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passionate-reply · 4 years ago

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Passionate Reply is back, and taking a look at one of the best known and most influential albums in industrial history: Nine Inch Nails’ Pretty Hate Machine! Transcript of the video below the break.

Welcome to Passionate Reply, and welcome to Great Albums! Today, it’s finally time to discuss arguably the best known industrial musician of all time, and his debut album: this is Pretty Hate Machine, by Nine Inch Nails. Released in 1989, it is, technically, an “80s album,” but given how stylistically influential it would become on the music of the 1990s, it’s hard to think of it as a product of the preceding decade. Still, it’s worth remembering that this album came out almost fifteen years into the history of industrial, and Nine Inch Nails’ Trent Reznor has never denied his indebtedness to, and appreciation of, the genre’s 80s pioneers, like Coil and Skinny Puppy. Pretty Hate Machine didn’t go down in history for being the very first industrial album, but rather for being the first one that most people actually heard--particularly, in Reznor’s native America. What really set Nine Inch Nails apart, then and now, is Reznor’s ability to marry those harsh textures and machine beats with a real knack for that most elusive of songwriting goals: the pop hook.

Music: “Head Like a Hole”

Pretty Hate Machine’s unforgettable opener, “Head Like a Hole,” is the track on the album that you’re most likely to have encountered before, and sits just behind “Hurt” and “Closer” in the ranking of the best-known Nine Inch Nails songs. There’s not a whole lot to say about it, musically, that hasn’t already been said--each of its three parts have that devilishly catchy quality about them, and despite its underlying electronic structure, inspired by European EBM, it’s got just enough rock credibility to appeal to American audiences. It wasn’t a huge pop hit, of course, but I think it’s easy to hear how and why it earned its acclaim, and high rotation on MTV.

As far as the lyrics are concerned, I’m always happy to listen to an anti-capitalist jam, especially when it comes to industrial, but I feel like that lends a weird tension to “Head Like a Hole.” Reznor wants to sell us his denouncement of “God Money” and the relentless hunger of capital, but using such an approachable, or marketable, pop formula forces us to question its sincerity. Despite industrial music’s deep roots in counter-cultural values, the sociopolitical commentary of the album doesn’t dig any deeper than “Head Like a Hole”’s vague indignance at being controlled by something-or-other. While I won’t argue that artists ever “owe” anybody more political art, Trent Reznor popularized a style of music that began as an expression of working-class struggles on another continent, partly by stripping away most of the truly subversive commentary, so I can’t say I don’t understand why many die-hard industrial listeners see him as something of a profiteering poseur. So, if Pretty Hate Machine isn’t about class struggle, what is it about? The short answer is, atomized personal struggles, particularly in unhealthy relationships.

Music: “Sanctified”

While a track like “Sanctified” isn’t quite as explosively hooky as “Head Like a Hole,” it’s made of the same basic stuff: tight mechanical rhythms, shouty vocals, and distorted guitars that offer just the right amount of edge. As the title implies, it deals with themes of religious purity, darkly inverted--a common enough subject for traditional goth music, though a bit less so for industrial. Still, it’s not unheard of, and seems like a good fit for this particularly American take on industrial. The sort of push-and-pull, love-and-hate dynamic on display here is a consistent one throughout the album, though at times, it feels a bit more low-brow.

Music: “Kinda I Want To”

“Kinda I Want To” is certainly a catchy song, which is once again cut from that same dominant songwriting formula, but I find it’s one that I have my own love-hate relationship with. Whether or not I like a given song is rarely determined chiefly by its lyricism, but in this case, I find “Kinda I Want To” to be almost insufferably puerile and crass. For as much as the critical consensus has really turned around on Nine Inch Nails, with Oscars, Emmys, and the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame smiling at Reznor’s artistic achievements, I still remember growing up in a world where this was panned as music for angsty teenage boys. While I obviously think *Pretty Hate Machine* has more value than that, it’s moments like “Kinda I Want To” that make me see the argument. It’s always struck me as a track that takes itself very seriously, and yet fails to convince me. On the other hand, you’ve got a track like “Down In It,” which feels unashamed of being slightly lighter fare.

Music: “Down In It”

In fairness, “Down In It” isn’t entirely “light” material, with its lyrical theme of addiction and its delightfully scratchy soundscape, but it’s danceable and club-friendly in a way that really sets it apart from the rest of *Pretty Hate Machine.* It’s even got a bit of hip-hop influence, with its pseudo-rap verses, and that distortion that sounds vaguely like record scratching--calling back to the early days of hip-hop when it was chiefly employed as party music. Reznor and company famously mimed “Down In It” on the TV program *Dance Party USA,* which a lot of Nine Inch Nails fans see as incongruously absurd, but I think this track genuinely does fit in just fine in that milieu. I don’t look down upon dance music, and I don’t think it’s insulting to suggest that “Down In It” is some great dance music. It was actually the album’s lead single, and a fairly successful one in its own time, so clearly, people were moving to it.

Pretty Hate Machine’s iconic cover is somewhat abstract, featuring this tightly framed streak of lurid magenta and teal that’s boxed in by oppressive walls of black. While that artificial colour palette makes it difficult to ascertain exactly what we’re looking at, it appears to be some sort of large machine with a symmetrical row of spokes, though it’s possible to interpret it as something more organic as well--perhaps a ribcage, or a row of teeth.

The album title “Pretty Hate Machine” strikes me as almost pithy with how straightforward it is. Yes, you can put this album on and expect to find some electronic, machine music, with a fair amount of spite and vitriol, but covered over in that “pretty” pop sheen. Like a lot of the album, it’s on the nose, and perhaps a bit simplistic, but functional enough that I don’t overtly dislike it, even if it isn’t exactly clever.

Reznor’s follow-up to Pretty Hate Machine, 1994’s The Downward Spiral, would go on to even greater acclaim than his debut, and it’s considered by many to be his magnum opus.

Music: “Reptile”

Given its greater emphasis on guitar-driven noise-scapes, and its concept album style narrative, chronicling its protagonist’s descent into madness, I completely understand why the rock criticism establishment is high on this album. In what will probably go down as one of my most controversial opinions, I really don’t care for The Downward Spiral very much at all, precisely because it fits the “rock album” mould so much more than albums like Pretty Hate Machine. Give me the EBM beats any day of the week.

My favourite track on Pretty Hate Machine is its closing track, “Ringfinger.” While “Ringfinger” is yet another toxic relationship-themed number, I like the emphasis on work or labour in its lyrics. The context is quite different, but I’d like to think it has a hint of that working-class consciousness of industrial’s European forebears. Musically, I think this song’s outro is to die for. It closes out the album with some impressively cacophonous rhythm, almost ridiculous in the density of how many loops are playing at once--and yet it works! Overall, I think the percussion tracks throughout the whole album are really remarkable, despite often being overlooked by critics. That’s all I have for today--thanks for watching!

Music: “Ringfinger”

#music #album review #album reviews #nine inch nails #industrial #industrial music #pretty hate machine

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defensefilms · 4 years ago

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Defense Films Names His Top 5 Favorite Rappers

In All It’s Infinite Glory And Magnanimity, Defense Gives You His Top 5 Favorite Rappers.

5. 50 Cent

To this day, when you need a playlist for a MMA class and the group is hella diverse, you’re not really sure which way to go with it, pop in that 50. Can’t go wrong with Get Rich Or Die Trying (the original), or even that G-Unit Beg For Mercy.

That run from late 2002-2005/06 was unlike anything you’ll ever see again. That was a perfect situation where there was organic support from fans and there were people at a business level, mainly 50, that knew how to turn it into the wave that it became and industry has been trying to replicate this ever since.

While most people remember is the numerous scandals, beefs and controversies of that time but it was the music that moved the audience. For all the ways 50 Cent’s success mirrors ruthless American capitalism, his debut album is low key one of the most inspiring albums you’ll ever listen to.

It’s a foxhole mentality on wax. It’s me-versus-you type thinking. It’s someone has to lose and I’ll be damned. It’s who ever has to get hit, is gonna get hit.

See the first time I listened to it, it was about “In Da Club”, “Wanksta”, you know the more palatable records that got on radio and all that but the more I listened the more I realized, it was actually built on the backs of songs like “Patiently Waiting”, “Many Men”, “Back Down”, “Don’t Push Me” and “Gotta Make It To Heaven”. On one side it’s as motivational as you can think of but it’s not the wacky kind of naivé motivational talk because it’s willing to get it’s hands dirty and go in to much grittier ideas.

Like his predecessors, 50 pulls off the trick of balancing easy-to-listen-to records on a foundation of graphic and aggressive songs.

Recommended Songs: Maybe We Crazy, When It Rains It Pours

4. Jedi Mind Tricks

I’ll give you props if you know who these man are but they are legends. Point blank. Violent By Design will forever rank as one of the great group albums in hip-hop history. Vinny Paz, Jus Allah and producer/DJ Stoupe The Enemy of Mankind, gave hip-hop a shockwave they weren’t ready for, especially back in 1999.

Hip-hop as a business wasn’t ready to market a group, whose themes were rooted in topics like government control, military warfare, covert control tactics, religion and psychological warfare. To have all that in one bundle wasn’t something that big time A&R’s were ready for.

Had they started this group in 2010, they would have walked in to a business landscape that was far more suitable to who they were as an act and as MC’s.

Even with that JMT still enjoyed a lot of notoriety and they definitely succeeded in establishing their following, despite the odds.

While Violent By Design may serve as the magnum opus of their body of work, their run really starts in 1997 with the Psycho-Social, Biological & Electro-Magnetic Manipulation Of Human Kind.

Yes guy, that’s an album title. You gotta think now, I was in high school the first time I heard this and I was very into conspiracy theories and nonsense, so this album hit me right between the eyes. The idea that someone could use the medium of hip-hop in this way was crazy and the album would have been more than 10 years old when I first heard it.

No, the hip-hop historians among us will argue that Wu-Tang were a better and more influential group and I’d tend to agree, I can also bust back and say, “these dudes took Wu-Tang’s formula and gave it a whole different edge.”

I’ll break it to you like this, Wu-Tang gave the world swordsmanship and the first projectile weapons like bow and arrows, spears and the likes. Jedi Mind Tricks gave the world gun powder, advanced modern explosives and semi-automatics. You see what I mean?

Recommended Songs: Untitled, Retaliation Remix

3. Jay-Z

No top rappers list is complete without my man. The only reason he ain’t higher is because, I rate a rapper more highly if they’re in the prime of their musical abilities. If this were an all-time list he’d be way way higher.

Beginning with Reasonable Doubt is really the only place to start when it comes to Jay. The production, the skits, the way every sentence was so tightly wound together, the word selection and sentence construction. It’s remembered as an album of hits because of tracks like “Cant Knock The Hustle”, ”Feelin It” and “Brooklyn’s Finest” but Reasonable Doubt was really defined by “Dead Presidents”, “D’evils”, “Politics As Usual” and “Can I Live”.

The first batch of songs gave the album some relatability, as far as depicting club vibes and nightlife glamour because that second batch of songs were all built on darker themes like betrayal, jealousy, greed, blind ambition and deception. That combination of themes as well as the production to match each one is why that album will always rank high among a certain listenership.

With that being said, never make the mistake of thinking Jay or any man is perfect. There’s like a 3 album run where there’s moments of dope-ness but not a truly complete album.

Still with that, songs like “Imaginary Player” and “Where I’m From” will rank among his best songs.

It’s only when you get to The Blueprint can you start to see Jay perfecting the art of crafting, whole, complete albums that bump from start to finish. The Blueprint was near perfection in this regard. “U Don’t Know”, “Heart Of The City” and “Momma Loves Me” will rank as his best efforts and yeah, I skipped a few.

The Black Album replicated the Blueprint’s listenability, while also dealing in topics that created an album that sounded very personal to Jay.

All told, the best parts of his catalogue are so strong that there is no denying his place on my list.

Recommended Songs: Dead Presidents, I Love The Dough

2. Action Bronson

I cannot for the life of me fathom how this man doesn’t get the love but the real ones know.

The mixtape download era (2010-2017 give or take), had many unlikely success stories. An overweight white guy, who grew up cooking in his parents deli/eatery, turned pro-chef then turned rapper, is beyond unlikely. Only the internet could allow this man to succeed and thank the hip-hop gods it did.

From 2012 to about 2018, Action was one of the only constants in my playlist. I still remember where I was the first time I heard “Brunch”. His catalogue starting with the Tommy Mas produced, Dr Lecter and boasting full collaborations albums along side Statik Selektah and the Alchemist, and of course the classic Blue Chips series. This man’s prime will be underrated.

If you’re going to take one chapter of Bronson’s art and study it, it’s going to be Blue Chips 1 and 2. Both are thematically perfect without ever trying to be. Which is what allowed Party Supplies to make production choices that grabbed you from the jump. From the first time you hit play on the opening of Blue Chips 1, you’re hit with the sound of falling shards of glass and a violin sound that makes the opening song un-skippable. The songs themes are also a perfect introduction to the man himself. Debauchery, expensive taste, hedonism, revelry, unabashed pleasure-seeking, drug use and just enough self-depreciation that you felt you were along for the ride rather than just a fly on the wall, turning your nose in disgust. It was a perfect mixtape, at a time when mixtapes were at a crazy dumb high standard.

It’s not so much that a rapper made punchlines about food, that would be an over-simplification and really missing the trick. It’s that he made everything he said sound like the dopest thing ever and the most underrated trick about his music is that he made grown man rap without needing to be thuggin’. A rare feat.

Bronson has since gone on to establish himself as a content creator/producer/food review guy but man, what he accomplished as a complete body of work is nothing short of astonishing.

Recommended Songs: Midget Cough, Bonzai

1. Headie One

So it’s late last year. I’m hanging with my boy Phil and Brown, we had just finished some content and Phil says “yo listen to this”. He proceeds to play Golden Boot and it hasn’t stopped bumping since.

A UK rapper with a lyrical nous and wit that rivals even legends like Jay-Z, but rapping over trap and drill beats. What Headie One is doing is not the norm and I’m talking in terms of his lyrics, sentence construction, word selection, metaphors, he does it all and like all the greats, he makes it look easy.

His collaboration with RV definitely helped mold him, with both the “Sticks and Stones” and “Drillers and Trappers” mixtapes giving you an idea of what Headie offers as a lyricist. He compliments RV’s brash, aggressive boasts with slightly less obvious but incredibly witty boasts of his own.

His discography though really starts to peak with 2018′s “The One”. That’s where Headie begins find a sweet spot between his lyrics, production and the themes of his songs. A mixtape like this can only exist via independent release because outside of the aforementioned “Golden Boot”, ain’t none of those songs getting any radio play especially in a country as “conservative” as England. Even in a genre saturated with gangsta/trap, “The One” stands out for what he accomplishes lyrically.

Headie would follow that by releasing “The One Two” in June of 2018 and he ascends even more in what he’s able to accomplish with the words.

The track “Banter On Me” should be in an all-time list somewhere for being the wittiest track of all time. The song is literally just Headie finding new and innovative ways to boast, call out and bait his foes. Hip-hop/Rap has plenty of beef songs that weren’t really direct call outs to any known public figure but were still definitely taking shots at someone. 50 cent’s “Wanksta” and “Officer Down” are some examples of such songs I can think of. Those did not really have the kind of wit Headie displays here. The constant streams of alliterations, double meanings, puns, metaphors, inferences and innuendos is just astonishing. There’s a real mastery of language at play here. The song is a lesson in language, no textbooks.

Headie has since released his debut album along with additional tracks for the delux version of the album. His debut studio release “Edna” does what studio releases are supposed to do. “Parle-Vouz Anglais” and “Aint It Different” will standout and are difinitely the most palatable songs as far as radio play. Those are the 2 songs I’d play for first time listeners.

Recommended Songs: Hard To Believe, Dues, Zodiac

#music #hip-hop #rap #50 cent #jedi mind tricks #jay z #action bronson #headie #headie one

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bakubabes-tatakae · 5 years ago

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For The Love Of Humanity’s Strongest (Part Seven)

Author’s Note: If anyone wants to be in a taglist for this feel free to let me know! Happy to do it for anyone!

(Levi Ackerman x Reader)

Summary: When all seems lost Y/N knows that she can count on one person to always be there for her brother, Eren Jaeger, and herself. Can humanity’s strongest not only keep Eren in line, but keep his relationship alive as well?

AO3 Link

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six: *NSFW Ahead!*

Part Seven:

Word Count: 1804

Levi and I were cleaning one of the bedrooms when Eren came on behind us. “I’m all done with the upstairs sir.” Levi turned to him from the window he had been cleaning. “If I may ask Captain, where will I be expected to sleep?”

Levi lowered the cloth he had been using as a mask. “Your sleeping quarters are in the cellar.”

Eren hung his head. “The cellar, but sir, again?”

I stopped Levi, knowing he probably had something insensitive to say. “It’s our best option Eren. We still don’t know what makes you transform.”

Levi interjected. “Your abilities are far from under control. You might go Titan in your sleep.” His tone was getting sharp. “One of my restrictions for having you at all is that I keep you under strict security morning, noon, and night. While we’re all in dreamland you’re in restraints.”

Eren had beads of sweat rolling down his face. His hesitance with every word that came from Levi’s mouth was present.

Levi started walking out the door. “That’s the rules.” When he reached the doorway he turned and pointed to the window. “Take over here, I’ll check your work. Help your sister.”

When Levi was out of earshot Eren hung his head again with a sigh. “Don’t look so discouraged little brother.” I put my hand on his arm. “Up close and personal Captain Levi doesn’t look like the hero he’s cracked up to be, you should know that.”

“It’s not that Y/n, I’m more put off by the seriousness. He was never like that when he was around Mikasa and I when you two would visit mom and dad. He’s so deadset about following the higher ups rules.”

“That’s because he wasn’t working then. Not only that, you guys were kids, you’re not so much a kid anymore Eren.” I dropped my hand and gave him a soft smile. “Don’t ever think that strength is living by your own rules Eren.”

“He’s never struck me as the type to take orders.”

I leaned against the doorway, watching for when he came back. “A long time ago he would have lived up to your expectations. That’s what I understand anyway. I only know half the details. Levi isn’t all that open about before I met him.” I crossed my arms. “The story goes that he was quite the rogue before joining the Scouts. A high roller in the capital’s black market.”

Eren’s eyes widened. “What? Then how did he get here?”

“I’m not one to talk about that Eren. That’s something that he’ll have to tell you someday.” I grabbed a broom from leaning against the wall. “The most popular version of it that I’ll tell you is that it involves Erwin. They say that he dragged him to the scouts kicking and screaming.” And just like that my mind was sent back to a different time, one where my life wasn’t quite so chaotic.

*6 years ago*

Erwin shouted orders as we flew through the air, hoods up, careful that the people of the underground had the shroud of mystery as they watched on. The scouts had been ordered to find the three people in the underground that had managed to snatch from ODM gear from us, my squad had been the lucky ones to get the orders. The wind whipped through our hoods the closer we got to them.

Chaos ensued under us, but it wasn’t something that we were able to focus on right now. The closer we got to them the more tactics they pulled out. We were losing our squad from the air like nobody's business. There were three of us left. Erwin, Mike, one other member and myself. Their tactics should have been nothing for the Survey Corps, we spent our time flying around Titans, these buildings were nothing, but their skills with the ODM gear were exceptional. I could see why Commander Shadis wanted them on our side.

Suddenly two of them broke off in the other direction, Erwin motioned for Mike and the other members to each follow one, leaving just the two of us after the man who looked like the ringleader. The man sped up, flying through a couple of windows of a building ahead. “Y/n, cut him off at the pass, I’ll follow through the building.”

I broke off from Erwin and flew myself to the other side of the window, awaiting his arrival. I unsheathed one of my swords from my scabbard and swung for his rope as he planted it in a building in front of me. He retracted it just in time. Erwin stayed on his heels and I shot up, coming down on the man from above, shoving him into the concrete below. He stood and grabbed a dagger from his pocket swinging it for me, I barely blocked it with my sword. The man was ruthless, as he aimed his dagger again to hit me Erwin came flying in from above, knocking me backwards and sending the man backwards as well.

Erwin had always been a protective brother type over me. He was my best friend after all. Erwin swung a foot and his sword at the man who hopped back with intent. Ready to wield another hit on him. The man lunged forward at him and Erwin put his sword against the man’s chest, causing the man to grab both of his arms. The two pushed against each other for what seemed like minutes. Each fight to get the upper hand, before Erwin spoke to him. “Stop it, look around you.”

The man’s eyes changed some. Mike and the other scout member came walking out with the two people that had been with him. They fought against them and that’s when one of them spoke his name. “Levi!”

Levi looked to them, concerned, it showing in his deep blue eyes, and slowly let go of his dagger. I ran to Erwin’s side and grabbed the dagger. Erwin gave him praise. “You were quick at reading the situation.” I stepped next to Erwin and held the dagger between two fingers, slowly turning it between them.

Levi watched me with hate in his eyes. We had just destroyed whatever plans he had had. I started back with intent, this man wasn’t sore on the eyes, he was definitely someone I could get used to seeing around headquarters. Now Erwin just had to get through to them.

Shackles were placed around all three of their arms and Mike and the other’s placed them on their knees. Erwin looked over at me. “Come, you’re up here with me.” I stepped up next to him, being the Captain’s pet wasn’t always the greatest. “I only have a few questions.” He held up parts of the ODM gear that they had had on their person. “Where did you get these?” None of them spoke. “You guys are quite skilled with the ODM gear, who taught you all?” Still no answer.

