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sinceileftyoublog · 4 months ago

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St. Lenox Interview: Good Waterpark Design

Photo by Aaron Cansler

BY JORDAN MAINZER

You may think you have very little in common with a PhD holder and lawyer who also happens to be a brilliant singer-songwriter. But Andrew Choi, who records as St. Lenox, continues to cull from his experiences, whether they've happened to him or others, to tell tales that transcend background, let alone educational level or salary. His studio albums have followed the same format: ten songs centering around a theme, often presented as a gift to others, sometimes as a gift to himself. They've covered Choi's own experiences with life and love, his father's immigration to the United States, and our collective existence during periods of political upheaval. And though his latest, Ten Modern American Work Songs, out today via Don Giovanni and Anyway, technically strays from the pattern (it has an introductory track for a total of 11), it sports everything you love about a St. Lenox record, from Choi's powerhouse vocals and diaristic lyrics to underratedly complex arrangements of chintzy chamber pop and hearty indie rock.

Written as a (facetiously non-financial) 10-year reunion contribution to the NYU Law Class of 2014, Ten Modern American Work Songs is notably filled with regret, the songs' protagonists often struggling to reconcile their current status symbols with the familial warmth they've left behind. But it also imbues a universal hope, for things as tangible as fairer wages and better work-life balance and as abstract as gaining or maintaining happiness. "Victory!" shouts Choi on "Courtesan", the album's first proper song after its introductory vignette. "After seven years of agony, I get to be a courtesan this year." Atop a swirling synth arpeggio and steady, marching drums, the anthemic chorus is both a shout of moral panic and a weight lifted off of the protagonist's shoulders: He can finally make some money. The tone is sarcastic on "Lust for Life", rife with organ, harmonic synths, and toy-like mallet percussion; though the protagonist is happy that he's going to be part of unionization efforts, he recognizes the fact that his job is thankless, that "Everyone comes running back to us when the hour is dire or they are near death."

A lesser songwriter would make songs about labor sung from the perspective of someone making good money, even if they are paying off debt, sound cynical, especially given increasing wealth inequality. Though Choi is careful to separate his voice from that of the protagonists, it's clear his lived experience contributes to the album's realness. It's why a song like "Rudy" works, about a classmate who prioritized family life over the corporate ladder; the protagonist calls himself, in contrast, a "big city, fast-talking asshole" and a "weeknight twilight pissant." You know, at the same time, that there's part of Rudy who wishes he, too, was a "weekend corporation peon." On album closer "On Fulfillment", the narrator commiserates with a fellow lawyer at the wedding of a mutual friend. Equal to their sense of, "What could have been?" is a hilarious recognition of their own economic privilege." "Jet-setting off to Venice or at the high-society gala," Choi sings, "It seems they always waste these things on us mere middle-aged attorneys."

My favorite songs on Ten Modern American Work Songs, or at least the ones that best showcase Choi as not just a songwriter or lyricist but scene-builder, are those that take place in seemingly mundane locations. Sure, you might find touching and relatable, lines about the protagonist's dad teaching him how to drywall and lay tile, and him nevertheless abandoning a house in Columbus for the least bang for his buck in NYC. But a song like "New York Speaks Softly at Night", with its layered organ and keys, provides even more gut punches, the narrator taking the subway, looking at people around himself and perceiving their lives, even a "wet orange cat in the pouring rain." "It looked at me like I could be its midnight savior / Hard luck Garfield got the Mondays yet again," Choi sings, the most MJ Lenderman line on a non-MJ Lenderman record this year. “Quasi-Nichomachean Ethics (Drunk Uncle Advice)” sees someone giving advice to his 21-year-old nephew, a mix of words earnest, empathetic, pragmatic, and snarky. "Don't underestimate the tendency of humans to keep on disappointing you at every waking opportunity," Choi sings. If at first, it sounds harsh, the more you listen to it, you wish someone would have told you the same thing when you were young. And "Kalahari" takes place at a waterpark in Sandusky, OH, the narrator beholden to the exact speed of the lazy river, the perfect place for existential pondering. "Forget vacationing down in Mexico, where all the ex-pats hate the tourists like you," Choi sings, peeling back layers of American obnoxiousness while expressing a genuine love for a "not real authentic" park.

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As if the density of Ten Modern American Work Songs, the album, wasn't enough, St. Lenox has also released videos for all of the album's singles, titled differently than the songs themselves. He and his husband Elon star in each of them, but as with the album, he refers to the characters in the video as distinct from himself. In the video for "Rudy", titled "How to Get a Table at Tatiana", the main character's unable to get a reservation at the acclaimed NYC Afro-Caribbean restaurant of the same name, so he works on his own cooking skills instead. In the video for “Quasi-Nichomachean Ethics (Drunk Uncle Advice)", titled “Introduction to Modern Philosophy”, the narrator tells us about the death of a mentor of his before he has to give his nephew advice, Choi inverting the plot of the song. The video for "Your Local Neighborhood Bar", titled "Open Mic: The Egalitarian Institution", is the protagonist's tribute to past post-work performances, where everyone was on the same playing field. The video for "Lust for Life", titled, "What Do We Do with the Roses in our Garden", sees the protagonist and his husband weighing their new life in suburbia, having recently purchased a home, decorating it with their items and taking care of what existed there before them. The one first person exception is the video for "Courtesan"; entitled "The JD Vance Couch", it's the true story of how the couch that Choi and his husband are sitting on in the video, as they wave at their infant daughter, was given to him by a law school classmate who was roommates with the Republican nominee for Vice President. Potential jokes aside, in the video, Choi laments Vance's idea that leaders must have direct stakes in the future (their own children), considering that Vance may have been in an ethics class, taught by Choi himself, at The Ohio State University.

Though it may be challenging for the average listener to connect all the dots, thankfully, Choi was willing to answer some questions over email about the world of Ten Modern American Work Songs. Below, read his responses, edited for length and clarity.

Since I Left You: In your track-by-track breakdown of the album, you refer to the song's narrators as "the protagonist," who often lead a life similar to yours. How autobiographical is the album?

