#commercial shoe production

[ausetkmt]

Chances are, you have Jan Ernst Matzeliger to thank, at least partially, for the shoes on your feet.

Matzeliger, an immigrant from what is now the country of Suriname, in South America, revolutionized the business of shoe manufacturing with a patent he earned in 1883 at the age of 30 – an innovation that underlies the methods shoe companies use today.

At one time, the upper part of a shoe was typically stitched to the sole by hand. A cobbler could churn out perhaps 50 shoes a day through the stretching and stitching process known as “lasting.” The lasting machine that Matzeliger invented allowed a shoemaker to complete more than 10 times as many shoes a day, according to the Smithsonian Institution and the National Inventors Hall of Fame. Shoes became more affordable. 

“He was truly an entrepreneur, doing what he did in the late 1800s, facing such discrimination and racism at the time,” says D’Wayne Edwards, a former Nike executive who has designed footwear for such athletes as Michael Jordan, Derek Jeter and Carmelo Anthony and who is founder and president of Pensole Lewis College of Business & Design in Detroit. Pensole is a successor school to Lewis College of Business, a historically Black institution that closed in 2015. 

“For him to have the vision and foresight to want to improve an industry and do something bigger than himself was truly amazing,” Edwards says. “He has been a pioneer for this industry that has been overlooked.” 

Matzeliger was born in 1852 in Dutch Guiana, now Suriname, to an enslaved mother and the slaveholder in whose house she worked. He moved to Massachusetts in the 1870s. 

After learning that a Black man was behind a key industry invention, Edwards wanted to honor Matzeliger in a way that would keep his legacy front and center. The solution: incorporate Matzeliger’s name into a shoe brand.

“JEMS by Pensole” — the acronym standing for Jan Ernst Matzeliger Studios — will open its factory in March, marking 140 years since Matzeliger received his patent. Edwards says the company expects to launch its first shoe in September. Shoe designs will be the result of collaboration between Edwards and Pensole students. 

The name “JEMS” has additional layers of meaning, Edwards says.  It represents gyms — where athletic footwear is often worn — and gems, which is what Edwards calls the primarily Black and brown students at Pensole who are being mentored. 

“We really do feel that the people we’re going to serve and honor in this factory are truly the hidden gems of our industry who have been overlooked, and/or have not ever had an opportunity,'' Edwards says.

The new venture is backed by an initial $2 million investment from Designer Brands Inc., parent of shoe retailer DSW . JEMS by Pensole shoes will be sold exclusively in DSW retail stores nationwide.

“The reason we’re partnering with Pensole is to get the next generation of designers, and very specifically, African American designers, in the footwear industry, and using DSW as a tool,” says William Jordan, Designer Brands Chief Growth Officer. “Less than 3%of designers in the footwear industry today are African American. We need to change that.”

[petitpiedgalbe]

Flower Heels!

When was the last time you received flowers from someone or bought them for yourself? (Broccoli counts too, since it's a flowering head of asparagus cabbage) :P

[one-of-a-kind-project]

The Lollipops story!

Due to a different way of displaying content on Tumblr, I decided to merge all four clips into one longer video (is anyone surprised that it gave me a certain idea? - but about this gonna tell you with next "one of a kind shoe story"). When I am adding vertically shot (read: wrong orientation) clips, I'm using music libraries from Instagram and Facebook. However, I'm searching for a solution for my own soundtracks so that I could upload videos to any platform with sound right away. I am thinking between Creative Commons and creating my own soundtracks (really lol).

Below is the list of episodes along with links to Instagram and Facebook where they can be viewed with musical accompaniment, as well as the tracks that were chosen for them:

Lollipops part 1/4 "Teamwork attempt!"

Instagram and Facebook "Caravan Palace • Lone Digger"

Lollipops part 2/4 "Masterpiece plan!!"

Instagram and Facebook "Florence + The Machine • Just A Girl"

Lollipops part 3/4 "Photoshoot!"

Instagram and Facebook "Bruce Springsteen • Pink Cadillac (Single B-Side - 1984)"

Lollipops part 4/4 "Grand Premiere!"

Instagram and Facebook "Faithless • Mass Destruction (Single Version)"

[nasa]

Athletes Go for the Gold with NASA Spinoffs

NASA technology tends to find its way into the sporting world more often than you’d expect. Fitness is important to the space program because astronauts must undergo the extreme g-forces of getting into space and endure the long-term effects of weightlessness on the human body. The agency’s engineering expertise also means that items like shoes and swimsuits can be improved with NASA know-how.

As the 2024 Olympics are in full swing in Paris, here are some of the many NASA-derived technologies that have helped competitive athletes train for the games and made sure they’re properly equipped to win.

The LZR Racer reduces skin friction drag by covering more skin than traditional swimsuits. Multiple pieces of the water-resistant and extremely lightweight LZR Pulse fabric connect at ultrasonically welded seams and incorporate extremely low-profile zippers to keep viscous drag to a minimum.

Swimsuits That Don’t Drag

When the swimsuit manufacturer Speedo wanted its LZR Racer suit to have as little drag as possible, the company turned to the experts at Langley Research Center to test its materials and design. The end result was that the new suit reduced drag by 24 percent compared to the prior generation of Speedo racing suit and broke 13 world records in 2008. While the original LZR Racer is no longer used in competition due to the advantage it gave wearers, its legacy lives on in derivatives still produced to this day.

Trilion Quality Systems worked with NASA’s Glenn Research Center to adapt existing stereo photogrammetry software to work with high-speed cameras. Now the company sells the package widely, and it is used to analyze stress and strain in everything from knee implants to running shoes and more.

High-Speed Cameras for High-Speed Shoes

After space shuttle Columbia, investigators needed to see how materials reacted during recreation tests with high-speed cameras, which involved working with industry to create a system that could analyze footage filmed at 30,000 frames per second. Engineers at Adidas used this system to analyze the behavior of Olympic marathoners' feet as they hit the ground and adjusted the design of the company’s high-performance footwear based on these observations.

Martial artist Barry French holds an Impax Body Shield while former European middle-weight kickboxing champion Daryl Tyler delivers an explosive jump side kick; the force of the impact is registered precisely and shown on the display panel of the electronic box French is wearing on his belt.

One-Thousandth-of-an-Inch Punch

In the 1980s, Olympic martial artists needed a way to measure the impact of their strikes to improve training for competition. Impulse Technology reached out to Glenn Research Center to create the Impax sensor, an ultra-thin film sensor which creates a small amount of voltage when struck. The more force applied, the more voltage it generates, enabling a computerized display to show how powerful a punch or kick was.

Astronaut Sunita Williams poses while using the Interim Resistive Exercise Device on the ISS. The cylinders at the base of each side house the SpiraFlex FlexPacks that inventor Paul Francis honed under NASA contracts. They would go on to power the Bowflex Revolution and other commercial exercise equipment.

Weight Training Without the Weight

Astronauts spending long periods of time in space needed a way to maintain muscle mass without the effect of gravity, but lifting free weights doesn’t work when you’re practically weightless. An exercise machine that uses elastic resistance to provide the same benefits as weightlifting went to the space station in the year 2000. That resistance technology was commercialized into the Bowflex Revolution home exercise equipment shortly afterwards.

Want to learn more about technologies made for space and used on Earth? Check out NASA Spinoff to find products and services that wouldn’t exist without space exploration.   

Make sure to follow us on Tumblr for your regular dose of space!

[nicollekidman]

Why are people mad at the barbie promo?

it's not a standard promotional cycle for a film that happens to involve mattel's famous toy. it is a massive brand push to revitalize a product for a new age, and the movie is the commercial. it is not normal to have promotion that includes collaborations with: airbnb, hair tools, many makeup companies, rollerskates, forever21, canned lemonade, ruggable, toothburshes, skincare, shoe lines, gap, pacsun, OPI etc etc etc............... like i'm going to go see the movie! it will in all likelihood be fun and enjoyable. but this rollout is explicitly mattel's first phase in what they hope is a HUGE endeavor to make "cinema" out of every one of their products, as a way to get more people to buy these products. regardless of how the barbie movie turns out, it is not actually good for anyone to have a failing film industry turn to self-cannibalizing commercial products for story. i hope everyone has a good time! i don't give a fuck if you want to buy a hot pink dress and go with your girlfriends and revel in your #womanhood or whatever. but the degree to which mattel has already had input in the actual movie + made people think that their massive push of product is some sort of cool innovative trendy Promotion (while having plans to do this to. 45 other producuts) is like. lol oh boy.

[transmutationisms]

can u elaborate on posture being a lie

As Beth Linker explains in her book “Slouch: Posture Panic in Modern America” (Princeton), a long history of anxiety about the proximity between human and bestial nature has played out in this area of social science. Linker, a historian of medicine at the University of Pennsylvania, argues that at the onset of the twentieth century the United States became gripped by what she characterizes as a poor-posture epidemic: a widespread social contagion of slumping that could, it was feared, have deleterious effects not just upon individual health but also upon the body politic. Sitting up straight would help remedy all kinds of failings, physical and moral [...] she sees the “past and present worries concerning posture as part of an enduring concern about so-called ‘diseases of civilization’ ”—grounded in a mythology of human ancestry that posits the hunter-gatherer as an ideal from which we have fallen.

[...]

In America at the turn of the twentieth century, anxieties about posture inevitably collided with anxieties not just about class but also about race. Stooping was associated with poverty and with manual, industrialized labor—the conditions of working-class immigrants from European countries who, in their physical debasement, were positioned well below the white Anglo-Saxon Protestant establishment. Linker argues that, in this environment, “posture served as a marker of social status similar to skin color.” At the same time, populations that had been colonized and enslaved were held up as posture paradigms for the élite to emulate: the American Posture League rewarded successful students with congratulatory pins that featured an image of an extremely upright Lenape man. The head-carrying customs associated with African women were also adopted as training exercises for white girls of privilege, although Linker notes that Bancroft and her peers recommended that young ladies learn to balance not baskets and basins, which signified functionality, but piles of flat, slippery books, markers of their own access to leisure and education. For Black Americans, posture was even more fraught: despite the admiration granted to the posture of African women bearing loads atop their heads, community leaders like Dr. Algernon Jackson, who helped establish the National Negro Health Movement, criticized those Black youth who “too often slump along, stoop-shouldered and walk with a careless, lazy sort of dragging gait.” If slouching among privileged white Americans could indicate an enviable carelessness, it was seen as proof of indolence when adopted by the disadvantaged.

This being America, posture panic was swiftly commercialized, with a range of products marketed to appeal to the eighty per cent of the population whose carriage had been deemed inadequate by posture surveys. The footwear industry drafted orthopedic surgeons to consult on the design of shoes that would lessen foot and back pain without the stigma of corrective footwear: one brand, Trupedic, advertised itself as “a real anatomical shoe without the freak-show look.” The indefatigable Jessie Bancroft trained her sights on children’s clothing, endorsing a company that created a “Right-Posture” jacket, whose trim cut across the upper shoulders gave its schoolboy wearer little choice but to throw his shoulders back like Jordan Baker. Bancroft’s American Posture League endorsed girdles and corsets for women; similar garments were also adopted by men, who, by the early nineteen-fifties, were purchasing abdominal “bracers” by the millions.

It was in this era that what eventually proved to be the most contentious form of posture policing reached its height, when students entering college were required to submit to mandatory posture examinations, including the taking of nude or semi-nude photographs. For decades, incoming students had been evaluated for conditions such as scoliosis by means of a medical exam, which came to incorporate photography to create a visual record. Linker writes that for many male students, particularly those who had military training, undressing for the camera was no biggie. For female students, it was often a more disquieting undertaking. Sylvia Plath, who endured it in 1950, drew upon the experience in “The Bell Jar,” whose protagonist, Esther Greenwood, discovers that undressing for her boyfriend is as uncomfortably exposing as “knowing . . . that a picture of you stark naked, both full view and side view, is going into the college gym files.” The practice of taking posture photographs was gradually abandoned by colleges, thanks in part to the rise of the women’s movement, which gave coeds a new language with which to express their discomfort. It might have been largely forgotten were it not for a 1995 article in the Times Magazine, which raised the alarming possibility that there still existed stashes of nude photographs of famous former students of the Ivy League and the Seven Sisters, such as George H. W. Bush, Bob Woodward, Meryl Streep, and Hillary Clinton. Many of the photographs in question were taken and held not by the institutions themselves but by the mid-century psychologist William Herbert Sheldon. Sheldon was best known for his later discredited theories of somatotypes, whereby he attributed personality characteristics to individuals based on whether their build was ectomorphic, endomorphic, or mesomorphic.

