#backgrounds were snatched from google images

[tboom10]

It's-a Spooky Month!

[the-woes-of-an-english-teacher]

Author’s intent

Literary analysis is an essential component of high school English classes. It’s a challenge right now because reading and writing stamina are low, as are attention spans. It’s also difficult to balance literary classics with modern literature. This is why I love short stories so much. I’ll address that in my next post.

Today’s debatable issue: how important is authorial intent? I would not dare say it’s totally unnecessary, however can we really know an author’s intent? Isn’t that ultimately a form of conjecture?

My favorite professor from High Point University said this:

Ben, That's a raging question these days. My answer is that a writer has no control over the interpretation of his/her poem, which will always be filtered through a reader's intellectual background, experience, and feelings. I'm a poet with four books; I give readings often in North Carolina. I am delighted by the range of reactions conveyed by listeners and readers. Some are stunningly perceptive; others discover nuances I never imagined were in the poem; some seem irrelevant. When a poem leaves my hands, it belongs to others. I do not want to limit their responses to what my intention was. Ben, sometimes I don't know what I mean to do in a poem. I start with an image, a snatch of dialogue, or a memory. My poetry rises from life, not from ideas. It often leads to strange, unanticipated places. That's good. When you develop thoughts, you are writing essays or sermons. Poets don't sit down and think, "Now what do I want to say?" When you follow a trail in the woods instead of a train of thoughts, you never know where the trail is going until you get to the end. It could be a fork and the road not taken; it could be a pregnant deer wounded by a hunter; it could be the ghost of your grandfather saying, "It's time for us to talk." Poetry is not pro forma; paint by numbers. Now here's the flip side: Formalist critics like T.S. Eliot and the Fugitive School argued that an analyst needed to restrict interpretation to the words of the poem, to what was on the page. They emphasized formal analysis instead of the author's biography, history, or personality. I admire this approach until it becomes too rigid. I think everything should be taken into account, beginning with what's on the page and then considering outside factors. No real poet would ever want to insist that a poem means one thing and one thing only or that the poet's intention must be exalted above all. The Formalists called focusing on an author's intention "the intentional fallacy." I think you should stress what's on the page but be willing to move outside the poem for influences, etc. If you google me, you can find some of my poems in journals. If you want to ask me about my intention in a specific poem, I'll try to answer and to mention where the poem went….Congrats on your teaching career. You were a sharp, energetic student--a pleasure to talk with.

#literature #books #analysis

[itsclydebitches]

YYH Recaps: Koenma Appears

Welcome to episode two, everyone! Before we get to the recap proper, I want to continue down Nostalgia Lane for a moment. Remember how last time I mentioned a Hiei bookmark I used daily back in middle school? Well, I tore through an old "treasure box" I created as a kid (a collection containing everything from a shark tooth to a small book on witchcraft. You know, the important things every child needs) hoping to find it... but I didn't. It's a hard life we lead.

However, I did find some other YYH relics that I thought you all might enjoy seeing. Behold — and, if you'd like, laugh at — my collection:

First up is a picture of young Toguro and Genkai that I wanted to use as my bookmark, but found that it was too wide. For the record, I didn't (and still don't) care about Toguro much, he was just the byproduct of finding a cool Genkai picture. Not shown is the back of the image with the names of my classmates because I made them all sign this along with our yearbook.

God bless my friends for putting up with me.

Second is a collection of very pretty trading cards that I ordered from god only knows where. I have vague memories of not finding any at my local comics shop and convincing my mom to let me order on The Olde Internet. Did I want the trading cards to trade them? Absolutely not. They exist to sparkle and make my heart happy.

Finally, I've saved what is perhaps the best for last. Now, you have to understand that grade to middle school age Clyde did not have the education that she would receive later on, which includes a knowledge of the ephemeral nature of fanworks and the importance of accurate record keeping. What this means is that I have absolutely no context for this. No author, no explanation... just the image itself.

Was this a standalone fanart? A part of a fic? Some specific request or just the will of the artist? I cannot answer these questions. I tried a reverse image search (which is, admittedly, the extent of my tech skills) and you know what the single hit I got was? "Fiction." Thanks, google. So yeah, I can only assume that my child self considered Kurama giving a de-aged Hiei a bubble bath adorable enough to save, but the artist wasn't important enough to jot down for future viewing. Sorry about that, mystery artist. And, as should go without saying, if anyone does know where this came from please let me know! Though I suspect that this is a case of a YYH-specific site closing down and the fanworks getting lost along with it. That happened a great deal before the age of AO3 when volunteers decided to put their time and talent towards saving fanworks of all sorts... 

But enough of all that. Let's get to recapping!

As we established last episode, Yusuke and Botan are on their way to the spirit world to kickstart Yusuke's ordeal. Watching this after over a decade of consuming other media, I really appreciate that Yusuke acts like a human person and asks lots of questions about this. When Botan is cryptic for the sake of the audience — we're going to see "the person" who can explain everything — Yusuke is justifiably like, and what person would that be?? I mean, this is also a way to establish basic facts for the viewer and it simultaneously feeds into Yusuke being someone who is difficult for the sake of being difficult — "If someone wants to say something, they should come to me!" — but it's just nice to see a character who doesn't accept cryptic BS because the story needs them to. If Botan gives an unclear, but ~dramatic~ explanation, Yusuke is going to call her out on that.

So she explains that they're going to see King Yama and Yusuke is all whoa whoa whoa, there's royalty involved? Suddenly, he's not so adamant that they come to him. 

Botan tries to reinforce this rare spark of humility and demands that Yusuke be on his best behavior from here on out.

Pff. Yeah right.

But “he can send you to oblivion forever if he wants to!” is a suitable enough threat to cow Yusuke for now. Which is interesting considering that a few hours ago he was happy to accept hell as his rightful ending. Granted, we could argue that there's a big difference between hell and oblivion — a character may not be afraid of punishment in the same way they are a lack of existence — but I'd say this ties more into Yusuke's development at the wake. Now that he's accepted that people care for him and that he should strive to return to them, the threat of having it snatched away actually means something. Even if that line is otherwise positioned as a comedic moment.

Botan flies them through a portal where we see the River Styx below and Yusuke comments on how big everything is. At first I was like, "What are you talking about? You were just flying over some major city in fictional Japan, wasn't that big too?" but this line makes more sense when they reach the palace and you realize that yeah, it's big. As in, the camera blurs while tilting down its length to show how insanely tall it is. Yusuke and Botan are tiny gnats at the gate's entrance.

"Oh man, what a pad!" Yusuke says and sure, that's one way to look at it lol.

Botan announces that she has a "new arrival" and the gates open for them, but so far there's no one else around. One part of me wants to question the time and budget put into this scene because shouldn't there be, like, thousands of people? Even just waiting outside? The idea that this is the hub of the underworld and that Botan is responsible for ferrying all the souls, yet she is guiding just this one (1) dude for a solid day is, from a world building perspective, kind of nuts. But beyond the need to develop Botan as a character (she can't be a part of the story if her job is treated realistically, with all the endless work that entails), I think this choice functions rather well from an atmospheric perspective too. Meaning, this moment is supposed to be rather tense for Yusuke. He just died, just found out the afterlife exists, just discovered a desire to get his life back, and is now about to meet a King who can toss him into oblivion if he's rude — which Yusuke always is. So this is a Very Dangerous Moment and their relative isolation feeds into that. As does the setting. Yusuke flinches back from the hallway, saying that it looks like a giant throat, so he is now literally walking into the belly of the beast. 

Suddenly, the size of the palace isn't an indicator of awesome wealth, just general intimidation. Also, check out the spikey purple mountains in the background and the harsh reds of the scene, especially compared to the soft yellow of the river. All of it is designed to create an, "Oh shit" reaction in both Yusuke and the audience.

Yusuke's image of King Yama matches these surroundings:

Oh wait! Wrong character ;)

He's massive, red, shadowed, and poses a formidable threat. And how does Yusuke deal with threats? By fighting them! Even those he can't hope to beat. Remember, this isn't a situation where Yusuke has any power here, but he still desperately holds onto the possibility that he might. What if he gets off a punch on King Yama's nose? Then goes for his eyes? Yeah, that'll work! 

Overlooking the fact that it absolutely would not — Yusuke's fantasy conveniently skips how he escapes Yama's clutches — what exactly is Yusuke hoping to accomplish here? Somehow take over the entire underworld? Escape as a ghost and live out his afterlife in hiding? We don't know and that's because Yusuke doesn't know. He doesn't think ahead, he just obeys this instinct to fight. An instinct that, crucially, overrides everything else. Botan has already told him that all Yusuke needs to do is be polite and everything will be fine, but it's not even that Yusuke believes that he can't achieve that; that he knows himself too well and, fearing a slip, starts planning for a potentially inevitable confrontation. There are simply no plans outside of battle plans. Yusuke just hears about someone vaguely intimidating and his brain jumps straight to, "How do I beat him in a fight?" no matter the odds, or that other options are readily available to him. Again, much of YYH's characterization occurs though its comedy, so outside of the general humor of witnessing this fantasy, it actually does a stellar job of reinforcing precisely who Yusuke is. In life the only thing he had going for him was his ability to fight. It was his one joy, his one skill, arguably the one good thing he did if we frame those reflexes as "saving" the kid... so is it any wonder that fighting dominates his every thought? It's all he knows.

And, as we'll see down the line, that single-minded obsession is very useful to the spirit world.

For now though, Yusuke finishes his absurd plans to take down King Yama and Botan asks what in the world he's muttering about back there. Which is an unintentionally hilarious line because by the end Yusuke is not muttering, but full on shouting. Botan. How did you not hear him?

Not important. They reach the next door and we get our first inkling that all is not as Yusuke (and we) expect when Botan leans into an intercom to say that they've arrived. Tech in a fantasy spirit world? This feels not only out of place, but rather... mundane? That's the point. When the doors open Yusuke expects his super scary monster, but gets... a whole lot of monsters that aren't scary at all!

The underworld is run by various demons (or ogres), though their looks are contrasted with the harried office worker personalities they've got going on. Someone is running by with a comically tall stack of papers. Someone else is shouting into a cell phone. The first two demons we see cross paths, looking like they're about to punch one another, just as Yusuke expects... except they're just dramatically getting out of the other's way, worried not about the hierarchy of this realm, but the fact that someone is behind schedule. The nerve!

"This place is a madhouse!" we hear somehow shout and yeah, that's the joke. The afterlife is just as chaotic, overworked, and — ultimately — boring as any human office. For all the strangeness of seeing hundreds of demons, this is familiar.

Which, alongside Botan's bubbly nature contrasting assumptions about the Grim Reaper, is one of the first instances of YYH undercutting the viewer's expectations in terms of looks. No one entirely looks the part they play in this tale and if you're trying to teach people to look past surface characteristics... there are worse ways to do it. Horrifying creatures with horns and sharp teeth? Nah, they're just chill dudes trying to do their job. Cutesy girl who looks like she belongs in a mall reading magazines? Nah, she's the Grim Reaper. Terrifying delinquent with a spine-chilling reputation? Nah, he makes faces at kids and saves them from cars.

Of course, the "nah" isn't accurate either. These are monsters with horns, Botan is a cutesy girl, and Yusuke is a delinquent with that reputation. The message isn't so much that people look like Thing A, but get to know them and you'll discover they're actually Thing B, it's the idea that you can be A and B (and C, D, E...) simultaneously. People — or rather, seemingly simple archetypes — can, in fact, embody multiple characteristics at once.

We'll get our third example in just a second.

Yusuke makes a comment about this being the "dead people stock exchange" — accurate — and Botan leads him to a more ornate door past all the desks. It's clear they've arrived at King Yama's office, since she's bowing and formally presenting him to... someone. Yusuke looks around for the giant beast he's imagined, only for a tiny voice to hail him from the ground.

Looks are deceiving!

“This is Yusuke Urameshi and he’s honored to meet you." Botan knows what's up. She knows Yusuke isn't going to express anything of the sort without some prompting. Too bad he's busy cracking up at this apparent child running the show. Side note: Yusuke has a fantastic laugh.

He even goes so far as to accuse Botan of lying to him.

“Why would I lie about such a thing?!”

“Why would the spirit world be run by a toddler?”

It's true! That’s a legitimate question! I love that Yusuke asks questions. The "toddler" goes on to explain that he's actually the "mighty Koenma," son of King Yama, though he's lived fifty times as long as Yusuke, "so watch your mouth." Assuming Koenma knows and/or remembers how old Yusuke is — fourteen — and is good at math, that puts him at seven hundred years old. He looks good for his age!

"And in addition to knowing the secrets of the universe," he says, "I am quite potty trained."

You've gotta love Koenma.

Yusuke's attitude changes drastically once they get down to business. Koenma produces an egg, saying that Yusuke's ordeal is to hatch it and face what comes out. The hatching part isn't difficult, all he needs to do is keep it on his person. The challenge is in the fact that this egg will feed off his spirit energy and that energy in turn will change what kind of creature develops. If his spirit is wicked and cruel, so will be the beast and it will devour Yusuke upon hatching.

However, if his spirit is good and kind, the beast will become a sort of guardian, guiding him back to his living body.

Note though that throughout this conversation the egg is always a "beast." It's a "monster." It's not necessarily intentional, but there's a strong bend towards the negative here in the description that really emphasizes the whole "ordeal" aspect. Koenma briefly reassures Yusuke that he can remain a ghost if he prefers, but he's already made up his mind. Despite another threat of being lost to a void — this time through spiritual digestion — Yusuke takes the egg almost without hesitation.

He regrets it later though.

"I can't believe I did that."

Can we blame him? I'd be nervous about some egg feeding off the energy of my soul too and I'm a former, almost straight A student (damn you, math) with no life-altering regrets and a general desire to put as much good into this world as I'm able. I’m boring. But what if those occasional, mean little thoughts you have add up? What if the prejudices you're still unlearning stack against you? Does the egg care about what you do, or only how you feel about the act? This sort of test would eat me alive!

Maybe literally. 

Good thing Yusuke doesn't have time for an existential crisis!

Just as he's beginning to regret this decision, Botan points out that it won't matter if he passes if he doesn't have a body to return to. Now, why wouldn't he have a body? Maybe because his mom is set to cremate him tomorrow.

Whoopsie.

Yusuke is, understandably, distraught. We get another excellent exchange:

“Botan, is there any way for ghosts to communicate with living people?”

“Yes.”

“SO ARE YOU GONNA TELL ME?”

I swear, Yusuke is the only smart protagonist. I mean, he's dumb as a sack of bricks at times, but that's neither here nor there. Bless this fictional boy for reacting like an actual person. 

Botan explains that people are more attuned to the spirit world when they're asleep, so Yusuke can deliver a message to someone in their dreams. Seems easy enough. They first head to Atsuko, but find that she's raging drunk and nowhere near sleep. 

"You fool!" she yells. "No one gave you permission to die!" Atsuko continues to yell about how plenty of people survive car accidents, so why couldn't you? "Were you mad at me, Yusuke? Didn't I raise you right?"

Botan comments on how sad the display is. Yusuke's response?

“The only thing that’s sad is now she’s got one more excuse to act that way."

Y'all, that's some mature shit for a goofy shonen anime. Yeah, Yusuke recognizes that, while she's obviously heartbroken, his death has just given her another reason to do what she's been doing for years: drinking herself into a stupor. Toss in Atsuko putting the blame on Yusuke — "No one gave you permission to die!" — plus the belief that she did do a good job — "Didn't I raise you right?" — and it paints a rather bleak picture. This is by no means an uncommon theme. Negligent parents, whether they're framed that way or not, are pretty common in shonen series, but it's still rather jarring to re-watch this as an adult and go, "Oh. The situation’s like that." It's honestly a lot when you remove it from YYH's otherwise humorous, casual context.

Yusuke heads to Keiko's next and finds her sound asleep, commenting on how her room looks more "girly" than when they were kids. Check out that smile!

He's about to try and deliver his message, but Keiko is in the midst of a nightmare. “She’s crying… what’s wrong?”

Oh my god. Remember how I just said Yusuke is also the densest protagonist around? Example A right here. You just died, you fool! You just saw Keiko collapse at your funeral. What do you think is wrong??

We get a peek at Keiko's dream where she is — shockingly! — thinking of Yusuke. He's far out of reach, walking away and unresponsive to her calls. Keiko soon trips and Yusuke disappears completely.

Luckily, she has the real thing at her bedside. Yusuke tries talking to her and at first it's unclear if this supernatural stuff is really working. That is, until Keiko murmurs about how heavy he is.

Reassured, Yusuke delivers his message that Keiko needs to help Atsuko pull herself together and, most importantly, call off burning his body. We get this very soft and pretty background to establish their yet unspoken feelings for one another, though Yusuke gets close with, “I’m coming back. I don’t want to see you cry anymore" as he brushes her tears away. Aww.

Keiko wakes, thinking at first it was just a dream, but no, "I'm sure I felt it."

The next morning she heads to Atsuko's to explain the dream, only to first hear that Atsuko had a dream too, this one about Yusuke "living in some other world full of ogres and he kept knocking them down until he became their leader." It sounds absurd, of course, but it brings Atsuko some comfort to think of her boy in a place like that and Keiko backs down. Right, she'd only had a comforting dream too.

Now, there are two important parts to this exchange. The first is that this is an excellent example of how you let the characters drive the story, rather than forcing the characters adhere to the plot you've come up with. Meaning, in the latter situation, our cast would have needed to have their personalities twisted and the viewer's suspicion of disbelief tested to give Yusuke what he needs: a sleeping family member willing to believe his message. But it absolutely makes sense for Atsuko to be drunk rather than sound asleep, so Yusuke can't rely on her. Likewise, it absolutely makes sense for Keiko to be asleep, but not believe the dream once she's woken up. After all, how many times have we been persuaded by something in the dead of night only for things to look more logical and less likely in the morning? The characters act both like themselves and like people who do normal, people-ish things, which means that Yusuke runs into more conflicts. That's good! It not only raises the tension and stakes — now he has less than a day to convince someone — but makes his inevitable success feel that much sweeter. A less well written show (cough-RWBY-cough) would have had the characters change their personalities, behave in unlikely ways, or just come up with a sudden, contradictory solution because Yusuke needs to keep his body. Instead, Yusuke actually has to work for that within the bounds of the rules established and the likeliness of each plan succeeding. The first one fails? Move onto plan #2.

Second, this dream of Atsuko's has some cool implications within YYH's world. Meaning, we're about to learn in just a moment that some people are naturally more aware of the supernatural than others, even when they're not asleep. We'll also see down the line that spiritual awareness tends to run in families... so perhaps Atsuko possesses more than the average mother? I'm not saying it's necessarily intentional on the author(s) part, but we can choose to read this dream as evidence of spiritual awareness — true insight into the world Yusuke was just in and the fantasies he'd had about conquering it — rather than just a coincidental joke for the viewer. After all, Yusuke gets his own spiritual awareness from somewhere...

(Okay, so there's totally another, canonical reason for that, but we can have both!)

So, as Yusuke puts it, “This dream business isn’t gonna cut it.”

“There’s always the final method," Botan says.

“You always this vague?”

I am literally living for these interactions.

Botan explains that the more extreme form of communication is possessing a living person, but there are two rules attached: it has to be someone you know and the vessel has to be someone who is quite spiritually aware, as discussed above. Atsuko isn't a contender because the story hasn't acknowledged that she might be sensitive, that's just my own headcanon now. Yusuke outright says, “In that case I’m screwed. There’s no one like that!"

Cut to good old Kuwabara.

At first it looks as if he's just oh so conveniently sensing a spirit right when the audience has learned he has this power, but in reality it's Yusuke and Botan flying behind him that sets it off. Again: this show is pretty good about keeping things internally consistent, rather than making choices because That's Just How Stories Work, I Guess. Kuwabara's friends note that he's acting strangely and I love this detail that apparently one of the guys is new to their group because the other two need to explain that this is the "tickle feeling." Ever since Kuwabara was a boy he's been able to sense the dead around him. Some nice, some... not so nice.

He looks directly at Yusuke — even though he's not able to see him — and declares that what's following them is “A puny low-level ghost, like a haunted racoon or something.”