Andrew Choi: Fairly autobiographical, but from time to time, songs evolve on their own. Sometimes, the stories of people that I know make their way in, or sometimes, I'll change a few details for the sake of anonymity. "Rudy", for instance, isn't exactly my story. There are some details of my life that are in there--I did forget my mom's birthday one year, and I felt awful about it. But I don't have a friend in Missouri named Rudy. (I do have a friend named Rudy, but the song isn't about him, it's just that the name works for the song). In "Rudy", the protagonist has mixed feelings of contempt and envy for an acquaintance who has prioritized things in life somewhat differently, and I think that is definitely something I can identify with.

In "On Fulfillment", it's based initially on a real event, of law school classmates meeting up many years later at the wedding of another classmate, and some of the song is about me, but some of it is stories I hear from other people. Most of the rest of the record is more completely autobiographical, but I'm sure there's some artistic license taken throughout.

I refer to the song's narrators as "the protagonist" partly as a defense mechanism, because a lot of American listeners will see me as an Asian-American musician and have an instinct to view this as music about "other" people. But these are stories about work life that I think of as more broadly applying to young Gen-X and elder Millennials, about education and social mobility, that I know my friends talk about a lot. People have a very strong tendency to identify with people who look like them, and it affects their ability to interpret what they're seeing or hearing, whose side they take in an argument, or how they relate to one another. So I provide that as, perhaps, guidance or emphasis on the way to approach the record as a listener--that they see the narrator as the protagonist, because in America, you have to kind of correct or guide those tendencies up front. As someone who gets "othered" constantly in the music industry, in person and in print, its a constant struggle to adjust that tendency and have especially white Americans think, "I can identify with him."

SILY: At times, it seems like the songs on this album have a difference in tone between their sound and subject, or even between themselves and their respective music videos. Was achieving a certain level of contrast important to you?

AC: Regarding the music videos, I think if you spell out what the subject matters of the song and the videos are, you'll find that they talk about the same things, though I admit that processing the music videos takes some time to work through, because I have multiple narratives happening simultaneously. Perhaps the video will provide a different take on an idea from the song, but even, then it is advancing the subject matter in a way that makes the pairing meaningful.

For instance, in "Rudy", the protagonist is living a more ambitious life and has regrets over whether he should be doing some of the more domestic things that his friend is doing. In the music video, the protagonist has moved out of the city and now lives in New Jersey, where he complains about not being able to do some of the high social status things he could have done if he still lived in the city. These are different but related perspectives on ambition and social status or FOMO; the protagonists have FOMO but desire (almost) the exact opposite of what the other does. And looking at the issue from multiple perspectives is meaningful.

In "Quasi-Nichomachean Ethics" the protagonist is giving advice to his nephew, much of which is somewhat half-assed and not very philosophical. The protagonist in the video is the same protagonist, but talks in a more philosophical way about advice itself, reflecting on the philosophical tradition of passing along wisdom, and (perhaps) arguing about how relevant the practice of philosophy is to life in general. The subject matter of the music and video are pretty complementary, because they both talk about advice but from different perspectives. And while I'm inclined to think the song gives less important advice because it's less "philosophical," I also think its the advice I would tend to give a young person, because it's very practical.

I don't think contrast is important in and of itself. Between the music and subject matter of the songs, I use the music mainly to set the emotional perspective of the protagonist, as context for interpreting what's happening in the lyrics. If the music seems contradictory, it may reflect a more nuanced attitude of the protagonist. I could have written "Courtesan" with music that provided a more sneering and cynical take on law school, but I didn't because I want the listener to look at it from the protagonist's eyes. It should sound more hopeful, because that is how the protagonist feels. Despite future uncertainty, he's gained social mobility and his experience is a mixture of hope, excitement and a bit of fear. I would say in general, if the music sounds unexpected, it's providing a direct emotional cue to interpreting how the protagonist views the subject matter, maybe 100% of the time, in my songs.

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SILY: Why did you decide to (technically) break the 10-song pattern of your albums with a prologue track 0?

AC: The track 0 was originally going to be a longer song, but the first pass, I think, presented the idea completely on its own and, I think, set the stage for the record, so I didn't need to write a full 3 passes. Sure, in some sense, it's a song. But for me, the songs that I put down will generally have a more complete narrative structure. Track 0 doesn't (in my opinion) have that. It more sets the tone for ingesting the rest of the record, because it prompts the listener to think generally about the value of work. If anything, it's like that ditty before Joan Osborne's "One of Us": not a full song in and of itself, but it provides an emotional context for the full song, whereas my ditty provides as a context for the record as a whole. (Also for modern practical purposes, I would want to present "Courtesan" on its own without including "Eulogy", so combining them into a single track wouldn't work out very well.)

SILY: I love how "Kalahari" toys with ideas of authenticity when it comes to tourism, often in a tongue-in-cheek way. As someone who has spent years in both the Midwest and the East Coast, do you ever feel uniquely positioned to comment on how we perceive parts of the country different from ours, even if you're still poking fun at yourself when commenting?

AC: I think, maybe, it makes me twice as frustrated to see things get lost in translation both directions? A few months ago, I visited this restaurant in my home town in Iowa, which is where I went with friends for our high school senior prom. It was known in high school as the best restaurant in town, and served elegant French food, including escargot, which we tried for the first time as young naïve high schoolers. Many years later, the restaurant had reverted to something like a mixture of a TGIFridays and a pan-European cafeteria, which was a very jarring, memory-destroying experience. I actually looked the restaurant up the other day, and saw that many years before I had even gone there in high school, it was written up in the New York Times as a restaurant with a hopeful chef trying to bring old school French cuisine (like you might find in New York City) to the Midwest. It's such a depressing story, and yet, I was able to get dinner there for myself, my husband, and my parents all for less than $100. Anyway, I don't think you're going to get that perspective without living in the Midwest and living on the coast for some time, but it puts you in a funk just having that perspective. So, I guess the answer is, "Yes?"

SILY: Do you often find places like waterparks--that can be rife with loads of loud people and music--conducive to self-reflection?

AC: It depends what you're looking at. Have you ever been to the lazy river? "Kalahari" was intended to connect to aspects of the lazy river. The electronica element is the bubbles floating up to the surface, and the slow metronome tempo, the constant speed of the lazy river. It's where all the parents and depressed adults go to avoid the high energy of the rides. In the lyrics, I situated the protagonist there at the beginning (and end) of the song. You're sitting in the lazy river, with the water pushing you along in a dream state, and you watch people from every stage of human life pass by you by. It's very existential. That's not even me being artistic or especially insightful, that's just good waterpark design.

