#covers: his portrait of the queen is not without affection‚ and the series ends on a note of public celebration with the diamond jubilee

[blackswaneuroparedux]

Anonymous asked: I noticed you did post to acknowledge the death of Uderzo, the co-creator of the Asterix comics. I have to ask Tintin or Asterix? Which one do you prefer?

It’s like asking Stones or Beatles? I love both but for different reasons. I would hate to choose between the two.

Both Tintin and Asterix were the two halves of a comic dyad of my childhood. Whether it was India, China, Hong Kong, Japan, or the Middle East the one thing that threads my childhood experience of living in these countries was finding a quiet place in the home to get lost reading Asterix and Tintin.

Even when I was eventually carted off to boarding school back in England I took as many of my Tintin and Asterix comics books with me as I could. They became like underground black market currency to exchange with other girls for other things like food or chocolates sent by parents and other illicit things like alcohol. Having them and reading them was like having familiar friends close by to make you feel less lonely in new surroundings and survive the bear pit of other girls living together.

If you asked my parents - especially my father - he would say Tintin hands down. He has - and continues to have in his library at home - a huge collection of Tintin comic books in as many different language translations as possible. He’s still collecting translations of each of the Tintin books in the most obscure languages he can find. I have both all the Tintin comic books - but only in English and French translations, and the odd Norwegian one - as well as all the Asterix comic books (only in English and French).

Speaking for myself I would be torn to decide between the two. Each have their virtues and I appreciate them for different reasons.

Tintin was truly about adventure that spoke deeply to me. Tintin was always a good detective story that soon turned to a travel adventure. It has it all: technology, politics, science and history. Of course the art is more simpler, but it is also cleaner and translates the wondrous far-off locations beautifully and with a sense of awe that you don’t see in the Asterix books. Indeed Hergé was into film-noir and thriller movies, and the panels are almost like storyboards for The Maltese Falcon or African Queen.

The plot lines of Tintin are intriguing rather than overly clever but the gallery of characters are much deeper, more flawed and morally ambiguous. Take Captain Haddock I loved his pullover, his strangely large feet, his endless swearing and his inability to pass a bottle without emptying it. He combined bravery and helplessness in a manner I found irresistible.

I’ve read that there is a deeply Freudian reading to the Tintin books. I think there is a good case for it. The Secret of the Unicorn and Red Rackham's Treasure are both about Captain Haddock's family. Haddock's ancestor, Sir Francis Haddock, is the illegitimate son of the French Sun King – and this mirrors what happened in Hergé's family, who liked to believe that his father was the illegitimate son of the Belgian king. This theme played out in so many of the books. In The Castafiore Emerald, the opera singer sings the jewel song from Faust, which is about a lowly woman banged up by a nobleman – and she sings it right in front of Sir Francis Haddock, with the captain blocking his ears. It's like the Finnegans Wake of the cartoon. Nothing happens - but everything happens.

Another great part is that the storylines continue on for several albums, allowing them to be more complex, instead of the more simplistic Asterix plot lines which are always wrapped up nicely at the end of each book.

Overall I felt a great affinity with Tintin - his youthful innocence, wanting to solve problems, always resourceful, optimistic, and brave. Above all Tintin gave me wanderlust. Was there a place he and Milou (Snowy) didn’t go to? When they had covered the four corners of the world Tintin and Milou went to the moon for heaven’s sake!

What I loved about Asterix was the style, specifically Uderzo’s visual style. I liked Hergé’s clean style, the ligne claire of his pen, but Asterix was drawn as caricature: the big noses, the huge bellies, often being prodded by sausage-like fingers. This was more appealing to little children because they were more fun to marvel at.

In particular I liked was the way Uderzo’s style progressed with each comic book. The panels of Asterix the Gaul felt rudimentary compared to the later works and by the time Asterix and Cleopatra, the sixth book to be published, came out, you finally felt that this was what they ought to look like. It was an important lesson for a child to learn: that you could get better at what you did over time. Each book seemed to have its own palette and perhaps Uderzo’s best work is in Asterix in Spain.

I also feel Asterix doesn’t get enough credit for being more complex. Once you peel back the initial layers, Asterix has some great literal depth going on - puns and word play, the English translation names are all extremely clever, there are many hidden details in the superb art to explore that you will quite often miss when you initially read it and in a lot of the truly classic albums they are satirising a real life country/group/person/political system, usually in an incredibly clever and humorous way.

What I found especially appealing was that it was also a brilliant microcosm of many classical studies subjects - ancient Egypt, the Romans and Greek art - and is a good first step for young children wanting to explore that stuff before studying it at school.

What I discovered recently was that Uderzo was colour blind which explains why he much preferred the clear line to any hint of shade, and it was that that enabled his drawings to redefine antiquity so distinctively in his own terms. For decades after the death of René Goscinny in 1977, Uderzo provided a living link to the golden age of the greatest series of comic books ever written: Paul McCartney to Goscinny’s John Lennon. Uderzo, as the Asterix illustrator, was better able to continue the series after Goscinny’s death than Goscinny would have been had Uderzo had died first, and yet the later books were, so almost every fan agrees, not a patch on the originals: very much Wings to the Beatles. What elevated the cartoons, brilliant though they were, to the level of genius was the quality of the scripts that inspired them. Again and again, in illustration after illustration, the visual humour depends for its full force on the accompaniment provided by Goscinny’s jokes.

Here below is a great example:

There’s a lot of genius in this. Uderzo copied Theodore Géricault’s iconic ‘Raft of the Medusa’ 1818 painting in ‘Asterix The Legionary’. The painting is generally regarded as an icon of Romanticism. It depicts an event whose human and political aspects greatly interested Géricault: the wreck of a French frigate, Medusa, off the coast of Senegal in 1816, with over 150 soldiers on board. But Anthea Bell’s translation of Goscinny’s text (including the pictorial and verbal pun ‘we’ve been framed, by Jericho’) is really extraordinary and captures the spirit of the Asterix cartoons perfectly.