I'd support Yusuke's anger more if he hadn't just exclaimed his surprise that Kuwabara serves a purpose 😂

Yusuke is pissed enough though to proclaim that he won't do it, nuh-uh, no way is he possessing this guy's body. Botan's response is one of my FAVORITES in the WHOLE SERIES:

"Here's my impression of Yusuke: look at me, I’m burning!”

Literally 75% of this series is just about a found family sassing one another and I love it.

Obviously this helps Yusuke remember his priorities and he grudgingly agrees to the plan. Botan prepares Kuwabara's body somehow — idk, spiritual magic or whatever — and warns Yusuke that he only has an hour to find someone and warn them because a human body can't handle possession any longer than that. Sure. I buy it.

So Yusuke takes control and please ignore the incredible ethical issues here. The show will never acknowledge them again. 

He blurts out, “Hey, check it out! I’m inside Kuwabara, feeling smooth!"

Istg I don't remember the series being this unintentionally gay. I don't even ship Yusuke/Kuwabara and I'm digging the possibilities here lol.

Back on track, his friends drag him with, “Looks like he’s back to normal” because again, 75%. What's not normal though is Kuwabara (Yusuke) suddenly charging down the street to leave them behind. He heads straight to the restaurant where Keiko's parents work, demanding to see her. They're rightly concerned about this stranger barging in and screaming for their daughter.

Upon asking who he is/why they should tell him, Yusuke makes his biggest mistake: “Because it’s me, you guys, I’m Yusuke!”

Obviously the time limit and raw emotion of knowing who he is has outweighed the knowledge that, you know, no one would believe that. Yusuke has spent the last two days bopping around as a ghost and familiarizing himself with some of the afterlife's insanity. The knowledge of what's normal for everyone else — AKA, not dead boys appearing in strangers' bodies — is not at the forefront of Yusuke's mind.

So, Keiko's parents react accordingly! The father in particular is disgusted by this claim, going so far as to threaten Yusuke with his knife and outright insult Kuwabara's looks: “Yusuke was never ugly like you… we were close family friends with that boy!" His wife chimes in that this kind of joke is particularly heinous on the day of his funeral. Between Atsuko drunkenly blaming Yusuke for his death and Mr. Takenaka grieving for what he might have been, this is one of the few times we see someone just sad for Yusuke's passing, exactly as he was and without regrets or criticism. "We were close family friends with that boy" paints a nice contrast to the delinquent persona Yusuke was cultivating.

As he's thrown out of the restaurant he says, “We should have special passwords for times like this!” Fun fact, my family does! Well, not this exact situation lol. I was given a password as a child to memorize in case my parents ever needed to send someone else to pick me up or interact with me in any way. If the stranger didn't know the password, I was to kick up a fuss. I rest easy with the knowledge that this password would not doubt assist me if I was ever in Yusuke's position!

With Keiko's parents a bust, Yusuke starts sprinting to everywhere she frequents with the hope of running into her. Or at least he tries. 

Yusuke is suddenly waylaid by a group of nameless teens with a bone to pick with Kuwabara. And you know what? I like it. I wonder how much of my praise stems from coming off of RWBY Volume 8, but it's just so nice to watch a story where the plot — simple as it is — hangs together. We've established that Kuwabara is a street fighter. Last episode we watched him start a fight with Yusuke. Yusuke is on a time limit. Now Kuwabara's tendencies have created a new hurdle for Yusuke!

Needless to say, Yusuke kicks butt, even in Kuwabara’s body. 

As one guy is passing out he says, “Man that hurt! I didn’t think anyone could throw punches that hardcore except Yusuke Urameshi."

Yusuke: “Darn, giving Kuwabara a good name." LOL

You think this challenge is finished though? Nah. Over the course of about half an hour Yusuke encounters a comical number of people trying to get even with Kuwabara. 

As always, I like the nods towards this writing decision to help justify it, with Yusuke wondering how Kuwabara has pissed this many people off. If you want to pull off something that has a low chance of happening, it can help to give the characters a "Seriously?" moment. If both they and the audience are on the same page over how ridiculous this situation is, the audience is more likely to accept it once the character does.

By the time Yusuke escapes his hour is nearly up. However, thanks to some coincidental plotting, he spots Keiko's friends just across the street! 

YYH does a decent job of making its characters feel like they have their own lives outside of what's immediately happening on screen and we get a good example of that here. We pick up the girls' conversation partway through, both of them worried about Keiko's state of mind and, given that we'll see in a second that Keiko was in the store with them, it implies that something happened to reignite this worry. They're off enjoying their day, doing their own thing, there was an event we're not privy to, and now we catch the response to that. It just helps make the characters feel more well-rounded even though they are, at their core, one-dimensional background characters who don’t even have names yet.

Case in point: the one girl is still concerned with their image. "People are starting to say things!"

Yeah, your friend's childhood friend just died. Hopefully they're saying, "Poor thing."

Anyway, Yusuke runs up to ask where Keiko is only for both girls to run away screaming. Turns out his face is messed up from the numerous fights and Keiko's friends are easily scared. 

Luckily, Keiko comes out just a second later and Yusuke is faced with the challenge of how to convince her in, oh, about five minutes. Remember, we've already established through Keiko's parents that just saying, "I'm Yusuke" doesn't work. That's why he hesitates. It's not just drama for the sake of drama, he's stuck.

“I’ve known her my whole life, there must be something between us that only I would do!”

Yeeeeaah. About that 😬

Suddenly inspired (I suppose that's one way to put it...) Yusuke runs up behind Keiko and grabs her breasts. “Keiko, nice uniform! They’re so squishy!”

It goes without saying that, like flipping her skirt up, this isn't okay. More specifically, the problem lies in the story framing this as a joke for the audience, something to laugh at despite Keiko's discomfort, rather than the concept of two childhood friends actually be that comfortable with one another. But, as already established, this is one of the more ehhhh aspects of Yusuke's characterization that, luckily, will mostly disappear as the story goes on.

Note though that the show clearly wants us to think highly of this. Not just as a "joke," but as a smart solution to his problem and more evidence of their inevitable relationship — the background becomes the same soft, bubbly background we saw during their dream conversation. And, admittedly, it does work. Keiko instinctively slaps Yusuke hard enough to knock him to the ground and he starts laughing, saying that he doesn't care what anyone on the street says, she hits the hardest.

What I do like about this is that the assault isn't the only thing Keiko bases her faith on. Not only has she already had the dream, we get to see Yusuke from her perspective, showing all the mannerisms she picks up on by superimposing Yusuke's real body over Kuwabara's. Indeed, she says as much: “I knew it was you from the first time you spoke…and it’s not just your stupid gags, or how you laugh. There are ways you move and speak that in a hundred years I wouldn’t forget."

Catch me crying in this club!

Knowing she believes him and that he's almost out of time, Yusuke reiterates his message: please don't burn my body and also keep Mom on track. Only, you know, it's phrased far better than that lol. As he speaks, both Yusuke's and Kuwabara's voices overlap until the latter grows fainter and only Yusuke's voice remains. His body too. It's a nice touch, avoiding the awkwardness of Keiko having this moment with a stranger, even if that is what's happening on some level.

“I know I’ve been a bum to you at times, but please wait for me."

His hour up, now we can get the awkwardness! Kuwabara comes out of his weird trance thing to find Keiko crying against his chest. Wow, he thinks, this girl must be really into me! 

God, to have the confidence of Kuwabara.

Of course, Keiko quickly realizes it's not Yusuke anymore and slaps him too for cuddling her closer. My favorite thing is that when she does this a crowd INSTANTLY appears. I mean they TELEPORT in. We needed an audience for Kuwabara's shame and YYH delivered, all logic be damned.

“Um, sorry about that!” Keiko yells as she runs away, because she's a good person who recognizes that weird spirit things just went on and Kuwabara isn't actually to blame.

“No, that’s okay. I probably deserved it," Kuwabara responds because he's also a good person and I didn't appreciate him nearly as much as I should have as a kid.

Keiko runs all the way to Atsuko's place where she finds her dressed for Yusuke's funeral. She blurts that Yusuke might still be coming back and Atsuko goes, "He already has." Turns out she opened his coffin to "smack him one more time for leaving me" — yikes — and found that his heart had started beating again, just as Koenma said it would. 

Being in a shonen anime, they apparently decide to just trust Keiko's message rather than, idk, taking him to a hospital or something.

The camera tilts up to show that Yusuke has been watching all this, including that both women break down again and comfort one another. Aww. How heartwarming.

What's less fuzzy though is this mysterious egg. Yusuke takes another look and finds that it has developed a heartbeat too, presumably in time with his body's. He theorizes that he did decent things today, right? But Botan (teasingly) points out that he did beat up a lot of other kids. Rather than getting angry, Yusuke remains uncharacteristically pensive, emphasizing the magnitude of what this means for him. He's got to get it right.

No pressure or anything! We'll have to see how Yusuke balances his karmic scales in the next episode. Until then, I'll try not to put all my TV time into Star Trek: Voyager :D 

See you then!  💜

[writingblock101]

#RedRobinIsAFurry (Tim Drake x Reader)

Request for @markofthewolf (aye I like your Diego profile picture!): Funny 9 with Tim?

Word Count: 1,200 

Tags: @idkmanicantenglish, @mayahoelland2013

If I didn’t get a prompt for Tim, this would’ve been the one I would’ve written for him anyways. Thanks for the request! Enjoy!

You snort awake to the sound of your phone ringing. Banging your hand blindly on your nightstand, you hear a thud and the music sounds slightly farther away. Groaning, you lean over the bed only to be blinded by your lit-up phone, indicating that Tim is calling you. You squint, snatching the phone off the ground and roll over, swiping your finger to answer it. 

“Hello?” 

While you’re more than aware of Tim’s less than healthy sleep schedule, you would hope your brilliant genius of a boyfriend would think to check the timezones between New Jersey and London. 

“I’m sorry to be calling at 4 am, but how do you turn off the cat?” Tim rushes out in one breath. 

You blink slowly, your barely awake mind sluggishly forming an intellectual response. 

“What?” 

“T’Challa will not shut up and he keeps walking across the Bat computer no matter how many times I put him on the floor. He can open doors, did you know that because I did not.” 

You blink again, barely processing a word of what Tim is saying. 

“...What?” 

Tim sighs. 

“I’m working on a case, but every time I try to sit at the computer, T’Challa sits on the keyboard or walks across it and screws everything up. How do I make him stop?” 

“Um…” You frown, trying to remember how you normally handle your cat when he gets antsy. 

He wants attention, that much is clear, but he doesn’t always ask for attention at the best times. While normally you’d tell Tim to take a break and play with him, a glance at your watch which is still set for Eastern Time tells you that it’s only 11:00 PM, meaning Tim’s night is just beginning. 

Mirroring.

“What?” Tim asks. 

“Huh?” 

“You said mirroring…?” 

That was out loud? 

Tim chuckles. 

“Yeah, babe. That was out loud.” 

“Oh.” 

“What’s mirroring?” Tim prompts. 

“Um… He wants to be involved,” You rub your head, trying to think of the best solution for Tim. “Do you have an old laptop or something? I made one out of a pizza box, but you’re rich.” 

“Um, yeah,” You hear things shuffling in the background. 

“Set it up next to you and he’ll lay on it. It makes him feel… Involved,” You explain. 

“...Cats are weird.” 

“Yeah, well, you dress up like a bird and beat up criminals so you don’t have any room to talk.” 

Tim laughs. 

“Yeah, I guess you’re right… Jason started calling me a furry.” 

Maybe it’s because it’s 4 AM or maybe the idea of Tim being a furry is hilarious, but either way, you start cracking up.  

“Rawr XD,” You grin. 

“Yeah, it was all fun and games until Bruce asked me what a furry was.” 

You laugh harder, the mental image of billionaire Bruce Wayne hesitantly approaching his son after hearing Jason call him a furry to ask what exactly a furry is. 

“Do you think he Googled it first?” You wheezed. 

“Probably.” 

“Yiff yiff!” You exclaim, tears running down your face. 

You hear Tim sigh on the other end of the phone. 

“Tim! You may have awakened Bruce to his true identity!” 

Another sigh. 

“He saw the pictures and thought ‘hey, that sounds like me!’!”  

“How are you worse than Jason?” 

“Do you think he’s going to modify his suit?” 

Suddenly, the image of Batman, furry, and bright green with purple eyes pops into your head. You think you might be getting abs with how hard you’re laughing.

“I can’t breathe!” You exclaim between laughs. “Oh my gosh, I need this to be real!” 

“I don’t!”

“Don’t worry, Timmy, one day, you’ll accept your true identity.” 

“Calling you was a mistake.” 

“Maybe we can modify your suit!” 

“I should’ve just suffered through T’Challa.” 

“You know, I think some fur would do wonders on the Red Robin suit.” 

“Is this Hell? I deserve this, don’t I?” 

“Instead of the white eye covers, we can glue on some googly eyes!” 

“Fight crime, they said. It’s for the greater good, they said.” 

“We could even go to the annual furry convention!” 

“People won’t start calling you a furry, they said.” 

“Don’t worry, baby. You’re the only guy I OwO for.” 

“... Is that how that’s really pronounced?” 

“Is that what we should be focusing on or should we talk about how you knew exactly what I was talking about despite not seeing it typed out? YOU’RE TOTALLY A FURRY!” 

“I AM NOT A FURRY!” 

You start laughing again, another round of tears gathering in your eyes before finally, you slump back against your pillow, your eyes feeling heavy.

“I miss you,” You say quietly. 

“Even though you’re bullying me, I miss you too,” Tim responds. 

“Bullying you?” You yawn. “I would never!” 

“Uh-huh, sure you wouldn’t.” 

“I’m just trying to help you accept your true identity!” 

“Wow, I am so blessed to have such a supportive partner.” 

“I’m pretty much the best,” You grin sleepily, pulling your blanket tighter around you. 

“How has London been?” Tim asks. 

You put the phone on speaker, your hand tired from holding it to your face. 

“It’s been amazing. It’s so beautiful here, but British people are weird.” 

Tim chuckles. 

“Yeah? How so?” 

“Hearing a British accent cat calling me is so bizarre.” 

Tim laughs, making you smile at the sound. While England as been amazing, you really miss your boyfriend. 

“Some of the food is weird too, but it’s still good.” 

“I’m glad to hear you’re having fun.” 

“I wish you were here with me, I think you would really like it.” 

“Oh yeah?” Tim asks. “Then I guess we’ll have to go together.” 

“That would be nice,” You smile, your eyes getting heavy. “You playing nice with Damian?” 

Tim scoffs. 

“I’m not the one you need to be worried about!” 

You hum. 

“I dunno, babe. The last time I wasn’t in New Jersey when I came back, you’d gotten a haircut with a flame thrower.” 

“It wasn’t a flame thrower.” 

“Yeah, whatever alien tech. Point is, Damian was the one holding it.” 

“We’ve been fine,” Tim promises. “Playing nice.” 

“Good,” You smile, letting your eyes close. 

The line goes silent. Tim glances over at his phone where it’s resting on the desk. 

“Y/N?” He says quietly, but only hears the sound of soft breathing. 

He smiles to himself, knowing you feel back to sleep and reaches out to pet T’Challa who is happily purring on an old laptop. 

“Do you feel involved?” Tim asks jokingly as T’Challa pushes his head into Tim’s hand. “Maybe you’ll help me solve a few cases.” 

Tim glances back over at the phone and picks it up. 

“Good night, Y/N. I love you,” Then he hangs up, letting you sleep. 

. . . 

Tim blinks awake the next morning, his arms sore from patrol. He stretches his arm then lets it flop onto the bed and reaches for his phone. A Twitter notification is waiting for him. Tim clicks on the notification and sees that you had tweeted: 

#RedRobinIsAFurry No, I do not take constructive criticism. 

“Oh my gosh,” Tim’s head hit his pillow. 

It had over 4,000 likes and over 5,000 retweets, the first one being from Jason, of course. Tim opens his text messages to you. 

Tim: I hate you. 

Y/N:  😘

Tim laughs and puts his phone down then he hears a familiar meow. He glances up to see T’Challa staring at him from the foot of his bed. 

“I suppose you’re hungry, aren’t you?” 

T’Challa’s tail swishes back and forth. Tim tosses back his blankets then scoops up the black cat to go feed him. He can’t wait until you’re home again. 

[13atoms]

Deep Focus: Chapter 3 [Tom Hiddleston x Reader]

Summary: Tom is a successful porn director with a romantic streak which proves very popular with his female audience. His resident porn actress and business partner has been with him through thick and thin, the two of them growing completely inseparable, even as her own career starts taking off. But working in such close proximity is intense, and burgeoning feelings threaten to complicate their professional relationship.

Mature, smut, porn director!AU, ethical porn production discussion, porn-star-and-coworker!reader. Friends to lovers, slow-ish burn. This chapter: no smut, light hurt / comfort, all fluff. Warnings for usual stuff + UTI talk [6k] Ao3 link

You woke up in agony. With an ache through your entire lower body, and that distinctive, painful need to piss that made you want to cry. After a few dazed moments in the bathroom, you realised what was wrong, and bit back tears as at the overwhelming sensation cramping through your entire lower body.

Before you’d even googled the symptoms, you knew Urinary Tract Infection would be at the top of your screen. Next to it, a new message from Tom, asking some question about a file he couldn’t find.

Fuck off, you wanted to send back, crawling back to bed and struggling to focus on the words as the burning sensation refused to subside. Another message followed it:

Tom: Actually no rush, we can go over it in the office.

A few more seconds, and he’d sent:

Tom: Does 12 still work

Tom: I’ll bring snacks :)

That stupid smiley face. He still couldn’t work out emojis. Usually it would endear him to you, but instead it brought tears to your eyes, your duvet both a comfort and unbearably stifling as you wrapped yourself around it, desperately shifting your hips to find a position which might numb the burning pain from that fucking UTI.

You were hungry, shaky, and you knew if you wanted painkillers you’d have to get food. But it was so far away. And the thought of cooking food made you want to throw up. Or scream into the pillow.

Your phone buzzed again.

Tom: ?

It wasn’t his fault. You knew it wasn’t his fault. Even if he had written the script and directed the scene and then trapped you into a heartwarming conversation which had definitely given bacteria the chance to destroy your urethra and bladder after hours of being fucked and fingered and you were going to kill him if he sent one more fucking text.

Grumpy and in pain and curled up in bed, it felt exhausting to even compose a short text which was polite enough to not hurt his feelings.

Sorry, don’t think I can make it in. Need a sick day.

You closed your eyes, taking a deep breath, and considering just sucking it up and going in to the office. Maybe if you could grin and bear it, it might take your mind off things. Then you needed to piss again, pain pulsing in your entire lower abdomen, and you cursed the day you ever took the damn job. As you limped to and back from the bathroom, grabbing a huge glass of water on the way, the insistent buzz of your phone interrupted your pity party.

Of course it was Tom calling you.

You thought about not picking up, but you knew he’d only worry more. And some small part of you wanted the sympathy, as you forced yourself to chug water you knew would burn on the way out and lamented the bloated pain in your bladder.

“Hey, Tom.”

A second after you picked up, he was already in a full blown speech.

“Hey! Are you okay? What’s going on? You should have said you weren’t feeling well yesterday, we didn’t need to shoot. It’s – ”

He trailed off, and you smiled at the sound of his huff down the phone, his frustration at himself as he realised he wasn’t giving you space to talk. Even as the pain in your lower stomach demanded your attention, you caught yourself smiling.

“I’m fine, just feeling a bit worse for wear.”

For a beat he was silent, but you could imagine the furrow in his brow, the way his eyes would soften with concern if you could see his face.

“What’s really wrong?”

His voice was so soft, laced with that rare kind of sincerity that left you feeling like he truly, truly cared, and suddenly you realised you were crying. Stumbling over your words, face screwed up from discomfort, you knew you should be mortified to be sobbing down the phone to him. But Tom wouldn’t care.

“I’ve got a UTI, and it really fucking hurts. I should have peed straight after the shoot yesterday but I forgot and I don’t think I can get out of bed. I’m really sorry, I’ll – I’ll make up on the work. Email me what I need to do I just… I can’t do it today,” you choked out.

