#and then the second half is very saturated for the most part especially my arts of Benrey

[zanukavat]

art summary of 2023!! a hard year for me mentally, but toward the end it luckily got much better :]

i'm honestly pretty happy with what ive done art wise despite all the trouble! 🫧 happy new year!!

[inkedtae]

rupture; rapture ⇾ kth. [M]

𝓅𝒶𝒾𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑔 ⇾ ex-boyfriend!taehyung x reader (f.)

𝑔𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝓇𝒶𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔 ⇾  one shot, angst, smut, f2l(?), e2l(?), ex lovers au, rekindled lovers(?), sculptor au, 18+

𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 ⇾  responding to a late night call for help forces you to revisit truths you so skillfully ignored. was it always meant to fall apart to fall back into place?

𝓌𝑜𝓇𝒹 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓃𝓉 ⇾ 13.2k

𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈 ⇾ slight upsetting themes, mentions of a new relationship, mentions of infidelity (tae thinks reader used him to each on her date), vague mention of consuming alcohol, switch!Taehyung, mullet!taehyung, sub!reader, unprotected sex, rough sex, clay/paint/art sex(?), hate-love sex(?), makeup sex(?), size kink, oral (f. receiving), multiple orgasms (f.), creampie, overstimulation, a lil degradation, a lil face-licking, body worshipping, clit worshipping, a lil clit biting, choking, spanking, motorboating, begging, teasing, swearing, breath play, breast play

anon asked: taehyung19angst asghjkll. U have a prompt list ? So for that. Maybe. If u want to. WOW. Ur awesome. The bestest. Okay. Bye. Love. Me.

#19 ⇝ “You said you knew how to do this.”

𝒶𝓊𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓇'𝓈 𝓃𝑜𝓉𝑒 ⇾  i am aware this is supposed to be a drabble but that never seems to be even for taehyung so here’s a one shot instead. also sorry for writing this so late 

☾ banner by ⇾ @editingverse​ (thank you so so so much dear~ please go give her all your love!! this banner is beautiful!!)

☾ beta’d by ⇾ @kkulmoon​ (luff you, my soulmate crackhead~)

☾ le playlist

◖send me a prompt from dabble drabble. i will try to get to it as soon as i can. please note that i have the right to refuse any request i find uncomfortable.◗

Navigating to the chipped yellow door is second nature. Four months of distance does not change how easy it is for you to find your way to his place from across town. Your most haunting regret, however, is accepting his call. You sat around your apartment for months, fantasizing about how powerful you’d feel when your phone rings and you see his name flash only to decline the call. You told yourself that is how you will regain your dignity, how you will reclaim your life. He’s been a big part of it since freshman year. Best friends instantly, lovers only a year down the line. Clicking that red button, rejecting his apologies is how you believed you’d be able to move on and fully erase him from your life for good.

But, in the midst of a drink with someone else’s company, he calls and you do not refuse. Your heart flips only to fall and shatter in the pit of your stomach. You press the green button without much thought and bring the phone to your ear. He sounds so unsure, so nervous. A relieved sigh you didn’t realize you were holding escapes you. Eyes watering, you whisper his name.

The shame creeps upon you, condescendingly soothing your ego. Where’s your dignity now? It’s as nonexistent as when you stormed out of this very door and swore never to return. You can hear the fates snickering, watching your pathetic self stand outside of the door. Shaking out a shiver, you gather up the scattered pieces of your courage and knock on the door.

The screech of metal on metal echoes as he unlocks the door. The sound is more comforting than you expected it to be. You can’t remember the amount of times you’ve nagged him to replace the damned thing. It’s old, rusted, and the scratches of the metal make you cringe as though your bones are rotting. It used to make your jaw ache, now it only comforts you. Little things already undress your confidence. What will seeing him again do? What emotions will it beckon?

Misery leaks from your bones and into your bloodstream. The door opens to a vision of grace. In his clay-smeared jumpsuit, the sleeves wrapped around his waist and his bare chest exposed, he stares back at you. Though frozen from the winter air, you feel your face grow hot. Eyes shaking, you don’t know where to look. You’re not even sure if you can meet his gaze. It intensifies with every ticking second his long bangs fall over his lashes. He let it grow out? You’ve begged him to do so for months and once you’re apart he finally gives in? You knew he’d look good, maybe even better than his shorter cut.

The sight only confirms that you’ll never understand him. But, you suppose, you don’t have to. He’s not yours to understand anymore, not even as a friend. That statement should give you a sense of relief, but it only resurfaces the loneliness you’ve been ignoring for months.

Shakily sighing, you plaster a polite smile and greet, “Hey Tae.”

Taehyung parts his lips, but his voice catches. He stares back at you, gaze dancing up and down your frame. He drinks in the way your black dress pants hug your curves, and how you dare to wear a tube-top under your coat in the freezing weather. Gulping, Taehyung flashes you a kind, tight lipped smile and moves aside to welcome you in. His chain looped earring dangles with his movements. It’s such a simple antic, but you cannot fight off the familiar comfort in your chest upon catching it.

Each step back into his apartment fogs your mind with memories of joy and despair alike. Sometimes, those emotions rise in tandem during the same memory, within the same five minute time span. But other times, those memories are saturated with one emotion or the other. You two could never find that balance; not as lovers anyway, not as you thought.

“Make yourself at hom-” he cuts himself off just as the door shuts.

You turn to face him, raising a brow at his slip up. Funny how things circle back no matter how much either of you try to suppress them. This place has always felt like home to you. In fact, revisiting it proves that it still does. He just never let you make it official.

The gloom of four months ago has followed you back in here as well, it would seem. You gulp down the little scratch in your throat and try your best to flash a smile. His brows raise at the gesture. You assume a teeth braced wince paints your features instead.

Clearing his throat, Taehyung corrects himself, “Comfortable. Make yourself comfortable. I’ll grab you a hot drink to warm you up.” His gaze shifts to the slanted window over his little studio sectioned in the corner of his apartment. “It’s really coming down out there.”

Setting your clutch down on his work table, you nod. He glares at your action before looking back at you. You are fully aware of his distaste for you to dump your things near his work, even if it happens to be your own sculpting supplies. However, he distrubed your date tonight and that little slip up of his recalls more anger than you care to accept right now. Playing into his pet peeves is the very least you can do to show him that you’re not here for anything else but fixing his sculpture.

With a pleasant smile plastered on your lips, you peel your jacket off and set it down on the table as well. Taehyung sarcastically smirks then makes his way to the kitchen. You know you shouldn’t but you let your eyes linger on his frame and follow him around the kitchen while he prepares something for you. His shoulder blades flex as he reaches for a mug from the top shelf - a detail you always found makes you anxious because the cups can easily slip out of his hand from such a height and break.

He must feel your gaze as he glances back at you. “You must be freezing,” he comments.

Looking down at your half top, you shrug. “Not really. That’s what a jacket is for.” You shouldn’t sass. It always gets on his nerves. But, the way he regards you with such tamed hostility and smirks all knowingly, switches something in you. You cannot hold yourself back and he cannot expect to call you over here in the dead of night for help only to glare and sneer at you.

Out of sheer spite, you sit on one of the stools by the table and bend down to untie your thick heeled boots. He absolutely hates this. Sloppy and messy, is what he tells you when you come into the apartment with your shoes on and take them off near his studio. Taehyung stirs the contents of your mug, tossing daggers at you in his stares.

It is only now, in the thick silence, do you hear the soft voice of Sinatra through the vinyl player. Glancing over at the source, you recognize the album cover immediately. It’s the same one you gifted him for his birthday last year. His next one is in a couple of weeks. The realization unexpectedly twinges your heart with guilt. You feel as though you should have already bought his gift, and planned his party. It’s not your responsibility to do that anymore, but you want to and that’s enough for your tongue to coat with disgusted remorse.

“Want me to get you a sweater?” Taehyung asks.

You sit up straight at the close sound of his voice. He stands in front of you with the mug in his hands, glaring down at your boots. Kicking them off by the heel, you stare down at the puddle you’ve made beneath the chair. You should apologize but, instead, you thank him for the drink, take it from his hands, and make your way to the project he’s been working on. He mutters curses under his breath before cleaning up the mess you’ve made… As he should.

You smirk into your cup before taking a sip. Hot chocolate. It’s all he can make, or cares to make. And though it is not your favourite drink, he still prepares it to your specifications. Extra sweet and creamy, with a dash of ginger. Could the habits of your past be muscle memory he cannot shake either?

The answer never arrives as your thoughts halt at the sight of his sculpture. Though returned back onto its pedestal, the torso seems to have endured a terrible fall. He’s so careful about things like this. How could he have let it happen? Was the inner wiring he used too heavy? Did he not use enough slip, otherwise known as wet clay, to keep additions in place?

You bite the inside of your cheeks to school your features. Still, there is no hiding the truth. Especially when it’s right in front of you. Redemption is nonexistent. The sculpture is ruined. Tilting your head, you stare at the unfinished molding and try to figure out how to fix it without adding more clay, since he claimed on the phone that he doesn’t have enough to start over.

“Well?” He asks behind you.

Looking back at him, you take another sip then hand him the cup to hold. Taehyung accepts it, bringing the mug to his lips. The gesture is so simple, so casual that you almost miss it. He did it a lot when you two were together. You did it too. It was never a pet peeve but rather something you were proud of. It proved how close you two were, how well you meshed. Sharing food is common between lovers. Only now, that’s not at all what you are.

You stare at him, mouth gape. He licks his lips before taking another sip. The action repairs your heart only for your reality to wreck it all over again. Catching your eye, he raises his brows in confusion. You flicker your gaze between him and the cup, hoping the silent gesture is enough to return his senses.

Eyes widening, he holds the cup away from his face. “Oh,” he hums under his breath. “I’ll, uh, get you a new one.”

“Don’t bother,” you shrug before he can even turn towards the kitchen. “It’s not that big a deal.”

It is. You’re not his and neither is that hot chocolate. He should know better. He should pay attention more. He can see this all in your eyes as you continue to silently judge him. It’s not that big a deal, you repeat to yourself. The way his large eyes soften, the way he pouts is not that big a deal. You have a job to do, feelings to ignore, and a person to never see again. All you have to do is remold the clay and be on your way.

Finally returning your attention to the sculpture, you approach it while pulling your hair back. It’s rather large since he scaled it to be life-sized, so you assume he has some structural wiring in there to keep it in place when molding. You might have to take it out and remold the entire section. But maybe you can simply push the wiring back in place? However, if your theory about the wiring being too heavy is correct, you might face another smash to the floor. So it seems easier to just pull it all out.

“Is the clay still wet?” You ask before poking the shoulder.

It’s tacky, but that’s not enough to keep it from drying. You scan the room for the spray bottle, finding it behind you. Being a sculptor yourself, you know that the clay has to stay wet enough to be able to continue to add and mold it. Your scan of the room reflects that he is close to finishing the project. He has the muse’s head and arms wrapped in air-tight bags to keep them from drying. They just need to be slipped, slid, and smoothed into place. The details also need to be added, but for the most part, he’s just about done.

“If you’re gonna figure it out yourself, why did you ask me?” He sighs as he sets the mug down near a cup of paint water.

His tone is uncalled for. Nothing seems to have changed. He still has a temper and makes no effort to readjust his attitude. You toss him a glare over your shoulder. After spraying some water over the sculpture, you start to dig your fingers into the molding. Taehyung sucks in a sharp breath behind you. You can’t blame him for such a reaction. It must be very disturbing to watch someone else dig through your hard work.

You take off the clay bit by bit, looking for the metal structure wires he must’ve used to keep it all shaped well. However, as you place another chunk on the table, you begin to realize that the sculpture is not hollow, meaning wires have not been used. He simply ventilated the slab of clay to help air bubbles escape when it comes time to fire it.

Furrowing your brows, you look over at him in confusion. He leans back against his work table with his arms crossed over his chest, staring at you. Is this a joke? He doesn’t need your help. He could’ve dug through the smushed clay and remorphed it himself. He’s more experienced than you are; he should’ve known this.

Your anger begins to fester in your chest. He must’ve heard. You still share some mutual friends, so he must’ve heard down the line that you were going out with somebody else tonight. Your outfit of choice is a clear indicator as well. He found out about your date, your first date in the last four months you’ve been broken up, and just needed to ruin it for you. Fuck, you can’t believe you seriously bought his lies again. It’s that stupid voice of his. So deep and soulful, you can never resist it’s lulling temptations.

“What?” Taehyung pushes himself off the table and walks towards you. “You’re pouting like you always do just before you’re about to shout. Is it that bad?”

Is that what he’s doing now? He’s trying to remind you how well he knows you, how well he can read you? If this is just another reminder that no one is like him, you just might prove him right and scream out of frustration. Huffing, you roll your eyes at him. No matter how much your heart flips and flutters at his concern, you will not fall for his stupid games.

He watches in confusion as you clean your hands off with a cloth. “God, (Y/N), what is it? I thought you said you knew how to do this.”

With a dry chuckle, you shake your head and mumble, “You’re still the same liar you’ve always been, Taehyung.”

The perplexed sculptor narrows his eyes. “What did I tell you about mumbling?” He questions in a grumble. “And what the hell are you going on about anyways?”

His tendency to be a walking contradiction will never cease to irk you. He tells you not to mumble then does it himself. Just another pet peeve he’s instilled in you that you can never shake. Then there’s the continuous lies he can never seem to stop telling. For once, why can’t he just be honest?

You toss the dirty cloth at him and make your way to his precious work table only to find that he moved your things to the chair by the door. You rush in that direction instead, and Taehyung follows not too far behind. “I can’t believe you’re still pulling this shit even when it’s over,” you scoff with a shake of your head. “You made it seem like you had no idea what to do. You guilted me into coming back here and for what? To ruin the first night I stopped thinking about you? Well, congratulations,” you drily chuckle as you grab your clutch and turn to face him. “You’ve ruined my night and my date.”

Taehyung pauses mid stride. “Oh,” he rasps, eyes roaming over your body once more. “You had a date tonight?”

Eyes wide, softened, and wet, his next words catch in his throat. All you can make out is a quiet rasp. It’s a convincing act, but you know him well enough to spot his feigned innocence from a mile away. Setting your jaw, you shake your head and sigh, “Not any more.”

You reach for your jacket, but Taehyung is quicker. He snatches it first and holds it behind him. You open your mouth to curse at him when he rushes to say, “Wait, wait.” Hand on your waist, he holds you still.

You freeze under his palm. He’s barely used much force. It’s the simple touch itself that sends you into a trance. The memories of being pinned beneath him, or guided into grinding against his hips rush back to you. Breath hitching, you try to wipe the affection from your features. The searching look in his eyes tells you how bad of a job you’re doing.

“I could fix it myself, but not by myself,” he clarifies. “I just didn’t know how to get you here without making it seem like it’s a complete disaster. Be honest, (Y/N), if I told you I wanted you to sculpt with me you wouldn’t have shown up.”

Be honest. When the fuck have you ever lied to him? The question is tempting to ask, sitting right on the tip of your tongue actually, but you can already tell that you’ve made your annoyance known as concern swims in his eyes. He’s trying to find where he went wrong in his explanation. He’s never done that before. He never notices your discomfort during a fight, but always after the fact. That’s enough to have you consider his explanation, to consider the fact that maybe he has not changed completely, but he’s trying. Perhaps you should start trying too.

Besides, he’s not wrong. If he didn’t make it seem like it was irreversible, you wouldn’t have accepted the invitation over or even thought about ditching your date. Chewing on your lip, you sigh and nod. “Fine, I’ll help you fix it.”

A relieved smile plays on his lips. He removes his hand from your waist, muttering a quiet apology then returns your jacket onto the chair. You set your clutch down on there as well, nowhere near his work, and follow him back to the sculpture. He sprays it down as you take another couple of sips from your hot chocolate.

“When is this due?” You ask as you set the mug down.

Taehyung’s gaze shakes. “At nine,” he reluctantly replies. He sets the spray bottle down. You stare at him in confusion.

The time is both seemingly vague and specific. You furrow your brows, blinking rapidly in hopes that you can reprocess the information for more clarity. When that doesn’t work, you ask, “Tonight?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

Thirteen hours? That’s all you two have to remold and detail a life-sized sculpture. This information alone would’ve had you running to help as well. Why didn’t he just tell you this? Why did he have to lie? No, nevermind his lies. You both have thirteen hours to remold the base, attach the head and arms, and add all the details on all four pieces. It may seem like a lot of time but you also have to let the clay sit for a few hours before firing. However, with a sculpture this large, it might need at least three days to dry. How did he expect to finish the rest on his own?

Nothing is adding up. You know Taehyung very well. You’ve shared sculpting classes countless times. His work comes first; always. He sketches and prepares months in advance for a project since the clay can crack or explode during its bake. How could he not have done the same thing here? He should’ve started this at least four months ago… oh.

Taehyung spares you a nervous glance. He can see the realization of his own reality in your eyes. You swallow thickly, knowing you should just pretend that you haven’t noticed anything. Still, you say, “Tae, we both know that’s not enough time. Even if we split the work, it still needs-”

“Don’t worry about that,” he mumbles. His hands smooth over every chunk of clay he reapplies. “Let’s just piece it all together, okay?”

There is a lot you have to force yourself to ignore in his words and tone. He mumbles orders, and expects you to follow. His voice is deep and cold. He gives you his back while he speaks. It’s but another pet peeve of his that makes you want to pull your own hair out. However, most of all, you have to force yourself to ignore how painful it is. Seeing him again, only an arm’s length away, crumbles your anger and hearing his voice reminds you that he still holds every bit of your heart. You have to blink your tears back at the realization. This idea reeked the moment you considered it. But, you can never stop yourself when it comes to him. A year of friendship and two of love; how can you forget all of that in four months?

Taehyung turns to you, his eyes trailing up from your hips to your chest where they linger. Flickering his gaze back up to yours, he offers a tight-lipped smile. You fail to find it in you to return it. He sighs. Hands by his side, voice heavy with sincerity, he says, “I won’t force you to stay, babe- (Y/N).” His slip up has him frozen in place as well. Clearing his throat, he continues, “I need to get this done and you’re the only other person I know who knows how I like it.”

The familiar pet name gives you pause, but the end of that sentence has you hot all over. Your eyes widen at the alternate implication of his words and you can’t help but choke on your next intake of air.

Taehyung’s expression mirrors yours. Face reddening, he’s quick to correct himself. “No, no, I just mean artistically.”

You cannot find the words to say something, anything to make this situation better. Lips parted, all you can voice are quiet croaks of uncertainty. His large eyes, wide with anxiety, watch you carefully. He’s clearly unsure of how else to soothe your discomfort. He goes to say something else but the words fall short. The scene has your skin crawling with shivers. Shaking your head, you walk around him to smooth out the clay he remolded.

“I’ll fix her waist. I think you should get started on the details,” you say, hoping his words can just fizzle away along with the awkward silence that has fallen over the both of you.

Taehyung takes a deep breath. His eyes remain trained on you for a moment, watching as you match the sculpture’s left side to her right. Then, he circles around you and makes his way to his work table.

Though you should be focused on your work, you still have one eye on Taehyung. The jumpsuit sits low on his hips, and his back is bare of any scratches. Your lasting desire to mark up the blank canvas of his back tightens your core. You can feel your black pants dampening at the thought alone. Your hand gently presses into the mold, smoothing out every piece you add.

With Sinatra’s calm voice circling around the room, you and Taehyung fall into a comfortable silence. The rhythm of your actions, the way you move around each other is like muscle memory. You can subconsciously anticipate the other’s next move and react accordingly. He hands you tools before you need to ask and you accept them without a second thought. It’s easy, comfortable, and so familiar that you almost forget he ruined your plans tonight.

Taking a step back, you wipe your wrist over your brow then assess your work. You’ve been trying to sculpt one of the figure’s breasts, adding clay and rounding out the mold. However, it seems like you’ve undershot a bit and made one mound a bit smaller than the other. You sigh and reach for more clay when Taehyung interjects.

“Leave it,” he says from his place beside you.

When did he step back too? He was just detailing one of the sculpture’s hands. “They’re uneven,” you point.

He smirks. “I like them that way.”

His eyes flicker to your chest again before meeting your gaze once more. You shouldn’t look into that gesture too much, but you do. He can’t say something like that, stare at your breasts suggestively and think you wouldn’t notice. Unless, he wants you to notice. You start to wonder how often he’s thought about your breasts and why he feels the need to incorporate them into his project.

While you remain standing in your place, Taehyung returns to his crouched position and continues his work. You can’t bring yourself to move just yet. You stare at the sculpture, at the curve of her stomach and dip of her waist. She’s full-figured and even has stretch marks on her hips, well the side that has not met the floor still has stretch marks. You need to add them on the other side. But, the shape of her body just looks all too familiar.

No, no, it can’t be. He didn’t sculpt your naked body entirely from memory. And why should he? You’re not a couple and he’s made it clear during those four months of silence that he doesn’t want anything to do with you either. No, this is merely just some consequence. You sigh and get back to work. Those thoughts completely boarded shut out of your mind.

“Were you having fun?” He suddenly asks, standing up to start detailing the sculpture’s breasts.

You glance up at him, about to ask what he means when you remember the date. “Oh,” you hum. You’re not sure how much to tell him, or if you should even entertain him with an answer at all. He’s obviously still affected by the break up if he let it get in the way of his project timeline. What was your date’s name anyway? Morgan, Mac, Mark- Mark! Yes, it was Mark something or maybe something Mark. Fuck, you can’t even remember his name. You’re not even sure where you met up for drinks.

Taehyung pauses his sculpting around the figure’s nipple. He chances a quick look at you, raising a brow. “That bad?” He teases with a playful smile.

His light-hearted tone shocks you out of your thoughts. Maybe you read the situation wrong. Maybe he is over you. Otherwise, why would he ask you about your date so casually, like you two were friends? Or maybe… he’s seeing someone else himself? Sumni did ask for your permission to date him. She was so kind and understanding in her questioning that you couldn’t refuse her. Even if it was a week ago, she would have already talked to him by now and they could’ve already gone on their own date. The sheer thought of Taehyung dating around makes your throat tighten and stomach ache.

“I didn’t stay long enough to make up my mind,” you reply, trying your best not to mumble. Your voice is small though, and tone shot by misery. A wave of hopelessness washes over you at how final everything between you and him feels again. “I don’t think he’s for me though.”

Taehyung hums in acknowledgment or understanding? You don’t know. You can’t pull yourself out of your self pity long enough to decipher it. “Poor guy,” he mutters as he picks up where he left off on the sculpture’s breast.

You carve uneven lines on the figure’s hips, recreating some stretch marks like he had done to the other side. Raising your brows, you question, “What is that supposed to mean?”