This captures perfectly my sense of humour as it acknowledges the seriousness of life but finds humour in them through a sly cleverness and always with a open hearted joy. There is no question that if humour was the measuring yard stick then Asterix and not Tintin would win hands down.

It’s also a mistake to think that the world of Asterix was insular in comparison to the amazing countries Tintin had adventures. Asterix’s world is very much Europe.

Every nationality that Asterix encounters is gently satirised. No other post-war artistic duo offered Europeans a more universally popular portrait of themselves, perhaps, than did Goscinny and Uderzo. The stereotypes with which he made such affectionate play in his cartoons – the haughty Spaniard, the chocolate-loving Belgian, the stiff-upper-lipped Briton – seemed to be just what a continent left prostrate by war and nationalism were secretly craving. Many shrewd commentators believe that during the golden age when Goscinny was still alive to pen the scripts, that it was a fantasy on French resistance during occupation by Nazi Germany. Uderzo lived through the occupation and so there is truth in that. Perhaps this is why the Germans are the exceptions as they are treated unsympathetically in Asterix and the Goths, and why quite a few of the books turn on questions of loyalty and treachery.

Even the British are satirised with an affection that borders on love: the worst of the digs are about our appalling cuisine (everything is boiled, and served with mint sauce, and the beer is warm), but everything points to the Gauls’ and the Britons’ closeness. They have the same social structure, even down to having one village still holding out against the Romans; the crucial and extremely generous difference being that the Britons do not have a magic potion to help them fight. Instead they have tea, introduced to them by Getafix, via Asterix, which gives them so much of a psychological boost that it may as well have been the magic potion.

I re-read ‘Asterix in Britain’ (Astérix chez les Bretons) in the light of the 2016 Brexit referendum result and felt despaired that such a playful and respectful portrayal of this country was not reciprocated. Don’t get me wrong I voted for Brexit but I remain a staunch Europhile. It made me violently irritated to see many historically illiterate pro-Brexit oiks who mistakenly believed the EU and Europe were the same thing. They are not. One was originally a sincere band aid to heal and bring together two of the greatest warring powers in continental Europe that grotesquely grew into an unaccountable bureaucratic manager’s utopian wet dream, and the other is a cradle of Western achievement in culture, sciences and the arts that we are all heirs to.

What I loved about Asterix was that it cut across generations. As a young girl I often retreated into my imaginary world of Asterix where our family home had an imaginary timber fence and a dry moat to keep the world (or the Romans) out. I think this was partly because my parents were so busy as many friends and outsiders made demands on their time and they couldn’t say no or they were throwing lavish parties for their guests. Family time was sacred to us all but I felt especially miffed if our time got eaten away. Then, as I grew up, different levels of reading opened up to me apart from the humour in the names, the plays on words, and the illustrations. There is something about the notion of one tiny little village, where everybody knows each other, trying to hold off the dark forces of the rest of the world. Being the underdog, up against everyone, but with a sense of humour and having fun, really resonated with my child's eye view of the world.

The thing about both Asterix and Tintin books is that they are at heart adventure comics with many layers of detail and themes built into them. For children, Asterix books are the clear winner, as they have much better art and are more fantastical. Most of the bad characters in the books are not truly evil either and no-one ever dies, which appeals hugely to children. For older readers, Tintin has danger, deeper characters with deep political themes, bad guys with truly evil motives, and even deaths. It’s more rooted in the real world, so a young reader can visualise themselves as Tintin, travelling to these real life places and being a hero.

As I get older and re-read Asterix and Tintin from time to time I discover new things. 

From Asterix, there is something about the notion of one tiny little village, where everybody knows each other, trying to hold off the dark forces of the rest of the world. Being the underdog, up against everyone, but with a sense of humour and having fun, really resonated with my child's eye view of the world. In my adult world it now makes me appreciate the value of family, friends, and community and even national identity. Even as globalisation and the rise of homogenous consumerism threatens to envelope the unique diversity of our cultures, like Asterix, we can defend to the death the cultural values that define us but not through isolation or by diminishing the respect due to other cultures and their cultural achievements.

From Tintin I got wanderlust. This fierce even urgent need to travel and explore the world was in part due to reading the adventures of Tintin. It was by living in such diverse cultures overseas and trying to get under the skin of those cultures by learning their languages and respecting their customs that I realised how much I valued my own heritage and traditions without diminishing anyone else.

So I’m sorry but I can’t choose one over the other, I need both Asterix and Tintin as a dyad to remind me that the importance of home and heritage is best done through travel and adventure elsewhere.

Thanks for your question.

[psychemeanscure]

PART 21

Everything happened so fast. It was just Jang Taeyoung being wasted with the amount of alcohol he can be after a wrecking voice message he received from her to later getting delirious of her own image he always adored for. The next thing his assistant could only remember, was that they already backing up their boss of knocking out each man of the Alcaziar’s son, Zilo.

Yes, they’re currently in a chase to get the two-faced young dimwit indeed. Going ever possible place it could gone. And they did. Its warehouse of drugs. Jang Taeyoung holding a steel bar in its right hand, the other’s in pocket then he’s good to go with another battle. Walking boringly to the next pack, he spoke.

“Were you the last batch?”        

Lee tried to stop his boss for a reason, just to be interjected by Jae. “Don’t dare.”

“What?! He’s not thinking straight, Jae. We need to stop him before it gets worse!?”

Truly. They might just be ordinary subordinate who only follow the orders been ask to them, yet they were still human after all. Over the years of working with the great troubleshooter, they knew they also learn to care for him. So for Lee to witness the extent of his boss’ moves until today is too much not to pry.

Or better well said, being acquainted with a woman named Sung Eunyoung is dangerous more than what he expected it to be. He’s aware. Rather they all aware of its affection to her, but how can’t he worry when high officials were already involved. Given that his boss was in the bridge of being observed due to being investigated she caused even. They shouldn’t risk his safety!

“Jae!”

Another call he needed to his co-subordinate. “We can’t.”

Only to get debated once again. “The f*ck?”