On the other end of the phone, you could hear Tom was moving.

“Oh, darling. Don’t even think about the work. You don’t need to apologise. I’m… what do I need to do? I’m on my way over.”

You wouldn’t expect anything less, the unguarded concern and tinge of panic in his voice catching you off-guard with how sweet it was. He was really worried. The conversation from yesterday loomed large in your memory – was he just worried about losing his biggest talent? You knew that wasn’t true, cursing yourself as soon as the thought flitted through your mind. He really cared.

Background noise leaked through the call as he put his phone on speaker, the jangle of keys and the sound of doors slamming telling you he was getting ready to leave.

“Tom, it’s fine. Please. I don’t need you to look after me,” you protested, “just the day off is great.”

He said your name lowly, almost a whine, and you knew he wouldn’t be discouraged whatever you said.

“I’m fine…” you returned, equally stubborn. You expected him to laugh, but instead the phone was returned to his ear, his voice clear as glass, with all of his decisive firmness.

“You said you couldn’t get out of bed. I’m coming over.”

It was enough to forget the discomfort you felt, your heart clenching at his protectiveness. You could keep fighting him – some part of you didn’t want him seeing you sick – but in truth it sounded really nice to be looked after. You curled up tighter in your bed, the screen of the phone cooling against your overheated cheek.

“So I’ll ask again,” he continued, “is there anything I can do to help?”

“Could you grab some cranberry juice on the way over? And maybe some junk food?”

“Of course. You should have just asked.”

“Thank you.”

Your voice sounded impossibly small, some admission of weakness, but Tom didn’t acknowledge it. He chatted for a bit longer, the sounds of the city playing in snatches alongside his baritone as he walked through the streets, blathering and giving you advice and smothering you with sympathy as he rushed over. It made you smile as you just listened, distracted a little from the pain and pressure in your bladder, as he offered completely vague and generic advice about looking after yourself.

It was nice. To have someone care for you that much. He was completely forgiven for his hand in causing you all that pain to start with.

“Are you sure you shouldn’t go to a doctor?”

You heard him stop walking, no longer distracted from his worry as it leeched into his voice. You could imagine the little row of shops he was standing outside of, the faded shopfronts he was staring down.

“I’ll be fine, Tom.”

“There’s a pharmacy on the way –”

“No!” you laughed, imaging his frustration as it was accompanied by the beeping of traffic lights.

He only hung up as he entered a shop, promising he wasn’t too far away, and as the line went dead you realised you’d been smiling for the past five minutes.

*

When Tom arrived you were just leaving the bathroom, rushing to the door and drying your hands on your sweatpants, fighting to stand normally even as a fresh burning pain demanded your attention.

He was juggling bags as you let him in, one in his arms and a backpack weighing him down.

“Hey!” he greeted, bustling past you to the kitchen, leaving you to close the door behind him.

You privately liked it when he was like this – on a warpath. It happened on set quite a lot, everything else forgotten as he found a goal and the blinders went on. You were usually there to balance him out – to remember to talk to people and do the boring stuff.

His current warpath was rummaging through your cupboards, muttering about all the things you needed to be given to feel better. He turned to face you slightly out of breath, a completely over reactionary panic in his eyes.

“I got you breakfast too, I wasn’t sure if you’d eaten.”

As he set his backpack down on your kitchen counter, unpacking pastries and painkillers and snacks, you wondered what you had done to deserve Tom. Without thinking, ignoring the fact you were just wearing sweats and probably needed a shower, you hugged him. Pulling you closer to him without hesitation, you felt Tom smile against you.

You blamed the pain, the hunger, the stupid bacteria, for the tears pooling in your eyes.

“Thank you,” you murmured into the hug.

Tom squeezed you just a little bit tighter, one hand tensing where it splayed flat against your shoulder blade. He refused to let you go first.

“Of course,” he murmured back.

Finally you stepped back, ducking you head to avoid his eyeline, turning your attention to the stuff he’d brought. Tom seemed to take a second to snap out of his daze, his overwhelming energy momentarily sapped, allowing the moment to fade away.

As he started to unpack the bag, you realised just how overboard he had gone. Every brand of cranberry juice you could imagine. You got a narrative of everything he bought as he stacked it in front of you, batting your hands if you tried to help.

“I know you said not to, but I spoke to a pharmacist on the way over. He said you don’t need to see a doctor unless it’s bad for another three days, then they might give you antibiotics. I got you paracetamol too – he said that was best.”

Two boxes of pills emerged from the bag, followed by chocolate.

“Since you feel rough,” he explained sheepishly, before pulling out more pills, “and I also got Vitamin C tablets. Those are supposed to help. Snacks for lunch…”

He’d practically bought you the whole corner shop, and you bit back a fond smile as he filled the fridge.

“…and cranberry juice. As requested.”

You were about to thank him, the words trapped in your mouth at just how overboard he had gone, but Tom was already speaking again.

“I know he said just to give you painkillers, but if it gets worse I will take you to see a doctor. Your kidneys might be at risk if it doesn’t clear up soon –”

You sat down heavily in the kitchen, pulling your legs closer to yourself as the pain spiked for a moment, making Tom twist to face you in concern. It fucking hurt, but you wouldn’t let him see that. With a huff of laughter, you tugged at his arm to sit beside you.

“Tom! You are mothering me to death,” you teased, feeling your cheeks burn hot at his attention.

“I’m hopefully mothering you to make you feel better, darling.”

Damn him, for being so sweet. You felt yourself blush under the attention.

“Just because you need me to find that file!” you shot back, trying not to stare at the way his teeth worried his bottom lip.

His eyes met yours intensely, purposefully, and for a second you remembered his uncanny ability to be so sincere it felt like he was staring right through you.

“It’s not just work. I care about you,” he told you candidly. You almost couldn’t bear to listen to it. “I was so worried when you said you were sick. I hoped you were just hungover or something.”

Snorting a laugh, you tried to break the heaviness of the atmosphere. It sounded horrifically unnatural. Tom didn’t even crack a smile.

“There’s a reason we start at 12 most days,” you teased, before sensing you’d somehow gotten the mood entirely wrong. Tom stayed quiet.

“Thank you,” you tried again, voice more sincere as you tried to match him, wincing as you shifted your hips, “I do really appreciate it. So much. I was just going to lie in bed and be miserable, and this is actually making me feel better.”

You’re making me feel better. The thought went unsaid.

“I’m glad.”

The pair of you ate in silence for a while, Tom working on an orange as you munched through the breakfast he’d brought you. Every few bites, you caught his concerned gaze on you.

“You should have told me straight away. And we’ll get you the week off work.”

You went to protest, but he’d strategically spoken as you had a mouth full of food. He ploughed on.

“No arguments. We can reschedule the shoot on Thursday, or hire someone else.”

“Tom, no. I’ll be fine once I’ve down the… three cartons of cranberry juice you bought. How much do I owe you, by the way?”

“Not a penny.”

“Tom!”

He ignored your complaints, silently moving to stand instead. As Tom searched for a glass, opening random cupboards, you picked a carton to chug cranberry juice from with all the grace of a frat boy. Tom laughed at first, before resting on hand on your arm as you forced yourself to drink as much as you could.

“You’ll make yourself sick!” he protested, and you finally conceded defeat and put down the remaining half of the carton.

“Better than this UTI,” you grumbled, “cranberry juice usually clears them pretty quick.”

He left you to it for a while as you forced down the sickly sweet cranberry juice (not your favourite brand, you decided, but it would do) and finished your breakfast.

Assuming he was responding to emails you sat quietly, letting him focus while you enjoyed the food, until you caught the banner of WebMD at the top of his screen. You sighed, and Tom’s focus was on you in a second, worry in the lines of his forehead.

“Is it bad?” he asked quietly, glancing down at the hand firmly place on your lower stomach.

“It’s not ideal,” you conceded.

He bit his lip, and you knew he was sinking further into a pit of worry.

“People have them all the time. Stop reading that, I’ll be okay!”

“I just get scared. Whenever I see what you go through at work, I – ”

“You make it sound like I’m suffering some terrible fate, Tom. It’s my job, and I have to do it. This could have happened from anything.”

You cut yourself off before you could accuse him of overreacting. He was sincerely worried. You didn’t want to mock that.

“You could get a hot water bottle, if you don’t mind?” you suggested, “That helps sometimes.”

He was on his feet before you finished speaking, rummaging through cupboards and flicking the kettle on. It seemed like a good solution, to give him a task. You chewed your last bite of croissant slowly as you watched him.

Sweet, sweet Tom. It was dangerous to admit, but you had no idea what you would do if he wasn’t in your life. You watched the line of his slim build as he strode around your kitchen, filling the hot water bottle and testing the heat of it against his hand before he guided you to stand.

“Come and sit on the sofa, love.”

One hand outstretched, a fluffy water bottle grasped against his side, curls dishevelled, you were taken aback yet again by just how rare Tom was. You often wondered if he had some secret partner you’d never heard about, some situationship or wife or something he kept hidden from you.

It just didn’t seem possible a man like this could go home to an empty house. Your heart ached for him, sometimes. His loneliness, as he fought to climb the ladder in such a harsh industry with that ridiculously soft heart of his.

Then he was calling your name, stepping closer with concern on his face, reaching for your jaw as you stood dazed.

“Sweetheart?”

“Sorry,” you blinked, trying to snap out it, stumbling forwards a little as you tried to reassure him you were fine.

One hand still rested awkwardly on your aching lower stomach, and Tom was shoving the hot water bottle beneath it, arms ready to brace you if you fell. Fuck. Embarrassment overtook your senses, tears starting to well in your eyes, as you realised just how shit you felt.

Tom was muttering about sitting down, guiding you as if you couldn’t navigate to your own sofa without help, a helpless concern on his face which was making your heart ache with guilt.

“I’m sorry,” you muttered again as he helped you sit, suddenly overwhelmed by the need to pee, by a fresh pain in your stomach. By Tom’s hands on you, the smell of his cologne and the concerned crinkle of his forehead as he knelt on the ground in front of you.

Leaning forwards, you tried to be subtle as you shoved the hot water bottle tighter against your lap and grit your teeth against the fresh wave of discomfort. Those painkillers had better kick in soon. With your eyes clenched shut you didn’t have to see Tom’s concern, didn’t have to imagine yourself weak and useless in his eyes. Even so, your embarrassment about him witnessing you like this was potent. You hardly felt like you were in your own body, confused and clumsy. You realised you were still gripping Tom’s hand, probably hurting his fingers as you squeezed involuntarily from the pain.

You let go suddenly, gasping as you remembered to breathe, hand covering your own eyes instead.

He was watching silently, and it unnerved you more than his rambling. Under the mask of your fingers you opened your eyes, seeing the fold of his knees against the floor and the wringing of his hands in his lap.

All you could hear was your breathing and his, slow and fast respectively.

Fuck, you needed to piss again. Damn cranberry juice. The knowledge that it would flush your system was all the comfort you could grasp as the uncomfortable pressure in your bladder became abruptly unbearable and the pain seemed to swell further, somehow.

You thought for a moment, your brain ticking along painfully slowly with exhaustion and pain, enjoying the darkness of your eyes screwed closed beneath your palm.

Ignore Tom. Stand up. Get to the bathroom. Pee.

In your confusion-addled brain, it felt like enough of a plan. The discomfort was so potent, it was hard to string thoughts together. After a few seconds of bracing yourself, it felt like every muscle in your body strained to stand back up again, resting a hand on the couch for balance as you swayed for a second, blinking against the sudden brightness bombarding your opened eyes. Tom was asking you what you were doing, but you ignored him. You felt drunk, nauseous, staggering and eyes still welling with tears at the sheer agony of straightening up to walk the few steps to the bathroom.

You could ignore Tom, this fresh well of misery making his words seem miles away, but as you finally got close the bathroom door his hands on your hips halted you in place.

He forced you to look at him, eyes struggling to focus on his features, the deep frown on his face deepening as he saw the tear tracking down your cheek.

“What are you doing?” he asked purposefully, overenunciating the words like he was speaking to a stubborn child, hands grounding you as he held you still.

“Bathroom.”

The words seemed like someone else’s, taking an impossible amount of effort, shaky as they fell from your lips. You realised you were fully crying, and some distant, rational part of you felt a stab of mortification.

“Okay,” Tom nodded in understanding, still using that slow, controlled tone.

He didn’t seem to have anything else to comment, guiding you to the bathroom door and opening it, letting you walk inside before holding it open by the handle.

You frowned, struggling to find the words to complain to him, desperate to pee and try to end the pain in your sensitive bladder. Tom’s face was still creased with concern, a fresh tinge of quiet authority in the set of his jaw.

“Please don’t lock the door,” he insisted, and you frowned. “I won’t… I won’t open it. I promise. But please don’t lock it. Just in case.”

You nodded mutely, unhappy, but not quite having the presence of mind to argue. Tom closed the door, and you sighed, accepting his deal as you nervously sat to pee, eyes fixed on the handle. He was probably pacing outside, and you tried not to think about how embarrassing this all was as you let your face fall to your hands, trying to scrub away the tears which had begun to itch on your cheeks.

It burned, and you exhaled shakily. You reached to turn on a tap, and hoped Tom couldn’t hear.

Fuck this. Fuck this.

The fogginess of reality was cut through sharply by pain, and the all-consuming ache which seemed to suddenly rage through your entire pelvis, your worry about the unlocked door only adding to the sheer misery this day seemed to have planned for you.

“All okay?” Tom called through the door, shocking you with the reminder of just how close he was.

With a wince you cleared your throat, trying to hide the weakness of your voice as you prepared to reply before he got any big ideas about bursting through that fucking door.

“All good!”

“Good.”

His reply was awkward, too loud and too curt, and you wondered what he was thinking. If he was lamenting some other plans for his day. You heard his footsteps retreat, and turned off the running tap.

The pain in your abdomen had lessened now, the burn finally subsiding, and after a few moments staring into space your head started to clear. A few more litres of cranberry juice, and hopefully it’d be all better.

You always forgot the kind of despair that acute kind of illness seemed to bring, the pain and the weakness. Blinking away the confusion, you washed your hands and face. Tried to fix your hair a little. Brushed your teeth. All those little things fixed, and you started to feel better.

It took you a few more minutes, and one more check-in from Tom, for you to emerge. The kitchen had been cleaned up, the hot water bottle ready to be refilled, and Tom was sat uncomfortably on the sofa – it was obvious he’d just sat down as he heard you approaching.

He jumped to his feet again, not quite sure what to do with his arms, and you wished you knew what was going on behind those widened blue eyes. You should ask, you knew he’d tell you everything straight away.

Tom was never insincere.

The movement of his lips suggested he was trying to word a question, and failing. You put him out of his misery.

“I’m feeling a lot better.”

“I’m glad. That’s good.”

He didn’t believe you, and you could see it. You folded yourself onto the couch, and he moved to refill the hot water bottle. Handing it to you wordlessly he hovered nearby, until you shuffled to indicate he could sit beside you.

It was awkward. Things were never awkward with Tom. His weight beside yours dragged the two of you together, even gravity willing you to reconcile from this strange shift in the atmosphere. You resisted, shuffling a little so you could sit up without touching him, one arm on the sofa as you faced him.

“Sorry for zoning out on you there, I don’t know what happened. I wasn’t trying to be rude.”

His face broke into a quiet relief, and it broke your heart a little.

“You weren’t! I didn’t think you were being rude. You just scared me. I was worried.”

Smiling tightly, you hugged the hot water bottle closer to your torso, enjoying the comfort as much as the pain relief from the warmth. The storm of concern on his face lifted a little as he watched, hearing your quiet, unspoken thank you.

“What have you got planned for the rest of your day?” you asked softly, diverting the conversation.

Tom knew what you were doing, and you saw him bite down a laugh.

“Just looking after this stubborn woman, and not leaving her house until she feels better.”

The mocking was light, undercut by the open fondness in his eyes, and you found yourself warmed by it.

“She sounds like a pain in the arse,” you teased.

“She’s really not. Only when she pretends to be fine when she’s not.”

“Sorry.”

His face dropped, immediately reaching for your hand, and he scrambled to backtrack. You were a horrified as tears sprung to your eyes again, trying to blink them away.

“You know I wasn’t serious. I just worry, I’m sorry.”

He was still reaching for you, one hand on yours and the other gently brushing away your fresh tears, his face close to yours as you shuddered out breaths and tried to form words.

“No, you say anything wrong, I think I’m just feeling a bit…”

“Down?” Tom offered.

“Fragile.”

“Oh, sweetheart.”

You weren’t sure if he opened his arms first, or if you reached for him first. But you were against his chest in a second, head on his shoulder and his arm around you, the hot water bottle displaced as it warmed both of your hips where they were pressed together.

There was comfort in the beating of his heart, in the smell of him and the cologne he’d put on hours ago, in the strength of his arms as they held you to him for the second time that day.

You apologised again against the fabric of his shirt, and he shushed your words.

“You must feel dreadful, love. You’d be well within your rights to tell me to go fuck myself. I think you were very polite, all things considered. Ignoring me was very considerate.”

When he felt you laugh against his chest you could hear Tom’s heart speed up, the rumble of his own chuckle, and you knew the two of you were fine again.

You’d always be fine. The two of you were close like that.

“I’ll remember that for next time,” you teased.

“There won’t be a next time.”

A sombre promise that you’d never get another urinary tract infection was crazy, it didn’t make sense. He was taking far too much accountability, as usual. But you let yourself sink into his confidence, into his comfort. You let yourself believe him.

“You’re so good to me.”

He didn’t say anything, just shuffled you to relax down on the couch, keeping you against him but twisting you. One hand found the hot water bottle and pressed it against your abdomen again, and even when you reached to take it, his hand just stayed there.

It took a few seconds to process that he was spooning you, the solidness of his chest against your back and one hand over your stomach. He was everywhere, against your whole body, warm and smelling amazing, his breath against your neck and his weight pulling you closer to him on the soft cushions.

You wondered if he felt it too. That strange, desperate need to be closer even as you were pressed together. Like you wanted your soul to merge with his, your skin itself to melt together with his.

Maybe you could blame the infection-induced madness for that feeling too.

The pain in your abdomen was barely there anymore, your bladder feeling less raw, the ache no longer acid-sharp. But you knew that was because of him. Because of the warmth and the distraction and his comfort, these stupid endorphins coursing through your veins, and his sweetness in bringing you medicine and sustenance and three fucking cartons of cranberry juice.

“You okay?” he mumbled against your neck.

For a second you couldn’t think of anything except a flash of irrational jealousy. The mere thought he’d held other people like this. That there were nights he might have come home from you and whispered against someone else’s neck, raised goosebumps on their skin, warmed their body.

You had to stop yourself from gasping, wondering where the hell that had come from, a strange brand of anger still burning hot in your chest. You were starting to sweat, from his body heat and the hot water bottle and the infection. Maybe a bit from jealousy.

If Tom noticed, he wasn’t disgusted. He stayed right there. While Tom babied you, you were happy to engage in moping around for a bit.

“They don’t warn you about this bit,” you whispered, “when you sign up to do this shit.”

“This shouldn’t happen,” he consoled, “I thought the studio was better than that. We’ll tighten protocols. I’ll see what we can do to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

You knew he couldn’t see your smile, and you hoped he couldn’t sense the tightness in your chest at this ridiculous seriousness. A worry for your health that surpassed your own concern.

Was that what love was? You hadn’t really thought about it before.

“Risk of the job,” you dismissed.

He grumbled into your hair, his breath ghosting over your neck. You wondered if his eyes were closed. As he minutes passed his head relaxed a little, the position melting, your bodies wax under that quiet, smouldering flame which you shared.

You closed your eyes, focusing on Tom’s steady breaths lulling you to sleep.

*

He was still there when you woke up, a heavy arm over your waist, his hand replacing the fluffy hot water bottle which had fallen to the ground. You could feel the five points of his fingertips on your thin shirt.

You weren’t sure if he was awake, his breathing quiet and even, chest moving against your back even as the two of you had fidgeted in sleep. It was delicious, warm, but your bladder was screaming at you. You realised you probably should have drunk more before napping, that burning sensation returning, and sighed as you started to disentangle yourself from Tom without disturbing him.