Erwin walked forward and in front of the ringleader. Levi didn’t even look up at him. “You’re their leader, right? Were you trained in the military?” The man finally looked up and when he said nothing Erwin motioned to Mike. Mike grabbed the back of the man’s head and with a force that made even my own face hurt, slammed his head off the concrete ground in front of him. Levi turned his head to face Mike, disgust riddling his look. Erwin began again. “I’ll ask you one more time. Where did you learn to use ODM gear?”

The man that was with Levi spoke. “Nowhere, we didn’t learn from anyone. We taught ourselves.”

Erwin changed his glance. “Self taught you say?” He huffed at him. “I don’t buy it.”

“We learned so we can rise even a little bit in the garbage of a place. People who are used to the sunlight like you guys are wont understand.”

The female chipped in. “That’s enough. Let him go. Don’t be cocky just because you’re soldiers.”

Mike lifted Levi’s head from the ground. Erwin walked over to him and knelt in front of him. “My name is Erwin Smith, the person to my left is Y/n Jaeger. And your name is?”

He spoke, his voice shaky still from the sudden trauma. “Levi.”

I knelt down beside Erwin, making sure that the raven haired man got a good look at my face. “Levi… Why don’t we make a deal?”

“A deal?”

Erwin’s face was serious. “I’ll let your crimes go unpunished, but in return you lend me your strength.”

Levi’s face had a looked of anger still. I smiled a devilish smile at him. “Join the Survey Corps Levi.”

He was taken aback by my statement. He narrowed his eyes at me. “And if I refuse?”

We both stood back up. I crossed my arm and smirked. “The Military Police will have you, considering all your crimes, you and your friends won't be treated very nicely.” I turned around, letting my cloak flow in the wind. “Choose your option.” I could feel Erwin’s smile on me as he saw his handywork coming into play.

It took him a second, but he answered, almost reluctantly. “Fine.” His two friends show him a glare. He spat on the ground next to him, a small amount of blood coming out. “I’ll join the Survey Corp.”

*Present day*

Eren’s mouth dropped. “The Commander?”

Levi popped his head around the corner, placed his hand on my waist. “What’s going on?”

I hadn’t even heard him coming. We both jumped and started cleaning in the room wherever we stood. “Sir!” We spoke in unison.

Levi stepped into the room and looked at Eren. “Your cleaning is lamental.” He definitely didn’t look too pleased. “Back upstairs, now.”

Eren jumped in place, saluting Levi with his hand to his heart. “Yes sir.” Eren dashed from the room, leaving Levi and I alone.

I turned to Levi. “How long were you standing there?”

“Long enough.” He walked to the window and grabbed the cloth on the window sill, wiping down the windows.

I walked over to him and wrapped my hands around his waist. “Do you care if I tell Eren how you got here? I think it will help boost his spirit a little. He needs that.”

Levi turned to me, pulling me into him. “I wish you wouldn’t, but you know as well as I do that me telling you know is going to do absolutely nothing to stop you.” He kissed the top of my head. ‘You’re too strong willed.”

I looked up toward him. “And where do you think I learned that one. Between Erwin and you I was doomed from the start.”

Levi huffed. “If you say so, my love.”

Taglist 💕 @gamegirl23100 @super-peace-fangirl @pjimochi @izzythefanfreak @echimozart @peachymochimochi @primusk @absolute-randomness-forever @omg-lexiiloveyou @hunie-hun @titaniabuck @always394patronus

Updated: 5/13/2020

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mysterioh · 5 years ago

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The Ignorant Beauty and The Beast of New York - Ch. 12

PAIRING: MOB!STEVE ROGERS X READER

SYNOPSIS: Y/N is an exhausted bio major. Steve is danger with a capital DANGER. She thinks he’s a sarcastic prick with an impressive knowledge of art history. He thinks she’s cute even if she’s only running on one brain cell. All he wants is a single date, but she’s adamant upon denying.

A/N: For some reason my taglist didn’t work last time. Some people didn’t get a noti so make sure you read ch. 11. Link in masterlist!!

Masterlist

Best Excercise For The Heart? Getting Chased by Mob.

Peter's heart was beating on another plane of existence.

His palms were sweaty and stomach just a bit queasy. He knew he shouldn't have had such a big breakfast, but it's not like May would let him leave the house without at least three pancakes shoved into his mouth.

Bucky greets Peter by slapping his hand over his shoulder making him jump in surprise.

"Woah, chill out kid," Bucky said with a chuckle.

"Sorry," he shook his head. "I'm just a little nervous."

"I got ya," Bucky replied. "Listen there's nothing to it, you just gotta sit there. The boss is gonna do all the talking. He just wants us there for backup. Natasha can’t make it so you’re gonna take her spot."

"But why does he want me there?" Peter asked curiously, "I'm still new and–"

"The big guy thinks you've got a lot of potential," Bucky explained and Peter's eyes grow wide in shock. The mob king thought he had potential? He smiles in hiding, trying to not let it get to him. Too late. Head full. Pride skyrocketing.

"Truth is, I don't see it," Bucky stated flatly, "but he's weird like that."

"Thanks, you're so nice," Peter replied, mildly sarcastic, but Bucky lets it go just this once. He shakes him with another pat on the back.

"Come on, get in," he pushes him into the office.

Peter takes a seat next to Sam who gives him a friendly smirk. At least he thinks it's friendly. He really can't tell with those two.

Steve enters the room and Peter sits straight up. The kingpin smiles warmly. “You brought the kid.”

“You told us to,” Bucky replied.

“Right,” Steve said as if he forgot. “How’s it goin’ kid? You and your girl doin’ alright?”

“Yes Sir!” he replied quickly. Steve Rogers remembers that he has a girlfriend. Wow, what a nice guy.

“Now listen here,” Sam brought him back to earth. “When the guy comes don’t get all bouncy. Just chill out and relax.”

“Uh-huh,” he nodded.

“And don’t go blabbing random stuff, ya hear?” Bucky reminded him.

“I don’t do that!” he retorted.

“Only talk when spoken too, but never answer if you don’t know what to say,” Sam instructed. “Never show someone else that you’re unsure. Always be confident even when you’re not.”

“Talk but don’t talk,” Peter repeated. “Be confident even when you’re not. That doesn’t make any sense!”

“It makes perfect sense,” Bucky retorted. “You’re just stupid.”

“No, I’m not!”

“Don’t mess this up, kid or your ass is grass,” Sam warned, earning a loud, guttural groan from Peter.

Steve chuckled. “Listen, Pete, just go with your gut, ya hear? Just go with what you know, alright?”

“Yes, Sir!” He nodded like a child.

A knock came at the door and opened.

“Mr. Rogers,” the secretary popped her head through the door. “Mr. Rumlow is here.”

“Let him in,” Steve waved towards him. She opens the door wider and Brock Rumlow enters. Peter observes him. A scar running across his left cheek with beady black eyes that just screamed sneaky. Not even a word and the boy already knew he couldn’t be trusted.

"Mr. Rogers," Rumlow greeted, extending his hand.

"Mr. Rumlow," Steve shook his hand, "Just call me Steve."

"So the rumors are true, you're an easy man to talk to."

"I just hate the formality and if we can," Steve stated, "let's finish this quick."

"Of course, I know you're a busy man." Rumlow smiles, taking a seat in front of him. "What I'm here for. What I want from you is help," he said. "I need money, investment money. I need three million dollars in cash," he explained further.

Peter's eyes widened. He spoke as if it was a small amount and Steve looked at him with utter nonchalance as if he's just asking for spare change.

"And what else?" Steve question, hooking his leg over the other, tapping the ash off of his cigarette.

"I need connections and you have very powerful friends," Rumlow continued. "I need those politicians you keep in your back pocket."

"And what's in it for us?"

"Forty percent," Rumlow stated. "And by the end of the year you'll be raking in around eight to ten million," he estimated.

"And the Lucchese?"

Rumlow chuckles. "I'll take care of them from my own share."

Steve ponders on the information for a bit. His expression was hard to read, leaving the rest in the room waiting in anticipation of his decision. He sat relaxed in his chair, not slumped, but confident and nonchalant.

"So, I get forty percent for finance, political influence, and legal protection?" He points out, extending his fingers as the list goes.

"That's right." Rumlow nodded.

"Why me though?" Steve questioned with a shake of the hand. "Why do I deserve all this generosity?"

Rumlow scoffs. "If three to four million is a small price for you, kingpin, then cheers to you."

Steve's eyes look at him sharply, then he smiles. To Peter, it's more dangerous than friendly.

"I've heard you're a businessman," Steve reminded him, burning out his cigarette in an ashtray. "A serious man needed to be treated with respect."

Rumlow's cocky smile falls and twists into a subtle scowl.

"The thing is I've been looking into this new drug you're proposing. This is nasty stuff worse than any other drug on the market as of now," Steve criticized and Rumlow wasn't pleased.

"Now let's just say this stuff hits it big. Bigger than crack and weed, which it probably will," he stood up and paced the office. "Those crackheads will take anything that gets 'em off for a good ten minutes. But let's just say hypothetically, it gets stuck in the hands of a policeman or even worse—a kid, and he gets caught smoking or even worse dead with that crap. That causes a major issue for me," he points at himself while standing in front of Rumlow.

Rumlow looks up at him and it's like he already knows the answer.

"Yeah, I've got a lot of friends, but I don't think the mayor would be so friendly if he knew I was caught up in this stuff," Steve remarked. "That thing you got is nasty."

"Mr. Rogers," he retorted firmly.

"Listen, I don't care what a man does for a living," Steve cut him off. "I mean look at me. But your business is a bit dangerous."

"If you're worried about your investment. The Lucchese will take care of it." Rumlow assured.

Steve shakes his head with a laugh. The Lucchese were going to insure him? What was he some second rate gangster?

"My answer is final, Mr. Rumlow. It's a no." Steve stated firmly. "Good luck with your business. I know you'll do very well and I wish you all the best. As best as your interests don't conflict with mine." He wished him with a warning in his tone.

Rumlow stands up with a scornful smile. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Rogers," he shook his hand. "I appreciate it."

"No problem," Steve said, placing his hand over their hands and giving it a final good shake. "Buck, please see Mr. Rumlow to the door."

"No, no," he replied. "That won't be necessary. I can find it myself," he nods and leaves the room. “Not like I found much help here anyway.”

"Hey, Pete," Steve said, he points his head towards the door, "follow him out from a distance."

Peter nodded, dashing for the door.

"You think we did the right thing?" Bucky asked, leaning against the desk.

"We can't risk our connections, Buck," Steve said, lighting another stick. "Besides, me? Insured by the Lucchese? Get the fuck outta here," Steve remarked, a chuckle coloring his words making the two erupt in laughter, filling the room with a lighter air.

"You know you don't have to walk me to the bus stop anymore." You said, walking out of the restaurant. "It's only a block away."

A sudden blow of wind rushes past, making you snuggle into the wool scarf wrapped around your neck. You dig your hands deeper into your pockets and look over at Steve to find him unphased by the freezing temperatures of January. Freak.

"I take my job as your bodyguard very seriously." He replied.

"You're not my bodyguard. I don't need a man to protect me." You retorted defiantly.

"Woah there, Susan B. Anthony," Steve put his hands up in surrender, "I was just saying. Don't get all feminist on me."

"And what's wrong with being feminist?" You jabbed.

"Nothing. I love women. All of them. They're amazing. Absolutely wonderful," he complimented. "But not in a creepy way. More of a respectful and cool kinda way."

"Just stop talking, you're making my head spin," you sighed, shaking your head.

"You're so dramatic," he nudged you with his shoulder.

"You're the dramatic one," you pointed out.

"Am not," he retorted.

"Are you joking me right now?" You asked incredulously. "Oh heavens no, she doesn't speak the language of arts whatever shall I do?" You acted breathlessly desperate. Steve rolled his eyes and kept walking.

"How can someone be so simpleminded? I guess I'll just die right here." You fainted against his shoulder with your hand on your forehead and a dramatic sigh.

He pushes you off of him, secretly liking how open you're being with him.

"Ha ha ha, you're hilarious," Steve deadpanned.

"Thanks, I know," you replied boastfully. He snorts, looking away so you wouldn't see him smiling.

He failed. It was hard to miss that pretty smile of his. I didn't mean that. It was a completely objective observation.

Even if you told him not to walk you to the bus stop, you had to admit you enjoyed his company. Your cold cheeks were brushed with a numbing red, but the rest of you was warm. You didn't say a word the rest of the way there, just listened and watched.

You quietly listened to the distant drone of traffic, watched the lights of houses flip on and off. Cool steam rose from the sewer holes and swept along the asphalt of the street. There's not a soul in sight and what sane person would want to be out on a cold night like this? Your footsteps grew gradually slower not really in a hurry to get anywhere. Like they're trying to make the journey last as long as it can.

You don't know why, but the air feels tense. Heavy with something you can't really find a name for, but something you knew all too well. You pull your sweaty hands out of your pockets, stretching them to get some air through the cracks.

Steve watches his footsteps and how they're in sync with yours. He feels more at peace here with you than he's felt in the past week. You're like a remedy to all his problems.

When he's with you, the pressures of the mob slowly fade away. The burden of working over a hundred men and maintaining his power disappears for just a moment of time. When he's with you, he's not the kingpin, he's just Steve. Just a normal guy. You've never really seen him as anything else and he hopes it'll stay like that forever.

"That's strange," you said, checking your phone for the time while approaching the bus stop. "The bus is usually here by now."

"Maybe it's just a few minutes late?"

"Maybe."

The two of you waited for the bus patiently. Ten minutes had passed and the bus was nowhere to be seen. You looked from side to side to check the street and your eyes fell onto the car standing right across you. It was black with tinted windows. You recalled seeing the same exact car outside the restaurant and that part of your brain stuffed with crime shows is finally starting to crank its gears.

The car was off and there was a good chance that no one was inside, but you were never one to believe in coincidences.

"Steve," you said making sure not to look at the car again.

"Yeah?" He asked and from his face, you think he's already noticed.

"I might be crazy but I feel like I've seen the car across the street," you said, calmly. "At the restaurant."

"So have I," he nodded with a smile as if he's just having a casual conversation.

"Then what do we do?" You asked, shrugging.

"Let's just walk," he replied, pulling you along with him.

You walked down the sidewalk side by side and while your expression was calm, your insides were a frantic mess.

The quick rhythmic beat of your steps against the cracked sidewalks wasn't the only thing breaking the deafening silence of the street as the sound of car doors slamming and burly footsteps shuffled behind you slowly.

Your fingers intertwined with Steve's instinctively and he squeezes your hand tight. You look at him, heart thumping and thoughts racing.

"Hey, baby, don't worry, I got you." He gave you an amused smile, masking his own fear.

This isn't the first time something like this has happened, or the second, or the third. It's happened many times just not with an innocent civilian by his side. He had a knack for being a bit reckless but with you here he couldn't take that risk. Your safety was his top priority.

You pouted with a huff. "Don't call me, baby," you warned, your strides growing wider to match his.

"At the corner, we make a run for it," he ordered.

You nodded, taking silent, deep breaths to calm your speeding heart. You didn't dare to take a look behind in fear of what you'd see. Not like you needed to see anything. The sound of their footsteps was enough to know that something was wrong, slow and anxiously needy. Each step towards the end of the street gets heavier. The ones behind getting dangerously closer.

Steve pulls on your hand as he makes a sharp turn at the bend, dragging you behind him like a kite in the wind. You don't even know how you're keeping up with him at this point. It's just one foot in front of the other powered by an extraordinary rush of adrenaline.

You can hear the baying howls of the men behind you, ordering you to stop as if you're actually going to do that.

Steve's death grip on your hand is the only thing that keeps you anchored to the real world. Your thoughts are blank and all you can think of how you're possibly going to get out of this.

There are two of you against at least five of them.

Scratch that. More like one and a half against five.

You're screwed. This was where you died and you didn't even get to graduate from college yet.

Steve takes a sharp left at the corner and squeezes you into a tight alleyway between two buildings.

You put your hand over your mouth, muffling the sound of your breathing. Heavy footsteps draw nearer and continue past the alleyway until they fade into the distance. Your hand drops to your side allowing you to take free breaths of fresh air.

"You okay?" Steve asked, catching his own breath.

You look up at him and nodded. "Yeah."

The alleyway was narrow, very narrow, and the two of you were pressed against each other with only enough wiggle room for one to move.

Steve's cheeks redden by the way your body is pressed against his in all the right places. Sure he's imagined it before, but not exactly like this. He looks at everything but you, so he doesn’t lose himself.

He's not alone in his embarrassment as you start to heat up despite the frigid temperatures of a midwinter's night.

"D-do you–um–do you think they're gone?" You whispered.

He shrugs unknowingly. You squeeze past him just enough to stick your head out. You look to the left then to right.

"I think the coast is clear," you said, getting out of the tight spot. Steve follows suit and pats the dust off his clothes.

"Well that was something," he chuckles nervously.

You place your hands on your hips with a judgemental look. "You've got a lot of explaining to do."

Steve scratches the back of his head sheepishly.

In the distance, the shrill screeching of wheels blares in the night with a blinding light coming in your direction.

You should run, but your legs feel like mush and getting caught sounded better than running right now. Steve covers you with himself as the car slows just in front of you.

The window rolls down to reveal a cheeky Bucky.

Steve groans for the whole neighborhood to hear. "For fuck's sake, Buck, you scared the shit out of me."

You peek out from behind him to find Bucky. His eyes meet yours and he smirks devilishly.

"Sorry, big boss, been lookin' everywhere for you," he gets out of the car with a chuckle. "And of course I'd find you canoodling with ya girl."

"I am no one's girl," you stated firmly, jumping out from behind.

"Right. We're not there yet," Bucky replied and Steve might just snap his neck if he keeps talking. "Anyways my name's Bucky, I'm an old friend of Stevie's. Nice to finally meet ya," he extends his hand. You shake it warily. "That's Sam," he points at the man standing against the car behind him and I guess you already know Pete."

"Hi, Y/N!" Peter waves, falling out of the back window with a gummy smile on his face.

You gasp at the sight of the curly-haired boy. You run up to him at the window.

"Peter! What are you doing here?" You questioned. "Do you know what time it is? Go home to your girlfriend!"

"I wish." Peter sighed sadly, arms dangling out of the car. "But I can't, I'm on night duty."

"Listen," Bucky directed towards Steve, "we got some trouble down at the dock in the Bronx. We think it's Rumlow."

Steve mutters a curse underneath his breath.

"I guess he's the same bastard that tried to kill me like five minutes ago," he cursed. "Can't take no for an answer."

"Who's Rumlow? And why is he trying to kill you?" You asked, eyes solely on Steve, questioning his every gesture.

Steve sighed, not really wanting you to get involved in all of this. He knew it'd happen someday, but not this fast.

"I think it's best if we not talk about this out in the open," Sam advised. "So get in the car."

"Best idea you've had all day, Sammy," Bucky noted opening his door.

"Shut up."

Peter opens the door and scoots over to let you in and you have no choice but to go in. After what just happened, there's no way you're walking home alone.

Steve sits right next to you and closes the door behind him, signaling Sam to drive. It's kind of awkward being stuck in a car with a bunch of mobsters, but beggars can't be choosers. At least you know they won't kill you.

"Nat's already at the house," Bucky told Steve. "She's the one who found out about the whole mixup in the Bronx."

Steve nodded with a cautious look in his eye. Bucky knew exactly what he was saying without him even saying a word.

"Not in front of her."

"So where exactly are we going?" You asked.

"My place," Steve replied.

Your heart skipped a beat at the thought.

"If it's not a problem can you just drop me home?"

"I could but then I'd be worried about you all night," Steve said and it goes straight to the tips of your ears. It shouldn't have. The three snickered at Steve, but he ignored them. "Stay over my place for the night?"

“What? No, I can’t.” you denied. "I don’t even think they saw me,” you noted. “So it’ll be fine.”

“You sure about that sis?" Sam asked with a chuckle. "The mob ain’t as simple as it sounds. They’re probably already trying to figure out who you are.”

“Stop scaring her," Steve warned.

“I’m not scared.” you retorted. “I just don’t wanna intrude.”

“Or get involved," Bucky added.

“Maybe that too. So just drop me off please? I’ve got class in the morning.”

“Sorry, I can’t let that happen," Steve shakes his head in denial. "After what happened tonight who knows what’s gonna happen? I mean they could be trailing us for all we know. You really want those goons knowing where you live?”

“No," you whispered. You didn't think about it like that.

“Then just for tonight, okay?" He places his hand on top of yours and it feels nice, but not enough for you to accept. "I’ll drop you off first thing in the morning.”

“Don’t worry,” Bucky turned towards you from the front. “Stevie’s got a really nice place. With big fancy iron gates and a giant fountain. Never-ending fridge. The whole shebang."

Steve rolls his eyes. Sometimes he questioned why he even knew Bucky.

"Besides you'll love Lucky," Sam pointed out.

You furrowed your brows in confusion. "Lucky? Who's Lucky?"

"It's the boss's dog," Peter answered.

Your jaw goes slack in shock. "YOU HAVE A DOG?"

"Yeah," he said nonchalantly.

"WHAT KIND?" You questioned shaking his arm violently, "HOW OLD?"

"It's a Samoyed and two." He replied, pushed up against the door by the way you're bouncing on the seat.

"Okay let's go to your place," you agreed. Steve chuckles with a shake of the head. "Hey, Sam right?"

"Yeah?"

"No offense man, but can you drive any faster?" You questioned.

"I don't want a speeding ticket," Sam confessed.

