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It's incredibly frustrating and exhausting to have to question every piece of media that passes your screen as to whether or not it was made with generative ai. I don't like that I can't trust people not to use the literal theft machine for their projects. Especially when it comes to indies.
Like, so there's a new indie horror game called Zoochosis, right? I have no stakes in Zoochosis, a game about a zookeeper that's trying to stop the spread of a mutation with the animals isn't really my speed. But I'd heard of the people who made it before, and I wanted to see if they'd grown. The devs behind it are also responsible for another game, Sparky Marky, which used ai voices, much to my frustration. I tuned into a stream today where someone was playing it, and after hearing a little bit of the dialogue from Doc, I asked if they'd hired actual voice actors. The streamer seemed unconvinced that they had. So I immediately turned it off and decided to go hunting instead, because I needed to know if real people voiced in Zoochosis. I needed to know if this dev team learned anything from their last experience.
Thankfully, there are credits for the voice actors of this game, but they're very far down, which is a little disappointing. The common threads between them is that most of them have a Fiverr page, so I imagine they were hired through there, but I can't confirm that. Frankly I don't love Fiverr given they are also run rampant with generative ai right now, it's not inspiring confidence. But a number of these voice actors have full on websites for their voice work that seem pretty legit to me. In the case of Doc's voice, Tim Stephenson, most of his work is in commercial voice over, not character voice acting, so that explains some of what I was hearing. Commercial VO and character acting for games, shows, etc. are different skills with different needs. Just because someone can do one very well doesn't necessarily mean they're perfectly equipped to do both, especially when I didn't see credits for a voice director here. Without a director, you're recording remotely and going off of your instincts, and while many actors can have great instinct for performing, getting a performance that fits the vision of the project still requires some communication.
I think it's too soon to tell if these actors were actually paid for voice acting, of if these are ai voices synthesized from their likeness. The game is so new that it hasn't shown up on their imdb credits or personal website credits yet, and until it does, I'm gonna be a little skeptical. At the same time, there are many explanations for why the voice acting sounded off. The dev team behind Zoochosis has a lot of names that lead me to believe they may not be native English speakers (and I'm fairly certain I've heard that from others too). Writing and editing dialogue for a game in a language you don't speak is NOT EASY! That's a big ask, and if that's what's happening here, then I'd actually be very impressed by the quality of what I'd heard. It's just...frustrating. I expect this from big corporations and companies, but Zoochosis is an indie game. The folks over at Clapperheads are a small team making this thing real. And I'm troubled by the idea of an indie team, something built on passion and a desire for creative freedom, using generative ai. They're not the only ones to do so. Pastra, a YouTuber who loves indie horror, has started a series of videos that play into this found footage/news broadcast horror story, and for part of it, they used ai generated images of photographs of children to represent the victims of the monster. And they defended this by saying that it was better to use these generated images of children than actual real children. And I'm just sitting here confused by that. Because like, the model that that generative ai is trained on is using stolen images of real children to make those fake photos. So not only does it fall under using a child's image without consent, but you don't even know what children you've stolen the visage from. That is not a good look. The same goes for Indigo Park. AI was used for the opening footage of Issac Indigo introducing the park, and that's part of why his facial movements are so janky. Mason from UniqueGeese at least apologized and said he'd do better next time, but like...the chapter 1 revamp came out and that wasn't changed.
It's small stuff and big stuff, but either way, it's not okay. Until generative ai is trained only on data that is given to its developers consensually, it is not a viable tool for creation. It's not ready to be tested until the ethics part is worked out, and even then, I don't think I'd ever want to touch it. Like I get it, game development is hard, and in the indie scene, it's hard to make it all come together. But also, I expect a project built on passion to at least TRY to be creative in its solutions, and for the people making it to know better than to use stolen content. I expect better. Maybe I'm wrong for expecting better. But I expect better.
I'm just...disappointed. It makes me feel like I can't touch anything in modern media. Like I may as well go back and only play games, watch shows/movies, and explore stories made before 2023. At least then I can trust that it was probably done without the use of the theft machine. That's such a hopeless thing, giving up on modern art and all the potential it comes with. I don't want to give up on art. I don't want to give up on people telling meaningful stories in modern times. Please, humans, keep making art with your own two hands. Please give me something to be hopeful for.
#zoochosis#zoochosis spoilers#zoochosis voice actors#longpost#generative ai#ai voices#artistic ramblings
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The Duchess of London
Pairing: Thomas âTommyâ Shelby x fem!reader
Word Count: 3.8k
Warnings: angst, mentions of drinking, drugs, blood, gore, sexual assault (not detailed), fighting, guns, smut (penetration, creampie, wrap it up lads!), fluff.Â
A/N: The PB bug bit me and it bit me hard! Had to get this out. Takes place in season 2. Reminder that this is a bit dark given the contents of the show so if something rubs you the wrong way, donât read it! You also donât need to provide an explanation as to why you wonât read it, just keep scrolling. No beta cause I said so. Enjoy! Credits to the gif artist.Â
Birmingham smelled like shit.
London smelled worse.
You thank your bodyguard as he helps you out of the car, careful not to drag your dress along the mud, it was brand new and you didnât have the best relationship with the new seamstress that replaced your old one.
It was a strange thing, being back home. Your old stomping grounds. You remember the days fondly, racing up and down the roads, dashing through the traffic of folks who populated the area. You always found yourself somewhere you shouldnât be, getting scolded by your aunt when you arrived home well past dark. Thereâs a slight twinge in your chest as you reminisce, desperately wishing you could go back.