His complain, but a recall for Jae. Remembering every bit, a Jang Taeyoung perceived when he himself tried to stop him as well. In its penthouse, in front of its own portrait. He knew, his boss is ready to risk everything.

The way Jang Taeyoung pushes the invisible button of his portrait revealing his secret revolver, a still wrapped blue gum, and cd tapes he left hidden over the years. A remembrance of his failed past. The SIESTA project which was once his writer self’s work to greed.

Tucking the gun on his holster while handing the gum and tapes to his assistant. He commanded. “Send this to Manager.”

By the mere mention of it, Jae instantly got alerted. He doesn’t even need to ask further for he already understand what that was. The Manager. Its former Russian boss who has a knack of not giving up pursuing his boss’ blue gum experiment that even after its exit with the gang, its interest didn’t end. Yet, Jang Taeyoung never gives in to that. Despite the continuous offer his former boss bestow for him, none until today.

He never been for he knew it was unsuccessful itself. He cannot manage of showing it again. Not even his Sung Eunyoung who almost knew about it. The reason why it’s been covered with satin cloth all the while as his hasty flexes halts her the moment she was about to touch his portrait. But if it’s his failure the only choice to keep her safe, so be it.

“Boss, isn’t it better if we should see things first before doing---“

“There ain’t something to see already, Jae.”

“But boss, you know the consequences---“

“Can’t you see this isn’t about me anymore?!”

He finally erupted. Sighing to calm himself, he faced his assistant once again. “He’s the only one who can help us. So just do what I told you to do so. You know what I meant about it, aren’t you?”

Hearing his last sentence somehow relieve his assistant as a proposal begins to form from its mouth. “If that’s the case, then we should ask for extra troop for you, bo--“

“I don’t need one. She’s much important.”

Responding a groan, Jae disagreed. “Boss, we can’t get you in dang---“  

“Another word Jae, and I might just kill you as well.”

And just like that, he surrendered and comprehend his boss’ request instead. And just as today they had no choice but to watch him fighting without braking.

Tapping Lee’s shoulder, he reminded. “We can no longer stop him, Bud. He’s already unstoppable. Accomplish or not, we’re only left with one choice and that is to protect who’s important to him at all cost. That’s all he wants.”  

Huffing with heavy breath with one-man punch to enemy’s underling, “F*ck this.” He follows. As in just a snap, they became their boss’ support system.

~

“Boss, saw the Alcaziar!”

A shout from one of his men, Jang firmly retorted. “Where?”

Pointing out the area, his men answered. “Along the hallway, upper right.”

That with one swift move, he tags along sprinting to the opposite side contradicting its path until he did. He reached him as he pointed his already loaded revolver at the back of its head. No doubt, the young Alcaziar is finally captured.

Welcomed by its mocking smiling face as it turns to face him, hands in the air. “Bang, little brother.” His reciprocated mockery even. As the act-like embarrassed Alcaziar answers. “Eish… Fine. I’m busted.”

For it was also too fast for Jang to drag him in a scattered gambling room, being beaten in some of his trivial parts. “Now, dimwit. It’s either you tell me where your delusional father is, or be dead instead. Your choice.”  

Wiping out some dust from his black suit, he threatened. Just to receive the snickering laugh of the young Spaniard, looking up to him, drained. “As if I had a choice either.” Its own hopeless answer as Jang Taeyoung starts to click his heels to sit by a near table with checker chips on it. Unmoved from the pity situation of the other. Picking one piece of chip as he pictures it like chess pieces before opening a theoretical talk.

“You play chess, Zilo?”

“I am. Why?”

As delighted Jang smirk. “So will you believe if I say why queen and knights are best partners in chess then?”

Confused Zilo questioned. “Shouldn’t it be the king and queen on a throne, though?”

Rubbing the texture of the checker chip, he retorted. “That’s the luxury of monarch, dimwit. Unfortunately, we’re talking boards where all I can see is a king who only proves himself useless in it. Hiding between his towers and pawn fences while lazily waiting for its queen’s pride and brave knight’s outcome. You got the sense, Zilo?”

Narrowing eyes starts to retract. “A give and take blabber getting the privilege which should have been given to queen and knights, you saying? Pathetic.” 

“Exactly. Makes sense, right.”

“Right. So what do they call each other? Comrades ready to reach supremacy? Great.”

As the amused chuckle came after Jang, “That’s how they’re made to be a perfect team! And you know what’s more fascinating?”

“What?”

Walking over to the young Alcaziar again, he bent. “It was when a queen’s in danger, the knight cannot be much angrier than slaughter and unforgiving.” Face leveled, as he begins to tap his revolver to its cheek itching to pull its trigger.

“So spill now young Alcaziar before this knight in front you become a stallion you can’t hardly imagine.”

His knowing verdict, only yet to be responded by a beaming smirk, urging its next word. “Too bad, brother. That’s just also the irony of chess you’re perceiving of.” Pausing to surround its eyes around the room, security agents flock to corner Jang and his men with guns. “You forgot the prankster bishop who hides in surprise behind the pawns.”  

“What will you do now, knight? The fences are already after you.”

Recognizing they are owned by filthy back up officials they have, he can only awe in sarcasm. Manically laughing like they were just joking around, gaping orbs following the surprise sight, mannish arms resting from his crouched knees. Cold Jang Taeyoung finally advents.

“Know what, dimwit?”

“What?”

“That for some time I actually thought of you as one. A younger brother I never had.”

Zilo was lying if it didn’t warm him for it obviously did as his once smirking face easily vanish just like that. Looking up to already standing older brother he never had as well. It’s too late.

Gazing to multiple guns pointing at him, he complains. “Eish… F*cking law makers.” Before he went back to look down Zilo. “I guess I misjudge you then.” Pulling out his revolver once again, he left one last word.

“Let’s play the game if given the chance, yeah? Who knows.”

And with a starting blow from the enemy’s agents, the imprudent chaos has begun. Together with his men, Jang knocks every underling that goes on his way. Series of bullets heard and wasted, lifeless bodies lying on the grime of floors, stinks of blood spread on endlessly from the dirty four walls. As all he could think of, is to chase the straightway escape of the young Alcaziar who has been escorted from the start.