SILY: "New York Speaks Softly At Night" describes someone recalling the various people and things they saw while riding the subway. As a writer, do you find shared spaces, like public transportation or airports, inspirational?

AC: I think shared public spaces are places where you are forced to be in acquaintance with people and stories that you might not otherwise choose yourself. I'm not saying that public transportation doesn't have predictable patterns, but I think, these days, it's a nice counterpoint to social media, where people either manicure their interactions or have their interactions manicured by the algorithm to the point that they lose perspective. But in this song, I was just pointing out maybe an unexpected positive aspect of working late at night, is that it puts you in touch with different characters and stories you might not expect.

SILY: Is your violin on "Quasi-Nichomachean Ethics (Drunk Uncle Advice)" meant to sound overbearing, or at least in-your-face, like a reflection of the narrator giving advice?

AC: It is a reflection of the narrator, in the sense of being a kind of drunken happy revelry? I think it may sound overbearing, but I think in modern times, that's partly because we interpret stringed instruments as passive, chord-blocking orchestral filler. If you're a concert violinist, you will know that the violin in particular is one of the instruments that best mimics the human voice. It's a soloist instrument and deserves to be utilized in solos in the way that rock bands use the guitar, only it does a better job of mimicking the human voice than the guitar for a variety of physical and technical reasons. It's heavily under-utilized, because pop music writers keep relegating it to chord filler or mood-setting background music. I think, in many cases, it's not even mic'd in such a way that captures its full expressive range. And I don't say this as someone who was merely "classically trained." I won national and international competitions for the violin as a soloist, back in the day. Pop and rock musicians don't understand the virtuosic potential of stringed instruments. At all.

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SILY: Are you at all involved in any music industry labor efforts like United Musicians and Allied Workers?

AC: I'm not involved with the UMAW, though I'm broadly friendly to what I see as many of their goals. There are unions like the American Federation of Musicians whose goals I also broadly support.

What I do spend a fair bit of my free time on is trying to remedy what I see as socioeconomic inequality in the music industry. Many independent musicians don't have a grasp of the financial and institutional barriers to success as indie musicians, and they don't understand the extent to which "successful" indie bands are financed by large amounts of family money. My musician friends who are, for the most part, middle-class at best, simply don't have that kind of money, and if we were ever to put the screws to every band that gets a writeup or review in any major outlet and see how things were financed, you would end up with a population that looks a lot more like Princeton University or NYU Law School. Musicians who have less means need to be educated on that, so that they can plan accordingly. And look, I definitely support musicians trying to do things like increase streaming royalty rates (which the UMAW champions). But a musician friend that has a stellar but overlooked record is not going to get much from doubling the streaming royalties on his 500 streams last year. He would have gotten more from understanding ahead of time how to best allocate his limited savings on his record release, given inequalities in the system.

SILY: Are you planning on performing these songs live?

AC: If I can find a place that works for me. We moved to New Jersey somewhat recently, and its hard to book a show after you've moved, because nobody knows who you are, and who would you even invite? I have a kid now, too, so do I even have the time for that? I go to open-mic fairly regularly. In fact, I workshopped most of the songs on this record at an open-mic in Hoboken called Finnegan's Pub, and an open-mic in Cliffside Park, called Brass Rail Pub 2. I think music listeners should go to things like open mic more often. If rumors are correct, people actually used to do that more often in, like, the 1960s. You get to see the writing process up close and personal and see how a song develops over time. I have friends in comedy that invite me out to perform, so I'm sure I'll hit up some variety shows in the future.

SILY: Is there anything you've been listening to, watching, or reading lately that's caught your attention?

AC: I occasionally participate in Paul F. Tompkins' Varietopia, and if it comes to your town, I suggest you visit. It's just a really interesting mix of music and comedy--you never know who is going to perform, which is really the best way to ingest music and comedy. I ran into a comedian there, Hannah Pilkes, who was just so hilarious and intense with her characters, and I'm excited to see more.

I ran into a comedian, Dave Hill, through Cabinet of Wonders, put on by Wesley Stace, a few years ago, and then later at a radio show Come To Papa, put on by Tom Papa, and he has such a new sense of humor, and is a genuine guy himself. I am trying to get out of the house and catch his show "Caveman in a Spaceship" in the near future.

Joe Peppercorn (who is featured in the song "Your Local Neighborhood Bar") from Columbus has been putting out some really interesting records. Not a lot of people are that skilled at both songwriting and production/orchestration. He's a complete package in that sense, which you'll get a sense of by listening to his latest, Darkening Stars.

Mary Lynn, also out of Columbus, released a record a few years ago, Where I Wanna Be, which I was just very impressed by. It's a peak example of a record that I thought deserved much more exposure, but did not receive it, because of those financial/institutional barriers I mentioned.

Niall Connolly's last two records, The Patience of Trees and Dream Your Way Out of This One, are great. He has been organizing a great singer-songwriter community in NYC called Big City Folk for a long time and has been instrumental in keeping a sense of community alive amongst songwriters in the city.

I happened to hear a record last year, Ryan Wong's The New Country Sounds of Ryan Wong, which I found to be striking and fresh. He's just someone really mixing up country music in a way that doesn't feel forced or overthought.

Micah Schnabel has such a big body of work, I wouldn't know where one would start, but I found his latest, The Clown Watches The Clock, to be thought-provoking and topical, in a meaningful way.

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pseudowho · 2 months ago

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The Watchmaker

Newly employed as the assistant to a renowned watchmaker, you soon discover how deeply his obsessions run.

Warnings: 18+, boss/assistant relationship, mutual longing, loss of virginity, fingering (f!receiving), nipple play, hand job (m!receiving), creampie, gentle manhandling (consensual), breeding hints, gentle period-drama Nanami snippety-snaps and becomes unhinged, two desperate people getting far too sexy over timepieces and pots of tea

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It was unusual for a lone young woman to be lodged and apprenticed by a single man; and, yet, it came to be, when you alone passed the Watchmaker's interview.

You approached on dry cobblestones, to a handsome, deep shop, with glossy black and gold railings and doors. Your corset felt heavy with the city's summer humidity; the river held the heat like a simmering pan, and its heady stench threatened to consume you. You were used to being without a chaperone, but your modest dress and poor accompaniment drew more wayward glances in this part of the city.