[...]

Today, the descendants of Jessie Bancroft are figures like Esther Gokhale, a Bay Area acupuncturist and the creator of the Gokhale Method, who teaches “primal posture” courses to tech executives and whose recommendations are consonant with other fitness trends, such as barefoot running and “paleo” eating, that romanticize an ancestral past as a remedy for the ills of the present. The compulsory mass surveillance that ended when universities ceased the practice of posture photography has been replaced by voluntary individual surveillance, with the likes of Rafi the giraffe and the Nekoze cat monitoring a user’s vulnerability to “tech neck,” a newly named complaint brought on by excessive use of the kind of devices profitably developed by those paleo-eating, barefoot-running, yoga-practicing executives. Meanwhile, Linker reports, paleoanthropologists quietly working in places other than TikTok have begun to revise the popular idea that our ancient ancestors did not get aches and pains in their backs. Analysis of fossilized spines has revealed degenerative changes suggesting that “the first upright hominids to roam the earth likely experienced back pain, or would have been predisposed to such a condition if they had lived long enough.” Slouching, far from being a disease of civilization, then, seems to be something we’ve been prone to for as long as we have stood on our own two feet.

[fatehbaz]

In just eight blocks of sidewalk in quiet neighborhood, walking through the not-quite-rain of a sunshower, today I encountered four missing shoe soles. Little pieces of plastic and rubber, detached from pedestrians' shoes, now lonely on the concrete, with the weeds.

No such thing, really, as a "weed", though. "Weed" is not a botanical term. Instead, describes perceived pests, at the discretion of the observer. At the discretion of the authority. Designated as weed by the one with power over that land. The agronomist, the rancher, the plantation manager. The weed wastes space that could otherwise be given to a monoculture cash crop, an "economically significant" plant. The weed interferes with the productivity of the plot of land. The weed interrupts the extraction. The weed diminishes the value. The weed doesn't belong in this place.

People are made to be weeds, too.

Some cities will designate you as a weed, and then they'll take action to pull you out. They'll uproot you. But it's not always explicit, like "we're outlawing loitering" or "we're outlawing taking a nap in the park" or "we're defunding the library". Sometimes it's quite clever, it's written into the physical landscape. Self-congratulatory "progressive" cities learn to co-opt language, to obscure the violence, to use and abuse space.

Thinking about things you might encounter, you might perceive, after you've been destitute, broken, lived at a homeless shelter, for years. Little signs of other peoples' misery. Indicators of desperation that some might overlook. And the way that environment shapes, and is shaped by, these miseries.

A friend asks "why is there always an unusual amount of scuffed detached missing shoe soles on this particular stretch of sidewalk? There are hardly any homes around here, it's all asphalt and empty lots, so where are all these be-shoed people coming from?" Because even though this is a wide expanse without either home residences or any kind of commercial or recreation space someone would want to visit, these blocks are the straight-line direct path between a low-income apartment complex and the cluster of corporate big box stores, and there's no bus line that runs between the two areas. "But don't the vast majority of customers of shopping malls and box stores drive vehicles, hence the obscenely massive parking lots?" Sure, customers drive, but guess who actually has to work at those places? An underclass of people living at that apartment complex with harsh restrictions and cheap amenities, who can't afford car insurance or who might be too physically disabled to bike. And so that apartment complex is a de facto "company town", the residents are essentially in confinement. It is written into that landscape. It can be read. "Why is there always debris, wrappers, coins, etc. in this particular quiet couple of blocks of the boulevard?" Because these blocks are between a thrift store and a same-day drop-in clinic, so many impoverished people will routinely be walking between these two locations. They attend their appointment, and then have forty-five minutes to kill before the bus comes back around, so why not check out the thrift store? The city and county collaborated and placed all the low-income assistance offices on the far side of town, which conveniently forces the poor and disabled to both stay away from the luxurious downtown district and also to waste their time making a four-hour commute, catching various connecting buses or else riding the bikepath, across the city just to attend a ten-minute-long appointment.

Then this spatial layout, this city's physical environment, will shape the physical body. This violence writes itself into the flesh. The way the denim is chafed and discolored on the left shoulder of someone's jacket from carrying a small backpack around by foot, day after day after day. The way someone's heart rate increases when they see a white and black vehicle in the periphery of their vision, subconsciously recollecting institutionalization and institutional abuse, or fearing what a ticket fee would mean for their budget (they might not be able to afford rent). The way someone develops a painful limp, maybe occasionally depends on a cane, because they had to walk great distances every day to get to work and their shoe sole fell off on the sidewalk, but they can't replace the shoes because their employer is underpaying them, and they're forced to stand all day at work anyway, and they already had some modest nerve damage in their foot because they've been rationing their insulin and can't afford their prescriptions, and federal medical insurance keeps denying them because their physical letters in the mail always show up too late or not at all, and groceries are too expensive so it's hard to get good nutrition to heal, but the diabetic nerve damage has by now damaged their digestive tract too so they have a strictly limited bland diet and can't enjoy the simple pleasure of a home-cooked meal (if they can even afford a home, at this point), and all those "little" miseries add up, and now they're hungry, and in pain, because they were forced to walk kinda funny for a long time over all those decaying sidewalks with all those other weeds.

[books]

Writer Spotlight: Jamie Beck

Jamie Beck is a photographer residing in Provence, France. Her Tumblr blog, From Me To You, became immensely successful shortly after launching in 2009. Soon after, Jamie, along with her partner Kevin Burg, pioneered the use of Cinemagraphs in creative storytelling for brands. Since then, she has produced marketing and advertising campaigns for companies like Google, Samsung, Netflix, Disney, Microsoft, Nike, Volvo, and MTV, and was included in Adweek Magazine’s “Creative 100” among the industry’s top Visual Artists. In 2022, she released her first book, An American in Provence, which became a NYT Bestseller and Amazon #1 book in multiple categories, and featured in publications such as Vogue, goop, Who What Wear, and Forbes. Flowers of Provence is Jamie’s second book.

Can you tell us about how The Flowers of Provence came to be?

I refer to Provence often as ‘The Garden of Eden’ for her harmonious seasons that bring an ever-changing floral bounty through the landscape. My greatest joy in life is telling her story of flowers through photography so that we may all enjoy them, their beauty, their symbolism, and their contribution to the harmony of this land just a bit longer. 

(Photograph: Jamie Beck)

How do your photography and writing work together? Do you write as part of your practice?

I constantly write small notations, which usually occur when I am alone in nature with the intention of creating a photograph or in my studio working alone on a still life. I write as I think in my head, so I have made it a very strict practice that when a thought or idea comes up, I stop and quickly write the text in the notes app on my phone or in a pocket journal I keep with me most of the time. If I don’t stop and write it down at that moment, I find it is gone forever. It is also the same practice for shooting flowers, especially in a place as seasonal as Provence. If I see something, I must capture it right away because it could be gone tomorrow. 

(Photograph: Jamie Beck)

You got your start in commercial photography. What’s something you learned in those fields that has served you well in your current creative direction?

I think my understanding of bridging art and commerce came from my commercial photography background. I can make beautiful photographs of flowers all day long, but how to make a living off your art is a completely different skill that I am fortunate enough to have learned by working with so many different creative brands and products in the past. 

(Photograph: Jamie Beck)

Do you remember your first photograph?

Absolutely! I was 13 years old. My mother gave me her old Pentax 35mm film camera to play with. When I looked through the viewfinder, it was as if the imaginary world in my head could finally come to life! I gave my best friend a makeover, put her in an evening gown in the backyard of my parents’ house in Texas, and made my first photograph, which I thought was so glamorous! So Vogue!

You situate your photographic work with an introduction that charts the seasons in Provence through flowers. Are there any authors from the fields of nature writing and writing place that inspire you?

I absolutely adore Monty Don! His writing, his shoes, and his ease with nature and flowers—that’s a world in which I want to live. I also love Floret Flowers, especially on social media, as a way to learn the science behind flowers and how to grow them. 

How did you decide on the order of the images within The Flowers of Provence?

Something I didn’t anticipate with a book deal is that I would actually be the one doing the layouts! I assumed I would hand over a folder of images, and an art director would decide the order. At first, it was overwhelming to sort through it all because the work is so personal, and I’m so visual. But in the end, it had to be me. It had to be my story and flow to be truly authentic. I tried to move through the seasons and colors of the landscape in a harmonious way that felt a bit magical, just as discovering Provence has felt to me. 

(Photograph: Jamie Beck)

How do you practice self-care when juggling work and life commitments alongside the creative process?

The creative process is typically a result that comes out of taking time for self-care. I get some of my best ideas for photographic projects or writing when I am in a bath or shower or go for a long (and restorative) walk in nature. Doing things for myself, such as how I dress or do my hair and makeup, is another form of creative expression that is satisfying. 

What’s a place or motif you’d like to photograph that you haven’t had a chance to yet?

I am really interested in discovering more formal gardens in France. I like the idea of garden portraiture, trying to really capture the essence and spirit of places where man and nature intertwine. 

Which artists do you return to for inspiration?

I’m absolutely obsessed with Édouard Manet—his color pallet and subject matter. 

What are three things you can’t live without as an artist?

My camera, the French light, and flowers, of course. 

What’s your favorite flower to photograph, and why?

I love roses. They remind me of my grandmother, who always grew roses and was my first teacher of nature. The perfume of roses and the vast variety of colors, names, and styles all make me totally crazy. I just love them. They simply bring me joy the same way seeing a rainbow in the sky does. 

(Photograph: Jamie Beck)

[feihrt]

suna rintaro x gn reader

wc: 551

cw: childhood best friends who secretly love each other, reader is implied to be associated with inarizaki’s volleyball team (i wrote with reader being a player on the team in mind, but u can imagine wtv!), not proofread.

empty corridors and low murmurs coming from commercial refrigerators shouldn’t sound so loud to the poor cashier, however, it was all that had filled her ears for the past hours. sometimes, bells chiming and solid squeaking linked with the other low, irritating noises, to infuriate her pulsating headache further.

she was annoyed, had been for the past days, every time her buckled shoes came in contact with the store’s tile. contrasting with her first impression of working there, the vibrant variation of colors in the aisles was no longer amusing, nor were the unknown faces of customers.

the bells were heard once again, and she had to restrain herself from letting out a loud exasperated sigh. it was two usual customers, whose faces were not unknown. they always made an appearance together on her six-thirty shifts, their similar athletic uniforms synchronized every time.

they walked close to each other, cautiously to not let their shared earphones disconnect, as eyes traveled together through the different products displayed. sometimes, their clothed arms accidentally brushed against one another, but any fleeting longings were always ignored.

the cashier observed, bored, how they'd slightly move to put some distance, and seconds later, unconsciously move closer again, as if testing, but never touching.

she thought it was weird, they were weird. how come you two are intimate enough to share earbuds, but not to share a simple touch of arms?

the feelings shared between friends – was that what you were? she'd question herself – seemed to never be mentioned, disregarded as if never felt. she decided to do the same, dismiss how both your postures slightly straightened with the touch, how your breaths were held for a second longer.

she ignored it.

however, what she didn't ignore was how you, not only shared music, but snacks too.

with every element picked, eyes locked, and private words were exchanged by a mere look. an interaction, a language only the two of you could understand, so personal, the employee felt a slight shiver strain her back.

when meeting with her at the register minutes later, you brought with you a couple of different goods. a package of mango-flavored jelly fruit sticks, chosen by suna, two crunchy healthy granola bars kita had recommended, and two milk cartoons, one carefully chosen to be based on almond milk. a lollipop of your preference was also sneakily added to the list when your friend was certain you weren’t looking.

the cashier scanned the items slowly, and with each product at hand, she felt as if they carried a deeper meaning than her understanding could reach. how you two picked it all together, agreed on the little things without sharing as much as a word. she was, surely, intrigued…

she presumed you two just had to know each other for a really long time now, right? no one stood by another so safely, so at home, if not for history together. god, you may as well feel weak if not with the other nearby.

if she didn’t know any better, she’d assume you were dating, a couple built on teenage love, standing strong by the evident connection.

finally, as the aweary employee watched you leave, she decided right there, the most annoying factor of her late shifts was you two, oblivious to clear your love.

i might turn this into a series……

[ranticore]

All your settings are crazy interesting to think about and currently I've been taur-brained. sorry if you've already answered this somewhere else, but who are the ones manufacturing their clothes? Or their mane and hoof care products, etc? Would it be humans who were already making similar stuff for normal horses, or are there some centaurs also in the business making more specialized and informed products (like shoes or horse-pants????) Surely there's an economic power imbalance in there somewhere between whoevers making the necessities and who's got to buy them.