You look at him incredulously.

"The Brooklyn Mob is just a bunch of twinks," you jeered.

"Hey!" Steve exclaimed.

"And you're the biggest one."

TAGLIST: @ashwarren32 @chuckennuggets1213 @captainchrisstan @rootcrop @savedbystark @siriusement @little-dark-empress @great-goddess-of-sin @scuzmunkie @achishisha @calwitch @thirstybunz @littlebees-things @booktease21 @rinkashirikitateku @voltage-my2dlove @boxofteenageideas @imsonick

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers imagine #steve rogers #mob!steve #mob!steve rogers x reader #mobster steve rogers x reader #mob!steve rogers x you #mob au #steve rogers x you #steve rogers x y/n #steve rogers fluff

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psychcomposer · 3 years ago

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Alright, I have too many feelings about a video game that’s going to come out in a month that I really just need to get out. It’s been over a decade and one of my favorite games, The World Ends With You, is finally getting a sequel. I’ve been brooding on the trailers for months, and I just finished the demo, so it is time to put down my capital T Thoughts on Neo: The World Ends With You.

As a warning, this will be entirely too long. But I’m not about to keep this bound up any longer.

TWEWY is my favorite title for the Nintendo DS. It is a JRPG starring Neku Sakuraba, an aggressively antisocial teen living in the Tokyo district of Shibuya. He is suddenly pulled into a test of survival called The Reaper’s Game, where he is forced to join forces with a partner in order to survive a week of lethal objectives in a sub-planar version of Shibuya. I love the story, its such an honest and interesting take on learning to get outside of your comfort zone. But more than that, it is a game that does so much to put a modern twist on every piece of your typical JRPG. You control two characters at once, Neku with the touch screen and his partner with the control pad, forcing you to split your attention and giving mechanic weight to the idea that Neku can’t survive alone. Armor and weapons are replaced with clothes and outfits, with a character’s ability to wear them restricted not by class but by a character’s bravery. The music list is filled with punk, alt-rock and hip-hop that are a stark contrast to the symphonic tracks of other titles. Battles aren’t random impediments, but fun diversions that sport a robust reward system that encourages players to push their limits.

But even more than that, the most modern thing I appreciate about TWEWY has to be the characters. Neku, Shiki, Beat, and Rhyme all feel like believable teens that grew up in the 2000′s. They bicker, clash, and banter like teens struggling to survive and make sense of their situation. One of my favorite little gimicks of the story is just how many nicknames there are for every character. Almost everyone has earned a few nicknames. One of my favorite examples is Sho Minamimoto. He’s a reaper with an obsession with math, often infusing his speech with mathematical jargon or expressions, and seems to enjoy erecting “art installations”, which most people can only decipher as towers of trash. Over the course of the story, he gets called Pi-face, the Grim Heaper, and another nickname I can’t even mention because of spoilers. It’s just... such a nice little human touch, these kids throwing crafted insults at a human enforcer of their doom that could almost certainly tear them apart.

I’m getting into this to try to give a sense of why I enjoy TWEWY so much, why it has such a unique place in my heart. Its a game I’ve 100% completed several times over, a task that’s no easy feat with the sheer amount of collectibles and post-game objectives. Unfortunately, for the last year or two, I’ve been kind of dreading this sequel.

Neo:TWEWY has been... a long time coming. Way back in 2007 they had a whole website counting down to some sort of announcement, with the music slowly building in intensity. I remember following it with bated breath, until it finally hit zero! And we got... An ios port of the game. Talk about a let-down. To be fair, apparently it is a solid port, even managing to re-work the old battle system, one that required a second screen to work properly, into one that only needed one. But what that really offered to someone like me was the hint of a sequel, a single image of a new character being shown. They kept flirting with the idea of bringing the series back. The main cast even featured in a Kingdom Hearts game, of all things, even if they didn’t really do a whole lot. But these acknowledgments grew sparser and sparser.

A few years ago, they released a switch port of the game. Not only that, it included an epilogue! They were finally getting a sequel rolling! Of course I bought that game, beat it yet again, and fought my way to the new content and the hint of the new story ahead.

It was... Well. I found it disappointing.

The gameplay was competent, even if it was clear that the epilogue itself really hadn’t had too much put into it. One new character, new enemies just being reskins of old ones. It wasn’t meant to be dlc itself or anything, it was just there to herald a return to the series. That wasn’t what bugged me. What bugged me was the writing. It was heart-wrenching. It just didn’t feel right. It just felt flat compared to the story I’d enjoyed so many times. But what really killed my excitement was the new character, Coco.

Now, odd personality quirks are not too unusual among the ensemble of TWEWY. Pi-face is just one of the characters that is so infused with a particular theme that it shows in how they express themselves. It’s part of the charm of them, discovering the personalities that live in this dark underworld of Shibuya. But Coco... she talks like the most stereotypical young teenager possible. unironic lols, totez (yes, spelt exactly like that, in a speech format), OMG’s, and just, like, likes everywhere! It felt like someone who knew they needed to make a quirky character but had no idea how to write one well, and just made the most stereotypical caricature possible. I hated seeing that. It embodied every fear I had about the sequel being just a cynical project, pushed forward after so many years by people who just didn’t understand what made the original great. That mild dread was so persistent that even the release of the first few trailers couldn’t really get me excited for the game. Neo:TWEWY was shifting into 3d from the original 2.5d, with all the problems that could cause. What I could see of the story felt so much more like a generic fantasy tale with some modern buildings than the story I had grown through my teenage years with. And, well... Just look the original Neku and the new one they showed off.

Look at this. Look at one of the most vibrant, eye-catching character designs on the market for any JRPG in history, one that manages to mix purple and orange with striking lights and darks. And then look at the teenager edgelord bullshit they did with him. It’s atrocious. I hate it. He’s just another guy in a black outfit and just too much fucking cool guy protagonist power to not have the story be about him at this point. And look, I know that there’s Story LoreTM, I know that there could be some twist that explains this, I know that him being such a denial of his old self could be the entire fucking point. But let me tell you, when I saw this, I felt years of shifting, misplaced unease coalesce into a hard lump of dread.

And... Even... So... I did the stupidest thing I could have possibly done and preordered the game anyway. Don’t look at me like that, nostalgia is a hell of a drug.

But you know what? The damnedest thing happened. They released a demo for the new game a month before its release. And I played it, and... I enjoyed it.

Did you see that coming? I certainly didn’t. Welcome to the roller coaster.

Right off the bat, the writing soothed a lot of the fears I had. It felt right at home, like being plopped between to teens exchanging banter. One of the first exchanges is Rindo and Fret, his best friend, trying to meet up. Fret wants Rindo to meet him at someplace called Wunafo, an area Rindo is clueless about. After some annoyed texting, it turns out Fret is actually referring to 104, a local landmark of a building. Fret insists that its a stylish improvement on the name. Rindo only gives him some grief about it..

I’m not doing the scene justice, or I could just be really desperate for half-decent writing, but I can’t deny that it quickly put a smile on my face. I am almost sure I’ve had this conversation before in years past myself. And beyond that, this game boasts voice acting that brings out a ton of personality in the large cast they are introducing (besides Rindo, which is a shame because he’s the protagonist... hopefully he gets over his apathetic teenager shtick eventually). Not everything is voiced, but it conveys so much appeal and personality, and even when the character’s aren’t voiced there is a conversation screen that occasionally breaks out some stylish layouts to convey mood and temperment and clearly draw from the style that made the original game pop so much.

The battles, of course, have been completely revamped. TWEWY had you control two characters, one of which you could customize by equipping up to 6 different pins that all used different motions and unleashed different attacks. Now you control up to four characters, but each one can only use one pin. But even so, it feels very genuine to its roots. An effective build in TWEWY was usually one that let you stagger an opponent so you can unload a bunch of attacks on them, and in Neo:TWEWY the game actively pushes you to folllow up attacks with characters in succession. It would be easy for this to devolve into a mash-fest, but even with the little time I had with the game it introduced a wrinkle in that- an attack that unleashed a single powerful blow, but couldn’t just be unleashed at the end of the previous combo. It needed to be charged for a while, long enough for the combo timer to deplete. So now an effective combo requires thinking ahead, and even after that you’re paying attention to enemies to dodge out of the way when they strike back. It’s entirely possible this system will flop in the late game, but so far it is robust enough for me to think that it will be one that could make me look forward to battles.

The music hasn’t impressed me so far, besides the tracks that have made the transition from the original. But I remember those strange tracks needing some time before I appreciated them too.

Finally, the story has hooked me. I don’t think that needs much more explanation. I want to see more of these characters and see the changes that have been made to the world in what I assume is years after Neku’s game. And to address the elephant in the room, Neku has not made his appearance in what is available in the demo. Odds are I will probably hate whatever they do with him. But there is enough happening in the space around it that I’m interested in exploring, and a bruised apple can still taste sweet.

Almost all of this, of course, is mostly just saying that Neo:TWEWY is not doomed to fail. There is still plenty of room for things to go wrong later on. There are entire systems I haven’t really seen in game, like shops, pin evolution, clothing and food (Though it looks like they have changed the food system significantly, which I approve of). The things that unnerved me so much in the trickle of information after this game’s announcement could still be enough to turn this sour. But I’m smiling as I’m strapping myself in for this ride now, one I’ve waited quite a long time for. Whatever’s coming, I’m excited.

#long post #TWEWY #Neo:TWEWY #The World Ends With You #Neo: The World Ends With You #Sorry for the length but #look this isn't even all the thoughts I have on this upcoming game #but I'm not sure if any of my followers even care about these games sooo #the original examination of the new stuff and a sequel compare/contrast kind of got lost when I got into my history with this series #but I like how this turned out #even if its just for me

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rights-for-redshirts · 4 years ago

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Okay, this is vaguely insane, but

If someone from our century were transported backwards in time and reborn as some sort of crown prince/ruler, how far and how quickly could they push their country's development?

I just kinda want a story of a high schooler with no particular interest in anything wake up as, I dunno, some sort of medieval King and be so pissed off by everything that they start scratching all the bits of vague technological, sociocultural, economical, political knowledge together that they should have collected in school, and then kind of ... start. From practically scratch. Or worse because of the social restrictions.

So they try to start with electricity and fail, because they don't actually remember how a battery works, and decide to hire - grinding their teeth - some scientist from a university, only to find that that scientist is a charlatane and more interested in alchemy than actual chemistry. So instead, they hire one of their servants - who turns out to be a bit of a prodigy, even if they can't read - and tell them to start working on steam engines, together with a local blacksmith's daughter who can definitely blacksmith but is forbidden to do so bc of her gender.

The new monarch realizes that in order to get anywhere with anything, they need to delegate.

Long story short, the servant/blacksmith duo manage - with a bit of financial aid - to kickstart the industrial revolution, but the monarch remembers enough angry late night tumblr rants about capitalism and low class workers plus a dozen or so internet history lessons (bc history lessons at school are often useless and more about numbers than how the gears of a society grind together) to put their foot down and grant the workers a livable minimum wage - and to make sure the workers and especially worker's children receive an actual education. Both of which prevents a major societal crisis.

Parallel to the whole economy trip is the whole political thing, which they manage to navigate with a bunch of random political/historical facts and anecdotes (they pop up at the beginning of each chapter and seem to be there just for fun, but become suddenly VERY relevant when the right situation arises). Our monarch begins to realize that, in their growing scientifical staff (since the first two are now platonically married and taking over the national market as well as parts of the international one), there is actually more brain to be found than with them, so they begin to write down everything they can remember, from chemistry and artificial fertilizer to physics to maths, in one large (not so large) book and add in a larger (much larger) book all the stuff they know is important but the actual information was completely buried under facts like what a mitochondria is. They slam down the books in front of their scientists (i.e. make sure our farmers can a) provide enough food for themselves, b) get acceptable living conditions, c) can provide enough food for our booming cities, d) get an increased range of mobility through ... trains or something, e) get enough of a decreased workload to be able to send their children to school and f) ... I don't know) and sic them on the different problems.

Then, their Highness turn their attention back to ruling because, . There is a lot of stuff going on in their kingdom, and a lot of it isn't good. They begin to abolish the old system of inequality before the law (nobles are outraged). They write a constitution that includes some of the fundamental human rights. They establish a law system. They keep escaping murder attempts because they grew up on a diet of period dramas, game of thrones and serial killer documentaries.

They reorganize the administration and weed out corruption by making it punishable by ... something, idk.

Universities are next.

They write a book about common sense that they get pope-approved by bribing the cardinals. Subsequently, they realize that they completely forgot about printing books, and promptly follow their book up with the invention of the printing press (how did they forget about that??!)

The social and the educational processes speed up by 500% in the following few years.

The invention progress gets done a lot earlier than in canon history because the monarch a) knows EXACTLY what the scientists and professors and clever kids (that they actively collect) need to be looking for and b) because they remembered not too late into their reign to just ... send people into other civilizations and ask. As easy as that. China had black powder, paper and a lot of other cool stuff. (They finally get to eat rice noodles again a few years into their reign. Hey, being an absolutist ruler has to have some perks. If you can't send a group of diplomats into the far east to retrieve the recipe of your favourite food, then what's the point?)

Also, they had planned to subtly undermine the influence of the catholic church on their people, bit as it turns out, education does a whole lot against superstition. The law for freedom of religion and confession passes almost without a hitch after some dude named Luther nailed a textpost rant of several pages against a church door.

They are several decades into ruling when they realize. They have brought freedom and prosperity and rational thinking and instant noodles (of a sort) to their country. People study arts and science and discuss politics and exchange ideas and knowledge with other cultures. It's the renaissance come early but better because they remembered about the molding bread and the bacteries (the scientists very obviously thought them insane, but eventually managed some decent penicilline; additionally the monarch added their corona-induced knowledge about hygiene and quarantine to the national curriculum).

But they remember some pretty inconvenient stuff: colonialism. They brought freedom to their own people. Now how can they save the free people of the other continents from the europeans? Bc not gonna lie, europe's history is pretty bloody, not only at our own doorstep. (Looking at you, US. ) Anyways they realize that the Native Americans and Australians are pretty happy and actually don't want to change much (at least I think so?? No offense meant if wrong).

The aztec empire, though, is a completely different matter. They are warned of some dude named Cortez, and seem very pleased about the gift of a few dozen horses (or did I misremember how that story went? Cortez being believed a God bc of the horses?).

So is the Chinese one. (They are thoroughly warned against some stuff named opium coming from England, even if that's centuries away.)

They establish diplomatic relations with a badass african queen who is more than willing to trade supplies for more sophisticated technological devices against technological knowledge.

At some point the ruler realizes they didn't age in the last seventy years, so the point of a marriage of convenience for an heir is kinda moot (not that they had remembered anyways). Probably some offhanded remark of a noble. Or seeing the industry duo's adopted children's children.

Also, one of the other nations, maybe india, surprisingly ups their technology game and does everything better than the european country, because I'm tired of western/white supremacy.

Feel free to add/change whatever suits your purposes. If someone ever writes the book, let me know.

#history #medieval #time travel #royalty #technology #developement #politics #aah #story prompt #story idea

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rachelbethhines · 4 years ago

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Tangled Salt Marathon - Under Raps

My feelings on this episode are pretty neutral. It’s not anything amazing, but it’s not the worst thing ever either. It’s just there, I guess.

Summary: During a love festival, Corona displays a book full of signatures of lovers in honor of an old ruler's falling in love with the leader of a rival kingdom. Cassandra suddenly turns very secretive; Rapunzel learns it's because she's been seeing a guy named Andrew. Cassandra doesn't want Rapunzel's meddling, but the princess suggests a double date and they all go off in a hot air balloon. However, Andrew turns out to be part of an old faction that didn't like the unification of Corona and wants to steal the book.

This Backstory Doesn’t Add Up

So we open up with Big Nose narrating about the history of a war between Corona and a group of people called the Saporians. This is important for two reasons. First, because the Saporians are reoccurring villains in the show, and secondly, because it reveals where the underground tunnels running between Old Corona and the Island Capital come from. These tunnels are a reoccurring plot device in the show, along with the book that maps them.

The problem is that what the story tells us doesn’t match the other information we are given. If it was only the Saporians who invaded then why does an Old Corona, with its own castle, exist to begin with? Why do the tunnels extend from both if King Herz Der Sonne made them? What purpose did they serve if he was only defending the island? Why are the Saporians led by a general and not a ruler? Why would marrying only a general unite the two kings and where was the Saporian kingdom to begin with? Why did they invade? Why are there still Saporians who haven’t accepted the merger centuries later and why do they live on the go outside the kingdom? If Herz Der Sonne is such a good guy then why did he curse his grave with a zombie apocalypse? Ect.

We keep getting hints throughout the show that Herz Der Sonne isn’t all he was cracked up to be, and you keep expecting a reveal that it was the Coronaians who started the war and oppressed the Saporians and then rewrote history, but it never comes. The show wants us to accept this very black and white conflict at face value even as it constantly undermines itself and muddies the waters.

Pointing Out That Something is Stupid in the Show Itself Doesn’t Make it Any Less Stupid

As I stated back during Rapunzel’s Enemy, the show has a real problem with tone. Constantly showing us festival and holiday after festival and holiday only undermines the more serious elements in the ongoing story and creates mood whiplash. Also anything that reminds me of Cinderella 2 is not a good thing.

Ahh Friedborg, You’re Such a Wasted Opportunity

So she actually first appeared in Cassandra V. Eugene but I forgot to bring her up there. My bad. Friedborg is something of a fan favorite in the TTS fandom, and I like her too, but she adds nothing. She’s a joke character in a tv show already oversaturated by joke characters. More over the joke is actually offensive on some level since it all hinges on her being less conventionally attractive then the other female characters and the mains finding her weird because she never talks.

The show tries to justify her existence by making her Big Nose’s girlfriend, but she’s not who he ended up with in the movie. And once again it’s kind of offensive to imply that only people who don’t match society’s contrived beauty standards can only find love with those that look like them. Thereby completely missing the point of Big Nose’s character arc.

I’ll say it right now, Friedborg should have been Zan Tiri, or Demantius. Take your pick. I think ZT makes more sense, but etheir way she should have been a setup for something more important to the plot rather then just be being a vauge oddity that just pops up from time to time.

I Miss This Version of Eugene

Throughout the first two seasons, Eugene and Cassandra were willing to point out Rapunzel’s BS. Forcing her to confront her flaws and re-examine her positions.I would argue that the show could have pushed this even further but at least it was there. By the final season no one was doing this. Rapunzel is allowed to be as awful as she wants to be without consequence. Meaning she never learns anything and stops growing as a character and the show acts like this a positive thing. It is not. In fact, it is the biggest flaw of the whole show as it fails to achieve the one thing it originally set out to do; which is to tell a coming of age story with Rapunzel.

It also has the added effect of making Eugene a doormat to Rapunzel’s bulling, thereby regressing his character as well and presenting an unhealthy relationship as a goal to be achieved to younger viewers. I can not stress enough to young girls and young men in particular, that Rapunzel and Eugene are not ‘relationship goals’ in this show. Not after season 3.

Xavier Doesn’t Get a Proper Introduction

So Xavier is actually pretty important to the ongoing plot. He’s more or less the exposition fairy for the show, but he’s not really established. He just suddenly appears here with no prior meeting and he just so happens to know what the main characters need to know with no explanation as to how he knows.

His part here is so forgettable that I legit forgot who he was when he reappeared in the mid-season finale. I had thought that the writers just threw in a random character for plot purposes. And to be fair they did. Just they did it here instead of in Queen for a Day.

If the showrunners wanted Xavier to be historian who knows everything and tells stories, then he should have been introduced as the narrator of the history of Hearts Day instead of Big Nose.

Another Lesson Not Learned

We get this big heart to heart moment of Raps and Cass coming to an understanding, with Rapunzel promising not to intrude and Cass promising to being more honest about her feelings. This is walked back on several times and made part of the core conflict of the last two seasons.

Once again, any problem that can be solved in less then five minutes of talking isn’t a strong enough conflict to drive multiple seasons. If this had been a show without an ongoing narrative, like say The Rescue Rangers or even Batman the Animated Series, then the repeated lessons wouldn’t be a problem. We expect characters to be static and to reset after each episode since they’re not shows that you watch in order.

But if you do go the overarching arc route for a story, then people expect lasting character development. Even in shows like Gravity Falls or Steven Universe, where the change is more gradual and the characters do repeat mistakes occasionally, there’s still a marketed change by the end. One that indicates improvement by the characters, and the inter conflicts are never exactly the same each time with exactly the same lesson over and over again.

Oh Look, Cassandra Once Again Achieving her Goal of Validation

Cass is awarded a medal by her father for stopping Andrew. Don’t expect her or the show to remember this.

Also more Cass and Cap interaction that we don’t get to see.

Can We Not Imply That Cassandra Still has a Crush on the Guy Who Lied to Her and Then Almost Killed Her, and Can We Not Act Like This is a Good Thing?

So this flower was given to Cassandra by Andrew and her keeping it makes zero sense.

First off lets not have one of our few strong independent female characters crushing on the show’s stereotypical ‘nice guy’, okay? That’s all kinds of gross. Secondly, if the intention was to show that Cass was now more willing to open up about her feelings, then wouldn’t her keeping one of the gifts Raps made her earlier in the episode make more sense? After all, that’s the relationship that actually matters to Cassandra and is the basis of the whole show.