But he was too late. They were already far for his reach. The youngster’s car freely drives from the buzzing path of sinners for cursing is the only thing that can pass his anger.

Before another gunshot was heard. For it was his stooping body covered with blood he saw. “We got him!” as a voice unfamiliar to him speaks out. The pain is bearable though like they intentionally miss to shot the most vital part of him as it didn’t take him long to know the reason why as another flocks of underling came rushing after, ready to take him down. He fights back. Even if his body isn’t cooperating this time.

How a simple stretch of his legs he flawlessly does, is lost. How hasty blocks became his wrecking bricks. And how his keen reflexes of dodges demote to novice. He hates it! He’s not usually a person who easily get strained with a mere shot. F*ck, he got the worst even!  

It seems like they implanted something from the bullet fired to him which lead him to be weak. Whatever it is, he’s f*cking screwed up! “Tss. These f*cking cowards.” His hell of grumbles the moment they were ask to stop their countless attacks. With his once perfect face busted and once well-built figure turns into qualmish leaf. They successfully take advantage of his current wimps indeed.  

Surely as he was fighting them alone, actually. How can he get help even when his men have their own fight meters afar from his? A much more number than he partakes.    

Pressing his gushing stomach while holding any possible thing that can give him strength which turns out to be edges of wooden recycling bins. He looks up to the scumbag that caused him then. Veeros Alcaziar, bending to face the aggrieved him. “Hey, young lad.” Its unabashed greeting. “How was the show, eh?” its next word as he can only grunt trying to grab its collar by the hand that was once holding the edge of the bins. Only for him to end up gripped lousily instead.

“W-where. Where did you bring Sung Eunyoung!”

Regaining a remaining strength, he has. He enraged. And the latter just confidently tapping his downgrade shoulder. “Don’t worry, young man. You’ll meet each other soon.” Its lunatic response as he begins to get drowsy. Medicine perhaps takes its effect.                                

“You know what you missed about the king, Lad?”

‘So he’s there all along.’ He thought.

Leaning its head towards his ear, the geezer whispered.

“It’s his manipulative intelligence.”

Then a Jang Taeyoung, finally passed out.

~

“Wake up. Jang Taeyoung, wake up!”

For there it is. The voice he had searched like years. Heard by his own lobes.

[heyyyharry]

In Another Life Series: Chapter 2 - The Assistant

...in which Harry’s got a new assistant and Y/N’s got a new job.

Series description: Y/N and Harry are soulmates and destined to meet in every lifetime, but no matter how many times they reincarnate and find each other again, they never seem to get it right.

AU: reincarnation, soulmate!harry, prince!harry, and assistant!y/n

I hope you guys enjoy this, questions are very welcomed.