(either way, being good at diy is probably a plus for them )

I mentioned it a little bit in the first clothing post i made but the examples given (aside from the classical dress) are all modern - basically, small tailor shops in Ironwall will bulk-order horse blankets from wholesale (usually international) retailers and modify them on-site for resale to centaurs, sometimes doing a same-day custom job for someone if they need it. this is considered kinda cheap, and not in the realm of formalwear/barely business casual. think t-shirt and jeans level stuff. but like you said, in a lot of cases centaurs would buy their own horse rugs to modify at home (basically you need longer straps that articulate at a different part of the body than stock). these specific alteration shops are usually some of the first businesses to pop up in cities/towns outside Ironwall whenever emmigrant centaurs have a decent presence, alongside herbivore food shops.

so yeah absolutely as a marker of class & a requirement for formal occasions, there is bespoke tailor-made clothing made to fit their bodies from the start and it is EXPENSIVE. especially the big classical style gowns, there's a lot of fabric there and it has to be cut well so that it doesn't entangle the legs or restrict the torso, and have enough petticoat/underskirt/etc so that there'll be no accidental flashing on a windy day. now modern commercialism/capitalism hit Ironwall in a very strange way - many centaurs remember the exact moment the first mcdonalds opened in ironwall in the 90s, as human resident % had gone up and suddenly Ironwall was a market and a consumer base.

(this one got so long that even I will concede to a readmore)

most people unable to afford the tailored stuff in the early 20th century would buy big cuts of curtain fabric and sew their own gowns for formal occasions/serving on a budget and those gowns would see use for decades. companies saw the potential to offer factory/sweatshop produced off the rack centaur fast fashion that resembled the very intricate classical gowns without any of the tailored properties/thick skirts/flexibility in the torso/etc. this is landfill junk and wears out quickly. in many cases it's a cheap human bodice/t-shirt/etc sewn to the bottom gown bit, which means there's a weak seam right at a point of great articulation, and the clothes will catch/snag in odd places because the muscles underneath are different too. in terms of the economic power imbalance - yep. it's a market but a small one, without much competition, and multinationals can easily outcompete the centaur tailors who offer services at middle or low price brackets.

and of course. there's always poverty tourism. you can buy fully bespoke, made-for-centaurs, designer... rebadged horse blankets, for the athleisure/sports-luxe fans

because centaurs as a market share are not very prominent still (that is changing tho), most of their own businesses are small and dynastic - one group running the same mane oil business since the 1700s, churning out the same basic product for a small but dedicated audience. these types of businesses rarely advertise and if they do it's by putting a tiny text-only ad into the paper with their phone number inserted. they are woefully ill-prepared to compete with external businesses turning their eye to Ironwall in search of new markets. but what they have that large multinationals don't is parochialism and loyalty to a brand, and access to a more readily exploited centaur work force. many will turn around and do a little song and dance "don't you want to support small centaur businesses? we'll go under if we have to comply with modern labour laws!"

because at the heart of centaur businesses is that old purifying work ethic, and because ironwall is 1. conservative and 2. largely self-governing, their labour laws are antiquated. they still have workhouses. and there has always been a lack of interest from the wider country's government to intervene because ehh it's the Ironwall culture to work hard, isn't it? and do we really want to insert ourselves into centaur business? humans actively seeking work in ironwall, then, make up two broad groups - those who seek to exploit these relaxed labour laws by opening a business, and those who know that 'poor' in other places is 'middle class disposable income' in Ironwall (like first worlders becoming 'expats' or 'digital nomads' in places with cheaper costs of living than their wealthy home nation - easily leading to gentrification).

Anyway so that's all the modern perspective; all of this applies for the other beastmen as well like the harpies and so on, though they have to live with the additional layer of most of their laws and products being about horses.

Historically centaur clothing was made by hand in the home, usually by the women in a social group, and made robust enough to last several generations of wear (with repairs). Because clothing would be passed down from mother to daughter, this resulted in colt bachelor bands being so fucking naked all the time. In traditional enclaves and pre-Florian settlements, a stallion who was accepted into his new herd would be gifted handmade kinetic clothing (bells, ribbons, feathers, anything that enhances the movement) by his new wives and his ability to keep his gifts looking nice would be judged for a set period of time (if you lose a bell that's bad luck buddy), after which he was supposed to return the favour by hand-carving them beautiful tail ornaments (as discussed in my historical clothing post - the ornaments would appear similar to welsh lovespoons in design)

this tradition got trampled over with the introduction of Florian's penal laws because tail ornaments could not be worn when the tail was fully covered and attempts at kinetic fashion fell flat when your nice trot is all hidden up by what's basically a giant tablecloth. but there does remain a custom of women giving men gifts to test their commitment (to heterosexuality), with the expectation that it'll be paid back with something nice and handmade. but commercialism comes for us all eventually.

finally on the topic of shoes, iron shoes are not super common anymore but in the victorian era, rope shoes were manufactured in the city to cut down on noise levels when streets were becoming full paved/cobbled.

they were not very good for the feet and required regular replacement because the rope would wear down, but that meant business for farriers was booming and became almost guaranteed when the famously and hilariously corrupt high councillors and lord protector began to pass increasingly strict anti noise pollution laws.

[growingstories]

Lab trials - part 3

Dr. Eric Mitchell, the renowned scientist, had successfully launched weight gain bars initially designed for underweight individuals. The bars were later found to be effective for muscle growth as well. In the lab trials, the bars were tested on inmates and soldiers, both of whom experienced no negative side effects, except for a noticeable increase in libido.

Curious to explore the commercial potential of his invention, Dr. Mitchell approached a prominent fitness equipment and supplement company. Jonathan, a sales representative who possessed an impressive physique and had a background in sports and fitness, was chosen to market the bars. As the account manager for major bodybuilding gyms, Jonathan ensured they had the best equipment and latest supplements.

After sharing the details about the new supplement, the gyms were instantly intrigued, viewing it as a safe and preferable alternative to steroids. One particular personal trainer even informed Jonathan about his significant muscle gain after consuming just three bars a day. Clients who tried the bars were also enthusiastic about the results.

Although Jonathan wasn't originally focused on becoming a bodybuilder, he was interested in developing a more muscular physique. Therefore, he decided to consume one bar a day. Notably, he experienced increased strength and received compliments on his growing size and lifting abilities. However, he failed to notice the gradual appearance of a protruding belly and love handles.

The gyms Jonathan had sold the bars to were highly satisfied with the product and began placing more orders. They also bought heavier equipment as their clients demonstrated increased strength. His success led to a promotion, with more responsibilities and more gym clients to handle. As a result, Jonathan neglected his running sessions, which not only hindered his endurance but also became more challenging due to his heavier weight.

Months later, one of the gyms arranged a strongman competition and invited Jonathan to participate. Feeling inferior to the other competitors, he decided to increase his intake to five bars per day, solely for the duration leading up to the competition. His strength and physique skyrocketed, attracting compliments from the hefty individuals at the gym.

Additionally, Jonathan noticed his intensified sexual desire, so much so that he had to indulge in self-pleasure multiple times a day. During the competition, he struggled with his bulging muscles, as his shirts became tighter and simple tasks like tying his shoes became bothersome. Now, he solely wore stretch pants.

Observing the immense strength of his fellow competitors, Jonathan grew frustrated. Placing tenth in the competition only added to his disappointment. However, he happened to strike up a conversation with one of the participants other who mentioned the bars, expressing their increased muscle mass and heightened libido – a sentiment Jonathan could relate to. They became workout buddies, with Jonathan's new goal to surpass his companion, Michael, and emerge victorious in the next competition.

Jonathan and Michael began to spend more time together, even outside of gym sessions. Their meals grew in size, topped off with two bars each as a dessert. One intoxicated evening, they engaged in mutual masturbation, considering it nothing more than an expression of camaraderie. This activity soon became a regular occurrence.

As they continued their intense workout routine, Jonathan and Michael saw their bodies grow stronger, more massive, and, inevitably, fatter. Although they embraced these changes, they faced confusion about their evolving relationship – were they gay, or was the connection purely based on their shared horniness? Eventually, they concluded that their behavior was normal for close friends who understood each other.

Finding it more convenient to sleep with Michael, as he comprehended Jonathan's busy lifestyle due to his successful job, dating women became a challenge. Their minds were occupied with thoughts of gym sessions, growth, and sexually satisfying each other. Despite the difficulties, Jonathan's business expansion flourished, and he achieved remarkable success.

Their routine continued, and as they added more bars to their diet leading up to the next strongman competition, they became absolute behemoths at the gym. Nonetheless, their heightened horniness posed a significant challenge. They now engaged in masturbation three or four times a day. Their bond with each other remained a deeply important aspect of their lives, for living this lifestyle was arduous without someone who shared similar experiences. But they didn't let anything or anyone deter them – Jonathan emerged as the champion in the competition, while Michael secured second place.

Having accomplished all their goals, Jonathan and Michael pondered their next target, contemplating the future of their physical transformations.

[laffytale]

I appeal to you for help. I am a 49-year-old man with a family of ten. We once had a house and three commercial shops, all of which were destroyed due to the war. We are now living in a displacement tent in the middle of the area, lacking the most basic necessities of life, including medicine, food, shoes, and hygiene products.

We are in dire need of assistance and donations, even if it’s just a little, so that we can survive. May God protect you.

https://gofund.me/44709b37

unfortunately i cant donate because i am a minor, but if anyone reading this has the ability to PLEASE donate to alaa's campaign

[petitpiedgalbe]

No need to run and hide, it's a wonderful life :)

Do you know what's best about being freelancer? Freedom and the ability to work at any hour :) And because it's already bright, it means that... I'm going to sleep soon, without setting an alarm.

Wish you all a great day! :)

[coopigeoncoo]

The Space Between Stars

Pairing: Bubaigawara Jin x Gender Neutral Reader

Rating: General Audiences

Tags: Smoking, Burglary, Home Invasion, First Meetings, Meet Ugly, Domestic Fluff

Written as part of @shibaraki's KOMOREBI Milestone Collab!

---

You thought your terrible day couldn't get any worse, but then you come home and accidentally interrupt a burglary in progress.

What follows is a series of questionable decisions you probably should have thought Twice about.

---

"Uh- hello!" The man greeted with a nervous laugh, tugging the mask that was scrunched up on the top half of his face a little further down his nose, fumbling the corner of the TV slightly as he did so. "Don't freak out.  I can explain."

"Yeah?" You murmured distantly, thoughts frantically racing as you tried to process the entire scene playing out before you. 