But this all boils down to the fact that the creator sees Cassandra as straight, always has, and thinks her crushing on the guy who manipulated her is somehow better than ‘no-homo’. Now you can headcanon Cass as whatever you want and ship her with whomever you want, as canon doesn’t matter. But I find it hilarious that most of the head showrunner’s biggest supporters are mainly Casspunzel fans and yet he’s the one who made them ‘sisters’ and sees them as such.

Like I hate to break it to you guys, but a Cass led spin-off headed by Chris won't be the lesbian rep that you’ve always dreamed of. You’re better off just watching the She-Ra reboot.

But things gets even worse when Rapunzel approves of this stupid ‘crush’ ...

Don’t Ever Tell Someone That You’re Proud of Them For Going On a Date

Dating is just something some people choose to do together and some people choose not to engage in that. It’s not an accomplishment and it shouldn’t be treated as such. This is insulting to both people who don’t date, for whatever reason, and to women who hate being being defined by their relationships, which is most of us.

Even if you’re being charitable and try to make this about Cassandra self esteem and her learning she’s worth ‘loving’, which is the reason some people have offered up for this scene, it still falls apart when it’s not established that Cassandra ever had such self esteem issues to begin with and was not looking for romance anyways. And if that is what the show is going for then it’s still problematic to suggest that being found as attractive by someone else is need for self esteem. In fact, that’s kind of the opposite of what self esteem is.

Conclusion

Overall this episode was ‘meh’. Like most season one episodes the problems stem from the ongoing narrative and lack of follow though in later seasons. However there’s enough stuff in here on it’s own to rub me just the wrong way that I can’t actually call it good either.

It doesn’t help that I don’t see the appeal of Andrew at all. Watching the character is just a cringefest for me. He’s too similar to real life men I’ve unfortunately met and therefore sends alarm bells ringing in my head. And I agree with Eugene; he’s not all that handsome.

#tangled #tangled the series #rapunzel's tangled adventure #anti-rapunzel #anti-tangled #rapunzel #cassandra #andrew #anti-andrew #eugene

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suntory-toki-senpai · 4 years ago

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Eyes on Fire | Chapter 4

Excerpt: “You’re not very good with small talk, are you?” I asked.

“No,” he responded. “But I do know I like being around you,” he replied.

I spent the next few weeks at the Tavern anxiously awaiting another message from the Fire Lord. I paced back and forth behind the counter balancing scrolls, making lists, and ordering supplies. I restlessly ran through the Tavern to check on customers, filling their drinks and trying to make small talk. None of it could distract me from thinking about the Fire Lord’s message.

“Sayuri, you are more anxious than usual. Is everything okay?” my grandfather asked, his voice filled with concern.

“Yes,” I responded. “I just haven’t been sleeping well.”

“Your aura is off. The duality in you is becoming unbalanced. You should see the Fire Sages for counsel.”

“The Duality,” I repeated. “I will when things calm down here. I’ll talk with them.”

“The sooner the better. It is important to keep your duality in balance.”

I glanced over at Kira, who was sitting in the shop reading a book for one of her classes at the Royal Academy for Music. She was studying to be a music teacher and was currently working on a music history assignment.

I went behind the bar to pour a second cup of ginseng tea for Kira and me and walked over to sit with her for a minute.

“Hello, Sayuri. Kira,” an upbeat, familiar voice called out.

I looked up from my tea to see an unwelcome visitor standing in the middle of the Tavern.

“Seira Ito. What brings you into the shop today?” I asked annoyed.

“Oh, I was just stopping by to see if this place was still standing. To my surprise, it is, and you’re still here,” she replied smugly. She pulled her left hand from her hip to reveal a ruby engagement ring gracing her finger. Ever since we were kids, she’d always had to be the best and the brightest, to the point where she would step on everyone else around her to get ahead. We were always neck and neck for the top spot in our shared fire bending classes, until I dropped out.

“I just stopped by to tell you. I’m engaged! To a nobleman who lives in the Royal Capital! Can you believe it?” she gushed over her ring.

Kira and I both looked at each other, unimpressed.

“Wow, Seira. A member of the nobility! You sure are moving up in the world,” Kira said, with a tinge of sarcasm.

“Yeah, I’m going to have servants and a maid. Ugh, I can’t wait!” she replied.

Just as Seira opened her mouth to brag further, two guards appeared at the door to the Tavern and a member of the Royal Officials came in. My grandfather went up to greet the attendant.

“Good afternoon,” he said, bowing, “To what do we owe the honor of a royal official in my humble Wandering Lotus?”

“Lieutenant Mori, we are looking for your granddaughter, Sayuri Fujiwara. We have a Royal Message for her and her alone, under strict instructions from Fire Lord Zuko,” the official stated. My grandfather turned to me with a shocked expression on his face, while Kira grinned widely.

“I’m Sayuri, sir,” I said, standing up to greet him. I took the scroll from his hand and opened it to see that it was the Fire Lord letting me know he was back home and inviting me for an official “date”.

“Fire Lord Zuko also wanted me to ensure that you received these,” the official explained, as he gestured to several attendants coming in with gifts. “For Lieutenant Mori, a porcelain teapot and fine teas from Ba Sing Se. For Tatsuo, a sake and wine set also from the Earth Nation. And finally, for Sayuri, a silk robe and dress.”

The attendants unfolded the robe and the dress in front of me and I stood there, scroll in hand, my eyes wide, completely dumbfounded. My grandfather smacked my arm .

“Oh, uh, thank you so much for presenting these beautiful gifts to my family and me,” I said, bowing. “Please send His Grace the Fire Lord my sincerest gratitude.”

The attendants went back out into the carriage and the Royal Official followed after them. The gifts they left on the bar. Luckily, there was just one other person in the Tavern besides me, Kira, Seira, and my grandfather. I grabbed the silk robe out of its gift box to admire it. It was a fine black robe with red flower details and gold edging. The dress was plain black with gold trim.

“Ugh!” I heard Seira storm out of the Tavern, looking like a boiled moon peach.

“Don’t worry, Seira,” Kira commented. “I’m sure your noble betrothed can get you a nice pair of pants.”

The day of my date came, and I hurried to finish the scrolls early and get home. Kira came over to help me with my hair and some light makeup.

“Your hair has always been so beautiful, Sayuri,” Kira commented as she brushed.

I took a good look in the mirror at my dark hair and dark amber eyes. I have my mother’s hair but my father’s features. His hair was jet black and my mother’s is a chocolate brown. The difference isn’t really noticeable, until I stand next to Kira, who looks like many other girls in the Fire Nation. Dark, jet black hair, sharp features, and light amber eyes. Kira pulled my hair into a half bun complete with jeweled hair tuinga she swiped from her mother’s vanity. I put on the black silk dress and Kira helped me adjust the collar. I turned toward the mirror and saw myself for the first time. Kira stood behind me and placed her hands on my shoulders.

“Sayuri, you look like a beautiful princess worthy of the Fire Lord,” she said, proudly..

“Thank you, Kira,” I replied. “I feel beautiful.”

I turned to Kira to give her a hug when I heard a knock at the door. I peeked out into the hallway to see my grandfather welcoming a royal attendant.

“Good evening, sir,” my grandfather said. “Sayuri will be out shortly. Sayuri!”

“This is it,” Kira remarked behind me. She followed me out to the doorway where I said goodbye to my grandfather.

“Bye, Pop. I’ll be back soon,” I said, giving him a kiss on the cheek.

“Sayuri, you look marvelous, my sweet dove,” he replied.

Kira and my grandfather trailed behind me as I walked out the door of the house. Fire Lord Zuko stood there in full royal dress in front of a carriage. The three of us took to the ground in a kneeled bow. As I got up, I caught a glimpse of my neighbors pressing their faces to their windows and my other neighbors peeking through slightly opened doors.

“Good evening, Your Highness. Thank you for coming to pick me up,” I said.

“It’s my pleasure, Sayuri,” the young Fire Lord responded. He stepped to the side and opened the door to the carriage. I climbed inside and scooted over. I had never been in a carriage before. Especially a royal one. The Fire Lord climbed into the carriage and sat next to me, folding his hands neatly on his lap.

“To the plaza,” the Fire Lord ordered.

The carriage moved forward at his command. I pushed the sheer curtains covering the windows to the side to see that the sun had begun to set. The light had started becoming the bright orange and red that was synonymous with Our Nation and people.

“Where are you taking me, Highness?” I asked.

“How long until you start calling me Zuko?” he replied.

“Let’s see where this date goes, first.” I winked at him and he swiftly turned his head forward to hide the redness creeping across his face.

We arrived at the main plaza of the city. It was filled with shops, restaurants, and a large outdoor market. I stepped out of the carriage with the help of an attendant and the Fire Lord followed behind me. The people in the marketplace stopped in their tracks and flew to the ground when they realized who had come out of the carriage.

“Citizens of North Harbor City, please rise to your feet. I’m only here with my companion to tour this fine marketplace as a guest,” he said loudly.

The people remained on the ground, terrified that his offer was a test of their faith in the Fire Lord’s command and power, rather than a true offer of goodwill. They were not easily fooled. One young boy stood up and grabbed a fig from a market stand and walked over to present it to the young Fire Lord.

“Here, Your Highness,” he said. “My family has grown these figs for generations. They are the best in the city. It would be an honor to have you try them.”

The Fire Lord took the fig from the young boy’s hand and held it for a moment before an attendant snatched it to test for harmful agents.

“Thank you. What is your name?” he asked.

“Lee, sir.”

“Lee, a good name.”

The attendant saw that the fig was good to eat and handed both of us a slice. I took a small bite and relished the sweetness of the fruit.

“This fig is delicious,” I remarked.

“Yes, it is,” the Fire Lord agreed.

“See, I told you!” the young boy said.

I laughed out loud. Slowly but surely, the people of the marketplace began to stand at ease. They realized Fire Lord Zuko did not want to destroy them but rather, wanted to be among them. The marketplace began to return to life, and we walked around and sampled many different kinds of delicious fruits, sweet treats, and fine foods. Many shop owners refused to take Fire Lord Zuko’s offer of payment. But even after fighting and losing with several people, I heard the young Fire Lord telling his attendant to write down the shopkeepers’ names to ensure payment later. After walking side by side for a while, we returned to the carriage.

“To The Spot,” he ordered.

“The Spot?” I asked.

“Yes, I said this would be a tea date. But I would like some privacy.”

A pang of nervousness shot through me as I tried to figure out what being “alone” with the Fire Lord meant. After a longer ride, we arrived at “The Spot” and Fire Lord Zuko got out first. I slid over on the seat to see his hand outstretched toward mine to help me get out of the carriage. His hand was warm compared to my notoriously cold hands.

“Your hands are cold,” he remarked.

“They always are,” I said.

Attendants quickly began taking out cushions and other small supplies for a picnic-style date. I sat on the cushion and watched as the attendants set up a small pile of wood and a burner plate.

“Please, leave us,” he ordered. The attendants bowed and left the area. The young Fire Lord began to prepare tea by shooting a small amount of fire on the wood pile, filling a kettle with water and grabbing a teapot out of the small picnic box. He pulled out another large metal dish set and some ceramic bowls.

“I had some fire noodles made. I figured after the marketplace you wouldn’t be too hungry,” he said.

“You’d be wrong,” I thought to myself. “Thank you,” I responded aloud. I reached over to begin serving but he stopped my hands.

“Please allow me,” he said softly. I pulled back my hands and watched as the Fire Lord served me a dish. I took a small slurp of the noodles. They were delicious. We ate our meal and sat with our tea for a long time, in silence.

“You’re not very good with small talk, are you?” I asked.

“No,” he responded. “But I do know I like being around you.”

“Whew, that was smooth,” I thought.

“That’s a very nice compliment, thank you,” I said aloud. “How was your trip to Hira’a?”

“Very eventful. I was able to retrieve something that was lost to me. It was a good trip,” he replied.

“That’s wonderful, I’m glad to hear it.”

The young Fire Lord began to fidget with the edging on his robe. He looked like he was about to burst.

“My mother left us when I was young. I wasn’t sure what had happened to her until recently.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said.

“It’s okay. She’s back home. I’m very happy to have her next to me as we start fixing what my father, grandfather, and great-grandfather destroyed,” he said, with a half-smile forming on his face.

“What’s she like?” I asked.

“She’s the reason why I didn’t become like my father. She is kind and gentle but has always fiercely looked out for me…” he trailed off.

“I’m glad the best parts of her are alive in you,” I said, gently reaching over to touch his hand. I moved my cushion closer to him. He moved closer, too.

I gently moved my hand up to his face to pull it closer to me. I rested my hand on his cheek, careful not to touch his scar. I looked down and saw his hands were balled into loose fists, as if he was unsure what to do with them. I glanced back up into his golden eyes and felt my heart leap into my throat. I moved my lips towards his, and as we kissed, my body felt like I had just swallowed an entire box of fizzling fire flakes. I pulled back for a moment but I wanted more, so I kissed him again. And again. And again. When we finally broke for air my head felt like a swirling puddle.

“I’m sorry if that was too forward,” I said, blushing.

“It wasn’t,” he replied. “I’ve wanted to do that the whole night.”

I smiled.

“I suppose I should get you home, though. I don’t want your grandfather to be upset with me,” he said.

“I don’t think he can really be too upset with the Fire Lord,” I chuckled. Truthfully, I didn’t want it to end. I didn’t want to leave his side. He called for his attendants and they began to pack up the picnic basket and cushions. Fire Lord Zuko ensured the fire was put out completely. We walked back to the carriage and he helped me get inside. Once he got inside, I made sure to sit as close to him as possible.

“To Sayuri’s house, please,” he instructed. The carriage moved forward. I leaned over to rest my head on his arm, and he instinctively moved his arm around me, settling his hand at my waist. I closed my eyes to savor the moment. When we arrived in front of my house, neither of us wanted to move from our spot.

“When can I see you again?” he asked.

“Is tomorrow too soon?” I responded with a smirk.

“I do have a few meetings tomorrow, but I can come by later in the evening. If that’s alright.”

“That’s perfect.”

He slid over and opened the door of the carriage to get out and once again extended his hand to help me get down. Even after I had both of my feet on the ground, he held onto my hand a little longer than necessary. I grabbed a hold of the front of his robes and boosted myself on my tiptoes to kiss him again.

“Goodnight, Zuko,” I said.

“Goodnight, Sayuri,” he responded.

I walked into my house as quietly as I could. Inside, I saw Kira and my grandfather sitting on one of the sofas.

“How did it go?” my grandfather asked.

“Good,” I responded.

“When will you see him again?”

“Maybe tomorrow,” I said.

“Oh, good. The Hunk Lord awaits!” Kira said with a grin.

author’s note: this was BY far one of the most difficult chapters for me to write. I didn’t know how to actually write a kissing scene! ah! special kudos to my lovely editor M for helping me draw this scene out from my brain. She’s the bees knees. 😍

taglist: @imcravingyou @abuskinswarrior @sarahsaint @nats-the-geek

#atla #avatar: the last airbender #prince zuko #fire lord zuko #fanfiction #atla fanfic #eyes on fire | after the war

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diyunho · 5 years ago

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The Joker x Reader - “John Wick” Part 3

Y/N left The Organization 3 years ago for the one reason strong enough to make her settle down: love. But after tragedy crushed her to pieces, she decided to leave The Joker and seek refuge with an old friend and mentor - John Wick. Needless to say The King of Gotham can’t accept his wife running away without a word, especially since he didn’t have a chance to tell her things she might want to hear.

Part 1 Part 2

The Joker listens at the bedroom’s door, impatient to have a conversation with you. It seems you are engaged into a fervent phone call with Winston and figured he shouldn’t interrupt.

“Please, anything you can discover would be a great help! U-hum… U-hum… Thank you,” and you hang up, which queues your husband to walk into the room.

You completely ignore him, scrolling through the numerous text messages you sent to your connections; several are already answering back and hopefully you can get some news soon. The more people are involved into the project, the more chances to find Kase and untangle the mystery of what happened to him after he was removed from the car.

“You left me there,” The Joker sneaks in and closes the door behind him. “Luckily we had Wick with us so he gave me a ride.”

No reaction. He takes a deep breath, trying to get your awareness.

“I didn’t sleep with Evelyn; sex wasn’t the reason why I kept visiting her. I know how that asshole made it sound and he was totally out of line!”

You quickly glance at him, busy replying to Ares since you feel you’re going to explode soon.

“The only skill I was interested in is the fact that she is an excellent painter and a popular art smuggler, OK?” J raises his voice, sort of annoyed you neglect to participate into his monologue. “I did not cheat, alright?” he approaches his wife. “First of all: I’m VERY picky! Second of all: why would I want a woman everyone else had?! I don’t like used toys. Third: nobody’s been polishing my gun as you tastefully addressed the issue! I have one Queen and I married her!!”

A little bit of doubt in your eyes and he utilizes the opportunity.

“You said you saw me going to her house? I did! The Bowery King asked if it was for the last 6 months? Yeah, I did! You know why?!”

At least now The Joker got your attention: you play it cool but he guesses you’re torn apart by his confession.

Many unfortunate events crammed in lately and hating the man you love made life infinitely more unbearable.

“Why…?” you barely muster the strength to inquire and he sees it as a possibility to mend a few broken pieces; although you can hide your emotions well, J can still read between the lines.

Maybe that’s why he answers with another question:

“Do you realize there are just three Monet paintings in circulation on the black market in the entire world? You admire his work and it took a lot of effort and a substantial fortune to acquire The Water Lily Pond painting. Evelyn Black helped with the transaction, then I had her make some modifications to the original masterpiece.”

You keep staring at The King of Gotham, uncertain about the stuff being tossed your way: is he lying or telling the truth?... In your line of work translating feelings is a huge part of the job; ultimately you had the best mentor to teach you the ropes when you started with the organization: none other than the legendary Baba Yaga. Despite his reputation and to your own amazement, John was one of the few hitmen with integrity and perfectly mastered the aptitude of not being a jerk. Such a rare gem… And blissfully unaware of it himself.

On the opposite end, The Joker is a jerk and flawlessly acquainted with his own “captivating” personality that made you fall in love with him anyway.

Also, doesn’t appear to be deceitful for the moment.

And you despise yourself even more for wanting to believe him.

“What… modifications?...” you throw him a bone and J is definitely not going to pass on the alternative of explaining his actions.

“I wanted to surprise you so I took advantage of Miss Black’s capabilities in the art field; I had her add small images to the authentic canvas: an evolution of you being pregnant, the nine frames culminating with a tenth: the new mother holding our son. Similar to a timeline,” he emphasize and you look intrigued, which might be a positive sign. “Needless to say it was tedious, difficult work, especially because she had to apply special pigments you can’t find at every corner of the street. Apparently you can’t mix old paint with contemporary shades, thus I had to order aged, special colors from Italy, Spain and France. That’s why I went to her place so often: I had to supervise the long process and make sure it turns out astonishing. Then…” and The Joker pauses,”…Kase was gone and I didn’t know what to do with my gift: bring it home or not? Would you have loved it? Would it make you sadder? I continued to drive to Evelyn’s and glare at the stupid painting for hours, undecided on what to do…”

J watches you bite on your cheek, then straightens his shoulders as you utter the words:

“… … … You ruined a genuine Monet?”

Your spouse might be a smooth talker when needed, yet he’s not wasting his versatility on this statement:

“I didn’t ruin it; I made it better!”

Silence from both parties. A good or bad omen? Hard to decipher the riddle with two individuals tangled into a relationship that somehow worked despite countless peculiarities meant to keep them apart.

“I have to talk to Jonathan,” you finally mutter and The Joker steps in front of you.

“Talk to me!”

“Unless you know the exact location of the suitcase full of gold coins he’s been safekeeping for me, I really have to speak to him. Or do you want to hammer the whole basement searching for it?”

Y/N walks out of the bedroom and J lingers inside, evesdropping on the conversation happening downstairs. He can’t understand the chat, but you are probably notifying John about the details your husband left out.

Might as well join the party, therefore The Clown pops up in the living room with a plea impossible to refuse:

“Hey Wick, can I stay here? I don’t care if you say no, I’m not going to leave.”

Your friend crosses his arms on his chest, focusing on the random topic:

“How could I deny such a polite request? Of course you can stay Mister Joker; my house is your house.”

You’re watching the free show unamused; usually it would make you smile…now you lack the depth for such connotations.

“Don’t get smart with me, Wick!” J growls and Jonathan pushes for a tiny, unnecessary quarrel.

“I’m not; although generally speaking, I fancy considering myself a smart guy.”

The Joker opens his mouth and you’re not in the mood for whatever the heck they’re initiating:

“I’m going to pump, then after you dig out the suitcase I’ll take half to the Bowery King,” you announce your plans to them.

“You can do that and rest; I’ll deliver the coins,” John immediately offers. “I can stop by Aurelio’s car shop and ask for his collaboration: he has a lot of associates, doesn’t hurt to get him involved. You have plenty of gold.”

“I have two more suitcases in the Continental’s safe and two more at The Penthouse. It doesn’t matter if it’s all gone as long as I can find my son.”

“I know gold coins are preferred; don’t forget we have a lot of money too,” J reckons with spite.

Is he reminding you or Jonathan?...

*************

Your husband spent the last hour in the garden, talking and texting with a lot of people; needless to mention he’s capitalizing on his network also. Winston disclosed Stonneberg’s contract is still opened, meaning the son of a bitch is out there; you have to scoop him before anybody else does.

“Y/N…” The Joker tiptoes in your quarters. “I thought you were taking a nap,” he huffs when he sees you at the edge of the bed.