He shrugs a single shoulder. “I just know what it’s like to lose someone as great as you,” he explains in a near whisper. “The poor guy is gonna lose his mind.”

Tears sting your eyes. He can’t do this. He can’t guilt you for leaving him, not when you both know that it’s just as much his fault as it is yours. Still, even in the midst of pain, the kindness laced in his words tugs the corners of your lips into a small smile. Is that what happened to him? Did this poor guy, this poor little sculptor lose his mind when he lost you?

You toss him a sidelong glance, whispering, “He’ll survive.”

“He can only pray to.”

What is this? What is he trying to say? So he regrets the way that things ended, perhaps even that they ended entirely. Does he think you don’t? Nothing can change how you feel for him. Nothing can hide how badly you wish you can still call him your own. But, he said it himself. He does not want you around, in such close proximity to him anymore. Two years into, what you thought was, a serious relationship and he does not want you living with him.

“I’ll grow tired of us,” he said. Or does he not remember? Did he forget how he promised he’d get you a key, or help you pack? Did he forget how high he got your hopes? Has the fear of getting bored of your company finally withered away?

What does it even matter now? You both said things you haven’t even attempted to take back. Not a single apology has been issued either. Whatever relationship you once had is gone. You can never get it back. Still, you don’t have the stomach to break it to him. You can’t destroy the last little bit of hope he has in you. You can’t find it in you to tell him that no amount of prayer will get you to willingly return to such a relationship.

“He hasn’t been in my company for too long to miss me. Actually, I’m worried he’s already grown tired of it,” you reply. Guilt immediately sheds your pettiness. You know you shouldn’t have said that. Though, he did egg you on. How could he have expected to bring up such a subject and think that you wouldn’t retaliate?

Taehyung tenses and shifts his jaw, giving the impression that he’s chewing gum, and turns to glare at you. From experience alone, you know very well that when Taehyung chews on his imaginary piece of gum, he’s either cocky, pissed or both. This time he has tears glassing over his eyes. Shame cringes your heart. You can’t bring yourself to look at him again. Getting even does not feel as dignifying as you thought it would. You cannot even find a shred of pleasure in seeing him so speechless.

Parting your lips, you try to soothe the sting of your words, only they all fall short. Every time you try to recollect them, they wither away. It’s almost like your mind is warning you from worsening the situation. But the silence is deafening. Sinatra's voice cannot even fill it. His disappointment is too loud; the shattering of his heart like an explosion. And your pain can never shut up. All you can hear is how miserable your soul is and how depressed your heart becomes upon every glance his way. It’s the soft look in his eyes, even when he’s glaring, and the little scrunch of his nose.

With a deep breath, you turn back to the sculpture to keep your hands busy. As you use the pad of your pinkie to smoothen out the stretch mark lines you’ve carved, you say, “We had a drink. That’s as far as we got.”

Taehyung clears his throat. His hands pick up where they left off around the nipple. “Had I known you were out, I wouldn’t have called,” he sighs.

You try not to scoff, particularly because he sounds surprisingly sincere. Sneaking a glance up at him from your squatting position on the floor, you try to search for his usual tell-tale signs. He always blinks one too many times in the same two minute span when he’s lying, that’s if he’ll even meet your gaze. He’s already looking at you when you begin to search his features. He holds your stare and you start to worry that you wrongfully cursed him before when you were convinced that he knew.

“You really didn’t know?”

He shakes his head. “Why would anyone tell me you’re going on a date?”

“Why wouldn’t they?”

“Would you want to hear that I have been on one?”

“Have you?”

Internally cringing, you snap your attention back on the sculpture. The question simply slipped out. He must know that. Of course you’re curious about his love life since you’ve left it, but you don’t need him to know that. And even if he was prying into your date tonight, you still don’t feel comfortable with him knowing that you’ve been wondering about him too, worrying that he’s found the love of his life and forgotten all about you.

Taehyung chuckles. “Do you really want to know?”

Three? Four? Five? How many dates did he have to go on to be able to ask such a question? You hold your breath the moment you feel your next intake waver. Running your tongue between the gaps of your teeth, you stand up and begin detailing the left breast.

“I’m not going to beg you,” you grumble under your breath while sculpting the nipple. Your eyes shift from the one you're working on to the one he perfected, making sure they’re at least even.

“Never had a problem with that before.”

He does not mutter it. He does not whisper it. He chuckles through the statement, cockiness dripping from his tone. Shooting him a glare, you find his jaw moving, the imaginary gum returning. Taehyung smirks at you, eyes dancing over your features like he’s figured you all out.

You raise your brows at him, lips slightly parted by a little smile. “Once again, Taehyung, your memory has miserably failed you,” you start only to widen his grin.

“How so?”

“You’ve been on your knees far more times than I’ve been on mine. You’ve whined louder too.”

He leans in, wrist against his stomach as he lets out a hearty laugh. You feel a rush of your arousal pool at your core just from the simple sound. Face growing hot, you realize how much you’ve missed this, missed him. He always laughed with his whole body, clutching onto you when clutching on his stomach never granted him any stability. Sometimes he’d brace his teeth in a boxy smile and let out his deep chuckles that way. So endearing, so cute, Taehyung would always loop you in his laughing fit as well.

Biting on the sides of your cheeks, you keep yourself from joining in this time. “Why is that so funny?”

Taehyung shakes his head at you as his laughter dies down. With a smile still gracing his features, he replies, “You’re always begging for me. Oh, I remember once you were on the table and you won’t let go of me and until I, and I quote, ‘rammed into you with the force of a thousand waterfalls.’”

Shit. You remember that day all too clearly. Taehyung had been painting and you were somewhere in the kitchen sketching his hands from a distance since he would always tease you about that. Somehow you found out he’d been painting you nude from memory and wanted to help him out. You began stripping for him, inching closer with every piece of clothing you shed. He watched you draw closer to him, and there was something about the way his eyes drank you in that you could not shake. It just made you giddy all over, dripping for his love by the time you were fully naked and within his reach. You were so horny, you said anything to make sure he ruined you.

Avoiding his eye, you reluctantly reply, “I do not recall.”

That statement tips him off immediately. His endearing innocence darkens; you don’t even need to look over to witness it happen. You can feel it. You can feel his demeanour change. Taehyung sets whatever tool he’s using down and towers over you. Stilling in place, you let him graze the bridge of his nose in your hair.

“Do you want me to remind you,” he whispers before pressing his lips to your ear, adding, “my muse?”

Knees all but trembling, you have to remind yourself to keep your eyes open. His warm breath fans over your skin, prickling goosebumps all over. His fingertips brush up the length of your spine, streaking your back with clay and leaving a chain of shiver in their wake. Then there’s that little pet name. Your soul shudders to hear it again while your core waters.

What does he even mean? How far is he willing to go to remind you how badly you wanted him?

Breath shaky, you gingerly meet his gaze. Noses brushing, you try to ignore how good he smells. His scent is always a cross between chalky clay and citrusy cherries. A whine threatens to slip out and you have to swallow thickly just to silence it. “You can try,” you whisper only to feel his hands on your hips.

The grey clay stains the hem of your black pants and a majority of your skin. Taehyung turns you towards him then presses himself against you. His semi-hard rubs against your stomach, making him groan. Seems like he’s falling apart faster than you are. Did he miss this too? Miss the way you smell, the way it feels to be near you again?

You rest your arms on his shoulders and he guides you around and back to his work table. It’s almost like a little dance, with the quiet music still playing in the background. Faces only a breath apart, the temptation to kiss him only grows. But giving in would only prove him right. After so many months, you cannot grant him this victory of being right, especially since he was the one in the wrong when you left.

When the back of your thighs meet the edge of the table, Taehyung shifts his hands down to your ass, gripping tightly and he lifts you up against him and onto the table. You have to choke back a moan just from the rough grip. Your lips brush against each other’s, but neither one of you is willing to bite the bullet first.

“Any of this familiar yet?” Taehyung asks. His voice is almost an octave deeper, saturated in lust and desire.

Smirking, you shake your head.

Taehyung tongues his cheek and cocks a brow. He leans back a bit, hands circling around your waist to rest on your thick thighs. His cocky grin widens as he pushes them further apart. One of his hands shifts up to your crotch, thumb grazing the seams. Face lighting up, Taehyung glances down at your crotch and brushes over it once more.

“No panites?” He questions with a chuckle. “This is looking more and more like that night then I thought it would.”

The confidence he oozes should annoy you, but you find yourself only spreading your legs further for him. Whenever he’s acting this egotistic, you cannot help but respond to it by giving yourself to him. This is a fact he knows well and uses to his advantage any time he’s ever felt like it.

You try to keep your wits about you, saying, “I wouldn’t know.”

Taehyung suddenly leans in. Your breath hitches at the realization that he’s swallowing his pride, that he’s finally going to kiss you. You’ve been dreaming about his lips for months, wondering how you’d be able to find someone else who just fits ever so perfectly against your lips. Eyes fluttering closed, lips in a faint pucker, you’ve inhaled deeply only to have him kiss your chin. He chuckles quietly against your skin, licking his way to your jawline all while leaving you breathless.

“You’re about to,” he growls.

As your body is in the midst of reacting, he somehow digs his nails into the seams of your pants and tears them apart. You gasp, shifting your hands from his shoulder to the edge of the table. You cannot help but stare down at the tear in amazement. Questions on how and why die in your throat when you find that Taehyung’s attention is not even on you anymore. He’s tightening his grip on your thighs and gazes down at your pussy. It pulses under his gaze, much to his own amazement.  

Squatting down, he licks his lips at this new angle. “Well, fuck,” he whispers. “How long have you needed me?”

Four months, you wish you had the courage to say. Instead you breathlessly reply, “I’m not sure this is what happened that night.”

“How would you know? I thought you didn’t remember.”

He’s only teasing but his tone is accusatory. You already know it’s because you’ve refused to answer his previous question. And your decision to talk back only adds to his shift in demeanour.  Once cheeky, his features darken into something closer to vexation. You’ve pushed the wrong buttons it would seem.

Narrowing his eyes, he orders, “Tell me, my muse. Tell me how long you’ve been needing me.”

You suck in a sharp breath. Pressing your lips together in a fine line, you refuse to make another sound, let alone utter another word. You’ll be damned if you have to admit that you regret walking away, that you cannot even remember the details of your date because all you could think about was everything he would do differently. Having to admit that for the last four months all you’ve been able to do is touch yourself to the thought of him or cry wouldn’t just be motifying but shameful and pathetic.

With a slow nod, Taehyung sighs. You think this is it. He’s ripped your pants apart, looked at every inch of your barest part, and teased you all for nothing. You’d maybe ask to borrow some pants, and he might give you some. But, other than that, nothing would’ve come from this interaction. The flirty comments and knowing looks would disappear with your relationship, this you feel you are sure of.

Then, he plays against your expectations; something you should have expected. Just when you’re about to bring your legs together, Taehyung spreads them apart further and shoves his face between them. He cannot use his hands there since they are covered in clay and, it seems, he also refuses to use his tongue. You cannot hold back the moans that pour out of you with every ministration. Merely smearing his face into your heat, Taehyung teases your clit. The bridge of his nose trails between your folds, lips pressing wet kisses to your tightening hole. From left to right, he shakes his face against your pussy.

You buck your hips against his lips, lacking shame and restraint. “Tae,” you moan, voice breaking.

Taehyung pulls away. Heaving and eyes half-lidded, he smirks up at you. He’s drenched in your arousal, looking like the cat who got the cream. “How long?” He mewls.

“Gimme your tongue,” you whine.

Taehyung mockly pouts up at you. He always looks prettiest on his knees, pretending to be in charge from such a degrading position. “Would you tell me then, babe?”

Your hips inadvertently roll at the pet name. You love it when he babies you like that, when he makes you feel so precious and fragile even though you both know you can rule over anything you want. Hesitantly, you nod. He raises a brow, waiting for verbal confirmation that you’ll tell him once he gives you his tongue.

With a little shrug of a single shoulder, you reply, “Why don’t you give it a try, TaeTae.”

His left eye twitches. You know exactly how that name affects him. His anger and powerful demeanor tremble when you dwell on him like that. He doesn’t need to tell you that he’s suddenly yours to overtake; his large eyes do the trick.

Swiping his tongue over his lips, Taehyung cleans his mouth from you. One little taste and his pupils expand, blown by lust and hunger. You don’t have to waste anymore time convincing him that you’d answer his question if he goes down on you. Your taste seems to be enough of a factor, in itself. He dips his head back in, tongue out this time. The tip pushes through your hole, lapping up your pooling juices. Leaning back on your hands, you gasp a loud moan. He knows his way around so well. One flick up, and your toes are curling. No amount of time apart has disturbed his memory of you. This may have been something you noticed while sculpting but now you can feel it. Tongue in and out, warm and wet, Taehyung explores your pussy like it’s his first time, only he knows everything about it.

You want to tangle your fingers in his hair, to see how the long strands feel in your hand, but they’re covered in clay too. And you know from experience just how hard it is to get clay out of hair. Once it completely dries, it almost seems like the only other option is to cut it all out. So, instead, you just dig your nails into the table, engraving your presence in the wood.

Rolling your hips into his face, you cry out your pleasure. Your legs are shaking, squeezing around his face, but he can’t seem to care any less. In fact, judging by his groans and growls, he seems to love the suffocation. He even pushes your legs further against his cheeks. Freezing in place, Taehyung only allows his tongue to continue to swirl around your pussy. His fingers harshly press into your thighs, sure to leave bruises, but you don’t care. Having him mark you up just like when you were together, is enough to make your eyes roll back.

You’re so, so close. Pussy clenching, his tongue still pushes its way in. He’s determined to see you through, to have you unfold right in his hands so hard that he still won’t breathe. And though you start to worry a bit, you cannot really pay attention to anything else besides the pleasure.

“Oh, Tae,” you cry. Voice breathy and high-pitched, it’s only a matter of time before-

It hits you hard, fast, and completely off guard. You have felt it growing and knotting in the pit of your stomach, but have no idea it would rush at you this harshly that you completely fall back on the table. Body convulsing, you scream and cream all over his tongue, mouth, and chin. His entire face will smell like you for days.

Taehyung forces your tightening legs apart, gasping for air. Gazing up at you, he sticks his tongue out and against your clit. He’s determined to help you ride out your high and nods his head up and down. You watch him through blurry vision, shamelessly rocking your hips up to meet him halfway. Or, at least you try to. Soon, you become all too sensitive to even hold his gaze, let alone grind against his tongue.

You fight against his hold on your legs, whining loudly. “Okay, okay,” you gasp as you try to seat yourself up.

He doesn’t care. That once yielding look in his eyes flashes into a demanding one. Seeing you so helpless under him shocks him with power once again. “One more time,” he pants against your heat.

“TaeTae,” you mewl, attempting to manipulate your way out of this overstimulated feast.

However, the use of the name this time, only spurs him on. He knows what you’re trying to do and doesn’t at all find it amusing. This time when he repeats his words, he growls, “One more time!”

Lips suctioning around your clit, he harshly sucks. Slurping and swallowing everything you have to offer, Taehyung holds your gaze. You’re a trembling mess. Tears falling freely down your face, you curse him three times over and buck your hips against his mouth. He finds the entire sight so humorous, he can’t help but smirk.

You’re still his little toy, a play thing for him to fool around with and test out some kinks on. The realization should make you curse him again and again, but you can only play into it. Pouting and mewling, you’ve fully sold yourself out just so Taehyung is well fed with your juices.

This is the peak of his games, you think. This is as far as he will go and you expect that you’ll cum in another minute or so. But then his teeth graze your clit once, twice, three times. You come undone within seconds. Arching your back, you let out the neediest cry you’ve ever heard and pathetically cum against his chin. The shudders and shivers of your body are beyond your control, as is your broken voice and any lasting grip you thought you had on reality.

As if biting and sucking your clit isn’t mindbreaking enough, Taehyung dips his tongue back in you to sneak another taste. “Taehyung, please,” you beg. “Please!”

He finally lets up, removing his face from your sopping heat and releasing his hold on your legs. You instantly bring them together and hug them into your chest. Heaving and shedding your last few tears, you try to recompose yourself and the silent atmosphere you once shared while sculpting.

“Strange,” he starts, returning to his feet. He takes his hands in yours, slowly unwrapping the hug you’ve cocooned yourself in. “It sounds a lot like that night. But, that’s not at all what I was doing then to make you this needy.”

To anyone else, you would've looked fucked out and completely ruined. But Taehyung knows that’s not at all the case. He has tested your stamina enough to know that you can most likely go for another round or two. Pulling your legs apart, he stands between them then helps sit you back up.

Faces inches away, you exchange breaths. “How long have you been this needy, my muse?” He asks again.

He really does smell like you. His cheeks, nose, chin, and lips are smeared with your cum. It doesn’t even look like he was feasting. It almost looks like he just wanted to cover his face with your juices. Gulping, you consider his question. You did insinuate that you’d answer the question if he gave you his tongue. And, holy fuck, did he give it to you. However, an insinuation is not a promise. He made that clear during your last argument.

“I don’t remember promising anything,” you whisper in a light pant.

The pain in his eyes cannot be neither mistaken nor missed. Echoing his words all these months later, surely recalls suppressed emotions of misery and betrayal for the both of you. He sneers a smirk, glaring at your lips. “Your memory has failed you,” he hisses. Gripping onto your hips, marking you there with bruises as well, he adds, “But, I won’t.”

“Not again, anyway.”

You sound colder than he does which causes him to hesitate for a moment. His hands fall by his sides as he searches your face for some sort of confirmation to continue. He almost seems like he’s not sure if he really wants to pick up where he left off too, seeing that you’re still upset with him. The guilt of seeing him so fragile and wounded eats away the majority of your anger. But, if he thinks he’s the only one struggling to make sense of this break up, he’s wrong.

Right now, the only way you can think of showing that to him is by first displaying your eagerness to continue in this sexual stroll down memory lane. You lean forward, brushing the tip of your nose against his, and reach down to his crotch. The dent in his jumpsuit throbs in your hand. His hard cock all but pulses under your palm as you rub at it. His breath hitches. You then untie the sleeves of his jumpsuit and watch carefully as his cock comes back into view. Fuck, you’ve forgotten just how pretty it is when it’s all pink tipped and desperate to be pumped. He shifts a bit, you assume to step out of the jumpsuit, and resettles his hands back on your waist.

Not another moment of uncertainty stands between you anymore. Swallowing his pride, Taehyung kisses you first. Lips on lips, the taste of yourself on his tongue has you moaning already. He  seems to take this as a sign to let himself go as well. He pulls you closer to the edge of the table and rolls his hips into yours. The length of his dick rubs between your folds, but he doesn’t enter. Not yet. He simply teases the idea of entering, of ruining you.

But, you’re too overstimulated to enjoy it in its entirety. Your legs resume their little shudders at the tiniest bit of friction when his cock just happens to brush against your clit. Taehyung, upon noticing this, makes sure to touch it with every new grind against you. He smirks when you whimper into his mouth and chuckles a bit when you break the kiss to whine his name.

“What is it, baby,” he coos. He grounds his hips harder into yours, erupting moans from the both of you. “Ah, shit, I could just cum like this,” he hisses as his mouth hovers over yours.

A little smirk tugs on your lips at his words. Yes, you may be helplessly falling apart with every passing second. However, watching him come undone from the impression of your pussy against his cock, is a rather prideful moment. You tilt your head and begin peppering his chin and cheeks with open mouthed kisses, staining his face with your saliva now as well as your cum.

“Then, just cum, TaeTae,” you whine.

Perhaps if you didn’t sound so desperate, he probably would’ve switched back into his own submissive state. But, it’s the squeal in your voice and mischief in your tone that only drives him further down his power trip. He pulls away a bit, holding your horny gaze with an unimpressed one of his own. He realigns his hips as his jaw shifts. He’s pretending to chew gum again. Holy shit, he’s going to fuck you senseless.

He does not push into you though. Instead, he pulls you onto him by the deadly grip he has on your hips. You stare up at him as a loud cry escapes you with every inch that stretches your walls. Taehyung looks back with very little remorse in his eyes. The sight of you so small in his arms, whipped for his cock, makes his tip twitch a bit. But he is not immune to the action of entering you, sucking in a sharp breath.

“I can’t believe I forgot how tight you were,” he whispers, voice breaking.

And you thought you could never forget how big he is, but here you are. Eyes rolling back, you relish in his size like it the first time. “Big,” you mewl as he bottoms out. “Tae, you’re so big.”  You sound just as broken as he does.

He cannot even find it in him to be cocky about it. He hears the realization in your voice. He knows you’ve forgotten too. A flash of pain twinkles in his eyes. You wrap your arms around his shoulders and whisper. “Remind me, Taehyung.” His brows quirk up and you add, “Remind me how good you make me feel. And I’ll remind you the same.”

Taehyung presses a gentle kiss on your forehead. Then, his hips snap in action. Holding you close, he starts hard and fast. He’s naked and growling into your ear with every thrust. You’re clothed and whining with every rumble of his chest and jerk of his hips. You didn’t even have to beg to bring out such a feral side of him. Could it be that he’s looking for the same thing you are? A lost lover?

Clay smeared fingers pressing into his skin, you push away that thought and scratch at his back. That once blank canvas of muscle and skin will now be lined with your lov- lust. This is just lust. You have to remind yourself of this fact every time he pushes into you.

He quietly hisses with each streak until he pauses his thrusts. You pout, leaning back a bit to ask if anything is wrong. But before you can even part your lips, Taehyung is readjusting his grip from your hips to your tube top.

“You’re a fucking slut to dress like this for him,” he growls. Then, in one swift motion, he pulls it down. You gasp as your breasts spill out, not out of exposure, but simply shock. He grips onto the rolled down top and smirks. “They’re a little uneven,” he points out. “But, I like that about them. Does he too? Does he get to see you like this, slut?”

You’ve got it wrong. It’s not your use of his nickname that has sent him spiralling into a pit of dominance, but rather that you went out to see another man. Is that why he ripped your pants apart? He’s destroying the outfit he thinks you wore for somebody else. Not only that, but his words only confirm that he is indeed sculpting you. All from memory, Taehyung has been molding your naked body down to the precise imperfection of your slightly uneven breasts.

And while you’re still trying to make sense of it all, he slaps one of them causing you to moan and throw your head back. Taehyung grabs a hold of your chin and drags your head back down to meet his gaze. “Answer me,” he seethes. “How much of you does he have?”

“None!” You shout. Your breathing is uneven, and you have to swallow the lump in your throat to continue, “I don’t even remember his name; he’s irrelevant.”

Taehyung circles his hips around yours, clearly pleased with your reply. But he does not pick up where he left off. “You haven’t been able to remember a lot tonight. Is that all irrelevant to you too?”