Something in the man seemed to suddenly shift; his jaw clenching tightly and his shoulders pulling taut in a way that made your focus instantly sharpen- the same way all the animals in nature documentaries did when they finally realized a predator was in their midst.

"I'm stealing your TV."

---

Continue reading below or follow the link to Ao3!

Today has been an awful day.

Not because any single, overwhelmingly bad thing had happened; you had just been worn down by a never ending gauntlet of unfortunate events.

Sometime during the night your phone cord had come unplugged and fully drained your phone battery, which meant that you woke up long after you had set your original and backup alarms to sound.  As a result, you didn't have time for breakfast and ended up just using mouthwash instead of stopping to fully brush your teeth, but even that time save wasn't enough to keep you from missing your usual train.  

You'd tripped on an uneven patch of sidewalk heading out to lunch and irreparably scuffed up the toes of your favorite dress shoes, and the presentation you had been working for the past two weeks to put together was somehow missing the last; and most integral, set of slides.  

The subsequent verbal lashing that your boss and, more embarrassingly, your boss's boss, had given you lasted so long you'd ended up missing the train.

Again.

And as you sought to pass the time waiting for the next train to arrive by messing around on your phone, you discovered that the person you'd been seriously flirting with on the online dating site had suddenly blocked you without notice.  

So when the skies opened up on your walk home, pouring down buckets of rain with such force that your skin stung from the impact, you comforted yourself with the knowledge that you could spend the rest of the day holed up in your apartment.  You'd slip into some pajamas, snuggle up on the couch with your favorite blanket, and veg out in front of the TV you had scrimped and saved to buy; doing your best to forget that today even happened while you yelled at quiz show contestants for chiming in with incorrect answers.  Perhaps you'd even go a step further and spend the commercial breaks on your phone, making wish lists full of products you'd never actually buy- letting yourself indulge in the fantasy of filling your overpriced and miniscule apartment with whatever gadgets and bits of decor that caught your interest.  

It wouldn't completely erase your misery, but it was the best you could do on a limited budget and exactly enough energy to shuffle from your bedroom to the living room after you peeled off your drenched work clothes.  

But your plans of relaxation were immediately foiled when you opened the door of your first floor apartment and were greeted by the sight of a man in a skintight black and white body suit trying to shove your brand new TV through your living room window; the bottom pane filled with with a spider web of cracks that spread even further with every heaving attempt to shove the flat-screen through the too small opening.  He froze when he noticed you, a cigarette dangling from his bottom lip as his scruffy jaw dropped open in surprise from your sudden appearance.  

"Uh- hello!" The man greeted with a nervous laugh, tugging the mask that was scrunched up on the top half of his face a little further down his nose, fumbling the corner of the TV slightly as he did so. "Don't freak out.  I can explain."

"Yeah?" You murmured distantly, thoughts frantically racing as you tried to process the entire scene playing out before you. 

Something in the man seemed to suddenly shift; his jaw clenching tightly and his shoulders pulling taut in a way that made your focus instantly sharpen- the same way all the animals in nature documentaries did when they finally realized a predator was in their midst.

"I'm stealing your TV."

And with that proclamation, your last frayed thread of patience snapped.

"Of course you are!" You laugh, frustrated tears welling up quickly and blurring your vision. "Why wouldn't you be?  It's not like my day could get any worse !"

"Hey, now- don't cry!" The man pleaded, thoughtlessly reaching out towards you with shaking hands, the TV nearly crashing to the floor as he released his hold on it; barely managing to catch the corner with a sharp curse and lower it gently to the floor.  "I'm not gonna hurt you or nothing- I'm just going to rob you a little !"

"A little? A little?" You shriek, wiping at your wet cheeks in frustration. "You're taking the most expensive thing I own!  That feels like an awful lot of robbing to me!"

"That's- that's a fair point," the man conceded, scratching at his exposed chin nervously as he looked around your bare bones apartment with a critical eye; taking note of your collection of second hand furniture and threadbare curtains your old roommate's cat had delighted in shredding.  

"I'm too tired to deal with this right now," you whimper as you take a step backwards into the breezeway, exhaustion winning out over more situationally appropriate emotions like absolute panic.  "Take whatever you want, but I would really appreciate it if you could leave the urn on the bookcase alone.  My Grandma is in there."

"I'd never-!" The man gasped, affronted by the implication he'd be despicable enough to make off with a jar full of Grandma dust.

"You're literally in the process of robbing me!" You laugh wetly, wiping your running nose onto your soaking wet sleeve.  "I don't think you're allowed to be offended by my assumptions about the quality of your character right now."

"I'm sorry. This isn't- this isn't the kind of person I want to be," the man whispered, his nervously wringing hands tightening into shaking fists. "This is who I have to be."

"Whatever," you huff dismissively.  "It doesn't really matter.  Close the window on your way out so the rain doesn't soak down to the floorboards."

"You gonna call the cops on me?" The man asked, nervously puffing on the cigarette in his mouth, the pungent clove smoke pulled towards you by the cross breeze; drifting straight into your face and making you recoil.  

"I don't live on the right side of the city for the police to care about a stolen TV," you inform him, grimacing at the tinkling sound of the buffeting rain upgrading into hailstones.  "I'm just going to duck into a store or something.  I'll be back in like, an hour, so it would be great if you could wrap up taking my stuff and be gone by then.  It's getting late and I still need to cook dinner."

And with those parting words you gently pulled the door closed behind you and, recognizing the futility of locking a door during an active home invasion; stepped back out into the freezing rain without looking back.

The only store on your block that had bothered to stay open in such terrible weather was a tiny holistic store crammed in between a pawn shop and a seafood market.  The shop owner, a serious faced woman with her hair slicked back into a painfully tight looking bun, did her best to cover up the pervasive fish odor that seeped in from the neighboring business by having three oil diffusers running all at once; but the only thing it really accomplished was adding nauseating strong floral notes to the briny air.  

You felt bad lingering in her store for so long without buying anything, so after a drawn out production of pretending to consider buying crystals in a variety of cuts and sizes while internally balking at the price tags, you settled on purchasing a mood ring from one of the clearance displays.  It had a large band size, too large for your fingers for sure, but it was the only thing that you could afford to purchase now that you'd have to start saving for a replacement TV. 

The woman behind the counter was obviously disappointed with your thriftiness, but you pretended to ignore her sourly pursed lips as she thanked you for your business and recommended you return at a later date to have your aura cleansed.

"It's all muddy, you know," she informed you with a disapproving huff, tugging firmly on the stiff collar of her dress shirt to shift it back into place.  "An aura that messy will only invite trouble and stress."

In your experience, trouble and stress never needed an invitation, but instead of voicing your thoughts you held your tongue, jammed the mood ring onto your thumb, and thanked her for the concern; snagging a business card in a show of false interest before bracing yourself for yet another slog through the rain.  

It wasn't coming down quite so hard anymore, but you were already so thoroughly drenched that the waning storm felt like a meaningless show of mercy from the universe at large; a waste of whatever finite karma you'd accrued during your life thus far.  

You'd boldly assumed that coming home to some guy stealing your TV would be the most surprising thing you'd walk in on today, but nothing could match the absolute astonishment you felt when you entered back into your apartment for the second time that evening.   

It had been easy to imagine that your place would be a ransacked disaster at this point, electronics long gone and your personal effects scattered around haphazardly as the intruder fruitlessly searched for valuables.  Instead, everything was in the same, or better, condition than you'd left it in.  

The TV had been returned to its proper place on your third-hand entertainment stand, a large scratch on the side of the frame but seemingly no worse for the wear as the weatherman on screen droned on about the unprecedentedly large storm rolling through the city.  The cracked window had been covered In layers of carefully placed packing tape to keep it from shattering completely; a towel spread out on the carpet beneath it to soak up the rainwater that had collected inside during the thief's botched getaway.

All the shoes in your entryway, the ones you normally kicked off and left where they landed, had been lined up in neat pairs next to the coat closet.  The blanket you'd left crumpled on your lumpy couch after a quick nap yesterday had been neatly draped over the back of the sofa.

And the thief, who you thought would be long gone by now, had made himself at home in your kitchenette.  With a set of mismatched hot pads on his hands he pulled a half sheet pan out of the countertop oven, the telltale aroma of baking bread filling every corner of your small apartment and driving out the lingering stench of cigarette smoke.  Desperately, you wondered if he'd noticed your arrival; cautiously rocking back onto your rear foot in preparation for making a quick escape when he called out to you from across the apartment.  

"Don't just stand in the doorway," the man chastised as he slid the hot tray down onto the stovetop, a small saucepan set to simmer on the next burner over.  "You'll let all the warm air out."

"Uh- yeah.  Of course.  Sorry," you apologized reflexively, wildly unsure about what to do but deciding that the best course of action is to likely play along and keep the burglar-turned-baker calm.  Pushing the door closed with a shaking hand, you did your best to keep your breathing calm and level despite the dread violently roiling in your belly; your sense of self preservation blaring in the back of your mind like a siren.  

"Welcome home.  Again," the thief greeted pleasantly, the toothpick in his mouth straining under the force of his clenched teeth. "You said you'd be gone for an hour."

"I- I ran out of stuff to do and figured you'd be gone by now.  And not, you know- staying to clean up my apartment."

"Yeah," the man laughed, rubbing at the back of his half-masked head nervously; hand still shoved into one of your plaid oven mitts.  "This isn't how these sorts of things usually go down."

"Then why did you do it?" You ask with a nervous swallow, the domestic setting making you bolder than the situation would typically dictate. "Stay, I mean?"

"It just- it seemed like you were having a really bad day," the man murmured sheepishly, pulling off the oven mitts one at a time and tossing them down onto a clear swath of counter next to the stove. "And I didn't want to make it any worse."

"Oh."

"This is- so awkward.  I'm sorry," he muttered, scrubbing a hand across the stubble on his chin in frustration.  "I wanted to be gone by the time you got back to avoid all of this."

"It's okay," you say, unsure as to how sincere you actually were.

"It's not okay," the man laughed dryly.  "I was going to rob you- picking up your living room doesn't make it okay!  It doesn't make me okay!"

"You could have done worse."

"I could have," the man nodded solemnly, the action switching to a frantic shaking a moment later. "I wouldn't have."

A realization struck you abruptly.  "Tell me a lie," you demanded.

"What?"

You wrench open the coat closet door and reach inside, pulling out a chunky blue scarf; a gift from a close friend during their brief but prolific crocheting phase. 

"Say this is red," you said, holding the scarf aloft for him to see.  He froze, every one of his muscles set on edge as he stared at the length of knotted yarn in your grasp. 

"I don't know what you're trying to prove here.  You already know that I can't."

"I just- I want to make sure," you insisted, holding the scarf up a fraction higher. "Please."

"Okay," the man said, deflating as he exhaled in defeat.  "The scarf is red.  It's obviously blue."

Emboldened by the first successful test of your hypothesis, you stepped further into the apartment, snagging a purple tissue box off of the coffee table with your free hand and holding it up for the man to see.

"And this?"

"Green.  It's purple."

Gliding further into your apartment, you deposited the scarf and the tissue box onto the card table you ate your meals at, and grabbed an overripe banana from the bowl of half-rotten fruit you kept replenishing each week; ever hopeful that you'd wake up one day with the self restraint necessary to reach for an apple instead of a bag of chips when you felt snacky. 

"This banana?"

"Teal.  Black- that's one nasty looking banana!"

"It is, isn't it?  I should probably just throw it out," you say with a grimace as your finger hits a soft spot on the peel and sinks down into the goey inner banana flesh. 

"Here, catch!" the man called out, tossing a slightly damp dish rag towards you, which you miraculously managed to snatch out of the air.

"Thank you."

"No problem."

It was quiet for a moment while you wiped the mealy banana goo from your finger, digging under your nail with the stiff corner of the towel.  "So you can't lie," you mused. "Is that a Quirk thing?"