You glare at the vial on the nightstand, sharing your idea for a future you wish will come true:

“I didn’t have my medicine in two days; I won’t take it anymore because if we get Kase back… I will nurse him. It all goes in the milk and I want to be able to feed my baby… Do you think his little heart is still beating?...” you sniffle and J is currently debating on a clever response since his mind is blank; one could deduce messing up is encoded in his DNA, but on such a huge scale… well, it gives new interpretations to the term even for him.

The grieving woman seeking reassurance for their loss is trying to make sense of the pointless occurrences that lead to Kase being an innocent victim and The Joker can’t render clarification: he has no clue why he asked her to marry him and why she said yes, it’s not that he’s husband material or a family man. Perhaps Y/N thought he could be… just enough to get by, that’s why she accepted his proposal.

Most women would have cringed at the concept. Most women. Not Y/N.

Most women would have flinched at the notion of having his baby. Most women. Not his wife.

Above all, she trusted J with their son and he treated the three weeks old like a trinket: didn’t drive him home because he had an important meeting, didn’t bother to assign escorting cars nor extra security. The King of Gotham took his child’s safety lightly and it definitely had severe consequences. Too late now to fix past mistakes... but he can attempt.

“You’ll be able to nurse him, OK?” he sits by you and hands over his cell. “Can you enter your phone number in here? Or am I not allowed to have the present digits?”

You’re hesitant and he slides the screen while you hold the gadget.

“Lemme help you,” The Joker sarcastically mumbles. “It should be the first on my list, right where the old number you canceled was.”

You exhale and fulfill his demand out of pure frustration when he squeezes in a second innocent petition.

“Chose my avatar.”

You grunt at his rubbish, scrolling through his folders for a picture anyway; J hopes the largest file will get your attention and that’s the point. How could Y/N miss it?!

Entitled “Baby”, the humongous cluster of pics contains 5,723 items. You open it quite absorbed by its size; what’s more puzzling is the collection depicting Kase’s ultrasounds, hundreds of frames with you being pregnant taken without you knowing: there’s a few when your ankles were so swollen you had to sleep with your feet up on 4 pillows, others with you munching on strange food you craved, more with you in the shower focused on your bump, a decent amount of couple selfies when you were sleeping and J had to immortalize the moment without waking you up and approximately 1,500 images of the newborn.

“You didn’t gross me out when you were pregnant,” The Joker reminds a teary Y/N. “Not sure why you would believe such aberration...” he pulls you on his knees and yanks the phone away, tossing it on the nightstand. “I would also like to underline I didn’t have an affair with Miss Black, alright?”

J lifts your chin up, forcing to look at him.

“Let’s put it this way: why would I fuck around with another woman when I have a wife at home that wants to kill me on a regular basis, hm? Where would the fun be? I mean, she didn’t pull the trigger yet but it’s exciting to hope she might. You know me: I’m a sucker for thrills!”

“Do I?”

“Huh?” J steals a kiss and you frown at his sleekness.

“Know you?”

“Yeah,” the green haired Clown acts composed while in fact his feathers are ruffled. Before you catch onto it he has to ultimately admit: “I’m sorry I didn’t drive the car… I should have…”

The Joker holds in his breath when your arms go around his neck very tight.

“I’m suffocating…” he grumbles. “I can’t tell if you’re trying to hug me or choke me to death,” J keeps on caressing your hair, prepared to block your attack in case you’re actually in killing mode.

This is the excitement he was speaking about: with you, one could never know until it’s a done deal.

“I bumped into Magnus at the Continental,” you give him a bit of space to inhale much needed air and The Joker is surprised at your revelation. “I had no idea about his scheme, otherwise I would have skinned him alive right on the hotel grounds! I wouldn’t have cared about the consequences!”

“I’m glad you didn’t,” J cuts you off and he can tell you’re getting mad; maybe you think he doesn’t give a damn but the reason is simple. “You would’ve been declared excommunicado for murder on neutral ground and I don’t want my wife to be the target of such punishment from the company she so proudly retired from. I need my partner!”

The King of Gotham touches your forehead with his as you whisper:

“I hate you!”

“Mmm, regarding this true love affirmation, I’m gonna need you to take a break from detesting me until we have Kase, then you can despise me full throttle again. Deal?” he extends the palm of his hand and you reluctantly shake it, not realizing you’re reacting to his nonsense. “Is that a smile?” J returns the favor with one of his creepy silver grins.

“No.”

“Liar,” he pecks your lips and can’t explain the weird feeling in his heart when you kiss him back.

*************

Jonathan enters the house and becomes suspicious after a few minutes: too much silence.

Omg! Did you and The Joker engaged into a brawling that ended up badly? Did you end each other?!

John frantically runs to the garage, nervous to see your car and J’s are still parked inside. Shit!

“Y/N?” he shouts, concerned about your fate; The Joker’s… irrelevant. Nobody in the garden, patio is empty also. Downstairs is deserted thus he rushes upstairs to your room. The door is not completely shut and he slowly pushes it, knocking.

“Y/N? Can I come in?”

The first thing he notices are clothes scattered on the floor, then he halts his movement at the sight of Y/N and her husband dozing off on the bed sideways: the naked bodies are covered with a blanket, but he can tell you’re snuggled in J’s arms.

Jonathan steps backwards, guilty of invading his guests’ privacy; he certainly didn’t expect to intrude in such a manner and softly closes the door, grateful it’s not what he feared.

You and The Joker are so worn out the sound of your phones vibrating on the nightstand doesn’t wake you from the deep sleep. Your numerous contacts keep replying back to the text messages, the most important one showing up on his cell: one of the people J reached to is Evelyn Black and the two sentence conversation lights up the screen.

“Let me know if you see Stonnenberg.”

“He’s here.”

Also read: MASTERLIST

You can follow me on Ao3 and Wattpad under the same blog name: DiYunho.

#the joker x reader #the joker fanfiction #the joker imagine #john wick imagine #john wick x reader #the joker jared leto #the joker suicide squad #the joker #joker #joker fanfiction #joker jared leto #mister j #Mistah J #Mr.J #dc #dcu

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theliterateape · 4 years ago

Text

Hell in a Handbasket

By David Himmel

SHE TAKES ONE LAST LONG DRAG FROM HER CIGARETTE. She pushes the smoke past her gleaming teeth and full lips and crushes the thing beneath her boot. Her black coffee has finally cooled to a barely drinkable temperature. She takes a sip as she enters the radio station. Another fucking morning show. This one in San Francisco. It’s still dark out and, between the cigarette and the coffee and all of the whiskey she drank last night, she has the worst morning breath in recorded human history.

She didn’t have time to brush her teeth. She overslept and was rushed out of her hotel room by Gavin the tour manager. The clothes she had worn at last night’s show were strewn across the floor. Gavin threw the jeans and Superman t-shirt at her as she struggled to get her naked body out of bed. She didn’t have to fuss with makeup or her hair; she looks the same at five in the morning in the grips of a hangover as she does at eleven at night when she’s in the grips of stage lights and adoring fans.

Way back before she was famous and had dreams of being interviewed by radio deejays, it didn’t matter what you looked like as much. The listeners couldn’t see you and the deejays looked just barely put together themselves. But today, everything is visual, and if this show is anything like all of the others, they’ll be recording the interview for the radio station’s YouTube page. She hates the beautification and objectification of women in the entertainment industry. However, she sees nothing wrong with not wanting to look like hammered rat shit, which is exactly how she feels. This morning, as she has been most mornings this past year, she’s self-aware enough to be thankful for her easy-to-manage looks.

Gavin makes the introductions in the studio. She smiles her big, brilliant smile—the one that makes men and women fall in love with her—and begins to charm the three morning show hosts.

“Good morning. I’m really happy to be here,” she says into the microphone. Her mouth is dry and it tastes like a circus floor. She reaches for the bottle of water one of the hosts handed her when she walked in. She thinks she should have had a piece of gum instead of that cigarette.

“You’re wearing a Superman t-shirt,” the fatter of the hosts says. “Are you a fan of the comics?”

“This isn’t a Superman t-shirt,” she says. “It’s a Supergirl t-shirt.”

“Hear, hear, sister!” says the woman host.

“And yes, I’m a fan of the comics.”

“For those of you just tuning in, we’ve got Jane Hadley in the studio with us this morning,” the thin host says in a well-rehearsed broadcaster’s voice. “If you’re not familiar with Jane Hadley then you’ve likely been in a coma trapped in a mine shaft for the past year. Her debut album, Hell in a Handbasket, is this year’s runaway hit and iTunes’ most downloaded album ever. Right now, Jane Hadley is a bigger deal than Taylor, Adele and Beyoncé.”

“Combined,” Fat Host says.

“And she’s performing a sold-out show at Decker Hall tonight,” Thin Host continues.

“But don’t worry,” Lady Host says, “if you didn’t get tickets for the show, we’ll be giving a pair away a little later on this morning. And I think—Jane, correct me if I’m wrong—that these tickets also include a backstage meet and greet.”

“They do,” Jane says. “I’ve even got my Selfie-Stick for photos.”

“Did you bring that Selfie-Stick with you this morning?” Fat Host asks. “I’d love to get a photo with you. You have to be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen this early in the morning.”

Jane smiles and laughs a hearty laugh that not even the most high-tech lie detector test could determine its authenticity one way or the other. “I didn’t bring it but I’m sure we’ll find a way to take a photo without it.”

“And you’re going to play a few songs for us this morning, too, right?” Lady Host asks.

“I brought my guitar and will even take requests.”

The three hosts celebrate over this surprise. Thin Host says, “You hear that, K–POP listeners? The beautiful and talented, Goddess of Rock Jane Hadley will be taking your requests for a live, in-studio acoustic session! Don’t go anywhere. You’re listening to the Manic Morning Show on 97.1, K–POP.”

Thin Hosts glances at Fat Host who taps a series of buttons on the control board and clicks a wireless mouse linked to the monitors. A station bump plays followed by a commercial break beginning with an ad for a local diamond dealer. The hosts take their headphones off.

“Do people actually listen this early?” Jane asks as she also removes her headphones.

“Not anymore,” Thin Host says.

“We’ll replay everything with you in the eight o’clock hour,” Lady Host says.

This is not how Jane saw her life. For one thing, she never thought she’d be a smoker. But divorce can promote bad habits as diversions from the heartache. And for another thing, she never thought she’d be divorced at thirty-seven years old, though she was only thirty-five when it all happened, which only makes it worse. She is too young to be divorced and too old to only now find herself at rockstar status. Unfortunately, without the divorce, the fame and fortune—and morning radio show interviews—would have continued to elude her.

Before she was Jane Hadley, the rock ’n’ roll singer/songwriter—the Goddess of Rock, bigger than Taylor, Adele, and Beyoncé combined, she was Jane Hadley, the folk ’n’ roll singer/songwriter who never sold more than a thousand albums and a few hundred t-shirts. Before she had a #1 album flying off the shelves and being downloaded to the Cloud by millions, and an entire merchandising department, she was just a girl who played in a few bands: the Stargazers, Rosie’s Dream Catcher, Jane and the Jaded Cowboys.

None of these were good band names and she knew it. But she liked the music they made. Sweet, folky, only as loud as the all-acoustic gear would allow. All her bands looked the same. Jane played rhythm guitar and sang lead. The lead guitar, keyboard, upright bass and percussion were played by men. This wasn’t intentional, it’s just how things played out. They sounded similar, too, although each incarnation sounded more practiced than the last, a byproduct of age and gig experience.

The Stargazers was her high school band. It lasted long enough to play mostly Simon & Garfunkel covers at a few garage shows and the school’s Battle of the Bands. She formed Rosie’s Dream Catcher in college with her then boyfriend, keyboardist Matt. They recorded one CD of ten original songs. They sold all one hundred copies for two bucks a piece by the time the band, and Jane and Matt, split three years later.

She wonders why they are waxing intellectual about Kurt Cobain and the meaning of “Smells Like Teen Spirit?” She just wants to plug tonight’s show, play a few songs, maybe answer a call and give vague, recycled answers about what inspired her to write the album. Instead, she’s bemoaning about the trappings of fame and denying any intention of making an album that will last the test of time. How Gen X of her. How Fiona Apple of her. How awful of her.

Jane always figured that if success in the music business was ever going to come to her it would have been with Jane and the Jaded Cowboys. It took her a little while to become comfortable with her name being segregated from the band name. She didn’t want to be a Diana Ross or Gloria Estefan but Adam, the guitarist, thought they should capitalize on the gender difference and put their radiant leader out front while her boys backed her up. Adam was a marketing major in college and while he was a gifted guitarist, his real talent was in hype.

Jane and the Jaded Cowboys were prolific. Their songwriting was a science. Jane would come to practice with lyrics ripped from her many tattered Moleskin journals and a tune she thought worked with the words. From there, all five would flesh the thing out until they had a nice little folky pop song. They were a good team and their musical tastes and abilities complemented each other well.

With the freedom provided by quarter-life adulthood, they toured a lot in the sixteen years they were together. They earned fans but none who would bleed for them, really. They played the festivals and a few of the storied concert halls spread throughout the country. They headlined some shows and shared the bill with acts that would go on to the kind of fame and success that Jane and the Jaded Cowboys were chasing but never caught up to.

Because being in the band didn’t pay a livable wage, everyone had real jobs. Jane tended bar at Queen Lizzie, a hipster hotspot in Chicago where the drinks are overpriced and the customers happily overpay. She hated the place and the customers but the money was too good to walk away from. She was able to afford the necessities: instruments, rent, food, clothes, tour van, gas money for the tour van and Moleskin journals. She even managed to save a fair amount and really hack away at her student loans. Not that her degree in art history was worth more than the paper the degree was printed on.

The songs she wrote reflected her life. They featured themes of loneliness, desire, road trips and regret. The songs weren’t bad. But they weren’t great either. Their most popular song among their few loyal fans is called “Photographic Art History.” It’s about wasting time and energy. One critic, writing for an online publication about the lineup of a summer festival in Chicago, described Jane and the Jaded Cowboys as, “a band that makes perfect background music for the perfect lazy day of napping.” On the band’s Facebook page, Adam spun the opinion by posting the review and writing, “IndieRock.com says ‘Jane and the Jaded Cowboys makes perfect music for the perfect day!’”

Jane hated the hype. But it was the best her band ever got.

And speaking of hype…

“Rolling Stone called you the voice of women of this generation,” Thin Host says. They are back from commercial break. “That seems like it could come with a lot of responsibility. Do you feel responsible to speak for your generation?”

Since Hell in a Handbasket dropped, many critics had echoed Rolling Stone’s claim. Jane used to see herself as a Joni Mitchell type, or Carole King or Carly Simon. Women from a very different generation. And one that isn’t hers. She isn’t even sure which generation the critics are talking about. At thirty-seven years old, she’s no longer part of the youth culture but she’s too young, still, and new to fame, to be a music veteran. And in the entertainment industry, the young and the old were the major markets. Everyone in the middle is white noise. Jane feels that if she’s the voice of any generation right now, it’s the White Noise Generation. But she can’t say that.

“First of all, it’s an insanely flattering thing to say about someone,” Jane answers. “But it’s also an insanely broad generalization and a little presumptuous. I didn’t make this record to be a statement about women or for all women or anything like that. And if we look at music history, we don’t ever really know how representative a musician was or wasn’t to her generation—or his—until the music has had time to mature and that generation, or whatever, has adapted from it in some way.”

“Well, take Kurt Cobain. In a way, your situation is similar to Cobain’s,” Thin Host says. “He was considered the voice of Generation X right out of the gate. And he was dead before his music and his generation really even had a chance to—what did you call it?—mature. But everyone was right. Kurt Cobain was, and still is considered to be, the voice of his generation.”

“So if you don’t already have a heroin addiction, you better get on that,” Fat Host says.

“No, then she’d just be compared to Courtney Love. And no woman wants to be compared to Courtney Love,” Lady Host says.

“Yikes. God no. That’s even worse than being compared to Yoko Ono,” Jane says.

“There are so many awful women in rock ’n’ roll,” Fat Host says.

“You named two,” Jane says. “The awful men in rock ’n’ roll still outweigh us twenty-to-one.”

“And that’s why she wears that t-shirt,” Lady Host says.

They all have a laugh as Jane glances at the clock on the studio wall. She’s booked for an hour. It’s only been eleven minutes. She wants to go back to sleep. The coffee isn’t working. She considers what it would be like if she did start using heroin. It’s cheaper than booze, cigarettes and even coffee. And on the road, it’s often easier to get.

“Okay, I understand that you’re reluctant to accept your influential role in today’s culture,” Thin Host says.

“It’s not a reluctance,” she says.

“A rejection then,” he says.

“No. I mean, they’re just songs.”

“But don’t you want your songs to mean something? Isn’t that what every artist wants?”

“Sure. In a way. This album means what it means to me. I can’t control what it means to anyone else. It’s nice that it’s been so well received. I’m touched that people are finding their own meanings in the songs.”

“So you’re saying that the song, the first single, ‘Onward,’ isn’t symbolic of the woman’s place in today’s society.”

“I think Hemingway said something about the foolishness of trying to include symbols in your work on purpose,” Jane says.

“So no.”

“‘Onward’ is a song about my ex-husband moving out of our apartment and me, a woman, having to make sense of what he, a man, had left behind. If that is perceived as anything other than that—”

“I understood it as a break-up song,” Lady Host says.

“But things can be perceived by any number of people in any number of ways. That’s the great thing about art. Let me ask you guys a question. Since you brought him up, what does ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’ mean to you? What’s that song about?”

“Making trouble,” Thin Host says.

“Cheerleaders,” Fat Host says.

“Disaffected youth,” Lady Host says.

“All I ever think about when I hear that song is deodorant. That song is a deodorant jingle to me. Because when that song came out, I was eleven years old and Teen Spirit was the brand of deodorant I used.”

“Commerce,” Fat Host says. “Cobain is rolling over in his grave.”

“Nah,” Jane says. “He knew damn well what he was doing when he titled that song. He was being funny—Oh crap, can I say the ‘D’ word?”

The hosts laugh. “Yes, ‘damn’ is allowed. ‘Crap,’ is not,” Thin Host says. They laugh some more then he presses on. “Symbols or not, this album is incredible.”

“Thank you.”

“I doubt that you’d call it a concept album.”

“Not in the traditional meaning of concept album, no. I mean, it’s not The Wall. But it was conceived by specific events. There’s a theme.”

“It’s a break up album,” Lady Host says.

“It is indeed a break up album. A break up and all of the, um, crap, that comes with it.”

She knows she sounds like a pedantic blowhard. They are baiting her into it and she is too strung out on exhaustion and weak coffee to resist. She wonders why they are waxing intellectual about Kurt Cobain and the meaning of “Smells Like Teen Spirit?” She just wants to plug tonight’s show, play a few songs, maybe answer a call and give vague, recycled answers about what inspired her to write the album. Instead, she’s bemoaning about the trappings of fame and denying any intention of making an album that will last the test of time. How Gen X of her. How Fiona Apple of her. How awful of her.

But after two weeks of horrendous heartbreak, isolation, and alcoholism, Jane had come to one conclusion: right or not, fuck Keith.

She is saved from falling deeper into these asinine rock critic musings when the hosts go to break again. They’ve cued listeners to call in with questions and requests. The first three callers request “Onward,” to no one’s surprise. Jane pulls her guitar from its case and gives it a gentle tuning. She gets the familiar sinking knot in her stomach as she does.

Her departure from acoustic folk to electric rock was the best way for her to get through the pain of her divorce. It allowed her to turn the deafening sadness into rollicking anger. And every time she plays these songs with an electric guitar and her banging, thrumming, clanging tour band alongside her, she becomes more and more removed from the origin of the source material. She’s healed each night. And in quieter moments in between cities on the bus, when she finds herself descending toward that sadness and regret, she can listen to the album at top volume through her headphones and relive the anger and gravitate toward getting over the goddamn thing.

But there’s no escaping the raw bones of truth when she plays the songs acoustically on radio shows like this. She wanted to bring the band with her and at least have a bigger sound so the songs weren’t so stripped down and she didn’t feel so naked. But her management vetoed it. The fans wanted Jane Hadley naked. And that’s what they were getting. And every time she tunes the guitar to play “Onward,” she is rocketed into a wretched reverie of when she first tuned the guitar to write the song.

Keith had just closed the door of the apartment with his last box of stuff under his arm. It had been the first time they’d seen each other since he asked for a divorce two weeks before and fled to wherever he had been staying. Jane spent those two weeks crying, substituting alcohol and cigarettes for meals, sleeping on the living room floor because she couldn’t bear the thought of sleeping alone in their bed and didn’t feel that she deserved the comfort of the couch. She was emotionally destroyed and she thought it best to destroy herself physically, too.

He said some pretty nasty things when he left. There were accusations of infidelity because she played songs that weren’t about him. He blamed her for his inability to secure a steady and well-paying gig because she was not supportive enough. He called her a manipulator and a user and chastised her for having more friends than he had.

None of these accusations were true and he was clearly taking his own self-loathing out on her. How could someone’s likability make her unlikable? Keith had found a way. The two therapists they had seen every week since getting married eight months before, called it projecting. Keith denied it and Jane believed everything he said.

But after two weeks of horrendous heartbreak, isolation, and alcoholism, Jane had come to one conclusion: right or not, fuck Keith. Watching him leave with a box of his mother’s old stained Tupperware was enough to pull her off of the floor and begin writing music again. “Onward” became Jane’s life’s statement of purpose. And as the first single and the album’s first track, it became the album’s statement of purpose, too. And thus, it became a generation of women’s statement of purpose.