The shake of your head is reactive. You barely even had to think about it. This act of pretending that you don’t feel anything for him anymore has clearly fallen. “That’s not it, Taehyung,” you whine, hooking a leg around his waist. He wipes the tears streaming down your face as you continue, “I just didn’t want to remember us.”

Licking his lips, Taehyung slowly pulls out and eases himself back in. You tremble, watery eyes twitching in bliss. “Tell me how long you’ve been needy, baby,” he whispers.

“Have I not said enough already?”

You clutch onto his biceps and buck your hips up to meet his. He gasps, unable to hide his smile. You can tell he wants to finish this conversation but, with the way your walls are tightening around him, he doesn’t seem like he’s able to. One look in his eyes and you can tell he’s consumed by the pleasure all too much to reply.

Taehyung lets one hand fall to his side when he starts to pick up his pace. You shift one of your hands to his shoulders while the other holds onto the table’s edge. He holds you by the grip he has on your rolled tube top and smacks his hips against yours. It’s almost as if he’s riding a horse with the way he’s fucking you. And if you don’t whine loud enough, he’d slap each of your tits and force those screams out of you, growling, “You can do better than that.”

Removing your hands off him and back to the table, you accidentally rest your hand on one of his palettes. You gasp, looking over to find your hand smeared with blue and yellow hues. Taehyung laughs and rams into you faster. “You’re just making a mess wherever you go, hmm?” he teases.

You pout. He’s having too much fun making a mockery of you. Granted, you’re loving the attention, the way he’s fucking you into submission and realization, but you cannot let all this go to his head too much. As he smacks your breasts once more, nipples a little raw as they sting, you wipe your hand on him, down from his cheek to his collarbone.

He gasps, but his hips never stutter. Before you can even register his actions, Taehyung readjusts his grip from your top to your breasts and shoves his face between them. He transfers the swirl of dark blue and gold all over you as he fucks you as senseless as you predicted.

And as he playfully punishes you, blowing raspberries into your chest, you find yourself missing this, missing him. How could you have forgotten he likes to get playful, that he can switch between his two demeanours so seamlessly? He giggles when he pushes your breast into his face and further stains them with paint.

“The only one making a mess is you,” you rush to whine as your impending orgasm nears.

Dipping your hand in more paint, you rub the colours on his back and shoulders. You’re going to colour him yours if this is the last thing the two of you do together. Paint on his skin, in his hair, all over him, you’re going to make your impression here last through all the moans and whines and lewd slouches of your sensitive wetness around him.

Taehyung kisses his way up to your lips. He slips his tongue in once he reaches them and rolls his hips into you particularly harder than before. He can feel that he’s got you trailing the edge of your high. Thrust upwards, Taehyung reaches your most sensitive place. Every ram into it makes you shudder, toes curling and moans pouring into his mouth. One of his hands shifts up to your breast, massaging the smeared paint in, while the other holds your hips in place.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whines against your lips. “Come back to me.”

He can’t do this. He can’t beg you to come back with his dick shoved so deep in you like this. You’re so fucking close and he knows this. He can feel every inch of you tighten around him and desperate to be released. It’s cruel of him to manipulate you like this, to kiss you like he’s lost in the moment when he’s really just lost in you.

Kissing his way to your ear, Taehyung feels your pussy quiver. He smirks, thrusting hard enough to move the table back, and growls in your ear, “Come back to me, my muse. Cum.”

You fall back onto the table, body a total shaking shock as your orgasm washes over every inch of you. With one hand trembling over your lips, your other grabs onto one of your tits in an effort to brace yourself from the rush of ecstasy that overcomes you. The moans and whines that leave you are no exception to your convulsing state. Their breathless, broken, and blaring as you practically scream out in bliss.

Taehyung enjoys the show, watching you forget how to breathe from his place between your legs. He’s still going fast and hard, groaning when he feels you coat his cock in your cum. Mesmerized by the sight of your unheld breast bouncing with each of his thrust, he slaps it. You squeal at the sting.

And as you try to look at him, still riding out your orgasm, Taehyung’s cock twitches only to paint your inner walls with his missed affections. He falls forward, over you, burying his face between your tits again. You push them into his face and shake them against his cheeks, hearing him growl over your heart.

At some point, he stops thrusting and opts to circling his hips into yours. It’s all the same to you. Your legs continue to shake and your heart still races. Drenched in sweat, paint, and clay, you two lie there for a second longer. Even while growing limp, Taehyung feels so full in you.

He peels himself off you. His face, glistening in paint, looks like Van Gogh’s starry night, his eyes being the sparkling stars. He smirks down at you before trailing his gaze lower. That smile falls with every part of you he realizes he has ruined. Your chest is exposed and covered in colours, shirt non existent, pants clay stained and torn straight down the middle, and pussy a sopping mess of your mixed cum when he pulls out.

“I did make a mess,” he pants.

One step back, then two, then three. He distances himself from you as if ashamed of his work. You slowly sit up and cross your legs. Already, they feel strained and sore. But, they’re the least of your worries. It's the way that Taehyung winces at the sight of you, that has your heart somersaulting into your stomach. You swallow thickly between heaving pants and watch him carefully. He’s completely bare and looks even more broke than you do. His gaze looks vague and face sickly. Shaking his head, Taehyung runs a hand through his hair. He looks so annoyed with himself, he cannot even find it in him to laugh at the fact that he only got more paint in his hair.

Crossing your arms over your chest to cover yourself up a bit, you say, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

He blinks repeatedly, snapping his attention back up at you. “Why aren’t you disturbed by this?” He questions, voice all but breaking.

Your eyes scan up and down his frame before your brows knit together in confusion. Is he referring to his naked body, or that the two of you just came to the thought of dating each other again? Still, why is either of those things worth being disturbed over? A naked Taehyung post sex has never been a bad sight and, though things did end horribly, the thought of being with him again doesn’t seem so bad now. Did he not mean it when he asked you to come back? Was it just something to get off to? Are you just something to get off to?

“What?” You whisper now that your anxious train of thought has robbed your voice.

“Aren’t you dating?” He clarifies. “That poor guy. I can’t believe I just let us do that.”

You’ve never seen him this distressed. He walks back to you, just to grab his jumpsuit and briefs. He can’t even bear to look at you as you stare back at him in complete confusion. What does he think happened here? That you cheated? Clenching your jaw, you can't believe that he could think that low of you. Then again, you never did blatantly say that it was your first date since the break up. In fact, now that you think about it, you did make it seem like you were in a relationship with someone else.

Taehyung hastily gets dressed as you try to hop off the table without falling on your face from how weak your legs are after such a fucking. “Tae,” you start only to have him walk away. With a sigh, you call after him. He ignores you.

What the hell are you supposed to do now? You sure as hell can’t follow him with your legs so sore and he doesn’t seem to want to talk to you. And even if you could walk, your clothes are ruined and it would take a while for an uber to get here with all the snow coming down out there. The distant spray of the shower directs your attention to the hallway Taehyung escaped down to get away from you. Great, he’s showering and left you here to figure this all out yourself.

Taking a seat on the floor, you decide to give your legs a moment to rest before ordering yourself an uber and hoping that this night ends soon. You should’ve listened to your gut and rejected his call. You shouldn’t have agreed to this, or come here, or let him remind you just how much you miss and love him. All you ever wanted was- is him. If it haven’t been for this whole stupid issue about moving in, you’d still have him.

But, no. You had to force him into a step he wasn’t ready for. You lost him then and you came back to watch yourself lose him again. Is that it? Is that why you didn’t even explain yourself to the poor guy that was sitting across from you at Rollos. Yes, Rollos; that’s where you went for drinks. Wow, your memory really hasn’t served you well tonight. You hope you forget this tomorrow. You hope you'll be able to forget how pathetic you feel, how hurt he sounds, and how you lost him all over again.

“Get up,” Taehyung orders. His voice is rough, like he had been sobbing.

Looking over to him, you find that could’ve actually been the case. His face is tear streaked now as well as paint smeared. He stands a good few feet away from you, glaring down at your woefully ruined frame. “Taehyung, I’m not-”

He doesn’t seem to want to hear any of it. “Get up,” he repeats. “Go shower. I have some clothes for you to wear then I’m taking you home.”

“Tae, just liste-”

“Delete my number. We never talk about this again. And if you’re at all like the person I loved, you’d tell him the truth.”

Is he seriously judging you right now? You’ve barely even had a chance to explain yourself. He really doesn’t want to listen to anything you have to say, cutting you off like you’re less than him. You cannot help but scoff at him and his words.

Taehyung sighs. “Just please get up, (Y/N).”

“I’m not dating anyone.”

His superiority falls. The life returns to his face as he approaches you but you recoil into yourself the moment he steps forward. Pausing, he tilts his head at you. “What is it?”

What is it? This man is going to be the death of you. “You just shamed me for something that wasn’t true, Taehyung!” You shout.

“I thought you were cheating with me!”

You use the table to help yourself up and dryly chuckle. “Ha, yeah because lying is such a normal thing to do, right? I’m as twisted as you, Taehyung.”

“I lied because I knew saying no would hurt you. Why can’t you see that I was just looking out for you?”

That one sentence makes you freeze in place. Is he really that fucking dense? He can’t seriously believe that looking out for someone you love involves lying. Slowly turning to face him, you don't even make an effort to hide your tears anymore. “You were looking out for yourself and you know it!”

“I just didn’t-”

“Want to grow tired of me.” You finish for him in a mocking tone.

Taehyung huffs, shaking his head. “That’s not what I was going to say. Would you just let me finish?”

You’re done with this stupid conversation. All you want to do is go home and get as far away as possible from him and the way he smells and the fact that even though you hate him so much right now, you want him to come and hug you and tell you everything is going to be okay. But, he’s just so annoying. And you can’t bear to look at him anymore with that cold glare consistently being directed towards you. You’ll wait outside for the uber. Hell, you’ll just walk back to your apartment. Anything to get out of here and away from him.

In an attempt to follow through, you try to make your way towards the door, but your legs almost instantly give out.

“Jesus, babe,” Taehyung hisses, rushing to your side.

It’s not even just the fact that you’re sore but your ripped pants are starting to rub up against your cum leaking pussy. You whine a bit and try to shake him off in order to jump back onto the table. But, you’re thankful he stays by your side because you definitely cannot get up there alone with your lacking upper body strength.

His hands linger on your thighs, softening eyes locked on yours. A hint of a smirk plays on his lips before he says, “I remember doing this to you often.”

Yes, leaving you limping around the apartment was his favourite pastimes. He liked to watch you struggle to walk after every intimate moment. In fact, he always felt like he didn’t do his job right if you’re not limping. He’d go ten times rougher the next time around and then cuddle you to his chest, cooing reassurances in your ear. Was it bad that you wanted that all the time? That you wanted to sleep and wake up in the same bed he does everyday?

Slow tears roll down your face as you take his hand art stained in yours. “It was my first date since our break up,” you confess. “Sumni asked for your number… and for permission to go out with you. I just felt a little hurt that you were moving on.”

“She called.”

Your heart has shattered too many times tonight to even react to his words, but you can feel your soul shudder. She called. And did he answer? Did he have a drink with her too? You want to ask but your pride swallows your questions whole. All you can bring yourself to say is, “She’s a nice girl.”

He nods. Squeezing your hand, Taehyung wraps his arm loosely around your waist and stands in front of you. “I told her I wasn’t really ready to see anyone else yet,” he tells you, pressing himself against you.

The gesture is not at all sexual and you do not interpret it as such. Rather, it is tender and comforting. He releases his hold on your hand to wipe your tears, letting his own fall. Licking his lips, he whispers, “What’s his name?”

You shrug.

“Come on,” he half-heartedly nudges your legs. “Tell me.”

Does he think you’re trying to spare his feelings? Meeting his gaze, you can’t help but smile. He looks so cute, so precious in front of you. Playing with his hand, your fingers looping around his, you reply, “I don’t remember. I only spoke to him for half an hour or something.”

He cannot hide his smile, but avoids your gaze. Even still, you can see the relief within them. He seems to be pleased that you’re just as miserable as he is, pining after someone you cannot have any more.

“Is that why you came over?”

You shake your head before you can even think the action through. And the words leave your lips just the same, “I just missed you.”

“I really missed you too,” he croaks, rushing to say the words like he can’t believe them himself. “God, I’ve just wanted you back for so long.”

He’s all but sobbing in front of you. Parting your lips, you’re about to tell him that he doesn’t have you, not yet anyways. The fact is that he still lied, and has continued to lie to manipulate you. This cannot be forgiven so easily. You love and miss him dearly, but surely you cannot just take him back without discussing the cause of your break up first.

But then, Taehyung burrows his face into the crook of your neck and lets himself fall apart. Hugging you close, he cries into your skin. You cannot hold back the sob that tears through your throat just from the mere sound of his choked breaths and wet tears against you.

“I’m so sorry,” he cries as you cradle his head. “I’m sorry.”

The broken tone of his voice is enough to make you whimper into his hair. He sounds so fragile. This break up, you realize, has torn him inside out too. Pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead, you try to console both of your fears. But every sob trembles your courage and every drop of his tears makes you recoil in guilt and shame. How could you have done this to him, to your relationship?

He shudders a breath as he pulls away. Red in the face, wet streaks staining his painted cheeks, he cups his hands under your jaw and says, “Look, you can move in right now, okay? Alright? I’ll get your things tomorrow. I’ll give you Jungkook’s key. He only comes here to steal our food anyways.” Just stay, please (Y/N).”

His voice is shaky and tone all but heartbreaking as he chuckles at his own little joke. The desperation is real and hard to deny. You cannot even open your mouth to even voice your reservations about dating again. Clutching onto his jumpsuit, you try to revert your gaze to your lap in hopes to find your courage and tell him that you need to talk first. Only, Taehyung dips his head low to catch your eyes again. He’s determined to have you stay. And your silence only provokes more tears.

“I promise I’ll never tell another lie,” he sobs. “I promise I’ll never let my worries get in between us again. Please, baby, just please stay. Say that you’ll stay.”

You cannot watch this for another moment longer. There’s lots you still have left to discuss, like why he’s so worried about growing tired of you, and why he felt the need to lie in the first place. But his promise to never do it again is enough for now. And you just can’t sit here watching him cry any longer. You pull him towards you, pepper his cheeks with gentle kisses then cradle his head.

“I’m not going anywhere, Tae,” you mutter into his hair. “Mostly because I can’t.”

Your attempt at a joke causes him to choke out a chuckle. He showers the crook of your neck with wet kisses, muttering into your skin, “I love you.”

Rapturing in a relieved frenzy, your nerves dance within your bloodstream and repair your ruptured heart. You let out a deep breath you didn’t even realize you were holding. “I love you too,” you cry.

The last four months haven’t granted you a shred of peace. You’ve lived and re-lived that argument over and over again, praying you can just go back and fix it all there and then. But, maybe… maybe it all needed to fall apart to fall back into place. Maybe it needed to rupture to rapture.

tags: @miinoongi​, @jenotation​, @allannahmalik​, @taeshuworld​

note; please do not leave hate towards me or any other readers. please do not copy, repost, or translate any of my work without my permission.

[palmett-hoes]

YES. Oh my God you explained perfectly the logic behind Neil getting tattoos. I get that people think tattoos fix Andrew's "aesthetic" more cause he wears all black and all but tattoos nowadays are popular and not really a thing that only alternative people get. Anyway -> if Neil got tattoos, do u have an hcs for what he might?

yea the more i think about it the more i really like the idea of neil getting tattoos. and who knows, maybe if his boyfriend starts to get covered andrew will take an interest too. i mean you're right, it does fit his aes. maybe he gets some matching tattoos with the love of his life

WHAT neil would get tho? oh there’s so many factors to consider

i see him having a similar ideology about it as i do, that his tattoos are to memorialize significant people and events in his life. most importantly though, they’re just,, to make him feel good about himself, so they’re all of happy memories, even if some might be bittersweet

it’s also not about full-coverage. he’s fine if his scars are still visible under the tattoo and probably isn’t going to try to religiously cover every single one. it’s about having something good on his body that he chose to put there to combat but not necessarily blot out the bad things done to him against his will

he tends to collect smaller individual pieces rather than large scale work and he’s not committed to a specific style, so his collection is a bit random and eclectic. but in terms of the style generally drawn to very kinesthetic art with a lot of movement and fluid lines, but also angular and hard-edged. i don’t think he’s color-averse and definitely not a strict black-and-gray guy, but at the same time i can’t see him doing like super super bright color work. he goes for darker, more saturated colors, like jewel and natural tones. also of course i see him as brown skinned so you need to approach color work differently anyway

in terms of what he actually GETS, i don’t really have a lot of opinions on placement or like,, what tattoos should cover which scar, but have some random ideas i think he might get

he has a large piece (like maybe a sleeve or thigh) that’s dedicated to his time on the run, but the good parts. it’s a mix of a lot of images and very chaotic, drawing from like,, the french cafe where his most first bought him a cup of coffee and cottage safehouses in the alps in summer and where they had room to stretch their legs and run and chase each other and hustling three card monty in dubai with his mom and diners in the pacific northwest that sold the best fruit pies

he of course gets a lot of tattoos for the foxes, definitely at least one straight-up fox. tiny pawprints are his go-to filler pattern

he has everyone’s signatures somewhere on him, maybe with a tattoo of the Championship trophy being hoisted up by a group of hands. he also has small individual pieces that memorialize each of them individually

definitely got several exy sticks and various other pieces of gear scattered in various places. dark stadium chairs leading down to a brightly lit exy court

andrew is probably his biggest inspiration. he has the photograph of them together in the airport turned into a silhouette like a victorian cameo. a ring of keys; this one might go on the back of his neck. a tire track skid mark. a skeleton sitting on a roof against a sunrise. andrew’s hand sparking a lighter. the only reason he doesn’t have a full portrait is bc andrew says he’ll leave him if he does it

a rabbit skull overgrown by moss and vines and flowers.

he gets a rook and knight chess pieces tat because kevin says that’s what he and andrew would be

he gets some small cheeky ones too. things like a line of script that says “you should see the other guy” with a gun running under a nasty scar or a skeletal arm broken in half

once he starts to really establish who he is and flesh himself out as a person he gets some that don’t necessarily have a lot of meaning but that he just likes the look of because he has the luxury of having opinions on art now

i don’t necessarily know if i want him to cover his facial scars, but i think that’s mostly because i don’t like facial tattoos very much, especially ones located where neil’s scars are. that’s just a personal preference though. however, i think the idea of a minimalist, abstract take of just like,, adding color to the scars might be nice. something like well-saturated brushstroke work

(addendum: an au or something where all neil’s scars are just covered in abstract brushwork would be so fucking beautiful. like this but full-body holy shit)

(i just don’t think it really fits him in canon to have a full-body tattoo scheme. also those would require so much long-term maintenance you’d have to get them redone like every 5 to 10 years)

he also doesn’t get them all at once, this is something he builds up over years. he also doesn’t want to rush it because he wants to stay open to memorialize things that will come in the future, because he has a future to wait for now

---

also i assume you probably want some reference photos too bc this can be a little hard to understand just as words, so here's some of my reference images under the cut

they’re more of a stylistic reference than a content reference. also - as in all things - this will of course also tell you a lot about my own personal taste in tattooing even though i try not to make it based ENTIRELY on what i like and try to factor in what i think neil would like

these were the tattoos that most inspired me about the tattoo idea for neil’s happiest memories with his mother. for some reason my gut really drew me towards architectural tattoos for it. i like the way the perspective on the left image is curved and confusing and it takes you a second to make sense of what you’re looking at. it reminds me a lot of an MC Escher drawing and that’s sort of the exact seeling of chaos and confusion that i think the tattoo needs. but then i was also really drawn to the soft colors of the right image (although they’d have to be adjusted somewhat for neil’s darker skin), because they’re so comforting, and i think that’s the sort of balance i’m looking for out of a tattoo for mary. so like,, compositionally like the left image but colored more like the right

literally every person who’s ever considered aftg and tattoos together HAS to offer up a fox tattoo it’s law. anyway these are mine. or well, the types i can see neil with. also, not aside from the foxes, these tattoos are really the best examples i can find of the angular, kinesthetic art style that i feel very strongly matches neil

inspo behind the tattoo of andrew’s hand with the lighter. also just a good simple style for smaller tattoos or filler tattoos

victorian cameos. inspiration behind both the silhouette tattoos of andrew and neil in the airport and the skeleton & the sunrise. both would be more than just the bust and the poses would be more fluid and they don’t need the brooch design outline. it’s really more of a starter reference or a jumping off point

neo-traditional tattoos. phenomenal style. strong lines and highly saturated color, super important both for a long-lasting tattoo and for tattooing on darker skin. they also just tend to have a certain composition i really like

this is the style i see the championship trophy tattoo, the chess pieces tattoo, the rabbit skull tattoo, and the ring of keys tattoo all in

---

okay i’m done now

thoughts?

[moogghost]

(note - tumblr and general screen saturation may have made the image quality gross so idk for sure how good some of these look. unfortunately a lot of these were more desaturated palettes-)

boredom got the best of me while digitalizing some art so i decided to make some colour palettes based off of the minecraft ost because i regularly listen to it. specifically it's based off of what colours it immediately makes me think of (or the...closest of what i could do for it bc i think only Oxygene, Equinoxe, Mice on Venus, and Dry Hands are exactly accurate to what i imagined, the rest is kind of vague guessing as to what exactly those colours were)

i might do smth w/ these colour palettes, or at least the ones i like the most? idk i might redo some of these at some point if i can get more accurate colours - but here's the thought process behind all of 'em since i am in the mood to ramble. i am so sorry for those who choose to read my uncoordinated thoughts it is extremely messy /lh

1. Key & 2. Door - kind of mashed these two together because i cannot listen to one without listening to the other. they must go together in my mind idk why. it's a lighter colour palette with mostly warm colours as it makes me think of new beginnings and opportunity and that's what yellow/oranges make me think of when it's these songs

3. Subwoofer Lullaby - idk why but i always get the image of more desaturated colours when i listen to this song. like blues and greens especially. it's not even "oh this song sounds kind of somber" no it's just desaturated blue and green my guy

4. Death - idk if it's because of the background noise in this one but. yeah no this one has dark green and blue bc grass and water. dark desaturated red and beige for the chicken

5. Living Mice - this song always played whenever i was in a plains or plains-ish biome so. it also getting some form of blue and green was inevitable. this time it's slightly brighter since it's living mice though

6. Moog City - hehehe i love this song. it gives both light grey and white vibes w/ bright reds and blues at the same time, but with a hint of a slightly desaturated indigo

7. Haggstrom - i wanted to add grey because this song always makes me think of cobblestone for some reason but?? i could not find a way to make it work with the rest of the vibes this gave. but anyways most music box-esque sounding pieces give light yellow and blue vibes, the pink is simply because i remember this playing a lot whenever i played in creative mode (which was and still is. a lot) and for some reason pink gives me adventurous vibes in this song. or flight. idk

8. Minecraft - ik it's kind of boring but. yeah this was kind of just the basic grass block but it does give of very green vibes to me?? like sort of faded green and not like the green vibes Mutation gives me but it's green

9. Oxygene - evening sky sounding like...right after the sun isn't visible but you can still sort of see that light. idk if it makes sense but,

10. Equinoxe - idk if it's because i'm thinking of the dragon quest ix grotto boss or what but. yeah it's a dark midnight sky with blues/purples highlighted with faint yellows and silvers

11. Mice on Venus - it's a very fun and bright piece and therefore it gets pinks, oranges, and purples. especially at the second half of it

12. Dry Hands - like...the beginning just feels very brown to me idk. and the other parts accompanying it is a desaturated light blue

13. Wet Hands - i get a lot more from Dry Hands but. it's sort of similar, slightly more vibrant but as it goes on it gets a little more desaturated. idk

i do not think these make complete sense but this is the best i can explain some of these (if i make a part two the explanations will not be better i am sorry)

[shiredded]

A white animation student’s take on Soul and POC cartoons

This got long but there’s lots of pretty pictures to go with it.