You hurried into the shop, a brass bell above the door tinkling your arrival. Nobody came to greet you. You followed the voices to the back, the eyes of many timepieces following you, their ticking as whispers and gossip in your wake. You came, in time, down tiled steps to a workshop, warm and bright and full of men...naturally.

A single, cursive note graced a sign before the only remaining workbench.

Repair the clock.

Such meagre instructions for a sought-after job. In golden lamplight, a pile of cogs and a loose-handed clock face glimmered like dragon hoard. You cast your eyes, stroking your corset and heavy skirts. You nodded once, and reassured yourself, only once.

"You can do this."

The Watchmaker, a tall man whose broad shoulders and thick hands did not suggest one with a delicate touch, neither agreed nor disagreed; he simply watched, silently observing you like the many faces of his timepieces. You set to work before your audience. The Watchmaker came and went, seeking to observe the half-dozen men competing alongside you.

And, in time, half a dozen sweating young men failed one, by one, by one. The Watchmaker's disgust was apparent, and his sneers soured one, by one, by one, until the last young hopeful curdled like milk before him.

When the Watchmaker came to you, you and your box of gold were not at your station. He frowned, kept company only by muted ticks and tocks. He followed your trail, out to his walled garden.

The test would have been considered a 'trick' only by those who were angry that their lack of respect for precision and accuracy had been identified. You, who could not fathom such sloppiness, found an honest solution.

"A sundial?" The Watchmaker rumbled. You felt a rush of heat from fingertips to toes, untouched by such a voice before. Smoothing your skirts again, and finishing your adjustments to hide the heat in your cheeks, you nodded.

You had fashioned your clock face and myriad small clock pieces to form a glimmering sundial. You had positioned it just so, and confirmed its position with the time shown on your own, battered pocket watch.

The Watchmaker circled you, with narrow eyes that may contain humour were they not so scrutinising. He was impeccably tailored, you noted; a high, crisp collar and rolled back white sleeves revealed enough throat and forearm to make you sweat. An exquisite navy waistcoat nipped his waist only marginally more than his tied apron, and he hummed at your sundial.

"Not what I'd call accurate."

"I disagree. While it may not be very precise, it is accurate. The cogs for the clock couldn't be set in such a way as to make the seconds correct. They were always just out. But you already knew that, didn't you?"

He almost smiled; his eyes certainly did. Nodding, and not one for hyperbolic praise, he bowed, instead.

"Nanami Kento. I would be privileged to offer you the role as my apprentice."

The earth formed a springboard, launching you to heaven, and it wrenched the breath from your lungs on the way. Checking yourself before you babbled over with incredulous tears, you choked out an answer on a sloppy curtsey.

"Even though-- even though I'm a woman?"

A scoff. "I don't see how that's relevant."

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Mr.Nanami sought your constant presence.

A natural timekeeper, himself, he sought the company of those like him, who would not expect him to partake in social niceties and small-talk. It was no wonder, then, that he became a Watchmaker, whose many-natured friends had the same face but twice a day.

While Nanami Kento was normally at peace in ticking solitude, the many hands and ceaseless seconds had eventually, as the years went by, begun to grind into an aching loneliness.

You felt it, as summer crisped to autumn, and frosted to winter-- his desire for your company. The way his obsession bloomed to include you alongside his timepieces. The way he lingered in doorways while you handled the customers' repairs. The way he seemed breathless when your smile sent another happy patron on their way. The way he would flinch if you brushed past him.

And god, how it burned you. Eyes downcast in reverence could not remain so for long, so magnetised were they to him. His silences were rarely cold, but rather, simply those of one who held his tongue until he had something to say; a far cry from the men you knew, who sought to usurp the monarchial peace through vocal domination.

Learning such craft at Mr.Nanami's thick, calloused hands, required intimate proximity; he would have to lean around you, at points, with his chest to your back. He moved your hands within his, teaching you the dexterity needed to repair a tiny watch with surgical precision. He leaned like this around you now. You could barely breathe.

"You were not wrong. Though not strictly right, either," he murmured in your ear, his breath grazing over your cheek. His hands held the tools in yours, using your body to perform miracles. You felt faint, flushed, hot against his body, and breathed a shaking breath, quiet in your frustration so as not to disturb the sleeping cogs.

"I want to be perfect, I-- I need it--"

An amused hum, used to your angry tiny mechanics. "You are perfect, thank you. Now let us make the pocket watch match."

As your hands worked in tandem, and another impossibly tiny cog found its home, you gasped in delight, relieved, and not thinking.

"Ah, yes, Kento, we--"

Mr.Nanami stiffened behind you. You backpedaled.

"Ah-- I mean, Mr.Nanami-- I'm so sorry--"

He did not seem upset, though his ears reddened as he stepped away from you. He murmured again, unused to being perceived.

"No, no-- it's quite alright-- I use your given name, after all."

With his face flat but his eyes alight, when you looked up at him in wary apology, he sought to reassure you with a smile.

"Really, please-- please do call me Kento."

"It feels...wrong."

"I...would not seek to make you uncomfortable. It is entirely of your preference."

Your heart drowned out the whispering whirrs of the room. You heard the tap of Mr.Nanami's feet as he ascended the workshop stairs, and blurted out.

"--Kento, I'll...I'll call you Kento. Please."

A pause. Another silence. Kento's voice tightened with something altogether more intimate.

"I fear I shall get used to it far too quickly."

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Too long were you lingering in your respective doorways, before bed. Too sweet, were the shared evenings in a firecrackle sitting room. Too electrifying, were the hands that met to pour just one more cup. Too intentional were the slim-eyed stares that burned down to the very bones of you.

If you died, and committed your body to science, the ghost of you would be unsurprised if a surgeon found Nanami Kento's name scored across your ribs; for nobody else could access that cage to your heart and soul.

Nobody else could warm you, during Winter fairs on the frozen river.

Nobody else could take your hand, to help you down the stairs at the Timepiece Exhibition.

Nobody else could still you with a look, or teach you with such few words, and this was so wrong, so wrong, he's your teacher your mentor your--

Your peak hit you in a burst of static. You clasped your hand over your own mouth, as if it would sell you out for your filthy crimes. Still, you arched in your bed, your toes curling against the sheets, bucking up into nothing in waves. Clarity did not hit you after, for it had already hit you during, and had done nothing to still your fingers.

