#I’ve seen in recent studies they are only starting to scratch the surface of stuff I’ve already known sometimes? other stuff is older & it’s

[sylvielauffeydottir]

Hello, it is I, your friendly neighborhood historian. I am ready to lose followers for this post, but I have two masters degrees in history and one of my focuses has been middle eastern area studies. Furthermore, I’ve been tired of watching the world be reduced to pithy little infographics, and I believe there is no point to my education if I don’t put it to good use. Finally, I am ethnically Asheknazi Jewish. This does not color my opinion in this post — I am in support of either a one or two state solution for Israel and Palestine, depending on the factors determined by the Palestinian Authority, and the Israeli Government does not speak for me. I hate Netanyahu. A lot. With that said, my family was slaughtered at Auschwitz-Birkenau. I have stood in front of that memorial wall at the Holocaust memorial in DC for my great uncle Simon and my great uncle Louis and cried as I lit a candle. Louis was a rabbi, and he preached mitzvot and tolerance. He died anyway. 

There’s a great many things I want to say about what is happening in the Middle East right now, but let’s start with some facts. 

In early May, there were talks of a coalition government that might have put together (among other parties, the Knesset is absolutely gigantic and usually has about 11-13 political parties at once) the Yesh Atid, a center-left party, and the United Arab List, a Palestinian party. For the first time, Palestinians would have been members of the Israeli government in their own right. And what happened, all of the sudden? A war broke out. A war that, amazingly, seemed to shield Benjamin Netanyahu from criminal prosecution, despite the fact that he has been under investigation for corruption for some time now and the only thing that is stopping a real investigation is the fact that he is Prime Minister.

Funny how that happened. 

There’s a second thing people ought to know, and it is about Hamas. I’ve found it really disturbing to see people defending Hamas on a world stage because, whether or not people want to believe it, Hamas is a terrorist organization. I’m sorry, but it is. Those are the facts. I’m not being a right wing extremist or even a Republican or whatever else or want to lob at me here. I’m a liberal historian with some facts. They are a terrorist organization, and they don’t care if their people die. 

Here’s what you need to know: 

There are two governments for the occupied Palestinian territories in the West Bank and Gaza. In April 2021, Palestinian President Mahmoud Abbas postponed planned elections. He said it was because of a dispute amid Israeli-annexed East Jerusalum. He is 85 years old, and his Fatah Party is losing power to Hamas. Everyone knows that. Palestinians know that. 

Here’s the thing about Hamas: they might be terrorists, but aren’t idiots. They understand that they have a frustrated population filled with people who have been brutalized by their neighbors. And they also understand that Israel has something called the iron dome defense system, which means that if you throw a rocket at it, it probably won’t kill anyone (though there have been people in Israel who died, including Holocaust survivors). Israel will, however, retaliate, and when they do, they will kill Palestinian civilians. On a world stage, this looks horrible. The death toll, because Palestinians don’t have the same defense system, is always skewed. Should the Israeli government do that? No. It’s morally repugnant. It’s wrong. It’s unfair. It’s hurting people without the capability to defend themselves. But is Hamas counting on them to for the propaganda? Yeah. Absolutely. They’re literally willing to kill their other people for it.

You know why this works for Hamas? They know that Israel will respond anyway, despite the moral concerns. And if you’re curious why, you can read some books on the matter (Six Days of War by Michael Oren; The Yom Kippur War by Abraham Rabinovich; Rise and Kill First by Ronen Bergmen; Antisemitism by Deborah Lipstadt; and Israel: A Concise History of a Nation Reborn by Daniel Gordis). The TL;DR, if you aren’t interested in homework, is that Israel believes they have no choice but to defend themselves against what they consider ‘hostile powers.’ And it’s almost entirely to do with the Holocaust. It’s a little David v Goliath. It is, dare I say, complicated.

I’m barely scratching the surface here. 

(We won’t get into this in this post, though if you want to DM me for details, it might be worth knowing that Iran funds Hamas and basically supplies them with all of their weapons, and part of the reason the United States has been so reluctant to engage with this conflict is that Iran is currently in Vienna trying to restore its nuclear deal with western powers. The USA cannot afford to piss off Iran right now, and therefore cannot afford to aggravative Hamas and also needs to rely on Israel to destroy Irani nuclear facilities if the deal goes south. So, you know, there is that).

There are some people who will tell you that criticism of the Israel government is antisemitic. They are almost entirely members of the right wing, evangelical community, and they don’t speak for the Jewish community. The majority of Jewish people and Jewish Americans in particular are criticizing the Israeli government right now. The majority of Jewish people in the diaspora and in Israel support Palestinian rights and are speaking out about it. And actually, when they talk about it, they are putting themselves in great danger to do so. Because it really isn’t safe to be visibly Jewish right now. People may not want to listen to Jews when they speak about antisemitism or may want to believe that antisemitism ‘isn’t real’ because ‘the Holocaust is over’ but that is absolutely untrue. In 2019, antisemitic hate crimes in the United States reached a high we have never seen before. I remember that, because I was living in London, and I was super scared for my family at the time. Since then, that number has increased by nearly 400% in the last ten days. If you don’t believe me, have some articles about it (one, two, three, four, and five, to name a few). 

I live in New York City, where a man was beaten in Time Square while attending a Free Palestine rally and wearing a kippah. I’m sorry, but being visibly Jewish near a pro-Palestine rally? That was enough to have a bunch of people just start beating on him? I made a previous post detailing how there are Jews being attacked all over the world, and there is a very good timeline of recent hate crimes against Jews that you can find right here. These are Jews, by the way, who have nothing to do with Israel or Palestine. They are Americans or Europeans or Canadians who are living their lives. In some cases, they are at pro-Palestine rallies and they are trying to help, but they just look visibly Jewish.  God Forbid we are the wrong ethnicity for your rally, even if we agree.

This is really serious. There are people calling for the death of all Jews. There are people calling for another Holocaust. 

There are 14 million Jews in the world. 14 million. Of 7.6 billion. And you think it isn’t a problem the way people treat us?

Anyway (aside from, you know, compassion), why does this matter? This matters because stuff like this deters Jews who want to be part of the pro-Palestine movement because they are literally scared for their safety. I said this before, and I will say it again: Zionism was, historically speaking, a very unpopular opinion. It was only widespread antisemitic violence (you know, the Holocaust) that made Jews believe there was a necessity for a Jewish state. Honestly, it wasn’t until the Pittsburgh synagogue shooting that I supported it the abstract idea too.

I grew up in New York City, I am a liberal Jew, and I believe in the rights of marginalized and oppressed people to self-determine worldwide. Growing up, I also fit the profile of what many scholars describe as the self hating Jew, because I believed that, in order to justify myself in American liberal society, I had to hate Israel, and I had to be anti-Zionist by default, even if I didn’t always understand what ‘Zionism’ meant in abstract. Well, I am 27 years old now with two masters degrees in history, and here is what Zionism means to me: I hate the Israeli government. They do not speak for me. But I am not anti-Zionist. I believe in the necessity for a Jewish state — a state where all Jews are welcome, regardless of their background, regardless of their nationality. 

There needs to be a place where Jews, an ethnic minority who are unwelcome in nearly every state in the world, have a place where they are free from persecution — a place where they feel protected. And I don’t think there is anything wrong with that place being the place where Jews are ethnically indigenous to. Because believe it or not, whether it is inconvenient, Jews are indigenous to the land of Israel. I’ve addressed this in this post.

With that said, that doesn’t mean you can kick the Palestinian people out. They are also indigenous to that land, which is addressed in the same post, if you don’t trust me. 

What is incredible to me is that Zionism is defined, by the Oxford English Dixtionary, as “A movement [that called originally for] the reestablishment of a Jewish nationhood in Palestine, and [since 1948] the development of the State of Israel.” Whether we agree with this or not, there were early disagreements about the location of a ‘Jewish state,’ and some, like Maurice de Hirsch, believed it ought to be located in South America, for example. Others believed it should be located in Africa. The point is that the original plans for the Jewish state were about safety. The plan changed because Jews wanted to return to their homeland, the largest project of decolonization and indigenous reclamation ever to be undertaken by an indigenous group. Whether you want to hear that or not, it is true. Read a book or two. Then you might know what I mean.

When people say this is a complicated issue, they aren’t being facetious. They aren’t trying to obfuscate the point. They often aren’t even trying to defend the Israeli government, because I certainly am not — I think they are abhorrent. But there is no future in the Middle East if the Israelis and Palestinians don’t form a state that has an equal right of return and recognizes both of their indigenousness, and that will never happen if people can’t stop throwing vitriolic rhetoric around.  Is the Israeli Government bad? Yes. Are Israeli citizens bad? Largely, no. They want to defend their families, and they want to defend their people. This is basically the same as the fact that Palestinian people aren’t bad, though Hamas often is. And for the love of god, stop defending terrorist organizations. Just stop. They kill their own people for their own power and for their own benefit. 

And yes, one more time, the Israeli government is so, so, so wrong. But god, think about your words, and think about how you are enabling Nazis. The rhetoric the left is using is hurting Jews. I am afraid to leave my house. I’m afraid to identify as Jewish on tumblr. I’m afraid for my family, afraid for my friends. People I know are afraid for me. 

It’s 2021. I am not my great uncle. I cried for him, but I shouldn’t have to die like him. 

Words have consequences. Language has consequences. And genuinely, I do not think everyone is a bad person, so think about what you are putting into the world, because you’d be surprised how often you are doing a Nazi a favor or two. 

Is that really what you want? To do a Nazi a favor or two? I don’t think that you do. I hope you don’t, at least.

That’s all. You know, five thousand words later. But uh, think a little. Please. 

[vinceaddams]

obvs feel free to keep this private, but I got recommended the UFH channel by a friend of mine, haven't gotten around to watching anything from it. I trust your judgement on the content, but my friend considers it her main resource 🙃 of course, since you only watched a few videos you might not be able to answer this, but was there any specific really bad/unacademic approaches I should keep my eye out for that my friend might have adopted? we work on a historical festival together so im concern

(I was going to answer this privately but then it got really long and turned into a post I want to post.)

Oh dear! Well, It appears that the lady behind that channel only cares about the 20th century, so maaybe she’s got good stuff on the 20th century at least? I don’t know, but the 2 videos that I saw were so incredibly awful that I’m highly suspicious of all her stuff. 

The first bad thing about her channel is that her videos all have a one or two sentence caption and nothing else. (I clicked on a few more just to check) No sources listed, no links of any kind except to her merch store. I don’t recall her mentioning any particular sources for any of the things she said in the videos either, she just declared them very matter of factly. 

Good historians cite sources! Bernadette Banners’ video on the history of PPE has so many source links she ran out of room in the description box and had to put the rest of them on a page on her website.  (Oh poo, now I feel a bit bad because I love Karolina Zebrowska but she really needs to do better with leaving source links. But she does talk about doing research, talk in a more nuanced way, and doesn’t present herself as an expert or academic, unlike the UFH lady.)

Good historians also embrace nuance, and aren’t afraid to say “I don’t know” or “I was wrong”. Presenting things in a “this person did this one big thing, and then this happened, and that caused this” kind of way isn’t good because history is more like “all these things happened and as far as we can tell it appears to have influenced this, which was also connected to this other stuff that we don’t know all that much about”. History is foggy and complicated, no matter how much the general public wants it to be simple.

Her description of herself also seems a bit... misleading? In her about page on youtube it says “Amanda Hallay, a college professor specializing in fashion, costume, and cultural history.” but if you look at the CV linked on her website the only degrees she has are in creative writing and art history. I’m not saying a person can’t be really knowledgable about something without a degree, but her whole online presence is about being a “professor” who teaches this stuff so I find it weird.

And if the 1850′s-60s video is anything to go by, she presents things in a shockingly unprofessional way. She starts off by saying she thinks these fashions are ugly and ridiculous and that she has some “theories of her own” on them. @marzipanandminutiae has a post with a lot more about what was wrong with that video, and a few others I haven’t seen. She claims that hoop skirts were oppressive cages when in reality they were a liberating garment that allowed women to achieve full skirts without the heavy layered petticoats they wore previously. 

She posts a photo of a naked lady and says “Now lets start with a beautiful naked lady and cover her up with ugly and unflattering clothes. Now this sexy naked lady isn’t so sexy” I wish I was making this up but that’s almost word for word what she said. Along with a whole lot of untrue or exaggerated stuff about Victorian modesty. She says dresses with layered flounces were called “pagoda dresses”, which isn’t a term that anyone has ever used for those dresses. She says this is cut down from a longer video she uses for teaching class, and I find the thought of this being presented in a classroom quite appalling.

After spending about 95% of the video talking about womens fashion in an extremely condescending and disdainful tone of voice, she posts what appear to be the 5 biggest and most extreme examples of 19th century moustaches she could find, presenting them as if they were what every man looked like.

This part really grinds my gears, because she says “I haven’t said anything about menswear because there’s really not much to say.” She posts photos of suits from 5 different decades and says they’re basically all the same, and also basically the same as a modern suit. Excuse you, there is A LOT of difference between menswear of the 1850′s and the 1890′s. Yes the changes over the decades are more subtle, and the colours are often more subdued than in centuries past, but it is absolutely not (as she claims) “the century when men stopped doing fashion”.   I personally am not hugely interested in 19th century mens fashion, and can tentatively date things in the first few decades but after the middle of the century I can’t. But people who are interested and who study that era can tell the decades apart. Because they’re different. And there is SO MUCH to talk about! Suits for different levels of formality, accessories, waistcoats, sportswear, sleepwear, knitwear, swimsuits, loungewear, underwear, etc. are all extremely different from their modern equivalents. 

It’s perfectly fine to only study womens fashion if that’s what you’re interested in, but it is not okay to then declare that the history of mens fashion is worthless and nonexistent. Simply not being interested in a thing is no excuse for publicly shitting all over it. (I’ve seen people do this more than once. We already have so few men who do historical fashion stuff! Stop putting off newcomers who might be interested!!)

The fact that her online presence is so closed off is also highly unusual. Comments are turned off for her videos, and the only social media link she has is to a private facebook group. (There is also a link to a fb page, but it appears to have been deleted.) Turning off comments is of course the personal choice of the one posting the videos, but the fashion history side of youtube usually tends towards pretty decent comment threads, and people often have nice little discussions and learn stuff in them. Here it looks like she doesn’t want discussion, doesn’t want to be contradicted or asked for sources, doesn’t want to learn new things.

I had never even heard of this channel until I saw @marzipanandminutiae mention it, nor have I ever heard any of the many historical costumers/youtubers I follow mention it, yet somehow it has 55k followers? I don’t know the demographics that watch it (especially not with the comments turned off!) but I’d wager that videos like the 1850′s-60′s one I suffered through are mainly watched by people who like hearing things trash talked, rather than people who actually want to learn about fashion history. The same sort of people who loved that Beau Brummell twitter thread, which was also full of lies and unsourced garbage. People like to believe the past was way worse and grosser than it was because it makes them feel like we’re smarter and better now.