"May as well be, I guess," the man sighed, turning to examine the squat loaf of bread cooling on your stove top.  "I want to go ahead and slice this.  You won't freak out if I grab a knife, will you?"

"Depends," you reply evasively with narrowed eyes as he pulled a knife half way out of the knife block, examining the edge with a frown before sliding it back into place.  "Do you plan on slicing me up, too?"

"These knives are so dull I don't think I could even if I wanted to," he groused, pulling another knife out for inspection with a dissatisfied frown. "And I don't want to."

Eyes locked on the intruder's back; you lowered yourself down carefully into the closest dining chair; knees weak and mind reeling from the surreal turn your evening had taken.  "So you don't want my stuff, and you don't want to hurt me- what exactly do you want?"

"What I want-," the man paused, a triumphant fist pump accompanying his discovery of a serrated blade.  "Is for you to try this bread that I made."

"And then you'll leave?"

"I'll leave right now if that's what you want," the man offered, running the scalloped edge across the craggy top crust of the bread and laughing delightedly at the scraping sound it made.  "Do you hear that?  That's one crispy crust!  This loaf is gonna be goooood."

"How did you even make bread, anyway?  I know for a fact that I don't have any yeast."

"You don't really have much of anything.  Believe me, I checked," the man grinned cheekily over his shoulder at you, as though he thought his confession about rifling through your apartment was  charming and not a blatant invasion of privacy.  "But lucky for you, I'm well versed in poverty meals.  Mix up a basic bread dough, add in a beer where the yeast should be, shove that baby into the oven and you're ready to go!  There's a bit more to it than that."

"Well, it smells wonderful.  This is probably the best this apartment has ever smelled."

"No kidding!  You get a discount for having the unit right above the dumpster?"

"I wish," You sighed forlornly, taking a moment to imagine how much easier your life would be with even a slightly lower cost of living.  "But taking out the trash is pretty convenient, I can just drop it in from the fire escape."

"Bowls?" He inquired as he shut the heat off under the saucepan, giving it one final stir.  

"Oh- I only have a couple.  They're probably on the drying rack."

He salutes you sharply before shuffling off to follow your instructions, carefully selecting and stacking the dishes into his arms like they were valuable pieces of china and not the very worst a home store clearance rack had to offer.  You twisted your too-big mood ring anxiously around your thumb, reminding yourself with every turn that the man in front of you, despite his seemingly affable nature, wasn't a guest.  He was an intruder in your home, no better than the mice that darted behind your fridge when you turned the kitchen light on in the middle of the night.

Although the mice had never cooked you dinner before, so you suppose that was a point in his favor.  

"Careful- careful," the man whispered quietly to himself, inching across the floor towards you with two bowls of soup balanced on his forearm; bracing the overhanging rims with a plate stacked lopsidedly with still steaming bread slices.  He gingerly deposited the bowls onto the table, sliding yours to a stop directly in front of you without any of the broth sloshing over the edge; an impressive feat considering that he'd filled it up to the brim. 

"Nailed it!" He crowed in pride, tossing the plate full of bread down onto the table unceremoniously, the thick slices nearly bouncing off the plate from his rough handling.  Collapsing into the folding chair opposite if you in what could only be described as a sprawl, you watch with thinly veiled interest as he pushes his mask up over the bridge of his nose.  Nostrils fully uncovered, he hunches over the bowl of soup and inhales deeply, flapping his hands to fan the aromatic vapors directly towards his face.

"Not too shabby for a can of soup and leftover veggies!"

"Is that what this is?" You ask curiously, giving the soup a small stir, trudging up a floret of seared broccoli that definitely came from takeout earlier in the week.  

"Don't be shy now.  Dig in!" The man encouraged, placing a large chunk of soup-drenched bread into his mouth with a happy sigh.  The soup was perfectly edible, nothing to write home about but still a notable effort considering the meager ingredients your kitchen had to offer.  But the bread was a different story entirely.

"This crust is incredible!" You gasp, the dry crumbs sticking to your lips.  

"A good dinner for a rainy night," the man stated, holding his half devoted bread slice out towards yours.  "Cheers?"

"Cheers!" You laugh, pushing your slice of bread against his; the crusts impacting and sending a dusting of flaky bread crumbs tumbling onto the surface of the table.

"Whoopsy-daisy!  I'll get that, don't worry," the man reassured you, licking his finger and tapping it across the table, picking up crumbs as he went.  

"'Whoopsy-daisy', huh?" You muse, sipping at a spoonful of soup thoughtfully. "How many kids do you have?"

"Kids? Oh, no- I don't- I don't have any of those," he stammered, shoving his crumb covered finger into his mouth and removing it with a comical pop.  "Her name's Himiko."

"That's…quite the discrepancy between those two answers."

"Himiko isn't- she's not mine, mine.   But she's mine, you know?  In all the ways that should matter."

"So you love her then?"

"Of course I do.  She's a great kid."

"That's all that matters then, isn't it?" You smiled sincerely, the first grin of the evening not strained through a filter of worry.  The man seemed to notice the subtle shift in your demeanor, the tension in his posture softening ever so slightly as he somehow managed to slouch even farther down in his seat.

It had been a long time since you'd eaten alone with someone.  You went out after work with colleagues sometimes, but the places that you always ended up were crowded and noisy; tables and booths crammed to near bursting to accommodate the ravenous waves of dinner rush patrons.  The last meal you'd eaten at home with someone was likely before you moved into this apartment, when you still lived off-campus with a couple of roommates you liked progressively less with each passing week.  

You'd been beyond thrilled to land a job that paid enough to allow you to live alone, even though affording to do so meant relocating across town to a less desirable zip code.  But a slight downgrade in living conditions was well worth the benefit of knowing you'd never again have to live through the experience of walking in on your roommate and their booty call having sex on your bed because it was 'more comfortable' than theirs. 

While you would never miss the stacks of unwashed dishes left to putrefy in the sink or having to wipe urine splatters off of the toilet seat before you could relieve yourself, it was hard to deal with the constant quiet sometimes.  The drone of the TV couldn't replace someone asking about your day or replicate the joy of shared laughter.  

And you couldn't help but wonder if it was a similar situation for the man across from you.  

"Is it okay for me to ask your name?" You murmur quietly, eyes locked on your own hands as you push a tomato chunk around your bowl with the back of your spoon.  "I understand if you don't want me to know.  The less I probably know about you the better, huh?  I'm sorry, that was stupid of me.  Forget I said anything-"

"Twice.  You should call me Twice," the man interrupted; letting out an irritated grunt before opening his mouth once more.  "I want you to call me Jin."

Thrown off balance once again by his contradictory requests, your brain races frantically to find some sort of middle ground between the two.

"Do you want me to call you Jin…twice?  Like, JinJin?"

"That's a little ah- intimate , dontcha' think?" Jin said, a nervous cough punctuating his sentence sharply.  He pulled the bottom edge of his mask down further, trying to cover up the tell-tale embarrassed burn of his cheeks without compromising his ability to eat.  "Just Jin is fine."

"Alright.  Thank you for the meal, Jin.  This is a much nicer dinner than I would have put together for myself, even if I hadn't been delayed by some guy breaking into my apartment," you joked, sending a pointed look Jin's way; politely averting your eyes and pretending not to notice his splotchy blush creeping even further down his cheeks.

"A burglar, huh?  Sounds like a real heel."

"Maybe," you murmured thoughtfully as you watched Jin try and cram an entire slice of bread into his mouth at once.  "But I don't think he's all that bad."

Jin, having gone back for a second serving of soup, was the last to finish eating.  You swooped in and grabbed his bowl before he could object, placing it on the counter as you waited for the sink to finish filling so you could begin washing the dishes. 

"You don't have to do that," Jin grumbled from his position behind you, standing close enough for you to feel him nervously shuffling from foot to foot.  "I can clean up after myself. "

"Nope, sorry.  It's the house rules," you sighed forlornly, acting as though you weren't the sole person responsible for making those rules.  "If you cook, you don't clean up."

"Is there anything else I could do?  Help you out a little more?"

"I guess you could help me dry?" You offer, scooting over slightly to make room for him in your tiny kitchen area. 

"Aye-aye, Captain!" Jin saluted as he slotted into place next to you, grabbing the dripping wet cup you offered out to him with one hand and picking up a dry dishrag with the other.  

The sounds of clinking cutlery and the slow but steady dripping of your faucet worked together with the rumbling storm outside to craft a peaceful atmosphere; one that helped soften the sharp edges of reality and allowed you to gloss over the fact that you were having a very pleasant time with the man who had started out the evening with the intention of robbing you blind.  

It was reckless and stupid, but you couldn't help but worry a little about what would happen to Jin once he left your apartment.  If he was desperate enough to resort to theft for some quick cash, you couldn't help but wonder and worry about what sort of life awaited him outside of the cramped comfort of your home.  

"Are you going to be okay?  Once you leave?" You ask, prying up a stubborn piece of dried food from the tines of a fork with your fingernail.  

"That's one heck of a loaded question!" Jin laughed sharply.  "The world is an absolute mess right now, society is on the brink of collapsing in on itself- I don't think anyone is going to be okay for a long, long time."

"Yeah, but- there's nothing I can do about any of that stuff," you sigh quietly, watching the small bubbles on the surface of the water swirl around your wrists.  "But I can help you, if you need it.  I probably have enough money to put you up at a hotel for the night.  Keep you out of the storm."

"You're too kind," Jin murmured quietly, his voice heavy with appreciation.  "But I don't want you to worry about me, okay?  Things are…difficult right now.  But it won't last forever."

"I wish I had your optimism."

"It's not optimism," Jin said, placing the last plate into the drying rack next to the sink and passing you the dish towel to wipe your hands on. 

"What is it then?" You asked, unable to fully dry your hands on the wet cloth, so you settled for simply wiping off the lingering film of bubbles from the back of your hands.  

"Experience,” he said, scratching thoughtlessly at the scruff growing unevenly across his exposed jaw.  “My life has always been- well, bad.  Mostly.  I used to really hate that.  Thought it wasn't fair.  But now I don't mind so much."

"Why not?"

"Well, eventually I realized that the bad times I went through made all the good things in my life seem even better," he said, turning his head to gaze out of your taped up window, as though he would be able to see the sky and not the moldering plaster exterior of the apartment complex next to yours. "Stars wouldn't be anything special if it wasn't for all that dark space between em', you know?"

You thought back on your day, on the series of disastrous events that had weighed you down soured your disposition, and how now; with the passage of time and the balm of Jin's companionship, the day didn't feel quite so dreadful in retrospect.

"I hope you saved room for dessert," you smiled, turning to riffle through a cabinet for the small package of cookies you kept tucked away for emergencies.

"Thanks, but I'm still full from dinner.  There's always room for a treat or two!"

The bag of cookies, already half empty from propping you up emotionally during the dramatic season finale of the show you'd binged last weekend, didn't last long.  But you and Jin did your best to stretch out the warm comfort of the evening as long as you could; chatting over the commercials as the emergency weather broadcast came to a conclusion.  

"Welcome back, viewers!" A man with slicked back hair and an unfortunate mustard colored blazer greeted as the title card for the incoming show disappeared from the screen.  "You're tuned in to 'Top 10 at 10', the show where we look back at the week's top moments from the Top Ranked Heroes!  Next up is the Winged Hero: Hawks, swooping in for a rescue-!"

"Ugh," you groan, patting the couch cushions around you in search of the remote.  "Is the controller over by you?  I want to change the channel."

"Nope, no controller," Jin said, his focus solely on the TV as the Number Two Hero crashed through a window on the top most floor of a burning apartment building. "So, you're not a Hawks fan I take it?"

"Hawks gives me weird vibes," you admit, lifting up a throw pillow to peer down into the space next to the arm of the sofa as Hawks waved casually on the screen, a shaking Pomeranian tucked securely under his arm as he floated to the ground.  "I don't trust people who always smile.  It feels like they're trying to hide something."