Rolling over, and pressing your face into your pillow after the ecstasy had passed, you held your breath. It was too quiet.

Your eyes sprung open. The muffled bustling you had heard from the bedroom next door, had stopped. You weren't sure when. The silence was deafening...until movement started again, more clipped than it had been before. You could feel him, moving with irritation, a prowling beast in a cage.

It was over an hour before Kento's own hand travelled down his belly, to grasp himself with whispered curses and pleas of your name. Long enough, he hoped, for you to be asleep. Long enough, he hoped, that he could hide this rampant obsession that was so wrong, so wrong, he's your teacher your mentor your--

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"I should think I'll be home for tea. Inspector Aberline's grandfather clock again. It has stage fright, I fear, for how often the Inspector stares at it."

Kento's words, from hours before, rolled through your mind again and again. The smile you had sent your final patron of the day on his way with, slipped away, for you saw the lamplighter beginning his rounds on the cobbles outside. The sun had already set; he was late, tonight. You'd have offered him a lantern, but without Kento beside you, you felt you would need its warmth and light more.

Your eyes flickered to a package on the desk. It was imperative, Kento had said, that this was delivered to the customer today. 'Today', as a concept, was growing increasingly more abstract as it threatened to expire.

You saw the deep, dark circles under Kento's eyes, in your mind's eye. He had not been sleeping well. He needed the rest. You could not bear to see him overburdened.

Taking a deep breath, and undoing your apron to replace it for your heavy coat and gloves, you tucked the package under your arm, locked up to the tune of the tinkling bell, and stole away through the night like a thief in the dark.

Clacking across cobblestones, and trying to diminish the noise of your boots upon them, you walked for what felt like miles. Though you were sure you were safe, in this part of the city, the darkness turned shadows into beasts of great renown.

Spring-Heeled Jack stalked you from the shadows. You clutched the package closer, walking faster, breathing harder--

"What the hell are you doing out here, at this time of night?"

You squealed, and flattened against a red brick wall. Kento, imperious and huge in a heavy brown overcoat, glowered down at you with unbridled rage.

"The package," you squeaked, brandishing it as a shield, "you said-- said it needed to be delivered--"

"And it is not your place to take it upon yourself to do so. Returning to find you gone, out delivering a bloody package, while there's a killer on the loose? Extraordinary." The coldness that Kento reserved only for others, now directed at you, was a bitter sting.

Still; Kento held out his arm, stiff. His lip curled when you did not immediately take it. He grew frosty as he waited, and you slipped your arm into his, to a mollified grumble.

"Come," Kento rumbled, arresting you in a hold so intimate against his side, "let us not waste a journey. The customer isn't far from here. It shall give you time to think about your foolish choices."

You felt furious tears prickle behind your eyes. Like a dog with a bone, Kento struggled to let his anger go, and you snapped up at him, "Give it a rest. You're not my husband--"

"--yet, if it would allow me any sort of say over your safety, perhaps I should be your husband." Kento had frozen, looming over you. Your belly twisted, your face hot. You turned aside, chastised like a child.

"I'm no girl," you whispered, venomous, "I can take care of myself--"

"In a world that places no value on women, why should you ever feel safe? Out here, instead of in my--"

It was Kento's turn to redden. His jaw clenched. His fingers tapped upon the package. You felt righteous anger bubbling over, and rolled the dice, in a stabbing final gambit.

"In your what, sir? In your workshop? In your arms? Or in your bed?"

Kento's stony impassivity was tested, but remained steadfast even against your snapping. But you knew him, now; you saw how his chest hitched, heard his knuckles crack, and caught the faintest flare of his nostrils. Ducking his head for a moment, and dramatised by lamplit shadow, he stepped in just once to whisper above your ear.

"You forget yourself. I am your mentor, and you are my assistant, and--"

"--and I've had enough of you pretending that's all we are--"

"--and it's hard enough not bursting into your room at night when I hear your fingers drag my name from your mouth, so if you will be so kind as to cease and desist, I will not have to press you against this damn wall to hold your tongue with my own."

His hissing reproach doused the argument with ice water. Numb-footed and stunned, you walked through treacle, as Kento dragged you to deliver the package. Your chest was still thickened by mortification by the time you approached the Watchmakers' familiar iron railings.

You found yourself pressed inside, hearing the door bolted with force. Kento's hands softened as they removed your coat from your shoulders.

"Bed," he snapped. Kento turned his back to you to light a waxdrip candle. White shirtsleeves billowed from the shoulders of his waistcoat, and he checked his pocket watch as if it would give him the answer. You reached one hand out, to bunch in the back of his waistcoat, as if a child, and he snapped again.

"Alone."

You flinched. You closed your eyes, and took a deep breath. You swallowed hard, rolling the dice again.

"I hear you, too. In your room at night. The walls are thin."

"So is my patience, young lady, I will not tolerate--"

"You treat me like a girl to distance yourself from me, but pleasure yourself to my name? Please. You can make a fool of yourself but don't make a fool out of me--"

Kento spun with a growl, lifting you by the waist to drop you upon the counter. You squeaked, gripping his shoulders to steady yourself when he closed the gap between you.

"Do not act as if you know," Kento whispered, low and slow, "what it's like to feel like an animal in fine tailoring. Do not act as if you know what it means to be reduced so, that I must spill myself onto my belly every night, to preserve your virtue.

I do not blame you, naturally-- it's my burden entirely-- but if you add one more ounce to my shoulders with that incorrigible little mouth of yours, I'm afraid your virtue shall be...under threat."

You couldn't deny the heat pooling between your thighs, now, trapped as it was by Kento's taut body. You couldn't deny your craving for such fabled bliss.

"How does it feel," you whispered, your hand creeping up the buttons of his waistcoat to stroke the silk of his cravat, "Kento? How does it feel? Do you use your hand, or--"

An agonal little choke broke past Kento's high collar. His eyes begged you to stop him. You felt his long fingers twitch on your waist.

"Do not ask me--"

"Please," you whispered again, just as desperate as him, "please, I need to know, I can't keep living life in the dark--"

"My hand," Kento choked out, his chest barrelling with the weight of his breaths, "I use my hand. But even in the dark, I can't seem to convince myself that it-- that it's--"

You felt him falter, and you begged him, your tugging loosening his cravat enough to see his throat bob behind it. Kento whined, begging in kind. His face twisted, as if the thuds of pleasure lengthening his cock were hurting him. The torture was sweet; you felt it, too.