Lastly, the whole premise of the channel is just bad. Calling any one thing “The Ultimate Fashion History” is a bad idea. Her channel trailer says “Youtube’s number one channel for original fashion history content” “we’ve got it all, fifty thousand years of fashion history”. You can’t have one channel that’s the ultimate resource for ALL of fashion history! It’s a huge, HUGE subject, and even if she did do actual good research she’d barely be able to scratch the surface of fifty thousand years. That’s like saying one channel is the ultimate source for all of science, or all of music, or all of cooking. No one thing can come close to covering all of it. I will deign to admit that she’s at least right to call it “original”, because she has some very original lies I haven’t found anywhere else. 

Most people who study fashion history/historical sewing have one or several eras they like best and find most interesting, perhaps with occasional jaunts into other eras. This way we can focus and get a much better understanding of the eras that we find most interesting, rather than just a vague notion of everything. 

For example: I’m most interested in 18th century menswear, and so far have mainly researched and sewn 1785-95 stuff, and more recently some 1730′s. I usually focus on fashionable civilian clothing, so I don’t know as much about working class clothes, and next to nothing about military and other occupational dress. Even with this narrow area of interest, which I’ve been obsessed with for many years, I still have so much to learn! I could never make anything claiming to be the ultimate source for 18th century menswear, because I’m just one person focusing on some aspects, and there are other people out there who research other aspects of it and their work is just as important. It’s all so big and so much, even if you narrow it down to one era.

Amanda Hallay is basically holding up a bucket of saltwater and calling it the ocean.

I haven’t watched any of her 20th century videos, so maybe they’re better than the older ones I watched. I don’t know. (But even if they’re actually good they still don’t have source links.) Edit: okay, nope, turns out they’re just as bad! They appear to make up the vast majority of her videos, so if she’s most interested in the 20th century then maybe she should just... make her channel more clearly 20th century focused instead of trying to paint it as a channel for all eras?

TL;DR, the main bad things about that channel are:

Lying and making ridiculous claims, not citing ANY sources. Spouting easily debunked myths.

Stating things matter of factly without any nuance, even though history is foggy and complicated.

Being extremely judgemental about historical fashions and talking about how much she hates them and thinks they’re ugly, which really isn’t appropriate for a fashion history teacher. You can hear the disgust in her voice and it’s awful and I hate it.

Comments turned off on all her videos, leaving no way to communicate or have public discussions. Unknowing viewers are left to accept her statements as fact without any outside opinions.

Claiming one channel is the ultimate channel for an incalculably enormous subject. Says it covers 50,000 years of fashion history when it’s mostly just the 20th century.

I would like to add that I am not what I would consider an expert either, and have no formal education in fashion history beyond the one college class that was part of my 2 year sewing course. I have learned mainly from books and the internet, and as I said earlier I still have a huge amount to learn. I’m sure a more knowledgable historian could put things better than I have. 

But I’m confident in stating that primary sources are needed to back up a claim! Sometimes even widely accepted beliefs turn out to be entirely unfounded myths, like that one about doctors using vibrators to treat “hysteria”. Total nonsense someone made up in 1999.

Wow this post got way longer than intended. Anyways, yes, I do not like condescending slideshow lady.

[thiswasinevitableid]

idk if i missed the boat on monster march but mer + indruck + nsfw? maybe something like that scene in from the depths where duck is rubbing off on indrid's tail but... not interrupted by abominations? with treasured human pet talk?

Nope, the boat is not missed. I’m pretty much taking these until the last few days of the month. Here you go!

There are rough days. There are bad days. There are terrible days. 

And then there’s whatever kind of godforsaken day Duck is having. 

It started with Winnie coughing up a hairball right on his pillow. Then he was out of coffee, trudged to the store to get some only to discover he left his wallet at home. Saying “fuck it” and spending the rest of his day at the beach seemed the best call when it came to turning things around.

Turns out his ex thought the same thing, and what started as an attempt to be pleasant while crossing paths ended with some thoroughly unkind comments about Ducks suitability as a partner, including his temperament, laugh, and appearance. 

His first spot for decompressing in the sun was overrun by seagulls, the second by a group playing New Wave hits at full volume, and on and on until late afternoon, where he trekked up the boardwalk to discover the Wolf Eel Bar and Grill was out of french onion soup. He went for a conciliatory sandwich at Amnesty Lodge instead. Barclay, saint that he is, gave him a two-scoop cone on the house when he went to pay the check. Duck retreated to the most secluded seaside spot he knows, the one where if anything happens to him, no one will see it, to enjoy his rocky road in peace. 

Then the cone toppled, the half eaten top scoop falling into the water and the bottom one hitting the rock. 

This is why Duck is now on his back, on the tidepool dotted rock, muffling a frustrated scream in his palms.  A tap on the shoulder interrupts him. 

“Don’t be sad. Look” two tan hands hold the now-gritty ice cream out to him, “I could not save the one in the water, but this one is only a little sandy. “

“Uhhh” Duck blinks at the merman bobbing in the waves, “no that;s, uh, that’s fine. Don’t feel like gettin sand in my mouth.”

The mer glances at his hands, back up at Duck, “May I eat it?”

“Knock yourself out.” He decides not to linger on whether this counts as feeding the wildlife. The merman is mid-bite before he even finishes his sentence. 

As the creature of the deep happily stuffs his face, Duck wonders why he chose this of all moments to talk to him. The merman first appeared a month ago, observing Duck while he was doing tide checks. A day later, he swam parallel to the shore as the ranger went for an evening walk. After that, Duck saw him whenever he was near the ocean. 

Duck prefers a life without too much weird, and thus ignores the strange and unusual unless it whacks him upside the head. Even then, he tries to shake it off and go about his day. So when the mer hauled himself onto the rock closest to the patch of beach Duck was reading and snoozing upon, the human gave him a cursory nod and went back to his novel. He only glanced up once, to see the merman sketching on a pad of paper; the mechanics of this happening in or near the water intrigued him, but not enough to make him talk to a fucking mermaid. 

“Mmmmm” the merman licks his fingers, “I like the little white bits in it best.”

“The marshmallows?”

“Yes! That’s the word.” He paddles his hands in the water to clean them, “you have very good taste in iced cream.”

“Uh, thanks.” Duck scrubs his face, not wanting to leave his oasis of solitude but not sure what’s going on here, “is there somethin I can do for you?”

“I was about to ask you the same thing. You are clearly having a bad day, and I wanted to improve it.”

“Man you don’t know the half of it; shoulda seen what happened when I wasn’t near the water.”

“I did. Oh, oh dear, that sounded creepy. I’m a seer and enchanter by trade, which means I can see timelines as they unfold. And, ah, I kept an eye on your futures today in the hope they would improve. Especially after that conversation between you and your former partner. I did not like how they spoke to you.”

“Not like I was a model of dignity and calm.” Duck scratches the back of his neck. 

“True. Nevertheless, were you my human, I would say far kinder things.”

Duck lays back down with a snort; he appreciates the sympathy, but today it feels like the universe has made it clear how little kindness he deserves.

“It is the truth. I would tell you that you are patient and kind. That your laugh reminds me of the shorebirds when they are joyful. That I have seen sunken ships laden with jewels and pearls larger than my eyes, yet when I hear the word ‘treasure’ I think of your face.”

The human rolls slowly onto his side, facing the waves. Rock digs into his shoulder as he studies the merman. He’s staying close, but seems to be waiting for permission to be in Duck’s space. 

“Why are you sayin all this?”

“Because it is true, and I like you.”

“You barely know me. Hell, I don’t even know your-”

“-Name. Ah, apologies, I am always a bit ahead. I’m working on not interrupting as much. And my name is Indrid.” The mer rests his arms on the rock, sets his chin on the back of his hand, “You are right, we do not know much about each other. I do not know where you grew up, but I know you take great pride in showing groups of small humans the tide pools and teaching them about the sea. I do not know what you like to read, but I know that I can sit near you and draw without you fleeing in fear or trying to take a photo of me.” 

Duck reaches out, presses silver hair behind Indrid’s ear, the lilting voice seeping under his skin, suggesting that maybe he’s not as terrible as he thinks. Like maybe something better is waiting for him “now you gotta tell me somethin’ about you.”

Indrid purrs, rubbing his cheek into Duck’s hand, “I used to live in Atlantis, but I took on a role that let me travel and see more of the world, both my own and that of humans. I settled here recently because the nearby mers are not territorial and the fishing is good.”

Rock catches his clothes as he scoots the last inches to the edge of the stone, “How come your drawings don’t get ruined by the water?”

“Enchantments. Though I did get Dani’s human to bring me waterproof paints.” He mirrors Duck’s arm, reaching out to play with the humans’ hair, his tail keeping him easily afloat in the water. 

The ranger closes his eyes to focus on the cool fingers stroking his forehead, “you really wanna spend your evenin’ playin’ twenty questions with me?”

“Yes and no. I came to see what would make you happy. If talking with me is the answer, that is what we can do.”

Duck groans at the reminder of why he’s hiding among the hermit crabs, “Gotta be honest, not sure what’d cheer me up. Everything I tried today backfired.”

“Let me try something.” Indrid’s face goes worryingly blank, then he grins, “I foresee an option that might help, though you will think it self-serving. I have a vision of you joining me for a swim.”

“Water’s a little chilly for that.”

Indrid zig-zags his finger through the waves, “Try it now.”

It’s like sticking his hand into a warm bath, “that ain't gonna mess with the fish is it?”

“Not at all. The spell only applies to you.” Indrid swims backwards as Duck strips down to his trunks, “here, there’s a sandbar where you can stand as long as you need.”

“Plannin on keepin me in the water awhile?” Duck teases, paddling over to join him. 

“If you will let me.” The mer circles him, and for the first time Duck notices the gold-red fan-shaped fin on his lower back, “I have many other things to tell you. For instance, if you look at that kelp raft, you will see otters in the next twenty seconds.

Four well-camouflaged bodies surface to their left. As they splash about, Duck remembers the time he mistook one for a piece of driftwood in the dim light of morning, tells Indrid the story as the otters play.

Something smooth and strong brushes his leg. Indrid is floating close enough that his tail keeps bumping Duck as they talk. 

“Hey, uh, could I, uh, could I look take a look at, uh, um-”

There must be timelines where he asks, because Indrid turns onto his back and adjusts so the last third of his tail waves in front of Ducks’ torso. The mixture of yellow-green and burnt burnt umber reminds him of an Undulated Moray, though the tail ends in a V instead of a point. Stroking one side leads to a splash and a sigh as Indrid twitches in the water. Duck continues the motion, the skin like that of a ray, and relaxes more with each pass. It’s soothing him and, judging by the tension leaving the muscles under his hands, Indrid as well. In fact, the merman is now so limp, his head is under the water and looks to have been for some time.

“Fuck” Duck lets go, moves to fish him out only for Indrid to contort and swim so they’re chest to chest.

“Oh right, gills.”

“Indeed. That was lovely. May I, ah, examine you as well.” There’s a purr in his voice. Duck nods, and the mer slips beneath the surface. His fingers trace along Ducks legs, then drag up the back of his thighs, pressing more firmly when they reach his ass. Duck barks a laugh, so the Indrid does it again before gliding his hands up to his shoulders. 

“Mmm, all of this feels as supple and strong as I hoped. Such a sturdy treasure I’ve found.”

“Jesus.” Duck gasps as Indrid nuzzles the base of his neck.

“A perfect treasure, sitting on the shore with no one to look after him.”

“Indrid.” His dick twitches in his trunks as the mer curves around to meet his eyes. 

“Yes?”

“Will you keep talkin like that?” 

Indrid loops his arms around Duck’s neck, “So polite. Perhaps I shall take my treasure back with me, keep you as I would a spoiled pet. Caress this wonderful body, see the most handsome face above or beneath the water whenever my heart desires.”

“Nnngh.” Duck whimpers, wrapping his arms around Indrids waist and hiding his blush in the crook of his neck, “M’not worth that kinda talk.”

“On the contrary, you are worth more than all the wealth of Atlantis, my treasure.”

Duck makes weak sounds of protest, the cruel words of the morning and his own mind drowned by Indid’s whispers. The merman is smiling at him in a way no one ever does; like he’s seeing Duck with all his flaws, fears, and hopes laid bare and wants to keep looking instead of turning away.

“You deserve so much more than this day gave you. Will you let me offer something better?”

Duck nods, raises his head, “c-can I kiss you first?”

Indrid dips his head down. His saltwater kisses wash away the miserable day, replace it with curious lips mapping his own. A low, soft hum emanates from Indrid as cool scales stroke his legs. The tail starts low, petting his calves, but as the kiss intensifies it drags up to his thighs, flicking and teasing his crotch. 

“Fuck.” He’s groaning, bucking his hips in search of more as the mer smiles, indulgent and wicked. The next tailstroke is drawn-out, undulating across his folds and rubbing his dick. 

“Does that feel good, pet?” Indrid pecks his cheek.

“Don’t those visions show you the answer?” He tries for casual, even cocky, and it comes out as a gasp instead as the tail grinds side to side.

“Yes, but answers can change. I want to do as you wish, treasured one, not as my foresight tells me.”

“It feels so fuckin good, sugarAHfuck, ahnnnyeah, hell yeah.” He squirms as the tail thrusts, the tip bumping his ass when Indrid angles it for a better pressure. Then the mer stops.

“Remove these, sweet one.” He snaps his waistband, “I want to feel my perfect human slick and warm against me.”

Duck braces on a nearby rock to pull the trunks off, having only time to set them out of tide range before the mer slithers around him once more. The alien texture of the scales sets him moaning, his hips pumping erratically in hopes it might envelope his cock entirely. All he manages is a rhythm that brings him out of sync with Indrid. Panic circles his stomach at the possibility that this will be yet another part of the day that goes haywire. 

“You needn’t work so hard, my treasure.” Indrid coos, “plant your feet on the ground. I will take care of the rest.”

The ranger does as he’s told, Indrid wriggling so Duck is straddling him a few inches from the start of his tail. Satisfied with their positions, the mer cups his ass with an appreciative “ooh,” then uses it to force Duck up and down the colorful ripples of his tail. 

“Fuck, fuck, that’s so much better darlin, thank you, fuck, keep doin’ that and your human will do whatever the fuck you want ‘im to.”

“I want him to enjoy himself.”  Indrid kisses each of Ducks arms when they drape over his shoulders.

“Mission fuckin accomplishedfuck, god I wanna feel you on every fuckin inch of me, wanna kiss this fuckin stunnin face of yours until the sun comes back up, wanna--uh, Indrid, what the fuck is that?” A slit is opening in the upper part of his tail and something of considerable size is emerging from it. 

Indrid smirks, “Do you think you’re the only one getting off on this, pet?”

“Oh holy fuck” Duck goggles at the “was not expectin’ there to be two.”  He slides a hand between their bodies, runs his thumb from the head of one cock down to the base where it joins the second one in the world's most obscene “V.” Indrid trills, thrashes his tail when Duck treats the other side the same way. 

“ThaAAAaat’s wonderful but, but you needn’t do it on my account. I c-can attend to it once you are satisfied.”

Duck circles one shaft with his hand, gives it a firm, determined stroke, “Sugar, I won’t be satisfied until you’re as fucked out as I am.”

“Oh” the mer looks surprised, “in, in most futures you were too perplexed by them to want such a thing, goodNESSgracious oh, oh Duck, that’s exquisite.” He fucks the human up and down his tail in earnest, “I should have known it would be, you’re so talented my pet, so thoughtful AHgods below and above the next time I am going to spread you on the nearest patch of sand and take you in whichever way you choose, make my perfect pet go mad with pleasure.”