Luckily, your old house wasnât far from your lodgings, Rich spooked by the rumors of how lawless this part of town was. You couldnât blame him, Birmingham had long been abandoned by any sense of law and order. The police only came when it benefited them, so the local organized crime had taken over.
âRich, Iâll only be a few minutes. Keep the car running.â you instruct. The burly man nods in respect.
âYes maâam.â He tips his hat at you, heading back to the car.
It was a choice, coming back here. There were nothing but terrible memories you worked too hard to forget but you felt like you owed it to yourself and your aunt to come back. The house was exactly how you remembered it, sparse furnishings but warm with spirit.
Now it was half empty and lonely.
You were fast in your approach to gather anything you deemed important, the house was likely going to be cleaned and left up for rent. Photographs, scraps of clothing, broken china were all stuffed into a bag you brought with you. These were the broken fragments of your old life you werenât ready to part ways with just yet.
After muttering a quick prayer for your aunt and hoping that the devil caught your uncle, you say goodbye to the Brimingham girl you used to be.
You needed a fucking drink.
You swagger into the Garrison, amused at the drunken men shouting across each other. Youâre well aware of the stares you were receiving, knowing that a woman of your stature and style could only mean two things: you were a well off prostitute or the lavish wife of a man no one wanted to fuck with.
You took pride in being neither.
A man with a kind face smiles at you from behind the bar, throwing a white towel across his shoulder.
âWhat can I get you, love?â
âWhiskey. Neat.â
âWhat kind?â
You pretend to think about it. âSurprise me.â
The kind man chuckles to himself before hustling to get your drink. You dig around in your purse, pulling out a few bills that were much more than your drink likely cost. A hand covers your own as you slide the bills across the bar and you gaze up into a familiar face.
âI heard whispers about a very rich looking person coming into town, you wouldnât have happened to see anything, have you?â
You couldnât forget those piercing blue eyes even if you tried.
Suppressing a smile, you take the glass set in front of you and drain it quickly before gesturing for a refill. Tommy waves his hand at the barkeep.
âGet a bottle and bring it in the room.â he instructs, ushering you into the private area where he conducts business.
You follow behind him, silently thanking him as he pulls out a seat for you.
The two of you donât say a word as he pours you another drink, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth.
âThomas fucking Shelby.â you finally murmur, overcome with nostalgia. âHow long has it been?â
Tommy gives a half shrug. âMore than ten years, Iâd say.â
âThis yours?â you finally take a second to gaze about, impressed with the architecture. It felt like too beautiful of a place to be in Birmingham.
âMore or less. It was a gift to Arthur.â
You grin. âA gift you didnât buy.â
âA gift, nonetheless.â he takes a long drag of the cigarette, cautious as he blows the smoke out of his nose and in a direction that wasnât facing you. âHeard about your uncle.â
You nod, posture stiffening. âMay his soul rot.â
Tommy raises his eyebrows and his glass, downing his drink. âCheers.â
âSo,â you lean back in your seat. âWhat has Thomas Shelby been up to all these years?â
Tommy mimics your actions, scratching at his face. âMaking business happen. Staying out of trouble.â
âYouâre trying to be legal?â your curiosity piqued.
âSomething like that.â He holds his arms out wide. âWeâre expanding.â
âInto London. Fucking with the status quo there, I heard.â
Something in Tommyâs face hardens and he regards you with contempt. âIs that so?â
âItâs kind of my business to know. You are stepping into my turf. I donât give a shit either way, this feud you have with the Italians is kind of good for business.â
âHow?â
You take out a cigarette of your own, a long black cigarette holder accompanying it. Thomas doesnât take his eyes off of you as he strikes a match, watching your mouth closely as you take a few drags. âPeople are far too concerned if thereâs war coming to worry about women and their petty activities. Makes it easier to get into their pockets.â
âDid someone send you here?â He asks slowly, a tiny gun appearing on the table.
You chuckle, shaking your head. âNo. As I have mentioned, Iâm not interested in whatever dick measuring contest you have going on with Sabini. Iâm just a girl who came to dance on her dead uncleâs grave.â
Tommy can tell that youâre being honest. It was refreshing but strange, he wasnât one to openly trust people. You were the one person who didnât care about what he was doing in a sea of people who questioned his every move.
âDick measuring contest, eh?â
You had been fucked well before, sometimes from other women but nothing compared to how well Thomas Shelby was fucking you now.
His home was modest, clean cut and devoid of character. You were currently bent over on his bed being hastily taken from behind. It was as if he had just returned home from the war, eager and hungry for a womanâs touch. He couldnât get enough.
Tommy staggers backwards, tapping your ass to get your attention.
âFucking come here.â he rasps out and you giggle as he moves papers off a desk in the corner, hauling you on top of it. You spread your legs so he could slot himself in between them, entering you again with no hesitation.
âDonât step on my dress.â you moan out, crossing your legs along his back.
âThat, shit, all you care about now?â Tommy hisses, placing a hand on your hip to keep you still.
You nod furiously, leaning your head back against the wall and closing your eyes. You had already come undone twice and felt the third emerging soon.
âFuck,â Tommy pants, taking his other hand and wrapping it around your throat. You loved the feeling of being choked and worked hard to memorize the touch of his fingers squeezing your skin. âIâll buy you another dress. Iâll buy the fucking dress factory. Youâd like that, wouldnât you?â
âYes, fuck yes, Tommy.â You tighten around his cock as you come again, causing him to groan and weaken his stamina. âI want you to give me everything I ask for.â
âWhat do you want, hm?â He questions, making sure to maintain eye contact with you. It was difficult to keep your eyes open but youâd be damned if you didnât try.