He must have been asleep, mumbling in confusion as your form was replaced with cool air against his chest, rolling over and opening his eyes sleepily.

It was early afternoon, the room bathed in light, and he squinted as he murmured your name. His voice was deepened and slurred by his nap, and you tried to soothe him back to sleep as you retreated to the bathroom.

“Go back to sleep, it’s fine.”

He was fully awake, rubbing his eyes, and you sighed. Pausing in the doorframe, you watched as he sat up and looked around to fix you with a stare. He had a fairly extraordinary case of bedhead, red creases from the sofa marking his face, confusion on his face as he woke up.

“Where are you going?”

“I… Tom. Go back to sleep. Don’t worry.”

He blinked, and asked again.

“Where are you going?”

You fixed him with a glare of ‘I don’t want to say it’, but he was too sleepy to understand. He cocked his head in confusion.

“I have to pee again,” you admitted, and Tom clambered to his feet.

For some reason.

He seemed more awake now, stretching to his full height as he strode across the room to you.

“Really? You’re embarrassed about that? How long have we known each other?”

“Why are you following me?”

He paused in the doorway, blinking in confusion at himself, pink creeping up his cheeks.

“Right, sorry.”

You smiled to yourself as you used the bathroom, still wincing from pain but blessedly noting an improvement, staring at your reflection in the mirror as you washed your hands. You weren’t sure when you’d started feeling differently about Tom. You weren’t sure if your relationship had changed, or if it was just in your head.

You were sure that this was new. Something beyond the close friendship you had taken for granted for years. You could get used to the feeling of waking up pressed against him. To being spoilt by him, surprised by his thoughtfulness. You could get used to that desperate sincerity, those blue eyes which saw right through to your soul.

Drying your hands on your sweatpants, you re-entered the living room, seeing Tom’s mop of curls as he sat cross-legged on the sofa, back straight and hands folded in his hands. He seemed sheepish, his position almost child-like as his eyes tracked you across the room, waiting for you to settle somewhere.

There were gears turning in that overactive mind of his, and you perched yourself beside him, waiting for him to speak. Finally he did, the words precise and practiced inside his own mind.

“I’m sorry for just barging in. I don’t know if that was too far, I just wanted to help. I couldn’t go to work alone knowing you weren’t well.”

You couldn’t help smiling. Of course that was what he was worried about.

“Tom, it’s okay. I appreciate your help so much, not many people would do that for me. I’m sorry for being so stubborn.”

He winced, lips pressed into a tight line.

“I’m sorry. You know I didn’t mean that.”

“But you were right,” you admitted, “I was being stubborn. I should have just said thank you. So, thank you.”

Tom nodded in acknowledgement, but you knew he hadn’t taken the words in. He kept talking.

“I felt so bad, I knew yesterday was too much. We should’ve taken more breaks. You must be so tired. Or getting sick. Apparently if your immune system is already fighting something off you’re more likely to get ill. And I kept you talking when I should’ve made you to and clean up.”

“You won’t convince me this is your fault, Tom,” you told him lightly, resting on hand on his bent knee.

He stared at your hand for a long second, and you knew he didn’t believe you. You closed your eyes, swallowed, letting your eyes drift across to everything he’d brought. Remembering how he’d dropped everything at the realisation you were sick.

How he wouldn’t take no for an answer until he was with you, helping you. Making sure you were safe. You wondered what would have happened if he hadn’t come over. Would you still be in bed, choking down water and painkillers, debating texting to ask him to bring groceries over?

You couldn’t recall why were so averse to him coming over now. He hadn’t made you feel bad, or weak. He’d been nothing but caring and helpful and, yes, a little overbearing.

But that was part of him. What made Tom, Tom. He put one hand on his thigh, inches from where your thumb rubbed over the inside of his knee, and you took the leap. You laced your fingers which his, staring at how your hands fit together.

“I can’t remember a time anyone was this nice to me. Ever.”

Tom sighed, and you felt a moment of heaviness. A realisation that your life was about to shift. Chapters, ending and beginning. Something new taking root, as Tom met your eyes nervously.

“Then I need to do a better job.”

[depressedoverdrawings]

Can you hear the tumult of our youth?

KazeKi is the first romance I’ve ever enjoyed, or rather, that I emotionally connected with, as “enjoy” is a funny word choice for a work that made me feel so miserable. Personally, I’ve never enjoyed media that focuses on relationships and love, were they movies, TV, or literature.

But after I discovered KazeKi, I found myself drawn to it, almost involuntarily so. It was as if a spell had been cast. I suppose what superficially drew me in, at first, was the art. It had the charm of retro manga (I absolutely love retro manga/anime looks, IMO they have so much more character than most modern anime and manga), the nostalgic elegance of the idealized upper-class XIX century, and the unrelenting beauty and cuteness of all the boys.

It was mildly surreal and highly entertaining to witness the seed of so many shounen-ai visual tropes: The flower motifs, the flowery poetry, the impossibly pretty boys in dramatic embraces and breathy kisses, the aggressive frenchness of it all. Even it was shocking to me how these elements, instead of striking me as the tired, sappy tropes I saw them as, were now all genuine and beautiful, somehow. Even those silly sparkles around pretty boys seemed fitting. I realized these weren’t tropes back then, but elements of a sincere artistc vision. However, while the art was mesmerizing to me, I came to realize that what drew me in deeper, and kept me anchored to KazeKi, were the themes explored, and the character-based drama, the very stuff I had always avoided.

Without getting far too personal about it, Kaze to Ki no Uta was the first romance that struck something within me, somewhere personal. Now, I certainly have never faced trauma and pain anywhere near to what poor Gilbert and Serge face in their absurdly depressing story, but I definitely wouldn’t call myself emotionally and sexually resolved and healthy, and once upon a time I was a closeted boy in a catholic school, so I guess there’s space for a little bit of self-identification. My coping mechanism to my personal woes had always been to just bottle them up and distract myself with entertainment and art. And that was exactly what I was doing, browsing music on YouTube, when I stumbled upon the KazeKi OVA’s soundtrack.

I found myself listening to this gorgeous arrangement of a Chopin piece, and thought to myself, staring at the angelic figure looking back at me, across the screen: “Gee whilikers, that’s sure is a pretty drawing of a pretty girl”. Then, after reading the comments, I found out that was a boy. As much as the “draw a girl, call it a boy” school of drawing pretty boys makes me groan, I could still feel it, that first hook of interest, stabbing me. As the slideshow enticed me with pictures of Keiko Takemiya’s gorgeous art, I found myself enamoured by it. It was a particular drawing that made KazeKi finally snatch me: that same boy, lounging angelically on some sort of abstract architectural design; in the background, a neoclassical vase flanked by two neoclassical girls, and, above and below, this stunningly beautiful vegetation. So much care, skill, and good taste, concentrated in just one image! I’d have it as a poster, if I could. So, I googled “Kaze to Ki no Uta”, unwittingly throwing myself in a rabbit hole I could not have prepared myself for. Trying to read it was in itself a journey, but, to sum it up: I managed to read it about as well as one can, if they don’t speak japanese and have no access to the spanish and italian translations.

It had been years since I had started feeling emotionally numb. My most extreme displays of emotion came in the form of quiet, teary eyes, reserved for those rare, impactful pieces of art, and those rarer moments of despair-inducing introspection that I couldn’t manage to suppress, but even those lasted little, as I fought to recover my composure. By the end of Kaze to Ki no Uta, I was a sobbing wreck, doing my best (and failing) to contain my ugly crying. Ugly crying, for god’s sake. I was ugly crying, actually sobbing like a kid, because of an yaoi manga. Crying in the shower, even! What kind of weeb had I degenerated into? It hurt. It deeply hurt, in a way I hadn’t been made to hurt in a long, long while. KazeKi had impacted me to the point that I wasn’t just sad, I was scared too, as the waterfall of emotion opened the path for that deeper, personal darkness to come out. And it did.

Now, I admit I’d been a little bit more emotionally fragile than usual right before I read it, due to the effects of the quarantine and the previous consumption of a highly depressing piece of media: Les Amitiés Particulières, which is probably even more depressing than KazeKi as it deals with a much more grounded homophobia-induced tragedy based in real life. Somehow, it didn’t impact me as much as KazeKi, however. Also, it was definitely what influenced my personal YouTube algorithm to recommend me the KazeKi soundtrack, so I wouldn’t know of KazeKi if it weren’t for Amitiés. But even then, it felt unnatural to, well, feel so much. I hadn’t felt this invested in and attached to fictional characters ever since I was a little kid, too young to realize those people in the TV weren’t real. In the following couple of weeks, I was crying over these boys, spending whole days feeling like trash, feeling mild anxiety spikes whenever I remembered about KazeKi, having (even more) difficulty falling asleep, and utterly failing to avoid thinking about my deep-seated intimate issues, all because of these dumb, pretty anime boys. Not even my trusty prayer of “they’re not real people, stop being stupid” worked. In an attempt to stop wallowing in this shounen-ai hell, I decided to consume a whole lot of escapist media while I deliberately avoided any activity related to KazeKi, be it reading the manga, listening to the OVA’s soundtrack, looking at fanart, or even just thinking about it. It “worked” for a month or so, but now I’m back here, wallowing in KazeKi’s painful beauty again, stalking the other seven people in the western world that seem to care about KazeKi, and distilling my thoughts in this bizarre textwall, in an attempt to work it out. If you’re one of those seven people, please don’t refrain from talking to me, if you feel like it! I’ve had just one opportunity to have a conversation about KazeKi, and it was in YouTube comments, for heaven’s sake. I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m this afflicted by KazeKi due to its unrelenting, merciless, cruel beauty. Everything about it is presented in this assembly of pure beauty and lost perfection, this painful nostalgia that is present in its aesthetics of an idealized Europe which lives only in its surviving art, that is present in the story which ultimately tells us of the loss of love, and is present in the fact that the whole story is a broken man’s reverie about the past. Tragedy might make me sad, but tragedy with beauty will destroy me. Bittersweetness is just so more cruel than bitterness. And it was this masterpiece of sadistic bittersweetness that permanently broke something in how I deal with my emotions. Kaze to Ki no Uta touched me deeply, to the point of leaving a permanent impression, I’m afraid. I can count in one hand the pieces of art that have punched my soul in the face like KazeKi did. I am honestly flabbergasted over the effect it had over me. At first I felt embarrassed over being emotionally obliterated by a freaking shounen-ai, but I’ve since come to the conclusion that KazeKi is a work of art, a genuine, sincere work of art, deserving of the title. Now I just hope I’m not alone in being emotionally obliterated by this freaking shounen-ai. After everything they went through, the personal fights, the shaky development of their relationship, the undeserved ostracism at Lacombrade, Auguste’s demonic persecution, the escape; how could it be that Gilbert’s life would end in such a horrible way, and that Serge would be left alone to face the full, unbearable weight of his grief! Why?! Keiko Takemiya, you’re a vile sadist. You’re a genius, too, of course. But you’re a vile sadist.

I knew that a happy ending wasn’t going to happen. The horrible ending was a pretty early spoiler, really. Unfortunately for me, I couldn’t stop myself from reading on anyway, and I couldn’t stop myself from having an inkling of illogical hope. Even if my logical self knew a happy ending wasn’t gonna happen, it couldn’t prepare me for just how tragically their love would end, and how awful it all would feel, once I knew their full story.

It’s all the more bitter because of how close Serge came to saving him, too. Having escaped together to a place where they could’ve built the nearest thing to a normal life a gay couple could have, back then. But in the end, not even Serge’s love could mend Gilbert’s mutilated soul. Those boys deserved so much better, especially Serge. Serge, you sweet angel! You were created to suffer.

KazeKi really is a masterpiece in how it explores its extremely heavy themes and the minds of its characters, and how it flawlessly meshes that with perfect art. There are many moments in KazeKi that haunt me: Serge letting that bird go, Serge’s vision of Gilbert at the Lacombrade grounds, Gilbert running into the carriage, angel wings behind him; Serge laying alone on the bed in Room 17. I cannot look at those pages without tearing up and feeling this horrible feeling in my heart, and this feeling is literal: My heart actually feels heavy and constricted when I think about it, it can’t be healthy. Up until now, I thought “cri evrytiem” was just a meme. KazeKi has woken me up to the fact that bottling up one’s own personal issues will inevitably end with them exploding out, leading to something much, much worse. I am scared by the prospect of facing my personal issues. To me, they are horribly strong, and seem incredibly hard to solve, if they’re even solvable at all. I’m horrified by the prospect of facing them, working to solve them. I’m so scared, that simply thinking about it, right now, gives me this awful weight in my chest, and makes me want to cry, again. But I know now that I have no choice in this matter, as the only alternative is that abyss I dare not speak of, and one cannot return from. Melodramatic? Yes. But I did just read Kaze to Ki no Uta.

Thank you for getting this far, whoever you are.

I’m forever haunted by Serge’s words to his long-gone Gilbert, right at the beginning:

“Gilbert Cocteau, you were the greatest flower to ever bloom in my life. In the faraway dreams of youth, you were a bright red flame, blazing so fiercely… You were the wind that stirred my branches. Can you hear the poem of the wind and trees? Can you hear the tumult of our youth? Oh, there must be others who so remember their own days of youth…”

[wistfulcynic]

Operation Emma’s Christmas

Merry Christmas to @kitsunewingstar​! If I calculated correctly this should post in the afternoon of Christmas Eve for you, (very) early in the morning of Christmas Eve here in the UK/Europe, and Christmas Eve Eve in the US. It’s been lovely chatting with you and I hope you have a wonderful holiday with your family! 

You requested something sweet and Christmassy, so I hope this delivers! For the purposes of the story, we’re assuming there was no Christmas under the curse (since we never saw/heard about it on the show) and that S7 and its timeline is not a thing. 

Thanks to the @cssecretsanta2k19​​ for organising this event!!

SUMMARY: What with curses and monsters and trips to Camelot, and a distinct lack of quiet moments, the residents of Storybrooke have never really celebrated Christmas. Now that he has a child and a wife who misses the holiday, Killian is determined to change that. 

He just has to figure out how. 

(Set post-S6 in a world with no S7)

Tagging all the folks from the last tag list, PLEASE do let me know if you want to be added or removed. @kmomof4 @shireness-says @snidgetsafan @darkcolinodonorgasm @snowbellewells @stahlop​ @mariakov81​ @courtorderedcake​ @jonirobinson64​ @tiganasummertree​ @ohmightydevviepuu​ @shardminds​ @jennjenn615​ @superchocovian​ @teamhook​

On AO3

-

Operation Emma’s Christmas:

Killian Jones has been alive a very long time, and seen many strange and wondrous things. But none of them, from the spice markets of Agrabah to the snow-covered mountains of Arendelle to the hold of the Jolly Roger when it’s brimming with loot can, in his opinion, top the astounding treasure that is Google. He is awestruck by the notion of being able to ask any question he likes and having the answer appear within seconds. Emma tries to explain how anyone can put stuff on the internet and he can’t believe everything he reads, but he brushes her off. He knows how to separate fact from opinion and how to identify a reliable source, he tells her patiently. Among the many things they teach you in the Royal Navy. 

With the aid of the oracle Google, Killian learns all about this extraordinary realm he now calls home, enough so that he no longer finds himself adrift on a foggy sea when Emma and Henry make references to things he’s never heard of. He finds lists of movies he should watch and books he should read and the most influential songs of the 20th century, and he sets about watching and reading and listening to each one, with all the studious dedication of the keen young lieutenant he used to be, oh so many years ago now. 

“It’s kind of a shame we don’t do Christmas in Storybrooke,” says Emma wistfully one afternoon in mid-December, as they sit on the floor with their backs resting against the sofa watching Hope crawl around the living room. “Now that we have a kid. I mean, I had Henry before and we did Christmas in New York and in our fake memories, but… it’d be nice to do it here.” 

Killian is already on his phone consulting the oracle on the subject of Christmas. An annual festival commemorating the birth of Jesus Christ, observed primarily on December 25 as a religious and cultural celebration among billions of people around the world, he reads. He clicks on Images and scrolls through brightly decorated evergreen trees, houses draped in twinkling lights, giant-sized stockings hung above fireplaces and a very fat bearded man dressed in red. He makes a mental note to do more research when he gets back to the station and in the meantime looks up at where Emma and Hope are now playing patty cake. 

“Why can’t we?” he asks.

“Why can’t we what?” 

“Celebrate Christmas?” 

“Oh. I don’t know, I guess we’ve just never done it in Storybrooke.” Emma pauses, laughing as Hope leans in to pat her cheeks. “Because of the curse, I suppose.” 

“But knowledge of it is presumably part of this curse download that your family and all the residents who were brought here by Regina had, correct?” 

“I suppose so.” 

“Well, that surely means that they would wish to begin a new tradition, one that includes this festival?” he presses. 

“Oh, I don’t know, Killian.” Hope crawls into Emma’s lap and she cuddles the baby close. “I don’t want to make a big deal about it. It doesn’t matter.” 

But if there’s one thing Killian doesn’t require Google’s assistance to understand, it’s his wife. This Christmas business is clearly very important to her, and he intends to see that she gets the finest celebration of it that he has in his power to provide. 

—

Killian’s first step in Operation Emma’s Christmas is to enlist the aid of Henry and David. The prince to help him procure all the materials he needs, the lad to come up with a name better than “Operation Emma’s Christmas.” 

David comes through like the noble royal and loving father (in-law) that he is, but Henry, to Killian’s great chagrin, loves Operation Emma’s Christmas. “Straight and to the point,” he says. “Perfect.” 

Killian sighs, frowning at the back seat of David’s truck where his stepson sits typing something on his phone. The lad is so much more prosaic now that he’s discovered girls, he thinks, when really the opposite should be true. 

“Are you sure you can’t come up with something better?” he grumbles. 

“Nope.” Henry doesn’t even look up from his screen. Killian sighs again. 

“Don’t worry, Hook,” says David. “The operation will be a success, the name doesn’t matter. Actually, I’m really glad you thought of it. I’ve been intending to get a Christmas tradition going around here since Neal was born, but what with one thing and another—” 

“Never a quiet moment,” says Killian. “Aye.” 

“Well, we’ve got one now and we’re gonna make the most of it,” says David, pulling the truck over to the side of the road. The three of them get out and Killian catches his breath at the sight before him. They are standing above a wide, snowy valley, extending as far as the eye can see, liberally dotted with lush green fir trees. 

“Take your pick,” says David with a grin, pulling a large saw from the back of the truck. 

“Lad, I’m going to need your help for this,” says Killian. 

“Oh yeah,” says Henry. 

—

Once the trees are procured, their next stop is Regina’s house. She doesn’t look particularly pleased to see them, even less so when they explain their mission. 

“Christmas decorations?” she says in that scathing tone that still gets Killian’s hackles up, even though they’re technically friends now. 

“Yep,” says David, crossing his arms over his chest and giving her what Emma calls his ‘stern Dad’ look. “I have to assume that we never had Christmas in Storybrooke because you didn’t allow it under the curse. Am I wrong?” 

“No.” Regina has the grace to look abashed. “You’re not wrong.” 

“Well then. Don’t you think it’s time you rectified that?” 

“So you want me to what, just magic up some ornaments so you can decorate a tree for Emma?” 

“And for David and Snow,” says Killian. “And anyone else who wants one. I mean, decorations for the whole town would be best, but if that’s beyond your scope…” 

Regina sneers. “Let’s start with yours and Emma’s,” she says. 

—

Snow White is well known for her inability to keep a secret, and so they elect not to bring her in on Operation Emma’s Christmas. Instead Henry is tasked with distracting both her and his mother while ornaments are hung and lights strung at the respective Jones and Nolan households. David and Killian requisition walkie-talkies from the station and have far too much fun strategising and organising their decorating battle plans while Hope gurgles and Neal babbles mostly coherently in the background. 

It takes perhaps longer than it should, neither of them having any actual experience to draw on and needing to consult the oracle frequently, but in due course everything is ready and Killian sends Henry a text with the all-clear. 