“Dunno, might make you use that sweet-talkin mouth on my dick instead of lettin you fuck me.”

“You say that as if it is a bad thing and not a delicious outcomeoohhh” the mer rolls his hips in time with Duck’s, “that’s it sweet one, right at the base between them yes, yesyesyes” cum spurts into the darkening water. Duck releases his hold, only to be dragged back and forth so roughly he grabs Indrid’s hips for dear life. 

“Fuck, right there sugar, lemme rub off on you like that, yeah, fuck, fuckme that’s so fucking good ohfuck, Indrid, ‘Drid!” He cums, heat shooting through him so intensely it’s amazing the water doesn’t boil. He clings to Indrid like an anemone to rock, pressing breathless kisses into his neck.

 When he looks up, his hiding spot is coming closer, Indrid swimming them there with ease. The merman retrieves his swim trunks from where they were cast away, presents them to him with a flourish.  Duck laughs, pulling them on before pulling a towel from his little reusable bag. 

“Don’t know about you, but I feel a hell of a lot better.” Duck lays down on the fabric, rock beneath it still warm from the sun. 

“I was alright to begin with, but I take your point. That was wonderful. And I am glad I could make you feel better.”

There it is again, that smile that makes Duck feel more seen than he has in months. 

“Don’t suppose you’d be up for makin me feel better tomorrow too? Not that I hope it’s as shitty as today, more that I get the sense seein’ you will make me feel better even if I already feel pretty damn good.”

Indrid raises up enough to kiss Duck once, tenderly, on the lips, “I would like nothing better, my treasure.”

[self-proclaimed-chaotic-good]

Persephone | John Wick x Reader (Two)

Words: 2306

A/N: A lot of people liked the last one, so I decided to continue and see where it leads. I have no elaborate plan for this series, I just hope that I continue to have the energy and inspiration to finish this.

Warning: Usual JW-verse violence

-

It was after your first mission, your first kill, were you officially initiated as an assassin. Your trainer, Sasha, gifted you with what seemed to be modeled after a vorpal blade. Floral and viney patterns covered the metal surface, a deep black colored covered handle with a grip that fits perfectly in your hand. It was your favorite weapon to use. Being that most, if not all, of your targets being larger than you, you preferred stealth than guns blazing. Taking them by surprise, sneaking up behind them and stabbing the blade to their throat, a gloved hand muffling any sound.

You had dropped that blade on the night you tried to escape, right next to Sasha’s body. You wished you had picked it up, but would it have changed the results? The Instructor had seen the doubt in you, that you were growing rebellious. She had seen her fate and wanted to cage you even after death.

Now within the Bowery King’s underground empire, finally away from the hovering sharp eyes of the Instructor’s people, you had to relearn how to function without their strings again. The Bowery King welcomed you, allowing you to rest and find your bearings using their resources whether you agreed to their mission or not.

As it was a backup to their Soup Kitchen base formerly used as a homeless shelter, they could only give you a tiny room with a stiff mattress and a scratchy blanket, but you weren’t complaining. It helped that John’s dog took a liking to you and would keep you company in your room. John didn’t mind it much, though he should really name him.

It took a while to get back into action but John helped a lot in sparring and running simulations with you. The muscle memory was still there and John managed to teach you new techniques as well. Watching him in action was mesmerizing and terrifying. His movements were smooth, calculated, and systematic, so there was no wonder how he’d survived in the business that long.

Still, you shouldn’t be staring at him that long or get distracted when he’s pressing his large body against your smaller frame, his body heat soaking through his clothes and his scent filling your senses. The Instructor would have punished you for not focusing on your training, although you had been infatuated with one or two trainers and fellow trainees as you got older. Such emotions were frowned upon but you were only human, even if John Wick seemed like he wasn’t.

You were sitting against the cold wall of a small training room after a sparring session with John when John’s dog padded over with a smile. You giggled, putting your water bottle down and reached out for the precious pitbull. John sat down with his dog in between the two of you. He pushed a sweat soaked lock of hair away from his face, watching you interact with the pitbull.

The dog lunged forward and licked your face, making you laugh. You turned to John, a genuine smile on his face that made you almost forget that he was The Boogeyman. You turned away, using the pitbull’s head to block your face from his view to hide your heated cheeks.

You cleared your throat, sitting up straighter and played with the pitbull’s floppy ears. “You should name him,” you said.

“His name is Good Dog,” John said with a straight face.

You rolled your eyes. “No, it’s not. You’re lucky he loves you. He’ll listen to anything you say no matter what name you called him.” You held the pitbull’s head between your hands and looked into his puppy eyes. What would be a good name for him, you thought.

John stood up and started towards the door, his loyal dog trailing behind. You frowned, reluctantly grabbing your things and followed after them. Conversations between you and John became more frequent, but they were often brief, so it shouldn’t be a surprise to you that he got up and left. Though, you sensed that he was delaying on naming the dog for a reason.

-

“So have you considered our offer?” The Bowery King asked you after John left to gather intel. “You help us take down the High Table and we can help you start a new life somewhere else.”

You nodded. “I have nothing to lose,” you said, “My family is gone and I have no place to go back to. I’ll help you guys.”

“Good,” The Bowery King said with a nod, “Very good. I assume after being out of it for so long, you’ll need a crash course on what you’ve missed in the Underworld.”

“Yes, please.”

He had you follow him around the building as he caught you up to speed of what happened in the last five years, John’s dog padding along quietly at your feet. Being in hiding from the High Table meant that he couldn’t bring you to his pigeons on the roof anymore and both of you were growing restless staying underground.

He also told you about what had brought John Wick back into the assassin life, from the death of his wife, the death of his puppy and his car being stolen, the Marker with Santino, to Santino’s death within the Continental walls. Rules were rules, and with the bounty that was still on his head placed by Santino, the High Table was also after him and anyone that he was involved with.

“So how do you take down the organization that pulls the strings?” The Bowery King asked you expectantly.

You paused and said, “You cut off the strings or the hand that holds them. Without the strings, they have no control. Without their hand, they can’t use the strings… until they find another way to pull them.”

“Exactly, but with the High Table, it’s more of a web,” he said, “Killing the spider won’t do anything if another spider takes its place. Even with the most complex of webs, there are always the key strands holding it up. When it falls apart, they’ll have to start from scratch.”

“We just need to figure out who or what those key strands are,” you surmised, hands on your hips. “Surely there’s another way to get more information.”

“I’m glad that you’ve mentioned it,” he said with a grin, stopping in front of a wide room with dirty barred windows, a worn but functional wooden desk with circuits, wires, soldering tools, miscellaneous repairing and building tools, and various scrap metal pieces.

“What’s all this?” you asked, inspecting the components.

“John Wick’s pension for storming through buildings with a couple of guns isn’t going to simply cut it when it comes to the High Table, no matter how skilled the man is,” he said, “I’ve heard you were good quite the tinkerer.”

You shook your head. “It’s been a while. I’m still getting my memories back,” you said, picking up a screwdriver and poking your index finger with the tip, “if it’s anything like my training, maybe if I fiddle around with these stuffs and study some machinery, I could get back into it again.”

You put the screwdriver back down and ran a finger across the dusty surface of the desk. You hummed, wiping your finger on your pants, then turned back to the Bowery King. He was watching you closely, a grin on his face as if he could see the outcome to their ambitious operation.

“Better start now, then. We’ll try our best to get you anything you need.”

“How about a clock?”

He laughed at the sudden request. “Any preference, Miss (Y/l/n)?”

“Both analog and digital should be fine.”

He nodded, already getting the attention of one of his men. “We’ll get you those clocks.”

The Bowery King turned on his heels and left to speak to some of his people that were coming back from the usual corners of the street and to send a couple of them for supplies. You looked back at the desk, then down at John’s dog who tilted his head as you let out a long sigh. You’ll need to clean the room up first.

-

After your new little office had been cleaned and rearranged with some proper equipment, you quickly got to work, reacquainting yourself with circuitry and machinery. John’s dog lied obediently at your feet facing the door, his ear twitching at every loud noise outside.

You tried to keep your eyes opened as timed pass without you realizing it. You blinked and suddenly the natural sunlight was replaced by the dim street lights outside. A yawn escaped your lips, louder than you intended, causing the dog to jump.

“Sorry, boy,” you muttered, petting his head when he stood up to check on you.

“You should rest,” came a familiar low voice from the doorway.

The dog quickly left to greet the man, his tailing wagging at an impressive speed. John stooped down to greet his loyal companion then turned to you.

“What do you have so far?” John asked, leaning down to look at the messy blueprints sketched out on scratch paper and the circuit board you were working on.

“Just something that I’ve thought of recently,” you said tiredly, “Not sure if it’ll work, but it’s worth a try. I’ll show it to you once I get the first working prototype finished.”

“Can’t wait,” he said, impressed by your sketches, leaning closer to look at your progress.

From the short conversations and how he behaved, you figured he wasn’t much into using technology this way. He was more of a physical person, going out and getting things done by his bare hands. You’re not surprised that he had stormed a building filled with enemies, using only a gun.

You turned your head to look at him, the light of the desk lamp illuminating his features. How the hell can he be that good looking while having cuts and bruises on his face? You quickly turned away before he could catch you staring again, working on covering up the exposed wiring and putting your tools away.

“Had a small errand to deal with?” you asked casually, gesturing to the minor injuries.

“Yeah, I had to meet up with someone,” he said, standing up straight. Your eyes immediately checked the rest of his person for any visible injuries. “Nothing too serious.”

“Right.” Your eyes flickered up and saw him watching you.

He held out his hand, like he had done at the flower shop. “You should get some rest,” he repeated.

You nodded, taking his hand and he led you to your small room without another word. It was only when the two of you reached your door when you realized that you were still holding hands. It felt warm and grounding and pleasant, but you knew you had to let go at some point.

“You should get some rest, too,” you said, delaying the inevitable for a short while. “I, uh, I hope you don’t mind when your dog stays by me at night.”

“It’s fine. He seems to like you,” he said, petting his dog with his other hand that’s missing a finger as he sat quietly at John’s feet.

“I feel like I wake up better when he’s there,” you continued, your hand still in his.

“Don’t you mean sleep better?”

You shook your head. “Nightmares and flashbacks seems unavoidable no matter how pleasant my waking moments had been. At least when I awake, I’m not alone and there’s someone to comfort me.”

John nodded. “I know what you mean,” he muttered, a hint of sadness in his eyes.

That was another thing that set John apart from the other assassins, there was a vulnerability to him that he’d show every now and again. It made you think that he trusted you enough to let those walls down around you.

You opened your mouth, then shut it, suddenly remembering about his wife. Of course. He didn’t have the proper time to grieve yet. He couldn’t even catch a break now with almost every assassin going after his head. The thought made you even more determined to help him.

You squeezed his hand then slowly and reluctantly let it go, stepping towards your door. “Night, John.”

He gave you another nod. “Night, (Y/n).”

-

Two figures pushed Marion onto her knees in front of their leader, a hand yanking her hair so she could face him. Their leader grimaced, shaking his head in disappointment at her failure. She let the asset get away right under her nose. His sister held the asset highly and gave strict orders before she was killed by John Wick.

“How could this have happened, Marion?” The new Instructor asked slowly, daring her to try his patience.

“It was John Wick, sir,” Marion grunted, her neck aching from the angle that she was forced in.

The Instructor nodded at the two figures and they let her go. She gasped, rubbing her neck to sooth the pain. He walked around his desk and leaned down, using a finger to lift her chin up.

“Does she know?” he asked.

Marion nodded. “I think so, or at least, she’s beginning to.”

The Instructor cursed, standing up again and sitting at his chair. “Usually a mistake like this would warrant you termination, but seeing that it was John Wick, I’m feeling gracious enough to give you a second chance,” he said, folding his hands on the desk, “Find them. I hear there’s a pretty price on his head. Come back as soon as you find them. If I hear that you acted alone or lose them again, there will be no hesitation to terminate you, if… they don’t do it themselves. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

-

Taglist:

@venusgothic

@weappreciatepower

@anita-e-taylor

@mikaneonox

[buckysgoldenheart]

Coffee Shop: Bucky Barnes x Reader  AU

Summary: Reader gets set up at a Coffee Shop.

Words: 4,188 (Sorry its long) 

*Bucky stuff starts at about 1,300 words, so stick it out if you want him.

Part: 1/3

Hope you guys like it. Comments are appreciated!!!!

Coffee Shop

Y/N

Most important stop of your mornings: Jason’s Coffee Shop, where your friend Jason just happened to work, not own it. The name was merely a coincidence. No, your Jason was a barista, though if any cute woman asked, he was the dedicated entrepreneur who took a risk to follow his dream and opened this quaint shop. Something about successful men who took the time to work in their business rather than leave it to his employees was a major turn on for women young college-aged and older gracefully-aged alike. And Jason had a way of appreciating every, single, lady that fell for his charming smile.

Nine a.m., not too crowded to find a seat at the coffee bar that Jason’s was known for. Being set up like an industrial bar/club with a long counter, booths instead of small tables, and retro music playing in the background drew the people in.

You smiled at the way the sun shown through the large windows and reflected off the mirror behind the counter. This was without a doubt, your favorite place in the entire city. There were very few customers this morning. Not unexpected on a Saturday at this hour, and that was just how you liked it. The only people there were a lovey-dovey couple in a back booth sharing croissants and muffins, a ridiculously attractive man sitting two seats away from your average spot, and your very best friend, Jason.

“Right on time, as always,” Your blond buddy said as he placed your steaming mug of liquid life in front of you; cream and two sugars. You slipped your puffy, yet stylish, coat off your shoulders, tucked it around a stool, and plopped down.

“You’re getting good with this timing thing. You already had this made?” You chuckled, blowing away the steam before taking a small sip. You loved the way the temperature heated the ceramic and warmed your winter-chilled fingers.

Jason smiled, drying a recently washed mug with a rag. The movements forced your eyes to his biceps. They always moved and rippled magically in a way that used to drive you crazy back when you were both in college, but you quickly grew out of your little freshman lust-crush. The next year, Jason had actually developed one for you, but like you had, came to the realization that friends was the better way to go. A relationship would never blossom from you spending some lonely nights together and would only result in a lost friendship. Not worth it in your opinion.

“I’ve only known you five years. We lived together. You only come here every single morning like clockwork. To be honest, if I still didn’t know how you prefer to fuel your caffeine addiction, then I would worry for my ability to pay attention to the important things in life.” He laughed. “And,” He paused. “If I can’t even pay attention to the details of my best friend, then how will I be able to get myself a long-term chick? She’ll think I don’t care about her. Remembering the details is what you ladies like, is it not?”

You took another sip. “It doesn’t hurt. But ‘long-term chicks’ are far from your thing.”

The man a couple seats down snickered a little as he took a bite of his pink-frosted donut. You turned your head to meet his perfectly outlined profile. Puffy lips. Masculine nose, but not too large or bumpy like some men’s; perfectly proportioned for his face. Neatly trimmed scruff along a jawline that you kind of wanted to trace with your finger. Long, dark lashes. Strong chin. Soft looking, fluffy hair. To put it simply…he was insanely attractive.