âI want your cum, all of it. I want you to empty your balls,â you reach a hand down for added effect. âInto my cunt.â
And just like that, Tommy thrusts into you forcefully twice more before coming to completion. You both groan at the sensation, the trickling of his seed oozing out of you and down your thigh. He rests his head against your shoulder, breathing heavily. You allow your legs to go slack, wincing at how stiff they had gotten.
After a moment of rest, Tommy helps you into bed where the two of you take the time to decompress.
âYouâre marked.â Thomas comments, trailing a finger down the scar on the back of your left shoulder. It was in the shape of the number four, a reminder of what - who - you belonged to.
Joining the Forty Elephants was an honest mistake. When you arrived and couldnât secure a place on your own, you resorted to petty theft just like any other low class person in your position. It had been the wrong place at the wrong time. You slipped inside of a clothing store, hoping to pick up a few nice shirts so you could find a steady job that wasnât walking the streets at night. Turns out the Forty Elephants were at the height of a heist and you barged right into the middle of it.
You were caught and arrested with three other women. You begged and pleaded with the police, urging them to believe you when you said you were acting out on your own. You were all jailed together and you spent the night getting the living daylights kicked out of you. The next morning, the four of you were released and you were handed off to the leader of the up and coming gang.
âSome fucking runt you are.â She spat, sizing you up. You were interrogated relentlessly, the boss lady, Mary, assuming you were sent in by a rival gang to screw them up on purpose. When you justified your case, she nodded. You were brought in, taken care of and most importantly, you were protected.
You made nice with the other girls and became a skilled pickpocket, lock picker and seductress. The nickname âduchessâ came after you managed to lift a hefty sum, including a car, from a duke. It was then you elevated your style and sense of purpose. You began to educate yourself, investing in legal companies and stockpiling your wealth for a rainy day.
You knew that life with the Elephants wouldnât last forever and you needed a way out when the time came.
âIt was my initiation.â You tell Tommy, breath catching slightly as his touch made you shiver.
He hums, pressing a small kiss to it. âI saw you that night.â
You frown, flipping over on your side to face him. He invites you to lay closer and you gingerly accept his invitation, perching yourself on his chest. âWhat do you mean?â
Tommy takes another puff from his cigarette before answering. âWhen you left Birmingham. It was at night. I was taking a walk with my brothers, and saw you scrambling to get out of the house. You ran like a bat out of hell. Never looked back once.â
âOh.â You look down at your fingers, absentmindedly stroking the tattoo on his chest. You take a second to formulate a response, unsure of how to answer after years of not speaking about it. Tommy doesnât push, waiting patiently for an answer that may never come.
After a moment of silence, you give him one. âHe said I reminded him of her. Before she died, he was cold and distant. Afterwards, it was as if I had taken her place. It wasnât the first time it happened. I remember crying a lot after. But that night, for whatever reason, I was determined to make it the last.â
You swallow thickly, brows furrowed as you replay the scene in your head. âI waited on him. Nearly fell asleep but like clockwork, he came creeping in the wee hours of the morning. I managed to stab him five times before I got away.â
Maneuvering yourself out of Tommyâs arms, you straddle him instead, pinpointing all the places you cut your uncle.
âTwice here.â You tap at his right peck with your finger. âOnce in the stomach, once in the arm and once on his shoulder. He was a big guy and it was as if it didnât faze him. Killing him didnât matter at that point, I just wanted to be gone. So, I ran. Everyday for years, I kept looking over my shoulder, sure that he was going to show up and try to take me home. I hated myself. He got to live out his life and I suffered because of him.â
The tears surprised you as they dripped down your cheeks, hot and constant. Tommy is bemused as he wipes them away, his face never changing. You always pondered on who Tommy really was and what went on underneath the mask he was wearing. Then again, perhaps there was no mask to begin with.
âItâs stupid, I know.â you continue, hurriedly swiping at your eyes.
âItâs not. You did what you needed to do, what you thought was right. No one can ever blame you for that.â
âFunny, coming from a Peaky Blinder.â you chide with a small grin.
âEven funnier, coming from an Elephant.â he retorts without wasting a breath.
You sigh, placing your hands against his broad chest. âCut from the same cloth, are we?â
Tommy nods, setting the now stub of a cigarette out in the ashtray placed on the nightstand. He turns his attention back to you, mind racing as he studies your features. How he let you slip away, how he went years without seeking you out plagued him from time to time. You were elusive, a mirage of a seemingly perfect woman he shouldn't taint with his touch. Youâve grown into your features, personality blossoming. You werenât subservient like many of the other women he had encountered, all who would bat their eyelashes at him in hopes that they would get picked to be with a real gangster.
âStay. I have an opening in my office, we could use the help. Youâd straighten out Arthur, no doubt.â
You scoff, running a hand through his hair. âI donât want to be a guard dog or a bloody receptionist, Tommy. Besides, Iâm expected back in London tomorrow.â
âWhy?â
âFamily business.â
Tommy lights another cigarette at that.
âYou could come with me. I wouldnât force you to stay but maybe just to take your mind off of things?â
âCanât. Family business.â
You laugh quietly, shrugging your shoulders. âWhat we wouldnât do for those we love.â
The walk home from Tommyâs is uneventful, both basking in each otherâs silence. It was comfortable and intimate, the only thing interrupting it was the sound of children out playing far too late and drunken men hurling commentary out at anyone that walked by them.