"You're a good judge of character, aren't you?" Had you been less focused on your frantic search for the remote you would have noticed Jin's uncomfortable fidgeting and repeatedly clenching fists, but you'd missed those telltale signs that preceded a shift in his personality.  So the sudden appearance of that voice, the brash one you'd grown accustomed to hear chiding and correcting Jin's half-truths, was unnerving.  You wondered how loud his unspoken thoughts must be for that second voice to feel the need to comment on Jin's internal dialogue.  

"I used to think so," you laugh dryly, the hand you'd been using to fish around in the couch coming up with a fistful of crumbs and an old tin of forgotten breath mints.  "But recent events definitely have me reevaluating that assumption about myself."

"You shouldn't-," Jin swallowed thickly, carefully considering his words; weighting them for sincerity lest he stray too far off the line of authenticity and unwittingly reveal too much.  "Don't make me be the reason you doubt yourself.  I'll take the blame for all sorts of stuff, but I don't want that to be on me, okay?"

"Okay," you whispered, once again fumbling to regain your emotional footing.  Talking with Jin was like walking across a messy room with your eyes closed, constantly tripping up and unsure of what caused you to even stumble in the first place. 

"I mean, if you can't trust yourself, then who can you trust?" Jin asked, his voice only just beneath a bellow and pulled thin at the edges; a manic sort of cry that poorly covered his underlying distress.  "I can't trust myself anymore!"

"You can’t?"

"No.  I- I broke that trust.  I broke myself."

Carefully, you lower yourself down on the cushion next to him; a vulnerable place for an unguarded moment.  "I know that it probably doesn't mean much of anything coming from me- we're pretty much strangers," you admit with a helpless sort of shrug, extending a hand out towards him like you would a cowering animal; slowly, carefully, like you half expected to be bitten for your trouble.  "But I trust you."

"You don't know me.  I don't even know if I'm me," he admits with a watery sniff, accepting your outstretched hand with his shaking fingers.

"This Jin, this you- ," you emphasize with a tight squeeze of your hand. "-is the only one I know.  And I happen to think he's pretty alright."

"Even for a bad guy?"

"You're the best bad guy I know," you assure him readily, the words somehow playful despite their sincerity.  But it seems like Jin was looking for a way out of the mire of introspection he'd waded into and quickly took the metaphorical hand you'd extended; lifting himself out of his head with a breathy chuckle.  

"I am pretty great, aren't I?"

"A terrible thief, but an excellent chef."

"Guess I missed my calling in life!" He grinned brightly, sucking up the bead of snot dripping from his nose.  

"It's never too late to change."

"It is for me."

You waited anxiously, almost desperately for that second voice to cry out in objection, but the room remained silent except for the canned laughter piping in through the TV speakers.  Whatever path Jin was on offered him no alternative, no deviation from the bumpy road beneath his feet.  

"Earlier, you told me that this isn't who you want to be.  That this is who you have to be."

"Who I need to be.  Who they need me to be."

"Will you do something for me?" You asked, easily sliding the mood ring off of your thumb and spinning it between the fingers of your free hand.  "One last favor and we'll call it even?"

"Of course," Jin nodded solemnly as his chest puffed up; proud to be entrusted with carrying out a task for you.

"When you have the chance, I want you to make the choice you want.  Be the Jin you want to be," you pleaded, sliding the mood ring easily onto his much larger pointer finger.  

"This like a promise ring or something?"

"I suppose," you hum thoughtfully. "But only if you promise."

He held the ring up in front of his face, watching the colors swirl and shift rapidly across the gleaming black stone; far more active than it had been on your own hand.  Jin clenched his fist, locking the ring onto his finger like he was scared it might tumble from his grasp and disappear into the unknown abyss alongside your remote, never to be seen again.  You couldn't see his eyes, only the expressive patterning on his mask that managed to contort with his fluctuating disposition, but there was a sudden weight upon your shoulders that let you know that you were the sole object of his intense focus.  

Jin lifted his ringed hand into the air between you, splaying his fingers wide in front of your face.  The dark, swirling gem of his ring glimmering merrily from the vicinity of your forehead, a third eye for Jin to take with him; an eye that would see him in the way he craved- as the Jin that existed solely in your gaze.  

"I promise."

The night, as all things, could not last forever.  But you were unprepared for the abrupt way that Jin threw himself up from the couch when the late night News broadcast cut to live coverage of a crime in progress; a patch-skinned man cackling in delight as he threw bright blue flames from the back of a speeding van at pursuing police vehicles.  

"That idiot, " he hissed, patting his sides and butt like he was checking for keys or a phone that were very obviously not tucked into his spandex suit.  "I have to go."

"Oh ,"  you manage to say through the clenching knot of dismay that had tied itself up in your chest.  “Will you come back?"

"I- I shouldn't," he whispered, regret palpable in every syllable.  "I want to."

Hastily, you stumbled to your feet and strode across the living room, grabbing the ceramic urn you had on prominent display before circling back and stopping directly in front of Jin. 

"Here,” you said, pushing the vase firmly into Jin's arms.  “Take this.”  

"For the last time, I'm not going to take your Grandma!" Jin cried in exasperation, pushing the floral patterned urn back into your arms. 

"Please," you snorted, lifting off the lid and pulling out a small plastic bag of gray ashes, shaking it back and forth in the air. "This isn't actual people powder.  It's a bunch of charcoal ash I grabbed from my neighbor's grill."

"Then why do you-?"

"I'm not totally naive," you said, hooking your hand on the rim of the urn and gently jostling it, the tell tale clinking of coins echoing from inside.  "Every burglar grabs a piggy bank, but very few think to check a jar of apparent human remains."

"I can't take your savings," Jin protested weakly, staring down longingly at the handfuls of bills scattered amongst the change.  "I'm not gonna steal from you."

"Of course you're not.  First of all, this is a gift ," you emphasize, pushing the urn more firmly against his chest.  "And second, this isn't for you."

"It's not?" Jin asked bewilderedly, twisting his head around to check if a second criminal had snuck into the apartment while he was distracted.

"Nope.  This is for Himiko," you explained, letting go of the vase and stepping back so Jin had no choice but to tighten his grip on the money jar or let it crash to the ground.  "Buy her something nice, okay?  And treat yourself while you’re at it."

"I- I will," he promised, unable to refuse your gesture if it meant securing some measure of comfort for Himiko.  Tucking the urn safely into the crook of his arm, Jin tugged his mask down; obscuring his face fully for the first time.  It was impressive how much that narrow swath of exposed skin had been carved into your memory in such a short span of time.  Even now, through the cover of a mask, you could still make out the small hints of Jin that lay beneath; the jut of his chin, the set of his jaw, the jittery way he clicked his teeth together.  

With a grace you wouldn't expect of a man his size, he slipped towards the patched up window, prying up the frame and squeezing an entire leg out onto your fire escape before he noticed your bewildered expression.

"What is it?  What's wrong?"

"You- you don't have to sneak out the window," you explained, pivoting your body to point towards the entryway.  "You can just use the door."

"Right!  The door!  Of course!" Jin laughed, smacking himself in the forehead as he pulled his leg back into your apartment, hopping clumsily on one foot until his appendage was fully free.  "Forgot that you had one of those."

"Well, I hope you don't forget again," you chastise playfully, guiding him out of your front door and into your apartment breezeway.  "Because I sure would appreciate it if you'd knock next time."

"Next time?" Jin asked, voice hitching hopefully at the invitation.

"Bye, Jin," you smiled, giving him a small wave as you slowly closed the door.  "See you later!"

"Right," he murmured, staring down at his fluctuating mood ring, a smile creeping along his face as white specks scattered across the dark blue stone; like stars glimmering brilliantly in the dark night sky. "Later."

[sgiandubh]

The telling hashtag

So S is willfully disclosing his LHR location, with a story and a post to boot, as expected:

📌at Bourne Offices, 11 Richmond Buildings, in Soho:

Literally round the corner from Soho House, on Dean Street. Of course:

Also, this - very telling:

#gifted. Before *urv starts her demented Fitness at Dawn - The London Hyrox Edition fanfic, let's unpack:

S chose to wear, in this post, one of the sunglasses models from David Beckham's eyewear collection. Price tag is a bit steep (twice my Ray-Ban Wayfarers), but still democratic:

But why the #gifted hashtag? Before you think C or Scottish Xena lovingly picked those up the shelf for his birthday, you might like to check a bit around for context. You see, all dbeyewear collections are manufactured by a single Italian producer based in Padua, Safilo Group. Hashtagged accordingly in his post, by the way.

A couple of days ago, Safilo Group and dbeyewear's commercial partnership reached a new, very important milestone:

[Source: Safilo Group press release, https://assets.ctfassets.net/cmstik7jzbvm/2lwJmoKJR7x3ydijfpi7c6/9870e11fbb2c040a89a6d8acb4ed25ea/20240502_Safilo_firma_un_accordo_di_licenza_perpetua_per_l-eyewear_di_David_Beckham.pdf]

On May 2nd, Safilo Group and Authentic Brands Group (ABG), the corporate side of Eyewear by David Beckham signed a 'perpetual licensing agreement, replacing the current one that would have ended in 2030'. Authentic Brands Group and Safilo Group have been working together since 2019, when Beckham started to design his own eyewear collection. Now, they are taking their collaboration one step further, with ABG (or the licensor) granting Safilo Group (the licensee) perpetual (unlikely to be retired, unless something goes really, awfully wrong along the way: breach of contract, etc.) exclusive right to produce, use, advertise, sell its merchandise.

Something like this needs proper promotion, so Safilo Group and/or ABG graciously sent S those sunglasses, in the hope he will sport them in one of his posts with a potential 3+ million subscriber views.

A word on the UK pretty obscure regulations on promoter advertising and the use of the #gifted hashtag. There is not one, but two competent national regulatory authorities: the Advertising Standards Authority (ASA) and the Competition and Markets Authority (CMA). The ASA is a bit more lenient in its approach and they clearly say that if the promoted product has been sent to the influencer on a no strings attached basis, then it is ok to use that #gifted hashtag. They will not pursue, based on the lack of #ad, however they will name and shame you - not a pretty picture, after all:

[Source, heh: ASA's Influencer Guide to making clear that ads are ads, https://www.asa.org.uk/static/uploaded/3af39c72-76e1-4a59-b2b47e81a034cd1d.pdf]

But the CMA is way more vigilant. They consider that any freebie can and must be monetized, based on its retail value and as such, must be clearly labeled as an #ad, when promoted on socials by an influencer. And yes, they can and might pursue, at any given moment: that must be proportional with the offence and in S's case, it might simply mean being served with a cease and desist notice or a removal and prohibition order. I'd rather not be in those shoes, mind you:

[Source: CMA's guide Hidden ads: Being clear with your audience, 2022; https://www.gov.uk/government/publications/social-media-endorsements-guide-for-influencers/social-media-endorsements-being-transparent-with-your-followers]

If he wants no further headaches, he should simply edit that post and add the right hashtag. It will be interesting to see if and when he will do it.

As for Fitness at Dawn, well... not even sorry.

Gracias a ti, ❤️. Siempre.

[ckret2]

Chapter 12 of Everybody Hates Having Human Bill Cipher As Their Prisoner, featuring: Pacifica doing beauty product commercials!

And she said "Harry's Hairy Fairy Formula" twice with a straight face. Also featuring: Mabel making the terrible decision that perhaps there's a sliver of hope for Bill.

####

Bill trudged into the living room doorway and said flatly, "Help." His gold paint/makeup/glitter had been scraped off his right cheek, leaving a swathe of bare skin; and one corner of his cardboard triangle mask had crumpled in.

Dipper and Mabel looked up from the TV. (They were watching a cartoon about an aggressively adorable anthropomorphic lion and wolf arguing over a rapidly-wilting flower.) Dipper took one look at Bill's damage and struggled to swallow down a laugh. Mabel grimaced. "Oooh. What happened?"

"The stairs. Again."