She didn’t even have to write the lyrics down and work them out in her notebook like usual. She just played and sang and it all came together. She scribbled it down once she was done and the song, at first, resembled every other song she had written. Soft, slow, melancholy. She didn’t want that. She wanted something different. Because the same old song hadn’t done her much good for her career or her internal struggle. She didn’t feel soft, slow or melancholy. She felt hard, fast and fucking pissed. She dusted off her electric Gibson and amp and played the song faster and louder. She felt alive again. She felt angry. She felt inspired.

She lit a cigarette and played it again. She recorded it and upon listening back, she heard a voice she didn’t recognize but loved. The chorus made her smile, even though it felt strange on her face.

You took my love And let it burn Scorched and ashen I move onward

✶

SHE MET KEITH LESTINGHOUSE AT A SHOW IN PEORIA, ILLINOIS. He was a videographer and had been hired to document the headlining band, the Dandelions, who a year later would win the Grammy Award for Best New Artist. Keith’s art direction in the documentary was lauded for its grit, the way it “captured the essence of budding rock ’n’ roll success,” according to some well-respected blogger somewhere online.

She found Keith smart and funny, and thought his patchy beard and thin, lanky body made him handsome. He seemed to genuinely like Jane’s music and her band. And he seemed to like her. By the end of their first date, they realized that they had been a match on each other’s online dating profiles.

“Why didn’t you ever send me a message?” she asked him.

“Why didn’t you ever send me one?” he replied.

He was a feminist and she liked that about him, too.

Six months in, they were engaged. Two months after that, they were married. It was a small ceremony held in her parents’ barn at their farm in Dowagiac, Michigan. She wore cowboy boots with her consignment wedding dress, he wore black Chuck Taylor sneakers with his new suit from an online custom clothier. An hour before the wedding, Jane cried all of her makeup away when Keith requested that her father not walk her down the aisle. Well, he didn’t have any family at the wedding, therefore, her father’s obvious presence was her way of rubbing it in that he was an estranged son. Jane conceded. Then Keith decided that it was okay for her dad to walk her down the aisle after all. This was the first crack in the façade of perfection Jane had placed Keith behind. Then, at the reception, Jane and the Jaded Cowboys played a song she wrote just for Keith, just for their wedding. Drunk, he mistook it for a song about some other guy and stormed off into the Dowagiac fields. Jane—the consummate professional—finished the song then ran into the fields after her husband. When she found him, he continued accusing her of infidelity until she managed to convince him otherwise and they screwed right there in rows of soybeans.

He moved into her place. His video equipment crowded and nearly ousted her music equipment. Space in the small Chicago apartment was the crux of their Cold War—Keith acting like Reagan with his finger constantly on he Button and Jane acting as Gorbachev, desperate for some kind of peaceful and reasonable resolution.

Two weeks later, they were in therapy. The only discussion they could have without Keith’s demanding a therapist’s intervention was about what they’d have for dinner. It helped that Keith’s veganism limited their dining options. Keith was a volunteer for Greenpeace and convinced Jane to sell her 1967 Pontiac GTO. It was left to her in her grandfather’s will. It was her grandfather who taught her to play guitar and encouraged her to pursue a career in music. He was a sound tech for bands like the Byrds, Leslie Gore, the Lovin’ Spoonful and even the Beatles once. Anywhere she had to be, Keith told her, she could ride a bike, walk, run or use public transportation, if she must. And that inspired the second song on the album, “Red Meat Wishes and Gasoline Car Dreams.”

You’re sidewalk stalking Good people on God’s green earth I honk and rev my motor And slide back a Quarter Pounder

Still, Jane loved him. But what Jane loved more than Keith was love itself. Though she was never far from her friends or family and had an incredible bond and unwavering trust with her bandmates, Jane feared being alone. Alone in that romantic sense. It was that fear that empowered her to stay with Keith, which left her otherwise powerless. And that’s where “Distracted by Loneliness,” the album’s third song, came from.

Covered in hearts Well wishes from friends and family Their undying love can’t compare to the misery you give to me I’d rather be lonely with you than never alone again

✶

WHEN THEY RETURN FROM THE BREAK, JANE PLAYS “ONWARD.” Fat Host cues up another recorded caller and the conversation they had with her during the break.

“Hi, Jane. I’m Claire. I think you are so talented.”

“Hi, Claire. Thank you.”

“I just broke up with my boyfriend of three years.”

“This ought to be good,” Fat Host says.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Claire,” Jane says.

“No, please, it’s for the best. I was miserable. We both were. Your album inspired me to leave him. Funny thing was, it was his record. He bought the album.”

“Men love her, too,” Thin Host says. “Is there a song you’d like Jane Hadley to play?”

“I’d love to hear ‘Two Week’s Notice,’” says Claire. “I quit my job last week, too. This song inspired me to do that.”

“This song isn’t about quitting a job,” Jane says. “It’s about the abortion I had.” The studio goes quiet—never a good thing in radio. Jane recognizes the silence and quickly readjusts her response. “But, uh, sure thing, Claire. Let me know if you need a reference or anything.”

The recording ends and Lady Host throws her finger at Jane like a stage manager would on the set of a live news show. Jane plays the first chord and sings “Two Week’s Notice.”

It’s not something I am ready for I’m sure neither are you I’ve already got a child I can’t raise two It makes no sense to drag this out It’s the right thing to do I’ve already got a child That child is you

“I’m not really sure how that song would inspire someone to quit their job,” Thin Host says when Jane is done playing. “I bet you get a lot of that. You know, people mistaking the intentions of your songs for something else.”

“Like we were saying earlier, that’s what happens with music and art,” Jane says. “People listen to music in different ways. Claire, I guess, doesn’t listen to the lyrics all that closely. And that’s fine. I just hope she find a new job soon and lands on her feet.”

“Guess you can’t judge a song by its title,” Fat Host says.

“We’re going to take another quick break and we’ll be right back with more music by request from our in-studio guest Jane Hadley, who is performing at Decker Hall tonight and we’ll be giving away that pair of tickets to see her. You’re listening to the Manic Morning Show on 97.1 K–WOW.”

There it is, the missing piece to Jane and Keith’s old fight, his calm condescension. Finding herself in familiar territory, she habitually lights a cigarette in her mouth.

They never take calls live on-air. It’s a recipe for disaster. You could get a Baba Booey or a suicide or someone who just wants to yell “Fuck” on the radio. Answering calls off-air lets the hosts screen and edit the calls for the best possible radio. Fat Host takes the next caller.

“Hi, Jane. Since you’re single, maybe we can hook up after your show tonight. I’m hung.”

Fat Host immediately hangs up on the caller.

“Hey, wait a minute,” Jane says. “Maybe he was cute.”

She’s joking but only a little bit. Among the whiskey and cigarettes, her after-show parties have been filled with men. Lots of men. At least one every night. The show in L.A. had two, the one in Salt Lake had three.

Two more calls, both women, both requesting “Onward.” The third call is a man.

“97.1, Manic Morning Show,” Lady Host says.

“Jane?” the caller asks like he was calling Jane directly and not a San Francisco morning radio show.

“Hi, do you have a request for Jane Hadley?” Lady Host tries again.

“Jane. Are you there?”

“Okay, weirdo, goodbye,” Lady Host says as she signals Fat Host to drop the call.

“Wait,” Jane says. Lady Host looks at Thin Host who nods as a sign to let Jane play this one out. “Keith?”

The three hosts look at each other with confusion before Thin Host chimes in, “Jane, you’ve got a friend here in San Francisco. And a K-WOW listener to boot!”

“Keith is my ex-husband.” The three hosts drop their jaws and sit back in their chairs like they’re ready to watch the unbelievable, certain shit show commence. “Keith, what are you doing?”

“I was listening to the radio and heard you.”

“What are you doing in San Francisco?”

“I’m living with my brother.”

“You have a brother?”

“I have three brothers.”

“Three!? Why didn’t you ever say anything? Why weren’t they at the wedding?”

“My family is complicated.”

Jane is stunned. She, too, is now sitting with her mouth agape in disbelief. “So you’re living here now?”

“For the moment. There was a job, so…”

“What’s the job?”

“It’s a documentary about San Francisco suicides that don’t take place on the Golden Gate. There’s a large population of suicidals that is overlooked because of the attention that the Bridge gets. It’s tragic. And these people aren’t even polluting the bay when they kill themselves. It’s an important topic.”

Thin Host jumps in again. “So, Keith—Keith, right?—would you like to hear a song by Jane Hadley?” Jane shoots Thin Host a look that says, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Let’s hear that one about abortion again.”

Jane cringes. She is no longer stunned, now she’s pissed. Of course she never told him about the pregnancy. By their third date, it was clear that he had baby fever. Because Keith had such a foul and complicated relationship with his own family, he was desperate to build a new one. And though Jane wasn’t opposed to being a parent someday, she was in no immediate rush, but also knew, deep in her gut, that Keith would make a terrible father. That having a child would provide him with another person to manipulate and break down until nothing was left but a desiccated husk of a human. He would do to his child what his parents did to him and what he had nearly done to Jane.

Jane and the hosts are frozen but the digital phone recorder rolls along.

“Can I hear it? Can I hear the song about you killing my child?”

“Whoa!” Thin Host says as Fat Host laughs in shock.

“She didn’t kill your child,” Lady Host says. “She’s the mother and she has the right to make any decision she wants related to her body.”

“I agree,” Keith says. “But in the interest of true sexual and gender fairness and whatever, doesn’t the father have a right to know and at least be part of the discussion? When were you pregnant, Jane? Were we married? Because if so, then you absolutely owed me that.”

Lady Host defends her. “She doesn’t owe you anything.”

“No, he’s right,” Jane says. “I probably should have said something. I agonized over telling you about it for two weeks before.”

“Oh, you agonized, did you? That was my child.”

She can hear his special brand of angry panic in his voice. She knows she should have the deejays hang up. But that anger and panic of his was always delicious bait to her. She can’t help herself from engaging. “It wasn’t a child, Keith. And if it had been, it would have been ours. And that, that right there is why I didn’t tell you. I mean, I knew I couldn’t keep it because of your selfishness and controlling impulses. I would have had the abortion twenty minutes after I peed on the stick but I held off, debating if you should be there with me. But I knew that you’d never agree to it and that the idea of it would only lead to this.”

“And what’s this?”

“You accusing me of killing your child.”

Thin Host speaks up. “So Keith, what do you think about the rest of the album?”

“I didn’t know she could play electric guitar.”

There it is, the missing piece to Jane and Keith’s old fight, his calm condescension. Finding herself in familiar territory, she habitually lights a cigarette in her mouth.

“Uh, Jane, you can’t smoke that in here,” Fat Host says.

She exhales a large cloud of smoke emphasizing it with two small rings at the end. “I’ll make you a deal,” she says, “you promise not to air this and I’ll put it out.”

“It’s just that, well, it’s a federal regulation that you can’t smoke inside of buildings. It’s nothing personal. Hell, we all smoke,” Fat Host says.

“Promise me.”

Fat Host looks at Lady Host and Thin Host. Thin Host nods and fat Host says, “Promise.” Jane snuffs the cigarette out on the bottom of her boot. She walks to the small trashcan across the studio, drops the cigarette in and pours a few ounces of coffee on it for safety. She returns back to her microphone and puts her headphones back on.

“What do you want, Keith?” she asks.

Silence.

“Keith? Are you still with us, Keith?” Thin Host asks.

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“What is it you want, Keith?” Thin Host asks again as if Jane’s voice was the problem the first time.

“I want you back,” Keith says.

Jane bursts out in laughter. “Are you fucking kidding me!?” The hosts are shocked. “Sorry,” she says to them.

“It’s okay, we’re not live,” Lady Host says. She leans over to Fat Host and whispers, “Bleep it out.”

“Duh,” Fat Host whispers back.

“I’ve missed you and I have a new therapist out here who says that I’m ready to be in a relationship with you again.”

“Then sue your therapist for malpractice,” Jane says, “because he’s a fucking quack.”

Fat Host holds up his arm to grab attention and says, “We are coming out of break.” He turns on his microphone, does a quick station I.D. and lets the audience know that Jane Hadley is in the studio and that they’ll be back with more from her, then plays music. As he finishes and the red ON-AIR light outside of the studio door turns off, Gavin, Jane’s tour manager storms in.

“I think we’re done here,” he says. Everyone ignores him. This is something he’s used to so he shrinks back out of the studio.

“Jane, I—”

“Shut up, Keith. It’s not happening. But I’ll put your name on the will call list at the door tonight if you want to come see the show.” She looks at Fat Host. “Hang up on him.”

Fat Host again looks around at his co-hosts for a confirmation. They both deny her request. Jane sees this and as Keith begins pleading to her in a breathy panic, she stands up, throws her headphones on the console, walks around to the control board where Fat Host is sitting and rummages around with her eyes for the phone. “Hang up. Where is it? Hang up on him. There’s nothing more to say.” Fat Host uses his bulk to keep her away. “Okay then, I guess you don’t want those backstage tickets to my sold out show tonight for your listeners. I guess you’d rather fuck with me than keep a promise to your listeners. Fine then.”

She walks back around to her guitar and coffee, puts the guitar in its case, throws the nearly empty coffee cup into the trashcan. She lights another cigarette before storming out of the studio, the station, and into the parking lot where Gavin is waiting.

“I need a drink,” she says.

It’s barely past six-thirty in the morning so Gavin suggests hotel room service. Jane agrees. She admits that after a few mini bottles of Dewar’s and Tanqueray she’ll be ready for a nap.

✶

IN THE HOTEL ROOM, GAVIN SLEEPS IN THE DESK CHAIR WITH HIS FEET PROPPED UP ON THE DESK, a small bottle of gin delicately rests in his curved fingers of his dangling arm. It’s eight-thirty and Jane lays drunk in bed. She’s tuned the nightstand clock radio to 97.1 FM, K–WOW. The idiots are playing the phone call with Keith. They’ve bleeped out her cursing. They’ve edited it to make her seem more erratic than she thought she had been. She’s pissed about it but she knows that this is only going to help her reputation and lead to more album and concert ticket sales.

She fumbles for her phone and calls Keith. After recording Hell in a Handbasket, Jane set out to remove any traces of him from her life. She built a fire in the alley behind her apartment next to the dumpster burning anything associated with their time together. Photos, a pair of his socks she loved to sleep in, the Dandelions t-shirt she bought at the show the night they met, that stupid crystal duck he gave to her on their first Christmas together. She never understood the significance of it. He was so excited to give it to her, so proud of himself that she never bothered to ask him why he thought she might like it. Of course, the crystal duck didn’t burn, so Jane smashed it to pieces with a hammer. The one thing she didn’t do during her Keith purge was delete his contact information from her phone. He answered her call before the first ring finished.

“Come to the show tonight,” she says to him.

“Do you want to get back together?”

“No. But I want to see you. Actually, if you can, come to my hotel right now. I’ll text you the address.”

She hangs up before he can respond and sends the text. She knows she has made a destructive decision and that there is no way any of this will end well. But that’s not what Jane wants. Keith has reopened her wounds as easily as if they’d never healed at all. Jane wants to bask in the familiarity of the disrespect and jealousy and anger that defined their relationship. One more chug of the poison, she tells herself, then she’ll be done. She’ll even delete him from her phone.

Keith texts back that he’s on his way. Jane wakes Gavin up and kicks him out of her room.

“You called Keith, didn’t you?” Gavin asks.

“I’ll see you later,” she says, closing the door in his face.

She picks up her guitar and writes a new song. It comes to her as easily as “Onward” did. Maybe even easier. She realizes that Keith is her muse. The thought of that is a good reason to open another mini bottle of whiskey. Maybe she won’t delete him from her phone. Just in case her creativity ever runs dry.

This is not the type of musician or person she thought she’d be but it’s the one the music industry needs, the one her generation needs—whatever generation that is. And certainly, it is the one she needs to be in order to remain being anything at all.

#Chicago Fiction #David Himmel Fiction #Rock Music Fiction

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overgosh · 5 years ago

Text

So it’s after BlizzCon.

Some thoughts, because there are some posts that have popped up on my dash that make my blood boil:

On the Hearthstone Tournament Situation:

For its treatment of Blitzchung and the twitch casters, Activision Blizzard was completely in the wrong.

It was inappropriate for Blitzchung and the twitch casters to use the platform that way, as it would be if any other political statement was announced (whether divisive or not). It is completely reasonable for a penalty to be given, but not in the manner that it was.

Activision Blizzard’s corporate executives royally fucked up, and will continue to not serve the best interest of its userbase when it comes to making money and continuing to be a behemoth corporation. All statements have been strictly based on PR and have not been suitable apologies or plans of action for improvement.

On Fake Diversity Which Has Somehow Become The New “Forced Diversity”:

While it is great for marketing and for shitty apologies to fall back on their ideals using Overwatch’s diversity and Blizzard’s tenets, AND that certainly is a selling point that they will, of course, use to sell their game to people:

The idea that Activision Blizzard’s corporate executives are trying to bait LGBT people and POC into forgetting their misdeeds by adding LGBT people and POC into the game is totally bizarre... For so many reasons. For so long there hasn’t been representation because it “doesn’t sell” or “appeal to the masses”, especially for the types of games that Blizzard produces. The implication that Tracer having a picture of Emily on the dashboard and Sojourn arriving were solely added to soothe the controversy are so wildly absurd in terms of the timeline of reality itself and straight up common sense.

Overwatch specifically has admirable goals of diversity. Sometimes the team does a damn good job, and sometimes (often) they mess up. If there’s an actual solid foundation and evidence about how the exec’s insidious use of “diversity points” are being used to manipulate the public while not contributing anything meaningful to the landscape of video games, I’d love to hear it. There is a LOT to unpack here, but that’s my brief point on it.

Oh also, for fuck’s sake - of course China has censored the LGBT content in Overwatch. That’s not an Evil Blizzard Machination -- China pushes through censorship for all kinds of media content that’s not considered “decent”, which as you may remember as an example included the LGBT relationships in Steven Universe (namely, Ruby and Sapphire). Using the same logic, that would imply that Steven Universe’s LGBT themes were included for diversity points. It’s.... There’s lots of problems with Blizzard, y’all, that one doesn’t quite hold up.

On “People Are So Quick To Forgive Blizzard”:

Some people are, yes. There are folks who fully believe J Allen Brack’s statement(s) in their entirety.

Other people didn’t really care either way in the first place, and just want content.

Some have decided that based the actions after the initial incident (the penalty reduction, as well as not stifling or turning away hosts that spoke out against the incident, and also not interfering or silencing the protests at BlizzCon) that they are taking a stance anywhere in the middle of this situation. They may be excited for game content created by incredible people, including diversity that they have been asking for for literal years.

People are not so simple as to be put into one bucket. This is a huge leap of logic I keep seeing pop up on social media. Being excited about a revelation from Blizzcon doesn’t equate to forgiving the company.

On “How can people support an evil company?”:

We have to deal with late stage capitalism, so unfortunately we can’t avoid supporting corporations while living in society. This one sucks ass, guys. We live in a time where global superpowers are so interconnected that foreign influence affects everything we do, and the simple act of impulse buying a candy bar from the grocery store check-out may have just been a teeny contribution to slave labor (hi, Nestle). It’s positively overwhelming. On that note:

Other behemoth companies such as Apple and Google are also causing significant damage to the same freedoms, many related to the same Hong Kong issues and much more. SO:

Use your voice to do good, and use this revelation about the actions of a small group of people at the very top of this video game company to make a difference. Screaming at tumblr users for being “sheeple” for being enthusiastic about dark-skinned and lesbian heroes as though shutting that down will solve the problem is a really horrendous missing of the point. There is still good that can (and does!!) come out of Blizzard, like the realization of the success of a diverse cast of human characters. As we all say time and time again: representation is important. We fight for the message that Blizzard champions to not ring hollow, so use your voice. The employees at Blizzard sure did. And speaking of:

The devs and artists working at Blizzard are not Activision Blizzard’s corporate executives. In an industry as unforgiving and volatile as games (Remember when Activision laid off 800 people after a record-breaking, successful financial year?), they’ve worked their asses off for years for this. They’re regular-ass working people who actually have a say in the story and how the game is developed. You can love the story. You can love the characters, love the games, and STILL hate the corporation. You are a complex individual, just like this world we live in. You are welcome to find where the scale for you tips. If it’s not worth it for you to support Activision Blizzard, then that’s a battle that you are fighting. If you choose to be an activist like many hosts, casters and content creators who speak up while still covering Blizzard content, great. If you choose to boycott, great. If you choose to share information to others about the issues, great. The world is far too complicated to judge on a “GOOD” and “BAD” polarity, unlike the method of thought this site (and yes, others as well) tends to proliferate. So if anyone tries to put you into a black and white box, know that there is no such thing.

Finally:

On “I feel so helpless about Hong Kong. How can I help?”

https://www.reddit.com/r/HongKong/comments/cv0ws4/how_can_you_help_hong_kong_protests_from_abroad/

This Reddit user has compiled a list of Hong Kong protest resources. This includes a Blacklist and Whitelist if you are someone who is interested in cutting ties or supporting companies based on their reaction to the HK protests.

#overwatch #blizzcon #btw im not looking for Fun Debates On This for internet points

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dippedanddripped · 4 years ago

Link

As the number of abandoned storefronts and closed retail outlets continues to mount, the once unremarkable activity of shopping at brick-and-mortar stores can feel like reality askew — like a stroll through the Twilight Zone. As this glum new normal becomes, well, the norm, signs of life can be almost as jarring.