The folks of Brimingham were familiar with the Shelbyâs but they aren't familiar with you which is how you became a prime target for unwanted advances. The man had to have been well beyond plastered, for any woman seen with Tommy was assumed to be his.
You couldnât even understand half of what the agitated bloke was saying, just that he was making weird gestures with hands, pretending to jerk himself off. Others had attempted to warn him and even Tommy moved in for the kill but you stopped him.
âNo, no. I want to hear what this lad has to say. Whatâs this then? You wanna have a go with me? Is this how you approach all the women you like?â
You feign boredom, sticking both hands in the pockets of your coat. You rummage around in your right pocket, discreetly slipping your fingers into the holes of a brass knuckle.
âYeah, it is. Now, when youâre done with this half starved looking bastard, how about you come home with a real man who can fuck you until-â
Your movements were swift and graceful, as if you had done this a hundred times before. The knuckles smash into the poor manâs face, instantly cracking and breaking his nose. Tumbling onto the ground, you crouch over the drunkard and wail on him until splatters of blood dot your face like a painting.
Tommy watches as you all but kill this man with your bare hands and does absolutely nothing. His overwhelming glare warned the others to back off while you continued, the bystanders knowing what their fate could look like should they interfere.
Panting, you back off the guy, using your free hand to wipe at your face. You spit, step across the moaning body and proceed towards your lodgings as if nothing occurred. Tommy falls in step with you, offering a handkerchief which you accept. While the Forty Elephants appeared to be harmless with crimes of shoplifting and bribery, you had a more rampageous approach to it all. The streets of London had toughened you, like it or not.
At the end of the day, you needed to make sure that you could take care of yourself and if it meant taking another personâs life, so be it.
Tommy had never wanted you more. But nothing good could come out of the two of you being together, you both knew that. It would be similar to chaining two wild dogs together and expecting them not to bite each other's necks off when thereâs only enough food for one.
You had the Elephants and London. He had Brimingham and the Blinders. Somewhere, you would meet in the middle but there wasnât room for overlap. Tommy was sure that being wed to an Elephant meant more turf and control but he wouldnât dare do that to you. He couldnât do it to himself. He would come to you whenever he wanted and youâd do the same to him.
Rich straightens up upon seeing your silhouette, clasping his hands together in front of him obediently. He takes one look at your face and reaches inside his coat to grab his gun when you raise a hand out.
âSâalright. Just had a little accident. You know Tommy.â
Rich gives Tommy a once over before relaxing.
âShall I see you inside, then?â
You gesture at Rich to go on ahead of you, planting yourself firmly in front of Thomas. âNo, I think itâs better if we say our goodbyes out here.â
Tommy smiles briefly, lighting yet another cigarette. âYou donât trust me?â
âI donât trust that Iâll make it back to London tomorrow if you do come up.â
He takes a small step towards you, jawline rigid as he exhales through his nose. âI could leave early, before you wake up.â
âI wouldnât allow you to.â Plucking the flaming stick out his mouth, you press a wistful kiss to his lips, melting into his embrace as he deepens it.
Hesitant to pull away, you ease back reluctantly. Your hands smooth his across his coat, reaching upwards to tug at his beloved hat.
âWhen youâre in London, I expect a call.â
Thomas rests his forehead against yours, licking at his dried lips. âIâll always make sure to pay the Duchess a visit.â
You peck his lips one last time before returning the cigarette. Tommy watches as you disappear inside the hotel, satisfied knowing that you were safe and back in your room. Doubling back to the Garrison, now in full swing for the night, he gets welcomed with a drink from John and a pat on the back from Arthur.
âTell me brother, whatâs it like to be with royalty, eh? Is her pussy made out of gold?â Arthur cracks himself up, thoroughly entertained by his own quip.
âFuck off, Arthur.â Tommy says dryly, taking a swig of whiskey.
âDid you tell her?â
Tommy raises an eyebrow at John. âTell her what?â
âAbout her fuckinâ uncle?â
Tommy doesnât answer and the two brothers give each other a glance.
âBloody hell, Tommy-â Arthur starts. Tommy raises a hand and waves him off.
âOf course I didnât fucking tell her. All that matters is that heâs in the ground, eh? Now get me another bottle and stop whining in my fucking ear.â
Arthur is slow as he departs from his sibling, a lopsided smirk plaguing his face.
Tommy thinks to himself that maybe he shouldâve mentioned how your uncle actually died. You were told that he had a nasty fall after a night out of heavy drinking. In reality, it was the Peaky Blinders doing. Not only was your uncle a piece of shit, he also had a gambling problem. He got mixed in with the wrong folks and unknowingly stole money from the Blinders to help pay off a gambling debt. He was sloppy in execution which caught the attention of Tommy.
Upon finding out who actually took his money, Tommy made it a personal mission to seek him out. The man, Ronald, folded like a chair when Tommy and the boys appeared on his doorstep. He cried and begged for mercy, which they showed him none. Especially not after he confessed what he had done to you.
Ronald knew you made it to London and had fallen into some money, so whenever he got into debt he just told people that you were wealthy and would deliver money for his payments. Even after you cut ties with him and tried to kill him, he proceeded to use you.
Tommy wouldnât have it.