He fidgets as he waits for Emma to return, fussing nervously with Hope’s tiny Santa hat as she gums at the pacifier stuck on the end of his hook—a red one for Christmas. He double-checks that all the lights are on and the ornaments hung just so, and all the parcels are stacked in a pleasing way beneath the tree. When he hears her at the door he snatches up the baby and positions them both in front of it all. 

“Killian, I’m—what the—” Emma’s face is a picture as she takes in the sight before her. The huge tree that Henry selected fills nearly half the room, and is covered in shiny red and green ornaments and sparkly lights, with a bright silver star at the top. Beneath it piles of presents sit wrapped in glossy paper and festooned with ribbon bows, and lined up along the mantelpiece are four huge stockings labelled Hope, Henry, Emma, and Killian. The effect, Killian hopes, is festive in the extreme, merry and jolly and everything Emma missed out on when she was growing up. 

“Merry Christmas, love,” he says. 

Emma turns in a slow circle, eyes wide and mouth agape. “But it’s—it’s only the 20th!” she says. 

“Aye, rather late. Google informs me that some people decorate their homes as early as the first of November. But we still have time to enjoy it, apparently the custom in many households is to leave the lights up until the sixth of Jan—oof!” He exhales sharply as Emma throws herself at him, one arm wrapping around his neck and the other cradling Hope’s head as she kisses him.

“I can’t believe you did all this,” she says, peppering his face with kisses. Hope gurgles indignantly and Emma kisses her as well. 

“Henry and your father helped. And Regina, as a matter of fact.” 

“But I bet it was your idea, wasn’t it?” She gives him a knowing look. 

“Aye, I confess it was.” 

“Because I mentioned in passing that it’s a shame we don’t do Christmas in Storybrooke?” 

“It was the way you mentioned it.”

“The way I mentioned it,” she echoes. 

He nods. “Aye. I sensed it was something you missed out on in your youth, and that you wanted Hope to have the experiences you lacked.”

Emma brushes her fingertips across his cheek, a soft smile on her face. “You sensed all that from me saying it might be nice to have Christmas here?” 

He grins and pulls her closer, shifting Hope so she is snuggled between them. “How many times must I tell you, my love, that you are an open book to me?”

She returns the grin, letting her forehead rest against his. “At least once more, I guess.” 

“As always.” 

-

[smoljoelito]

obra de arte || joel pimentel

word count: 2,499

requested by/request: my own idea I threw into my queue lmfao

description: you draw joel pimentel per request, but you don’t expect him to see it.

warnings: fluff

masterlist

tags: @quierick @mepuserojito @ericks-mala-actitud @woowoodaaboo @ella-se-vuelve-loca @joelsaww @honeyzhong @sarswilltakeyouout @pimentelssmile @whippedforcnco @notsoteenagegirl @richukisbb @besosdecnco @emsy55 @cloudfiveclub @erickspretend1 @hardtoadore

———————————————————————————————————--

Everyone has their outlet in life, as you like to call it.

An outlet, to you, any activity you do that brings you a happiness high or gives you a sense of calamity. For some, it’s working out. The intensity and achievement of small goals gives a lot of people a shot of dopamine that becomes an addiction. For others, a creative outlet suits them best. Some people sew, draw, sing, do DIYs, and/or dance and use it as their escape from the stressors of life. Then there’s the rare few, that their outlet is their job.

For you, you’re lucky to say that you have been able to take your favorite thing in the entire world, art, and make a living off it. Never in your life did you think you’d be able to do such a thing, but after beginning to innocently post a few artworks on your art Instagram account your friends encouraged you to make, you began to grow.

It was a snowball effect, starting slow, but as soon as the bigger art accounts began to repost your drawings, it grew faster then you could ever imagine. Whimsical art was never your forte, but realism for you came naturally. You could draw anything; humans, nature, dogs, cats, buildings, etc, as easily as breathing air. Some people even began to call you an art prodigy, which you never truly believed.

Your favored medium? Anything that you can make art with. You go through phases, sometimes loving markers for quick art, topping them with colored pencils for details. Sometimes, especially for nature, you enjoy pastels, oil, and chalk, to get the beautiful blending of colors needed to successfully make the picture come alive. Your favorite, however, seems to be painting, specifically watercolor. As much as you love oil paints, there’s nothing like layering watercolors together, giving a gentle and soft finish, but also an imperfect look that seems to draw the whole piece together as one.

Most say you have the ability to make anything come alive; from highlights to lowlights, from perfecting skin colors and providing the correct background to make it all tie together. It’s a special gift of yours; being able to find whatever makes people’s eyes sparkle, and this is how you have your success as an artist. You have the ability to make your models look alive by putting them in a situation where they automatically feel the most lively, where you can see the natural glow coming off their skin. The sparkle in their eyes isn’t painted on, and the flush in their cheeks isn’t just the paint, but it’s the model, and artist, in the prime. People look better when you decide to paint them, it’s like magic, how everything comes together so perfectly on the canvas. It’s like you have an innate ability to make absolutely anything, beautiful. 

Now on a full-ride scholarship to your favored art school in LA, you’re living a dream. Most of your artworks for school, you sell for money, but in the summer, you take commissions and requests to keep your talent and extra money up. So, at the moment, you’re working on a gouache watercolor painting of Joel Pimentel, a request you recently got. You know the band he’s from, since you’ve been listening to them for quite a while, but never so much into it to learn their names.

When you got the request, you decided to do it out of other’s you’d received since, for some reason, you had an incredibly good feeling about it. Your intuition is usually fairly good and right, so you decided to paint the curly-haired boy, whose name you just learned. 

Finding the right picture seemed to take you longer than the drawing, but after searching his Instagram account, photographer’s accounts, and google images, you found the most candid photo you could find of him smiling, seeming to be in his element, and he is.

The picture was taken inside of what appears to be a recording studio, but that’s not going to matter anyway since you’re making the background a single color; blue ombré, light blue at the top to accentuate his hair, and then dark blue at the bottom. Painting him, however, would be done in black and white. You enjoy messing with colors in such a way, just to experiment and keep creativity flow up.

With the picture in front of you, you begin your sketch. For some reason, once you get the basic shapes of his face and body down, you always start with the eyes. Eyes are your favorite thing to sketch because they are so versatile. With a few highlights, you can make them look alive and glowy, and with a few more highlights and some shadings, tear-filled and irritated. To perfect them, that’s where you always start. Then you move up to the hair, and then down the rest of the body. 

When the basic outline is done, you already have pride in the drawing, excited to finish it. Painting it is your favorite part, and once you get a basic grey wash across the entire drawing, you start with, surprise, his eyes. Once you get down the basic color blocking, you begin to add details; small white highlights around the inner corner to make his eyes look extra radiant. From there, you work outwards, building shadows in his face and hair, then letting it dry while you start on the bottom half of his body. 

This is how you work, layer by layer, until the clock reads 3:11 A.M. and your eyes are shutting every few seconds, requiring you to jolt yourself awake. After cleaning up your art hands, which is what you call your hands after they’ve been covered with whatever medium(s) you’ve been using for the day (A/N: this is what I call my hands after I’ve made some art since they’re trashed lol) and you wash your face, you practically collapse in bed. 

Upon waking up the next morning with the brilliant sunlight of the morning lighting up your room, you groan at the light pounding of your head. It’s your own curse, you’re a perfectionist, and you absolutely cannot stop doing anything you’ve started until it’s completed. 

You pop a few Advil that you leave by your bed, gulping them down with some water before pulling back the covers, exposing your body to the AC. A hiss escapes your lips as the cold meets your body rather gently, brushing over your skin like a light kiss, yet leaving behind shivers and goosebumps in its wake. Quickly, you snatch your favorite hoodie you wear around the house, pulling it on your body, before letting your toes greet the chilly floor. 

After you freshen up in the bathroom, your feet pad against the floor towards the kitchen to get yourself a cup of coffee. While it brews, you head back to your art desk you keep by the window of your apartment, finding the painting of Joel staring back up at you. A gasp escapes your lips as you hold it up, heart-swelling at how good it turned out. Just as you take out your camera to take a photo of it, you can hear your Keurig spit out the last bit of your fresh cup of coffee.

Once you have mixed in enough cream and sweetener, you head back into the living room, setting the cup down on a coaster on your desk. From there, you pick up the painting, signing it quickly, before hanging it on the white wall of your apartment. After you set up some white lights, you snap a picture of it with your camera. 

While you work at your desk, you leave the painting on the wall for fear of spilling your coffee on it, yet you have no fear of it spilling on your computer. The realization of your art life makes you chuckle as you plug in your camera to your computer.

After a few quick edits, you send the photo to your phone before uploading it to Instagram and your story, making sure to tag Joel and CNCO to help with exposure. From there, you set down your phone and put away your computer, sipping on your coffee as you think about your next possible artwork. 

Once you’ve downed your first cup of coffee, you stand up, putting all your lights away and placing the painting of Joel in a portfolio case, before picking up your phone.

A gasp escapes your lips as you find your phone blowing up with notifications from Instagram, a few specific ones catching your eye.

cncomusic has uploaded your post to their story.

cncomusic has tagged you in a post.

cncomusic has mentioned you in a post.

joelpimentel has uploaded your post to their story.

joelpimentel  has tagged you in a post.

joelpimentel has mentioned you in a post.

joelpimentel wants to send you a message. 

Quickly, you open Instagram, reposting the notifications to your story as you squeal with excitement. Then, you head to your direct messages, accepting the request to allow him to message you.

joelpimentel: Hey! You’re drawing is so good, I love it so much and so does my mom. We were wondering if we can buy it off you if you’d be willing to sell it to us. Thanks so much! You’re really talented :)

Your jaw practically hits the floor as you stare bug-eyed at the message. Before your brain can even process it, your thumbs are typing.

artbyy/n: Hey! Thank you so much! I really appreciate it. Unfortunately, I won’t sell it to you, but I will send it free of charge :)

Almost immediately, you see he begins typing back.

joelpimentel: You’re welcome, anytime :). No, there’s no way I’m not paying for it! That had to take forever. My mom says she’s going to pay you.

artbyy/n: LOL it didn’t take me that long. The medium I used wasn’t my most expensive medium and it was a request, not a commission, so I don’t really mind. I mean you already reposted my art and tagged me in it on your account and on CNCO’s account, that’s payment enough. My follower count is skyrocking lol thank you!

joelpimentel: Fine, okay. You’re welcome lol. Do you want to ship it to me?

artbyy/n: Sure! I can get it in the mail today if you send me your address right now.

joelpimentel: Alright, here it is! Thanks again :)) My mom is really excited.

artbyy/n: LOL well, tell her I said thanks! And you’re welcome, anytime!

Quickly, you take one of those long yellow envelopes and write the address on it with a brush pen to add to the artsy vibe. Calligraphy is also something you do in your free time, just to take a break from art sometimes. Then, you take the artwork and slide it in between two pieces of cardboard inside the yellow envelope before sealing it off with a rubber stamp with your initials on it. 

After putting on a stamp and paying for shipping, you take your keys and slide on some shoes, before walking outside to find your mailbox. Unfortunately, all the mailboxes are on the first floor of your apartment building, so you hop on an elevator and take the ride all the way down.

Around ten minutes later, you find your way back into the apartment, locking the door and kicking off your shoes. You head back over to your phone, finding many new notifications from Instagram.

joelpimentel liked your photo.

joelpimentel liked your photo.

joelpimentel liked your photo.

joelpimentel liked your photo.

It goes on and on for many notifications making you giggle, and then you see there’s a new message from him.

joelpimentel: Your art is amazing holy crap is there anything you can’t draw? Sorry for bombing your phone my mom and I were looking LOL.

artbyy/n: LOL I tend to draw the same things over and over again, so probably haha. It’s totally okay! A celebrity is liking all of my pictures and you think I’M complaining? Also, hi mom lol.

joelpimentel: I think you’re wrong you could probably draw blind. LOL you still have a right to complain. She said hi and wants to know if you speak Spanish cause she saw some of your captions are in Spanish.

artbyy/n: I actually have drawn blind before! It’s a form of art called the blind contour line drawing! Lol yeah I do! I love speaking Spanish so much I would speak it over English if I could. I took classes in high school and now I’m getting a minor in it! Last year I went to Ecuador to study abroad and I just got back a few weeks ago. It feels weird to speak English lol.

joelpimentel: I know the feeling. When I travel with my band and speak Spanish all the time then flip languages it feels unnatural. That’s so awesome you learned it though! Not a lot of people speak it that weren’t raised in a Latin family. My mom says that’s really cool and wants to know how you liked Ecuador.

artbyy/n: Thanks! I know right. I love the language and culture. I just love languages and cultures in general though. Really I could sit and listen to someone tell me about their culture for hours. In my free time last year I started teaching myself Italian too just because languages are cool. 

artbyy/n: Ecuador is the most beautiful country I have ever been too. I cried like a baby when I left. Everyone was so nice there, including my host family. I miss my host mom so much :( she’s the light of my life lol.

joelpimentel: I love languages too! I try to learn a few words from every country I visit. The world is an incredibly cool place haha. I’m interested just like you are :). 

joelpimentel: Ecuador is amazing. One of my bandmates, Chris, is from Ecuador! He’d be so happy to hear you loved it. Aw, I’m sorry :( hopefully, you can visit soon.

The conversation goes on for hours like this, and you only realize when your stomach starts rumbling from lack of food. Really, you’re never on your phone, so it’s odd for you to sit, staring at a screen all day long. A smile has been plastered across your face the entirety of the conversation, and you can’t help but hope he keeps talking to you for a while. It seems you both have the same likes and dislikes, so the flow of conversation is some of the easiest you’ve ever had. 

The smile on your face lasts the rest of the day as you two happily text until it is time to go to bed. When he wishes you goodnight, you swoon, phone dropping onto your chest as you stare up at the ceiling grinning.

Oh boy, you’re in for some trouble.

———————————————————————————————————--

do we want a part two?

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Pluralistic: 05 Mar 2020 (New Pinkwater, RIP Jim Tyre, Right to Repair and covid, Radicalized is a bestseller, African Whatsapp modders)

Today's links

Daniel Pinkwater wrote a new novel! Yippee for "ADVENTURES OF A DWERGISH GIRL!"

Warner Chappel discoved a new form of copyright fuckery so dense it blew a wormhole into another dimension: From the people who fraudulently claimed to own "Happy Birthday" for decades.

RIP, Jim Tyre: The free internet just lost one of its most dedicated defenders.

Decentralizing the web is a human problem: The web needs stewards, not owners.

Right to Repair is the right to resilience: Independent repair is how we keep things going during emergencies.

Keyless car fobs can be defeated with a cheap RFID cloner: Car manufacturers wontfix a showstopper bug. Again.

Bookstores, libraries, human thriving and mental health: Books are great, even if the science behind their greatness is thin.

Copyright experts' panel on fair use removed from Youtube: A strange game. The only winning move is not to play. How about a nice game of chess?

Radicalized is out in paperback: Just hit every one of Canada's national bestseller lists, too!

African Whatsapp modders are outcompeting Facebook: Adversarial Interoperability is how you beat digital colonialism.

This day in history: 2015, 2019

Colophon: Recent publications, current writing projects, upcoming appearances, current reading

I'm coming to Kelowna, BC today! I'll be at the library from 6-8PM with my book Radicalized for the CBC's Canada Reads. It's free, but you need to RSVP (and most of the seats are gone, so act quick).

https://www.eventbrite.ca/e/cbc-radio-presents-in-conversation-with-cory-doctorow-tickets-96154415445

Daniel Pinkwater wrote a new novel! (permalink)

Well, this is amazing news. Daniel Pinkwater has a new middle grades novel coming out in September: ADVENTURES OF A DWERGISH GIRL!

https://tachyonpublications.com/bestselling-author-daniel-pinkwater-returns-in-classic-form-with-the-illustrated-middle-grade-adventures-of-a-dwergish-girl/

Molly O'Malley is a clever, adventurous girl. She is also a Dwerg. Dwergs are strange folks who live very quietly in the Catskill mountains, have lots of gold, and are kind of like dwarves (but also not!).

Molly isn't interested in cooking and weaving, as she is expected to be. So, she sets off to see the world for herself. Which means a new job, a trip to New York City, prowling gangsters, an adorable king, a city witch, and many historical ghosts. More importantly, it means excellent pizza, new friends, and very quick thinking.

Now someone is pursuing the Dwergs for their gold. Can Molly O'Malley save the day?

IOW: this is a book with every single thing I love about Pinkwater novels. Reading Daniel Pinkwater – as a kid and as an adult – was hugely important to my development as a writer and a human being. Meeting another Pinkwater fan is always a sign that you are among good people.

Warner Chappel discoved a new form of copyright fuckery so dense it blew a wormhole into another dimension (permalink)

I've seen some next-level copyfraud fuckery in my day, believe me, but Adam Neely's tale of Warner Chappell's copyfraud reaches a new height of absurdity.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KM6X2MEl7R8

This is sleazy even by Warner Chappell standards, and they're the crooks who fraudulently claimed ownership over Happy Birthday for decades.

https://vimeo.com/172715640

Buckle up for this one, as it is an onion of bizarre, bad-faith corporate behavior, with each layer peeling back to reveal another, even weirder and more terrible one. It starts with a garbage lawsuit against Katy Perry for including a piece of background music in her song Dark Horse that was similar to another very generic lick in an obscure Christian rap song called "A Joyful Noise."

No one claimed that Katy Perry lifted the brief snatch of music from Joyful Noise. Rather, the case turned on the precedent set when Martin Gaye's heirs sued Robin Thicke over "Blurred Lines," arguing that the song had a similar vibe to Gaye's. Gaye's heirs should not have won that suit. But they did. And it opened the floodgates to nuisance suits targeting the likes of Perry and her publisher, Warner-Chappell. They lost the suit and got hit for $2.8m.

This isn't even the fuckery part, by the way.

Enter Adam Neely, who created a massively successful viral video defending Warner Chappell and Katy Perry, arguing that the suit was garbage. The video was so successful he went on national media to discuss the case and was even asked to sign onto an amicus brief.

Let the fuckery begin:

Warner Chappell has claimed copyright over Neely's video, claiming that a few seconds of music that he used was the "melody" of Katy Perry's song.

Further fuckery:

In the case, Warner Chappell argued that this specific musical phrase was not the melody, and was rather some incidental background sound.

Fuckery extreme:

The Warner Chappell claim was not automated. A human manually claimed this phrase of music as Warner-Chappell's, despite:

a) Them having disclaimed ownership of it in a lawsuit,

b) Losing that suit and being told by a court that it wasn't theirs.

Fuckery to the max!

But the musical phrase they claimed ownership over was from "A Joyful Noise," the song they lost two point eight million dollars over, having claimed that their song was not confusingly similar to it.

The two musical phrases – the one from "Dark Horse" and the one from "Joyful Noise" – were so similar that Warner-Chappell's own copyright enforcers mistakenly claimed copyright over the wrong one!

2020 folks. Don't forget to tip your servers, they work hard.

RIP, Jim Tyre (permalink)

My old EFF comrade Jim Tyre just died.

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2020/03/rip-eff-special-counsel-jim-tyre

Jim was a tireless civil liberties litigator, a titan of First Amendment law whose entree to tech law was defending people who criticized censorware companies who wildly overblocked what schoolkids could see. He was also incredibly garrulous, funny, a born raconteur whose encylopedic memory served him well both as a storyteller and a litigator.

Jim worked on the 2600 DMCA case, he defended Ed Felten when he was threatened by the RIAA, he fought ICANN, and he was key to our longrunning suit against NSA over mass surveillance.

Jim always worked offsite. He lived in LA and had eye problems that rendered him nearly completely blind. But he kept a stash of cash at the EFF offices so he could contribute to every whip-round for a baby gift or a wedding present.

He was a true mensch.

Decentralizing the web is a human problem (permalink)

My old EFF colleague Mai Sutton just published a smashing primer on competition, interoperability, and stewardship and the world of tech:

https://www.techdirt.com/articles/20200228/22053744006/defeating-tech-giants-with-open-protocols-interoperability-shared-stewardship.shtm

After delivering a good backgrounder on the history of the wars between shared protocols and proprietary technologies, Mai delves into the thicket of laws that have cropped up to prevent technologists from adding interoperability to existing technologies.