Hi, I’m Shire and I’m as white as a ripped-off Pegasus prancing on a stolen van. Feel free to add to my post, especially if you are poc. The next generation of animators needs your voice now more than ever.

My opinion doesn’t matter as much here because I’m not part of the people being represented. 

But I am part of the people to whom this film is marketed, and as the market, I think I should be Very Aware of what media does to me. 

And as the future of animation, I need to do something with what I know.

I am very white. I have blue eyes and long blond hair. I’ve seen countless protagonists, love interests, moms, and daughters that look like me. If I saw an animated character that looks like me turn into a creature for the majority of a movie, I would cheer. Bring it on! I have plenty of other representation that tells me I’m great just the way I am, and I don’t need to change to be likable. 

The moment Soul’s premise was released, many people of color expressed mistrust and disappointment on social media. Let me catch you up on the plot according to the new (march 2020) trailer. (It’s one of those dumb modern trailers that tells you the entire plot of the movie including the climax; so I recommend only watching half of it)

Our protagonist, Joe Gardner, has a rich (not in the monetary sense) and beautiful life. He has dreams! He wants to join a jazz band! So far his life looks, to me, comforting, amazing, heartfelt, and real. I’m excited to learn about his family and his music. 

Some Whoknowswhat happens, and he enters a dimension where everyone, himself included, is represented by glowing, blue, vaguely humanoid creatures. They’re adorable! But they sure as heck aren’t brown. The most common response seems to be dread at the idea of the brown human protagonist spending the majority of his screen time as a not-brown, not-human creature. 

The latest trailer definitely makes that look pretty darn true. He does spend most of the narrative - chronologically - as a blob. 

but

That isn’t the same as his screen time. 

From the look of the trailer, Joe and his not-yet-born-but-already-tired-of-life soul companion tour Joe’s story in all of its brown-skinned, human-shaped, life-loving glory. The movie is about life, not about magic beans that sing and dance about burping (though I won’t be surprised if that happens too.)

Basically! My conclusion is “it’s not as bad as it looked at first, and it looks like a wonderful story.”

but

That doesn’t mean it’s ok. 

Yes, Soul is probably going to be a really important and heartfelt story about life, the goods, the bads, the dreams, and the bonds. That story uses a fun medium to view that life; using bright, candy-bowl colors and a made-up world to draw kids in with their parents trailing behind. 

It’s a great story and there’s no reason to not create a black man for the lead role. There’s no reason not to give this story to people of color. It’s not a white story. This is great!

Except...

we’ve kind of

done this

a lot

The Book of Life and Coco also trade in their brown-skinned cast for a no-skinned cast, but I don’t know enough about Mexican culture to say those are bad and I haven't picked up on much pushback to those. There’s more nuance there, I think. 

I cut the above pics together to show how the entire ensemble changes along with the protagonist. We can lose entire casts of poc. Emperor's New Groove keeps its cast as mostly human so at least we have Pacha

And while the animals they interact with might be poc-coded, there’s nothing very special or affirming about “animals of color.” 

So, Soul.

Are we looking at the same thing here?

It’s no secret by now that this is an emerging pattern in animation. But not all poc-starring animated films have this same problem. We have Moana! With deuteragonists (basically co-protagonists) of color, heck yeah.

 Aladdin... Pocahontas... The respect those films have for their depicted culture is... an essay for another time. Mulan fits here too. the titular characters’ costars are either white, or blue, and/or straight up animals. But hey, they don’t turn into animals, and neither do the supporting cast/love interests.

Dreamworks’ Home (2015) is also worth mentioning as a poc-led film where the  deuteragonist is kind of a purple blob. But the thing I like a lot about Home is that it’s A Nice Story, where there’s no reason for the protagonist to not be poc, so she is poc. Spiderverse has a black lead with a white (or masked, or animal) supporting cast. But, spiderverse also has Miles’ dad, mom, uncle, and Penny Parker.

I’d like to see more of that.

And less of this

if you’re still having trouble seeing why this is a big deal, let’s try a little what-if scenario. 

This goes out to my fellow white girls (including LGBTA white girls, we are not immune to propaganda racism)

imagine for a second you live in a world where animation is dominated to the point of almost total saturation by protagonist after protagonist who are boys/men. You do get the occasional woman-led film, but maybe pretend that 30 to 40 percent of those films are like

(We’re pretending for a second that Queen Eleanor was the protagonist, because I couldn’t think of any animated movies where the white lady protagonist turns into and stays an animal for the majority of the film)

Or, white boys and men, how would you feel if your most popular and marketable representation was this?

Speaking of gender representation, binary trans and especially nonbinary trans people are hard pressed to find representation of who they are without the added twist of Lizard tails or horns and the hand-waving explanation of “this species doesn’t do gender” But again, that’s a different essay.

Let’s look at what we do have. In reality, we (white people) have so much representation that having a fun twist where we spend most of the movie seeing that person in glimpses between colorful, glittering felt characters that reflect our inner selves is ok. 

Wait, that aesthetic sounds kind of familiar...

But I digress. Inside Out was a successful and honestly helpful and important movie.  I have no doubt in my mind that Soul will meet and surpass it in quality and and in message. 

There is nothing wrong with turning your protagonist of color into an animal or blob for most of their own movie. 

But it’s part of a larger pattern, and that pattern tells people of color that their skin would be more fun if it was blue, or hairy, or slimy, or something. It’s fine to have films like that because heck yeah it would be fun to be a llama. But it’s also fun to not be a llama. It’s fun to be a human. It’s fun to be yourself. I don’t think children of color are told that enough. 

At least, not by mainstream studios. (The Breadwinner, produced by Cartoon Saloon)

It’s not like all these mainstream poc movies are the result of racist white producers who want us to equate people of color with animals. In fact, most of those movies these days have people of color very high up, as directors, writers, or at the very least, a pool of consultants of color.

These movies aren’t evil. They aren’t even that intrinsically racist (Pocahontas can go take a hike and rethink its life, but we knew that.) It’s that we need more than just the shape-shifting narratives of our non-white protagonists. 

It’s not like there isn’t an enormous pool of ideas, talent, visions and scripts already written and waiting to be produced. There is.

But they somehow don’t make it past the head executives, way above any creative team, who make the decisions, aiming not for top-of-the-line stories, but for the Bottom line of sales.

When Disney acquired Pixar, their main takeover was in the merchandising department. The main target for their merchandise are, honestly, white children.

So is it much of a surprise

that they are more often greenlighting things palatable for as many “discerning” mothers as possible?

I saw just as many Tiana dolls as frog toys on the front page of google, so don’t worry too much about The Princess And The Frog. Kids love her. But I didn’t find any human figures of Kenai from Brother Bear, except for dolls wearing a bear suit. 

So. What do I think of Soul? 

I think it’s going to be beautiful. I think it’s going to be a great movie.

But I also think people of color deserve more. 

Let’s take one more look at the top people who went into making this movie.

Of the six people listed here, five are white. Kemp Powers, one of the screenplay writers, is black. 

It’s cool to see women reaching power within the animation industry, but this post isn’t about us.

We need to replace the top execs and get more projects greenlit that send the message that african, asian, latinix, middle eastern, and every other non-white ethnicity is perfect and relatable as the humans they were meant to be. 

Disney is big enough that they can - and therefore should - take risks and produce movies that aren’t as “marketable” simply because art needs to be made. People need to be loved.

Come on, millennials and Gen Z. We can do better.

We Will do better.

TLDR: A lot of mainstream animation turns its protagonists of color into animals or other creatures. I (white) don’t think that’s a bad thing, except for the fact that we don’t get enough poc movies that AREN’T weird. Support Soul; it’s not going to be as bad as you think. It’s probably gonna be really good. Let’s make more good movies about people of color that stay PEOPLE of color.

[gunmaestro]

how i color manga: a hopefully adequate tutorial.

i’ve had a couple of people ask me recently how i go about coloring manga panels, so i thought i’d share my process in case anyone wants to learn! it’s honestly not that different from coloring ordinary things, but there are a couple extra steps i have to take!

note: this is NOT an in-depth coloring tutorial and i don’t go into detail about how to color and shade; this is just a guide for people who want to know how to color manga and may already have a basic idea of how coloring works.

we’ll be using this panel as an example; i don’t have a panel on hand to color as we go, so i’ll just be walking everyone through my process using an already finished manga coloring from my blog. also, i use photoshop to do my art and am not sure how it translates into other art programs, but if you use something with a lot of features i’m sure you’ll have most of these already!

part 1: flat colors!

there are a couple of ways you can do flat colors. the first and easiest method isn’t the method i use in this image, but it is much simpler than the way i use, so explaining it normally should be fine. 

let’s call this the multiply method: with this method, all you have to do is select the color you want, create a layer ABOVE the manga panel with the blending mode set to “multiply”, and start coloring.

in case you don’t know how to change the layer blending, this is the dropdown box at the bottom right. it’ll be set to “normal” by default, so all you have to do is change it to multiply. also, keep in mind that when you’re drawing on multiply layers, anything you draw over darker colors will appear a lot darker than it is, so make sure to account for that when you draw.

i would recommend this method if you’re just starting out with manga coloring because it’s a lot easier, and you have more flexibility with colors.

now for the second method; the “linear light” method. i tend to use this for all my coloring, but it is a little risky. linear light is a difficult blending mode to use because you have to use a color much darker than the one you actually need, and it requires a bit of trial and error to get right.

here is what the same color looks like in multiply...

...and then in linear light.

so why use the linear light method if it’s more difficult? mostly, it’s very advantageous to use if you want to color lineart, as it’s the easiest way to achieve that effect in manga coloring. lighter colors will color the lines more, while darker colors will provide a sort of “burnt” effect around the lineart.

remember: it’s most helpful to have each different object on a different layer! i have four base layers for this coloring; hair, coats, undershirts, and skin.

part 2: shading!

this is where we get to the fun part: clipping masks! you’ll want to make a new layer above whatever object you plan on shading, right click on that layer, and select the option “create clipping mask” what this does is ensure that nothing you draw on the clipping mask goes outside of the bounds of the layer under it. this is really helpful when you’re shading.

the easiest way to shade if you’re just starting out is to have the same color selected as your base color and set the clipping mask to multiply; this will just darken the color. presumably if you’re reading this you already know the basics of how to shade, so i won’t be going too in-depth on that.

make sure to leave a lot of space empty for the next step: highlights.

for highlights, i like to use light colors on one of two layer styles. the first is “screen” and the second is “linear dodge/add”. using screen generally means color is less saturated, but screen layers show up better on lighter base colors. on the other hand, linear dodge is VERY saturated, but doesn’t translate very well onto lighter base colors. with this, you can honestly just pick whichever you like best. 

part 3: shadows.

luckily, shadows can be very easy when it comes to manga coloring. most manga styles have built-in shadowy areas that you can just follow with your shadows. 

i do almost all of my shadows using a multiply layer, but again, don’t be afraid to try new things. most often, your shadows will probably have a blue tint, so just use a relatively light blue on your multiply layer.

this is the color i use for my shadows! also, please don’t be afraid to mess with the opacity of your layers. this goes for all of them, but especially shadows. if they look too dark, just crank the opacity down to half!

part 4: extras

the rest of the things i have to share are going to go at the very top of your layers and are mostly embellishments.

one thing i like to do with my colors is put a VERY low opacity flat color over the whole image, giving it a slight tint. this particular overlay is a peachy orange color on a linear burn layer at 25% opacity, giving the picture a warmer glow.

i also added shadows and highlights above all the layers to indicate that the light source for the picture is either behind or to the side of the focus character with a saturated blue shadow in multiply at around half opacity, as well as some yellow highlights using a vivid light layer. 

things like these aren’t really necessary, but i find that they make my colorings pop more, so i just like to include them!

at the end of the day, my word is obviously NOT gospel when it comes to manga coloring and you should feel free to experiment however you like with any step of these instructions! this is just a basic rundown of my process coloring to get you started :D! thanks for reading, and i hope this helps at least a little bit.

[nightcoremoon]

so for the first time I saw batman: the killing joke.

...

it was okay I guess. but massively overrated. I expected some fucking masterpiece of cinema but instead it was just two unrelated short films that were more style and flash than substance.

so first off, barbara's storyline was mediocre. franz wasn't a compelling villain; just a creep, and a trust fund brat. oh wow he's a mafia kid who stole his family's fortune by hacking. if it was the falcone family I'd have cared more but it wasn't so it's just some faceless deathfodder rando. who gives a shit. the whole situation was just a vehicle to shove batman's dick into babs. which kinda fucks over bruce's character here and judging by the timeline kinda makes him a bit of a groomer, yikes. bruce and gordon have known each other since bruce was a young boy and we know that bruce is way older than babs so yeah bruce totally knew her from birth until present day, he literally utilized an active power dynamic to police her crimefighting activities, and he should have fucking known better and stopped her when she kissed him because it would (and did) compromise their professional dynamic, but hey, batdick. and at least barbara recognized that she was behaving emotionally rather than logically when it came to bruce and paris and took the high road out. that would be a serviceable standalone episode to write her on a bus in a serialization but THIS IS A MOVIE. so for a waste of an already short runtime it's like having an appetizer before your meal but instead of something like a crab cake before stuffed flounder, you get greasy onion petals that are more fried batter than onion before getting a well done cheeseburger that's just a glorified hockey puck on a sponge with a kraft single on top. the animation and vocal delivery were excellent of course, not gonna disparage that aspect, so it was well made, but the writing was just not very good. a polished turd. quantic dream must have developed it then because it feels like I watched a david cage production.

so in a 78 minute movie, five of which were the credits, we had a half hour Disney/Pixar short except those bring joy and this brought boring. also there were a lot of shots of her ass tits and underwear that were obnoxiously male-gazey and there was a token gay for the sole purpose of dangling a carrot on a stick for the queers. look kids, warner brothers and dc comics cares about the lgbts! give us money! a waste of time before the real reason why anyone came to see the movie that literally only exists to pad out the runtime to make it a feature length (even though paying a full ticket would've been a total ripoff because, again, IT WAS ONLY 78. even 9 was 81 minutes long and that had an amazing storyline so I forgave it, but 78 minutes? ugh.

also, GOTHAM RAGE??? CRINGE. SO CRINGE.

alright now for the joker segment.

*ahem*

what the fuck? that sucked! *throws tomato*

mark hamill and the joker's lines and the art and the cinematography and the choreography was all good and the plot was cohesive. I get it.

but holy shit was the writing weak as fuck.

okay so some rando breaks the J-ster out of Arkham (already unlikely but ugh whatever), he didn't turn a trick or recruit or anything, he just went to purchase a carnival. or, steal one. but wait, he DID recruit, but he went to get all of the stereotypical Circus Freak™ stereotypes. little people, fat lady, bearded lady, wolf man, strongman, diaper man (wait, what?), and the two headed woman. I guess if you don't really think about why all of them were super readily available in the outskirts between arkham and gotham [i just realized they both end with -am] then it makes enough sense. and then literally right after that HE RECRUITS SOME GUYS TO HELP HIM KIDNAP GORDON. and then strips and photographs barbara. um. ew. you can tell the writer and director were men. Alan Moore is constantly molesting women in his comics and this one trick pony should be put down already. but whatever. the plot is weak and it only gets saved by the flashback sequences.

oh.

oh no.

they're not that great.

he's a failed unfunny comedian who just wants some money to move his wife to a better house so he turns to thievery with the mob. OR YOU COULD JUST STOP GOING TO THE BAR AND BLOWING IT ALL ON BOOZE. I mean the cops knew where to find him after all so clearly he's a repeat customer (or moore is a bad plot writer who relies on convenience and shut the fuck up and don't critically analyze it). alright so he gets wrapped up in the mob to perform a heist on a playing card factory. GET IT, BECAUSE HE'S THE JOKER??? and he uses the moniker of the red hood to retain his anonymity. I expected the mobsters to be working for francisco but no the paris storyline was only cooked up screenplay for passing the runtime so why would they do something clever and interesting and make the film cohesive? that'd be really stupid to make the movie feel more like one movie and not two short films. at least when grindhouse & planet terror did it they advertised themselves as an anthology film. whatever. he falls in the vat of acid which melts the red hood to his face and I gotta say that's actually a pretty good idea to get his face white and his hair green and his lips red. I like that part. oh wait I forgot about the most important part! his wife gets shoved in the refrigerator. OH WOW THAT'S JUST SO COMPELLING AND ORIGINAL, TOTALLY NOT SOMETHING THAT ALREADY HAPPENED TO GREEN LANTERN. TWICE. although she wasn't literally shoved into a literal refrigerator like alex was. rip in frozen pieces you absolute legend of a trope namer. alright, so... so the joker is sad because his wife died. you know, the wife we saw for two minutes and knew the moment we saw her drenched in sepia she was gonna die. and she died offscreen. kyle's gf died and he was fine. gordon's wife died and he was fine. batman's parents both died and he was fine. oh boo hoo someone I love died! fuck off. I am so goddamn sick of people trying to justify their evil with "I was sad once". it's a stupid trope and it's not compelling. the only valid version is doctor doofenshmirtz' evil(er) version in the PF movie because it's hilarious that it's because of a toy train because that's the emotional depth that fridgewomen is treated with in all of these storylines. but at least batman said so. oh yeah, I almost totally forgot, batman's in this movie.

batman punches people and nonlethally takes them out. by suffocating them and letting them get stabbed and throwing them into pits of spikes and HEY WAIT A GODDAMN SECOND! okay let's just ignore that bit and hope that the little people squeezed between the gaps in the spikes and the strongman could breathe in the face mask and the two headed women had KO gas and the fat lady was fat enough that the knives only stabbed her cellulite. it wouldn't be the biggest reach one would have to make in watching this fucking disaster of a plot mess.

now I did like that it was actually batman, and by that I mean he gave a shit about the insane because he recognizes that mental illness is not a cause of dangerous or criminal behavior, just a potential exacerbating factor if it wasn't treated. yeah he brutalized mobsters and crime lords but they were mostly in self defense while gathering intel. he politely asked sal maroni and the sex workers for information and they gave it to him without violence- he manhandled maroni but only after he reached into his pocket for a cigar which could've been a gun. also batman says sex work should be decriminalized if only by not ratting them out to the cops. he was a genuinely good person in the second half of the movie. too bad it was ruined by the shitty first half that made him a borderline groomer.

joker's song was... bad. mark hamill performed his ass off but the song wasn't that good. it just tried to be willy wonka if he was a voyeuristic monster. oh yeah have the only girl character be paralyzed stripped and photographed only to give her father ManPain™. again... the fuck? joker and batman were both gross but, again. male writers. if it was a one-off I could drop a thermian argument because, alright one and done makes sense, especially 1988 standards. but it saturated and soured the entire goddamn movie because of abhorrent pacing decisions. so you're goddamn right I'm gonna bring it up twice! joker was a creep, his plan was dumb, nolan and burton and lord/miller and even ayer had better motivations. YES I AM SAYING THAT JARED LETO'S JOKER HAD BETTER WRITING THAN MARK HAMILL'S JOKER. not nearly to the level of ledger nicholson or galifanakis but hamill didn't have a lot to work with here and I maintain that his performance was amazing; honestly I like his the best out of all of them but just... not here. but I think I can cut some slack to firelord ozai and luke skywalker even if he just phoned it in here which he didn't. writing was just weak. and that's all there is to it. don't anon me and threaten to remove my bones ok?

alright so batman and joker fought and joker got the upper hand and was gonna kill him but it was a prop gun. haha. they had a heart to heart and batman tells joker that he wants to help him get better, even after joker killed robin and molested barbara and traumatized gordon and did countless other travesties, he still said he would help. but joker said no, and told a joke that was good enough to make batman laugh. and then the credits rolled.

...

what a completely pointless and empty ending. oh it's deep and meaningful and poignant? ok sure, I guess, movie, but you didn't earn that. shyamalan did the same thing a dozen times. that doesn't make him any less of a shit writer.

I can understand the concept of batman laughing at joker's joke, humanizing him.

I get it. I see what they tried to do. I respect it.

but this movie was massively overhyped and overrated and I expected it to be so much better than it was. but overall to me it was just another batman cartoon to throw on top of the pile. maybe it was influential to graphic novels. maybe it shaped batman into what he is today. it published right as tim burton's movie and I can respect its place in the pantheon of comic history. but sometimes things that are classic...

aren't that great.

citizen kane, casablanca, the maltese falcon, the treasure of the sierra madre, gone with the wind, singing in the rain, all of them are classic and legendary pieces of art. but they're just not that good, interesting, appealing, watchable, or FUN. they were good at the time- I mean come on we all know them today- but on going back you'd have to really appreciate the finer details to still love the movies today. and this belongs there, in the vault, to be appreciated from afar. influential if dated.

but god am I still disappointed nonetheless.

TL;DR

it was just okay. had some good ideas, had some really bad ideas, had some ugly stuff. overall mediocre. first half 5/10, second half 7/10, overall 6/10.

[stylishanachronism]

Okay so we’re going to open with the fact that while Obsidian has at least one person on staff who understands armor, literally nobody understands clothing, especially historical clothing, and though they stumbled into something... acceptable in two and a half cases(1), literally everything else they’ve produced on the subject is garbage.