âOi! Tommy!â Arthur returns with the bottle in hand. âYou got any spare cash on ya? I wanna set up a quick date with Beatrice.â
Tommy looks at his brother with slight disdain and rolls his eyes. âIâm not your accountant.â
âYeah, yeah. I left my wad back at the office. Just cough it up, would ya?â
âIf it means I wonât have to look at your face anymore, fine.â
Tommy reaches inside his pants pocket where he normally keeps an emergency stack and finds it empty. Scowling, Tommy pats himself down extensively before the light bulb goes off.
He laughs.
Not a cheeky snicker or a lame jest. Thomas Shelby actually laughs.
Confused but willing to follow his brother anywhere, Arthur begins to laugh as well until theyâre both hanging onto each other, gasping for air.
At the hotel, you answer the door to your room, thanking the bellboy for bringing up your dinner. Tucking a hand in your bra, a wad of cash spills out. You grab a handful of it and place it into the hand of the blushing young man. He stammers out a thank you, hightailing it back to the lobby.
You get comfortable in bed, eager to dive into the captivating spread laid out in front of you. Closing your eyes, you fold your hands in front of you in mock prayer.
âThank you dear lord for this appetizing food and for the Peaky fucking Blinders. Amen.â
#Thomas Shelby x female reader#Thomas Shelby x fem!reader#Tommy Shelby x fem reader#Tommy Shelby x fem!reader#fic: the Duchess of London#Tommy shelby x you#Tommy Shelby x reader
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A Gift (Labyrinth Runners)
One thing about The Owl House that fascinates me is its relationships. The series is about complexity, and so the relationships function a lot like the characters. They have tropes they appear to fit into but are more intricate upon closer inspection.
Labyrinth Runners is an episode that highlights this specifically, to the point where the theme shows up in almost every single shot.
Let me explain.
SPOILERS AHEAD: (The Owl House, One Piece, Lord Of The Rings)
Letâs start with the opening scene. Gus makes a friend, except that friendship is built on a manipulation, then he makes a real friend in Willow. We have a bad relationship, and a good relationship established, and that recurring motif/Chekhovâs gun that is the breathing thing.
We also have our perspective character, who is neurodivergent. Now, despite being neurodivergent myself, I am about as far from an expert as you can get, but I can see myself in Gus.
This actually relates to the themes mentioned above, because in my experience, neurodivergence affects how a person interacts with people. It makes interpersonal skills less intuitive, and as such, makes relationships more complicated to navigate.
There is a cannon event amongst neurodivergent folk of catastrophically misreading a room and having that memory burned into your brain. Thatâs what I mean here.
I am not going to go into depth on this reading of Gus and how it impacts individual scenes, purely because I donât know enough and donât know what is neurodivergence and what is just me projecting. I am more complex than the label, and judging by what show Iâm analysing, I would hazard a guess that Gus is as well. But again, I can barely identify that the term fits us both, I donât know what is and isnât part of that.
If someone does know more, please enlighten me in the replies and reblogs and stuff.
Anyway, the episode then begins in earnest, and letâs just highlight a few small elements before we get into anything big.
Bump and the illusions professor immediately move between the fake coven head and Edric. Their relationship with each other is displayed by how quickly they both make the exact same decision, and the fact that they move in tandem. They are co-ordinated, they have a history, and they have a shared set of values.
They also show of their connection to their students here. This is the law of the Boiling Isles, these teachers do not know about the Day of Unityâs true purpose yet, and yet they are willing to risk confronting an emperor for their student without having to think about it.
Meanwhile, the wall in Gusâ room features a ton of photographs, none of which are of a single person. Even the âBANNEDâ images relate to each other to become one image. They feel like one photograph cut up rather than three separate images. The memories meanwhile are all about Gusâ relationship with Willow, Luz, and Matt.
For the record, this episode gives credit to the Gus x Matt and Viney x Skara ships, and I would like to step in with all the authority that my pretentiousness affords me and claim the former of those two for the romantic aces. I am genuinely going to come back to this idea later.
Focusing on the actual plot of the episode, I donât need to point out that Adrien is a foil for Gus, but I think how that operates is fascinating.
Both intentionally present themselves as different to how they truly act, and both wield illusions. But even in these details, the characters diverge wildly.
Gus presents himself as more confident than he actually is, constantly making himself appear tough, or clever, or whatever the situation demands. When he meets Hunter again, for example, he is immediately no nonsense in a way that he really shouldnât be considering the Golden Guardâs reputation.
But you will notice, all he is doing is matching Hunterâs intensity beat for beat. When Hunter dials it back a bit, Gus backs off as well. Itâs a prey behaviour, like a frog puffing out itâs chest to seem bigger.
Adrien presents himself as an underdog when he infiltrates Hexside, and reveals himself to be oozing confidence on a level that makes me want to clarify something.
This man isnât brave, heâs an eejit. He gets challenged multiple times in this episode and doesnât take it seriously, which leads to his downfall. His confidence is built on a lie.
I love that he just has a coffee at all times, that fits the director vibe so unbelievably well.
Then there is the thematic parallels, and this is where we get theme inception as the episode loops in on itself. The relationship between Gus an Adrien is defined most of all by their different relationships with others and each other.
With Gus, we have seen how important people are to him. He compares himself to others, he is unquestionably the team support.
With Adrien, however, we are introduced to this man berating everyone under his command. The illusion was perfect, the captainâs performance was flawless in my opinion, and yet Adrien wasnât satisfied. He sees himself as infallible and canât be bothered to even guide those under him.
I also want to point out that I have acted on stage, and I am studying to go into filmmaking, so I do recognise Adrienâs style of direction as something I have encountered in real life.