This has led to a new online enclosure, with "Google" becoming synonymous with "search" and "Facebook" synonymous with "social media." These businesses once competed, but today, they preside alone, over protected territory.

But some of that is changing. Between legislative proposals, new standardization efforts, the Decentralized Web movement and its protocols, and a reinvigorated threat of antitrust enforcement, there's some hope that the web will reopen and redecentralize.

Ultimately, Mai writes, this has more to do with how we view the web than how we use it. If we think of the online world as a shared space for humanity then the technologists who keep it running are stewards, not owners.

(Image: Dietrich Ayala (https://hacks.mozilla.org/2018/07/introducing-the-d-web/) and Open Clip Art (https://openclipart.org/)

Right to Repair is the right to resilience (permalink)

Writing in Wired, Kyle Wiens makes the crucial link between the Right To Repair and resilience, especially during moments of disruption to global supply chains.

https://www.wired.com/story/opinion-the-right-to-repair-will-help-us-endure-outbreaks/

It's no coincidence that farms and farmers have been leaders in Right to Repair: when you're isolated and you're not allowed to fix your stuff, it means that you can neither nip down to the shops for a replacement, nor easily have an authorized repair tech come to your place.

Covid can put everyone – even entire nations – into the position of that isolated farmer. As Long Beach port is denuded of shipping containers, as air- and rail-links are broken between parts of the country, the stream of parts, replacement units and technicians stops.

A key principle of resilience is to put resources at the edge, replacing hub-and-spoke models with point-to-point, peer-to-peer ones that infuse the system with redundancy. Neoliberalism hates redundancy and equates it with wastefulness.

https://twitter.com/doctorow/status/1228326004508151808

But redundancy is the key to graceful failure-modes. Limiting repairs to authorized service centers works well (reliable, and certainly great for shareholders), but it fails very, very badly. Right to Repair is how our hospitals, schools, infrastructure maintenance, first responder and other vital services will keep the lights on if things go horribly wrong. Resiliency may be bad for shareholder value, but it's vital to human survival.

Keyless car fobs can be defeated with a cheap RFID cloner (permalink)

Toyota, Hyundai and Kia keyless ignition fobs can be cloned by attackers who get within a few inches of your pocket (say, at a conference), thanks to implementation errors that the auto-makers made with their Texas Instruments DST80 security systems.

https://www.wired.com/story/hackers-can-clone-millions-of-toyota-hyundai-kia-keys/

All you need is a Proxmark RFID scanner, which retails for about $300. That's more than the range-extenders used to steal cars from out front of targets' homes, but unlike those attackers, fob-cloners can start and stop the car as often as they like.

https://hackerwarehouse.com/product/proxmark3-rdv4-kit/

The researchers who did this work come from KU Leuven and the University of Birmingham. Their paper is great:

https://tches.iacr.org/index.php/TCHES/article/view/8546/8111

The attack on its own does not let you start the cars. All it does is disable the immobilizer that stopped people from hot-wiring the ignition system with a screwdriver.

"You're downgrading the security to what it was in the '80s." -Flavio Garcia, University of Birmingham.

The implementation mistakes by the car companies are embarrassingly basic. Kia and Hyundai's implementation only has 24 bits of randomness ("a couple milliseconds with a laptop"). Toyota uses a serial number as a seed, then transmits that serial number in the clear. The companies, naturally, are saying it's no biggie. Toyota claims the attack requires "a highly specialized device that is not commonly available on the market." This just isn't true. I found it with literally one search.

None of the vendors have offered to fix the problem for drivers who bring their cars to garages.

It's depressing, but at least now you know whether you can trust your car's security.

"It's better to be in a place where we know what kind of security we're getting from our security devices. Otherwise, only the criminals know." -Flavio Garcia.

Bookstores, libraries, human thriving and mental health (permalink)

I love Lydia Smith's hymn to the mental health benefits of books, libraries and reading (even if I think the science is less than convincing)

https://www.opendemocracy.net/en/transformation/how-books-and-bookshops-improve-our-mental-health-and-why-we-must-protect-them/

Reading fiction definitely stretches your empathy. For a novel to work, you have to be invested in the lives of people who don't even exist. The death of the yogurt you digested with breakfast this morning is technically more tragic than the deaths of Romeo and Juliet. The yogurt was really alive and now it's really dead. Romeo and Juliet neither lived nor died. Fiction reading is varsity-level empathy!

I agree that the traditional fiction arc – adversity met and overcome – can lighten a dark day. I turn to Kim Stanley Robinson's "Pacific Edge" whenever I'm blue for that reason. I even played a small role in getting adapted for DRM-free audio.

https://boingboing.net/2015/01/15/audio-edition-of-pacific-edge.html

(Pacific Edge was just reissued as a "Tor Essential" in an omnibus with the other two "Californias" novels, sporting a fabulous intro by Francis Spufford. Run, don't walk!)

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250307569

It's also utterly true that books are a path to resilience and self-reliance, filled as they can be with how-tos, analysis and technical knowledge. As the Whole Earth Catalogues used to have it, "Access to tools and ideas."

(It must be said that the net is infinitely better at this than print books, provided you can get online. The use of a time-transported town library to jumpstart post-industrial civilization during the 30 Years War in Eric Flint's 1632 is delightful)

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1632_(novel)

Libraries, of course, are the last place in our civilization where you are welcomed because you are a human being, not because you are an ambulatory wallet. Librarians, resist the urge to call people "customers." They're "patrons." That's far more dignified (and accurate).

And working in a bookstore is certainly therapeutic, for certain values of therapy. It can be a grind, but OMG is it ever great connecting people with books that you love and watching them fall in love, too. Generally I'm in accord with the essay. I just don't think the studies cited are of very high quality and/or recency.

It's OK to say, "I love bookstores and libraries because they're fabulous" without having to provide evidence for that fabulousness.

Copyright experts' panel on fair use removed from Youtube (permalink)

NYU law school's Engelberg Center on Innovation Law & Policy held a symposium on copyright and the net with a panel on "when one song infringes the copyright of another and to prove if the accused song is 'substantially similar' enough to be illegal."

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UVQTz65Bq70

The video of the panel was taken down from Youtube after multiple copyright complaints from rightsholders who claimed that the brief clips, chosen by America's leading copyright experts as being fair use, were infringing.

https://www.law.nyu.edu/centers/engelberg/news/2020-03-04-youtube-takedown

These clips weren't just fair use; they'd been chosen by top legal scholars to illustrate what fair use was.

The rightsholder reps who issued the takedown claims for these videos did so manually – that is, these complaints were not automatically generated.

In the grand tradition of copyfraud fuckery, when the law professors appealed, the rights enforcement dimbulbs (trained on xeroxed procedures in three-ring binders) reasserted their claims, putting the law school at risk of losing its Youtube account.

https://pluralistic.net/2020/03/05/warner-chappell-copyfraud#warnerchappell

The law profs knew they had the law on their side, but they weren't ready to appeal, because if they lost their appeal, they'd get a Youtube "copystrike," which could also cost them their accounts. And since there were multiple claims, they weren't sure if they'd get multiple strikes by appealing. Youtube's docs don't make this clear, and going through Youtube channels yielded nothing but radio silence.

Now, these are eminent law professors at a top university, so they were able to make some insider calls to Youtube, who lifted the complaints altogether and reinstated the video. But no one ever clarified the multiple-claims/multiple copystrike procedure.

Moral: When it comes to Youtube, it doesn't matter if you're a nationally recognized copyright expert. You can't argue with anonymous, hamfisted rights-enforcer assholes to assert your speech rights. The only way to guarantee those rights is to know someone on the inside.

Radicalized is out in paperback (permalink)

My book Radicalized, a collection of four science fiction novellas, just came out in paperback!

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250229250

It's quite a week for the book! It's a finalist for Canada Reads, one of Canada's national book prizes, and the paperback immediately hit all of Canada's national bestseller lists!

I'm especially delighted to make the indie stores' bestseller list:

https://www.cbc.ca/books/the-bestselling-canadian-books-for-the-week-of-feb-23-29-2020-1.5484366

It's headlining the Toronto Star's list:

https://www.thestar.com/entertainment/books/2020/03/04/toronto-star-bestsellers-for-the-week-ending-march-4-2020.html

And there's one more national bestseller list that it's hit, but I can't name it until later this week, when it's published. But yeah, it's a hell of a week!

African Whatsapp modders are outcompeting Facebook (permalink)

Whatsapp is more popular than Facebook in Africa – but unauthorized, souped-up, third-party mods of Whatsapp are more popular still.

https://qz.com/africa/1804859/fake-whatsapp-app-more-popular-than-facebook-instagram-in-africa/

African software developers have modified the Whatsapp app to make it suitable to local users. The mods are transmitted from person to person, and sideloaded onto mobile devices.

The king of mods is GB Whatsapp, which allows for multiple accounts on a single device, ups file-transmissions from 16MB to 50MB, and includes privacy features like masking when you're online. GB Whatapp alone has more African users than the Facebook app.

All these mods communicate with users of the stock Whatapp system and with each other. They're tremendous examples of #AdversarialInteroperability, where hackers give users better, situation-appropriate tools without asking an incumbent's permission.

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2019/10/adversarial-interoperability

They really cleanly illustrate how Adversarial Interop defeats network effects by using it against incumbents. The fact that Whatsapp is the most popular app in Africa is an ADVANTAGE for Whatapp modders: they get to treat every Whatsapp user as a potential customer. These mods also show how Adversarial Interop is key to technological self-determination. Rather than meekly submitting to digital colonialism, modders ignore the choices and preferences of a massive US firm and its shareholders and deliver local solutions for local people.

Facebook's response is predictable. Mods violate our terms of service. Modders are crooks. Users caught using mods face bans.

Modders just tell their users to sign up with secondary phone numbers to avoid bans.

Colonial American industry enjoyed a huge advantage over UK rivals because it disregarded UK patents and copyrights, allowing American firms to leapfrog the former colonial masters. Now that it is a net exporter of tech, it expects foreign countries to respect its rules.

This day in history (permalink)

#5yrsago Justice Department issues "scorching" report on Ferguson's Police Department https://arstechnica.com/tech-policy/2015/03/ferguson-cops-routinely-block-public-from-filming-them-doj-says/

#5yrsago Matt Haughey retires from Metafilter https://metatalk.metafilter.com/23626/Sixteen-Years

#1yrago The NSA has reportedly stopped data-mining Americans' phone and SMS records https://www.nytimes.com/2019/03/04/us/politics/nsa-phone-records-program-shut-down.html

#1yrago Jibo the social robot announces that its VC overlords have remote-killswitched it, makes pathetic farewell address and dances a final step https://www.theverge.com/circuitbreaker/2019/3/4/18250104/jibo-social-robot-server-shutdown-offline-dead

#1yrago BATHDOOM: A Doom level based on a terrible bathroom remodel https://www.vice.com/en_us/article/eveknn/the-hot-new-doom-mod-is-a-nightmare-diy-bathroom-renovation-bathdoom

#1yrago The People's Republic of Walmart: how late-stage capitalism gives way to early-stage fully automated luxury communism https://boingboing.net/2019/03/05/walmart-without-capitalism.html

#1yrago History is made: petition opposing the EU's #Article13 internet censorship plan draws more signatures than any petition in EU history https://www.change.org/p/european-parliament-stop-the-censorship-machinery-save-the-internet

#1yrago London councils plan to slash benefit payments with an "anti-fraud" system known to have a 20% failure rate https://news.sky.com/story/thousands-face-incorrect-benefit-cuts-from-automated-fraud-detector-11651031

#1yrago America is not "polarized": it's a land where a small minority tyrannize the supermajority https://www.nytimes.com/2019/03/05/opinion/oppression-majority.html

Colophon (permalink)

Today's top sources: Carl Sondrol (https://twitter.com/sondrol), Naked Capitalism (https://nakedcapitalism.com/), JWZ (https://www.jwz.org/blog/), Danny O'Brien (oblomovka.com/)

Hugo nominators! My story "Unauthorized Bread" is eligible in the Novella category and you can read it free on Ars Technica: https://arstechnica.com/gaming/2020/01/unauthorized-bread-a-near-future-tale-of-refugees-and-sinister-iot-appliances/

Upcoming appearances:

Canada Reads Kelowna: March 5, 6PM, Kelowna Library, 1380 Ellis Street, with CBC's Sarah Penton https://www.eventbrite.ca/e/cbc-radio-presents-in-conversation-with-cory-doctorow-tickets-96154415445

Currently writing: I just finished a short story, "The Canadian Miracle," for MIT Tech Review. It's a story set in the world of my next novel, "The Lost Cause," a post-GND novel about truth and reconciliation. I'm getting geared up to start work on the novel now, though the timing is going to depend on another pending commission (I've been solicited by an NGO) to write a short story set in the world's prehistory.

Currently reading: Just started Lauren Beukes's forthcoming Afterland: it's Y the Last Man plus plus, and two chapters in, it's amazeballs. Last month, I finished Andrea Bernstein's "American Oligarchs"; it's a magnificent history of the Kushner and Trump families, showing how they cheated, stole and lied their way into power. I'm getting really into Anna Weiner's memoir about tech, "Uncanny Valley." I just loaded Matt Stoller's "Goliath" onto my underwater MP3 player and I'm listening to it as I swim laps.

Latest podcast: Disasters Don't Have to End in Dystopias: https://craphound.com/podcast/2020/03/01/disasters-dont-have-to-end-in-dystopias/

Upcoming books: "Poesy the Monster Slayer" (Jul 2020), a picture book about monsters, bedtime, gender, and kicking ass. Pre-order here: https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781626723627?utm_source=socialmedia&utm_medium=socialpost&utm_term=na-poesycorypreorder&utm_content=na-preorder-buynow&utm_campaign=9781626723627

(we're having a launch for it in Burbank on July 11 at Dark Delicacies and you can get me AND Poesy to sign it and Dark Del will ship it to the monster kids in your life in time for the release date).

"Attack Surface": The third Little Brother book, Oct 20, 2020.

"Little Brother/Homeland": A reissue omnibus edition with a very special, s00per s33kr1t intro.

[brideofedoras]

Cupid’s Arrow

Cupid’s Arrow

A Modern AU Cupid/OFC

Disclaimer: I do not own Cupid or Aphrodite or the images in the aesthetic I created...  I only own my OCs...

Warnings: NONE!  (yet...)

Word Count: 2100+

Rating: 18+ (to be on the safe side)...

*Note: This was originally supposed to be a short one but it got away with me.  I’m nowhere near finished with it, I’m currently stuck but I wanted to post it for Valentine’s Day.  So...  Here’s part one!

Valentine’s Day is T-minus 7 days, 14 hours, 38 minutes…

Cupid snorted awake when the damned alarm sounded on his phone.  He rolled over and grabbed the device to silence the alert.  “Yeah, yeah, I know,” he muttered, dropping the iPhone onto the blanket before scrubbing his hands over his face.  Dammit, he wanted to go back to sleep.

Unfortunately he had a job to do.  And if he didn’t do it, his mother would never let him hear the end of it.  

Aphrodite had been on a tear ever since she’d heard about some cute little brunette running a quaint little bookstore in the middle of Nowhere, Missouri.  Rumor had it the girl was very beautiful and every red-blooded man in a hundred mile radius were flocking around her.

He screwed his eyes shut.  His mother could be a very jealous woman at times, but this was ridiculous.  She wanted him to go undercover, get a job somewhere in that town (preferably at the bookstore, if Aphrodite had her way), and nail some fat, ugly old man with one of his arrows and make him fall in love with the girl.

He sighed heavily as he sat up, the bedding pooling at his bare waist.  One thing he hated was his own mother using him to ease her jealousy at some innocent woman’s expense.  

“That’s not how I work, Mom,” he muttered to himself.  He threw the covers off and stood up, shuddering at the slight chill in the room.  

He preferred to bring couples together naturally without wasting his precious arrows.  Occasionally someone would drag their heels and deny they were head over heels in love with the person they were meant to be with.  Then he would bust out the crossbow and take aim.

But to use an arrow to force love on someone?  It was immoral.  He would not do something that went against his beliefs.

He would go, he would try to get hired on somewhere in Valentine Creek, Missouri, and see if there was anyone she was interested in.  And if the feelings were reciprocated he would work his matchmaking skills, bring them together and hope for the best.

Cupid grabbed a pair of boxer briefs and pulled them on, formulating the plan in his head.  Research the town, see if there are any job openings, apply and charm his way into a job, meet the girl, befriend the girl, and hopefully fix her up with her one true love.  

He finished getting dressed and fixed himself a pot of coffee before he grabbed his laptop and settled down on his bed once more to do a Google search on the girl his mother had taken a dislike to sight unseen.  

Valentine Creek, Missouri.  Population 8,347.  Located on the Missouri River in the middle of the state, cute little tourist town with a rich history.  His hazel eyes skimmed along the list of businesses until the name of the bookstore Aphrodite had practically spat out last night caught his attention.  

Adventure Awaits.  Established in 1996 by Nic and Calliope Wilder on the square in historic downtown Valentine’s Creek, Adventure Awaits is a bookstore, bakery and coffee shop rolled into one.  Current owner and operator is their daughter, Penelope Wilder, a 2018 graduate of Olympus University where she studied business management and creative writing.  The Wilders have collaborated with area businesses during festivals to host wine walks to raise funds for restoring historic sites of interest; children’s workshops such as creative writing, art, dance, theater, and baking; pet adoption specials; back-to-school supply drives, and Christmas book drives.

He reached for his coffee and took a sip before searching to see if Adventure Awaits had a website.  “Bingo,” he murmured when it pulled up.  He frowned thoughtfully as he took in the simple page with a Victorian-esque background.  Links to view the dessert and beverage menu, books, gifts, upcoming events lined the top of the page.

He scrolled down the main page, finding it to be a blog of sorts touting specials, sales, employment opportunities and photos from recent events.  

One photo caught his attention.  A blue-eyed brunette curled up on an overstuffed armchair with a book and a three-legged cat.  

Meet the not-so-new owner and operator of Adventure Awaits: Penny (and Church).

Cupid double-tapped the photo to get a better look.  

Long dark hair flowing in waves, bright baby blue eyes framed with long dark lashes, high cheekbones, full pink lips, flawless skin.  An aura of shy innocence in that smile.

Warmth flooded through him as he studied, as he memorized Penelope Wilder’s photograph.  He wondered if her hair felt as silky as it looked, if it would curl around his fingers.  Would her lips feel plush and velvety soft under his?  What would her kisses taste like?  Would her eyes sparkle with love and adoration as she looked deep into his own hazels?

The increasing tightness in his chest snapped him out of his reverie.  Cupid scrubbed his hands over his face and drew in a deep breath.  “You are the God of Love, you have no time for a romance of your own, you idiot,” he berated himself.  “Mom would kill you, too, for this.”

He spread his fingers to peek at the computer screen once more, to the chocolate brown tresses and the baby blue eyes and the shy smile.  “I can’t do this.”

Cupid startled when his phone vibrated on the night stand.  With a groan he dropped his hands and snatched it up.  “Crap.”  He swiped his thumb to answer.  “Mom.”

“Cupid, don’t you have somewhere you need to be?”  The sickly sweet tone in Aphrodite’s voice belied the irritation he picked up on.

“No, I’m not doing it,” he leaned back against the headboard.  

“Yes, you are,” she growled at him.  “You are going to fly your cute little ass to Missouri and make her fall in love with some fat old geezer.”

“Mother, what you are demanding of me goes against what I stand for,” he warned.  “I will not force that kind of fate on an undeserving innocent.”

“I don’t care,” he rolled his eyes at her flippant tone.  “You’re doing this or I’m disowning you.”

“You say that every time you want me to do your dirty work, Mom,” he reached up and raked his fingers through his golden blond hair.  “You haven’t disowned me yet.”

“Just do it, Cupid,” she snapped and disconnected the call.

“No, Mom,” he dropped the phone onto the bed.  “I’m not gonna ruin her life to appease your jealousy.”  He leaned forward to look at the photo of the blue-eyed beauty once more.  