"Don't make me say it," Kento pleaded, nose to nose and nuzzling from side to side, "I can't take it--"

"You can-- you can take me--"

"--you don't know what you're saying--"

"--I do, Kento, please--"

"--don't know what you're sacrificing--"

"--you wouldn't," you pressed, feeling his hands moving against his wishes to unbutton the back of your dress, "you wouldn't sacrifice me, I know, so just--"

Kento groaned, a sound so sinful, just to feel your dress release and slip down over your shoulders. Pinching the ends of your sleeves, with his fingertips grazing your palms and inner wrists until you shivered, he pulled. A gossamer shift of white ghosted over your skin.

"So many layers, upon a lady," Kento murmured against your lips, "like unwrapping a gift."

He sounded drunk, and the honeyrich pools of his eyes had darkened. You couldn't pinpoint the moment his resolve had crumbled, but crumble it did, with the tick-tocking eyes of many upon you. Kento grazed his fingers against your lips, ordering in a whisper.

"Open." You didn't have to, your jaw already slack as promise burned you at the edges. Kento swiped his thumb and forefinger across your tongue with a groan, and reached out, snuffing the candle between them.

What dim light there had been, died. None that breathed would hold court or witness to what Kento was about to do to your virtue.

"This will not happen only once," Kento murmured against your neck, his tongue darting out to taste you until you mewled. He cursed to hear it, becoming more unhinged by the minute. "I will take your maidenhood as a lover, but take your hand as my wife. You cannot refuse."

You could refuse-- you knew you could, in absolute safety, but such refusal would take his mouth from you with immediate effect. His hands would cease their insistent glide up, and up, beneath your skirts. He would stop rutting forwards against nothing, with each whimper that left your lips. He would no longer drag your bodice down with his teeth, to suckle at the plump swell of your breasts.

You nodded, breathless, your hands shaking against the buttons of Kento's waistcoat. He grunted as it fell open, and your hands settled upon his waist. His graze against your neck was more insistent, now, and sloppier; hungry, open mouthed kisses that suckled the salt from your skin. Occasionally, you heard him murmur, begging to you, or to his god, or to himself, for any sort of release.

Overtaken by need, you finished unbuttoning his trousers, and tangled your fingers in his hair, instead.

"Don't know what you're doing," Kento mumbled, drunker by the minute, "going to ruin you, I-- I'll ruin you-- I'm no sensible size for a virgin--"

"So you suggest I find some other man?" You panted, "You suggest I find someone smaller--"

"They don't fucking deserve you," Kento spat, forcing the last of your skirts up to grind himself at your core until you whined. With your corset untied, Kento tossed it to the floor behind him with disdain, and yanked the final layer down to free your breasts.

Shuddering, he gripped his cock to restrain himself.

"Divine," Kento whispered, ducking to nuzzle against the tips of your breasts, "I have to-- please allow me to--"

Without waiting for an answer, Kento lapped your nipple into his mouth with a groan. Suckling until you pleaded his name, with hot bursts of pleasure to your core, Kento's hands reached the crest of your thighs, and groaned to find more layers in the way.

"Buy you some more," he grunted against your breasts, gripping the fabric between strong fingers to shred it apart, "my apologies-- now, just-- oh, fuck, I--"

His fingers had slipped between your folds to glide through them. Needing to see you arch against the sudden intrusion, Kento pressed you back until you were lying on the counter, and loomed over you. You caught sight of him for the first time in minutes.

Kento was utterly dishevelled, unabashed, and too far gone. With his cravat and waistcoat hanging loose, and a long, thick swell beneath what remained of his unbuttoned trousers, he looked more debauched than your wildest fantasies. He twitched with the spurt of pre-cum that left his cock, to see you spread out before him.

Sniffing, and dragging one hand back through his parted hair, Kento scoffed at your look of glassy-eyed wonderment. His fingers curled through your lips until that sought-after arch graced his eyes, and you mewled again, your thighs clamping around his hips

"More than one of us can be reduced to a beast," he growled, circling your clit with calloused fingertips, "as you have insisted. I've taught you with these fingers before. Let us teach you something new; how it feels to peak upon the hands of a man."

"--o-oh god, oh god oh god--"

A bark of laughter, "--he won't help you now--"

"--oh, sir--"

"Try again."

"K-Kento!" You chastised through blinding pleasure. Kento chuckled again, intoxicated and made ruthless by it, and holding you flat by the belly as his hands worked miracles on your core.

"That's it-- good girl--"

The way he praised you had always brought you to a blush, but how he growled his praises while he fingered you to completion was another entity entirely.

Your hips rolled up, trying to fill the emptiness that his fingers alone couldn't. Your body was rendered base with pleasure, and nature's insistence that such passiveness should be used to leave your belly full of seed.

You could see that, too, in his eyes; an urge; a hunger that belied his gentle nature. In sudden clarity, you understood his cry of agony, from mere minutes before: 'Do not act as if you know what it's like to feel like an animal in fine tailoring.'

"--K-Kento, I-- I don't know if I'll-- it's too much, aches-- augh--"

Your approaching peak threatened to overwhelm you, and you squirmed and begged, though you knew not what for. Kento pinned you, with one splayed hand on your belly, and whispered you on.

"That's it-- don't be afraid...shhh, now. Good girl-- that's it-- beautiful--"

You came with thigh-clamping bursts of ecstasy, so sharp and static by the hands of another, that your belly ached and cramped with the force of the spasms. Kento's fingers slowed, massaging the pleasure out of you at length, though you could feel his body growing heavy with the weight of self-restraint.

You felt yourself twitching, crunching forwards involuntarily, with little more than broken whimpers and cries as he talked you down. Though, as clarity dawned in supple bliss, you felt he may be trying to talk himself down.

"...good...that's good, that's enough, I...I am satisfied, I..."

Kento lied to himself so exquisitely, as if he didn't palm his cock with one trembling hand. As if he hadn't pulled his shirt off to relieve the prickling heat of his skin. As if he couldn't kiss you because that, oddly, would be the intimacy that broke the dam.