Adrien is the type of person who, if this operation had gone well, would have turned on a dime and very publicly cried about how much he knew the people under him cared, and even bought him flowers. He had a vision, and he wasnât sure they could achieve it, but the performers surpassed expectations under his careful guidance. You know he's talking out of his arse, but he wants to convince the audience, not you.
Me? Petty? Nonsense.
"Oh yeah?' "Yeah" I'm sorry, that is the best line and line read in the series. I am not accepting debate on this subject. I am right.
At this point, we need to talk about Bump, of all people. Because authority is a type of dynamic that The Owl House has been playing with for a while.
The series is inspired by One Piece, for which every villain factors into the idea of abuse of authority. So naturally, The Owl House has featured the same idea presented through Faust, Bump, and now Adrien. These are people who use their authority for personal gain, but thatâs not what authority is.
According to One Piece, and Lord of the Rings, authority does have a place. There are kings and pirates, but itâs a duty, not just a position.
In One Piece, the role of a captain is the leader, the person who has the spirit to push on forwards, the person who will protect everyone when the time comes. Luffy is the captain because it is his dream, but because these people are loyal to him, rather than the other way around.
This keeps coming back. Authority comes from loyalty. If you just have someone who claims leadership, they have nothing. This happens in Drum Island specifically, when the king Wapol is contrasted with Dalton. Wapol claimed authority and expected everyone to bow to him, Dalton was chosen by the people to be king.
For Lord of the Rings, it is important to understand that Tolkien was a soldier who fought in the First World War, so his grasp of authority is slightly different to what you might expect. Iâve mentioned this before, but in Lord of the Rings, there is only one perfect king, and he doesnât have a kingdom, he has a sword.
Every monarch in Lord of the Rings biffs it in some way shape or form, except for Aragorn. The power to do what you want corrupts here, and when a king forgets his purpose, that being to lead and protect his people, his kingdom fails.
Remember, a soldier wrote this book. The top role of those who are in charge of Middle Earth is to protect those who they look after. It is not a position of power; it is a position of service.
In The Owl House, Bumpâs primary role at all times is the defence of his students. Once again, he doesnât know about the day of unityâs true purpose. He is just casually willing to stand infront of agents of the highest authority on the Isles and call them out on their bollocks.
Linking back to when I mentioned the ships. I declared that I had authority, but there was nothing actually there. Bump has asserted his role as a protector and leader, and when questioned, his response was to show off his team. This man is a leader because he is trusted and respected, not for any other reason.
That idea of authority comes back in a minour way at the end of the episode, when the Captain gets given power and immediately turns it on Severine, who is fed up and quits.
Hunter works out how to navigate the labyrinth rediculously quickly. He's not immune to magic, but he's got skills, even on the worst week of his life. So far.
Which brings me to Hunter, who exists in this context of Gus, and that breathing technique. The friendship between these two has been extensively documented, but I want to highlight the breathing technique in contrast to the Captain.
People reciprocate what they have been shown. The Captain was only shown power as a cudgel and used it that way when he got it. Gus, meanwhile, was shown how to recover from a panic attack by Willow, which he then passed along to Hunter, who gave it back later on. Itâs a demonstration of healthy friendships giving back and re-enforcing themselves, but there is something incredibly meta about the gesture.
This is the moment The Owl House establishes a relationship with you, the reader. Specifically, that of a friend who will help you out when things get tough. The technique is called box-breathing, at least in circles Iâm in, and it genuinely works as a method of getting through panic attacks.
If you feel rough, you can think about this, and you can use it. The episode has shown you how it works, and even given you something to laugh about to take your mind off your stress. Itâs a gift, and it feels like something the writers were taught and wanted to pass on to their audience.
I like to think that this episode has helped a few people on a very personal level.
Final Thoughts
This episode does present me with a rare opportunity. The voice actor who played Adrien, Noshir Dalal, has a Tumblr. Which means, I can ask a question to him directly.
So, @noshirdalal, what was the process behind this character, especially the voice? Were you given a specific brief for everything? Or were you given free reign to do whatever you wanted? Or somewhere in the middle?
Anyway, next week is Oh Titan, Where Art Thou, so stick around if that interests you.
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#rants#literary analysis#literature analysis#what's so special about...?#character analysis#the owl house#toh#toh gus porter#gus porter#the owl house gus#toh gus#toh hunter#the owl house hunter#hunter wittebane#hunter daemonne#hunter noceda#neurodivergence in storytelling#the facial expressions in this episode are fantastic#I'll talk about the jekyl and hyde thing Hunter has going on#because that is a true jeckyl and hide#and it needs to be discussed in detail#but ill do that in a later post
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A Whole Man is Hard to Find -chapter seventeen
-Summary: Rosey conducts a series of interviews with those who know the Captain intimately but through wildly differing association, a prostitute, his quartermaster and his doctor. Meanwhile above decks Captain Presley deflowers a new river with the support of Johnny Cash. Both lovers live for the few moments they can steal at the end of the day to savor each other.
-Warnings 18+: usual universe warnings apply with this addition of caning, mentions of past female rape, past murder and talk of Syphilis and the use of the archaic word âsodomyâ. Along with current smut, which mostly includes gratuitous descriptions of sweat, sweaty balls, men being very hot when theyâre sweaty so long as theyâre Elvis and -itâs a lot of sweat porn ok?!
âBeaumont.â Aida acknowledged from her place on the floor, arm deep in the Captainâs personal trunks.