So what’s the most garbage cultural garb in Eora? I’m going to shock you, despite my complaining on the affront that is the Dyrwood, it’s actually the Vailians. They’re supposedly primarily metalsmiths and textile traders, (iirc Obsidian called Venice and the Phoenicians as the major guiding influences), with really strong textual aesthetic sensibilities, and yet they’re all wearing drab closefitting garments with neither wild shaping nor excess fabric, mostly in deeply boring greys. It’s like... bad period piece Renaissance Venetians, but make it 90s haute couture. It is *painfully* bad. Deadfire improves, a little bit, but these are supposedly the most baroque bitches around, I should be seeing vivid colors (especially in reds and blues and purples), rich blacks, and enough spare fabric to drown a medium sized child. Also lace. A famous vineyard’s worth of lace. At least blackwork, come on Obsidian they look cheap.

Based on Pallegina’s armor, I should also be seeing a ‘pigeon breast’ silhouette on literally everyone, or alternatively low, square cut bodices to show off extremely fancy underwear (and don’t worry, we’ll get to the underwear), and I should be seeing split hose, not pants, if I am seeing hose at all. I will accept pants for exactly two cultures and no more. and the Republics do not apply.(2) Deadfire did them a good turn by introducing brocades but where is the velvet. The silk. The weird hats. The dagged, slashed sleeves to show off the fact you’re rich enough to wear an overdress, an underdress, and then your underwear’s fancy as hell too. Everybody on the south-eastern half of the Eastern reach is wearing, at minimum, a chemise, hose, and if you’ve got boobs some sort of stays to keep said boobs put, and pockets, before you even get to their outerwear.and just like today, everybody wants pretty underwear. Embroidered cuffs and collars, clocked hose, lace on everything, if you’re rich, blackwork if you aren’t, extremely beautiful pockets, the works. The Republics, being the rich people with all the fabric, have canonically raised fashion to an art form, so they should be dripping with extra details, and they should not only be the only people with flat patterning, they should be reveling in that fact. They are not doing any of these things.

The second most garbage cultural garb is, of course, the Dyrwood. Again, I should be seeing lots of color, not necessarily saturated but given their climate and stated food products I can make an educated guess about what dye plants are around, so lots of greens and yellows and rusty-orange reds and (maybe) pale blues, and a billion extremely rich shades of brown and almost-black, mostly plainweave for themselves (they’re shipping out their brocades for the most part), but lots of embroidery again. They can keep the bracers, they’re the only canon-given detail I actually liked (and it plays into a different headcanon re: where the fuck did you get the standing army), but they don’t even get split hose, much less pants. Skirts for everybody! Again, these people are producing all the fabric, and it’s cold(ish), so multiple layers are a thing, as is excess cloth, and if you’re going to do that, you’ll dye your underdress a fun color to contrast with your overdress (which very well might be quartered, too), at the very least. There’s probably a lot of plain trimming, and guards, and they’re coming out of Aedyran fashion so there’s not a lot of shaping but stripes and plaids are probably a thing, and certainly no flat patterning. Think bilaut over later kirtles, with side lacing and belting around the waist for various purposes (like making your boobs stay put, depending on if you’ve got stays or not, or holding up said skirt when you’re working in the fields, to get it out of the way.)(3)

Based on the leather armor you pick up, I should also be seeing the beginnings of a more conical style, moving away from clothes you just drop over your head into separate skirts and bodices (for everybody, not just women), which still probably lace up the front or (more commonly) the sides. (There’s an argument to be made that kilts are a thing, coming out of Eir Glanfath, but it’s probably more of a western than an eastern thing, and frankly I’m not sold, get back to me on this.) Also, going back to my dearly cherished ring lace headcanon, pretty much everyone wears extremely beautiful knit lace shawls (but not trim, and not non-knit), because even if you’re selling all the really nice stuff you’ve still got piles and piles of little apprentices practicing their trade, and somebody’s got to wear it.

Unfortunately I just don’t have enough information about Glanfathians to say anything other than what they’re wearing is also probably garbage, and fashion is probably a hugely tribe-specific thing. More nomadic tribes probably don’t wear many wovens, probably saving what cloth they make or trade for for things like belts and blankets and carrying bags, but again, it should all be extremely colorful. You’ll see more shaping and piecework here, because leather does not appear in neat rectangles the way cloth does, and if you’ve already got that curve you might as well use it, lots of fur, mostly for warmth but also as decoration, and we might see Dyrwodian fashion influences with the more eastern tribes, depending on the mystery of what’s going down politically at that border and whether or not those tribes are more or less nomadic.

Ixmitl gets an honorable mention for having the most color and also horses, and so the pants are acceptable, but I’d like to see more color and more embellishment. And also more information. Rauatai gets an honorable mention for having actually reasonable rectangular construction on everything (clearly an accident but I’ll take it) and again, some color. Aedyr gets an honorable mention for having some logic put into it’s creation, even if that logic isn’t extended out to its colonies like it should be, and even if what we see in game makes it clear Obsidian doesn’t actually understand how things like chitons work.

Engwith gets all the honorable mentions for somehow being the most internally consistent culture as far as art and fashion go, despite 90% of that art and fashion being extremely hard to see frescoes, and the rest of it being Thaos. Yeah it’s basically a straight copy off Sumer but you know what? That just means it works.

At some point in the distant future I may update this with illustrations of canon v. what we reasonably should be seeing, but right now is not that time.

1: Whoever Obsidian picked up for Tyranny clearly stayed on (Tyranny’s clothing was uniformly pretty great, even if it had the same bra problem), and they’re the only person with half a clue, which is why the Huana look as good as they do. Pillars gets half a point for Aedyr, Iximtl, and hilariously enough Engwith, for having reasonable starting points, and Deadfire should get another half point for Rautai, but that picture of Maia exists and it is such an affront they lost it again.

2: Ixmitl and the various groups of the White that Wends can have pants, the first because they’re canonically horse people, and that’s what pants are for. The White doesn’t actually get pants, per se, they’re fairly clearly inspired variously by the Inuit and the Vikings, so they have separate undergarments we would call pants in order to help keep warm, but it counts for this. Nobody else gets pants.

3: Just for the record, this is also where Raedceras should be, fashion-wise, but we have huge amounts of nothing when it comes to non-priest everyday wear so I can’t really talk about. My logic still stands, plus they’re even less likely to know about flat patterning, but, y’know.

[fishgoose]

2:54 AM

name: 2:54 AM rating: T + relationship: Genji/Mercy ( gency ) type: fluff, hurt/comfort warnings: loss of limbs, body horror, medical procedures, not beta read, my first fanfiction in like, 10 years. 

summary: They bring her Genji Shimada at 2:54 AM on a Wednesday. Or, how one minute in the morning became significant to Angela Ziegler and Genji Shimada.

AO3 Link

He’s brought to her at 2:54 AM on a Wednesday. 

She awoke from a light sleep in her quarters at a hurried knock on her door - a rapt pulsing of fist and a call of her name. Angela springs to full wakefulness on reflex, years of time spent in hospital on-call rooms keeping her trained to the art of ‘no sleep necessary.’ She answers with all the appearance of a woman having just rolled out of bed… but none of the grace. Baleful blues behold Captain Amari with no small hint of surprise. It’s not unusual for her to receive late night calls from her superiors - especially in the event of an emergency. But Ana Amari was, without a doubt, the firmest advocate for Angela Ziegler receiving a healthy amount of sleep. So for her to be here, disturbing the doctor from a much needed rest-

“We have an emergency.”

A nod is all Captain Amari receives, before she spins into action. She and the sniper rush towards the medbay - Angela half undressing/dressing on the walk there. It’s not an unfamiliar rhythm. Ana taking bits of her clothing while she shrugs on scrubs, a lab coat, even offers her a hair tie and speaks to her in rapid, hushed tones so as not to wake the quiet halls. She’s not sure why. Everybody in Overwatch is an insomniac anyway. Regardless it’s clear Ana had been braced for this… and that fills her with more dread than necessary. 

“Agent McCree and Commander Reyes have just returned from Hanamura. They have brought an individual back with them. Genji Shimada-” A holopad is passed to her fingers, and Angela does not think to ask why Jesse and Gabriel were in Hanamura, Japan - or why there is already a file on ‘Genji Shimada.’ That part of her brain shuts off - the suspicious, distrusting part - and instead, the doctor takes over. “He sustained multiple traumatic injuries after an altercation with his elder brother. Angela, it’s-”

                “Angie!”

Her gaze shoots up on reflex at the familiar nickname, the punctuation of a hurried drawl at the edge. Ana’s words die out as she catches sight of McCree - catches sight of the amount of blood saturating the black of his clothing, on his face, in his hair, his gloves… His spurs click as he covers the distance between them, not quite halting her but enough to slow her pace. She sees Reyes over his shoulder, bickering in front of a bed with Morrison. They’re like two snakes locked in a tangle, their gazes furious, McCree’s gaze filled with trepidation, and Ana is trying to say something but-             “Move.”

She speaks it to all of them, and surprisingly they obey - each conversation dying simultaneously, as if the music had been stopped. She moves through the medbay doors to the surrounded table, where a few of her specialists already fluttered about - speaking in even quieter tones, placing I.V.s, hooking up various beeping machines, and trying so damned hard to stop the continuous rain of blood that seemed to fall from the young man upon her operating table. 

Angela Ziegler is not unused to carnage. She is the best of the best. She has seen what violence and war does to other living beings, human and omnic and animal alike. As the best of the best, the most brutal of cases find her, and yet this… what had happened to the man before her… There is a squeezing in her chest, and she steps in closer… personnel parting like waves in a deep blue sea. 

               “Talk.” She commands, and it’s Reyes that fills her in. 

Hanzo Shimada, heir to the Shimada clan (a name she knew in passing, though she wished she did not) had cut down his younger brother at the behest of clan elders. Cut down was a bit of an understatement, in her opinion. Such brutality was not lost on her. This was not a systematic killing… It was violent and passionate. Blades and dragons, they’d told her - and while she had to question the last bit, the brutal cut to his chest, his legs, arms… everything was butchered in some way or another, and it’s only through years of schooling and training that she is able to shut off the bleeding heart part of her, and become the doctor. 

Angela does not question, again, why the hell Blackwatch was hanging around at this precisely fortuitous moment. She does not question, again, why it seemed everyone had been prepared for this except for her (and obviously, her patient). He finishes his words in under thirty seconds, and it takes ten more for her to banish everyone short of her and the necessary personnel from her lab and begin doing what is necessary to save a life… no matter the reason, and no matter the cost. 

She is in the process of setting up localized biotic fields while her assistants put a closer view of Genji’s injuries up upon the holo-vid. She is a professional, a woman of finesse. There are no moments of hesitation when she works - no pausing to make sure. This is her domain and there is a life to be saved, and so she would save it. By all conclusions, Genji Shimada should have long since been sedated - especially considering she was about to begin the most major surgeries of her life upon him. 

A shaky hand (his left, not his right) finds her gloved wrist, and Angela jolts with surprise. It leaves a trail of blood upon her - but her gaze instantly meets his own and what she sees makes her heart break. Fear and sadness, so prevalent in eyes that were once as warm as tilled earth - a handsome face, beneath his oxygen mask, and bloodied lips narrowed in agony. His grip is light, so terribly weak, but that does not stop her from covering his hand with her own, letting her hues lock with his, and saying low enough that only he could hear her…                       “I’ve got you.”

----------

It’s 8:32 PM when she thinks he’ll make it through the night.

Angela comes out of that operating room a different woman, and Genji will wake up a different man. 

It’s McCree that’s waiting for her, a cup of coffee in hand and a hot towel in the other. She wants to question if he’s been here the whole damn time, but judging by the fact he’s no longer covered in Genji’s blood, she assumes it’s safe to say no, he has not. Now it’s her turn, of course… to be covered in his blood, even if she’d stripped out of those scrubs and coat and mask, she still feels it on here, the weight of it, the weight of his life and how despite saving him, despite giving him a chance to live-

Perhaps he didn’t want to live this way. 

Jesse is smart enough to not say anything when she sits down on the sofa in her own office. He’s smart enough to not turn those amber eyes on her either, for fear of awakening the angry, questioning beast that roils beneath her skin. Instead, he lets her lean on him and rest her gaze. Her brief dreams are filled with visions of Genji - the horror in those darkened hues, and the sprays of blood from a blade as a faceless man cuts him down. 

------

It’s 11:27 PM when she rips Morrison and Reyes both new assholes. 

They’d been expecting it, of course - the way Angela (politely) demands to know what the fuck is going on, and then listening to them tell her - just exactly why - they had brought her Genji Shimada in the first place. An asset, they say, to Overwatch and Blackwatch - especially coming from a criminal family. They were lucky, in a way, that Angela had been so exhausted - otherwise, perhaps, she might have gone completely nuclear in Jack’s office, and subsequently destroyed two of S.E.Ps pride and joy. That does not stop her, however, from (again, politely) telling them how she felt about the situation, telling them both to seek her permission before seeing him (ranked be damned) and then to have a lovely evening, thank you very much.

She wished the doors weren’t sliding so she could slam them behind her. 

--------

It’s 2:54 AM on Thursday when he wakes up for a short time. 

Angela is there when he does - holopad in hand, documenting something. Genji sees her through a blurry lens… his gaze unfocused, not blind but just… lacking something. The dimmed lighting causes her hair to appear luminous around her pretty features, soft and serene and utterly angelic. Perhaps were he able to speak, and perhaps were he the Genji from not even a week ago… he would have made a comment on it, made a pass at her. Instead, he lets his fingers flex against the bed sheets… and she notices, because of course she does. 

Her face splits in surprise… so open, so lovely, and he finds it curious almost. She smiles at him in a way that is painfully tender (why? Does he deserve that?) and leans down to adjust a bit of wiring near the half of his body that he struggles to find any sensation on. His mind is addled by drugs, by the dull throb of pain manipulated by said drugs… and when she speaks, it sounds like it’s through a tube but… he wants to hear her say more.

“Hello, Mr. Shimada.” Warm. She was so warm in a sea of cold numbness. “You’re safe now.”

He knows he’s not, but the last thing he sees before falling asleep is her… and he finds it difficult to argue with that. 

-------- 

It’s 2:54 AM five months from the day he woke up that he’s able to stand on his own two feet again. 

Five months, five long and grueling months that they had been through those surgeries. Amputations, synthetic manipulations, rerouting of organs, cybernetic enhancements… With each one that he would awaken from, Genji would thank her, but with each one - his gaze would grow more and more dull. Now, however, he looks brighter than she’s seen him in months… able to move, to take shaky, quiet steps about his room, Angela at his side but Genji still wholly... freely independent. It’s not lost on her that he refuses to demonstrate much of his progress in the presence of others, but that’d be their secret for awhile longer. This was his recovery, after all. 

They’d worked on his legs last, having started from top down, essentially. Countless sleepless nights spent awake, either by his side or in her quarters, puzzling out ways to make him more comfortable, more happy. It was not about brutal efficiency for her, not about the weaponry. But Genji wanted to be fast - wanted to be as fearsome as he had been… and so she obliged, with the assistance of others, and limb by limb, bit by bit, he was rebuilt. 

But she knew he hated it, when he thought she wasn’t looking. She knew it in the way he spoke as little as possible, how he refused to see himself in the mirror… She just knew. 

-------

It’s 7:00 AM, a year, 3 months, and 2 days from the day he was brought to her that he goes on his first mission with Blackwatch. 

Angela had never railed more loudly against something in her life. Was his body healed? Yes. Were his cybernetics perfect? Yes. But his mind? She saw the fracture of that psyche - saw the way it was still in pieces and breaking steadily. She had gone after both Morrison and Reyes like a woman possessed, quiet anger and determination that put the fear of god in most… but it was actually Genji that had told her to stand down. 

The conversation is like a fresh wound on her heart. 

“Leave it be, Dr. Ziegler. I will make myself useful.”

Humiliating and painful. Lovely. 

-------

It’s 6:31 PM 18 days after the departure for their mission that they return. 

Everything had gone smoothly. Genji had the highest kill count among them all, and had sustained only minor damage. 

Angela fixes him up without saying a word. 

-------

It’s 2:54 AM three months after that first mission that he shows up at her office with a cup of coffee. 

She stares at him like he’s grown three heads (or she’s hallucinating, perhaps) but takes the beverage anyway. Genji is not much of a conversationalist by nature but he goads her into speaking anyway much to her surprise - asking about her current research, what she was continuing to develop… and they fall back into an easy rhythm and a familiar pattern. He does not laugh, and he does not smile - but she does not need him to. Angela can see everything in those crimson eyes, computerized or not, that she needs to know. 

They flicker when she makes a particularly jovial comment about McCree. It’s his version of a laugh. 

They fall into a pattern after that… 2:54 AM, Genji was always there - either with coffee or to drink hers. On nights he was away on missions, she woke up at that time anyway, wondering why. 

------

It’s 1:17 AM in King’s Row, London a few years later that he catches her as she falls.

The swift response Valkyrie suit was not without its issues, but she was keen to assist in the field when necessary. Her own enhancements at her spine kept her maneuvering easily, light as a bird and quick in the air. It’s her own fault, really, sloppiness in her attempt to get to priority targets as quickly as possible. The pulse shot connects with her left wing and sends not only a lance of agony down her spine - but a burst of pressure and air as she begins plummeting towards earth. 

All she can hear is the rush of the wind by her ears, vision filled with city lights and stars and a strange sense of peace fills her… deliberate and quiet… 

Until crimson and black is in her gaze, and strong arms… one real, one cybernetic, embrace her frame. In her ear, a prayer:

                    “I’ve got you, Angela.”

Four hours later, back on the dropship, she’s staring at him with her mouth agape. 

                  “You called me Angela.”

------

It’s 2:52 AM three weeks later that he tries to kiss her for the first time. 

It comes as such a surprise that she nearly lets him - as she’s in the midst of adjusting his faceplate, bending out a bit of metal and reshaping to more snuggly fit. It would have happened - were she not quick on her feet. She’s leaned inwards, plating clutched in her hands and ready to click into place when he dips in - going for the plump swell of her peach tiers but… 

Two fingers meet him instead, and he is scowling.

“Just what do you think you’re doing, Genji?”

“...”

She realizes her mistake the second silence befalls them. Realizes the amount of courage it must have taken for him to even try at all. Their chemistry was undeniable… everyone could see it, and their attachment ran deep. But here was a man discomforted by his own existence, his appearance, and Angela had just rejected some amount of physical affection and-- she finishes snapping the bolt into place, and he looks ready to run. Angela does not respond with trepidation, but instead offers him a sweet sweet smile as she leans inwards, breath ghosting over his scarred lips.

“It’s not 2:54 AM.”

The emotions that cycle through Genji’s hues at her statement are almost tangible to her: questioning, confusion, awareness, understanding, irritation, then mirth. She wants to laugh but she doesn’t… instead her gaze dances with her delight, at 2:53 AM, and he thinks she’s the most beautiful thing in the world. They use that minute… just that minute, to drink one another in… 

At 2:54 AM they kiss for the first time.

[centipedall]

Crown of the White Death, or The Asbestos Prom

Senior year was my year. Student council president? Check. Choice college? Check. Prom queen? Check. Stayed with my boyfriend? No. Found out he was a cheating douche? Check. Not have a date to prom? Check. Prom king be a total loser who leaves early? Check.

Meh. Whatever. I don’t need losers in my life, anyways. Which was part of the reason I organized things the way I did. As student council president, I’m the one in charge of planning parties and organizing them. Well, the way I did it this time was just fan-freaking-tastic. Complex, yeah, but name one good thing that’s simple.

Now, my school is kinda set up in a circle. There are seven class areas that connect to two others, one for each subject. And, coincidentally, for each club I’m president of. And each color of the rainbow. Math, science, social studies, language arts, world languages, technology, and art. Chess, Science Honor Society, Philosophy, Creative Writing, Spanish Honor Society, Cyber Security, and Pottery. Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, violet, black. I would have used the massive central courtyard and gymnasium for the final one, made it into a whiteout zone to contrast with the final black area, but there was a horrible asbestos outbreak there a week ago so it was shut down. Oh well. No plan survives first contact with the enemy, right?

So, if you weren’t in one of those clubs, I tried to make sure you didn’t come. Giving discounts to club members, targeted harassment, not telling people that the gym was full of asbestos, all that stuff. You know, to save space. No sense in wasting that on losers. Especially not losers who now have asbestosis. You don’t need all that nastiness here.

So, club members were in their respective areas, there were very few non-club members here, and everything was set up. There wasn’t really a theme, but everyone had kinda taken to wearing their own things. My student council team wore small, masquerade-style masks.

I stalked through the halls of the school, basking in the glory that I had made this happen. My entourage of student council members followed me. We didn’t really talk- for some reason, they didn’t like to talk to me. No one did, actually. But hey, that’s fine. I don’t need anyone.

I started my second round down the halls, starting at the red chess area. The chess club members wore simple, black-and-white formal clothing, contrasting against the various red tones of the math department. A few of them had chess pieces emblazoned on their dresses or suit jackets. They visibly paled as I walked in, making way for me and my group.

Then, I walked into the orange room, with a single massive paper-mache microscope in the center. The club members here wore stylized lab aprons, gloves, and goggles, designed more for fanciness than protection. There was a refreshment table full of smoking drinks in plastic flasks, which were evidently highly enjoyable. The vice-president of the club dropped her drink as I walked in, and it stained the carpet.

“Uh, h-hey, Prez.” She stammered out.

“What’s your problem?” Harsh, sure, but I had things to do. Well, not right now, I guess, but normally I do.

“Richard, uh, he saw, he saw, uh-”

“Christ, just spit it out already!”

“Norman! He’s here! In the next room!”

“Oh what the fuck.” I seethed.

That bastard. I told him that I never wanted to see him again. And now he showed up? Here? Oh, I’m going to tear him a new one. Quite literally.

I walked speedily into the next room. My face was a placid mask, and I walked with grace, but my hands were clenched. I felt skin split along my knuckles.

In the yellow room, there was only the paled philosophy club, goofily dressed up like different figures from history. I know they had fought tooth and nail- literally- over who got to be Aristotle. She averted her eyes- sorry, eye, now- to the ground. Plato glowered at her. That one didn’t need a bald cap anymore.

“Next room. Sorry.”

“Goddamnit.”

Creative writing. They had transcribed their favorite books into tattoos on their skin. Weird stuff. Kids were like a cult almost, which was why they were my least favorite. They still looked away from me as I stalked into the Spanish Honor Society’s room.

Huh. There was no one in here. Just an over-saturated blue. It hurt my eyes. Makes sense why no one was here.

It was similar in the purple room. The cybersecurity kids were in here, though. They scampered around on the floor, completely nude but for the blindfolds they wore. I was about to walk into the final room, but I hesitated. My ex was a big guy. Maybe I should have my entourage join in?