Dipper asked, "Have you tried sitting on the steps and scooting your butt down one step at a time? I think that's how toddlers do it." Mabel snorted and elbowed him. 

Bill leaned over Dipper, grin disconcertingly widely. The sofa hadn't had seat cushions since Bill dragged them upstairs to serve as his makeshift bed, which just let Bill tower even higher over Dipper. "As a matter of fact, I have tried! It's too slow. I'd rather just fall." Now that Dipper was cringing back sufficiently for Bill's tastes, he turned the creepiness down a good 50% and refocused on Mabel. "So can you help?"

She sighed. "Yeah, come here."

Dipper slid off the sofa. "I'm... gonna go read something." He gestured at the screen. "This is one of Mabel's shows, anyway."

Bill glanced at the screen. The lion and wolf had just declared they didn't want to be friends anymore, and the flower between them promptly died. A watching unicorn shed a heart-shaped tear. Dryly, Bill said, "I'd never have guessed."

Mabel frowned at Dipper as he left—traitor—but Bill was quick to plop down on the spot he'd freed. "Here." He dumped an armload of tape and makeup on top of the folded sofa bed between them. "You've seen this episode before, right? You're not missing anything."

"Uh..." Mabel pulled off a strip of tape. "Yeah, how did you know?"

"Because this show looks about thirty years old."

"Oh. Ha! Yeah. Color Critters is a classic." All the same, she kept glancing over at the screen between strips of tape. (The unicorn was struggling to revive the flower with a beam of green light from her horn, and, when that didn't work, trying to convince the lion and wolf to apologize to each other.)

Not doing anything useful himself, Bill watched the cartoon out of the corner of his eye, too. "If their argument is killing the flowers, wouldn't Hornton here have better success if she kicked 'em out of her garden?"

"Her name's not Hornton, it's Glory. And then they'd just kill flowers somewhere else."

"She could slit one of their throats," Bill suggested. "It takes two people to argue."

Mabel couldn't tell if he was deliberately saying the most offensive thing he could think of, or if the way the Color Critters' narrative established a subtle metaphorical correlation between flourishing friendship and flourishing flowers had sailed right over his head. So she elected to ignore his comment and said, somewhat peevishly,  "You really should start doing your own repairs, you know."

"I tried. How do you think this happened?" He pointed at the patch of missing makeup that had rubbed off his cheek. "Do you know how hard it is to repair your own face when you need to ask permission to use a mirror? I tried to get a spoon to use as a mirror—and then remembered I'm not allowed to use anything but the plastic baby spoons."

Mabel winced. "Oooh. Yeah. That's right." She supposed she couldn't resent him for asking for help. He'd done his due diligence. In his shoes, she probably wouldn't have even thought to use a spoon as a mirror.

Bill leaned forward, elbows on his knees, making it easier for Mabel to reach the damage. "So then I tried to use the glass on one of the family photos in the hall," he went on. "You can't imagine what it's like to try to tape your own face back together while the guys who imprisoned you are grinning at you through your 'mirror.' I'm living in worst conditions than death row inmates. At least they get mirrors."

"You've had such a hard time;" Mabel said sympathetically, then caught herself. "I mean—you deserve a hard time—but even then, you should at least have your own face."

"I'm glad you think so. I think everyone else here would rather keep kicking me while I'm down just to listen to me squeal."

Mabel grimaced, but couldn't honestly say he was wrong. She leaned back, inspecting her tape work. "Okay, that's the best I can do with your mask for now. I'll replace the torn part when we find some more cardboard boxes." It was amazing how quickly a household could run out of cardboard when you had a very clumsy prisoner using it as a substitute for his face.

"We're out of yellow paint, too," Bill said. "We'll have to fill in the gap with extra eyeshadow, I guess."

Mabel sighed, but picked up a makeup brush and started covering up the streaky patch on Bill's cheek. Color Critters had gone to commercial break with Glory running off to get fairy backup, and now that local anti-graffiti PSA that made graffiti look really cool was playing. Maybe if Mabel hurried, she could finish with Bill before the commercials ended and Glory got back with Prisma. (And maybe she could lure Dipper back downstairs. She thought he'd like Glory and Prisma's battle against Serpent Grey, it was how she'd wheedled him into watching this episode in the first place.)

"This eyeshadow palette won't last much longer," Mabel said. They'd already completely used up the best, yellowest shade of gold, and the other three weren't far behind. "And we're really burning through my allowance fast. No offense, Bill, but—I don't think this is a long-term solution." She inwardly braced herself, not sure what kind of reaction to expect out of him.

Bill's expression twisted in a grimace, and Mabel's stomach flipped. He said, "I hate to admit it, but I've been having the same thought."

Mabel quietly sighed in relief.

"Don't get me wrong—the visual results are phenomenal. Stunning! But the upkeep is very high maintenance, the tape is itchy enough it even distracts me, it cuts off my peripheral vision, it muffles sounds, it's hard to sleep and impossible to shower—"

"You haven't been taking it off when you sleep?"

Bill tipped his head back and pointed at the neck hole, big enough for his neck but not for his head. "You didn't design it to be taken off."

"Oh." She supposed she hadn't. No wonder he had a hard time fixing it himself.

"And besides all that, once the initial fun wears off—let's be frank, it's pretty grotesque-looking, isn't it?"

"WHAT? It's not grotesque, it's beautiful! I thought you liked it!"

"Whoa there, Shooting Star, it's not anything you did! It's everything else." He gestured at his body from the neck down.

Mabel gave the rest of Bill a dubious look. "What's wrong with... everything else?"

"Well—" Bill hesitated, a thoughtful frown on his face. "Think of it this way. Imagine you've been turned into a hypersphere—"

"What's a hypersphere?"

Bill paused again, found the English language woefully deficient of vocabulary to describe fourth-dimensional creatures, and said, "Imagine you've been turned into a giraffe."

"Okay." Sounded cool. Mabel visualized herself as a pink giraffe with star-shaped spots.

"And someone helps you look human again—by transforming your giraffe head into a human body. Just your head. And it's still attached to the giraffe neck by the butt."

Mabel snorted.

"And it's got no arms and legs," Bill added. "And if you look closely, you can still see that the human body is made out of a giraffe head. Its eyes and nostrils are visible through the skin of your torso."

"Ew." Mabel shuddered. But... she hadn't really considered what looking human must feel like to a person who had never been human. In some way, she'd always thought of Bill Cipher as essentially faceless. Like he was a symbol with an eyeball. Turning human just meant gaining something new he'd never had before. He had more face now.

But that wasn't how it looked to him, was it? Mabel should have realized that earlier, when he first said that all he wanted was to look like a triangle again. From his perspective, he hadn't gained a new face; he'd just had his real face mutilated with a bunch of lumps and holes that shouldn't be there.

Considered like that... the mask really was grotesque, wasn't it? "Yeah, I get the problem," Mabel said, subdued. "If you want, I could add pipe cleaner arms and legs—but that doesn't fix the real problem, does it?"

"Unfortunately, no. And they'd probably end up like my hat." Bill's construction paper top hat had been the fastest casualty of his clumsiness. "But I like that creative thinking! You're a problem-solver."

Problem-solver. Mabel supposed she was, wasn't she? She plopped her chin in her hand, trying to think of another way to solve this problem.

Bill almost copied the gesture, but realized just in time that would crush the cardboard over his chin and straightened up. He sighed. "As much as it sickens me, maybe you were on to something with the wig idea. I don't like it. It's ugly. But at least when I had hair, it got me vaguely the right silhouette," he made that finger triangle in front of one eye, "without all the upkeep. I think I underestimated how much low maintenance wins out over high fashion."

"Do you want a wig?" Mabel asked warily. They could have saved a lot of effort and allowance money if he'd just accepted her offer of a wig in the first place. 

Bill turned over the question for several seconds, then sighed again. "No, I guess not. I'd have to keep taking it off and on to clean it." He shuddered, then quickly gripped his upper arm, as if he hadn't given his body permission to shudder and he needed to intimidate it out of any further misbehavior. "I'll just wait for the original stuff to grow back out. Maybe save the gold make-up for special occasions."

(Mabel wondered how many special occasions Bill expected to have before Ford figured out a way to kill him, and then wondered how much his hair would have a chance to grow out by then. And then she decided not to wonder about that anymore.)

"Not sure what I'll do in the meantime," Bill muttered. Mabel caught his gaze flicking past her, over her shoulder; he was looking at the spot on the wall where Soos's zodiac blanket used to hang. (Soos had hidden it in his bedroom after Mabel had reclaimed it from Bill.) "But, hey! Good effort, kid. I was impressed by the results—and I don't say that lightly! I think we made some real progress with this." Bill flashed Mabel a smile—too wide, as usual, but this time she thought there was something genuine in it.

Which made her feel all the worse that she'd only "made progress" but hadn't found a solution. "Are there any ways to make your hair grow back faster?"

"There's always lycanthropy. Induce it now and cure it after the next full moon—"

"Thaaat doesn't sound very safe."

"Well, I'd be fine." Bill laughed.

Mabel blew a raspberry at him. "Maybe we could just make you a sturdier mask out of plastic?" she ventured.  "Or—or we could tattoo a pyramid on your face..."

Bill looked intrigued. "Keep talking."

From the TV, a familiar voice said, "Hey, everyone."

Mabel's head swiveled toward the TV—and sure enough. "Pacifica?"

Pacifica was positioning herself on a stool in a blank white studio, wearing the world's preppiest polo and a matching designer skirt. A small, stylish bottle of faceted green glass sat on a second stool. Bold text at the bottom of the screen read "REAL FOOTAGE - NOT A DRAMATIZATION." Lacing her hands casually over her crossed knees, Pacifica said, "You all know me—Pacifica Northwest, famous for being richer and better than you." She flashed a perfect smile.

"Alpaca's doing commercials now?" Bill said. "She's moving down in the world, good for her."

"Wh—? She's not 'alpaca,' it was a llama."

"No it's not."

"I think I'd know," Mabel said. "It was my sweater."

"And it's my zodiac, Shooting Star."

They shushed as a man wearing a suit that probably cost more than Mabel's entire sweater collection came up behind Pacifica with a pair of scissors, and started cutting her hair. Mabel gasped as Pacifica's beautiful blonde hair was reduced to an inch long. Pacifica didn't even look at the callous hair-slasher as she went on, "Ever since my parents lost most but not all of our family fortune, I've had to support my designer purse habit by selling my hair to underprivileged A-list celebrities who need Nordic blonde virgin hair wigs for blockbuster movie roles." She aimed a perfectly-practiced pout at the camera, lower lip pooched out and eyes large and watery. The faux angst lasted for barely a second before she went on, "But luckily, now I don't have to compromise my beautiful looks!"

Another extra in a luxury brand hazmat suit picked up the little green bottle, tipped a few drops into a gloved hand, and worked it into the ends of Pacifica's freshly-cut hair. "Thanks to Harry's Hairy Fairy Formula—a trusted hair-restoration brand for over a hundred and fifty years—I can look my best at all times!" She flipped her long, luxurious curtain of hair with one hand, showing off how it now, once more, hung as low as the seat of her stool. "Harry's Hairy Fairy Formula: for when you have a million bucks, and you want to look like it too." She winked, and an old-fashioned cursive logo reading "Hairy Fairy" filled the screen.

Mabel gaped at the screen. "Yeah, no, okay, that's gotta be fake. There's no way that's real. They must have done some kind of... weird camera tricks. Right?"

"Hairy Fairy's back?" Bill asked, and he sounded kind of impressed. He laughed. "Wow! Usually I have to pull some strings to arrange a contrived coincidence like that, but that fell right into our laps, didn't it!"

If Bill had heard of this brand... "Wait. Is this stuff like... actually magic?"

"There's no such thing as magic," said Bill, the magic triangle who'd magically come back to life in the magic-riddled town of Gravity "Magic Is Our Middle Name" Falls. "But yeah, it works!"

"Nuh-uh, no way. If it can really grow hair, how come I've never heard of it before?"