âOverton.â Rosey snickered at the stand off, keeping her pistol raised all the same. âWhatâre you in here for?â she repeated.
âSo the captain didnât send you back after all.â Aida ignored her, âMy, my, isnât he gettinâ brave now, defyinâ the colonel every which way.â
The power of her sneer nearly swayed Rosey. âA change of plans,â she diverted, âthe Captain can do that.â
âOh can he?â
âYes.â
âThat's new. He never could before.â
âHeâs not beholden to his partner.â Rosey took aims to measure her language lest she commit an indiscretion, âThey are, after all, just partners. Equals, there was a change of plans, thatâs all.â
âEquals.â Aida savored the word as she rose to her feet before letting out a grating cackle that made Rosey flinch, âIâll give ya credit for your ignorance, child, sânot like youâve seen what Iâve seen.â
âNo, no I suppose that I haven't seen what youâve seen.â Rosey conceded, her voice dripping with disdainful accusation.
âNo, how could you?â Aida hemmed her in against the door and Rosey felt torn between shoving this witch off or making an ally of someone who knew him so well, âWord on the boat is youâve been kept quite remote on that little plantation, and sure, sure, heâs tidied himself up real nice for you, hasnât he? How would you know what kind of man he is?â
The urge was strong to spit back in Aidaâs face the proof that she had known him longer than she, that Rosey had ridden atop his young shoulders in peacetime and held him nowadays aboard while he cried his memories out. She wanted to protest that she knew him well. But those were not things due to Aida, the Captain had been upset sheâd even seen them in the bath together, how much more would he object to their history being exposed. And besides, these were things to prove Rosey knew him, but Aida was right, she knew precious little *of* him. âI know the kind of man he is with me, and heâs a good man.â she murmured instead.
âIs he?â Aida wasn't sneering, she looked intrigued and Roseyâs heart thudded in fear of a misstep. Vaguely she recalled Elvis having told her in their early days that he had a reputation to maintain, to keep folks in line. Being a feared man didnât deter him from tossing gifts into the crowd or holding babies or patronizing school charities. Rosey figured that admitting he was good to her could hardly damage his reputation. But the way Aidaâs maimed eyes kept searching hers made her frightened of betraying him.
âIncredible the lengths menâll go to for virgin cunt.â the woman declared at last and Rosey flinched at the language. âWhatâll it last âem? A minute? Fifteen if heâs got willpower? And then poof, done, gone, youâre just like anyone else to him, after heâs done.â
âWhat were you snooping for?â Rosey didnât dignify this sad prophecy with an answer.
âOh, just some things-â
âOf yours?â Rosey snapped, the weight of her still clutched pistol reminding her of her worth and her dearness to him.
âYou could say I have a stake in them.â she shrugged.
âWhat do you mean by that?â Rosey pressed her scornfully.
âYou seen any photographs laying about? Or buried under all them books he hauls?â Aida asked her and while Rosey contemplated how to play her hand when sheâd not only never seen photographs aboard or even imagined heâd possessed some, Aida went on while turning back to the trunks, âIdâhave thought heâd make certain to have at least something in his arsenal if heâs gonna be a brat. âStead it looks like his partner has everything required to sink him and Elvis hasnât got anything but a stuck up girl-child to defend himself with.â
âWhy would the colonel sink his own partner?â Rosey maintained, choosing to leave her place by the door and take a seat on the bed, sheets still thrashed and unmade from his devouring a few hours before. Her legs clenched at the memory.
âYouâre good.â Aida proclaimed and some stupid and starved part of a Rosey actually preened at being praised by such a hardened individual. âYouâre real good. Whatâs your deal with the Colonel?â
âI havenât anything against the man, heâs just tiring.â Rosey insisted.
âNo, I mean, what did he offer you to come along?â
Rosey pondered this line of questioning with a perturbed heart, realizing she either had a chance to spin a lie here or else get caught in one. âWho says weâve got any deal?â
âDo I need to name your predecessors for you?â Aida asked, sitting back down on the floor with shameless confidence in the Captainâs prolonged absence, âLetâs see, of course there was Aida first,â she chuckled that harsh chuckle of hers at this self narration, âand then there was a Polly and a Tamara and we canât forget the pretty, pristine Lucilla who had him turninâ himself inside out to please her, all for not, all of them unable or unwilling to stay when the colonel yanked his chain. All of them reportinâ dutifully to the colonel on his wakings and his habits. And those ones were just the ones he made promises to, that promised him back. There was Etta, though she lasted all of a sneeze âcause the colonel was against her.â
âIs this your way of telling me youâre his spurned lover?â Rosey asked, amused.
âHa,â the woman shook her head, âthere ever been a woman spy who hadnât had to play lover?â
âYouâre a trash spy.â Rosey found it in herself to jest, âLook at your work,â she gestured to the clutter on the floor, âand halfway in you just spill it out that youâre a spy? Aida, I had some hopes you hated me but I trusted you didnât think me a fool.â
âDidnât say I am.â Aida smiled that awful smile of hers, wider than ever this time and Rosey noticed her gums were shiny and silver. âSaid I was.â
Rosey kicked her leg out boredly and hummed. âDuring the war?â she ventured.