You must’ve stared a little too long, because Jason felt the need to distract you from your thoughts. “See something you like?” He whispered, his elbows perched on the counter, a smirk on his handsome face. Thankfully he was quiet enough so the stranger didn’t hear Jason’s little joke.

Your head whipped back to his and you playfully pushed him back by his shoulder. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not? You need a good lay.” At his words you looked down into your mug, avoiding his eyes. Suddenly, you were noticeably too silent to fool your friend. “Y/N?”

“What?” You asked with a causal, yet unconvincing, tone.

“Oh, Y/N, you didn’t. You did not call that asshole, again.”

Meeting his disappointed look, you sighed and placed your mug back on the dark cherry surface. “I was bored.”

Jason crossed his large, muscly arms. “Oh, c’mon darling, you know very well that if you are ever bored,” He stopped and untangled an arm, using the hand to brush your chin with his knuckle, “I’ll take care of you.”

You groaned and swatted his hand away from your face. “Don’t be an ass. We’ve been down that road.”

Jason laughed, loud enough for the sound to echo through the quiet shop. “Nah, I’m just kidding sweetheart. You know that. I tried to get in your pants and you turned me down. Multiple times if I recall correctly.”

“You know it was for the best.” You smiled. Your eyes sparkled from the laughter that nearly passed your lips.

“Very true. But in all seriousness, Y/N, you gotta find someone else to go to when you need to release some tension. Charles always says some dick thing to you every time after the sixty seconds he spends inside you.”

“I know.” Your fingers went to your long locks but got slightly caught in the tangles of your un-styled do.

“So, what’s with the self-punishment?”

“I don’t know. But enough about me, let’s talk about you. Bang a ‘lucky’ lady since yesterday morning?”

Jason smiled as he served a drink to a new customer before returning to you. “Ladies…”

You chucked. “So, same old?”

He nodded. “Same old.”

Silence passed between you, and Jason watched as you took the opportunity to gaze longingly at the attractive stranger. “Darling, I wanna strike a deal.”

“Hmm?” Your Y/H/C eyebrows scrunched together as once again, your attention was drawn from the man. “What kind of deal?” You asked warily.

“I’m gonna scour the land for a man for you.”

You winced at how desperate the phrase made you sound. You didn’t need a man. And you certainly didn’t need a friend setting you up. “Jason…”

Jason wagged his finger. “Nope. No ifs, ands, or buts. I’ve made up my mind. But I do need a small favor in return.”

“In return for doing something I don’t even want you to do.”

“Yes.”

“Fine. What?”

Jason leaned in close, his brown eyes sparkling with mischief. “Set me up with Amanda.”

That, you did not expect, but you didn’t know why. Jason slept around enough, you should know his habits by now. “Amanda Smith, or Amanda McMeyer?”

“McMeyer.”

“McMeyer???” You made a disgusted face. “Really?”

Jason shrugged his broad shoulders. “What? She’s hot.”

“She’s also a mega bitch.”

“Yea…” He drew out the word. “I don’t really care…like at all. I want that pussy and those sexy tits.”

“Fake tits.”

“Again…I don’t care. She’s sexy. And why should I care if she got a boob job? She didn’t like something about her body and she did something about it. It’s like exercising to lose weight or gain muscle. I think it’s kind of admirable.”

“Makes sense. Now you’re making it seem like a great idea. Maybe I should do it.” You sarcastically replied.

“No, Darling. You’re pretty perfect as you are. I’ve seen that body naked, remember?” You chuckled at the memory of your once roommate walking in on you just as you hopped out of the shower. “So? Get miss McMeyer to sleep with me?” He asked as you downed the rest of your coffee, stood, and reached for your coat.

“I’ll do my best, but she doesn’t really sleep around.”

“Convince her?” He asked with a puppy-dog smile.

“Do I look like I magician?”

“You don’t not look like one.”

You giggled, smiled, and blew a kiss goodbye to your friend as you headed for the door. “I’ll work on it today and report back tomorrow.”

“God Y/N, you are the best. And don’t worry, I’m gonna get you a great guy.”

You rolled your Y/E/C eyes, sarcasm on your cherry painted lips. “Yea, yea. I’ll see ya later.”

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

Jason

Through the windows, Jason watched you walk away, then he turned to the stranger you found so captivating. Jason smiled at the blue-grey-eyed man long enough that he looked up from the newspaper in front of him.

Jason’s lips curved upwards. “You’re quite the attractive man, aren’t you?”

Seemingly unphased by the barista’s words, the man scratched at his brunet eyebrow. “Uh, Thanks. Not that that’s not a very nice thing to say, but it’s awfully random. Or are you just hitting on me?”

Jason laughed and threw his head back a bit, strands of his short blond hair flinging with the movement. “I admit, I did experiment in college, but no, ended up not swingin’ that way. However,” He said, raising a slightly darker colored eyebrow than the shade of his light locks, “I couldn’t help but notice that your very pretty eyes happened to make their way to my good friend more than once this morning.” The man met Jason’s smirk, unashamed at how he had stared at the side of your face and studied every soft, but significant curve of your body when you weren’t looking. “Pretty isn’t she?”

Puffy lips turned upwards at the question. “Very.”

“How would you like to go out with her? I warn you, she’s a tough chick, and it takes her some time to open up, but she’s totally worth it. In more ways than one.”

“She didn’t seem to eager to be set up on a date.”

Jason waved his hand in a brush-off. “It makes her nervous, but like I said, she’s worth it. Besides, you’re attracted to her. And I can tell Y/N’s attracted to you.”

“Do you do this to all of your friends?”

“Only the ones who deserve it. So, what do you say? Beautiful woman. Smart, witty, creative. She even reads. Also has a bit of culture under her belt.”

“I guess I would be an idiot to say no, wouldn’t I?”

Jason smiled wide, tiny crinkles forming at the outer corners of his eyes. He knew he just accomplished his goal. “You know it.” He scribbled something down quickly on a square napkin. “Here. This is my number. If you really wanna go out with her, text me later and I’ll give you hers.” He handed off the napkin to the man, who grinned down at the numbers before folding it in half and sticking it in his back jeans pocket. “I’m Jason.” Jason extended his hand.

The blue-grey-eyed brunet gripped the hand in front of him. “I’m Bucky.”

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

Bucky

Bucky hadn’t texted you when Jason gave him your number after confirming he want to go out with you. He didn’t know why. He’d been out with a ton of girls, plenty of dates, a fair amount of hook-ups, but for some reason, you made him kind of nervous. And texting you out of nowhere seemed too impersonal. So now, Bucky sat back in the same seat he had the day before at Jason’s and waited to see you again. He heard Jason say you came to the shop every morning at nine a.m. sharp and so he made sure to get there at eight-fifty-five.

Jason glared at Bucky as he poured him a fresh cup of coffee. “Why didn’t you text her?”

“I just wanted to talk to her in person. Texting her without even speaking to her first seemed too weird.”

And yep. Nine a.m. as promised, you strolled in with a wide smile that brightened your entire face. The same cute, puffy blue jacket wrapped around you draped in your gorgeous Y/H/C hair, leggings that fit snuggly to your ass, accentuating one of the curves Bucky had become quite fond of in the short amount of time he had looked at you.

“You better make your move.” Jason whispered to him as he grabbed the coffee to greet you while you took a seat in the same stool.

“Thanks, Jace.”

Bucky received many side glances from Jason as he listened to you recount your attempts to get some girl to sleep with the barista. His eyes clearly said, ‘get a move on.’ Bucky cleared his throat, removing any scratchiness before you heard his voice for the first time. He didn’t want to scare you off by sounding like Godzilla mid-screech.

The first break in your conversation with the blond, Bucky turned to you, plastered an easy smile on his face, and said, “Hi.”

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

Y/N

Holy shit, You thought. That right there is the deep, sultry, sexy voice of a Greek God. It startled you for a minute and your eyes widened.

You met his eyes. Big mistake!

You couldn’t tell if you were smiling, though you hoped you were and that you didn’t look like a deer frozen in space ready to be squashed by an oncoming car.

Swallowing your anxiety, you parted your lips and licked away the dryness, an act that you saw did not go unnoticed by the man before you. “Um, Hi.”

Jason stepped back with a smile as he watched you both, then turned to attend to the Sunday customers.

“Do you mind if I sit next to you?”

“It’s a free country,” You chuckled awkwardly, internally imagining slapping your palm to your forehead from stupidity.

He, too, chuckled, but took no time lessening the space between you. He stuck out a strong, firm hand and you felt yourself suck in a breath at the veins that trailed from the back of his hand, up his strong forearm and disappeared under the short sleeve of his tee.

You took it and, Oh good lord, so rough. Those fingers would feel too good inside me.

“I’m Bucky.”

“Y/N.” You matched his panty-melting smile. Now this guy, You thought, This guy I could definitely see replacing Charles.

 --------------------------------

Y/N

One Month Later

 He insisted on waiting to sleep together, wanting to get to know you first. He hadn’t even tried to kiss you yet, but now, at the end of your third date, you were ready to have him. No more waiting.

Bucky smiled down at you, a certain joyful glint in his eyes as he tucked a loose piece of your hair behind your ear then stroked your cheek with his thumb. “I had a great time.” He near whispered. “I’m really glad you agreed to go out with me…three times.” You chuckled, but you were too. Bucky was amazing. Sweet, kind, sexy as hell, funny, passionate about his dreams, an amazing listener. The list could fill a book. Bucky was worth more than just a Charles replacement. “And I am really, really glad Jason said something to me about you. I mean, really fucking glad.”

You groaned with a smile. “Oh lord, do not mention Jason. That man is driving me nuts over Amanda McMeyer. Apparently, he wants to date her now, which is beyond weird, but I guess after they slept together, he realized he actually liked her.”

“And he’s requesting your matchmaking services again?”

“You bet he is.” Though, to be honest, you didn’t really mind. Sure, he bugged you about her every time he could, but you were happy he finally wanted to be with someone for more than a night. And according to him, Amanda isn’t as bitchy as you thought. So…Bonus!

Your thoughts quickly snapped back to the concern at hand. The man you wanted so bad, that seemed to want you too, had not kissed you. He gave every indication that he wanted to, but nada. Not a single attempt, not even a half-second of those delicious looking lips on yours. “Bucky, I’m really happy we are going out too, and I don’t want to stop anytime soon, but I’m kinda concerned.”

Bucky’s eyebrows knitted together as his thumb began to trace the curve of your bottom lip. Who the hell does that if they don’t want to devour your mouth with theirs?

“What’s wro--?”

“Why haven’t you kissed me?” You blurted out before you lost your nerve.

Bucky dropped his hand from your face and ran it through his neatly cut and styled hair. For a moment, he avoided your gaze, then took a deep breath and looked back. “Believe me, I want to. So damn bad. I want to do more than kiss you, but…”

“But?” You asked, tilting your head like a puppy.

“Don’t get mad.”

“Um, OK.”

“Jason told me you don’t really do relationships. That you aren’t quick to trust and have a tendency to turn all the men that like you or want you into fuck-buddies, if anything at all.”

Your lips formed an ‘oh,’ but nothing came out.

“I just didn’t want to be one of those guys. I like you. So much. You’re beautiful and smart. Funny. Amazing. Just…all-around great. I was drawn to you the minute I saw you, but not in the way I’ve been to other women in the past. Yes, I wanted you, still do,” He chuckled. “And I’m not saying that I wouldn’t have taken you on the counter the second we met if you let me, but only if I knew it would lead to something more.” He took another deep breath. “So, that’s why I haven’t kissed you. Because I knew if I did, then I wouldn’t be able to stop, and we would’ve fucked each other senseless the first time we went out. I wanted to prove to you that that’s not all I want from you.”

You smiled and cupped his cheek. “Well, mission accomplished.”

“Oh yea?” Bucky grinned, slipping his strong arms around the curve of your waist and pulling you even closer.

“Absolutely. I never really thought I would do this again. The whole dating thing.”

“So, why did you try it out with me? How did I get to be the lucky one?”

“I just had a feeling you were one of the good ones.”

Bucky’s smile forced an explosion in your heart. You looked down to his parted lips, your own opening slightly in preparation for his plump lips melding with yours. Slowly, his head tipped down as you stood on your toes the little bit you needed to meet him halfway. Inch by inch the space disappeared between you until nothing was left. He did not solely kiss you and you did not solely kiss him, but you kissed each other, both with equal passion and sharing the control. When you slid your tongue into his mouth, his would compliment yours perfectly. If he sucked your bottom lip, you bit his. If you moaned, he groaned. It was more than you had ever felt at one time in your entire life, and it was perfect.

Bucky pushed you back against the door, making sure to keep you away from the doorknob for the sake of your lower back. He tangled a fist in your hair and groaned again from so deep within him that it tingled over every inch of your body, lighting your nerves on fire.

You broke apart at the same time and your foreheads rested against one another. Neither of your eyes opened as Bucky muttered a quiet “Fuck” into your ear. “That was, uh…God, I don’t even know how to describe it.”

“All I know,” You said between slow breaths, “Is that kissing you was well worth the wait.” Another deep breath. “Bucky?”

“Hmm?” He hummed, his hands roaming up and down your curves. Ribs, waist, hips, ass, hips, waist, ribs. Not breaking his hands away from your body for a second.

“Come inside.”

Bucky’s head rose form it’s leaned position on yours. He flitted his eyes back and forth between your own, processing your words, and trying to figure out if you meant what he thought you did. “But—”

“Don’t you want to?”

He exhaled a silent chuckle. “Do I want to? Are you kidding? I want you so damn bad.”

“Come inside, Bucky.” You said again, opening your apartment door with one hand while the other held on to his. You tugged lightly, and when you didn’t meet resistance, you pulled him fully through the doorway, kissing him again as he kicked the door closed.

“Jump.” He mumbled against your lips and you did as you were told, trusting him to catch you and hold you to him when you wrapped your legs around his waist. “Bed?”

In between pecks, you uttered a quick, “No, here. Take me here.”

Bucky laughed into your kiss, the impact muffled by the seal of your lips. “No. Bed,” He whispered, pulling away enough to look you directly in the eyes. “We can fuck against the wall later. Hell, we can fuck on every surface in this place, but I am having you on a bed first. I want you comfortable when I make you come for me.”

You whimpered at his words then quickly slammed your lips back onto his. Bed it is.

Bucky laid you on the mattress carefully and crawled on top of you, leaving not a hairs width of space between your bodies as he ground his hard-on against your core. No one had ever turned you on so much in your life, and this simple friction was enough to drive you insane, making you softly sob with each thrust.

He straightened up on his knees, pulling you with him. Then, he told you to lift your arms up so he could slip off your top. Next your bra, and the minute the material hit the floor, Bucky’s breath hitched. His thumbs made their was to the underside of your breasts and stroked the softness of your skin. When you tugged on the hem of his shirt moments later, he removed his hands and gripped the back neck of his tee and pulled it over his head. As his arms settled back at his sides, your eyes glazed over at the sight of his muscles moving under his skin.

After tossing his shirt to the side, Bucky placed a hand between the valley of your breasts and pushed you back down on the bed. His fingers when to the waist of your pants and slowly undid the button before hooking his fingers in the belt loops and pulling the fabric down along with your underwear until you lay bare in front of him.