Chapter 1 - The Painting Harry and Y/N come across a strange portrait in an art museum.

~~~

The young Prince hurried his feet down the corridor to his father’s meeting room. Though the guards tried to stop him from disturbing the King, he was in no way affected by their warnings.

“Stop me and I’d have you all beheaded,” he growled and the men in armors immediately backed away. 

Knowing the Prince their whole lives, all the servants of the royal court had no doubt that he would always put his words into actions. So of course, for fear of losing their heads, these men had to let him through.

“Father, may I speak with you?” The Prince spoke when he barged into the room all of a sudden. Still his entrance didn’t steal the King’s attention away from the open book in front of him.

“Edward, did I just hear you threaten to have my guards’ heads?” The old monarch shifted a bit in his chair, making the young man flinch in anxiety.

The King was the only person in the world who could have the Prince shaking in his boots, which was why Edward had never failed to follow his father’s every wish since the day he was born. This time, however, would be an exception.

“Father, I was informed about the Princess’ visit.”

“Good.” The King lifted his face and gave his son a firm stare. “You should be getting ready, she’d be here soon.”

“With all due respect, father, I am not going to marry a girl I do not know.”

“She’s the Princess of France.”

“I don’t care who she is. I do not love her.” Edward could not believe he dared to say that himself, still he stood tall with no sign of weakness, exactly like his father had taught him.

But instead of showing his concern, the King appeared a bit too calm in reaction to his son’s objection to the marriage arrangement.

“Spending too much time with your mother, I see.” He shook his head side to side slowly. “Edward, royalties do not marry for love, we marry for duty. And your duty to the kingdom is having that French girl as your wife, for the French are one of our strongest allies.”

“So you do not love my mother?”

“I love the Queen, because I am married to her, not the other way around,” the King asserted as he closed the book in front of him and intertwined his fingers on the table, not a single smile displayed upon his thin lips.

“You are going to marry this Princess, then you will learn to love her.”

...

For the past fifteen minutes, Harry had been pacing back and forth in the studio with his phone clutched in his hand. His girlfriend hadn’t replied to his latest text or called him back and he knew all too well that meant nothing but trouble. It wasn’t the first time they fought though. In fact, they hadn’t gone through one month in their two years together without at least one big argument. It always began with her getting mad at something he did or said, and ended with him begging on his knees for her to stay.

Jeff had been watching Harry from the couch for a while now, and even though it wasn’t him who’s in hot water, he still got pretty frustrated.

“Harold, could you please just sit down?”

“Lillie, she-”

“Enough with Lillie! You have more important things to take care of over here.” Jeff exhales, patting on the pile of folders in front of him to get Harry’s attention. 

“What are those?”

“Job applications.”

Harry breathed out a laugh, then realized Jeff wasn’t joking. “I already told you I didn’t need a personal assistant.”

“Yes, Harry, you sure as hell need one. You’re going to be so busy once your second tour starts.”

“The last assistant sold my private info to the press. I don’t trust anyone else, I’ve got you.”

“I cannot help you with everything, Haz! I’ve read and picked out these excellent applications, your job is just to decide which one.”

“Okay then.” Harry bent down and pulled out a random folder in the pile, then handed it to his manager. “This one.”

“But you haven’t even read what’s inside!”

“But you have, and I trust you.” Harry grinned, just in time his phone notified him of a new text from his girlfriend, and he wasted no time to make his way to the exit. “Could you please take care of the rest? I will be right back!”

“Harry!”

“I promise!” shouted Harry from the door as the sound of his footsteps faded away in the hallway.

...

“With me in the studio right now is the lovely and talented singer/songwriter Lillie Xander!”

“Thank you for having me!”

“You’re welcome darling! So Lillie, your first single Him has reached number one in the UK, I mean, the song itself is a bop, but the fans cannot stop talking about the lyrics. They all want to know if this song is about your boyfriend Harry Styles.”

“I think the lyrics are fairly self-explanatory. I’m in a happy relationship and I think it’s common for artists to write from personal experiences. I hope that answers your question.”

“It certainly does, thanks love. Now, let’s listen to Him from Lillie’s new album ‘French Rose’ coming out this October!”

“Hey! Give me back my phone!”

Y/N ignored her friend’s reaction as she turned the iPhone’s volume down, then handed the device back to the girl.

“Did you have to listen to your radio show that loud, Lisa?” Y/N snorted, receiving a disapproving glare from her friend.

“Because that’s Lillie fucking Xander!”

“Well, I’m trying to concentrate!” said Y/N as she marched out of the kitchen, back to the couch where she’d left her unfinished sketch. Lisa pulled herself a chair by the dining table and paused her radio show to check on her friend.

“Weird, I haven’t seen you draw again in months, getting all inspired by that museum date?”

Y/N paused the movements of her pencil on the paper and looked up, receiving a playful grin from Lisa.

“Okay, first of all, it wasn’t a date,” she clarified, squinting her eyes as she put the pencil down. “Second of all, don’t even mention Jason, okay?”

“Come on, how long are you gonna stay mad at him?”

“He tried to kiss me, Lisa! He’s been my best friend since first grade now I can’t even look at him!”

“At least talk it out like adults, you can’t ignore him forever.”

Just as Lisa finished her sentence, Y/N’s phone on the dining table started ringing, announcing her of an incoming call. Lisa reached out to grab it and Y/N immediately shouted from the couch, telling her friend not to answer.

“It’s not Jason! Unknown caller ID!”

“Don’t answer that either, it could be Jason using someone else’s number!”

“Hello? Yes, this is Y/N’s number.”

“Lisa!” 

“No, I’m her friend.”

“What are you doing, Lis?!”

Y/N fled from the couch, straight into the kitchen, quickly attempted to grab her phone away but Lisa’s facial expression stopped Y/N dead in her track. 

“Okay here she is.” Lisa covered the phone with her other hand and her eyebrows knitted together as she whispered aggressively to Y/N, “Jeffrey Azoff is on the fucking phone!”

The news was a bolt from the blue to Y/N, she was too shocked to know what to say, but Lisa kept mouthing to her to answer it, and she was left with no other choice.

Y/N took the phone, trying to calm her breathing as she brought it to her ear and muttered the word, “hello?”

“Is this Y/N Y/L/N?” asked the male voice on the other line.

“Yes, it’s me.”

“Hi, I’m Jeffrey Azoff, Harry Styles’ manager.” Y/N was rooted to the spot when she heard those two names in the same sentence, but it wasn’t the only surprise she was gonna get today. 

“Congratulations, Y/N, you’ve got the job!”

[rileywrites-parker]

Tell me you see it

Peter Parker x Reader

Summary: You decide to take a photography class to help Peter out with some work endeavors. He takes the class with you. It goes much better than you expected.

This one works a little like ‘Have I told you?’ where the italicized bits are flash backs. Peter is older. (Also, I have no idea how pictures are processed in a dark room, so if you do, excuse my descriptions and hastily researched process.)

Just some good ol’ fashioned fluff.

Words: 3,160 Warnings: None.

It hadn’t taken too much convincing from your friend to finally sign up for the Photography workshop your college was offering. Taking photographs had never really been much more than a hobby.

It was Peter who had a knack for it.

His passion for capturing the world had recently turned into a way to make money to help his Aunt out with a few bills; his pictures of Queens’ very own friendly neighborhood vigilante gracing the cover of the Bugle nearly every issue.