"Because they went out of business," Bill said. "The original formula was invented a century and change ago by Harold 'Harry' Haroldson, after he was run out of California for selling rotgut as a diet tonic. It did cause people to lose weight, but only because it literally rotted their guts. Hairy Fairy Formula's basically the same—it does exactly what it advertises, as long as you don't mind the side effects—buuut after getting really rich, really fast, Harry couldn't keep up with orders. He'd run out of pixie dust. Local population went extinct. So they haven't been on the market since the 1800s."

Mabel processed that. "Bill, how is pixie dust made?"

"Don't worry about it!" Bill waved a hand dismissively. "Anyway, by the looks of it, somebody with the formula found a fresh supply of their active ingredient! Isn't that... handy."

Against the side of her face, Mabel felt the full weight of the one-eyed gaze that had ravaged millions of minds and compelled thousands of humanity's best and brightest to erect interdimensional doorways to their own doom.

Mabel swallowed hard.

And Bill said, "You and Alpaca are friends, right?"

####

Dipper said, "You want to ask Pacifica what for who?"

"I know it's stupid," Mabel said, and wasn't encouraged by how enthusiastically Dipper nodded. "But—look. Until Grunkle Ford figures out how to get rid of him, we're stuck with him anyway! Him being miserable just makes the whole shack miserable. Even death row prisoners have rights! This is America!"

"He's not American."

"His species probably has prisoner rights."

"What if getting his self-esteem back makes him go back to trying to kill us all?" Dipper asked. 

"It won't! Feeling good about yourself makes you nicer!" Mabel said. "Insecurity is the root of all bullying."

"Bill's a whole lot worse than a bully."

"That just makes him a jumbo bully."

"Fine. But he wasn't exactly nice back when he did like his body."

"O—okay, fair point. But."

But she still saw a sad ghost curled up beneath a blanket in the corner of the attic and remembered picture day.

Mabel paced a figure 8 at the foots of their beds. "Look, he was normal-miserable a few days ago, but he turned hyper-miserable when he cut off his hair. If I get him his hair back, he can go back to being normal-miserable, and he's said he's willing to put up with that, so it's not my problem anymore! I can be done with it."

"You know he's just using you because you're being nice to him, right?"

Mabel shrugged. "I mean, yeah? Duh? He's evil, that's what he does? The fact that he's being evil doesn't mean I'm gonna not do something good."

"But if you give him what he wants this time, you'll just train him to think you'll do anything he wants if he gets sulky about it. It'll make him worse."

Mabel stopped pacing to stare at Dipper. "Do you think Bill can be trained? Bill?"

Dipper actually paused to consider that, lips pursed thoughtfully. "I mean... yeah, I guess, maybe?"

Mabel considered that as well. "I don't know." She resumed pacing. "I... still kinda feel like I should take that chance?"

"Really? What did he say to you?"

"Nothing! Nothing. It's just..."

####

Mabel swallowed hard, staring up at Bill's white-hot, commanding eye. "I'm not doing anything until after this episode," she said.

"And then—?"

"I'll think about it."

Satisfied, Bill nodded. "All right!" Apparently not as satisfied as she'd assumed, he added, "But I'm telling you, that would immediately solve the whole problem. If you wanna get me out of your hair, pun unintended—"

"Nope!" Mabel held a finger over her lips. "Shush time. You don't get to use your con artist mind tricks on me."

Bill planted an offended hand on his hip. "'Con artist mind tricks'?"

"If you bring it up once before this episode is over, I won't even consider doing it. Don't test me!"

"All right, all right! Sheesh." Bill sat back on the sofa, criss-crossed his legs, and got comfortable. Was he planning to watch the episode with her?

He gestured at the screen as a heart-shaped rainbow announced that the show was back. "Okay, so catch me up on the plot." He was planning to watch the episode. So much for getting Dipper back in here. But, hey, as long as somebody was interested in the show...

By the time she'd explained that Leo Proud is in charge of life and playing and the color red—which are basically the same thing—and that Howell Wolf is in charge of creativity and stories, and also he's a wizard, which is why he's blue, which he's also in charge of, naturally—and that usually they're best friends, except Serpent Grey has tricked them into fighting, to kill the flower garden, because friendship is green, obviously—

(Bill nodded along, "Obviously.")

—and if the flowers don't bloom by the spring festival, it will basically mean the end of love and friendship everywhere, which is why Glory the Unicorn—

("What's she in charge of?" "Pink." "Big responsibility.")

—is going to look for Prisma, the Rainbow Fairy, who basically solves all the problems in the color jungle—

(Bill asked, "So who the heck's responsible for green in this organization? Isn't this their department? Why aren't theydealing with this crisis?")

—and Mabel had to pause to explain how busy Love Bunny is on the other side of the jungle with festival preparations which was why she asked Leo and Howell to help out in the first place...

Anyway, by the time she explained all that, Prisma and Glory were already back, and Prisma had spotted Serpent and was trying to chase him out with her rainbow light while Glory protected Leo and Howell, and Mabel thought it really was a very good action sequence, especially considering the show's age and budget, if you ignored the animation errors, but she hadn't had any time to explain Prisma's magic or Glory's role in it, which was a big theme in the show; but...

But even so, by the time of the fight scene, Bill was leaning forward, elbows on knees, creepy grin and intense gaze pointed at the screen—like he was actually paying attention to the cacophony of multicolor lasers. Like he was enjoying it.

Mabel was so surprised when he started laughing and heckling the characters like he was watching a wrestling match—"Yeah, get him! Skin him alive and tie him in knots! I wanna see if he bleeds grey!"—that it took her a moment to register that he was rooting for Prisma. The Rainbow Fairy. Defender of colors and all the goodness and happiness that spawned from them. Not the snake trying to destroy all those things. The good guy.

That didn't make Bill good. Mabel knew people far better than Bill who liked to root for the bad guys. But even so—all the same—she hadn't expected it.

With Serpent defeated, Leo and Howell reconciled, the garden flourishing, and the existence of friendship secured for another year, Bill sat back and said, "Quirky little cosmology they've thought up for this fantasy! And it's a better primer on sympathetic magic than I would've expected out of something aimed at humans who haven't learned to read yet. Especially considering what was going on in the eighties!"

Mabel had no idea what he was talking about. "Do you... like it?"

"I like the colors in the battle scene," Bill said. "This'd be fun to watch on peyote."

It was, Mabel conceded, the most positive response she'd received from anybody she'd shown Color Critters to. 

"But I get now why killing the lion and wolf to save the garden wasn't an option," he added.

"Wait—you do?"

"Sure!" Bill gestured at the running credits. "This show operates on dream logic."

Mabel nodded. Mabel shook her head. "What?"

"The garden isn't real. None of this is real. The only thing that exists in this world is emotions and experiences. Fun, hatred, friendship, resentment, fear, justice—all of those are real, but they're abstract. Anything you can touch is just an illusion, the subconscious mind's metaphor for the things too abstract to see." Bill spoke with the authoritative confidence of a practiced carny explaining to his new assistant how the carnival games were rigged so customers could never win a grand prize without spending twice what the prize was worth. "The issue was never 'They're fighting, so the flowers are dying.' The flowers don't exist! They're just a tool to let you see what's going on in the other guys' heads. 'Save the flowers' is a metaphor for the only thing that really matters: saving the friendship."

Bill turned toward Mabel, the expert on dream logic checking in with the expert on Color Critters, and said, "So killing one of them would defeat the point! Right?"

He clearly thought he was just talking about the themes in a cartoon. He had no idea he'd just said the sappiest thing about friendship Mabel had ever heard a real person say.

####

"I... don't think he's all evil," Mabel said to Dipper. "He's still 99% evil! But there's one percent that still understands normal things. What if I can encourage it! Maybe we can get it to two percent. Maybe five!"

"Whoa. Oh no. Hold on. Tell me you're not trying to rehabilitate Bill Cipher."

"No! Of course not," said Mabel, so confidently that it almost sounded like she really meant it and hadn't already set her heart on reforming the most reviled figure in the multiverse.

And knowing Mabel well enough to know she'd already made up her mind, Dipper went on, "Mabel, we're talking about the worst person ever! He tried to destroy our entire universe, and Grunkle Ford says he's destroyed at least one other. He's been way too evil for way too long to change now."

"You're the one who said it might be possible to train him," Mabel pointed out. "That's what I'm talking about doing! Forget the good-and-evil stuff: think of it as... as a psychology experiment! If we're nice to him, will he be a little nicer back? Why not try—as long as we don't do anything dangerous?"

Dipper's resolve wavered. He looked away from Mabel's hopeful face, gaze skimming the room for something else to look at—and fell on Bartholomew. The doll had teleported onto Mabel's bed while they weren't paying attention. When they'd first gotten him out of the crane game, he'd hid in the shack's air conditioning vents and tried to murder them so he could take over their lives. He hadn't stopped trying to kill them until Mabel suggested he join their lives and offered to make him a cradle to sleep in. Now, he was peacefully cuddled up with a tie-dye plushie alien Mabel had bought in Roswell. 

"Okay, fine—as long as we're not helping him do anything dangerous," Dipper said. "And if we're doing an experiment, I'm in the control group. I won't pretend to be nice to him."

A grin broke out across Mabel's face. "I'll text Pacifica!"

####

The door to Ford's study creaked open. "Hey, Grunkle Ford?"

Ford looked up from his calculations-covered desk. "Dipper! Yes?"

"Quick question," Dipper said. "To your knowledge, if Bill's hair grows back, is there any possible way he could use it to... I don't know, kill us all or end the world or something?"

Ford stared at Dipper. He blinked. "Er—short of shaving it back off and braiding it into a rope to strangle us? Not that I'm aware of." He scratched his chin thoughtfully. "And I imagine it would be a lot easier to just rip a curtain to shreds and make that a rope." Maybe he should hide the curtains?

Dipper nodded. "Okay. Great. Follow-up question: have you ever heard of a brand called 'Hairy Fairy'?"

"Wh—you mean the hair tonic invented by Harold Haroldson? The one behind the Oregon Pixie Extinction of 1891?"

"The... what?"

Ford stood, rummaging through several books on a nearby bookcase. "It was a short-lived brand. I found some mentions of it in the Gravity Falls Library back when I was researching the history of the town—ah!" He pulled out an old binder he'd stuffed with copies of unusual newspaper clippings from the town's historical archives, and flipped through them until he found an advertisement for Harry's Hairy Fairy Formula. "Here."

Dipper accepted the advertisement and skimmed it. "It says 'for best results, do not apply directly to skin.' Is there anything dangerous about this stuff? Does it melt your face off, or...?"

"I'm afraid I don't know. Information on Hairy Fairy is sparse, considering the lengths the company went to to keep its main ingredient a secret. I've never even seen a surviving sample."

Dipper nodded. "Thanks, Grunkle Ford." He shut the study door. After a moment, Ford heard the elevator rising.

He shot a dark look toward the ceiling and muttered, "What are you up to this time?"

####

MABEL: Heyyyy Pacifica it's Mabel! 🌈🌟 I saw your commercial! You were sooo great! That thing about actors was REALLY funny lol

MABEL: So ANYWAY how does somebody get their hands on that hairy fairy stuff??? 👀

PACIFICA: Oh cool, I didn't know they were airing the commercial in Gravity Falls. I thought market research decided it was too poor to be worth the air time?

PACIFICA: No offense

MABEL: I'll pretend not to be offended!

PACIFICA: You totally can't afford it though lmao. It costs like $10k for 3 oz.

MABEL: 🙀

PACIFICA: But like if you want to LOOK at it, HF will have a booth at the country club tomorrow. I'm their model for the demonstration, so I could get you and Dipper in if you promise not to wear anything embarrassing.

MABEL: Do they have free samples?

PACIFICA: 😂😂😂 No

PACIFICA: But maybe smelling the fumes will give you shinier hair or something idk.

MABEL: Worth a shot!!! See you there!