“Jesus,” He huffed out in between rapid breathing. He trailed his eyes over every inch of you from head to toe, but eventually landed them on your dripping pussy. He reached out his hand, extended a thumb, and slowly slipped it between your folds, sliding it up and down in even rhythms forcing you to pant and cry for him. “So pretty.”

“Bucky,” You cried as you bucked your hips with every brush of his thumb against your clit. “This isn’t fair. Let me see you.”

He grinned at your eager tone, but never let up on the torturous movement of his thumb as he undid his own jeans button with his free hand and forced the pants down just far enough to let his cock spring free from its confines.

Giant. Thick. Long. Good God. At the sight of him, you pushed his hand away from your pussy, quickly sat up and scooted close until the tip of his cock nearly brushed against your lips. You looked up to find him thoroughly licking your juices from his thumb and you took this second of his distracted state to dip your tongue out and lick lightly along the underside of the tip. You lit up as his hips involuntarily jutted forward, the first inch of him sliding into the heat of your mouth through parted lips.

Bucky braced a strong hand on your shoulder as you took him in deeper, inch by agonizing inch, swirling your tongue along every bit of skin you could and moaning to create a gentle vibration. “Oh, Fuck.” You took him in and out over and over, your tongue making devilish licks on his shaft. “Goddamn…that mouth of yours is…shit…,” He grunted. “…fucking amazing. So good, baby girl.”

Then, as if he had come to a sudden realization, Bucky’s eyes snapped open and he pulled his dick out of the comfort of your lips.

“What’s wrong?”

“Y/N, I don’t want to come in your mouth, not this time. I wanna come in that pussy.”

You gasped, grabbed the back of his neck, and met his lips in an aggressive kiss. As he crawled back on top of you, Bucky managed to kick the rest of his pants off, then settled himself between your legs. His hips spread them wide until you could feel his tip playfully nudging at your entrance. One thrust and he would be inside you.

Tags: @dugan365 @moonlightimagination @pietrotheavenger @marvel-fanfiction @agentsinstorybrooke @dani-si @alyssiamking @wintersoldier98 @then-there-was-me-emily @prxttybirdz @tessvillegas @xceafh @jazzwoman897 @fandoms-who @meganwinchester1999 @ufffg @debra77 @rebelliouscat @anise-d-castle6 @projectxhappiness @buckybarnesappreciationsociety @lowkeysebby @stringgeek13 @notmyfault404 @jjamesbbarness @stangirl4eva @guera31 @sophiatomlinson23 @youreahandsomedevil @thisismysecrethappyplace @rex-orange-baby @hiddles-rose @vibhati123 @mywinterwolf @stevesaidabadlanguageword @picapicapicassobaby

[woodsofblight]

Study Break

"Go away, Rayman. I'm busy."

Ly didn't need to open her eyes to confirm he was nearby. Even if her natural senses weren't enough to pick up the telltale signs of him approaching, there was always a peculiar presence around him that would clue her in. It also made it extremely difficult for him to sneak up on her.

"Rude!" he said, the sharp, yet amused scold in his voice almost drawing a smile from her right away.

"I'm meditating."

"No, you're not." his voice got closer, each word accentuated by him hopping across the little lake that separated her home from the rest of the area. "If you were, you would have just stayed silent."

She scoffed, but relented all the same. Trying to pretend like she was deep in thought at this point would have been a childish endeavor. The faint aura of magic around her faded away, as she floated right back down to ground level. By the time she opened her eyes, Rayman was standing before her, not even trying to hide a playful grin. As a proper and dignified fairy, she did not immediately returned the gesture and let her head rest in her palm, as she exhaled in a very theatrical fashion.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" Ly asked, stressing her words just a little.

"Murfy's been summoned, Globox is busy." he said, completely ignoring her vague attempt at sarcasm. "So I thought I'd visit. I haven't seen you for a couple days now."

"Just the usual stuff." she shrugged. It was frighteningly easy to slip into a completely casual demeanor around him. "Books, scrolls, incantations stacked right up to the ceiling."

"More training?"

"I'm starting to doubt there will ever be an end to it." she sighed, cracking a small smile nonetheless. "Every time I think I've mastered something, I realize that I'm still barely scratching the surface."

She continued, summarizing some of her recent lessons with her elders, most notably the nymphs. Her explanation veered into technical terms she wasn't sure Rayman had so much as an inkling about, but even if so, his focus did not waver. He was ever the attentive listener, his hair flopping forwards a bit with each and every nod.

"Sounds like you could use some time off." he remarked only once she was done.

"No." she replied, her brow falling a little. "Slacking off is honestly the last thing I should do right now."

"You're not slacking off." he shrugged. How he managed to do that without visible shoulders always mystified the fairy. "You can't be expected to study all the time."

"Even though I really should..."

"Well, you're wrong." he said, extending a hand towards the rest of the Fairy Glade. "That's where you should be more often, instead of those dusty tomes."

She sighed, waving off the friendly suggestion.

"Rayman, I can't. Half the Council have their eyes on me all the time." she said, her tail snaking up to curl softly around her waist. "They expect a lot from me."

"And they'll get it." he flashed a reassuring smile. "Right after you unwind a little, like you planned on doing."

"What do you mean?" she shook her head, somewhat confused.

"Well, you weren't exactly pouring over a book when I arrived..."

The remark was met with immediate retribution, in the form of a harsh tap on his nose with a finger.

"Don't you get cheeky with me, limbless!" she said, a bit of heat rising into her cheeks.

He rubbed his nose, but both of them devolved into a brief stint of laughter. He wasn't exactly wrong, she just didn't want to give him the satisfaction of saying it outright.

"Just a few hours, okay?" he said. "Then you can dive back, if you really want."

"I have a feeling if I go with you, I won't be studying at all today." she raised a brow as a grin crept across his face.

"Luckily, my schedule is all clear." he said. Rayman's attempts at mild sarcasm always came across as infuriating, particularly from someone of his stature.

The fairy sighed one last time, glancing back to her home. She could all but see the books waiting for her, filled to the brim with mystical knowledge. Boring as some of it may have been, she was still fascinated, especially at how much remained hidden to her. Magic was a vast ocean of rules and exceptions and sometimes she almost wanted to just immerse herself to the fullest. And then Rayman would come knocking at her door, pulling her out of the metaphorical dive, as she once more failed to show her face around the Glade for days on end.

Even now, that ocean was inviting as ever. The currents of arcane power, calling out to her to go just a little deeper, to thread paths only the nymphs could ever reach. Sometimes, she even entertained the idea of going beyond those, though whether that would have been curiosity or hubris, she wasn't quite sure. A part of her wondered what or who she might find there.

But as she looked back, Rayman's smiling face met her, his freely-floating hand extended and waiting patiently just for her. Such a peculiar and undoubtedly special being and yet he seemed more embroiled in everyday, mundane life, than anything beyond that. In a way, his insistence on living in the here and now, was perhaps even more fascinating. More than enough to keep even her grounded, at least.

Ly took his hand and stood up, the midday sun combing through her purple locks. She squinted a little, which was more than an apt reminder of how long she's been cooped up again. She looked deeper into the forest, a sense of exhilaration swelling within her chest. As they departed, her steps became quicker, wilder, and it didn't take long before the two broke into one of their playful, yet fiercely competitive little races.

The faint breeze carried their laughter all across the Fairy Glade.

[old-soul-tired-bones]

So like,I understand people who don’t believe they are actually that character or creature in this life but I do not understand people who do? Like I’ve seen people who genuinely believe they are that animal/character at the moment in all ways except physical? And I have to ask is that a healthy thing? Is this something accepted in the community?

Pt 2

First off, good job for trying to understand the community rather than shutting us down. That’s something that takes some effort, and I applaud you for it. Some people can be defensive because they’ve been hurt before, or aren’t completely comfortable with themselves, but that’s a boundary that needs to be respected. I think that some confusion when trying to understand the community is totally valid, and I don’t think you’re a “bigot” (a way too strong word in my opinion) for asking questions. Now into the deeper stuff.

This community, although very old and spread all over, is relatively new when it comes to things like modern medicine and science. Though there has been some research done on the matter (I’m sure if you look it up you’ll find some good books and studies on otherkin), it has not been the subject of many, if any, official studies. The science of the brain is something that we’ve only scratched the surface of, multiple dimensions or alternate realities have barely been touched, and the matter of souls may never be fully understood. Therefore, I’m sad to say that I, nor many other people in the community, have any way of knowing how “healthy” the belief is, but I can tell you of some of the things I have experienced or heard of when it comes to something like that.

There are certain facts that I don’t believe are healthy to ignore. For instance, ignoring the fact that you have a human body, have lived and are living a human life in the current timeline/reality can cause serious damage to your mental and physical state, especially if you aren’t in a healthy mindset at the moment.

Warning, this next part mentions depression and suicidal ideation. Scroll to the next bolded section to skip past it.

In my case, I have depression. A little while back, there was a point when I was extremely depressed, stressed, and mentally unstable. I had believed that I was, in the moment, an angel trapped in a human body and human world. I had also had my first kin memory recently, deepening that belief. In that memory, I was with my soulmate, and I was euphorically happy. I was at peace, which was not something I was in real life. 

I longed for something like that, and I wanted to believe that that was something waiting for me in the afterlife. It made the “option” of suicide seem all the more appealing. Needless to say, that worsened my mental state immensely, and I had to check into a hospital to make sure I didn’t try anything.

It took a little while to realize that that belief did not help me, but eventually, I understood, and came to a much healthier place.

End of triggering event.

Ignoring human needs and getting mentally stuck in a different time, reality, or world can cause real damage, whether it be physical, mental, or even spiritual. When someone starts to ignore the human aspect of themself, that’s when the red flags should go up and the alarms sounded. Facts and beliefs work best when they coexist with each other, so while you can believe (NOTE: A belief is not the opposite of fact, it is simply something that exists because of the power of your mind,) that you are a character from a piece of media (say, Dipper Pines from Gravity Falls,) or a deer trapped in the body of a human, the facts are that you currently exist in this dimension, in a human body, on Earth, in human society. Belief and Fact do not have to oppose each other, but have to exist with the other, with respect to each.

Opinions on this always vary, and you may never get the same answer twice, but I appreciate you asking mine. I hope this helped, and I thank you for reaching out!

Love, 

An Angel Without a Name

[pftones3482]

Commission for @crazyfanatic97. Part 1 of 3. Under a cut for length. Follow up to their last commission from me. 

~~

Honestly, how many places were there to hide in Danville? Considering the population rested at under 5,000, the actual city wasn't nearly as big as it felt to Vanessa in that moment. ESPECIALLY considering the fact that her father was a freaking cow, there were probably only two or three dozen places he could conceivably hide.  

And yet somehow, she, Monty, and Perry had lost him.  

They were stopped in the park, hands on their hips as they studied the darkened trees around them.  

"How do we just...lose a whole cow?" Monty finally managed.  

His vampire cape fluttered in the slight wind and Vanessa smirked a little, lifting an eyebrow at him. "Keep in mind, he's a whole, sentient cow who doesn't want to be caught. And that is...officially the weirdest sentence I've ever said."

Perry shook his head in irritation, though Vanessa could see the faint curl of amusement on his bill. He gestured at one path leading towards the city, and then at himself, and then at another path, which led towards the woods, and back to Monty and Vanessa.

"Seriously?" Vanessa groaned. "You want US to go into the woods to look for him?"

Perry crossed his arms over his chest and lifted both eyebrows, and Vanessa sighed. "Fine. But if we get killed, it's on you."

He saluted cheekily and vanished down the other path.  

Monty turned to Vanessa. "He totally did that on purpose."

"Oh absolutely."

"Shall we take the dark, ominous looking path into the woods, perchance to never come back, or go back to the party?"

Vanessa sighed. "I should probably at least TRY to find my father."

Monty grinned. "Fair enough," he chuckled.  

He offered an arm and Vanessa took it in amusement, walking alongside him into the woods. For a bit of time, all they could hear was the crunching of their own footsteps and the owls and bugs in the trees and bushes. They laced hands after a while instead of holding arms, Vanessa using her extra hand to hold up her skirts. She regretted leaving her shoes behind at the party.  

They managed to traverse pretty much through the whole section of woods without spotting her father, coming out on the other side of the forest to stare up at the town center. Vanessa eyed her father's building and pursed her lips, thinking for a moment. "What if we just...go get some –inators to find him?" she asked.  

Monty furrowed his brows. "Like what? His dress-inator?"

Vanessa slapped him playfully on the chest. "Shut up. No. Like, he has a couple –inators that are for tracking. We could modify one to locate cows? Or something?"

"And then what, eliminate the ones on the far side of the city?"  

"Yeah, pretty much."

Monty thought about it for a moment. As much as he didn't want to use evil machinery for a mission, he had to admit it was a genius idea. Short of going back to OWCA and admitting to his father that he had been hanging out with the enemy's daughter, the only other idea he could think of involved getting Perry's owners in on their search, and that wasn't something he planned on doing any time soon.  

"Yeah, okay," he finally said. "Lead the way."  

She took the initiative, digging her keys out of her dress pocket (thank you, past Vanessa, for putting that in there) and buzzed them into the lobby, smacking her thumb into the button to call the elevator to them.  

It was a quiet ride up, and Vanessa felt almost uncomfortable. Now that she thought about it, she and Monty were rarely alone-alone. They usually went out in groups, or were being stalked by Perry on her dad's behalf. It was weird, to say the least.  

"So-" she said at the same time that Monty said, "Weird day, huh?"

They looked at one another and burst into laughter. "Why is this so weird?" Vanessa chuckled.  

"No platypus following us around," Monty joked, though there was a serious undertone to his voice.  

She snickered, and the bell on the elevator dinged to indicate that they had reached the Penthouse Floor. "Come on. He's got a bunch of old ones lying around in the guest bedroom."  

"You have a guest bedroom?" Monty asked in surprise.  

Vanessa chuckled. "Yeah. With the clutter in this place, sometimes even I forget it exists."  

She unlocked the door and flicked the lights on, and she led Monty to the spare bedroom, which, true to her word, was littered with objects that Monty couldn't even begin to comprehend.  

He cracked his knuckles and looked to Vanessa, who was heading to her room. "Going to change," she explained, gesturing at her ball gown that Monty had to admit wasn't conducive to late night father-hunting.  

"While you do that, I'll start searching," he said.  

~~

When Vanessa came back out five minutes later, Monty was sitting on the floor surrounded by smaller –inators and pieces, looking totally baffled. "Need some help?" she laughed.  

Monty glanced up and his jaw loosened a bit when he saw her, making Vanessa shift uncomfortably. While the ballgown wasn't a good plan for late night searching through the forest, neither was her usual outfit, so she had opted to change into converse, black skinny jeans, and an oversized gray sweatshirt. Her hair was pulled back into the same updo it had been for her Belle costume, and she had the sudden urge to shake it out. "What?" she demanded after a long second of silence.  

Monty shook his head, clicking his mouth shut. "Nothing," he murmured. "Just...never seen you in such casual clothes."  

"Yeah, yeah, I look like I took a tumble into the laundry basket," she said with a wave of her hand. She knelt on the floor next to him and started picking up various –inators, trying her best to remember which ones were which.  

Monty settled a hand on her knee, squeezing gently and giving her a small smile. "Not at all."

His breath was soft, and Vanessa found herself flushing at the unspoken compliment. "Well, thank you. We need to focus, though. Have you seen the transport-inator? He made it pretty recently."  