I turned, and they weren’t there. They must have stuck behind in one of the other rooms, too scared of him to go in. No matter. I’ll deal with this myself. Like a real queen should.

The black room was, of course, pitch black. But for a glow that emanated from a figure in the center. My ex. He was, of course, in the most infuriating costume I’ve ever seen.

He was thin, scrawny. Which should have seemed impossible, given how he was two-hundred pounds of muscle last week, but whatever. He wore a long coat and a pair of pants, both pure white. His face was alabaster white, just like my mask. Actually, I think it was a mask. As I walked closer to him, I heard wheezing, like his breath was short. His mouth and chest were scarred with bumps. Every breath he took almost inverted his chest, actually. His skin and eyes were irritated, but not red. Just white.

He coughed, a wet, hacking noise, and something came out. A small, wet piece of flesh flew from his mouth. It hit the ground just in front of me. It was just like his chest. Scarred, bumpy, and pure white.

Oh God. He was flaking. Clouds of little white flakes left his mouth with every exhale. Little bits left other parts of his body with every movement. Mostly his fingers and shoulders. The greatest amount of dust, however, came from the chunk that had left his mouth.

The worst part of all this, the real kicker, was the crown. It covered the top half of his eyes, like a blindfold almost. It was white and gold at the same time. I- I’m not sure how, it just was. It was bigger than my own crown, too. Like he was the prom king. A prom king afflicted with asbestosis.

Oh, that asshole. I pulled my hand black, and slapped him across the face.

But I didn’t. There was nothing there. Just a mask and clothes, crumpled on the floor.

I wheezed. Coughed. Something came out of my throat. Something wet, bumped, and scarred. And then I blacked out.

‘

Senior year was my year. Student council president? Check. Choice college? Check. Prom queen? Check. Just an awesome year.

As student council president, I’m the one in charge of planning parties and organizing them. Well, the way I did it this time was just fan-freaking-tastic. Complex, yeah, but name one good thing that’s simple.

Now, my school is kinda set up in a circle. There are seven class areas that connect to two others, one for each subject. And, coincidentally, for each club I’m president of. And each color of the rainbow. Math, science, social studies, language arts, world languages, technology, and art. Chess, Science Honor Society, Philosophy, Creative Writing, Spanish Honor Society, Cyber Security, and Pottery. Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, violet, black. I used the massive central courtyard and gymnasium for the final one, made it into a whiteout zone to contrast with the final black area.

It was all pretty sick. Just the greatest party ever. There was only one problem: I had shown up late. And my prom king and boyfriend had probably taken his throne without me. But that’s okay. My entrance is going to be fantastic.

First stop, red. The chess room. My royal entourage behind me, we quickly strode through the room. It was a pretty fun design. The checkerboard people flickered in and out of existence. Black to white to black again. Good people. Fun to be around. Very, very smart, and very good at games. I was a big fan of the way they dressed up for the occasion. Old-fashioned in a new way, I guess?

Orange, now. The scientific. Loose strands of DNA littered the area. They looked like flasks, this time around. Filled with steaming liquids. They drank from plastic skulls full of juice. Nonalcoholic, of course.

Anyways, next room. yellow. Weird guys. I heard that this year, like always, they had fought over who got to be who. The leader was always Aristotle, but the others got to war over Descartes and Plato. Me, I prefer being the same person all the time, but different strokes for different folks, right?

Into green. The written. The folks in here had yellow skin, like an old book. The actual brains were written on them, though, like inked tattoos. It really must suck, being mental when all your friends are physical. Then you have to buy bodies, and actually get yourself in them. They’d bought cheap, but they made it look nice. Careful not to touch any bodies and smudge someone off, I went into the next room.

Blue, now. Just one member, in here. Spain looked at me with their thousand burning eyes. An army of skulls chanting in the darkness as their fingers danced. The mountains and rivers become nails and blood vessels. Twirling shapes in the darkness. A single piercing shriek echoing through the void.

Classy fellow. I’m glad they showed up. And in their best dress, too.

Okay. Purple. I walked through the blind, deaf, mute things. Cylinders of flesh that faintly throbbed as they sat in their chairs. Blindfolds covered alternating parts of them, like stripes. They rocked a little, swaying from side to side. It wasn’t due to any outside influence. Just their minds. I tried it once. The whole sensory deprivation thing. I got too antsy in there. Too many irons in the fire, you know.

Final room. Black. I was the only one in here. It was pitch-black, of course. Wet too. It thumped, and I could feel it beat around me. Thump. Thump. Thump.

I emerged from the pot, and entered into the white room. The throne room. My court. They were all there. Everyone from before. My kingdom bowed as I entered. And he was there. On the throne, with mine next to him. Two equal chairs, to represent two equal forces. The king and his queen. The light and the dark.

Pieces drifted from him, up into the sky. He breathed and his chest inverted. His crown was large, white. Beautiful. I couldn’t see my own, but I knew it was just as beautiful. I took my place next to him, sitting. And the kingdom was whole again. White and black united to become perfection. One that would reign for the rest of forever.

This is such a kickass prom.

[takingcourage]

A Helping Hand

Pairing: Jaime x MC

Word Count: 1,800

Summary: Arden decides that her fiancé needs some assistance in his efforts to repair their home. 

Note: This story follows The Girl Next Door and will probably make more sense if you’ve read that story first. 

It had all started with her potted plants.

"Jinx just won't leave them alone," Arden had told him seriously. "They'll do better here anyway. You've got more sunlight than I do at the apartment."

He'd complied, giving her permission to put the pair of planters anywhere she liked.

Next, her clothes had started cropping up everywhere -- socks in his laundry basket, a set of pajamas in the nightstand drawer, and a pencil skirt and blouse that had staked their claim at the extreme end of his closet.

Jaime smiled every time he saw them -- these tangible reminders that she’d said yes -- that soon, this would be not just his house, but theirs. Besides, the slow infiltration just meant that there would be less work for them to do on moving day. 

When he arrived home from work on Friday evening, it came as little surprise to find her car parked in his driveway. The sedan had caught his eye as soon as he turned onto Sycamore Drive, messy as usual and looking for all the world like it belonged there. 

That's because it does, he thought as he parked his truck beside her in the doublewide drive. Or it will soon. He engaged the emergency brake and left the vehicle, already feeling the weight of the day begin to lessen. 

Leaving his keys in his pocket, he rapped a couple of times before he pushed open the front door. “I’m home!” he announced, voice a quiet singsong in his uncertainty where to direct the greeting. 

Any remaining tiredness evaporated the moment his eyes fell on Arden. 

She popped out from the hallway, an easy grin splitting her face. "I know I said I was working late tonight, but we finished everything and decided to start the weekend early." Bounding into the entry, she hopped up on her toes to receive the kiss that she knew was waiting for her. "I thought I'd come by and do some work on the house."

Jaime's eyes widened at the suggestion, and he finally looked beyond her happy face. Far from the professional attire she’d probably driven over in, she now wore a pair of threadbare basketball shorts and a T-shirt that still had the remnants of some long-forgotten art project staining both sides. Her short hair was tied up with a blue bandana that was knotted just above her left eyebrow. 

He knew at once the look that she’d been going for, but couldn’t help snickering at the full effect. 

Brown eyes flashed, and one finger raised to a point. The finger -- along with the rest of the hand, he noted -- was unnaturally red. “Stop thinking about me being cute. I’m here to do work,” Arden protested, wagging the finger she held out toward his chest. 

Jaime’s lips straightened at the appraisal, but his thoughts changed very little. She was always irresistible, but this style was completely new. “What work are you getting done?” he asked once suspicion had gotten the better of him. 

“Follow me,” she told him coyly, turning on her heel to travel back down the hall. 

When they reached the dining room, he couldn’t help taking stock of everything before he followed her movements. He knew Arden’s intentions were good, but what she’d tried to pass off as home repairs in the past typically included mass amounts of Gorilla Glue and duct tape. He breathed more easily on seeing that all was as he had left it, save for a bucket of soapy water that stood in the corner. 

"I've been cleaning the walls," she informed him proudly, retrieving a dripping sponge and squeezing the excess water with exaggerated finesse. “I was reading up on how to prep walls for painting and I came across this recipe for making a solution that removes leftover wallpaper adhesive and...”

Arden’s words trailed, brows furrowing as her eyes swung back to him. “Why should I have let you do it?”

Jaime hiked a hand through his hair. The thought hadn’t been conscious until he’d heard it from her lips, and now there was no way of taking it back. It didn’t even seem sensible from any objective metric, but he couldn’t help his instinct. 

“I...” he struggled, bringing the hand down to scratch the ridge behind his ear. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, Arden. I promise it’s not that. It’s just... I kind of wanted to do all of this for you. Maybe that’s old fashioned of me.” 

The protest felt silly, but it was true. The changes he’d already made had been some of the most satisfying work he’d ever done. He’d imagined her bare feet padding along each panel of flooring, smiled over the thought of her towels joining his on the bathroom wall, and dreamed of their future with every single swipe of sandpaper and drop of paint. Letting someone else do part of that work felt like cheating. 

She tossed the sponge back into the bucket and wiped her wet hands on the legs of her shorts. There was no anger when her eyes met his, but the confusion he read there clenched his heart. 

“I thought you’d be happy that I was taking initiative. You’re always joking about how lazy I am when it comes to this kind of stuff.”

Jaime took a step toward the wall, contemplating the work she’d done while he’d been away. Arden was right, her help up to this point had rarely been anything more involved than holding the end of a tape measure. With a shake of his head, he called to mind the many times he’d tried to include her in his work without success. I should probably be grateful that she wants to help.  

Arden’s pensive tone put an end to his preoccupation. “I mean, I’m here for selfish reasons too.”

As she moved toward him, he extended a hand to cup her face, fingertips resting on the band of fabric that spanned her head. She surveyed him solemnly, her chipper excitement having fizzled out in the wake of their misunderstanding.

“I’m just so ready to live with you.” Her lips formed the words slowly, and Jaime had to work not to lose focus on what was being said. “I thought I would do anything I could to help speed along the process. And I love this house, Jaime. I’ve been imagining living in it for -- well, years, actually.” 

He traced the thick layer of cloth, his thumb resting on her temple thoughtfully. “I have too. And I can’t tell you how much I look forward to having you here all the time. But I want everything to be ready when it’s time for you to actually move in. I don’t want you to have to live somewhere with half-finished floors or tacky paint.” Please understand, Arden. 

The corner of her mouth tipped upward. “I think I do. But won’t it be ready faster if I help?”

Her simple question should have had a simple answer, but Jaime struggled to accept it. I just want it to be perfect for you.

Arden considered the words curiously before her eyes crinkled further. “It already feels perfect to me.” 

Jaime sighed faintly. “You know what I mean.” 

“I guess so. But doesn’t that mean we have work to do?” she surmised with a pointed glance at the walls.   

“Okay,” he told her, removing his jacket. Once done, he rolled the sleeves of his work shirt several inches. “Here’s my new plan. The jobs we can do together, we do together. If there’s something that takes a lot of training or experience, I’ll do it by myself. How’s that sound to you?”

Arden’s smile returned in full force. “It’s a deal.” She held out a slender hand and he shook it, noting her pruny fingers. 

“But we’re going to start by finding you a pair of gloves, okay?”

Her cheeks flushed a delightful shade of pink. 

“Come with me to the garage,” he beckoned. 

On reaching their destination, he quickly located the box of gloves on top of his workbench. He withdrew a pair and held them out for his fiancée’s approval, but her back was turned and her interest focused elsewhere. 

“I love this color even more in person,” she told him, brushing a finger over the small sample drop on top of the paint cans she’d found. “It’s going to look amazing in there, especially with the new stain on the floors.” 

Jaime’s chest flip flopped at the enthusiasm in her tone, and he resisted the urge to pinch himself awake. “Let’s finish one step at a time,” he encouraged, stretching the gloves toward her in a second attempt. 

She retrieved them and tried them on, distracted. “What I’m really looking forward to is the primer. It’s like painting, but you can get a little crazy with it,” she told him intensely. “Doesn’t really matter what it looks like in the end.” 

He bit back a groan at the suggestion. The idea of Arden with anything resembling a paintbrush was vaguely disconcerting. 

“I’m kidding,” she assured. “At least partially.”

“I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear that,” he offered, sliding open a drawer to find his stash of clean rags. “I think I’ve got what we need. Let’s head back in.” 

He followed her into the house, chuckling again as he caught a fresh glimpse of her ragged appearance. Any frustration or uncertainty he’d felt before was quickly melting away to leave little but fondness behind. I may not always understand you, but I sure am lucky to have you. 

She glanced back at him with a sly wink. 

“And I still can’t believe you finished a full week of work and wanted to come scrub walls instead of going home to binge Netflix. You’ve changed, Arden.” 

“They say love will do that to a person.” 

He rolled his eyes at her cheesy rejoinder and pretended to struggle to stretch the gloves over his palms. 

“And besides,” she admitted, “that wasn’t the only reason I came. I had some things I wanted to bring over too.” 

"Sneaking in more of your clothes?” 

Arden's nose wrinkled at the accusation. “You’ll just have to wait and see.” 

“I can’t wait to find them -- whatever they are.” He pushed a second sponge into the bucket, compressing it until it had been thoroughly saturated in the cleaner. 

“And I can’t wait to move in.” 

“That makes two of us.” He kissed her forehead and held out his sponge, motioning for her to do the same. “Let’s get to work.” 

[hookaroo]

Vocivore, Ltd. (39 of 45?)

Also on FFN and AO3 (ListerofTardis)

Tagging @ouatwinterwhump, @killian-whump, @sancocnutclub, @killianjonesownsmyheart1, @courtorderedcake, @facesiousbutton82 <3

***THE MOST WONDERFUL, HEARTBREAKING, and BEAUTIFULLY WHUMPY COVER ART BY @cocohook38 HERE and HERE!!!!!!!!!*************

***Chapter 12 animation and art that will absolutely astound you!!!!!!!!!**********

***LETHAL Chapter 19 art in all of its BLOODSTAINED GLORY!!!!************

**POOR STABBED KILLIAN falling into the sheriff station! Ch. 7 & 23 art!!**

****KILLIAN AND HIS MASTER IN THE GORGEOUS CATHEDRAL!!!!!!!!!!!!    CHAPTER 1 ART THAT KILLS ME EVERY TIME I SEE IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!*********

*CH 34 ART! A DEFEATED KILLIAN, HEAD BOWED BEFORE HIS MASTER!!*

***CH 36 ART! DETECTIVE JONES BOWS BEFORE HIS NEW MASTER!!!!!!***

***AAAAHHHH!!! THANK YOU MY WONDERFUL COCONUT FRIEND!!!!!!***

                 (what the heck happened to the horizontal line, tumblr??)

Present (Friday, continued)…

The first siren was the most beautiful sound Jones had heard in a very long time. His sense of time had been growing increasingly fuzzy, but his estimate would have leaned toward a wait of at least an hour. Likely a gross exaggeration, but with Killian in such dire straits, and the attention-seeking behavior of his own dizzying pain, every moment had stretched to an interminable age.

Thankfully, Emma had resumed the duty of applying pressure to her husband's wounds, and Jones could take advantage of the respite to recline back against the bloodied altar. He didn’t know for sure, but he had a suspicion that fragments of the stun projectile remained in his throbbing shoulder. Emma had graciously wrapped a second bandage around the first, which seemed to be containing the bleeding for the most part, but didn't do much for the agony. All adrenaline now long gone, Jones could feel each heartbeat through the wound, and an overwhelming exhaustion pressed down upon him. More than once, he had caught himself beginning to topple sideways, close to passing out. Dizziness bordered on nausea. He could only imagine how Killian must be feeling. As far as Jones could tell, his counterpart drifted in and out of consciousness, frequently coming back with sobs of terror as he relived tortures endured, and Emma could not always soothe him easily.

Now, as the first scream of a siren echoed up to the rafters, Jones forced himself alert and struggled closer to Killian's side, knowing that Emma would want to direct the help where it was needed most. She met his gaze gratefully, squeezed Killian's knee with a murmured word of encouragement, then rose. As she jogged toward the front door, Jones listened to the labored breathing beside him and prayed that the medics weren't too late.

"In here," called Emma, one foot still inside the church. Evidently she was reluctant to leave her husband for too long. "Hurry!"

Killian whimpered and Jones lay a gentle hand on his forearm.

"Still with us, mate?"

Uniformed paramedics trooped inside, following Emma's urging, and Killian shivered, seemingly only half-aware of his surroundings. The detective managed one more reassuring squeeze before shuffling aside. He watched with hooded eyes the efficient dance of emergency medical assessment, waving off attention for his own injuries in favor of faster intervention for Killian.

The medics were quick to administer supplemental oxygen as they measured vitals and made a preliminary examination of his wounds. Emma managed level-headed answers to their questions, keeping out of their way but determined to stay by Killian's side. He seemed confused and afraid, struggling against every touch despite Emma's pleas for him to remain calm. The medic at his left side was already on her third cannula as she tried to hit a moving target. Pouches of blood and saline awaited only a reliable access to Killian's compromised circulatory system.

Emma's phone buzzed. After reading the message and typing a quick reply, she reported to no one in particular,

"Second ambulance is close. My dad’s following in his truck. He's gonna direct them in here."

One of Killian's medics seemed to be getting ready to activate a power drill into his upper arm. Jones wondered if he might be starting to hallucinate, but in response to Emma's look of confusion, the medic explained how the long bones can be just as effective at transporting drugs and fluids as peripheral veins are. "It's not overly painful," yeah right. Already woozy, Jones couldn't watch, and even Emma had to look away as the battery-powered device buzzed a stylet through skin and muscle and into the humerus. Perhaps the woman was correct; Killian didn't seem excessively bothered. He'd grown quiet and mostly still, focused on the effort of breathing. Under the mask, he almost looked like a fish out of water, gulping at air too thin to metabolize. The impression was only strengthened by the bluish-gray tinge to his skin.

This was evidently cause for concern. The activity around him doubled in calm intensity, and even Emma backpedaled to allow them more space to work. Jones was just gathering the fortitude to stretch out a comforting hand when the church door scraped open again. He had missed hearing the new ambulance come wailing up, but he could see a doubling of the whirling flashes outside.

David still had his arm in a sling, but that didn't stop him from being the first one inside.

"Emma!"

Fixated on her husband's struggles to breathe, Emma didn't seem to even hear her father's call. David urgently beckoned the new arrivals inside and started up the aisle himself. He did an impressive double take at the monstrous corpse on the floor, watching it warily as he skirted an unnecessary circle around it, then hurried to the foot of the stairs. He faced a moment of indecision when catching a glimpse of his son-in-law in the midst of the crowd of medical professionals, eventually deciding to creep up in between Emma and Jones in order to provide his daughter with moral support. Kneeling behind Emma and pulling her close against his chest, he cast a worried glance at Jones.

"Hey, partner. You okay?" he murmured, making sure to keep his voice at a level that would not disrupt critical communications elsewhere.

"Glad you could j-join us, mate," Jones gritted out, shivering painfully. The sackcloth tunic he wore certainly did not provide much warmth. He was beginning to regret having insisted Emma lay all of the blankets she'd found over Killian, especially considering that most of them were now strewn carelessly in a heap after the medics had desired better access to their patient.

David read his thoughts and reached gingerly around Emma, grasping at one of the discarded blankets nearby. Absently, Emma helped him to drag it back out of the way. The prince tore his eyes away from the frantic scene in front of him, gave Emma a comforting squeeze, then pulled away. As he spread the blanket over his quaking partner, David hissed,

"What the hell happened? What were you two even doing here?"

"Saving the world, naturally," grimaced Jones. The second band of EMTs had finally arrived, and they were trotting toward the altar, though to Jones it appeared as if they were moving in slow motion. David finished tucking the corner behind his good shoulder, leaving the fabric loose beneath the saturated bandage on the other side.

One uniformed man started to set up shop at Jones' right just as Emma turned and reached for David, her strong façade crumbling. David was forced to adjust his position in order to accommodate his wounded shoulder blade. As the prince gathered his weeping daughter in his arms, Jones could hear him whispering words of hope. He's going to be ok. They'll get him home; Whale will fix him up. People could survive a collapsed lung. And they were talking about Killian, here.

Jones heard all of this despite the other portion of his attention devoted to responding to the questions being put to him by the two EMTs assessing him. Turning his face away from the blood pressure cuff that was currently magnifying the throb in his coat-hanger-pierced forearm, Jones caught sight of what had so deeply upset Emma. Not only were the medics inserting some sort of drain in Killian's chest below the still-protruding dagger, but they were also preparing to intubate and take over his respirations with mechanical ventilation. It all looked serious and scary, but was obviously for the best, if his own efforts were ineffective.

True professionals, Jones’ medics kept their focus solely on him despite the commotion nearby. Their attempts to start an IV were barely distinguishable from the squeezing, pulsing anguish lower down his punctured forearm; Jones was just grateful they hadn't yet pulled out their bone drill to use on him. As he looked past the gurney that was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, Jones spotted the massive corpse of the Master slumped where they'd left it. And surrounding it…

“Bloody hell,” muttered the detective. Still in the dark about the situation and extremely on edge, David's head snapped up and he looked around wildly, fumbling for his gun.

"What is it? What's the matter?"

"They're over there." Jones gave a stiff nod to indicate the direction in which he was looking.

The slaves were gathering around their Master. Forming a mournful and eerie circle tribute. Or maybe it was panicked directionlessness. Even those too weak, stunned, or injured to walk were compelled to slither along the ground, inch by agonizing inch, all to be closer to the commanding presence they could no longer feel or hear. If anything were to remind the detective of a zombie horror film, the sight before him now would have been a top contender. Even more were staggering their way into the bustling church, clogging up the doorway through which additional paramedics were attempting to enter.

"Wow," grunted David, still slightly alarmed. "That's disturbing." He glanced warily back at Jones. "You're not... feeling the urge to join them, are you?"

The detective's attempt at a laugh came out more like a groan. "Not yet, mate; thank the gods. I'll let you know if I do."

"Well," said David thoughtfully, "at least it will make it easier to round them all up."

A sudden frenzy of activity distracted both men from the sight. Emma scrambled to her feet as Killian's backboard was hauled up in preparation for transport to the ambulance. She shot the briefest of glances at her father, but was already making as if to follow even before he had a chance to say,

"You go. I'll handle things here."

Just as the front doors had ground to a close behind Killian's gurney, one of Jones’ medics rose to her feet. She found a place on the altar’s façade on which to hang his bag of saline, saying,

“Okay, Mr. Jones. I know you're probably anxious to get to the hospital where you'll be more comfortable, but since you're stable for now, we are obligated to triage the rest of the scene before deciding who gets priority.”