“No, Church, you can’t have a brownie,” Penelope smiled at the three-legged cat at her feet.  “You shouldn’t be back here anyway.”

Big amber eyes blinked at her from the sweet ebony face before the rescue hobbled off with his fluffy tail flicking sassily at her.

She shook her head as she finished stocking the dessert display.  “Chocolate isn’t good for furbabies,” she picked up the cream cheese chocolate chip brownie she’d saved for herself and followed the cat to the window display overlooking the park across the street.  It was cloudy out, snow was in the forecast for the afternoon.  “Think we’ll get the four inches of snow the weatherman promised?”  She scritched behind Church’s left ear.

The cat purred in response, a deep and loud rumble as he turned his head to urge her to scratch him under his jaw.  

She smiled as she complied.  “Not that we have to get out in it, since we live upstairs and I did the shopping last night.”  Her baby blue eyes wandered to the window again.  “Well, we have thirty minutes before it’s time to open, Mom will be here later to help me with today’s delivery…  Is it wrong to want a shot of tequila to get me through the day?”

“Mrrrrp,” Church gave her a half meow, half purr for a response before turning and hopping up onto the vintage wingback chair in the display.  He promptly curled up on the soft ivory afghan.

“It was just a hypothetical question,” she sighed as she straightened the books on the side table.  “Maybe.”

She turned away from the window and walked through the small store.  She switched around a few Valentine’s Day displays, rotating the books on the stands and tried not to groan as she wondered how many men she was going to have to fend off today.

Not a single one of them were interested in a relationship.  They wanted to hook up, do the one night stand thing and go on their merry little way, or the friends with benefits, no-strings-attached thing.  

She was shy, introverted, and hooking up for sex was something she could not do.  If she was going to invest her time in someone, step out of her comfort zone and make herself vulnerable then that person better be in it for the long haul, and not just for sex.  Some of her friends had a revolving door of lovers, and she understood that this day and age that was the new normal.  It just was not for her.  She wanted the old cliche, a whirlwind romance evolving into happily ever after.

Penny groaned.  “I should just go on vacation every year around this time, Church,” she picked up a copy of one of her favorite books and carried it to the counter.  “What do you think?  A little bungalow on the beach somewhere?  Maybe run away to New Zealand?”  She chuckled when she received no response from the stray-turned-spoiled house cat.  “I’m terrified of flying, that would never work anyway,” she shook her head as she propped Pride and Prejudice up next to the register.  One quick glance at the clock on the wall told her she had five minutes to go before it was time to open.  With another sigh she rounded the counter to start the coffee maker for the regular coffee, checked the other machines, and grabbed the keys to unlock the door.

“Church, it’s already starting to snow,” she commented as she unlocked the door leading to the enclosed foyer.  Once the main door was unlocked she dipped into her bucket of rock salt and stepped out onto the sidewalk to spread it out.  

“Penny, where’s your coat?”

Her head snapped up toward the shoe store to the left.  “Upstairs in my apartment,” she answered with a smile.  “I’ll grab it when I have a chance, Ed.”

“You be sure to do that, wouldn’t want for you to come down sick,” Ed Chambers smiled back.  “If you want, I can have Josh shovel the walk for you later.”

“Thank you,” she shook her head.  “I’ll take care of it.”

“The offer stands if you get busy, Penny,” he waved before ducking back into his shop.

Her smile dropped the moment she was alone.  Ugh.  I do not want Josh shoveling my part of the walk.  He will just come into the store and flirt and get mad the moment I turn him down.  She ducked back into the foyer for more rock salt.  “I’m quite capable of shoveling my sidewalk, clearing off my car, and carrying my groceries,” she muttered out loud.  “Don’t need some jerk coming along flexing to show off and entice me into something I want no part of.”  A few more scoops of salt later she grabbed the sign her dad had made years ago and set it where it was out of the way but easily seen.  Caution: Sidewalk might be slick!  Please walk with care!

She stepped back into her business and flipped the sign from “Closed” to “Come on in, we’re open!”.  Once she wiped her feet on the rough mat she sighed heavily.  “I swear to God, Cupid better keep his damned arrows away from me.”

Penny ducked around the wall separating the counter from the kitchen to wash her hands.  It would likely be a slow day for business with the snow arriving earlier than expected (never a good sign), and the main drag would be clogged later with rerouted traffic from accidents on the freeway bridge ten minutes away (happens every time it rains or snows, people think they can fly down the highway at 90 miles per hour regardless of the weather).  But she had her regulars to think about.  Employees from the businesses, city hall, the police and sheriff’s department and the courthouse often popped in for a cup of coffee and a fresh brownie or cookie during their breaks.  The auxiliary from the local hospital enjoyed coming in to request books and novelty items to be ordered for their gift shop.  She doubted they would come in.  

Slow days could be both a blessing and a curse, she thought.  With nothing else to do until the delivery, she settled in behind the counter for a long wait.

[carmenlire]

Drag Me Out Alive

read on ao3

He’s always had dreams.

They aren’t visions-- he insists to himself that he just has a vivid imagination, that his life gives itself over to dreamscapes that seem fantastical and too good to be true and altogether unrealistic.

Still. There’s a part of himself that just can’t help but wonder if the dreams are part premonition, part threat.

When he was younger, Izzy had persuaded him to sneak out of the Institute one fall evening. The wind had been bitterly cold and leaves had danced along the pavement as they’d walked down abandoned sidewalks. For New York, there had been a noticeable lack of people milling about but Alec had shrugged it off and chalked it up to the fact that it was one of the coldest days of the season so far.

Isabelle had led them unerringly to a psychic’s parlor. Alec had scoffed-- couldn’t help but make his opinion on their destination clear-- but Izzy had just elbowed him in the side and declared that according to Google, this was the best place in the city to see one’s future.

Who the hell would want to know their future, Alec had groused. We’re shadowhunters, Iz, and I’d rather not know that I’m going to die when I’m barely out of the Academy.

Rolling her eyes, Isabelle had walked backwards towards the door to the building. She’d looked at Alec, equal parts exasperation and excitement.

That’s the beauty of it, Big Brother. There’s a whole world out there just waiting for us and I want to make the most of it.

With a long suffering sigh that they were both overwhelmingly familiar with, Alec had followed his sister inside.

The door creaked on its hinges. A washed out gray, Alec had taken one look at the faded sign and felt something slither up his spine. Shamdon’s Sight.

The name isn’t familiar and Alec can’t place the etymology, even though he’s fluent in a number of languages, both demonic and mundane.

Shaking his head impatiently, Alec scolds himself. Isabelle just wanted to get her palm read and this whole damn thing is nothing but a farce.

Try as he might, Alec can’t quite convince himself that he’s telling the truth.

The room is dark and smells of spice and incense and dust. Everything looks cheap, well-used. Whoever Shamdon is, they aren’t making a lot of money and that tells Alec all he needs to know.

They walk past the empty reception area and head directly to one of the side rooms. There’s a woman there and Alec’s eyes almost pass her by before he realizes.

She looks perfectly nondescript. Her face folds into a million wrinkles and her rouge borders on obscene. Lipstick runs into the crevices next to her lips and her eyes are sunken in but hold unfathomable depths. Across the room, they meet Alec’s and his breath catches for a split second.

It’s all part of an act, he tells himself. This woman dresses the part and appearances are everything in her line of work.

Welcome, she greets and gestures to one of the chairs across from her. She lays a lingering glance on Alec but moves on to Isabelle quickly enough, dismissing him.

I only work with one person at a time, darling. Leave us be and your companion will come get you when we’re done.

Isabelle had urged Alec to leave without protest silently, glaring and gazing pointedly at the door with pleading eyes.

With a last glance, Alec had complied. He doesn’t know what it is but this entire place makes him uneasy. Dread wraps around his lungs no matter how much he tells himself to calm down. It doesn’t make sense and Alec’s never liked things that he couldn’t neatly compartmentalize.

He stands outside and sinks into the cold. Huddling in his leather jacket, he glares at his surroundings. He’s nineteen and feels ancient. His life rolls out before him, a long line of patrols and mission reports and hiding a piece of himself that’s more heartache than work.

Jace is a never-ending pain in his ass and he’s always worrying about Izzy, no matter that she’d kick his ass if she knew. His parents are always fighting-- he hears the hissed whispers and hushed arguments-- and he’s so damned tired most days that it’s a wonder he makes it out of bed.

He smiles but its sardonic. The dreams don’t help, he privately acknowledges.

Since he was a boy, Alec’s dreamed. They always seem so vivid-- splashing colors and flashing images-- but as soon as he wakes, they disintegrate into fragmented memories. He only has impressions during the day: gold eyes, black veins, a pervasive sense of freedom. When he was a child, they were a comfort. At five years old, the dreams were an adventure. He’d imagined that he was a soldier come to slay the dragon and rescue his people.

As he grew older though, the dreams started morphing. When he’s in the grip of a dream, it’s all he knows-- his reality zeroes into the way the light hits an opaque vial, to raw screams that sound hauntingly like his own.

The dreams are ominous and chill him down to the bone because he doesn’t know what they mean. He’s never told anyone-- will never tell anyone what waits for him when he sleeps-- but no matter that there’s a part of him that’s afraid, there’s still a piece that feels drawn to the dreamscape.

The screams are cathartic, the way the vial absorbs the light entrancing. Alec has these dreams frighteningly regularly but they’re a comfort, too. They’ve been part of him since he was old enough to remember them and even if he’s never been able to put it all together, it’s a puzzle he never tires of.

Cold seeps through his jacket as Alec loses himself in the mystery. He’s startled, then, when the front door bangs open and Isabelle comes striding out. On the surface, she’s as calm as ever, but Alec can tell she’s shaken-- it’s in the tremors of her arms, the way she glances carefully at her surroundings.

Are you okay?

With a curt shrug, Isabelle looks back at the door and crosses her arms over her front. I’m fine, she insists. It’s just that . . .

Alec waits her out, in the meantime studying her carefully. Izzy is rarely rattled but whatever the fraud had told her had gotten under her skin.

She lets out a breath before meeting Alec’s eyes. She told me that my hubris would be my downfall and that I’d find my love in the most unexpected of circumstances.

Raising a brow, Alec had asked, Did she give you a name? A description of this soulmate?

Mouth a terse line, Izzy had responded, All she’d say was that love takes many forms and that the line between friends is blurred.

Alec had scoffed. There you go, Iz, that’s a platitude if I’ve ever heard one. I hope you’re not paying attention to vague claims made by a charlatan.

Glaring, Isabelle had shoved at his shoulder. You go then, and tell me what she says doesn't feel like the truth.

Rolling his eyes, Alec had pushed off from the brick wall and glared at his sister before entering the shop again.

The woman was right where’d he’d last seen her and he feels a pull towards her that he can’t quite explain. So, he tamps down the feeling and tells himself that it’s just his imagination and Izzy getting into his head.

He sits down and the old woman tracks his movements with sharp eyes.

What is it that you want to know, young shadowhunter?

Alec looks into her steady gaze and feels like she’s peering into his soul. Shifting uncomfortably on the wooden chair, he merely offers, I want to know why I should believe anything you say.

He waves away the fact that she knows he’s nephilim-- most psychics in the city had the sight and all it proves is that she has learned to make the most of her negligible gift.

The woman laughs warmly and sounds like someone half her age. It sounds weirdly familiar but Alec can’t place it and shakes his head when a headache starts to form.

You’re skeptical-- I like that. It means you won’t run to do anything rash, that your heart beats steady and stable.

Leaning forward suddenly, she grabs Alec’s wrist in a formidable grip and her gaze sears into his. I’ll tell you this, nephilim, you might prove yourself yet.

Taken aback, Alec can only frown. He tenses in her grip but feels no give. It’s like iron bands around his wrist and he wonders what the hell kind of game she’s playing.

She studies him with a calculating air. Unease drips down his spine and he shivers in her hold.

Good, she says quietly. You should be afraid. And do you know why, darling?

Alec can’t explain it but that twisted term of endearment burrows its way into his chest, wraps around his heart and squeezes until it feels like he’s suffocating.

One day, we will meet again and when we do, you’ll have a choice to make. We’ll see if you’re so sure and steadfast when that day comes, Alexander.

His wrist is released as suddenly as it was snatched and Alec stands quickly, the chair behind him crashing backwards to the floor.

It’s strange but he doesn’t feel threatened-- he doesn’t fear that presence, no matter how unsettling the encounter was.

The two of them stare at each other and Alec doesn’t say anything, doesn’t let his expression give anything away as he nods once and turns on his heel, heading toward the door.

Isabelle is waiting outside for him and he doesn’t pause to talk as he starts striding toward the Institute.

Izzy doesn’t say anything, seems to caught up in her own thoughts, and leaves Alec to his.

He doesn’t know who the hell that woman was or what she was trying to accomplish. All he knows is that she shouldn’t have gotten under his skin like this. As Alec nears the Institute, his sister at his side, he finds that he can’t quite remember the look of the woman. The details are blurred at the edges and he shakes his head, impatient.

By the time he gets to his room and draws a locking rune mechanically, he doesn’t remember the woman at all.

When he falls into bed that night, the afternoon is a hazy memory that he can’t quite grab onto. Sleep drags him under and with it the dreams come. There’s a man that calls out Alexander in hushed, reverent tones and a fire in the background that burns in twisting shades of black and white.

Alec relaxes in his seat. It’s a sunny summer morning and for the first time in days, the tension bleeds out of his shoulders. If it’s not one thing it’s another and Alec is so fucking tired of Jace and his mother and the whole damned world that he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

One of the new recruits had almost gotten themselves killed last night and as Alec takes a bracing sip of his coffee, he wonders what it’d be like.

Shadowhunters reconcile death with life before they take their first runes. Alec’s always been willing to die for the cause, the raison d’etre that all shadowhunters were made to shoulder but that doesn't stop him from wondering about the after.

This sidewalk cafe is cheerful and worlds away from the dank oppression of the shadow world but Alec wonders that it hasn’t tainted his very skin. He might be the Head of the Institute and he might have found his own form of sunlight in one Magnus Bane but he wonders if it’s all meant to last or if it’s just a temporary reprieve.

Lost in his thoughts, Alec doesn’t realize that someone’s sitting across from him until he hears the tap of a cane against the concrete. He looks up and immediately freezes.

The man looks familiar but not in a way that he can pin down. It seems like he’s shrouded in shadows, even when the sun shines brightly down on them both and Alec feels an uneasy scratch between his shoulders.

“What do you want,” he asks and shifts subtly for his glamoured blade.

The man chuckles. It’s warm but fills Alec with warning. He has a flash of memory-- a psychic in Lower Manhattan-- but it’s gone almost before it’s formed.

He doesn’t answer and Alec doesn’t press. The man is attractive if perfectly nondescript. He’s dressed plainly but in well-tailored clothes and Alec can’t pin down his accent, no matter that he’s toured institutes on every continent.

Continuing to tap his cane, the man looks thoughtful. “It’s not what I want, I assure you,” he finally says.

His gaze focuses on Alec’s and whatever Alec sees makes the breath shudder in his chest.

It’s awareness. It’s knowledge that Alec can never hope to have and he wonders who the hell the man in front of his.

“And what is it that you don’t want,” Alec asks. His tone might be perfectly perfunctory but that doesn’t mean that his mouth isn’t dry as seven devils.

The man stares at him with amused eyes before he chuckles. “I want you to go back to wherever you came from. I want you to release your greedy little grasp on what’s mine. But alas,” he sighs before staring shrewdly at Alec. “It’s not meant to be and I just have to bide my time.”

He says those last words like they’re vile little things, like he’d rather kill a dozen men than wait futilely on the sidelines.

“Who are you,” Alec asks, pulse thrumming against his throat. He takes a lingering sip of his coffee to hide how unnerved he is but can see the way the man’s eyes focus on his barely trembling fingers.

“You don’t know who I am?” The question is sneering with the faintest hint of bite. Alec thinks he sees the man’s eyes flash before they’re the same pedestrian brown as before. The rhythmic tempo of the cane stops. In the silence, their eyes clash and distantly Alec swears he hears the sound of dull roaring and the shriek of blade against blade.

“You’ll know who I am soon enough, shadowhunter. Until that day, I’ll remind you of our past encounter. You have a choice to make and I will only offer my assistance once. I know you, you see,” he taunts softly. “You would blow up the very ground you stand upon to save those you love and someone new has wriggled their way into your good graces.”

“We’ve met before? Funny how I don’t remember you.” Alec’s voice whips through the air, quiet yet contemptuous. He doesn’t know who the man in front of him but he doesn’t like his gall. Alec is made of sterner stuff than a strange man crying out dire warnings.

As though he can read Alec’s mind, the man smiles but it’s cold and forbidding. “All in due time, young nephilim.” His expression morphs suddenly into something hungry and devastating. “Want to know a secret, Alexander?”

Recoiling at the name, Alec studies the stranger with new eyes. What the hell?

The man leans close and raises his cane to tip Alec’s chin up. “One day, you’ll come to me to save him and I will do it-- for the right price. We’ll see what happens on that fateful day.”

Standing, the man starts walking away. Unbidden, Alec can’t help but call out to the retreating figure as ice crawls up his back.

“Who the hell are you and why should I believe a damned thing you have to say?”

The man stills before he looks over his shoulder. “I’m your fate, dear Lightwood. Time will tell whether you’ll thank me or curse my very existence. Sweet dreams, boy.”

With that, he turns back and resumes his retreat. Alec looks down with a shuddering breath but glances up a split second later only to freeze.

The man has vanished between one step and the next and Alec can’t find him no matter how long he studies the people around him.

Settling back in his chair, Alec reaches for his coffee with shaking hands. The man, the things he said-- Alec doesn't know what to think.

Standing, he leaves a tip for the waitress and walks away from the cafe in a daze, coffee unfinished and sunny day ruined.

He sees shadows wherever he looks and wonders what the fuck just happened. Heading to the loft, he takes a shower, feeling distinctly if stupidly unclean, and thanks the angel that Magnus is out on house calls for the day.

He spends most of the day thinking about the man and how he could have known his name. His taunting premonitions make Alec’s skin crawl but Christ if he knows what to do about it. However, there’s a piece of him that isn’t justifiably creeped out-- there’s something in him that yearns to know more, wants to reach for whatever that man is alluding to but damned if he knows why.

Resolutely, he decides the man had been mad, had been rambling and looking for a willing ear. Nothing else makes sense and Alec feels the beginning of a headache every time he tries to pull everything together.

He falls into bed in the warm afternoon sunshine and surrenders to sleep almost immediately. In his dreams, he smells the fires of the damned and feels tears on his cheeks as he accepts an offer in a sure, steadfast voice.

This is a nightmare, he thinks a little wildly.

Magnus is weak, he’s fading and aging and there’s not a good goddamned thing Alec can do for him.

Well. That’s not true.

He remembers a man with flashing eyes and an ebony cane. As he looks into Magnus’s face, into gold irises with slit pupils, everything comes crashing over Alec and his knees almost give out at the realization.

“Asmodeus,” he whispers and it’s like he’s been summoned, like he’s just been waiting for Alec to utter his name.

“Alexander.”

The Institutes alarms are sounding off but Alec doesn’t pay them any mind. He hears frantic knocking on his office door but all he can focus on is the two men in his office.

Magnus, his boyfriend, writhing on the ground as his eyes roll back in his head.

Asmodeus, leaning negligently against his desk, that damned cane resting under stacked hands. He observes the tableau in front of him with apathy but even in his devastation, Alec sees satisfaction gleaming in his eyes.

Leaning over Magnus, Alec looks up at Asmodeus. “Magnus needs his magic back.”

His voice is quiet with a hint of desperation lingering under the words. Asmodeus smiles.

“I can give him what he needs,” he says easily. “Whatever I’ve taken is just as easily replenished.”

Pausing, he studies Alec for a few moments. “My help comes with a price, though, young shadowhunter. Are you--”

“Do it.”

He looks taken aback but his eyes are unsurprised. “You haven’t heard my terms, Alexander.”

“Then why don’t you tell me them so I can agree,” Alec grits out.

Chuckling, Asmodeus complies. “Very well, then.”