Monty stopped, nearly facepalming. "That...would probably be the number one I was looking for. Yeesh. Where would it be?"  

Vanessa stood back up, shifting from foot to foot, and glanced around the room. "Well, he organizes alphabetically, for the most part, so..."

She waded through the piles of machinery, hopping over a few smaller ones, and landed in a standing position by the far window that looked out onto the street. She was dwarfed by the three or four tall inventions that stood in the space, and she scanned those ones only, knowing that the transport-inator (the remade model, obviously, seeing as the first one had been blown up) was taller than the others.  

It was nowhere to be seen, and she sighed. "To the basement, then," she grumbled, stumbling back over to Monty.  

He caught her by the elbow as she tripped, grinning. "The basement?"

Vanessa rolled her eyes. "Yeah. He keeps the big-big stuff and the potentially explosive stuff down there. I didn't even think it wouldn't be up here."

"Back to the elevator then?" he chuckled.  

"You got it."  

She took one last glance around the room and then led Monty out of the apartment, locking the door again while he called for the elevator.  

The atmosphere inside was more relaxed this time, more joking and teasing about the whole "your father is a literal cow" situation, more playful banter, and it felt like only a few moments before they were entering the eerie, damp cell that was the basement of Doofenshmirtz Evil Inc.  

Vanessa found the gross, musty bulb in the center of the room, clicking it on and coughing at the amount of dust that kicked up when Monty followed her inside. "He really hasn't been down here in a while, has he?" she grumbled, more to herself than anything.  

Monty ran a finger along one of the tables containing the old –inators, his nose wrinkling when it came back more black than skin colored. "You can say that again. How is everything organized down here?"  

Vanessa gave him a vague shrug, wiping her already dusty hands on her jeans. "No idea. It's a taller machine, so just start looking at the big ones."  

"Copy."

Vanessa shot him a wry smile at the formal speak and Monty flushed and shot her a sheepish smile. "Sorry. Habit."

She hummed and they broke onto separate sides of the room, the sounds of digging and metal scratching across rough concrete surfaces the only indication that they were actually looking for something specific.  

After roughly four minutes, Monty called out. "This it? It looks like something that would take someone to another location?"

Vanessa set down the helmet in her hands and hopped over to where Monty was standing and staring up at a relatively tall and pointy machine. "What makes you say that?" she asked as she got closer.  

Monty pointed at the wheel on it. "Those are all locations. Well, except the "in my pants" one. Although I guess that technically COULD be-"

"Monty," Vanessa interrupted. She chuckled at the look on his face. "Yes, this is it. Okay, so..."

She squatted to look at the wheel, her eyes glazing over the words and a frown twitching at her lips. "So possibly the closest thing is the "family member" section? But what if it just takes us to a random person? Or can you even go, seeing as he isn't family for you?"  

Monty shrugged. "Worst case scenario, you just call me and we have to figure out a way to get you out of a foreign country or I have to grab my car and come find you before your father kills you with his hooves."  

"He wouldn't do that," Vanessa snorted. She paused, and then her eyebrows furrowed. "At least...I don't think he was. Perry wouldn't have let us help if he thought he was super dangerous, would he?"  

Monty's hands settled on either one of her shoulders and Vanessa glanced up at him, eyes wide. He had a sincere smile on his face. "Hey. He's your dad. Even if he IS evil, which sometimes I really doubt, I don't think he could hurt you. I wouldn't risk sending you alone, without backup, if that were the case."  

"What, don't think I can handle myself?" she teased.

Monty's lips twitched. "I wouldn't be dating you if you couldn't. Not with the line of work our parents are in."

Vanessa chuckled, her chest a little lighter. "Dating, hmm? Did we ever actually make that official?"

Monty's cheeks flushed and he stammered, pulling back. Vanessa rolled her eyes and pressed up on her tiptoes to settle a light kiss on his cheek. "Come on, lameo. Set that –inator to fire. If I end up in Drusselstein, I end up in Drusselstein. I'll live."  

He chuckled, lifting his hands up and cupping her cheeks before she could move away, dusting a somewhat firmer kiss to her mouth. "Fair enough," he murmured. "Call me if you do end up there. Or if I don't end up there with you, I guess."

Vanessa snorted and turned to plug the machine in, twisting the dial until it was set on the "family" slice of the pie. She set the timer clock for ten seconds, moved quickly to stand next to Monty in front of the laser, and grabbed his hand.  

"Here goes nothing," she muttered.  

He squeezed her hand once as the –inator started whining, indicating that it was about to fire. "Or everything."  

"That was really cliched, Monty."

"I watch too many action movies."

The –inator fired.  

[aaronshunga-blog]

Q and A with TOMMI MUSTURI

Recently following my trip to Europe, I collected a few comic books from artists in various countries. Mr. Tommi Musturi operates out of Finland, and has published a weird, whimsical series of wordless comics featuring a ghostly vaguely homer simpson-esque character and his adventures known as “Samuel.” This is the 2nd installment, and I decided to correspond via email a Q and A. He responded with some very thoughtful answers and I’m happy to share them with you here.

-Aaron Shunga

1. I grew up reading Moomintroll by Tove Janson as a kid. I notice a mysterious, fantastic quality in both her work and yours. What do you think the connection is here if any?

I suppose every Finnish kid has some connection with the Moomins. When I grew up I read the Moomin novels illustrated by Tove. My sister who is nine years younger grew up along the 90s Japanese animation and the generations after that were suddenly surrounded by all the merchandise, a new comic magazine drawn in the style of the 90s animation and so on.

It took until I was adult I really started to read the Moomin comics. They were originally made for adults and I remember trying to read them as a kid was kind of tricky. They were also all black and white which was of course lame in eyes of a 10-yo. The Moomin comic appeared (and appears) in several newspapers around Finland so it was familiar as well. However, an early 80s magazine version of the stories with covers taken from the late 70s puppet animation (I think it was made in Poland) existed for few years. I’ve been collecting those on my adult age. Didn’t know it existed back it was getting released.

What I still prefer are the actual novels. Beside being an artist, Tove was a great writer as well. The novels are more surreal and irrational as well. The atmosphere is really stong in all of them.

The comic version of Moomintroll is of course all great stuff as well. Notice that big part of Moomin comics were actually drawn by Tove’s brother Lars. I think for Tove’s career it was essential that she had such great people around her helping with things here and there. In the end she wanted to be a painter, not a comic artist. That’s kind of sad though but maybe presents the times and the fact that comics were seen merely as ‘cartoons for kids’ or something immoral. There was indeed a nice recent exhibition of her paintings in Finland just couple of years ago. It was not that bad but I still prefer the writings, comic & illustration work she made.

Anyway, there’s a Moomin museum in my current hometown Tampere and they present quite a wide variety of original art as well. I must say it’s some of the best drawing work I’ve ever seen. I could watch those small detailed pieces again and again and I think most of the people who visit the place feel the same. It’s inspiring of course. Especially her use of light and shadow. Sometimes there are almost no outlines at all. The forms appear in depth.

So, I think Moomins somehow come in our 'mother’s milk’ over here. I can’t really say that they inspired me to do this or that. However, I see things I share with Tove – there is sort of melancholic level that’s always present there below the surface, the taste of life is something I also aim at (meaning I tend to go through a variety of emotions in my work), she respects nature as well and there’s this sort of simplicity in it all, though the content is kinda complex.

However, if you at some point try to draw the Moomintroll you’ll notice how damn difficult it is.

2. One drawing that stands out to me in the book is an old man with a word balloon full of gestural abstract ink brush strokes. I feel that this is an aesthetic choice others try to enforce upon you. What is your opinion on Jackson Pollock and Gary Panter?

That image was indeed based on an idea that some people tell their views too late. So I present Samuel as this old alcoholic guy without any friends shouting alone in his dirty apartment. There is no one to listen to what he says so the language might as well something abstract. He could basicly say anything, have any opinion and there is no effect to the world around him. What makes this merely meta notation on Samuel’s comics in general is the fact that Samuel has been a mute comic until now. So, this was the first time the guy spoke out. Of course, Samuel as a character does not want to end up like that so the image of the old guy is merely a possible future. I think Samuel in general is much stronger indeed. Though he does not speak (or have any expressions on his face) his acts are usually statements to the world around him.

I’ve actually drawn now another image where Samuel speaks. There’s a small ad I did for Kuti magazine (a free Finnish comics newspaper, with English subtitles so get it!) with Samuel standing on Trump’s cut-off head and speaking to the reader. So maybe he’ll speak from now on but only in advertisements. This’d be perfect 'sell-out’. We all love capitalism and will do anything for it, won’t we?

In this 2nd book ('Simply Samuel’ that is) I’ve pictured several moments of Samuel’s possible life. So along this 'image of him as old’ I’ve drawn him as semen, showing how her mother and father met, how he gets younger and goes back to his mother’s vagina etc. It’s sort of play with time which this 2nd book does a lot. Sometimes time goes backwards. I’m fooling with the reader as I like that kind of stuff as a reader as well. It keeps you awake.

What comes to Pollock and Panter. Well, good artists of course. I indeed did a study on Pollock in art school. That’s like 20 years ago. I like his works but it’s of course bit out-dated these days. I wouldn’t have wanted to know him as a person. What comes to Gary, he is of course been an inpiration for long time. I used to run the publishing house Huuda Huuda (we quite a year ago in December 2016) and we ended up releasing a book from Gary in Finnish. Or actually it was two books as we made this big-size doublebook (that one can read from both ends) with both Jimbo’s Inferno and Purgatory. This was quite a project indeed and took us +one year to produce. The first translator gave up with Purgatory but the 2nd (Teemu Manninen, a Finnish poet) made great job with it. I spent two months lettering it all by hand. It was one of the most painful lettering jobs I’ve ever done. I think there was a tear in my eye at some point. Anyway, the book turned out great and I think the version of Purgatory is still the only translation of it. I remember that Gary emailed me after the project something like “I thought you couldn’t do it” which was the best complement I could’ve got.

What I like in Gary’s work is that is sort of 'a mash-up’ of different styles. I think 'style’ is merely a capitalistic tool and if you’re doing art you should try to stay far from it or put it all through a mincer.

3.  Compared to your last book, there is much more violence and action. What led you to this decision? You have several scenes in which Samuel dies, via car crash or by fists.

In Samuel’s case it’s obvious that he can die whenever I want. I’ve always had this idea that the his novels are sort of 'longplays of a computer game’. So basicly he may die at any point and then I start from scratch in the next story. This is kind of reliefing thing for myself as an artist though I don’t really 'like’ to kill or torture him. It just happens. I like dark humour of course as that’s the key thing to stay sane 2017.

Anyway, I myself also noticed that this 2nd book of his is much more violent compared to the 1st one that’s overall mood was merely 'beautiful and melancholic’. I did not have any plans to do this so it all just happened. I’ve tried to analyze myself why it came out like this and the only thing I could think of is that it presents the vibes of the times. It is no secret I’ve felt utterly frustrated with what mankind is doing for the world that’s raising them. It think this frustration and pure anger somehow came visible in this new book. What comes to action, this 2nd book is more complex and has TWICE the amount of ideas in it compared to the 1st book. It’s more fragmented and complex in away as well. So, there’s more going on compared to the 1st book that was merely really calm in it’s storytelling. I might go back to that if I do a 3rd book.

4.  There are instructional elements to your story, as if one were reading a manual on how to build a hobo guitar or bake artisinal bread. This reminds me of Chris Ware. What are your opinions on his work?

I’ve never read that much of Ware indeed I must say. I’ve got some 90s Acme magazines, some big Quimby-book and Jimmy Corrigan but I haven’t really read what he has done the past ten years. It’s good stuff of course but I think I respect him more because of his experiments with storytelling than because the actual content. He is one of the greatest contemporary comic artists of course, there’s no doubt. When it comes to his info comics I think I’ve seen this kind

stuff in early American comics & kids’ magazines. Silly Symphonies used to have the same kind of cut & paste parts. So I suppose his idea to use info comics came from there.

Anyway, in general I don’t read that much comics these days. I think most of comics are not very good indeed. I get couple of meters (in shelf-space) of comics every year that I try to go through though. However, if I had to choose in-between of a comic or a novel I’d choose the latter. Literature is inspiring. If there are maybe tens of important comic books ever made, in literature there are thousands.

Anyway, going back to my own drawing… when I was a teen I think I aimed to simplify what I did on paper. I liked Didier Comés and Charles Burns for example, both having very clear images. We had a really good comic store in Tampere during early 90s, with a mailorder of course (I lived on the countryside with my parents back then) so I bought a lot of stuff that FB and D&Q put out, along with lots of material from France and Belgium (like Freon & Amok releases, some Atak’s early stuff, Reprodukt’s releases etc). Anyway, when I was around 18-yo my drawings were very close to what my graphic novel The Book of Hope looks like – very clear line, simplified colours and so on. When I went to art school I indeed tried to 'destroy’ this style that I was already bored with. So I started to experiment with lots of different styles, equipment, techniques and sizes and even went to something that was more realistic. When I used these maybe more realistic styles with comics they never really worked that well. At some points (after few years and lots of work made) I came to a conclusion that in comic narration the art should be somehow simplified – it’s kind of unseperataple part of the comic storytelling. So, I went back to this simplified old style and started to work on The Book of Hope. Later I developed this mathematic thin & clear line for Samuel. Both of these works look very oldschool in a way. This is a trick of course as the content is much more complex than it appears. So, the reason I ended up in these styles was merely a result of experimenting and going through it all and process what I had done.

The info comics I’ve included in the recent Samuel book (there was some in the 1st book as well, originally published 2009) are actually inspired by a Finnish book from 1930s – Kodin taitosanakirja ('The Home Dictionary of Skills’). That’s a book that was sold even after wartime, there are tens of updated editions of it. The idea of this (thick!) book is simply: to tell how you should do things that are essential for life. So, basicly there are 'simple instructions’ on how to build a house (!), a boat, make porridge, rye bread and so on. It’s such a rich book so full of information that I keep on going back to it every now and then. Most of the things you wonder about can be found from it indeed. Anyway, what I like the most in this case is the basic idea of the book. That is what inspired me to add info comics in Samuel’s book as well. I didn’t want them to be just any funny informative comics but instructions that give value for life. First there was an idea to make a seperate big book with only these instructions but in the end I thought it might work better if I mix them with illustrations and more normal comics. In general I like diy-culture, repairing broken stuff and so on. It’s a view on life in all: you can do most of it by yourself. That’s could also be a motto for Samuel.