The quality of the photos were astounding and frankly a little unbelievable; the angles and perspective such that it was difficult to comprehend how someone could possibly be in the right place and time, every time, to even obtain images of such class. How did Peter get up there? What was Peter even doing hanging around that part of town? What kind of lens was Peter using to get so much detail?

Why was no one asking these questions?

It was obvious to you, but then you also had the advantage of knowing that Peter was in fact taking photos of himself. 

Easy to take pictures of Spider-man when you’re Spider-man.

Which was why it had been an easy decision to sign up for the class; you were going to start helping Peter with his photos before anyone had the opportunity to develop any suspicion.

He had then signed up with you.

Your first assignment had been to pick a partner and over the course of the next week, work on taking portraits. ‘I really want you to focus on the quality of light. How does light affect the subject matter and vice versa?’

Peter stood from his seat next to you, throwing his backpack over his shoulder and adjusting the camera around his neck. Stepping around to the front of the table he gave you a grin, arms spread wide open, “Ok,” he brought his hands together with a clap, “so, let’s get started,” his eyes bright with excitement.

Your fingers fiddled around with the shutter speed dial of your borrowed camera, turning it back and forth as you looked up at him.

He had been late to class this morning, sliding in through the door in the back of the room and quietly slipping into the seat next to you, greeting you with a gentle hand on your shoulder.

Looking at him now, your breath caught a little. Catching on the way that his naturally wavy hair was a little unkempt, a few stray curls loose over his forehead, that funny eyebrow of his a little more out of control than usual. The collar of his flannel shirt uneven and poking up towards his ear, the sleeves rolled up a little unevenly on each arm, showing off the smooth, tanned skin of his forearms. He hadn’t even managed to do up the buttons properly, the flannel not quite lining up at the wrinkled hem above his belt.

At least the jacket he wore looked in one piece.

You chuckled a bit as you worked to get the lens cap off, bringing the camera up to your eye as quickly as you could, snapping a few shots in succession.

You put the cap back on, standing to gather your things, tucking everything into your bag before walking around the table and reaching for his collar. He tensed as your fingertips brushed along his neck, and then into his hair, putting the loose locks back into place with the rest of his curls. Stepping back to look over your work, you gave him a grin and a nod, deciding to forego undressing the boy in public to fix his fumbled buttoning.

“You’re a mess, Parker.”

Bringing his hands to his chest and tilting his head a bit at you, looking down at you through his lashes; “Come on, me? Peter Parker,” leaning in so that only you could hear, “Spider-man? I don’t think so.”

A curl had come loose again, sitting comfortably above the wild hairs of his eyebrow.

Shaking your head at him as you laughed and walked towards the door, “Yeah, sure thing, Pete.” You looked back over your shoulder to see him following close behind, reaching a lanky arm above your head to push the door open for you.

“Maybe you should learn to put a shirt on first before you go saying things like that.”

You wished you had your camera ready to catch the look of confusion on his face.

A week had passed quickly between work, your other classes, and the instance where Peter had come to your window the night before last after a particularly nasty run in with a group of armed burglars.

You swore these guys were getting better; like they were training or something. Peter kept coming to you with fresh bruises and gashes, although, luckily never deep enough to warrant sutures.

You suspected he wouldn’t ask you to sew up any wounds of his anyway, based on how patching up his suit had gone the last time he asked you to use a needle and thread.

He had given you his camera to take with yours to process the film. He had rushed off on the way to class, ripping the camera from his neck and thrusting it at you, giving you a hurried, sloppy hug before splitting off and into an alley.

The sight of an old tennis shoe being thrown over a dumpster and into the wall would’ve been funny if you didn’t know who it belonged to and what he was more than likely swinging off to.

You waited until he was out of sight before stepping into the alley to gather up all of his strewn articles of clothing. You muttered something about leaving clothes in a nice pile, and no wonder he couldn’t even button a shirt up, before tucking them into his backpack, pushing it behind a gutter, but only just, so that he would be able to find it.

That was how you ended up in the dark room enlarging the negatives from both cameras, working carefully with the CYM exposure settings, trying to get the timing and color density ratios correct. Peter had teased you about being a fan of doing things the hard way. ‘You know, there are these crazy things called digital cameras, where you can literally plug them into a computer, and print your photos out in seconds.’

You assured him they would be better this way. Besides, you were here to learn, right?

You took your time carefully hanging up each photo as you finished them. Looking forward to seeing the finished product in the light. You hoped you had managed to get the coloration right on all of them, especially the ones you hadn’t taken for yourself.

After hanging up the last print on the line, you worked to clean up your mess. Your neck and shoulders were stiff from hunching over the baths and various equipment for hours. Wiping down the sink and workstation, you crossed the room to toss the paper towel in the trash and flip the light switch on. You took a second to stretch and to allow your eyes time to adjust before turning around to look at your work.

Peter was the only person who could affect your breathing without even being present.

You ignored the photos you had taken all together when the first of his series caught your eye. Seeing the negatives had been nothing like this. There had been no way to prepare yourself in the dim light for what you were seeing. Peter had talent. He had an eye. He was magic with a camera. Something.

He had made you look beautiful.

The first was of you laughing, your head thrown back, lips pulled tight across your teeth, eyes closed, hair caught in the breeze. One of your hands clenched at your stomach, the other reaching off camera. You were beneath a tree, the leaves in various shades of red and orange, contrasting against the bluish purple color of the sky. Your features were dark, but you were glowing all the same.

That had been the first day. You had gotten coffee and spent some time in the library researching dark room processing techniques; you couldn’t remember him pulling the camera out.

The next one was of you in the library, your form overshadowed by the endless rows of books lining the shelves that seemed to go on forever. He had caught you reaching for one, your arm extended above your head; you stood on the tips of your toes, long, slim fingers grasping; your hair tucked behind your ear, the ends curling around your jaw, brows pinched in effort; the hem of your shirt riding up to expose a sliver of skin above your hip. This person looked graceful, with elegant lines and curves; the light shining down from the ceiling above catching your features in all of the right ways.

He was a sneaky little dweeb.

He had made you look beautiful.

As your eyes passed over each picture, your chest began to tighten and your eyes grew watery. Your fingers found your lips, worrying the flesh as you looked over the last image. You remembered him taking this one.

He tossed his bag in first before tumbling into your room, one of his feet catching on the window ledge as the first half of him hit the carpet. You were on the floor in an instant, sliding your arms under his to lift him up and get a good look at him, pulling the mask off and brushing his bangs back from his forehead.