“Understood,” Jones assured her. “I can wait.”

As she collected her remaining equipment, her partner turned to David.

“Would you mind keeping an eye on him? I'll tell you what to watch out for.”

David hesitated, looking torn. “I…” He turned stricken eyes upon Jones. “Killian, I didn't want to give Emma one more thing to worry about, but in her message she said that Hope was... safe? I didn’t see her… and who’s taking care of her right now?”

The detective gave him the best impression of a reassuring grin that he could manage under the circumstances.

“She isn’t here, mate,” replied Jones with a definite slur to his words. He could feel some kind of narcotic beginning to take effect, blurring pain and mental acuity alike. “But she is safe and being looked after; I give you my word.”

David’s teary smile was laced with confusion. “She… but then where…?”

With a deep sigh, the detective closed his eyes and rested his head back against the hard surface behind him. “I don’t believe that’s my story to tell, David. Sorry.”

He heard the medic begin to relay quiet instructions to the prince and slitted one bleary eye open to interrupt.

“If you’d rather assist with the injured slaves, I should be okay here. This thing has an alarm, doesn’t it?” Jones indicated the portable EKG currently monitoring his heart rate. David winked at him, rubbed his eyes with one hand, and settled in next to Jones.

“Nonsense. What kind of friend would I be if I left you here all alone?” He shifted his weight a bit, trying to get comfortable. “Besides, I wouldn’t be much help anyway with one arm out of commission. Bossing the medics around, I guess, but I get the feeling they don’t need my input.”

Jones gave him the barest hint of a smile before closing heavy eyelids again. “Thank you.”

For the second time in three days, Detective Jones was reminded of that lonely Seattle night, when the poison in his heart had nearly killed him. He even had the aching soreness in his chest as an additional parallel.

How much nicer it was to have a caring friend by his side while he waited!

                                (horizontal line goes here angry face)

[fluidsf]

Sonic Picks 24

Ain: ع (2019

Reviewed format: digital download album on QUANTUM NATIVES

After having finished the most recent series of Genot Centre reviews recently, today I'm reviewing a new release on a label that I'm new to and that's also been added to my network of labels that send me review / promo copies of their new releases. This label is QUANTUM NATIVES, an online label that releases curious and experimental music with a lot of creative and Noise infused sound shaping as well as interesting concepts that goes along with a site on which all releasese are put on an actual map. Definitely an intriguing label that makes great use of modern digital techniques and involves audiovisual art and graphic design as well. The first new release I'm reviewing today of QUANTUM NATIVES is this album by Ain, titled ع, Ain is a collaboration between Egyptian based artist Amr El-Alamy and US based Matt Liston and on this album is a result of the exploration of "the contrast and connection between a place of militance and decay and one of lavish acceleration through a shared sonic-emotional language" as it says in the release description included in my review copy email I received. So, indeed the ideas, feelings and ingredients of the music on this album are rather dark and in no way moving in postive or bright directions but while the mood is dark the music still delivers a great immersive and sonically intense and detailed listening experience. As Ain delivers a great 8 track album of glitch / plunderphonics infused sonic pieces that freely wander from Noise to more melodic, sometimes repetitives parts that feels fresh and new and totally unique in its bass-heavy sound design and composition. Before I get into the music track by trak, I'll mention that my review copy of this album came with the 8 album tracks in 320kbps MP3 files, the album cover as well as 4 additional "landscape" artwork pictures. This will be mostly identical to the download you can get from QUANTUM NATIVES.

ع starts with the track Acid Tears - دموع الأسيد, a piece that features a melody played by a sharp metallic synth that's "spread" overtime, getting chopped up at points too, leading the music. This melody is placed over squelcy, machine like bubbling dirty sounding synth effects. It feels "militaristic" and alien at the same time, the machinery like synths having been morphed into molten steel/plastic structures of sound, until the second half in the piece where the main synth melody changes up and becomes sharper and more prominent. In this second half the synth melody gets increasingly intense and distorted as well as being even more compressed than in the first half. Especially at the end the synth sound reminds me a bit of Clark, though with a much more Industrial / Noise sounds added and a fuzzier more destructive sound. Very nice. This piece then smoothly moves to the second track Anxiety Vessel - كبسولة قلق which is very very bass heavy, compressed and distorted mechanic squelchy Noise murk, very nice. Only siren synths sounds, high pitched noise burst and resonant noise can rise above the massive earthquake of sound, very intense. End Time Rhythm - إيقاع النهاية features a more percussion heavy sound, metallic Industrial percussion that is and again nicely destroyed sounding by the very heavy distortion and compression. Distant hollow resonant Industrial hums, and filtered metallic synth effects add factory like elements to the shattered and rumbling Industrial soundscape as siren synths scatter and pan around in the Industrial rhythmic structures. The Industrial hums and drones give this piece a great base that the rhythms are built around and it does feel calm in a way as well. Great Industrial mood in here. Please Escape - إهرب لو سمحت then, is a short piece full of stuttery and panned Industrial and Noise percussion and rumbly low distorted sound. Very much a pure sonics based piece that features great sonic manipulations and an intensely scattered destructive cloud of ever evolving Noise sounds. Dread Tune - نغمة فَزَع moves in a more melodic plunderphonics based sound with clusters of music samples stuttering and being reversed and pitch manipulated into arpeggios. It's a pretty lengthy piece and a bit repetitive but the subtly changing synth / sound manipulated in the background, low saturated squelches, shifting high frequency sounds and background industrial sounds do add some nice progression to the piece which keeps it interesting and captivating to listen to. More sparse in the sonic imaging than other piece but pretty effective sonic manipulations and rather fun to listen to, even if the title says Dread Tune actually. Everything Is Crumbling Around Me - كله بينهار حوليا mixes classic harsh squelching screechy Noise techniques with Drill & Bass like heavy percussive sound manipulation with plenty of crazy stereo imaging effects being used too. Very murky and distorted sounding most of the time the constantly jumping bass and metallic sound heavy rhythms create some excellent sonic enjoyment which brings ع into an a more percussive direction. Melodic elements are kept to a restricted minimum in here and overall the track feels like this curious shapeshifting squelches mass of muddy mixed sonic materials, always moving, morphing and shapeshifting, nice. Club Horror - رعب الكلَب is the longest piece on this album and features a more Drone based sound full of glitchy metallic and reverberated Industrial percussion, tense distorted screechy tones and distant melodic patterns that create an ambience that is again darker and more visceral with the growing cloud of hissing glitchy Noise sonic scattering all around the sound image like a tense battle brought back to corrupted degraded sonic bits and pieces of sound. Hypnotic and subtly moving forward, this track is an intriguing Industrial soundscape. Devastation Assimilated - إِستَوعبنا الخراب is the final track of the album and features heavily distorted metallic sample stabs in a crumbling murky haze of Noise, both droning but also rhythmic, like an attack of sound both melodic but also dangerously destructive, it's bass frequencies quickly moving towards you like seismic waves. A particlaurly intense finale to this album, that with it's 33:49 playing time is a bit short but packs a lot of impressive, enjoyable but also convincing dark and tense Noise, drone and Industrial soundscapes.

ع by Ain is an album packing both dark and lighter soundscapes and rhythms filled with metallic, crumbling, sub bass quakes and resonant sonics as well as melodic patterns in several pieces that blends a feeling of terror and dread with elements that feel more hopeful. While these pieces often feel dangerous, Ain doesn't overdo their compositions and sound design and offers glimmers of light in the darkness of ruins and the often abstract nature of the tracks opens up room for many interpretations and sonic mind images. An intriguing and excellently created album of sonic imagery that I definitely recommend. This is a great listen for listeners into Noise, Industrial, Drone but also anyone looking for a unique sonic experience that will shake your mind and give you an intense physical listening experience as well as fans of experimental music in general.

digital download album available from the QUANTUM NATIVES site here (look for ع on the map): http://quantumnatives.com

[ashxpad]

Shooting with a 21-Year-Old Camera: The Fujifilm S1 Pro

I find it incredibly fun to use older, especially unique, digital cameras both as a challenge and for sheer enjoyment.

I think part of it is psychological. With archaic cameras sporting outdated technology we anticipate subpar results, and so we focus more on what we can control: composition, lighting (when applicable), exposure, and so on — the things we should always be focusing on.

Conversely, when we have a Hasselblad in our hands, we may let go a bit in the unconscious belief that the camera can make up the difference for our lack of talent or effort. Of course, we all know it can’t.

I won’t get into the boring history of why I own a lot of early to mid-2000s digital cameras, but at some point, I found myself the owner of a Fujifilm Finepix S1 Pro — the first in a five-model line of Fujifilm DSLRs that housed some incredibly unique sensor technology that it dubbed “SuperCCD.”

Apologies for the subpar product photos. I didn’t have access to my full setup.

In the S1 Pro, the photodiodes of the 3.1-megapixel SuperCCD sensor took the form of a honeycomb tessellation, oriented in a zig-zag array rather than a simple vertical/horizontal mosaic. Because of this, the distance between cells is smaller, making for about 40% more (square root of 2 = 1.41) sensor cell rows horizontally and vertically than a regular Bayer sensor.

The camera then uses an interpolation algorithm that supposedly results in a resolution equivalent to a 6.2 megapixel Bayer sensor. The 45-degree orientation also allows for improved capture of horizontal and vertical detail. This is good because most of the world, thanks to gravity, exists in horizontal and vertical planes — however, this happens at the expense of diagonal resolution, which is where traditional sensor layouts excel.

The honeycomb design of the SuperCCD sensors.

Released in January 2000, the Fujifilm S1 Pro is based on the Nikon N60 (aka F60) film camera body (with modifications by Fuji). It logically sports a Nikon F mount and can use AI, AI-S, AI-P, AF, AF-D, or G type lens — however, only AF and AF-D lenses will autofocus. AI and AI-S lenses can only be used in manual exposure mode as there is no meter coupling.

Most of these photos were shot with either the Nikon AF-D 24-120/3.5-5.6 or Nikon AF-D 50/1.8. While the 24-120 is not a quality optic, it’s a more than sufficient match for this sensor, especially stopped down a bit — and you can stop down to your heart’s content without hitting diffraction on this camera.

I had initially gone out shooting with some superior G-type lenses, however, accurate manual focusing is impossible for me through the straw-like OVF (wearing glasses doesn’t help either) and the focus confirmation dot is totally unreliable. Strangely, I had more issues manually focusing on distant objects stopped down than closer ones wide open — the photo above was manually focused with the Sigma Art 35mm wide open at f/1.4, yet the below photo (slightly out of focus) was at 24mm and f/8 with the Nikon 24-120mm f/4G VR.

Shutter speeds top out at 1/2000th. There are several metering modes (3D 6-zone, 6-zone, center-weight), a pop-up flash and hot-shoe (Nikon TTL compatible), and ISO options of 320, 400, 800, and 1600. There is no auto ISO function, and you have to menu dive each time you want to adjust it.

File choices are JPEG or TIFF only — no RAW, unfortunately — recorded to either CompactFlash or SmartMedia. The camera certainly did not accept my 64 or 128GB cards, but I was able to dig up an old 1GB card that can hold a whopping 56 TIFF files in the highest quality mode available (“Hi RGB TIFF”).

This is easily the slowest camera I have ever used. The menu is the antithesis of intuitive; it’s mostly just a collection of symbols and abbreviations and my hat is off to you if you can guess their meaning without reading the manual.

Forget chimping. Just murder that idea and bury it. It takes a solid 31 seconds (yes, I timed it) for an image to populate the screen. Once it does, just about the only thing you can confirm is that a photo was indeed taken, though a histogram is available for more accurate analysis. JPEGs, however, are significantly faster to review.

In a way, if you choose TIFF over JPEG, using the camera is akin to shooting a bulked-up Nikon N60 loaded with a roll and a half of film — no image review, roughly 55 maximum shots, and no quick adjustment of the ISO.

The S1 Pro allows you to choose between either 3.1MP or 6.2MP output. To produce a traditional image file — which exists in rows and columns — the camera must interpolate by using adjacent photosites to generate data between existing pixels. After all, the recorded file can’t exist in the same zig-zag honeycomb pattern as the sensor. After each line is read out and the missing data is filled, you end up with twice the spatial resolution (6.2MP).

Compared to the Nikon D40, which uses a 6.1-megapixel Bayer sensor, the S1 Pro doesn’t quite reach the same level of pixel acuity. However, side by side with the 4.1 megapixel Nikon D2Hs, there isn’t much in it between the two. So, I think the real Bayer-equivalent resolution sits somewhere in the middle of 3.1 and 6.2MP — around 4-4.5 megapixels. As it would happen, this is exactly in line with the roughly 40% increase in sensor cell rows (3.1 * 1.41 = 4.37). It also depends on the scene — some benefit from the unusual sensor design much more than others.

CCD sensors are not forgiving of sloppy exposure. Pushing or pulling can quickly result in blotchy chroma noise, severe color shifts, and compromised roll-off from the quartertones into the highlights. It is not unlike slide film in this way.

The colors are phenomenally accurate and neutral out of the camera. “ORG” tone and color produce a lovely, neutral file that’s perfect for editing, and “STD” (standard) tone and color make for a pleasingly usable straight-out-of-camera file. Even with color set to “HIGH” and tone set to “HARD,” the images aren’t bombastically oversaturated and Disneyland like we often see with the “Vivid” setting in modern cameras. In fact, High Color/Hard Tone photos exhibit only a very modest bump in saturation and contrast compared to Standard Color/Tone. One thing is perfectly clear: Fujifilm was producing cameras with beautiful color output long before X-Trans.

All the images here were shot at ISO 320, 800, or 1600. ISO 400 is completely pointless given that it’s a mere quarter stop gain over base. It would be easier to just dial in a third of a stop of exposure compensation rather than clicking through the menu. I really wish there was a lower base ISO of 160, as well as intermediate options like 640 and 1280.

The camera’s high native sensitivity — combined with early CCD architecture — means that there is a noticeable level of noise even at base ISO. Thankfully, the noise is quite pleasing and mostly luminance up through ISO 800 — even 1600 has very minimal chroma noise straight out of the camera. Anecdotally, I’ve found this to be a running theme with CCD sensors — considerable noise even at base ISO, but the noise presents very favorably through most, if not all, of the sensitivity range depending on the camera. It also makes for astonishingly appealing black and white photos, especially given the finely grained texture from what is largely high-frequency noise. “Film-like” would be an apt descriptor for the results.

The considerable noise in this image is the result of bringing up an underexposed photo in post. Black and white helps cover the color shifts and chroma noise.

If you nail exposure in camera, ISO 1600 will produce remarkably great results with an unexpectedly low amount of noise for a sensor of this type and age — there isn’t much to speak of in terms of offensive noise and photos are completely usable without any noise reduction. However, at this point, you’ve lost a good bit of dynamic range and if you try to push the image in any way, blocked up patches of low-frequency chroma noise and banding immediately rear their head. There is essentially zero room for pushing the files at all if shot at ISO 800 or higher.

Quite impressively, there is almost nothing in terms of color shift throughout the entire sensitivity range — what is accurate or pleasing at base ISO will be accurate or pleasing at 1600. Again, this is something I have noticed on more than one occasion with CCD cameras — the Pentax 645D behaves almost identically throughout its ISO range.

ISO 1600, SOOC “Standard” color and tone, auto WB. Noise reduction and sharpening zeroed out in ACR. No adjustments aside from downsizing.

While restrictive by modern standards, a highly usable ISO 1600 in an APS-C camera in the year 2000 was exceptionally good. Fujifilm claimed the SuperCCD cameras to have superior sensitivity performance — the honeycomb photosites allow for more pixels to be packed within a given area and their shape more closely mirrors the circular microlenses that sit above them. I think Fuji’s assertation bears out in practice.

I would estimate roughly 7.5-8 stops of usable dynamic range, which is up against what I presume is an 8-bit ADC (analog to digital converter). Given this, along with the unforgiving nature of CCD sensors and processing latitude further limited by the lack of RAW, you need to be very deliberate with your exposure choices. Even in a scene of moderate contrast, you will almost certainly have either crushed blacks or clipped highlights.

However, like most CCD cameras, you do start to lose dynamic range quickly once you boost the ISO by a couple of stops. There also isn’t much in the shadows — modern cameras (CMOS) tend to have a lot of their dynamic range bunched up in the shadows, allowing for some truly incredible detail recovery. CCD sensors do not work the same way, and even with a full-blown RAW file, I doubt you’d find much usable information at that end of the histogram. You can mitigate this somewhat via ETTR (“expose to the right”), but with what is already a suboptimal amount of dynamic range, you’ll only have a small amount of latitude for ETTR, if any.

Oops, highway patrol got me. High contrast scenes like this are difficult – the whites are just on the cusp of clipping, but the blacks are gone in numerous areas.

While the camera’s light meter, particularly the 3D 6-zone multipattern meter, is exceptionally adept at balancing exposure in difficult scenes, the auto white balance is a duality: it’s either one of the most accurate I have ever seen or it’s the worst. Almost all the photos I took required zero tint adjustment and usually only +1 to +4 temperature adjustment. However, on three occasions the images were off by so much I’m still baffled as to exactly why.

The most egregious were photos taken about two hours before sunset in the shade — they were rendered extremely blue and about half a stop underexposed. The white balance went so far off the map that most of a plain white T-shirt measured blue values from 240 on up to completely clipped! I assume the culprit for this error is a combination of the camera’s CCD light meter design and spectral response — the infrared filter may be causing issues in certain situations too. IR filters can strongly affect the blue channel and it’s possible there was a bit of Rayleigh scattering at work.

The major issue is that without a RAW file, your options are extremely limited — those botched files required +76 temperature to correct. Such a massive shift in an 8-bit TIFF file results in horrendous noise — especially bad because the blue channel is always the noisiest — and extreme spectral shifts across the entire image. Strangely, a separate shot of a red step ladder taken five feet away at the same time required only -3 tint and zero temperature adjustment.

Using the S1 Pro reminds me of shooting with the original 18-megapixel Leica M9 and Leica M Monochrom cameras — both with Kodak CCD designs. Neither those cameras nor the S1 Pro has any tolerance for “underexpose to protect the highlights” or similar approaches in the same way that CMOS sensors allow — not unlike how slide film doesn’t take kindly to push processing. People who worry about how a camera handles being pushed five stops will need to adjust — it’ll help them in the long run so they can finally learn to stop underexposing so much.

Ultimately, while the files from the S1 Pro don’t contain anywhere near the latitude of even modern JPEGs, let alone the power of RAW, my biggest takeaway while using this camera was how much I adore and value transparency as a starting point out of the camera. In a way, the naturality of colors and tones from this camera makes it even more aggravating that the files can’t stand up to much manipulation — I would absolutely LOVE results like this out of my Nikon Z7, and every other camera I have for that matter.

My father assisting in the repair of a Pentax 6×7. In scenes like this, you just have to expose for your subject and let the extreme ends clip.

What I would love to see is a universal “Natural Color Solution” (to steal a term from Hasselblad) adopted by all manufacturers and implemented in their cameras as an option. If you want that “Natural Color” RAW file, you can have it. If you want the look that you’ve come to love from your manufacturer, you can pick that too. Aside from Hasselblad, I’m not sure what would be the risk for manufacturers to do this — other than that it would take some effort and time.

I would not call the Fujifilm S1 Pro a fun or pleasant camera to use at all. To be honest, I probably immediately deleted 99% of the photos I took while doing this review. And even among the ones you see here, there are more than a few that I am not happy with. Normally, I would not settle for posting simply passable images, but in this case, I think even the lesser photos here do have value by showing both the warts and the ornaments.

Have no doubt, this is a challenging camera to use. I’m sure my images would greatly improve with continued use, but how much I am not sure — I feel like you hit the ceiling quicker than you might imagine.

Perhaps I can follow this up with a retrospective review of 2005’s Fujifilm S3 Pro, which sports a new SuperCCD SR sensor with two photodiodes per photosite — one of normal sensitivity and a smaller one of lower sensitivity. Both are combined to produce enhanced dynamic range (and it works very, very well). The general principle behind such a design comes from the structure of the crystal coating in silver halide film.  The S3 also has a 14-bit ADC and produces 14-bit RAW files! That’s just a few of the improvements, but I’ll tell you this much: the SuperCCD SR sensor does NOT disappoint.

from PetaPixel https://ift.tt/3Ambu6I

[esmelbye]

Screen Printing

Session: “Screen printing and repeat”

Introduction to screen printing. Learn how to screen print designs onto paper, Produce a series of samples for sketchbook. Screen print onto mixed media boards and emphasis on composition. Screen print into your black penguin books. Continue with sketchbook work an record process. 

Lesson objectives

1) Learn how to screen print (watch demonstration on how to prepare screens, make prints, mix up inks and clean the screens)

2) Experiment with the screen printing process on paper, use difference colours, layer screen prints while considering composition and consider screen printing on different surfaces and paper types.

3) Screen print into your little black book, layer your print to work into later.

4) When confident with the screen printing process, screen print directly onto your constellation boards in black ink.

5) Remember to photograph the whole screen printing process to present on your blog.

Today I will be talking about my screen printing session. I had previously created a handful of different designs for my screen, but I could only choose one. So I chose the one that stood out to me the most out of all of them. With its large lettering and careful composition.

How the screens are made is a light reactive fluid is brushed along the mesh like part of the printing frame. That is left to cure in the drying draws and then is placed in the large light box along with the design that is being made into a screen. The light shines up through and burns away the areas that have the design on. 

I set up my space by taking a large sheet of paper and putting it on the table so I had no messes as well as some rubber gloves to keep my hands clean as the printing ink can get really messy. The materials I used where various coloured printing inks and printing mediums, an ink scraping tool, the printing frame/screen and then a variety of different papers to try.

Before I started screen printing I had to set up my screen. I got some tape and placed it along the end of the screen on the back where the mesh meets the wood. This is to prevent a square outline being around my design and gives it a more clean, professional look. I mixed my ink By doing 1.5:1 of printing acrylic and mixing medium. Using this can help with screen blocking by making sure the paint doesn't dry out too fast and ruin your screen.

once my ink is done I place the screen on a piece of paper or other surfaces like my constellation boards. I place a bit of ink along the top and using the Ink spreader or “squidgie” I push the ink across the screen in a controlled manner making sure to go over any missed areas, as well as scarping up the excess paint for the next use. I sometimes go over the screen a couple times just to really make sure the ink is fully saturating the places it needs to go.