4.  I notice in general the very clean, almost vector like aesthetic. Do you find yourself at peace with technology?

I did live pretty much nerdish childhood; Got my first computer (Commodore 64) when I was 9-yo, collected lots of different things etc. Anyway, I gave up playing games quite early and got involved with sub culture called 'demoscene’. It’s sort of audivisual culture where people create things together in small 'groups’. I ended up making graphics while some others in our group (that’s called 'Extend’ and it still exists) made musich and code. So I basicly learnt to draw on computer (pixel by pixle back then, with a joystick, it was mid-80s) before on paper. My relationship with computers and technology is kind of natural I think. For art it’s one tool next to a brush, lightbox, canvas etc. However, I prefer working on paper most of my time. Never owned a tablet or even tried one. The basic advice ’d be that one should always know what he or she is about to do when turning on the computer. You can easily see it in art if somebody is just trying out things in Photoshop without much knowing where to aim at. Working on paper means you do more mistakes and mistakes are indeed the key thing to learn something new. You should look at the mistake and think how you could use it. When drawing straight on computer people can try to get 'the perfect line’ as long as they want – even a crappy artist can aim at something out of his or hers artistic cababilities and reach it. However, the bad thing with this is that it is usually not his or hers image that was the target but an idea of something someone had made – a specific technique or some image from subconscious. I mean: if you’re not aware of what you’re doing, this all usually leads to the actual result that they had in mind. With my own work I like to change the plan on the way all the time so the result is more an individual than the plan. I think it’s better to learn to live with the mistakes than trying to avoid them.

With Samuel and The Book of Hope I did all the colouring on computer. But for example in Samuel you can see 'a shadow’ layer on all the colours. This shadow was indeed as well done on paper so I basicly have always two originals for each Samuel page. The originals of the shadows look often like childish Sin City. In both books the colouring is bright and simple, kind of 'dead’ as well. In Samuel’s case the colours are important part of the actual storytelling. It’s really veeery slow process indeed and I don’t know why I do it like I do it. Well, maybe it’s ok not to reason everything.

5.  There is a scene when Samuel enters a cave, and a panorama from above at three quarter degrees reveals a dungeon full of peril. Is this a reference to videogames, of the fantasy RPG genre? Do you think videogames influence your work?

As told before, there has been sort of idea of Samuel’s life 'as a game’ but that’s pretty much it. I stopped playing computer & video games early 90s to focus on doing stuff with the machines. I was also aware I could easily develope an addiction with games so it was better to focus on something else. Anyway, I still go back to that idea of a game every now and then when starting a new Samuel episode. It’s kind of liberating as 'with the new life’ you can start everything from the beginning. This doesn’t apply for OUR real lives of course, so I’m on a bit thin ice here.

This specific spread in the recent Samuel book was intended to be 'a labyrinth of daily routines’. The whole episode is kind of melancholic, Samuel is not doing much, just wandering around, throwing some stones, collecting fruits. On top of a hill he finds this cave and goes in just to find a labyrinth full of dangers, requirements, responsibilities, pressure etc. He manages to get through it (with minor damage) and gets out to find this paradise like environment again. I suppose this is a good example on how I use symbolism in Samuel’s stories and in all my comics indeed. The simple idea of this piece is of course that sometimes our lives are struggled (that’s part of a life, probable) and once you get through the struggles you will find something better. Very simple, spiced with small nuances in action.

What comes to games, I do actually like to play in general. I did sports for fun when I was a kid and teen. Started to play street basketball again couple of years ago… that’s more for fun as well. Anyway, we’ve tried some oldschool stuff recently. Indeed we made our own playing card game with my fiancee Tiina. It’s called 'Little Red Ridinghood’ and it’s indeed one of the best 2-player card games (with the normal pack) I’ve played. Suppose we should spread it around at some point. A year ago we indeed started to play the original Dungeons & Dragons again (after +20 years) which is kind of entertaining and educating because the world around the characters is so strong and evil one can die basicly any moment. I haven’t (yet) found much inspiration for my comics in it though. During summer we usually take some dices along when going in the forest or on the lake, play some Yatzy or stuff. I like the simplicity in that. Also playing Othello or Go with stones. Anyway, I never even tried PS or Xbox or something recent. Don’t have a smart phone either. There’s some lousy golf game in my crappy phone. It’s kind of entertaining though. What I like in “playing” in general is that it still very much the same experience as when you were a kid. So, I think all the adults should play all the time indeed. That’d make the world much better place already.

[peckhampeculiar]

Made by Mensah

KUSHEDA MENSAH IS A BRITISH-BORN GHANAIAN DESIGNER AND ARTIST WHOSE STUDIO IS BASED IN PECKHAM.

Her playful pieces of interlocking, modular furniture blend functionality with fun and have caught the eye of brands including Adidas

WORDS JUMOKÉ FASHOLA

Kusheda Mensah is a risk taker who is passionate about creating and maintaining community, and refuses to be pigeon-holed. Her artistic vision is to create usable interactive social design for people and at the age of 28, she has already exhibited at the prestigious Salone Satellite in Milan and has commissions from the likes of Adidas under her belt.

We meet at Peckham Levels, where she is in the process of moving into her new studio. Peckham is not only where she works, it’s also where she was born and raised and she loves the area.

“We first lived on an estate, and then moved to Peckham Hill Street,” she says. “I went to school in Dulwich. I was one of those kids, hanging around the chicken shop after school, chatting excitedly to all my friends, getting my nails done. Peckham is my endz”, she laughs.

Kusheda studied surface design at the London College of Communication. “At the time, you could study print, which is textiles on paper and also do ceramics,” she says.

“When I first started to explore printing, it was more to do with fashion. But as the course went on, I discovered my passion lay within textiles, which led me to become obsessed with interiors during my third year of university.”

Her vision, she says, is to use her art to create better social behaviour. So where did the idea for her brand, Modular by Mensah – and its line of interactive furniture – come from?

“Well, I’m not formally trained in furniture design. I just design. Initially I was trying to figure out how to find the balance between art and design and where to place myself.

“In my final year at university, I basically created modular shapes and turned them into sculpture, but at the time I didn’t think of the way it might apply to people. Eventually the shapes turned out to be more curved, rounded and interconnected.

A bit like humans, we can’t exist without each other. That’s where it started. I then took a year out, to try to figure out what to do.”

It was quite a challenging time for her on a personal level. “I was feeling quite low in myself,” she says, “especially because I was kind of idle and not doing very much.”

That all changed when she found out about Salone Satellite in Milan, an exhibition dedicated to showcasing the most promising international designers aged under 35.

“It was crazy!” she laughs. “I literally applied for a place with just a few pictures and sketches of ideas inspired by the lack of genuine connection felt by the social media generation and I was accepted.”

Having no finance in place to actually take up the offer meant Kusheda had to find creative ways to raise money and forge contacts.

“I’d just started working with the Prince’s Trust around that time,” she explains. “I was allocated a mentor, who was really good. He had connections with the Department for International Trade, which helped a lot.”

Given that her ethos is all about community, it’s not surprising that she managed to tap into her networks for the kind of support she needed in order to make the pieces for the Milan exhibition.

“I started designing the furniture in a 3D programme, which I learnt from scratch with the help of friends. I found a foam company that was specifically able to cut really crazy shapes. I found an amazing upholsterer and a fabric company. I did the photo shoot in a studio for free with friends advising on model casting and styling. 

“People were so kind and I learnt so much. And then suddenly my website was up and I was in Milan. It was a lot of hard work and when I’m asked about it now, I marvel that it all came together. I felt very grateful that year.”

The way people responded to the interlocking furniture in Milan thrilled her. “When I got to Milan, it was like the perfect place for testing the furniture. People would just walk up to it and then touch it. And ask, ‘Can we sit down?’”

She smiles. “I was like, ‘Yeah. You should sit down.’ I’d explain the concept to them and we’d start by having a five-minute conversation, which would turn into an hour, and they’d start talking about their life. And that’s exactly what I wanted to achieve.”

Her success in Milan has led to a series of commissions from brands such as Adidas as well as the new studio in Peckham Levels, from where she’ll offer bespoke design. She is delighted to have a studio there as she sees it as an artistic community base. “If I need help with something, I can definitely find out who at Levels can help me with whatever I’m looking for.”

The design world is notoriously lacking when it comes to diversity, which is something Kusheda wants to challenge and change. “I was one of only two or three black people in my class at university.

And even when I was in Milan, I didn’t feel like I really belonged there,” she says. “I don’t think there were any other new young black designers exhibiting, and there were nearly 300 studios at the exhibition. So that was quite disheartening.”

Despite this, she has been encouraged by the response to some of her recent work. “Since I’ve done the Adidas commissions, I’ve had loads of people message me saying, ‘Thanks for being someone we can look up to and for opening a space in some way.’

“I’m only one of a few, and that’s why I believe mentoring is so important. I just want to get to a certain level so I can approach schools within Southwark and go in and speak to young people.

“There are some kids in school who aren’t recognised for how smart they are, because they may often act out. They can be the clever ones, but sadly just end up in really crazy situations. And I’ve seen that happen because I’ve had friends like that.”

Like many Peckhamites, she has watched the neighbourhood change over the years and the so-called gentrification of Peckham.

“Some of it is good because it does bring revenue to Peckham,” she says, “but I think ‘we’ need to be included. If new businesses are going to move into an area and take over shops that have been here for years, I feel the council has a responsibility to challenge those businesses, to offer things such as local discounts for people who have lived here for ages.” She believes Peckham Levels is a great introduction to that kind of way of working.

She is keen for Southwark Council in particular to publicise the various grants that are available for young people. “I know that they do loads of grant programmes and stuff. I just want more of that sort of thing.

“I’m in a sponsored space at Peckham Levels because I was born and raised here. I think it is so important for young people to know that they have support from local government and the council to help them in any endeavour, whether they are creatives or want to be a scientist.” 

Now she has her new studio, Kusheda is looking forward to creating bespoke collaborations with potential new clients as well as developing her own 20-piece collection that will be manufactured to order from a wide choice of finishes. She is also keen to create art specifically in Southwark.

“My dream is to be commissioned to create something in the summertime that is really sculptural and huge, with interactive shapes that people can move around as individual pieces or make bigger collective shapes,” she says.

“Hopefully families of all ages would interact with the installation, because play is important. I have a very playful side. I think anything I design is going to be quite playful.”

Follow Kusheda @ModularbyMensah on Instagram and visit modularbymensah.com.

Jumoké Fashola (@jumokefashola on Twitter) presents BBC Radio 3’s contemporary jazz show J to Z and BBC Radio London’s Sunday breakfast show Inspirit. 

jumokefashola.com

[jotawakening-blog]

11 Septober, 5A 169: A Deluge of Books

Even after yesterday’s efforts, I still haven’t gotten a satisfactory sense of the materials on offer in the Menaphos Library, so when morning comes I make my way back there and start once more to sample from the shelves when the librarians aren’t looking.  I get started on the second-highest tier this time, having checked out the one above it already.

The works here are as varied as those above, and with so many to choose from, it’s hard to pick which ones I should sample.  One that grabs my attention quickly is an old legend about Tumeken, said to date all the way back to the Second Age.  It tells of Tumeken’s contest with the wind, and how the wind tried and failed to overawe the deity by blowing the cloak of a traveller.  Tumeken, unimpressed, responded by making the sun come out, and the traveller took off his cloak voluntarily, thus proving that one can accomplish much more with kindness than with anger.  A lesson the rulers of this city seem to have forgotten, but a valuable one all the same.

I keep going around the room, and get almost to the far wall before a book title grabs my attention: ‘Embalmer’s Log’.  Having seen a bit of the embalming process back in Sophanem, my curiosity about what it might feel like to be actually performing the ceremony and preparing the dead for the afterlife compels me to take a look.  The book turns out to be an account of the embalming of a High Priest who died in mysterious circumstances: hunched over a text, reportedly mad before his death, his eyes pale as the moon.  The embalmer recounts getting to work anointing the corpse with sacred oil when it rose up, twisted into agony, breath cold as ice, before expiring for good.  Despite the embalmer’s best efforts to rationalise the incident, he says that neither he nor the Pharaoh have any rational explanation for the events, and he can’t shake the feeling that the living corpse’s torment is somehow portentous…

A shiver runs down my spine, and I take this as my cue to put the book away in my pack (the information it contains may well be valuable to Osman or Ozan, after all) and move on.  The next book I pick up, though, turns out to be just as creepy.  It recounts someone’s encounters with a preternaturally agile woman who moves along the rooftops of the city, a woman known by some as the Priestess.  An old woman has this to say about her: “The Priestess can never be tamed, and yet she visits amongst us.  Accept her gift when she chooses to share it, and do not make familiarity her cage.”  The author’s attitude toward the woman is… cryptic.  He or she takes care to make the Priestess aware of his/her presence, just for a glimpse, before moving away.  One time, the author recounts, she tried to follow, and the author led her across the city ‘to one wiser’.  One day, the author predicts, she will ‘understand, and her daughters after her.  And so the mistress who betrayed us is diminished.  I see her everywhere, and my heart is glad’.  Which… I don’t know what to make of it.  One more mystery in an entire city of mysteries, is all I can say.

The next book I come across is much more comprehensible, being the matter-of-fact diary of an ordinary labourer.  In it, he details being sent to work for the Menaphite priesthood in a forested place called Ullek, which isn’t a name I’m familiar with.  Perhaps it’s somewhere on the far eastern isles?  The text describes the priests commanding clay golems, a technology known to have been used historically in the region but which in more recent times seems to have been lost.  The priests command the group to dig at a tangle of roots in the ground, which is impervious to physical tools but eventually yields to fire, exposing a cache of runestones!  Clearly a pre-Fifth Age source, then, and one of great potential interest to historians.  All the more reason not to let the current Pharaoh decide it conflicts with the propaganda he’s spreading about his dynasty!  I take it along.

Almost back at the place where I started, I find another theological piece, this one a poem about the first meeting between Tumeken and Elidinis, at water’s edge.  It contains a number of curious details.  First, the meeting between Tumeken and Elidinis is clearly said to take place by the Elid, yet the area is described as forested and not desert.  Second, the gift with which Tumeken courts Elidinis is stated to be the Kharid-Ib, said to be a thing made of the sun, designed to nourish her life-giving dream.  Third, their courtship is said to have ended with Tumeken succumbing to slumber, at which point Elidinis’ dreams ‘turned to sand’.  The poem concludes with a couplet describing Tumeken’s awakening, to find Elidinis gone.  It is said he weeps forevermore.  A pretty poem, to be sure, even if I lack the cultural context to be able to pick apart all the layers of symbolism.

There are two more levels of bookshelves for me to explore here, yet; but I don’t have any more room left in my pack to keep smuggling stuff out.  There is a bank in Menaphos, but after thinking it over I come to the conclusion that I probably shouldn’t let on that I’ve been stealing from the royal library: I might get my diplomatic privileges revoked, or worse.  So, instead, I take advantage of the freedom I’ve been granted to come and go as I please to slip out of the city altogether and take the magic carpet from the stand just outside to Nardah, where there is a bank, via Pollnivneach.  It would seem that the carpet merchants on the route have been instructed by Ali to keep an eye out for me as thanks for having helped the trader in the whole confusing mess with the gangs in his home town, because the carpet operator over at Menaphos gives me a small bundle of lost-and-found items when I talk to him.  The bundle contains two mahogany planks, which is really random, but also more than enough coins to pay for the flight to Nardah and back!  Now that’s pretty sweet!