He swatted your hands away from him, “I’m fine, stop fussing.” You stuck your tongue out at him, laughing when he gave it back.

“Obviously not, you only show up at my window when you’re hurt.” He threw you a slightly dirty look, wiping at his mouth with a gloved hand.

“That’s not true.” His eyes were on said hand and his dirty look was now directed at the blood he had collected. He looked at you then and immediately looked away when he saw your raised eyebrows and pointed expression.

“OK, so maybe it’s a little true,” he pushed the emblem on his suit, rolling it down to his hips he began to assess himself, fingers pulling at his skin this way and that. You stood from your desk and walked around him, helping him to check his back and shoulders.

While it was funny watching him try to contort himself so that he could get a look; the fluttering in your stomach was telling you to ease up on the ogling of his torso. Not that getting up close and personal with his back was really any better.

He sat still as your fingers walked across his skin, gently prodding at the bruises you could see, apologizing when he winced at the ones you couldn’t. You reached into the drawer of your night stand for the antiseptic and gauze you kept for nights like this one.

He had made showing up injured a habit, so you had made it yours to be prepared.

“OK, that stings,” he looked at you over his shoulder, his lower lip jutting out in a rare pout.

“OK, what happened to ‘I’m the amazing Spider-man, look at my muscles, I’m so tough?’” Even with your teasing you worked more gently, carefully passing the moistened gauze over a particularly nasty scrape on his shoulder blade. You could see his features pull into a smile through his reflection in the mirror hanging off your closet door.

You stopped momentarily to watch how he fiddled with the sleeves of his suit, at how his messy hair poked out around his ears, the way the strands of muscle in his forearms moved in time with his fingers.

“Ouch. You know, not even the punks who did this to me were so harsh.” His eyes met yours in the mirror. You felt your cheeks flush at being caught watching him. You moved on to the cut behind his ear.

“How did you even manage this one?” He hissed as you patted at the wound with the gauze, murmuring an apology, blowing on it to help ease the sting. You smirked as he tensed and shivered, the tops of his ears flushing red.

“One of them had a knife,” he shrugged his shoulders, a few of the freckles he had splattered across his back dancing as the skin stretched, “almost didn’t see it.”

The nonchalance absolutely killed you.

“Oh, well if that’s all.” You moved around to his front now, sitting on your knees as you wet a new sponge, tossing the first in the trash behind you. He hissed as you dabbed a little harshly at a scrape over his ribs, the muscles of his chest tightening, brows furrowing as he looked at you.

“Yeah, but he didn’t get me.”

You stopped cleaning, and dropped your hands onto your lap, “Peter, are you serious? You have a cut, from a knife, behind your ear.”

“Yeah, but I stopped him.”

“Peter, that’s a little close to, I don’t know: your face, your brain, your eyes,” he was smiling at you now, and it was pissing you off, “stop me if any of those things sound important to you.”

“It’s been worse before. It’s a scratch.”

“Yeah,” you got up from the floor and moved to the seat at your desk. You looked down at the bloody sponge in your hand, a frown on your lips, hair falling around your face, “until it isn’t.”

You both remained quiet for a minute; you kept your eyes on your hands. You could feel his eyes on you.

“That’s it.” You looked up at him in confusion as you watched him unzip his bag and pull his camera out.

“What?”

“That’s why I come to you,” You continued to look at him, waiting for him to explain, not exactly hating the stupid smile on his face, “you care about me.”

A frustrated sound passed through your lips and you rolled your eyes at him, “Of course I do.”

“That, and I mean,” he gestured at you, his hand motioning at your face, a sound not unlike the one that had just come from your lips left his, “look at you.”

The lighting was soft, the only source of it being from the lamp on your desk. Your hair fell around your face framing it just so.  Even with your eyes cast down, long, dark lashes hiding the color of your eyes, the look on your face was one of happiness. He had caught the blush on your face, the warmth of it spreading down your neck; how you had trapped part of your lips between your teeth to keep from beaming. You hadn’t succeeded; a delicate little smile was still there. You were glowing. You were radiant. You looked like light itself.

He had made you feel beautiful.

“Thank you,” You jumped at the sound of his voice, the picture you had been holding falling onto the table. You hadn’t even heard the door open. “You know, for collecting my clothes.” You gave a quick nod.

For a moment you just stood there smiling at each other, before he moved around the room, following the line that hung from wall to wall, looking at all of the photos the two of you had taken of the other. You watched as his actions mirrored what yours had been, his eyes lingering on the photos you had taken of him when he had been unaware. His eyes wrinkling as he smiled at more than one.

“You did a great job with these,” he stepped up to the table, leaning across from where you were standing and reached for the last photograph, the one of you he had taken that night.

Every part of his face softened as he looked at it.

He looked up at you with humor in his eyes, “Someone should tell this guy he’s good at this.” You laughed at him and watched as his eyes continued to roam over the print, setting it down on the table, fingers resting alongside it.

He let out a sigh, looking up to meet your eyes, “Tell me you see it.”

It wasn’t what you had expected him to say; you shook your head at him to show that you weren’t following.

“This.” He gestured to the cameras on the table in front of you and then around to all of the moments the two of you had captured on film, before pushing that last photo over for you to look at again.

“We’ve captured how we see each other,” you were smiling now, fingers playing with the edge of the photo, ghosting over the lines of your face that he had so perfectly captured; the point in time he had managed to save, “and look at how beautiful you are.”

You were glad that he turned around to pull the rest of the pictures down from the line, giving you time to calm your rapidly heating face and chest. 

You watched as he fumbled a bit, his fingers shaking. The backs of his ears were red.

He walked back over to you, pushing the stack of images in your hands, his fingers holding onto yours, steadying, as you looked down at the picture of Peter you had taken resting on top. It was a lot like the one he had caught of you laughing; you remembered wanting to make sure you got the way the light shone through his hair and around his face, the way his eyes pinched at the corners, the lines of his neck and jaw as he laughed.  

You wanted him to know that you thought he was made of light, too.

His thumbs ran across the tops of your knuckles.

Before you really knew what you were doing, your lips were on his. It was quick and a little sloppy, but the smile he gave you when you pulled away told you that he didn’t care.

He took the photos from your hands and sat them on the table before reaching for your face and pulling you back to him. His sureness encouraging you, your arms wrapping around his neck, fingers weaving through his hair, the pressure of his lips increasing as the heat between you built. The ticklish sensation of his fingers gripping at your waist, his thumbs brushing against your ribs causing you to let out an embarrassing sound into his mouth; you could feel his answering smile against your lips. He pulled away from you then, resting his forehead on yours, that stupid smile on his face.

You continued to thread your fingers through his hair, tugging lightly at the ends, “So are you wanting me to tell you that I think you’re pretty, too?”

He laughed at you, shaking his head, gesturing to the photos and then kissing the tip of your nose, “No, you’ve already told me everything.”

