognised as a great, original fashion stylist in her 80s, when the Costume Institute at the Metropolitan Museum in New York had a sudden gap in its 2005 exhibition schedule. Many curators knew Apfel, who has died aged 102, as a collector stashing away clothes, especially costume jewellery, both couture-high and street-market-low, so the institute asked to borrow some of her thousands of pieces.

When Apfel wore them herself, dozens at a time in ensembles collaged fresh daily, they had zingy pzazz, so she was invited to set up the displays. There was no publicity budget, and her name was modestly known only in the interior decor trade, yet the show, Rara Avis: Selections from the Iris Apfel Collection, became a huge success after visitors promoted it online. It toured other American museums, changing exhibits en route because Apfel wanted her stuff back so she could wear it.

Apfel’s grandfather had been a master tailor in Russia; her father, Samuel Barrel, supplied mirrors to smart decorators; her chic mother, Sadye (nee Asofsky), had a fashion shop. They lived out in rural Astoria, in the Queens borough of New York, where Iris was born.

As a child, her treat was a weekly subway trip to Manhattan to explore its shops, her favourites the junk emporia of Greenwich Village. She was short, plain and, until her teen years, plump, but she had style; and the owner of a Brooklyn department store picked her out of a crowd to tell her so. During the Depression all her family could sew, drape, glue, paint and otherwise create the look of a room, or a person, on a budget of cents – the best of educations.

She studied art history at New York University, then qualified to teach and did so briefly in Wisconsin before fleeing back to New York to work on Women’s Wear Daily. Furniture and fabrics were in short supply during and after the second world war, and Iris began to earn by sourcing antiques and textiles; if she could not find it, she could make or fake it cheaply.

In 1948 she married Carl Apfel, and they became a decorating team: he had the head for business and she the eye. Unable to find cloth appropriate to a period decor, Iris adapted a design from an old piece and had it woven in a friend’s family mill; she and Carl then set up Old World Weavers in 1952, commissioning traditional makers around the globe.

Photographs and home-movie footage from the next four decades showed Apfel, adorned with elan, haggling for one-off items in souks, flea markets and bric-a-brac shops. She is the most decorative sight in each shot, her ensembles put together with complex cadenzas atop an underlying, tailored, structure– they are like jazz – not a statement, but a conversation.

Apfel was the last of those 20th-century fashion exotics who presented themselves as installations. Although she wore a priest’s warm tunic to the White House (President Richard Nixon underheated the place), plus armfuls of cheap African bracelets and thigh-high boots, she was not an exhibitionist like the Marchesa Casati, and, with her vaudevillian comic timing, was far funnier than the imperious Vogue editor Diana Vreeland.

Also, she never ever bought full-price: her many rails and under-the-bed suitcases of couture were sale-price samples, chosen for their cut, fabric, skilled craftwork and colour dazzle (“Colour can raise the dead”). She might wear them over thrift shop pyjamas, or under a Peking Opera costume, with hawsers of necklaces atop. Money could not buy personal style, she said, prettiness withered, beauty could corrode the soul. All that really mattered was “attitude, attitude, attitude”.

Old World Weavers discreetly refurbished the White House under nine presidents, as well as grand hotels and private houses, before the Apfels sold the company in 1992. They retired to a quiet life in their apartment on Park Avenue, New York, its decor an extension of Apfel’s outfits (bad garment choices were cut up for cushions), and in a Palm Beach holiday home where the Christmas decoration collection stayed up all year round, along with cuddly toys and museum-class folk art. Clothes shopping, and the improvisation of an outfit, became Apfel’s daily ritual, as cooking might be to a gourmet.

But after the Met show, and a book, Rare Bird of Fashion (2007), Apfel was back in as much full-time employment as she could manage in her 80s and 90s (she had a hip replacement because she fell after stepping on an Oscar de la Renta gown). She was cover girl of Dazed and Confused, among many other publications, window display artist at Bergdorf Goodman, designer and design consultant – superb on eye-glasses; she wore large, owl-like, frames to stylise her aged face into a witty, unchanging, cartoon.

She took seriously her responsibilities to fashion students on her course at the University of Texas, teaching them about imagination, craft and tangible pleasures in a world of images.

Her career lasted – nothing was ever too late: in 2018, Iris Apfel: Accidental Icon, a book of memoir and sound style advice; in 2019, a contract with the model agency IMG; and last year, a beauty campaign for makeup with Ciaté London. The documentarian Albert Maysles trailed her for Iris (2014), filming this “geriatric starlet” – her term – as she dealt drolly with new high-fashion friends, or laughed at an “Iris” Halloween costume (glasses, a ton of bangles).

She watched as a storage loft of her antique treasures was listed in lots for sale, and as white-gloved assistants from museums that had begged a bequest boxed up her garments; she still had, and wore, the shoes from her wedding. All things, she said, were only on loan in this world, even to collectors. The point was to enjoy them to the full before bidding them good-bye.

Carl died in 2015.

🔔 Iris Barrel Apfel, decorator and fashion stylist, born 29 August 1921; died 1 March 2024

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?