Once my illicit haul is safely in my bank, I fly back into Menaphos and return to the library to continue my browsing.  The collection on the third tier down is no less varied than that of the other two, and contains some acutely interesting stuff, not the least of which is a treatise that the curators of the library claim in a written preface was written by a Mahjarrat, Ptolemos, shortly before his disappearance in the early Fourth Age!  Knowing what I know of the Mahjarrat, and it’s barely scratching the surface, I’m sure, I devour the text with interest.  The subject matter is philosophical: what can change the nature of a god?  Yet the author has not just gods in general in mind, but cites one in particular to prove his points: Zamorak!  And what Ptolemos has to say on the subject of the Lord of Chaos has the air of confabulation, if not outright heresy.  He claims that Zamorak did not always have his status, but acquired it by seizing it from his erstwhile master, a divinity known as the Empty Lord.  Yet if the Empty Lord’s being was empty, Ptolemos claims, the core dogma of Zamorak, chaos, proved self-defeating in its absoluteness, and no better or more flexible than the rival ideologies of Saradomin or Armadyl (a lesser-known deity whose name I’ve heard before, though the precise context escapes me).  Thus it was that the gods’ visions for the world clashed and the God Wars began.  For nothing can change the nature of a god, yet something can change the nature of a man: belief.  Pretty profound stuff, even if it’s hard to tell what to make of the allegedly historical details Ptolemos cites.

The next text that catches my attention is equally philosophical, yet much pithier.  Whether in metaphor or in actuality, it claims that the desert sands, in the infinite multitude of their grains, are loyal and industrious devotees of Amascut, slowly eroding all they come across in accordance with the Goddess’ will.  A captivating way to describe the desert wind, at the least.

The next book I pick up is of a piece with this musing on the nature of Amascut, though without any of the studied detachment, written as it is by someone at the heart of a terrible dust storm.  The author speaks of how children are taught not to steal or lie because this will attract the malevolent sands to them. Toward the end, the author looks out into the sandstorm… and sees a malevolent, red figure in the storm’s heart, and despairs of living another day.  Intense stuff, is all I can say.

I keep going on my circuit around the library, stopping when I notice a book called ‘The Sons of the Dunes’.  Thinking it might shed a bit of light on the dust-devil-figure mentioned in the previous book, I open it, but it turns out to be just the tale of a company of desert mercenaries— a very ill-starred company, it turns out.  Caught in a sandstorm just outside of Menaphos, the scattered survivors are ambushed by bandits, leaving only one alive.  A cautionary tale of the extreme risks of the desert, to be sure.

At the very end of my circuit around the third tier, I come across the tale of a boy named Phodopis.  This boy was a manual worker in the docks, who marvelled at the riches he handled but did not dare steal any of them for fear of retribution against his family.  That is, until one day, his aching feet were preventing him from sleeping, and so he tried to sneak into a nobleman’s house to bathe them in the noble’s abundant supply of water.  Well, he got to the water, all right, but a passing eagle stole one of his sandals and flew toward the royal pyramid, at which point a great rumbling was heard from within.  Knowing what this meant, Phodopis fled and tried to go about his day as though nothing had happened.  But it didn’t work: he was apprehended and brought before the Pharaoh, who ceremonially killed him.  Huh— I’m pretty sure I’m missing something cultural here, because that didn’t make tremendously much sense.

There is one tier of the library left: a courtyard dominated by a pool of sparkling, azure water.  At the centre of the pool is an island with a sundial that looks somewhat familiar; indeed, quite like the ones I ran across when chasing after Prince Ali in the desert!  I play around with the gnomon for a bit, but nothing happens, so I go back across the little footbridge to the shelves and go back to picking out books at random to read.

The one that catches my attention first is called the ‘Poetic Mena’.  It turns out to be a heroic saga, telling of a war in the desert, a war that seems to have angered the Gods.  A war against supernatural beings?  That seems to be the implication, though it’s not clear.  The text mentions ‘shadows now Empty’ and a final march that won the war but scorched the land, which is all very mysterious.  Since nothing I’ve learned so far about Menaphite history sheds any light on these questions, I take the book with me and move on.

I keep going along the shelf, pausing when I see a book with a familiar title: ‘Klenter’s Big Book of Rhymes’.  It turns out the former High Priest was a pretty terrible poet, though, and the contents are just hackneyed doggerel after hackneyed doggerel.  Meh: I move on.

The next book I pick up turns out to be an old, official report (written by Muthirat, scribe to Pharaoh Emharses the Healthful), which speaks of the re-emergence of monsters in the desert following the ‘fall of the school of Catolax’, terrorising the area from the gates of Menaphos to a place called Senntisten.  The report outlines potential solutions, marking out the easiest— hiring mercenaries to kill the fiends— as the worst, due to the drain on the nation’s resources it implies.  A few competing uses for Menaphite gold are mentioned: trouble up at Uzer, and wars in the north.   This would place the text as… Third Age, at the latest?  Perhaps even Second Age.  Damn, if Menaphos doesn’t have one hell of a history.

The other files in this area of the library also contain reports and ephemera.  I glance over some of them, including a letter by the wife of a soldier to her husband, from the time of the war with Al-Kharid.  In it, she describes the sack of Pollnivneach by Kharidian forces and the subsequent evacuation of Nardah, and pleads with her husband to stay safe.  It’s… certainly good to be reminded occasionally that ‘the enemy’ is human as well, so I’m glad I picked this one up.

My circuit of the lowest tier of the library is nearly complete, so I grab one final book from the final shelf before heading off.  This one book turns out to be a work by a member of a dying civilisation of… spider-people?… retrieved and translated by archaeologists.  These spider people seem to have prized logic and rationality above all else, and lived in isolation from humans until a time very near their demise as a species.  She describes her own first encounter with a human— a magic-user, no less— a human who identified herself as Elidinis herself?  (I’m afraid the text is not entirely clear on this point.)  The interloper, after attacking the spider writing the account, tried to recruit her as a guide in her search for an artefact called Aragnya’s Veil— apparently an artefact of ill-renown among the spider-folk, allowing the bearer to twist fantasy into reality with flawless skill.  The author (named 0078, if it makes a difference) tries to lie to the visitor, saying that no such veil ever did exist, but the visitor sees through the lie and appeals to 0078’s pity by telling her she is a deity without followers, having lost her husband (scattered to the desert winds), her children, and her faithful.  0078 makes a seemingly reasonable suggestion: if she wants those things back, she should not use the veil, but instead start anew, with a new mate and new children.  But Elidinis rejects this suggestion: it is not what her culture permits, and besides, she is too weak now to make more children.  So 0078 continues with the story of Aragnya’s Veil, of how Aragnya wove it to disguise her own infirmity, and used it to spawn generations of defective descendants.  When the other spider-folk discovered this, they ate her children and imprisoned her where she could not get out, since they dared not touch the veil for themselves.  Her corpse remains there still, 0078 tells Elidinis, as beautiful as ever.  And that is why she cannot take her to the Veil.  Elidinis is lost in thought, thinking of her lost children, of the spider-folk’s slaughter of their defective kind.  0078 asks her why she cannot simply return to her family; she replies that she was banished, for what others thought her capable of, for how she was perceived.  Hence the quest for the veil.

Hearing of how the spider-folk trapped and killed Aragnya, Elidinis surmises that the Veil rests inside an old ant-colony to the north.  Pleased with the information she received from 0078, heals the spider’s broken legs and commands her to go back to her web and document their encounter.  She is to be spared, Elidinis tells her, when her wicked, child-killing culture is destroyed by divine lightning.  As 0078 finishes weaving her tale into her web, Elidinis arrives for her as well…

What a chilling tale, if there’s any truth to it— and it would take one hell of a storyteller to make something like that up.  Well, if it is true history, I suppose I should take it as a warning.  The Veil, with all its powers, may exist yet, somewhere around Menaphos… and if Amascut has it, the prospects are dim indeed.

By the time I lift my nose out of that last, engrossing account, night has fallen, and I make my way out of the library pyramid and back to the diplomatic quarters.  I’ve learned a lot today, that’s for sure, even if I can’t quite untangle the truth in it from the fiction, the metaphors from the facts.  But having summed up the main points, if something familiar does turn up, I’ll at least be able to cross-reference it.  And who knows— maybe eventually I’ll find the time for a thorough study of Menaphite culture to unlock the secrets that remain yet.

[paultys]

The sea has always been special to me. I was brought up on the North Wales coast, in the town of Sunny Rhyl. The sound of sea gulls was always int he air and the beach was never far away. Despite its name Rhyl is not sunny, and yet walks and fun on the beach don’t require sunshine. The vast expanse of the Irish Sea, often grey and uninviting held huge wonder for me. Even when I was young I would start out at the sea wondering what lay beneath the waves, and where I might get to if I swam in a strait line on and on. My passion really grew one week when I was fourteen years old, and I had a work experience placement in my local Sealife centre. I was hooked and I have lived and worked around the sea and marine life for most of my life.

Moving to Saint Helena has been an even more wondrous experience. Living on an Island 10 miles wide, and situated as it is in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean the Sea pervades every part of life. You can see it from almost everywhere, smell it hear it. Everything on the Island has crossed the Atlantic to get here from food to furniture.

Our first ever boat trip here. I cant believe how much the kids have grown up.

My first ever fish caught on St Helena.

Oliver fishing at Lemon Valley

Oliver loves snorkeling and definitely takes after his Mum and Dad with a love of the ocean,.

Wonderful times.

Lemon Valley fun with the first group of friend we had here. Sadly only Oliver and Charlie are left on the Island

Returning from a recent Lemon Valley Trip

Fishing at Sun rise

The latest fish I have caught on St HElena

Boat trips allow great opportunity to see and photograph the Island from a different perspective.

Right from when we first arrived on the Island we have been intimately connected to it. Bev teaches Marine Biology, our leisure time is spent in it or on it, and now my work is to study it. Our boys learnt to swim in the sea, they have snorkeled ship wrecks and swam with whale sharks and had experiences that will last a lifetime.

Olivers first snorkel to the Pappanui Wreck. A long swim for a 6 year old.

DCIM100GOPRO

DCIM100GOPRO

The Pappanui and Oliver

DCIM100GOPRO

Bev snorkeling at Lemon Valley

Not long after arriving on St Helena Bev and I learnt to dive, passing our PADI open water qualification. This opened up a whole new world to me. I’ve wanted to dive all my life, but things have considered to prevent me from doing so until we arrived here. Now, I am a Dive Master having passed my open water, advanced, rescue diver and dive master qualifications over the past two years. Being in the water feels right, I feel at home there. I love the freedom of movement the sea provides, no longer confined to a 2D surface I can move up down and in all directions, its exhilarating, and when you add in the beauty and wonder of the thousands of animals that make St Helena their home its pretty special. Where else do you see wildlife in such abundance.

Butterly fish, one of many species endemic to St Helena locally knows as Cunning Fish.

Devil Rays are frequently seen when diving int he summer.

St Helena flounder

Scrawled file fish

Sand spear

Marmalade Razor Fish

Rock Spear

Wahoo.

Wahoo

Fish in huge numbers are seen all around the Island

Not that you need to be able to dive to enjoy the amazing marine life here. One week I left my car at the garage to change the tyres. Instead of waiting at the coffee shop, or pub I went snorkeling off the Jamestown wharf, it was an amazing way to pass the time!

Not all the life that relies on the Ocean lives in it. St Helena has a wealth of birdlife that nest on the cliffs and flight out top feeding grounds each day.

Brown Booby

Masked Booby Chick. I was lucky enough to go out with the Conservation team ringing and recording the breeding of these birds.

Masked Booby

Masked Booby

Brown Noddy

Brown Noddy fishing

Stunning Tropic Bird

Tropic Bird. Tryign to photograph these things flying from a moving boat is tricky!

My favourite the Fairy Tern

These lovely little birds are very curious and will fly right up to you to have a look at you.

Some of our earliest experiences of the Marine Life here were the Humpback Whales that arrive here to calf in the Winter and Spring. These incredible animals can be seen mother and calf together in our waters. If you are lucky youll see them breaching as they hurtle their huge bodies out of the water and splash down again, seemingly just for the hell of it.

One of my first Humpback images. A composite of a whale diving as its huge tail fin disappear below the waves.

Breaching Humpback whale as we waiting on the RMS St Helena

Of course where there are Whales there are Dolphins. St Helena is blessed with three species, Bottlenosed, Rough Toothed and the magical Pan Tropical. The Pan Tropical dolphin in particular is an acrobat, leaping out of the water in shear exhilaration as it twists and turns in the air. They are found in huge pods over 300 strong.

A huge pod of dolphins jumps ouyt of the water in unison in a huge circle all around us. Apparently this is a predator escape stratagy indicating a large predatory shark was probably below us!

In recent weeks I have spent so much time at Sea as I have a new job assisting with various Marine Conservation Projects. I have traveled around the Island mapping fishing grounds, and we were lucky enough to be joined by a curious pod of dolphins. Their speed was incredible as they jumped and played on the wake of the boat even small Dolphin calves kept up with us without any bother at all..

For two and a half years I have been splashing, swimming diving and traveling on the seas of St Helena, but nothing could prepare me or beat the two weeks I have just had. Two of my best ever dives started with a night dive around James Bay was superb, and the first chance for me to test my strobes for my underwater camera. They worked a treat as I photographed Lobsters and Octopus, Stone fish and Eels.

This was followed on Saturday with a long awaited dive to Barn Ledge. A seamount that rises up from the sea floor to a height of around 12m. The dive circumnavigates the mount, dropping of the edge and down the huge underwater cliffs. I’ve never seen so many fish, parts of the dive require you to literally push through them as endemic Butterfly Fish and Bright Red Soldier fish shoal in their thousands.

But the diving was just the start, it is whale shark season again and they are here in big numbers. I have personally swam and photographed well over 50 sharks now as I have been lucky enough to become involved in a project to photograph these beautiful animals. The spots of a whale shark are like finger prints, unique to each and the work we are doing contribute to a world wide database of individual sharks to track where in the world they are spotted in an attempt to better understand their migration patterns. I am as in awe now as the first one I saw two years ago. The experience of swimming with these 10meter gentle giants will never ever leave me.

Just when you think it cant get any better it does, and St Helena gave me one of the most magical experiences of my life. As I swam with one giant of the sea, a pod of friendly Rough Toothed Dolphins decided to join us. At first I just heard clicks and squeaks but as they came closer I realised what the noise was. In an instant I knew that this was once in a life time,stuff, in fact, for many this was never in a life time as I was plunged onto the set of a David Attenborough special. They were curious but timid, coming close and taking a look at me, but never venturing closer than 6 or 7ft. One was particularly curious and followed me, keeping its distance all the while, back to the boat. We had to move on to find more Whale Sharks, but to my huge surprise the Dolphins followed us and joined us on the swim with the next Whale Shark. I’m told this is incredibly rare, although seen by divers and snorkelers it is normally in passing as the dolphins quickly swim away, to have them swim to us, watch us and spend time with us was special, really special and a day that will live long in my memory. My incredible two weeks at Sea were topped off today as Bev, the Boys and friends joined me for a swim in the bay. As fish geeks Bev and I have wanted to see a sun fish (mola mola) for many years, and today we did. Another giant of the sea these weird looking fish can reach 2m in diameter, but cruise slowly through the sea. This one was not at all bothered by our presence, even allowing us to swim right up to it to stroke it, seemingly enjoying something of a back scratch. Sadly, with an attitude of not being able to top the experiences just gone I did not have my camera with me, but as I high-fived my wife in celebration I knew once again that nothing, perhaps ever, will top the week I have had, thank you St Helena and thank you Atlantic Ocean.

The Atlantic Ocean The sea has always been special to me. I was brought up on the North Wales coast, in the town of Sunny Rhyl.