I began experimenting with the screen printing technique by printing some in various colours, as well as printing onto different things like my penguin book. When printing into my penguin book I found it hard to vary the layering of the prints due to its small size, but I think my results still came out effective. One colour that stood out the most to me was the pink. I feel like the way it softens my design really works in an interesting way. Pink, especially baby pink has a lot of pure connotations. Anything we see with baby pink often relates back to things like babies and love, so to have such a chaotic design in that colour I think it really stands out and draws in attention, and in my opinion might even be more effective than the black ink. I started drawing back into them to give more definition in places, as well as adding different medias to them to bring out certain aspects.

I love how the pink looks in my penguin book, if was to do this again with the same design I would definitely experiment with different shades of pink and print in this colour on more types of surface.

Above is a page spread out of one of my penguin books. I had spray painted in this page previously before I printed into it. The almost complete blue circle reminds me of one of the stages of the moon. This page spread looks like an abstract creation of the moon over a busy city, the chaotic screen print representing the city. When I look at the stars and moon I feel calm, safe and I am always left with a sense of wonder for the unknown. When I look at these pages I feel the same.

Once I had experimented with different colours and surfaces, it was time to print onto my wooden constellation boards that I had previously painted and drilled constellations into. I began layering my prints in a line along each other on one of my boards. I wanted this one to be darker and pretty much have print on most of the surface. I think the repetition of how I layered each print works well as repetition is often seen as one of the fundamentals of creativity, in a similar manner to a rhythm, it helps to create a sense of movement within a piece of art. I wanted it to look fuzzy and almost make it seem it was out of focus, so the viewer will look closer and admire each detail of the print. 

The second board I did was a little different. Instead of covering most of the board in ink I left some negative spaces and then printed onto it in varying ways. On one print I only printed half of the screen, on another it was twisted sideways and gone over a few times to give a darker area. I liked repeatedly printing over the same area to really build up that colour and contrast. Negative spaces are very important for creating compositions that are balanced. Negative space in a composition can help identify the focal point. Without enough negative space, a composition can look busy, with too many distracting elements. This is why I have created it this way.

Making sure the acrylic doesn't dry on the screen is important. If it does it is ruined and will be nearly impossible to remove the paint from. When switching colours you should wash the screen to make sure the old colour doesn't show up on your new print. To do this scrape off the remaining paint and then use a wet sponge to push the ink into the newspaper below. Try to avoid wiping the screen as the design could be wiped away and leave a rubbed out print.

I really enjoyed this session today, it wasn’t my first time screen printing and definitely wont be my last. One thing I found hard about this session was making sure I had fully secured the taped areas down, I was left with many ruined prints by forgetting this step. I really like my outcomes from this session and Will be working into these pages of my penguin book a little more, to really perfect those pages.

[spamzineglasgow]

(HOT TAKE) Notes on a Conditional Form by The 1975, part 2

In the second instalment of a two part HOT TAKE (read part one here) on The 1975′s latest LP, Notes on a Conditional Form (Dirty Hit, 2020), Scott Morrison ponders the tricksterish art of writing about music, before riffing on the history of the album as form, questions around genre, nostalgia and a sense of the contemporary, not to mention that saxophone solo and why Stravinsky would love this album.

Dear Maria,

> How pleasant it feels to begin a review with a note to a friend.

> Shoutout/cc:/@FrankO’Hara – I always liked his idea to write a poem like it’s addressed to just one other person. It strikes me as interesting to begin a piece of criticism in the same way. So, this is the mode I will try to inhabit throughout.

> As I read your words, and pondered, and learned, I was caught in the twin state of delighting each time you hit upon something already identified in my own thoughts – some of which I will expand upon here - and equally delighted every time you wrote something I could or would not. Such is the joy of conversation.

> I suppose in this preamble between speakers, which keeps up the pretence of our characters conversing - which will, inevitably, lapse as the form of this review gives way to a longer, more oneiristic, probably, onanistic, possibly, enquiry into the album (an act impossible in real conversation, by the way, imagine, imagine someone actually speaking for this long, how boring and alienating that would be, and yet that is usually what criticism is). Anyway, before all that, to help set the scene, I should mention a few ‘real world’ details. All of which happened either online, of course, or in isolation, because that, as you mention, is the real world now, during the violent interlude of Covid-19.

> I was delighted – that word again, repetitions and patterns begin anew already – to be asked to write this review. Firstly, because, like you say, I am a fan of The 1975. But also, because I am a writer and I am a musician and I am trying just now to forge a new mode of writing about music, one that can be both analytical (technically, socially, historically) and expressive (personally, lyrically, emotionally). And, most of all because I have always been, at best, suspicious, and, at worst, dismissive, of album reviews.

> I wrote, in our Messenger chat, ‘I usually find music reviews unhelpful’, which makes me sound like a bit of a dick, really. But what I meant is, what I meant is.

> There’s a saying I think about a lot, as the aforementioned writer and musician who writes about music: ‘writing about music is like dancing about architecture’ (Martin Mull, Frank Zappa, or Elvis Costello, or any of the other people that sharp quote is blurrily misattributed to.)

> Incidentally, I would love to see a dance about architecture. But sometimes I think the sentiment of the statement is true. Will writing about music always be missing the point? Will it, through words, ever really be able to get to the essentially wordless essence of music? But I am a writer. And I am a musician. And I like writing about music. (Incidentally, I like making music about writing less). Yet I do feel there is some truth to the saying, I guess. Twists and turns. Try again. Here is another way of saying what I am trying to say.

> Music reviews make me hate adjectives. And I love adjectives. But often commercial reviews – for dozens of reasons, many of them valid, most of them related to that capital prefix – become attempts to describe a sound, invariably an artist’s ‘new sound’, again related to that capital prefix. Often, the goal is to generate press, to entice people to listen – or not – and so feed the music industry and the market. And to describe these new sounds, adjectives are piled-up like car crashes. Trying to describe a sound at any great length is, I think, ultimately fated to fail. Adjectives, up to a point, can provide greater and ever-more strident clarity. But, after a certain point – that appears very quickly in most pop reviews - saturation point is reached, and the clarity disappears, and we are left very far away from the music we were originally trying to pile word upon word to reach. ‘Nothing Revealed / Everything Denied’, you might say, if you were into foreshadowing. Which I am (obviously).

> So, I suppose, to continue thinking out loud (in silence, at my keyboard) I am interested in writing around music. Not describing the sounds (‘Let sounds be themselves’, says John Cage, whispering in my memory’s ear), but I am interested in writing that can tease out some of the ideas in and around the music and extend them in new directions. That, I think, is a different and interesting kind of dance worth attempting.

> We understand a review, then, as this kind of dance: as a record of the reviewer’s experience of listening to a record, which will accept that it will largely take as its subject the listening, and not the record. Even better if it’s a dialogue between two. So, here’s what I think about the album.

*

> Ok, before I talk about the album, actually, I would like to talk about a book. I hope that’s alright. There is no objective correlation between the album and the book except the proximity in time in which I experienced them. Let’s get that out of the way at the very beginning. The book has nothing to do with the album. But it does have something to do with how I heard it.

> The book is called An Experiment with Time. I mentioned this to you once already over Zoom. It was written in 1927. My copy belonged to my grandfather, in fact, and his writing – and so his pen and then his hand and then his whole vanished being – appeared occasionally at marginal or pivotal points throughout the text. That was part of what I liked about it, I guess.

> The book – which I allowed Wikipedia to tell me only after I had pushed my way through it – is regarded as an imaginative curiosity, but one which science has never taken seriously. That’s fine for me, because I am far more familiar, fluid and fluent in the language and implications of the imagination that I am of science.

> The book, broadly in two halves, sets out in its first strange span experiences of premonitions in dreams. That will give you the idea of the kind of science book it is. The second half is an attempt at a logical, philosophical, and occasionally mathematical explanation of Time that can account for these premonitory fissures.

> It posits that, in addition to the three dimensions of space (height, breadth and depth, I suppose), that time is a fourth dimension in our universe. I’ve heard that said, but I never really got it before. I do now, and it is very beautiful, because it begins to make me imagine, how, like a sculptor, I can ply, fold and shape with this new dimension. You can imagine how this might be useful to a musician, music being an art that can only exist through time.

> Anyway, the book then goes on to posit that a fourth dimension in which something can be observed to travel (our consciousness), must necessarily imply an observer in a fifth dimension to observe that travel, and then one in a sixth dimension, and so on, ad inifitum, infinite regress, serial time.

> I confess this somewhat surpassed the boundaries of my metaphysics (and/or silently slipped over my head), but the image of the infinite regress has stayed with me, the clickanddrag of old Windows windows ossified and pulled to leave twisting, spiralling trails; the gold-tipped rhythm of tenement window embrasures, repeating, far off, clickanddragged up a hill (hints and twists of Escher), on my daily walks.

> Wikipedia later told me that an infinite regress is a shaky ground on which to base a philosophical proof. Again, this is fine for me: I am a bad philosopher, because I am not competitive, and so this does not bother me very much.

> The infinite regress is a beautiful image, with lots of possibility in it for further imaginings, and it entrances me. So, keep this idea of serial observers and the limitless extension it implies close, please (foreshadowing again, you’re welcome).

*

> I will switch now, briefly, too briefly, from critic to fanboy (I contain multitudes, etc.).  

> Notes on a Conditional Form as an album title made me smile a smile that was very close to a wince or wink. Classic Matty, was probably the thought that came next. You have already summarised dastardly, dear, endearing, calamitous Matty, so I will move on assuming that, Matty Healy, yeah, I know.

> Back to the critic. The conditional form, in this review has already been (drumroll, eyeroll) music reviews themselves. See part one.

> Now I would like to take the album as the form in question – not this album, but albums generally, as this album is an exploration of the album form. The Album, capitalised.

> Albums have become normalised. But let’s play dumb for a moment – one of the cleverest things we can do - and we’ll see that albums are anything but inevitable, especially in the boundless age of streaming.

> Before this, albums used to be defined as collections with physical bounds. The capacity of a CD; before that, a length of magnetic tape; before that, the edge of a vinyl, a shellac, a wax cylinder. That about takes us back to the start of recorded audio media, I think.

> After Edison’s initial, waxy curiosities, albums began - like most things we love and hate - as a product. The form of the album was a circle. The music was a line. The edge of the line was the end of time. Marcel Duchamp’s Rotoreliefs, as a fun aside. And, as another, did you know that there’s a funny B-plot in all of this to do with Beethoven. (It’s always to do with fucking Beethoven.) Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony became the arbitrary marker for the desired length of the CD. It had never before been possible to fit the symphony onto a single, uninterrupted piece of media. And so, the B-plot goes, this is why the standard CD holds the amount of time that it does.

> Anyway, regardless of who shaped them, physical recorded media have, since their staggered births, profoundly shaped culture. Pop songs, especially singles, are still 3 and a half minutes long because that was the maximum amount of time that could be squeezed onto a 78, in the shellac days. Time was short and simple then, seemingly.

> Notes on a Conditional Form is 81 minutes long. It had 8 singles leading up to it, released over a span of ten months. Clearly, physical boundaries and marketing timelines, are not being treated in the usual way. You could just release singles forever now. But the fact this ended up as an album shows some belief in the concept beyond the physical and, yes, the commercial. Let’s press on, look elsewhere.

> Since we’ve started talking about classical music – ok, since I started talking about classical music – I’d like to dwell there for a moment, because there are foreshadows of The Album, conceptually speaking (and this album specifically) several layers up, several parenthesis ago, criticism as serial digression, in classical music.

> Collecting songs as albums was a favourite pastime of the Romantics, early emos. @FranzSchubert, @ClaraSchumann, @JohannesBrahms – there’s another B-plot in that trio if you want to look it up, by the way. Also, Clara Schumann is overlooked, like all female composers, because the classical music world is deeply patriarchal. It’s important to say that whenever we can.

> Anyway, the Romantics did not develop the album as a physical form – the only available recording medium at that time was sheet music, which they did sell in a big way, actually. But really, they helped develop the album as a conceptual form. They collected a group of shorter songs to make a larger statement – Schubert especially. In the 19th century, this was known as a song cycle, a lovely phrase, that makes me think of cycling through meadows, which I have done more than usual recently, as part of my state-sanctioned exercises, though the meadow was in fact an overgrown golf course, and no less lovely for it.

> Schubert’s Die Winterreise is a classic example of the song cycle – and another example of the emo-Romantic - a cycle of poems set to music that take the listener on a journey over time. Sound familiar? Albums. Song cycles. Song spokes. Meadows. Grasses and wildflowers. Meandering journeys.

> Anyway, here we finally return to Notes on a Conditional Form. Collecting songs together allows for an exploration of ideas that can evolve or expand over time – a Brief Inquiry, you might say. Art as a tool of investigation. Process. And this album certainly does that. You already touched on some of the ideas in the album: the climate crisis, the Anthropocene, digital communication, social unrest, calls to action, my favourite lyric on that theme, while we’re here:

Wake up, wake up, wake up, we are appalling

And we need to stop just watching shit in bed

And I know it sounds boring and we like things that are funny

But we need to get this in our fucking heads-

> You explore these ideas well so I will not pursue them more for now. Thank you!

> The other effect of collecting songs – or anything together – is that it gives birth to form. (Gasp, he said the title of the movie!)

> Yes, collecting things together as an album is what creates the form in all senses of the word – physical, commercial, conceptual. Form, pure form, is not the things, or the arrangement of the things, but the relationship between the arranged things. Glimpsing this is like getting a delicious glimpse of time as a fourth dimension. As I may have already let slip, I am very interested in time. And so, I am naturally interested in musical forms, which can only be apprehended through time, with time, thanks to time – thank you, time. We don’t often say that.

*

> This is where I will, at last - god, imagine I had been speaking at you this whole time - this is where I will at last get into the main topic of this review. The remarkable form of this album.

> Wait, sorry, one more thing before I do. A really quick one. As well as time, musical form also needs contrast. For sections to appear as distinct, and thus for us to clearly apprehend the difference between them, and thus get a glimpse of Form, they must contrast with one another, for how else would we apprehend change, notice borders, know we are somewhere else. (An interesting digression here is process music, which I love dearly, and which has an entirely different relationship with form. Look it up, if you like.)

> Anyway, for our purposes now, musical form requires contrast. This could be achieved in many ways: traditionally, it was done with different melodies or harmonies; but it could be done with volume, instrumentation, tempo, texture etc. etc.

> The main way that this album delineates its striking – and, to my mind, for what it’s worth, unique and new – form, how it creates its contrast, is using all of the above tricks, but, even more so, by contrasting styles/genres. This was immediately what struck me and thrilled me about this album, and it’s kind of funny – for me as the annoying writer, perhaps less so for you, the reader, I mean listener – that it’s taken me 2,534 words to mention it. This I think is the brilliance of this record. This is why we can call it not just contemporary, but new.

> The 1975 have always been shifting, but never like this. This album contains, sometimes literally right next to each other: punk, orchestral music, UK garage, Americana, shoegaze, folk, dancehall, 80s power ballads – and, of course, pop, whatever that means. Stravinsky became famous for sharp juxtapositions of distinct musical blocks. He would fucking love this.

> I messaged you, after my first listen, to say that the album reminded me of one of Sophia Coppola’s soundtracks. That was an instinctive, emotional response, but, having thought about it, I can now demonstrate the reason for the similarity. The stylistically varied end products are similar to one another because the methodology is similar: soundtracks select music practically to achieve emotional affects. Soundtrack albums use music as a tool to heighten ideas that lie elsewhere, in their case, in the filmed scenes they accompany. If you believe Matty Healy, this is also what The 1975 do. They use beauty, in whatever style or genre they find it:

‘Beauty is the sharpest tool that we have - if you want someone to pay attention, make it beautiful’.

> What do you make of that, @Keats? No, really, I would love to know.

> I think this is a remarkable musical strategy, that requires flexibility, knowledge and skill. That there is such a high level of all these things in the band is what allows it the strategy to be successful.

> I would like to pause here and consider the implications of this strategy on a personal, social and cultural level.

*

> Musical genre and personal identity have been as fused for as long as pop music has existed. This could be a trick of the market, or it could be a need of the individual psyche, or both. I think there is some truth in theory that in the increasingly widespread absence of God – by which I mean organised religion – people need to find both a guide for their metaphysics and morals, and a structure for their community, as these are some of the most effective tools we have discovered for constructing our Selves, making sense of our lives and the world. Art can provide the guide for many people. It also provides community. These communities, collections – albums? - of political, moral and aesthetic views, then become subcultures.

> Until very recently, subcultures were fixed. ‘Hardcore till I die’, ageing ravers, old punks. Interestingly one never really sees ageing emos. But that’s a subject for another essay.

> This, I think, is perhaps what is so striking here: musical genres are normally culminations (or roots, depending on how you look at it) of lived sub or counter cultures. These usually result from a fixed viewpoint about life and society, shared by the individuals that comprise them. The individuals identify with what the music says, how it is presented and how it looks as much – or perhaps even more - than how it sounds.

> Before now, it would have been shocking to imagine a band switching effortlessly from one style to another – this occasionally happens over the course of a career, between albums, but almost never in the same album itself - because it would feel like a betrayal, if we accept that bands and styles represent fixed ways of life and viewpoints and that neither lives nor viewpoints can change. Which, obviously they can. And which, obviously, they do, nowadays, with increasing speed, @Coronavirus.

> Matty’s appearance is a perfect demonstration of this. Minging Matty, Hearthrob Matty, Matty in vintage jeans, in a skirt, in a pinstripe suit. If we accept the old association of musical style/subculture and the clothing/uniform each produces, what would the ideal garb of a The 1975 listener be? A screen. A real, working search engine, fused with their body.

> Previously, the model was that bands had ‘influences’ which they ‘blended’ to create a ‘new’ sound. Here, The 1975 don’t really focus on blending sounds at the level of individual songs: the blend, boldly, happens at the level of the album. If the album is like a soundtrack, it is the soundtrack to the algorithmic age of effortless consumption of media.

> And I would like an examination of that idea to be the final track on this album. I mean, review. I mean conversation.

*

> The 1975 are inseparable from recorded media. Not just their own, but recorded media from the past. They are not able to invoke and inhabit this startling panoply of styles, to my knowledge, because they have studied in individual places or with masters of each craft or tradition – they are able to do it because they, like us, are able to consume recordings of these styles, and they, like us, have done so all their lives.

> When The 1975 invoke these styles, they are not evoking a tradition, or a way of doing things, or even seeing things. They are invoking personal memories of experiencing recordings, encountering media. We can take a look at a few examples of this.

> Let’s start with the classical stuff. The orchestral interludes do not sound like they are written by classical composers, or even composers of film soundtracks - the use of orchestration is different. It sounds, to my ear, like acoustic instruments playing what were originally MIDI parts. Which, I imagine, is what happened. That would usually be called bad orchestration. I am not interested in saying that. I am slightly interested in the effect of getting classical musicians, with their classical training, to play music written by people without classical training on a computer. What are the implications of writing for the flute as a soundfont, rather than a person, instrument or tradition?

> And what is the significance of placing an orchestra, playing instrumental compositions, on a pop record. These are not backing arrangements in an existing pop song, as we commonly encounter; nor are they classical arrangements of a pop song (see Hacienda Classical et al).

> These are standalone orchestral compositions on a record that also includes shoegaze, UK garage, two-step, Americana, punk. What, then, is the significance of this? The instruments, I believe, are being chosen less for their own sonic timbres, and more for their social or cultural timbres. I will try to explain this thought.

> Matty has often spoken about ‘Disneyfication’; he said he wanted ‘The Man Who Married a Robot / Love Theme’ on A Brief Inquiry into Online Relationships to sound like a Disney movie. What does that mean? It means, I think, he wants it to sound like old movies, childhood, nostalgia. The orchestra is a sinecure for the ‘symphonic’, the cinematic, the dramatic; the orchestra is used like a banjo, which is, elsewhere on the album, used to conjure the exoticism of Americana as heard by someone listening to it in the UK, to paraphrase Matty’s words.  

> The stylistic references in the album are as much references to media as much as they are to music. Disney: orchestral sounds, likely filtered and wobbled through VHS cassettes. The orchestra, already made symbolic by its association with movies, made a double symbol, a reflection of a shadow, being invoked through the original sound not really for this sound but for our associations with it. The banjo invoked as both an instrument of yesteryear and over there. The music constructs frames of otherness to facilitate wistfulness, longing, memory.

> The chart success of ‘If You’re Too Shy (Let Me Know)’ is that it’s a modern bop that sounds like 80s bangers. Its artistic success is that it contrasts the feeling of halcyon safety created by its imitation of 80s bangers (experienced for millennials usually as triumphant climaxes in movies, jubilant moments on oldies stations), and rubs this up against some of the disturbing parts of the present: the angst of online relationships, nudity with people you don’t know and have not and may never meet. This is a simple but highly effective juxtaposition.

> ‘Bagsy Not In Net’ does this too: a quotidian, painful experience of childhood (not wanting to play in goal in a football game), expressed as a yearning and grand orchestral statement. This is true, too, of ‘Streaming’. This is pop music Pop Art: the contemporary quotidian expressed in the language of an old tradition and invested with the significance of an Art it simultaneously questions the power and validity of.

> And, to linger on ‘If You’re Too Shy’ for just a little longer, what is the meaning of a saxophone solo in pop music in 2020? It is symbolic: a shortcut, practically a meme. Saxophone solos exist in a present in contemporary jazz - they are a living history making new futures. But saxophone solos almost always only exist in pop music as ghosts (careless whispers) of the past. This particular sax solo is so euphoric to us less because of its musical content and more because of the emotions we have learned to associate with sax solos through other media.

> The final, most perfect example of this, of everything I have been getting at, really, is the UK garage references. These are themselves references to artists like The Streets, and Burial, who, themselves, were referencing the primary records of UK garage which they (The Streets and Burial) never experienced in clubs, but as recordings. And The 1975 experienced these recordings of recordings. Layers and layers of reference. And here, abruptly, we find ourselves back at the opening image of the infinite regress.

> At times, this album wants to express the present moment back at itself, and so prompt reflection and action. The fright of the zeitgeist. In this we can include Greta Thunberg, ‘People’, and the overtly socio-political statements on the album. I hope these tracks will be successful. In the future, they will take on the significance of historic artefacts: preserved truths from a vanished time, fixed and rich, like amber.

> But there are long swathes of the album, that do not have this intent, and which will, I believe, have a different longevity. These are the (often wordless) lyrical sections: the abstract, the vague, the instrumental sections – in all senses of the word. Records of the individual imagination listening to another individual imagination listening to another individual imagination. What will these tracks become in time, in Time?

> There is something ethereally delicious about the thought of people in the future coming across people in the past’s nostalgia of another past, now three links distant to their present, compoundly insubstantial, glittering, compelling. Fifth, sixth, seventh dimensions - serial nostalgias.

Notes on a Conditional Form is out now and available to order.

~

Text: Scott Morrison

Published: 26/6/20