Take, for instance, a pair of storefront windows on Beverly Boulevard in West Hollywood. Just recently they were lifeless reminders of an upscale furniture store, now defunct. Then, in August, they began to fill with seemingly unconnected objects: bluejeans piled in a chest-high mound, a lounge chair upholstered in denim, a mannequin in a jumpsuit with an eyeball for a head standing amid a sea of paint-splattered drop cloths.

Hand-painted signage in the other window offered only that this “Appointment Only” storefront with the cryptic displays, and the 6,000 square feet of retail space behind them, are the domain of Gallery Dept.

Despite the name, Gallery Dept. isn’t a gallery or a department store but a hybrid clothing label that sits somewhere in the Venn diagram overlap between street wear label, denim atelier, neighborhood tailor and vintage store. Just as accurately, you could call Gallery Dept. the personal art project of its founder Josué Thomas, a designer whose own creative urges are just as disparate and layered.

With so many small brands in a state of retreat this summer, Mr. Thomas’s label has not only weathered these spirit-crushing conditions but thrived. In less than two years, Gallery Dept. has moved from a crowded workshop a few blocks down Beverly Boulevard to its new space in part because its hoodies, logo tees, anoraks and flare-cut jeans — each designed and hand-painted by Mr. Thomas on upcycled or dead-stock garments — have become unlikely objets d’art in a crowded street wear market.

This corner of the fashion industry is a crowded one, and in recent years there have been a glut of collaborations and merch drops that have taken on a corporate cadence. In contrast, Gallery Dept. is something of a bespoke operation, offering street wear basics that are blessed with an artist’s (in this case Mr. Thomas’s) singular touch.

Mr. Thomas began to cut jeans and screen-print shirts as the mood struck in 2017, and since that time Gallery Dept. has grown from an underground cult label for collectors to one with atmospheric clout after being worn by Kendall Jenner, LeBron James, Kendrick Lamar and two of the three Migos (Offset and Quavo).

Those lucky enough to enter the appointment-only space, now booked with up to 20 appointments a day, are greeted inside by a 20-foot-tall span of wall that reads, “Art That Kills” in a large crawl text, and the occasional reference to Rod Serling’s seminal sci-fi program.

Throughout the sunlit store, Mr. Thomas’s abstract paintings and writings fill the spaces between clothing racks and bright brass shelves heavy with the brand's thick hoodies and sweatpants. Over the chug of sewing machines, one can hear snippets of bossa nova Muzak, a vinyl-only mix also made by Mr. Thomas. (There are also plans to release music by other artists, including the New York rapper Roc Marciano, under an Art That Kills imprint.)

Gallery Dept.’s new space was financed on the strength of e-commerce sales from this past spring, and not with the help of venture capital or outside investors, Mr. Thomas said on a recent walk-through. This freedom gives him and the label, which now employs 12 people, the freedom to operate on its own esoteric terms. And there are a few. In the store’s dressing rooms, there are no mirrors to survey a fit. (“We’re going to tell you if a piece works or not,” he said.) Nor are there price tags on its garments.

“If the first thing you look at is the price, it’s going to alter your thinking about a piece,” he said. “I’d rather people engage with the clothing first.”

The Gallery Dept. does not indulge pull requests from stylists or send its pieces to influencers, a practice Mr. Thomas explains with a trace of punk indignation.

“Kendall doesn’t get a discount,” he said. “We don’t seed. I don’t care who it is — we don’t cater to different markets.”

Wearing cutoff carpenter pants and a white T-shirt, each dusted in a fine rainbow splatter, Mr. Thomas looked every bit like an artist roused from his creative flow, complete with paint-stained hands and individually colored fingernails. Standing in a mauve-carpeted room, Mr. Thomas pointed out his latest ideas: pewter jewelry in eccentric shapes, like an earring in the shape of a zipper pull, made in collaboration with the Chrome Hearts offshoot, Lone Ones, and shorts cut from dead-stock military laundry bags — while explaining the origins of his own style.

“I liked my parent’s clothing growing up,” Mr. Thomas said. “As a teenager, I was able to fit into my dad’s leather jacket. The beat-up patina on it was perfect, and I realized that that was personal style. It was something you couldn’t go to a store and buy.”

Mr. Thomas, who turned 36 in September, never studied fashion or garment making, and he can’t work a sewing machine. But growing up as the son of immigrants from Venezuela and Trinidad, he watched as his parents subsisted on their raw artistic skills to create a life in Los Angeles. And he now uses those same talents as an artist and designer: sign-painting, tie-dying, screen printing. For a short time, his father, Stefan Gilbert, even ran a private women’s wear label.

Similarly, in his early 20s, Mr. Thomas worked at Ralph Lauren. As one of the few Black people in creative roles in a predominantly white company, he soon realized that the only way to survive in the fashion industry would have to be with a project of his own making.

“I was the ‘cool’ Black guy, but there was nowhere for me to go,” he said. “Best case would have been sourcing buttons for women’s outerwear or something.”

Gallery Dept.’s spontaneous inception came about in 2016 when Mr. Thomas sold a hand-sewn denim poncho off his own back to Johnny Depp’s stylist. At the time Mr. Thomas was focused on making beats and D.J.-ing, but after selling all of the pieces he’d designed for a small trunk show at the Chateau Marmont, he realized he’d discovered a new creative lane.

It had less to do with ponchos, which were dropped from subsequent collections, and more to do with old garments being remixed in the heat of artistic paroxysm, with as little second-guessing as possible. With the help of Jesse Jones, a veteran tailor, Mr. Thomas began churning out made-to-order pieces for customers who often were unaware of what, exactly, they had stumbled into.

“We were creating pieces while we were selling them,” he said.

Working with heavy vintage shirts, hoodies, trucker hats, bomber jackets, whatever was at hand, Mr. Thomas would frequently screen-print the brand’s logo, adding paint or other flourishes as the feeling struck.

Today that extends to long-sleeve tees, sweatpants and socks. At the time, he also began blowing out the silhouette of vintage Levi’s 501s and Carhartt work pants into a subtle flare, accented with patches and reinforced stitching, resulting in a streetwise update of the classic boot-cut jean.

Mr. Thomas christened this style of jeans the “LA Flare.” And where denim has so historically hewed to “his” and “her” categories, the LA Flare is the zeitgeist-y “they” of street wear denim. (The label labels its items as “unisex.”)

The jeans come with a luxury item’s price tag, with a basic version starting at $395. Custom tailoring and additional touches by Mr. Thomas, can push the price upward of $1,200. One early collaboration with Chrome Hearts, a pair of orange-dyed flares patched with that brand’s iconic gothic crosses, has gone for $5,000 on Grailed.

“There is nothing like Josue’s repurposed jeans,” said George Archer, a senior buyer at Mr Porter. “They are both a wearable piece and a work of art. No one else is doing what he’s doing.”

For Mr. Archer, who first noticed the Gallery Dept. logo popping on men in Tokyo in March, Mr. Thomas “interprets and creates” clothing as if it was an end in itself — and not a commodity to be monetized. (Nonetheless, Mr Porter hopes to monetize a collection of Gallery Dept. pieces via its e-commerce site later this year.)

“You can feel the warmth of Josue’s hands on each of the pieces,” said Motofumi Kogi, the creative director of the Japanese label United Arrows & Sons. An elder statesmen of Tokyo’s street wear scene, Mr. Kogi found the label on a trip to Los Angeles last year. It’s not only Mr. Thomas’s artistic touch that stands out to him but his vision for remaking a staid garment into something that Mr. Kogi believes has not been seen before.

“He took this staple of hip-hop culture and refreshed it,” he said, referring to Carhartt pants.

Getting the people who make that culture to buy in was another matter. “The first year we did the flare, in 2017, skinny jeans were in,” Mr. Thomas said. “Rappers would come into the shop and say they’d never wear a flare. Now, everyone is wearing it.”

On Instagram, fit pics by rappers like Rich the Kid, along with the aforementioned Migos, Quavo and Offset, Gallery Dept.’s flare has become a familiar silhouette, skinny jeans breaking loose below the knee, usually coiled up at the ankle around a pair of vintage Air Jordans.

One fan of the jeans, Virgil Abloh, sees Mr. Thomas’s “edit” of the classic garment as the next chapter of its history.

“Their flare cut is the most important new cut of denim in the last decade — since the skinny jean,” Mr. Abloh said. A self-described Levi’s “obsessive” who owns more than 20 pairs of Gallery Dept. jeans, he walked into Mr. Thomas’s workshop one day after a routine stop at the Erewhon Market across the street.

“I thought: ‘This is amazing. Here’s some guys editing their own clothes in a shop,’” he said. “It reminded me of what I was doing when I started out, painting over logos, making hand-personalized clothes.”

Mr. Abloh considers Mr. Thomas’s work to be the fashion equivalent of “ready-made” art, and he offers Shayne Oliver of Hood by Air as a distant contemporary. He suggested that he and Mr. Thomas come from a lineage of Black designers that is still in the process of defining itself.

“He’s a perfect example of someone creating their own path from a community that hasn’t traditionally participated in fashion,” Mr. Abloh said. “I see Josue as making a new canon of his own, showcasing what Black design can do.”

Mr. Thomas didn’t argue with that. But he was also a little preoccupied with whatever was taking place at the tips of fingers to get lost in the thought. The future of his brand, after all, depends on his ability to stay in that moment.

“People want things that aren’t contrived,” he said, pulling at his own shirt to drive the point home. “This paint came from me working. I wanted to recreate this feeling. Once something is contrived, when you can see through it, it’s ruined. There’s only so much you want to explain.”

#design #gallery dept #streetwear blog #upcycle designers

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peachyteabuck · 6 years ago

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study buddy, pt iii

series summary: after crushing on you since freshman orientation, Natasha finally gets the guts to ask you help you pass her postmodern lit midterm, to which you agree.

chapter summary: after an eventful night, there are things you have to accomplish at the library...alone.

pairing: natasha romanoff x reader

words: 4,365

trigger warnings: explicit talk of sex work, heavy sexting, smut (incl. fingering, oral sex (F receiving), strap ons, mdlg, humiliation), angst if you REALLY squint

ask box / masterlist / commission info / ko-fi

part one, part two

You and Natasha stayed like that, her entire body wrapped tightly around you. After sleeping alone for basically the entirety of college, you enjoyed the closeness. It was hard to fall asleep, given how intimate you were to someone you’ve been fantasizing about for, you know, forever. Natasha fell asleep first, mouth pressed onto the back of your neck and hand laying across your waist. When her breath evened against your burning skin and you found the perfect angle to admire the posters on her wall, your own eyes droop closed (what can you say, being the little spoon makes you feel...safe. Also, you hadn’t had sex in a long time and you’re very tired of the mix of solitude and the post-orgasm haze).

When your weekend morning alarm went off, it took everything inside of you not to throw it against the far wall. You played softball for one season in eighth grade and still had pretty good aim, you could probably hit the very center of a beat-up dart board about four feet up from the round. Luckily, you were able to constrain yourself enough to just hit snooze a few times.

Natasha, annoyed by your overly-adorable alarm song (hey, Ed Sheeran is a great artist to wake up to! The guitar calms you as the reality of the crushing weight of your own self-expectations crashes upon you), pushed you to get out of bed. “C’mon, babe you definitely have something to do. And that’s like, one of his worst songs and I need it to stop.”

You shrugged. The Google calendar alert that flashed across your screen notifies that you did, indeed, have to get up and do something. You groaned at the thought of being productive, flopping back down while you told yourself that Zizek would want you to do stay in bed.

Isn’t the only way to defeat capitalism to become unproductive? You’re studying for the next quiz, you tell yourself, even as Natasha starts pushing at the bottom of your spine to get you off the mattress. You’re just experimenting with different ways of destroying the most invasive and deadly economic system. Wait...is capitalism just an economic system, or is it more of a way of life? Can capitalism merely be described as an organizational system and a way to categorize the exchange of goods and services for monetary compensation without influence from government(s)? And like, do humans control the market, or the does the market simply own us like little pawns or a bunch of dumb, yappy puppies? What even is the market? Is the market a finite thing or is it some indescribable, infinite theory? Is it, like the universe, becoming infinitely larger by the minute?

Finally, you sat up, discontented by your own incredibly existential train of thought. As you got up and stretched, you could feel your worn muscles aching and joints popping obscenely loudly. As you bent to crack your back, a dull but satisfying pain started to spread through your body. You couldn’t tell if it was Natasha’s sub-par bed frame or her extraordinary sex kills; either way, though, you’re going to need some painkillers before you leave.

Searching for clothes was...much harder than you anticipated. The pink cotton underwear and matching lace bralette you had pulled on in the middle of the night stood out against the grey cinder block walls, the smoke stains on the ceiling, the deep brown floors. Starkest of all, you were an anomaly amongst the piles and piles of dark clothes. Like a sunflower that’s sunken down to the bottom of the ocean, a ray of sunshine deep within a cave, a small baby animal stuck in a concrete cage.

Still - for whatever reason - you couldn’t find your clothes from the day previous. You would’ve screamed if it wouldn’t further disturb the half-asleep Nat. Why didn’t you just bring clothes with you, you knew were going to be staying over! You even thought far ahead enough to wear a matching underwear set. But no! No, of course you couldn’t just pack an extra skirt and tank or top or something else in your bag. Or even just a toothbrush, or floss, or some fucking gum, because of course you were out of gum. Of course, you were.

Good job, scholar.

After ten minutes of desperate, fruitless searching, you finally accepted your fate of wearing Natasha’s clothes for the day. Sighing, you grabbed a pair of (hopefully) clean workout shorts and a worn hoodie from a band you’ve never heard of and take them into the bathroom to shower.

It was stereotypical, something out of a scene in a shitty romance movie: You wear her clothes as a sign you’re really in love or something, and then she sees how hot you look in clothes you’d normally never be caught dead in, then she fucks you nice and slow with one of those cute white strap ons while she moans into your ear everything she wants to do to you.

Maybe she won’t be fucking you, maybe you’ll ride her dick, or thigh, or her fingers so she can maintain a good look at your in her soft sweatshirt, or maybe-

Fuck, the short and hot shower needed to turn into a long and cold one real quick. A long one. A very, very long one. That also needs to be cold. Did you mention that it needed to be long? And freezing?

When you trekked into the kitchen, you found the cupboards mostly empty. You were able to track down some bread to make toast and discover an egg in the back of the fridge, so you shouldn’t have been be excruciatingly hungry until you could get back to your food-filled apartment. You could pick up a snack on the way to the library if you get hungrier, anyway. Everything should be fine. It’s fine! Everything is fine. You even found some pepper and rosemary, that had to be a good sign.

About halfway through your tiny (and minimally satisfying) meal, Natasha emerges from the bathroom (that’s weird, considering you never noticed her come out of the bedroom). Her sides were fixed, and she had makeup on. Nice makeup on. The soft orange eyeshadow, white eyeliner, blush, bright highlighter, and pink lipstick made her look...sweet, kind, approachable. Her usual outfit had been replaced with black dress pants, black heels, a black dress shirt, and a burnt orange cardigan. You’d guess she’d be dressing for work, or an internship. You watch her closely as she moved behind you and wraps her arms around your waist. Natasha rested her chin on your elbow and pouts, silently asking for a bite of your breakfast like a pitiful dog. .

Reluctantly, you broke off a piece and fed it to her. She grinned as she chews, then kissed your fingertips as she swallowed. “That’s good,” she mumbled.

“Th-thanks,” you managed to get out, still inert at the feeling of her lips on such sensitive skin. In that moment parts of that night flashed in front of your eyes, including when she shoved four fingers into your mouth and told you to prep them for when they’d be inside you. You stuff the last of the bread and egg into your mouth to stop yourself from saying something stupid, sexual, or both. Also, from moaning. But mostly from talking and embarrassing yourself.

Sweet Jesus, you needed to get out of there.

Natasha still hadn’t moved from behind you and pressed her crotch into your bruised ass as she speaks. “You look amazing in my clothes,” she whispered in your ear, nibbling at your earlobes. It was hard to moan and chew at the same time, but she still got the picture as you choked on your half-chewed breakfast. Natasha giggled, a stark contrast to the heat behind her voice. “Look almost as pretty as you did last night,” it sent shivers down your spine. “All spread out and begging for me to touch you.”

You swallowed and whimpered, reminded of the night you two spent together. More memories flooded your brain all at once:

Her standing over you as you babbled for her to “take it, take it Natasha it’s yours it’s all yours please take it.” Her barely touching you with a vibrator while she mumbles how cute you look when you’re a struggling, desperate mess. Her complimenting your high-pitched whines when you’re begging for her to fuck you again, and again, and again and...

“Natasha, please,” you pleaded. You didn’t want to pull away, too entranced with the thought of more time along with Natasha. Still, if you had a sliver of a chance of getting done what needed to be done that day, Natasha would’ve had to let you go first. “I need to go study at the library.”

Natasha stopped peppering kisses on your neck and shoulder to smirk. “Oh, please. You have a whole day off, and I don’t have to leave for work for another hour. We can afford to spend a little more together.”

You sighed as you scrunched your eyes shut and bite your bottom lip. You wanted that so much, so fucking much, but that study session wasn’t a regular one that you can just blow off. You couldn’t just push this work aside and make up the time missed the next day.

That day was that time where you look at all the commissions people have applied for and pick the ones you want to do. You normally only did it once a month, but your rent was almost due, along with student loans and some repairs required around your apartment and you were anticipating your mother’s birthday gift costing a lot (on account of your guilt) and you were hoping to buy some new sticky notes and your favorite pens were almost out of ink and-

In short, you needed money and you needed it now.

That was usually a thing you make into a little time with just yourself; you made some sort of day of it. You’d go to the library, pick one of those secluded rooms where no one can bug you for a few hours, put on the large headphones you only use for when you get super intense in your studying, and listen to your favorite music. You’d track everything in gorgeous marble-patterned notebook you use especially for planning commissions, with some inspiration quote in golden lettering along the front. In it, you’d track stuff props needed, when you’d do the commissions, how much money you’d charge, if there was anything that money needed to go to, if you have to spend anything to buy something specific, and so on.

It was like the calm before the storm of which is taking lots of lots of nude photos and videos of yourself.

All of this means you had to put your foot down and turn down whatever Natasha wanted so you could leave. “Nat, seriously. I’ll be back by,” you checked the clock on your phone. Fuck, it was already nine fifteen. You wanted to be out of here ten minutes ago. “What time does your shift end?”

She shrugged, a little taken aback. “I dunno, like one or two this afternoon. Two fifteen at the latest.”

“I’ll be back before two, I promise.”

Natasha looked you up and down, eyebrows furrowed with concern. She’d never seen you like this in the short time she’d known you. She could feel you were tense, incredibly tense. Sensing something was off, she dropped it and backed off. “O-okay. I’ll see you then.”

You smiled, grateful for her not pressing you on why you seem so pressed. At some point, you’d need to explain to her what you were doing, what you did for a living - especially if this relationship was going where you thought (hoped) it is. But not right then. You’d know when the right time is, and that wasn’t in Natasha’s kitchen with your heart racing. Maybe once you figured out her stance on sex work. But how could you weave that into a conversation?

Hey babe, before we start officially dating, I just wanted to ask you about SESTA/FOSTA, the decriminalization of sex work, and material autonomy? What’s your stance on camming as sex work?

Maybe you could relate this back to what you were supposed to be teaching her, sneak it into a mini-lesson or something like that. Butler’s talked about sex work, so have a bunch of other people. Maybe those people were queer theorists or media studies scholars, but they were still people talking about sex work in a context at least loosely related to post-modernism! Just because those people wrote obscure papers or dissertations from small college in the middle of nowhere didn’t mean their opinions on sex work didn’t matter! But those papers were all probably about prostitution, or escorting, or the phrase “sex work.” None of them about camming or selling private Snapchats and nudes or being commissioned for special videos (which included anything from getting yourself off with a hairbrush or eating cheeseburgers until you throw up). None of them exactly matched up to what you needed to know, making your inquiry that much more complicated.

Still, you could almost imagine the short-answer questions now:

What would [insert author here] say about “modern” sex work verses “old school” sex work? What does newer forms of sex work say about the way capitalism forces us to adapt the ways in which we are productive? What has changed in sex work since its origin? What hasn’t? Why do some disagree with postmodernists stance that the dollar is the most powerful force in the world, whether dissenters believe that racism, sex, or gendered violence is more powerful? How does the frequent use of “porn” as a metaphor show how postmodernists view porn and the way we relate to it? Should porn ever be used as a metaphor? If no, what should take its place?

Grabbing your backpack and phone on the way out the door, you started on the twenty-minute walk to the library. The commute was mostly barren of people, leaving you to the thoughts whirring around your brain.

By the time you’d tripped five (5) times, you’re cursing yourself for nothing taking the bus. Why would you ever need so much time to think? It’s just thinking!

Process might be a better word, though. That girl back there fucked you so good you’d never be able to sleep with anyone else again without measuring them against the night before. You’d never be able to get yourself off without seeing her when your eyelids flutter closed from pleasure. That type of experience just doesn’t happen without changing a woman. Worse, you’d gotten this little baby ache in your sternum and shakiness in your hands that always happened when you had a crush. Why couldn’t you ever see pretty girls without reconsidering your entire life story?

As you kicked a rock over a tree stump, you tried to remember that she seemed into you too. This wasn’t like in tenth grade when you were drooling over that super popular senior girl and it turned out she just wanted to use you for an AP Calc project. This wasn’t some unrequited love story. So why are you so fucking nervous?

Oh. Right. Your profession (or, “profession” as some people have called it in poorly-worded anonymous messages on Tumblr or with fake emails).