You broke it for him, sitting up and wrapping your arms around his neck so he couldn't rear away from you. He tried, at first, with a grunt of surprise, gripping you by the waist. Feeling your lips against his rendered him dumb again, feral and nuzzling his nose to yours, like an addict in a field of poppies.

"Please-- I'm afraid I won't-- won't be gentle--"

"Bed," you whispered against his lips, "not alone."

Kento groaned again, cupping his hands beneath your thighs to lift you, and carry you up the narrow wooden staircase. He knew every shoeworn step in the dark; knew where the corridor dipped; knew the amount of steps between his bedroom door and yours, so many times had he paced between the two.

With his curtains un-drawn, only the cold winter moonlight lit the room. Meticulous, uniform possessions left meticulous, uniform shadows. The whole room smelled of Kento; of soft wax, leather and musk. In his room, in his arms as one leg flicked the door deftly closed behind him, felt like being brought home.

"If I show you how," Kento whispered, laying you on his bed, just to stalk you slowly up to his pillows, "will you...can I..."

You'd have said yes to anything. Without knowing exactly what Kento asked for, you nodded. He saw the absolute trust in your eyes, and stiffened, his eyes darkening with something more profound than need.

"Do you know what physical love entails?" He rumbled, nosing against your neck again, and depriving you of the first kiss you so desperately craved. "Do you know what it is, to be taken?"

You swallowed hard, feeling lead weights in your still twitching belly. You cursed the society that had sought your submission through ignorance.

"We...are supposed to fit together," you whispered, to Kento's satisfied rumble. Stil, it was not enough; you knew he would not continue past his insistent suckling of your throat, if you showed true ignorance, so you mumbled past your blushes.

"You...press yourself inside me, until...until you..."

"...go on."

"Until...you finish, like--like--"

"...like you did, on my fingers. Except, your completion simply fills my soul...metaphorically speaking. My completion fills you literally."

Your hand had trailed down his bare chest, reverent at his form, so different to your own and witnessed before only in fine art and statues. He didn't stop you as your hand trailed lower. He simply fixed you with a stare, that was half hope and half despair.

With rising breaths, you looked down between your bodies as you freed him. Animalistic relief twitched across Kento's shoulders, for the release from his confines. He groaned into your throat, husky in a way that made you throb. You longed to see his pleasure as he had seen yours.

Tentative, you grazed his length with the barest fingertips. Rigid, woody, hot, velvety, wet at the tip and so long and--

"Oh," you breathed, gripping him and feeling his heartbeat through his sex, and utterly unsure what you had expected, "feels...good--"

Kento breathed harshly, and had dropped onto his elbows above you, his face twisted in agony. He panted, fractious.

"Don't-- do not--"

Your hand flinched away, horrified for having hurt him, and he cursed, rolling off you to sit, strewn and messy and barely dressed, against the head of the bed. Your eyes fixed again on his manhood, heavy and twitching against his belly.

"I won't touch-- I'm sorry--"

"Don't stop," Kento emphasised, breathless, "don't...dont stop."

With a flush of heat in your cheeks, you understood the nature of Kento's agony, and it only made you hungrier. Crawling over him in the barest white undergown, to straddle his thighs and sit upon them, you reached out to grip him with one trembling hand again. Kento arched, moaning that rusty, desperate moan again.

"Show me? Like you do in...in the workshop."

"God, your hand is so sweet--" With his own hand, big enough to engulf yours, he wrapped around your grip to his length. Slowly, deliberately, and watching where your hands clasped around him with sweat on his brow, Kento used your hand to pump himself.

Feeling the glide of silk on iron made your core wetten and clench. Watching how Kento moaned, bucking into your joined fists and reaching up behind him to grip the pillows, was hypnotic. Within seconds, your hand had begun to move independently of his, stroking him with raw determination to witnessq his unravelling.

Kento groaned in time with your rhythmic strokes. His newly freed fist bunched, instead, at your hip, having rucked your slip aside to dimple shaking fingertips in the plush of your curves. You began to squeeze a little tighter at the tip, twisting a little, and making Kento see stars.

"Hah--haaaaah-- don't-- don'tstop-- better than any dream-- good girl, please, please--"

Your thumb swiped without warning across a bead of wetness that had seeped from the slit in his tip, and Kento swore, bucking hard enough to make you chirp and grip his thighs for purchase.

"--wait--wait-- I'll spill in your hand, wait--"

This didn't deter you; if anything, it spurred you on to faster and faster strokes. Kento writhed, sweating and gripping, and you watched the heavy balls beneath his length tighten up, and--

"--ungh--coming--don'tstop...unh--"

Kento's whole body tensed. His face fixed in divine ecstasy. You watched his length jerk in your fist with thick, warm glugs of sticky white seed. You stared, your new obsession making you want to stroke Kento's release between your folds, but you held him instead, feeling him rut into your fist to chase his high.

After what felt like a lifetime, Kento came back to earth, with a heavy chest. While lax, for now, something in the way he looked at you, kneeling above him and examining the way his release dripped down your forearm, told you he was barely sated.

"Always were a...a fast learner."

"Well, you always wrote me off as a child--"

"I did not," Kento huffed, a mortified, angry flush colouring his cheekbones, "I knew exactly the woman you were. I do not lust after girls. If I didn't separate you, I knew I would...I knew we would..."

You nodded. You had both fought to convince yourself against such inevitability. Pondering, and curiously disappointed in the aftermath of Kento's pleasure, you stroked his slippery length in your hand again.

"You're...still hard."

Kento's eyes flicked down, that animalistic hunger taking seed in his eyes again. When he spoke, it was low, and barely measured.

"It would not usually, but-- but feeling you above me, so close that I could flip you over and trap you beneath me, I--"

You felt your breath leaves your lungs at once. Kento winced, disgusted with himself, but you snatched it away before it could take root.

"Please-- I want that, please--"

"With all this seed, and more to come after I bury myself inside you, you will be with child within days," Kento spat, gripping your cum-slick wrists to stop you stroking another orgasm out of him. Kento froze; having been about to throw you off, he saw the look in your eyes. The look of willingness. That sheer determination that had taken you as his apprentice in the first place.

"You like that," he mused aloud, enraptured as you lifted your undergown away to reveal yourself in your entirety. With your wrists gripped in one broad hand, the other stroked down between your breasts, to settle, stroking, on the soft plush of belly just above your mound.