[ramajmedia]

The Tudors: 10 Hidden Details About The Costumes You Didn’t Notice

Everybody loves a good period drama. And even more so when it's inspired by true events! No other dynasty has resulted in so many television shows, movies, and documentaries quite like the Tudor dynasty. And no other king has been the target of so much speculation and curiosity as King Henry VIII and his six wives. The television series The Tudors might have come to an end almost a decade ago, but it still remains in our memories as one of the best and most intriguing depictions of Henry VIII's life.

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A lot of factors came into play in the show's success. The political intrigue, the stunning scenery, and, of course, all the good-looking characters. But there's one thing that almost outshines them all - the costumes. So much so that costume designer Joan Bergin walked away with three Primetime Emmy Awards for her work on the show! Have you ever wondered just how many details you might have missed in all the beautiful clothes from the show? Let's take a look!

10 No Wigs For Men

It's pretty obvious that fashion in 16th century England was far from being what it is today. A quick glance through ancient portraits and movies or television series that take place in that era is enough to realize this. Custome designers often go above and beyond to ensure that they stay as true as possible to the time period they are depicting.

Related: The Tudors: 5 Things That Are Historically Accurate (And 5 Things That Are Aren’t)

However, some liberties will always be taken in order to make the characters resonate with the audiences. In the case of The Tudors, Joan Bergin made the decision to not give men hairpieces and wigs, as they wore in the 16th century, in very ridiculous fashion. Henry's credibility would significantly decrease if he wore a curly white wig, right?

9 The Rockstar Of His Time

Joan Bergin has been very vocal about how she perceived Henry VIII, and what she wanted actor Jonathan Rhys Meyers to embody. In her eyes, Henry was a rockstar, the all-powerful King of one of the greatest nations in the world. All the choices made in terms of costumes for Henry were made keeping this in mind.

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Which is exactly why the King is often seen using pieces made out of leather and modern fabrics, tight enough to make his figure the star of any room, and extremely flattering. The kind of clothes you would expect a brave, handsome, and attention-grabbing man to be using on an everyday basis.

8 The Thin Sleeves

One of the most striking features out of all the gorgeous costumes we've seen on The Tudors were undoubtedly the gowns. Queens, princesses, and ladies of the court alike were all highborn and often seen rocking the kind of dresses most of us can only dream of wearing. Not to mention, of course, all the opulent jewelry.

Related: The 10 Best History Podcasts Out Right Now

There was, however, slight creative liberty taken by the designer. While at the time, fur sleeves with very large apertures tended to be the norm, the sleeves we see on the show are thin and dainty. This is something more likely to be witnessed during the Elizabethan era - curiously enough, when Henry VIII's second daughter, Elizabeth, ruled.

7 The Clothes Speak For The Character

Careful inspection of the costumes a second time around might give you a little more insight than you would expect into who the characters are, and what their lives are going to look like. One of Joan Bergin's favorite parts of working on the show was the freedom to design clothes that gave away something about the characters' moods and fate.

A great example of this is Henry's second wife, Anne Boleyn. Throughout her run on the show, Anne's character goes through a very complex journey. We get to see her evolve from a highborn lady to the woman who conquered the King's affection and, eventually, his wife. All of this development is interpreted through her clothes, particularly when she peaks as Queen.

6 The Masquerade

Back in the first season of the show, audiences were eager to follow the forbidden love story between King Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn. Even though everyone who knows a little bit about history knew exactly what was going to happen, the show was so good it managed to keep fans hooked - a lot of it due to the chemistry between the two actors.

Related: 10 Best Historical Dramas To Stream On Netflix

There is a particular scene during which Anne catches the King's eye for the first time, during a masquerade party of sorts. The costumes are angelic and beautiful. And, as it turns out, they were inspired by Degas & Balenciaga's corsets. Curiously enough, the inspiration for the corsets was the Elizabethan era.

5 Real-Life Inspiration

We can't even begin to imagine the work that goes into costume designing in general. But especially when we're talking about a period piece, where everything is so beautiful, opulent, big, and particular. Add the need to dress dozens of main characters and hundreds of extras, and you've got your work cut out for you!

Before the costumes for The Tudors began being designed, a lot of research was conducted into the time period in question. Joan Bergin read many journals that were written by people at Henry's court in order to get a better grasp of how things looked, and how she could translate that onto the screen.

4 The War Wish

Particularly at the beginning of the show, Henry is introduced to audiences as a man who is still young, vigorous, and thirsty for power. By all accounts, this sounds like a very accurate depiction of the real Henry VIII. And what young, vigorous King who wishes to bring glory to his name and country doesn't dream of war?

Related: The 10 Biggest Twists In HBO History

The costume designer was very much aware of this and made sure the clothes had a very particular nod to Henry's wish of going to war. If you look closely, the King's clothes are filled with tiny military details, including leather and moleskin.

3 Coronation Fit For A Queen

Anne Boleyn's coronation was the event she waited a lifetime for. And unlike Henry's next Queen, Jane Seymour, who was forced to wait until both money and proof that could bear an heir materialized to be crowned, Anne was awarded an expensive, lavish, opulent coronation truly fit for a Queen.

And of course, her costume had to be all of these things. The dress worn by Natalie Dormer is almost two centuries old, made almost entirely of silver. Plus, the stunning jewels that covered Anne Boleyn during her coronation are worth a whopping $65,000 - not something you would casually wear to the store!

2 European Influences

England wasn't exactly well known for being the most stylish country out there. When one thinks fashion and elegance, your mind inevitably wanders to places like France, Italy, or Spain. Even though things have changed and fashion is now a completely spread-out phenomenon without defined borders, at the time, English fashion was harsher and gloomier than the rest of Europe.

Related: Game Of Thrones: 10 Hidden Details About The Costumes You Didn't Notice

In order to somewhat counteract this, the costume designer slowly started to bring more European influences into the clothes worn by the characters, creating a softer and more exquisite overall look for everyone.

1 Hinting At Mary's Fate

Mary Tudor, Henry VIII's first daughter, had a tough life. She saw her mother cast away from her place as Queen, she was relegated to the role of a bastard, and her father never truly cared for her. Even though for a time she seems to become close with her father, things slowly begin to shift.

A time finally arrives when Mary realizes she will never be Queen (even though she eventually did), and this transition between happier times with Henry and this tragic realization are all present in her costumes. She slowly moves from wearing more colorful pieces and low necklines to much darker clothes and accessories, hinting at the inner pain she's feeling.

NEXT: Handmaid's Tale: 10 Hidden Details About The Costumes You Didn't Notice

source https://screenrant.com/tudors-costumes-details-hidden/