Once you stepped inside the library, you found your favorite spot (close to the vending machines and bathrooms) and started working. Once the door had been locked and the headphones were on, you opened your laptop. Slowly, as your email loaded, you saw a notification of a text from Natasha.

You looked behind you on instinct, even though you were completely alone. When all your eyes saw was a wall covered in poorly-applicated beige paint, you sighed and clicked on the little grey box.

As the text loaded, all you could see is that there’s an attachment, and it caused your heart rate to increase dramatically. It felt like a forever later when you finally opened your scrunched eyes, and another trillion years until the photo loaded.

It was a picture of her holding the pink panties you forgot to grab (in your defense, the shorts you snatched from her bedroom floor had built in underwear) back at Natasha’s apartment with the caption “Looks like you forgot something...you gonna come back and get it?”

God, you hadn’t even opened a single commission email, which is the only thing you had intended on doing that day. You should answer at least a few before you text her back…

But a hot girl was flirting with you! Money and paying your rent be damned, you needed to focus on getting laid again.

You hold your breath as your typed, as if filling your lungs would cause your fingers to lose the ability to type.

I don’t know.

You bit your lip as you texted her again.

Why don’t you keep them as a trophy?

You opened one email while you wait for her reply. It was about scat. You specifically said that you don’t do that. Deleted. Immediately after you got a reply from Natasha.

Don’t be naughty with me or I’ll gag you with them.

Before you could reply you get another text.

Or is that what you want?

Um, yes. It was what you wanted. It’s all you wanted. You mean, it’s one of many things you wanted. But you did want it. Since you weren’t physically with Natasha, it’s easy to make your replies a little bolder.

If I did want it, would you give it to me?

You quickly opened another email. This one was easy, just some really artful nudes with your stretch marks on display. Maybe some cool-colored mood lighting. You replied with the normal stuff (the payment, when you’ll have them done, etc). Once that email was sent, you saw another text.

I can give you anything you want, princess

That made you shiver, your hands shaking and breath hitching as you reply.

Anything?

You didn’t have time to open another email before you saw Natasha’s next texts.

Anything at all, Princess

You just gotta tell me what you want.

You felt like God is speaking to you directly. Surely this woman was Heaven sent, given to you by the Holy Father as a gift for all your hard work over the years, or something.

But how am I supposed to talk if I’m gagged?

With that sent, received, and read, you closed the chat before Natasha could reply. If you just opened five more emails, then you could answer. That’s good, right? That’s a good way to keep yourself focused. Four answered emails, two replies from customers, and one blocked user later, you found it in yourself to open the texts from Natasha again.

Oh, really? Is that what you want?

Not gonna answer me?

Looks like you’re actually studying

what a good girl you are

Bad news:

I have nothing to do without you here bc I finished everything early

so I guess I’ll text you what I want

A sharp inhale of breath pierced the stale air, scaring you. Oh wait, you realized. That was you.

Want so much from you. Wanna sit on your face, I bet you’re the champ of eating pussy, aren’t you? So pretty and eager to please. I’d love to see you blow a strap on. Had a girl do that once a while ago, it’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. She wasn’t nearly as pretty as you, though. Bet you’d look a billion times better with spit dripping down your face while I shove my cock down your throat. Maybe tie your hands behind your back with those panties you left me. You look so cute tied up.

You nearly choked on the water you started chugging in an empty effort to make yourself calm down. Oh fuck.

That’s when you saw another message from her.

I know you’re reading these, little one. Don’t run from Mommy.

You sucked in a breath, unable to respond. It took forever for you to craft your text, in the meantime you tried to switch back to your inbox to see if there was anything you could do to ground yourself.

No such luck, though.

Tell me more, Mommy. Please.

Natasha happily obliged.

You know what my absolute biggest fantasy is? Me and some other top just domming the hell out of you. Passing you around, leaving bruises all of your pretty little body. You’d be so cute, just mewling and whining under us. Maybe we’d both fuck you at the same time, stretching your pretty little holes to the max.

This woman was about to be the death of you.

I’d love that, Mommy

After you saw that message had been sent, you started to pack up your stuff. You texted her you were about to start your walk home, but before you could stash your phone in your backpack you saw another text.

Don’t worry baby. Mommy’s got you. I’m right outside.

And when you stepped out the front doors, she was. You blushed when you saw her, clamoring into the front seat with your knees nervously knocking themselves together. You were about to stutter out a “thank you” before she lunged forward to kiss you deeply. It was hard, aggressive, dominating. As she pulled away, she bit your bottom lip before she turned back to the wheel. “You’ve been bad, baby. So bad.”

You didn’t speak as she sped away, making your way back to her apartment in record time. Each stop light, her fingers seemed to worm their way up your thighs and tease at the hem of your shorts; each time the light went back to green, and she pulled away, you’d whimper as loudly and lewdly as possible. In all honesty, you were hoping to get her attention. Whether or not it would end how you wanted it to be questionable, but it was worth a shot. You would try anything at that point, to be close to her. To feel the softness of her cardigan, to unbutton her shirt, to unzip her pants.

When you made it her front door, you could barely make it inside before Natasha had you pressed against a wall. She slipped your backpack onto the slightly-warped hard wood carefully, not wanting your laptop to break.

You gasped as she ripped the shorts from your body. “Oh, God, Nat- “

She placed her left pointer finger over your lips as two fingers from her right slid into your dripping center. “Sh, baby girl, call me Mommy,” she whispered before she dropped to her knees.

Natasha didn’t start with any niceties, no prepping, rather she immediately began sucking on your clit and curling the now-three fingers inside of you. You wanted to scream, wanted to cry, wanted to do something, but the combination of shock and the proximity to the front door made your mouth silent as you shook violently. You’d stuffed the sleeve in Natasha’s hoodie as you shrieked from your almost-too-quick orgasms, the fabric muffled your hearty screams as Natasha continued to fuck her fingers into you.

“N- Mommy, mommy please stop,” you begged. “Please stop I can’t, Mommy I can’t take it!”

Nat just laughed, never slowing down. “C’mon, princess. If you come one more time like this for me, I’ll stop. Okay, baby girl? Just one more…”

You’d had both hands covering your face now, your cheeks hotter than the face of the sun as your whole body convulsed. For a moment the feeling you had to piss cuts through the fog that had flooded your meninges, and then you felt a wash of pleasure wave through you that made you collapse against the wall.

“Hey, baby girl,” you heard Natasha coo in a metaphysical plane not your own. “Hey, princess it’s okay, I’ve got you.”

It took a few moments for you to come back, for your vision to stabilize. When you were finally able to see the woman in front of you, the first thing you noticed was her cheeks and lips and chin and nose glistening wet. While you looked confused, a shit-eating grin broke out on Natasha’s face.

“Was that your first time squirting?” She asked, her voice just above a whisper and full of excitement.

You nodded. “Y-yeah.”

Her grin only got bigger as she picked you up and brought you into her bedroom, sheets just as messy as when you had left them that morning. The uneven fabric was uncomfortable as she dropped you onto them, but then was no time to complain. No, you were smart enough to know as Nat held up a toy in each hand that you were not in a position to grumble about the sex-dirty sheets or protest to being thrown or grumble that this woman seduced you into coming home from the library early that day.

“Which toy you want, sweetheart?”

They were both silicone cocks, the one in her right hand a glittery pink while the toy in her left a matte black. The pink one was sleek and long, but the black one was truly the one that caught your attention. It was girthy, veiny. Your pussy already ached looking at it, and you squeezed your thighs together for relief as you imagined Natasha fucking it in and out of you at a pace that would leave you bruised and breathless.

Natasha noticed this right away. “Aw, is my little princess feeling greedy today?” She crawled on top of you after pulling on the strap and securing the toy in place. “You sure you want this one baby girl? You sure you want me to fuck you with something so big…could your tiny little cunt even take it?”

All you could do was whimper.

“Good girl,” she purred. “This is gonna look so cute covered in your cum.”

#natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff lemons #black widow x reader #lukis writes stuff #study buddy

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meta-squash · 5 years ago

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Lipstick Traces Review/Thoughts

(I wrote this 2 years ago but didn’t have a tumblr to post it to at the time)

So I’ve just finished reading Lipstick Traces by Greil Marcus. And it’s fucking long with so much information and I’ve been having a lot of thoughts. Some just about little specific things mentioned in the book, and some more about the themes of the book written in the 80s compared to our current epoch of technology and politics and art and culture industry etc.

I mean, a lot of the stuff in the book/the thoughts the book gave me are things I’ve rambled about before on tumblr. But I guess it’s stuff that’s still in my head, that still bothers me, that I still have no solution for, or that I can find cracks in my arguments for solutions.

Mostly what I took away from this book was a giant feeling of conflict and ambivalence and uncertainty. It is, ultimately, a book of regret. It’s a book that explores these artists and movements and ideas and people that made a series of tiny but huge impacts to art and creation, who could have made a huge revolutionary change, but whose small revolutions were lost to time. It is a book about anger or frustration that incites a change, an avant garde, and how that anger fizzles out or is smothered and forgotten. It is a book about the cycles of history and how the new, the angry, the ones pushing back, are always eventually suppressed. In a 1994 quote Richey said, essentially, that you only really get remembered if you’re an Einstein or a Newton– a person who creates or discovers something that is such a massive revolutionary change that it affects the way the world is perceived and how it is believed to function. This book talks about those who aren’t Newtons and Einsteins. Those artists that made little waves that changed a few but didn’t change enough.

And it’s simultaneously fascinating and exciting and depressing, reading and thinking about this. That this book is a book of regret written in the 1980s, and 35 years later things have only gotten more extreme, and the regret can only feel heavier. The anger is still there, too, but it was more potent in the 80s and 90s, it had more potential. Now the anger is becoming impotent, or trapped. Either the meek inherited the earth and forgot what it was like to be meek, or the ones who inherited the earth were strongmen wearing the masks of the meek and the ambition of the avant garde.

Honestly, the biggest takeaway I got from this book is how drastically things have changed. How the way the book compares the Dadaists to the original punks is a fairly close, similar type of comparison, with similar movements, ideas, ideals, messages, and actions. And how the comparison to both of those with any sort of movement that might happen in the next decade or so will be massively, drastically different because of how much culture has changed, media has changed, access and accessibility has changed, government, education, class awareness, and on and on. How, honestly, I’m not sure if there could be another movement like the dadaists and like the punk scene, because to be reactionary and avant garde and revolutionary is something very different these days.

Already Greil Marcus discusses speed and the culture industry. Which makes sense, since his primary theoretical sources are Guy Debord and Theodor Adorno. But it’s fascinating to see these theories–both written and published in the 40s and 60s–being used to critique and analyse culture and art back then, much closer to the texts’ inception. Those theories were new-ish in terms of being put into words back then. The idea of the prison of capitalism, the labor that turns the proletariat into machines and then sells them back to themselves, the speed and change of media, the homogenous nature of entertainment and pop culture. All of that was relatively new, at least in terms of being stated outright.

And people were frustrated! People have always been frustrated! The Dadaists were frustrated by the war they didn’t want to participate in, and then in the monotony of the post-war expectations that everything go back to normal, when nothing was normal. They were frustrated by the Modernists, by the Expressionists, by art becoming something that gave you Status rather than something that you just did because you had the urge. Punks were frustrated with the economic and social malaise, the labor issues, the failed ideals of the hippies, art and music stagnating, the lack of platforms for them to express themselves. But they were able to use art to express that anger, that frustration, that feeling of nihilism or of glee at meaninglessness, that feeling of “fuck it, we have nothing so let’s do what we want.” Both generations did it in different styles, but both threw convention out the window, focused on what was taboo, what was weird, what was scandalous, what they wanted to say but society didn’t want them saying.

What’s interesting about the book is that it expresses admiration for this, for the daring and avant garde and original and clever and badass nature of both Dada and Punk ideals/styles/philosophies/actions/etc. But it also expresses regret. Regret that it only lasted so long. That it didn’t leave any major effect on art or politics or life or society (that is, aside from what capitalism stole or what minor underground movements admired or were inspired by). That it was stolen by capitalism. That it inevitably fell apart as time moved forward.

But for those glorious few years….

And what it made me think of, which (like I said) Marcus talks about quite a bit, is the effect that the culture industry and the speed of culture/media/news had on both movements. For the Dadaists, it was more about the speed of the news and also just blindly making, with no knowledge of a goal or ultimate desire, that resulted in the group eventually separating into other factions and the movement petering out into other artistic ideas and styles. The Dadaists were reacting to the war, to the newness of certain parts of culture, to the personal conflicts between artists. The punk movement was more affected by the ever-increasing speed of culture and media as well as news. Things were moving faster. Styles and ideas were coming into fashion and then becoming old hat more quickly. Punk started out as avant-garde, as a refusal to conform, as an excuse and/or reason to speak out and act out and express oneself. Especially in communities that weren’t being heard. It started out as a way for individuals to force society to acknowledge them. And then capitalism and the culture industry got their hands on it and began to use it as a marketing ploy, as fashion, selling punk back to the masses it was intended to belong to.

It’s pretty obvious that the world has sped up immensely since the 1970s– media, news, and culture industry included. Things that are new on Monday are old by Friday. Memes that are hilarious and circulate social media for weeks are dead by the time companies try to capitalize on them (see: Zumiez etc making Grumpy Cat shirts etc). Music or films that are popular fall out of popularity in just a few weeks, unless they’re vapid pieces of media or unless the creators/artists continue to hype themselves over and over again in different ways. It is impossible to create focused critical art because there is always so much going on in the news and in world politics or social issues; everything is so intertwined it’s impossible to pick out certain things to criticize. Artists and art movements and things of meaning and import fall by the wayside. It’s hard for me to imagine an avant garde or artistic movement within a community growing in popularity and staying strong for long enough to really make an impact or a difference. And the speed of the news is insane now. Things are only big news for a few days before vanishing under the avalanche of new stories and new events. Things stay big news within the communities that care about them (ie Black Lives Matter, Flint MI, Grenfell, DAPL, etc) but not within the eye of the media. News changes as fast as a feed can refresh.

I also have the feeling that art doesn’t have as much power. Subliminal marketing power, sure. But the last few art pieces I remember hearing even random people talking about were Shepard Fairey’s 2008 portraits for the Obama campaign, Ai Weiwei’s Han dynasty vase smash (which was from 1995 but came back into the spotlight in the mid-2000s for some reason) and Yayoi Kusama’s infinity mirrored room. It’s hard now, with the constant barrage of information and images and sounds, to figure out what is important and impactful art, and what is rubbish (or advertisement). It’s also hard to figure out what to focus on when making critical art: what moments or events in politics and current events will be remembered long enough to be used in critique; what will people remember and be affected by? Maybe hindsight is 20/20 tunnel vision or the gaze towards the past is tinged with roses, but it seems as though art had a larger significance. Barbara Kruger, for example. The Sex Pistols, The Guerilla Girls, Robert Mapplethorpe, Keith Haring, Annie Liebowitz, and (obviously) Jenny Holzer. All used their art to critique various current events, social/political/global issues. They had an effect on viewers in their time as well as after it. It seems as though, now, there’s no during-and-after. There is only during (like Shepard Fairey’s portraits).

A big reason for that, I think, is because of the disintegration of Dadaism and Situationism due to speed and capitalism. Basically, Situationism was created to force those going about their daily lives to stop for a second and think about their situation, to make a moment of “real living,” to jolt people out of the stupor of the daily grind and make them remember. Remember they’re alive, remember they shouldn’t be living a life of a drone, remember they’re consuming things they’re being told to instead of doing what they want to. And those moments were created through graffiti, through the detournement of taking normal comic strips and rewriting dialogues to critique the world, through the music and fashion of punk, which shouted out the flaws in society without caring that it was supposed to be kept hush-hush, through visual art that confronted the viewer with critiques (like Barbara Kruger or Jenny Holzer), etc etc. But now, do something like that and you’re called “edgy” and mocked. Why? Probably because of the likes of Banksy. I say this because Banksy often creates graffiti pieces that probably should or would have meaning, or should or would make you stop and think. Except that they’re pieces by Banksy, famous for being edgy, whose pieces are worth thousands or millions of dollars. Who rarely actually has a statement, except money-making. How many of us howled with laughter when he made that nightmare-Disneyland piece? Because it was edgy and unoriginal. Because we already know we’re living in a slowly growing dystopia, and being told that by a guy who benefits from said dystopia and gets so much money from criticizing it is bullshit.

It’s also because it feels like there’s nothing new under the sun. Now, Greil Marcus kind of talks about this. The punk movement expressed this too. The nihilism that nothing is new, that everything has already been said. But it did so gleefully, embracing the nihilism in order to laugh at it and point it out and roll in that glee. There is nothing new to be said, they thought, but there are new ways to say it. Because we’ve been saying things for centuries but nothing has changed, except the way it gets said. The problem now, in the 21st century, is that nothing new under the sun is now nothing new under the sun and that can no longer be used as a statement. “It’s all already been done, just say it in a new way” is no longer good enough. Ideas have to come out of a vacuum— except if they come out of a vacuum, they’re either never noticed or they’re appropriated by the media and capitalism.

Basic Adorno, basic culture industry theory. But Adorno would have a fucking aneurysm if he could see how his theory holds up in the 21st century compared to 1944. And honestly, that is a terrifying sentence to type. That Adorno and Horkheimer published Enlightenment as Mass Deception in 1944, that they were noticing this in the 1940s. And every point in their essay has only increased exponentially since then.

Greil Marcus hints at the whole “punk is dead” thing throughout the book without actually saying those words. I don’t think the phrase really existed as a buzzword type thing when the book was published. But I think the points and ideas expressed in Lipstick Traces kind of say what my thoughts have always been on that idea. Punk is dead, and punk is also not dead. Punk is dead; its looks and sound were stolen by the media and by capitalism and sold to the masses, sold back to the kids who created and popularized it. Punk was the sound and creativity and style of the kids who had nothing and wanted to be everything, so they made it all themselves. They created their own style and said what they wanted to say. High fashion stole it, television stole it, department stores stole it, ad agencies stole it, and sold it back. “Ever get the feeling you’ve been cheated?” Punk is dead, as an original movement, as an original fashion. But! But, punk thought is not. Punk as an ideal, as a philosophy, as thought, is very much alive. Punk, as the idea that you make your own, that you use your own creativity and express yourself the way you want to. That it’s passion and not necessarily talent that matters. That wearing what you want, saying what you want, confronting the issues that need confronting, being whoever you are so long as you’re not hurting or fucking over an innocent person, that’s still very much alive. The original punk fashion has been stolen. But punk fashion still exists, in people that make their own clothes or wear strange things even though they get stared at. Punk in art still exists, in people that make their art for themselves, or who make art with friends despite knowing they might go nowhere, just because they have the passion. Punk music is the same. The ideals and thought is still thrumming and alive. Its parent has been consumed by consumerism, devoured by capitalism and marketing and fashion. But the orphaned offspring is still hiding and alive.

And yet there’s another ‘but.’ The depressing one. Which is that it feels as though punk, in the early, original days, gave the youth a label, an identity. This goes for plenty of other youth movements as well, and art movements, etc etc. But these days it seems a community identity hardly exists. And it’s hard to push a movement, create a feeling of community or solidarity, without some sort of shared identity. Perhaps the label of “Millenials” and “Gen Z” are the closest we’ve come so far. But those are so broad, and so often used in a derogatory fashion (although, I suppose, so were “punk” and “mod” and “hippie” and “teddy boy” etc etc).

And I also think that everything is so fast now, and moments are so fleeting, events are so quick to be forgotten, that it is hard to impress an idea or affect change or put an artistic statement or movement out there for long enough to make a true impact. I would say that maybe a large amount of the generation(s) banding together to make a statement would do something, would make that change. But Black Lives Matter was made up mostly of Millenials, young people, people under the age of 35. And yet it slowly petered away into almost nothingness with no changes.

But the kids of the next generation, Gen Z, do give me hope. Like that other person’s post going around says, they’re pissed, they were raised on a steady diet of dystopian literature with strong main characters, they’re highly aware of the state of politics and the job market and the economy, they’ve seen how fucked Millenials are and they know it’s not going to get much better for a while. And maybe they’re the next ones, the next to say “fuck it, we have nothing and we are nothing, let’s do whatever we want because we haven’t got anything to lose”. And maybe the millenials will join.

That’s what I hope. That’s what Greil Marcus’ book seems to be trying to say. That these sorts of movements don’t always have massive, lasting effects in the grand scheme of the world and society. But they leave cracks, and fragments, and shrapnel, and artefacts, for the next generation or the next movement to find and use. That dadaism might have faded away and punk might be dead but the dadaist yell is still echoing and punk thought is still very much alive. And it’s up to us to hear it, to use it, to find the crack in the culture industry and capitalism and society and somehow find the next avant garde, the ideas and movement that will stick and create an identity for unfettered expression, if only for a little while. That “the moment of real poetry brings all the unsettled debts of history back into play,” and it is up to us to figure out what we have to do or say to ignite all of that history and to wield its power. And how we can make our own history or try and settle the debts of the past.

(And yet…. And yet…. And yet I can’t help but doubt that the speed of the world will allow this to happen. And yet I want to believe that something can be done to create critical work that sticks. And yet how do you make critical work without it being eaten up by the culture industry and disappeared into homogeneity. And yet we have technology and creative mediums now that we didn’t in 1977. And yet punk is dead. And yet punk thought is not. And yet, and yet.)

#lipstick traces #greil marcus #misc meta #lipstick traces meta #book meta #punk #punk history #music history

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