"You...like that? The thought of a part of me, growing inside you? The thought of me spilling myself so deep, it has nowhere to go but your belly?"

The thought made you lightheaded. Why? Why was the thought of the same sticky release that coated your hands, inside you instead, so alluring? Beast in fine tailoring a beast in fine tailoring a beast--

Kento rolled you over. The strength you always knew he had, carefully restrained by waistcoat and pocket chains, bore down upon you now. He kicked away his trousers, desperate to be as bare as you, and brought his sheets over his hips to bury you both in a warm little den. You shivered to feel his length rest on your belly and mound, so close to where you wanted him.

Kento shook his head, trying to see logic, "If I finish inside you-- you really will be in danger of bearing my child, you..."

His voice had faded, gobsmacked as you stroked your seed covered fingers between your folds, mulish and clipped.

"There," you snipped, "I've already covered myself in you, so that's that--"

"You are utterly feral, this is what I get for bringing a guttersnipe into my workshop--"

"--so you might as well just finish the deed, sir, because--"

Kento laughed, overjoyed by your fearless audacity. His lip curled, and he reached down again to stroke his sticky seed between your folds.

"You think that's what I meant by inside?" He pressed, so close to the entrance you had never sought to penetrate, "You think I meant here? No, my love...I meant here."

You squeaked to feel Kento press one thick finger at your entrance. You felt the briefest sting of resistance, felt yourself clench and buck. Kento stopped, and pressed a first kiss to your lips, so sweet that you rushed through a wildflower meadow in summer.

He stroked circles just inside your entrance, loosening you with the slick of his seed, and kissing you with an intimacy that felt so much more than all the sordid deeds you had stolen from each other so far.

"And when I say 'here'," Kento continued, his breathing getting heavier, "I meant deeper. Much deeper than my fingers could reach. In truth, I would rather break your maidenhood with my cock, than my fingers. Some...filthy little part of me, I think. I loathe it. But, since we are well past being dishonest with each other..."

"Want that, please--" you babbled, squeaking with the promise of being filled with the rod you felt dragging on your belly, "--please, do it, I need to know, need you--"

"You beg like you mean to corrupt," Kento grumbled, pressing a little harder against your entrance and shivering as you squeaked, "I was a good man before this...I think. Shhhh, shh shh...that's it...soften you up...good girl."

"Not a girl," you gasped, your voice breaking and your nails digging into Kento's shoulders. He laughed, a full, rich, deep laugh of genuine delight. He pressed a kiss to your forehead as his fingers were replaced by his cockhead.

"You are right," he rumbled, nuzzling his nose to yours again, "you're certainly not. At least...you won't be, in a moment." Nose to nose with you, and whispering into your mouth, Kento pressed insistently forwards, "Hold onto me."

You did, feeling a brief sting, and stretched and stretched and stretched and--...full. You whimpered, bringing your legs around Kento to embrace all of him to you. He grunted, and gasped, pulled to bottom out within you, when he had meant to take you slowly. You clung him inside you as he moved to pull out, and begged, afraid it was already over.

"Nonono-- don't come out-- stay--"

Kento bucked into you involuntarily, and groaned a godless sound, arching up and gripping the headboard, white-knuckled.

"Got to-- got to move, to-- to finish...but at this rate--Christ, you'll kill me-- god, can't-- can't finish straight away like a boy--"

If the pleasure of being locked into the warm, wet drag of your pussy hadn't almost taken Kento to the edge, the way you looked up at him with glassy adoration would. He moaned again, another certain stepping stone to damnation.

One more glance at you had Kento planting one forearm above your head, and plaiting his fingers with yours upon the pillow. He gasped, trying not to take you too roughly, and finally, whispered again.

"Hold onto me."

Smooth, and fluid, and with the barest scraps of self control, you saw stars to feel Kento drag his cock back to your entrance, only to fill you again. You felt the thickfriction drag, and its bursts of belly-deep pleasure than rendered you oddly submissive. You revelled in it; drugged, and sighing, your eyes slipping closed.

The drunken animal in Kento had returned in force.

"...feels...weird...good--- don't stop, Ken--"

"--sh-shit, won't last-- I'm sorry--"

Kento watched you in wonderment. Whatever pleasure your ripe core gave him, could not compare to that given to him by your face; your mewls, and sighs, and whispers.

You couldn't seem to whisper his name, though; it tasted so sweet upon your tongue, that you could not bear to let it go.

You could feel Kento losing his ragged self-control. Watching your face, the plush bounce of your breasts, and the way your thighs spread against your belly every time he fucked into you, was an otherworldly delight. You took it; gladly. Your pleasure built strangely-- deeper, and more powerful, and yet not quite enough.

Your fingers sauntered down your belly. In your addled, fucked-into state, you barely noticed what you were doing. Kento noticed, though, and growled, a droplet of sweat dropping from his forehead between your breasts. His thrusts deepened, harder and faster and desperate for orgasm.

"F-fuck...just like that...just like you do at night-- my name--"

"Ke...Ken--"

"My name."

"Kento," you half-sobbed, lost in his promise to fill you with the sticky cum that had dropped down your hand, "please--pleasepleaseplease--"

"--the begging, fuck, I'm-- I'm done, I'm-- ungh, fuck--"

You knew Kento must be finishing. You felt him twitching, and jerking, within the snug gripping heat of your cunt, ruined by him as per his promise. You felt the curious warm spill somewhere deep inside you.

You knew the look of bliss upon his face. Your fingers, still rolling the remnants of his seed around your clit, moved faster and faster and faster--

You arched, seconds after Kento's own peak had begun, into your own. You heard the headboard crack under Kento's grip, heard the rhythmic, fractured moans that may have been his and may have been yours, too lost were you both in oblivion.

The world may have completed one full turn. Struggling to hold himself up, Kento shook, dopey and half-asleep after filling you as he had threatened. You locked him within you, and held him like a lead blanket, nuzzling into his throat.

"Just...stay there. Stay. I like it."

"That feels...indecent," Kento mumbled into your neck. His uncharacteristic colloquialism was winding back again, and you felt the clipped man in the waistcoat and pocket chain returning to earth. You whispered, to his devilish laugh.

"How are we supposed to make watches together after that?"

"Carefully. Very, very carefully. As husband and wife."

"...oh."

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