He’s still leaning carelessly on Alec’s desk and Magnus is still losing his fucking life in front of him and the Institute’s alarms are still raising bloody hell. With a wave of his hand, the alarms silence in the office and the sudden quiet is stark. Alec hears Magnus’s labored breathing and the crackle of his fireplace. He looks up and when he meets Asmodeus’s eyes, he stills for a moment.

Gold eyes stare back at him, at once threat and salvation.

“I will give my son his magic back. I will make him hale and whole again-- you, however,” he trails off. His smile this time is cruel and cuts to the quick. “You I will make immortal. You will remain one of your dreaded kind but you will never age and you will never die. You will forever remain as you are-- tied to Magnus, to me, and I will watch as you grow bitter and resentful. That is the price, shadowhunter. That is what I will take in exchange for saving your love’s life.”

Opening his mouth, Alec doesn’t get a chance to say anything before Magnus is clawing at his arm. Looking down, Alec’s heart feels flayed open.

“Alexander,” Magnus mutters. “Don’t do it. Don’t make this deal, not for me. You don’t know what he’s asking, darling. You don’t know what he’s capable of-- do not accept.”

Magnus ends his entreaty with a pleading look but as Alec studies his boyfriend, he’s reminded of the quiet confession he’d made all those weeks ago.

I don’t think I can live without you.

He sees his heart in Magnus’s eyes and knows that his choice is hardly a choice at all.

Leaning down, he lays the softest of kisses on Magnus’s lips. He’s still now, laying on the ground with tears and fatal acceptance swimming in his eyes.

“I love you, Magnus.”

Magnus closes his eyes at the whispered admission. Without opening, he replies in a hoarse voice, “I love you too, Alexander.”

It’s the hardest thing that Alec’s ever done, standing from Magnus when he’s hurt, when he goes limp in exhaustion and pain as the loss of his magic ravages his body from the inside out.

He does it, though, and isn't ashamed when his own tears spill over. Alec stands and sways on his feet. Swallowing hard, he straightens and takes a single step towards Asmodeus, who’s watching him with amused eyes.

“I will only ask once, Alexander. Do you accept the terms of my deal?”

“Yes.”

It seems like the ground shakes and Asmodeus finally pulls away from the desk. He pulls out a vial from his jacket and holds it up so that it catches the late afternoon light. It’s pitch black, dark as hell, and it’s another piece of dreamscape returned to him.

“A deal is a deal, shadowhunter.”

In the time that it takes for Alec to reach out and take the vial, he relives a million memories and mourns a thousand deaths. He’s sure, though. He’s never been so sure of anything in his life. Anything is worth saving Magnus and that’s a conviction that Alec knows will never fade-- not with all the time in the world.

Uncorking the vial, he takes one last look at Magnus before switching his gaze to Asmodeus. It’s almost to his lips before he abruptly pulls it back, Asmodeus watching him with a faint smile.

“How,” he asks. “Why.”

Sighing, Asmodeus studies him and Alec feels his eyes linger on his deflect rune, on the necklace that was a gift from his son.

“There have been rumbling for millennia about the shadowhunter child that would aspire to immortality. It wasn’t until you were born, though, that angels and demons alike knew the fated nephilim had arrived,” he says thoughtfully. He looks at Alec with shrewd eyes. “I see all, young shadowhunter. I know future as well as past and I could see the connection that would form between you and mine.”

He laughs but it’s sardonic. “Those dreams were a way to reach you, to test your loyalty. You’ve always been so strong,” he marvels mockingly. “You dealt with the dreams and I could feel the yearning in you. I knew it was only a matter of time until circumstances pressed your hand and I vowed to be there when it did.”

“Why,” Alec manages. “Why do you care so much?”

“Don’t you see, Alexander? Immortality is as much gift as curse. There will come a day when you look at Magnus and all you can see is what you gave up. It may take a little while but I’m a patient man and we have all the time in the world to watch your love turn to seething hatred.”

Trailing off, Asmodeus takes a step closer to Alec who refuses to move an inch, no matter how much he wants to recoil. Asmodeus doesn’t stop until he’s standing right in front of Alec and then he grasps Alec’s chin in thin fingers that possess an iron grip.

“And when that day comes,” he continues softly. “I will welcome my prodigal son to Edom with open arms. You see, Alexander Gideon Lightwood, you are my way back to my son and nothing matters as much to me as him.”

He jerks his chin to Magnus who doesn’t even look aware of the exchange as he sweats through his waistcoat and the breath rattles in his chest.

Asmodeus pulls his head back until they’re staring into each other’s eyes. “I might save him but it’s not for you. You are nothing but a passing diversion. I am the one constant in Magnus’s life and I will stand next to him long after the very sight of him turns your stomach.”

The breath shudders out of Alec’s chest and he swallows hard. “That will never happen,” he vows in a low tone. “I will never give up on Magnus and I will never let him return to you. He is mine and I am his and nothing in this goddamned universe will ever change that.”

He spits out the last of it before turning his back to Asmodeus. As he stares at the fire roaring under the mantle, he brings the vial up to to his lips and throws it viciously back.

The screams start immediately.

Falling to his knees, Alec doesn’t feel the impact onto the granite floor. On all fours, his head hangs low and he tries to make himself as small as possible as pain radiates through every bone and organ and blood cell.

All he knows is pain, all he can hear is his own screaming voice, already growing hoarse. Looking down, he watches as his veins turn black and he wonders if it all wasn’t just a trick by the most powerful prince of hell.

He falls on his front, splayed in front of the fireplace and distantly watches as Asmodeus makes his way over to Magnus. He sees the way he kneels before Magnus’s side and the way crimson magic soaks into his boyfriend’s prone form.

The last thing he sees before it feels like his very soul gives out is Magnus waking in Asmodeus’s arms with blue wisps of magic curling around his arms.

He dreams. There’s a man with gold eyes that represent home and a world that’s far different than any he’s ever known.

He watches from afar as everything changes time and time again, the one constant the man beside him and the love that flares bright and high between them.

He wakes and in this new consciousness feels reborn.

He’s free and he’s taken and when he hears a hushed, reverent, “Alexander,” in a voice he’d know anywhere, he knows he’s safe.

Alec opens his eyes and stares at Magnus, at the rest of his life, and promises both heaven and hell that he’ll hang on to this with everything he is and everything that he will ever be.

[localbizlift]

Facebook snags former Vine GM to run product for its new experimental app division, NPE Team

Is Facebook preparing to launch a serious competitor to TikTok? If so, the company just picked up some key talent to make that happen. Last week, Facebook announced plans for a new division, called the NPE Team, which will build experimental consumer-focused apps where it will try different ideas and features, then see how people react. Now, Facebook has picked up former Vine GM Jason Toff to join the NPE team as a Product Management Director.

Now that we've moved to CA, I suppose it's a good time to share what I'm up to next! In two weeks, I'll be joining Facebook as a PM Director starting up a new initiative under the recently formed NPE team (https://t.co/HzK6Bjqzqx)

— Jason Toff (@jasontoff) July 15, 2019

Toff’s experience also includes time spent at Google, most notably as a Product Lead for YouTube before exiting to Vine in 2014. At the short-form video app maker, Toff worked as Head of Product for a year, then became Vine’s General Manager.

Vine, of course, was later snatched up by Twitter — and there, Toff moved up to Director of Product Management before boomeranging back to Google, where his initial focus was on AR and VR projects.

Most recently, Toff worked as a Partner at Google’s Area 120, Google’s in-house incubator where employees work on experimental projects.

That’s not all that different from what Facebook appears to have in store with its own NPE Team ambitions. Similar to Area 120 or Microsoft Garage, for example, the NPE Team plans to deliver apps that will “change very rapidly” in response to consumer feedback. It will also be quick to close down experiments that aren’t useful to people in fairly short order.

That’s not how Facebook itself operates. Its more experimental apps have had longer runs, as the company used them to gain feedback to inform its larger projects. For example, its photo-sharing app Moments ran from 2015 through early 2019, and its TrueCaller-like app Hello for emerging markets ran for several years, despite fairly limited adoption.

Facebook has also tried and failed with a number of other offshoots over the past decade, like Facebook Paper, Notify, a Snapchat clone called Lifestage, and others, as well as those it picked up through acquisitions, then later shut down like tbh or Moves. It also previously ran an internal incubator of sorts called Facebook Creative Labs, which birthed now-failed projects like Slingshot, Riff, and Rooms.

Many of these efforts were fairly high-profile at launch, which made their eventual shut down more problematic for Facebook’s image. With NPE Team — as with Area 120 or Microsoft Garage — there’s a layer of separation between the test apps and the larger company. Many of the apps that the NPE Team puts out will bomb, and that’s the point — it wants to get the failures out of the way faster so others can find success.

While Toff can’t yet say what he’ll be working on at Facebook, there’s a lot of speculation that NPE Team will try to come up with some sort of answer to TikTok, the Beijing-based short-form video app that sucked up Musical.ly in 2018 and now is a Gen Z social networking hit with some 500 million-plus monthly users. Toff’s background with Vine could certainly be helpful if that were the case.

Facebook, of course, already tried to get a TikTok clone off the ground with Lasso, but the experiment didn’t take off and the app lead, Brady Voss, left Facebook soon after its launch. It

Toff says he’s hiring for NPE Team, including both UX designers and engineers.

I can't talk project specifics but can share that I'll be HIRING. I'm looking to assemble a diverse and mighty 2-pizza dream team full of creative can-doers, so if you're a UX designer or engineer (or both) and thrive in zero-to-one environments, HMU!

— Jason Toff (@jasontoff) July 15, 2019

[sarcastic-sue]

share your thoughts please!! I wanna know

Hi anon!!! I'm not part of the big brains of the fandom so I won't be able to tell you some deep stuff and the relations and I'm not that good with words too so I'll just write all of my unfiltered thoughts for you :

First thought while watching the mv was wtf wtf wtf is going on cause my video was lagging and the song was playing in the background but the video was frozen 😂😂

Anyways after that I was like fucckkkk this song is dope and I really should've listened to the song before watching mv. It was very overwhelming. 

(Placing the rest under cut cause there’s some wild shit )

About the mv: 

my first impression was just gender gender gender, because he was chasing after this girl right, and it was so reminiscent of tpwk mv, and he was dancing with her for some time but also had takes when he wanted to hold he but wasn't able too???? Or like she was snatched away from him for whatever reason??? There’s a part where they’re both laying on some kind of art right and people are placing chairs near them which looks line pinboard pins?? My thoughts are in his art(the colourful one) he’s able to express/explore that part of himself but at the same time he’s being separated from her when a new black and white art opens up?? now this can be about different kinds of perspective with which people are interpreting his art in which the colourful ones are the one who understand the message he’s trying to convey whereas the black and white are the ones who choose to ignore it or don’t pay enough attention.

I still don’t know what to think about the girl falling off the record while he’s still stuck and going in circles. ( actually as I was typing this out I had a thought but it doesn’t make sense in this context but i’ll think about it)

The MV has parallels with the walls mv but we already knew that.

The opening scene where he’s behind glass and banging on it, that fucks me up big time, and I just wish people would hear and see what he’s been screaming in his music since forever.

Okay this is not gonna make any sense but the scene where he’s in a coat with a boa and lots of people are passing by, that harry seems like a personification of the fine line era, he blew up with that album and many people became a part of his fandom but also worth mentioning is that they’re not going to stay. They’ll latch onto the next big thing and he’ll fade into the background and nobody will even notice?? Fast forward to last few scenes where he’s standing in the hallway in his red leotard (personification of the new album??) he’s alone, those people who were there during the FL era are not there and that’s when he feels the most free, he’s smiling and dancing. (I would love if some big brains would like to offer their two cents on it)

About the lyrics:

The chorus lyrics have a nostalgia feel to it and almost feels like change by louis but from harry’s pov. 

Now brace yourself anon cause I’m about to throw some wildest shit your way.

So the first verse feels like it’s about hl’s time in 1d, verse two about their time when they are away stunting whereas the bridge is so blatantly shading o that I’m amazed that this was the released as the first single.

Can we talk about the bride?? We’re talking about the bridge.

Go home, get ahead, light speed internet

I don’t wanna talk about the way that it was

You have everything available on internet, everything. Just one quick google and you have the whole biography of a person. I think he’s talking about how every part of his live is just a google search away. Could also be about how internet is a big player these days on pushing an image or stunt a certain way. A quick 5 minutes walk with someone is fodder for the internet for several months. (Or a well placed tweet, pictures and videos of a few hours spend with someone on some festival or birthdays is all a game of internet and haunts fans forever but we don’t talk about that)

Leave America, two kids follow her

I don’t wanna talk about who’s doin’ it first

SHADE. SHADE. SHADE. Harr came for this stunt’s throat hahahahahah but let’s talk about the second part of the first line and the second line and let’s connect them with all the recent tabloids fodder we’ve been fed. So you know how they are oh so serious about their “relationship” and that harr has already met the kids (and is the perfect stepdaddy, holivia shippers words not mine) and his family adore the kids?? Kinda sounds familiar (barf bbg barf)  if you ask me and I shudder to think the implications of these lines. Anyways I don’t wanna speak it to existence so I’ll stop about it.

ANY WAYS THESE ARE MY ABSOLUTELY UNFILTERED THOUGHTS ABOUT THIS ANON AND THANKYOU FOR ASKING ME SO THAT I COULD FINALLY GET THIS ALL OFF MY CHEST.

[wallpaperpainting]

20 Things You Should Know Before Embarking On Sunflower Painting | Sunflower Painting

A Dutch art detective appear Thursday he has accustomed two contempo photographs of a Vincent Van Gogh painting baseborn from a building during the coronavirus lockdown.

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Burglars snatched the 1884 painting Parsonage Garden at Nuenen in Spring, which is admired at up to six actor euros ($6.6 million), from the Singer Laren Building abreast Amsterdam on March 30.

Arthur Brand, dubbed the “Indiana Jones of the Art World” for archetype a alternation of high-profile absent artworks, said he was handed the photos a few canicule ago by a antecedent he beneath to identify.

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The photographs, of which AFP was accustomed two copies, appearance the painting, calm with a advanced folio of the New York Times bi-weekly of May 30 to prove aback the photos were taken.

“After three months of accelerated investigation, I was handed these pictures. This is the aboriginal ‘proof of life’ we accept that the painting still exists,” Brand said, abacus that admired pictures are generally destroyed aback the thieves apprehend they cannot be sold.

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He added that the photos were “circulating in mafia circles”.

In the photographs, a new blemish can be apparent on the basal of the painting, which Brand said he believed charge accept happened during the robbery.

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The New York Times affair in the photographs of the painting featured an account with Brand and Octave Durham, the belled Dutch burglar who blanket two paintings from Amsterdam’s Van Gogh Building in 2002.

It additionally showed a archetype of Durham’s 2018 book Master Thief, placed on a atramentous artificial background. 

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[cadenamckenzie]

Nathan Jurgenson tells a story about a canoe trip he went on where he intentionally decided not to document any part of it, no phone, no camera, nothing. During this trip he tells of a moment where he observed an eagle swoop down and snatch a fish from the river. He thought to himself that would have made a fantastic photograph! The canoe in the foreground the swooping eagle in the background, he mourned the lost opportunity to capture and share that moment.  

As a photographer I understand this desire. Caught without my camera I too have experienced moments where I will see something and wish I had it on hand. Just recently, my eagle moment came during a camping trip where I was in the ocean watching a pod of dolphins swim back and forth up the bay. A small splash was all that warned me of the seal that popped its head up within touching distance of my husband and staring directly into his eyes. I instantly wished I had my camera with me in the water. Later, however, I realised, I was focused on the dolphins. That means I would have had my telescopic lens on, which shows a very narrow field of vision and would likely have been shooting through it, hoping to capture the dolphins do something more spectacular than they had already been doing for the hours we had been there. I would not have seen the seal, would not have been able to take that photograph even if I had because my lens would not be able focus that close to me and I would have still missed the shot I was imagining.

What are we trying to get out of these photos? We dream of the perfect capture and professional photographers really do have a chance of getting it on a reasonably regular basis. But many people would have a poorly framed, blurry spec in the distance to show for their efforts when a google search would offer them a better image of what they were originally intending to capture. So why try?

Nathan Jurgenson suggests that the images we take are forms of communication. When photography was not to prevalent a picture was an art piece that one might talk about, the art piece being the desire end. Now the photograph is more commonly the means. We are using images to communicate. So instead of taking a photo to enter an album we may take a photo to help us remember a product number, send a grocery list to our significant other or to get help choosing an outfit for a big day. In the instance of the swooping eagle or the seal, the desire is to communicate the experience whether the photo be a national geographic worthy pic or not. Sometimes this is used for social posturing, establishing oneself as more cool or important because of one’s cultural and social experiences, but thankfully, it is more commonly a case of utilizing at-hand technology to add visual aids to our interactions.  

[workfromhom]

Facebook snags former Vine GM to run product for its new experimental app division, NPE Team

Is Facebook preparing to launch a serious competitor to TikTok? If so, the company just picked up some key talent to make that happen. Last week, Facebook announced plans for a new division, called the NPE Team, which will build experimental consumer-focused apps where it will try different ideas and features, then see how people react. Now, Facebook has picked up former Vine GM Jason Toff to join the NPE team as a Product Management Director.

Now that we've moved to CA, I suppose it's a good time to share what I'm up to next! In two weeks, I'll be joining Facebook as a PM Director starting up a new initiative under the recently formed NPE team (https://t.co/HzK6Bjqzqx)

— Jason Toff (@jasontoff) July 15, 2019

Toff’s experience also includes time spent at Google, most notably as a Product Lead for YouTube before exiting to Vine in 2014. At the short-form video app maker, Toff worked as Head of Product for a year, then became Vine’s General Manager.

Vine, of course, was later snatched up by Twitter — and there, Toff moved up to Director of Product Management before boomeranging back to Google, where his initial focus was on AR and VR projects.

Most recently, Toff worked as a Partner at Google’s Area 120, Google’s in-house incubator where employees work on experimental projects.

That’s not all that different from what Facebook appears to have in store with its own NPE Team ambitions. Similar to Area 120 or Microsoft Garage, for example, the NPE Team plans to deliver apps that will “change very rapidly” in response to consumer feedback. It will also be quick to close down experiments that aren’t useful to people in fairly short order.

That’s not how Facebook itself operates. Its more experimental apps have had longer runs, as the company used them to gain feedback to inform its larger projects. For example, its photo-sharing app Moments ran from 2015 through early 2019, and its TrueCaller-like app Hello for emerging markets ran for several years, despite fairly limited adoption.

Facebook has also tried and failed with a number of other offshoots over the past decade, like Facebook Paper, Notify, a Snapchat clone called Lifestage, and others, as well as those it picked up through acquisitions, then later shut down like tbh or Moves. It also previously ran an internal incubator of sorts called Facebook Creative Labs, which birthed now-failed projects like Slingshot, Riff, and Rooms.

Many of these efforts were fairly high-profile at launch, which made their eventual shut down more problematic for Facebook’s image. With NPE Team — as with Area 120 or Microsoft Garage — there’s a layer of separation between the test apps and the larger company. Many of the apps that the NPE Team puts out will bomb, and that’s the point — it wants to get the failures out of the way faster so others can find success.

While Toff can’t yet say what he’ll be working on at Facebook, there’s a lot of speculation that NPE Team will try to come up with some sort of answer to TikTok, the Beijing-based short-form video app that sucked up Musical.ly in 2018 and now is a Gen Z social networking hit with some 500 million-plus monthly users. Toff’s background with Vine could certainly be helpful if that were the case.

Facebook, of course, already tried to get a TikTok clone off the ground with Lasso, but the experiment didn’t take off and the app lead, Brady Voss, left Facebook soon after its launch. It

Toff says he’s hiring for NPE Team, including both UX designers and engineers.

I can't talk project specifics but can share that I'll be HIRING. I'm looking to assemble a diverse and mighty 2-pizza dream team full of creative can-doers, so if you're a UX designer or engineer (or both) and thrive in zero-to-one environments, HMU!

— Jason Toff (@jasontoff) July 15, 2019

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