âMm..â Aida just shrugged. âHe really not paying you anything?â
âIâm not acquainted with the colonel.â Rosey summarized, âIâm here at the Captain's disposal, heâs the one who pays my wages. And you knew that already.â
âLord girl.â Aida rose to her knees and began repacking the half emptied trunks, âWhatever it is youâve done back home, wonât be worth sticking round here to escape. Trust me, theyâll string you up alongside us all if not worse. The world out thereâs got a particular distaste for whores, theyâd look kinder on a murderer.â
Rosey didnât protest either title. âLeave the stuff be,â she commanded âwith the way youâre cramming it back in -heâll know someoneâs been going through it. Trash spy, you are.â
âMm, alright.â Aida dropped the books she held back to the floor. âWeird feller he is, to keep this but no photograph apparatus. Colonel must have it.â
âWhat on earth is that?â Rosey asked her, pointing to that something on the floor that looked akin to an oversized musicbox and had as its extension a wand at the end.
âA hysteria treatment.â
âHysteria?â Rosey savored the word carefully, only having heard of it from books.
âYeah, real handy for the uptight ones,â Aida leared accusingly at Roseyâs prim pose, âthe ones so proper theyâre liable to get strangled with their own collars.â
âHow does it work?â Rosey ignored the barb, soothed by red hot memories of indulging the captain in ways that could never be dismissed as prudish.
âIt vibrates.â Aida picked the thing up by its box and plopped it in Roseyâs lap. âCrank it.â she goaded as Rosey fumbled with her new burden and carefully began to turn the lever. It was a steam mechanism of sorts, that was obvious from the hissing sound alone and the way the wandâs
outer skin began to pick up in rotational spins, powered by the cord tethering the two women to each other. When she was satisfied as to its pace, Aida took the wand and held it to Roseyâs exposed shin and the girl felt her whole leg rattle from it.
âHellfire!â Rosey snatched her tingling limb up and away from the device after a moment's indulgence.
Aida laughed at her again. âHusbands pay him a lotta money to hold this to their wife's frigid cunts.â she explained, discarding the wand on the scattered heap of books and neck clothes as she rose to her feet, âAnd plenty of women risk divorce just to feel it again. Reckon it turns âem hysterical, âstead of the other way âround.â**
Rosey thought of the bathtub -their first tryst- and colored, a grimace forming as that sweet memory became tainted with the knowledge that everything the Captain did with her had been done by him to multitudes before her. As transactions, no less.
âDonât pity him, girl.â Aida warned, âThat money keeps him soft and happier than most, and it keeps you spoiled and fed.â
âI only pity those who do it without alternative.â she muttered. âCaptain Presleyâs put that behind him.â
âHa, right behind him. So close behind him itâll snag him by the britches before the year is out.â Aida shook her head, âYouâre a foolish idiot talkinâ him into a rebellion.â
âItâs no rebellion when itâs between partners.â Rosey sneered.
âI keep forgettinâ the whole âequalsâ part.â Aida admitted with mock regret before continuing, âBit hard to do if youâd seen what Iâve seen. If youâd seen one of those equals let the other cane his bare backside like a green school boy over a tiny defiance. Equals my ass. How much trouble have you gotten him in that heâd risk this much?â
Aida had approached Rosey during this sickening divulgence and Rosey fast felt her power in the situation escaping her but was too rattled by it to wrestle back her rightful dominance.
âI suppose youâre real proud of yourself for standing by during such an event.â Rosey managed to spit while shrinking against the wall. Her hands began to sweat, she tossed the hysteria box off her lap and gripped the sheets beside her to dry them, feeling for her discarded pistol âAnd for a man who gave you so much. Youâre not even mad for him.â
âAn event? It was a weekly pastime some years, that cane saw more of him than it did the pavement.â Aida puzzled, âHeâs really told ya nothinâ, has he?â that revelation brought Aida more amusement than Rosey could ever imagine so hideous a face could express while Rosey felt sick at the idea of how much harm one stupid piece of wood could inflict, âAre you sorry for the dog thatâs made to do a party trick before it gets a bone, Miss Beaumont? Do you give a dog a bone when he refuses? Mad for him, hmph.â
âWhyâre you telling me all this.â Rosey asked, shame and anger battling inside her.
âStop that.â Aida ordered and shortly after Rosey felt a sting to her cheek as she was slapped. Too stunned to respond in kind she sat there with a gaping mouth as Aida inspected her reaction.
âStop what?â she hissed, palm to her her tingling cheek.
âActinâ like you ainât starved for details.â Aida smirked, âClever girl like you, mustâve found Miss Etta most boring -so much talk, so much talk, so little history actually said. Youâre downright panting to snoop yourself, donât deny it.â
âI-I-Iâm not!â Rosey defended, âIâm not denying.â she amended.
âProve it.â Aida smirked.
Rosey knew this was a test that a normal child would have passed years ago, school bullies or debutante rivals would have buffeted her so that a manic, washed up prostituteâs goading would have little effect. But Rosey was no normal child, sheltered and so little buffeted in the gentler forms of cruelty, she knew only the hard scrabble, hard edged tests of life. With a sinking feel of doing wrong yet a pulse quickening excitement for daring it anyway, she looked about the room for a prompt. Her eyes fell to the bindings the Captain had used on her bosoms, and beneath it the masculine costume Aida herself had loaned her.
And she recalled his blush.
âWhen you loaned us that garb,â she began and no matter how hard she tried to be brazen she couldnât manage more than a hushed whisper, âyou mentionedâŚequipment. You asked if he wanted the âequipmentâ with it.â She looked up to find that Aida was holding her peace, more restrained than Rosey had ever seen her and far from being comforting it made her feel like she was about to be sprung upon by prey. âI want to know what that was. What you meant. What you use it for.â
-âDepraved thingsâ -the captain had called them sternly, but heâd stuttered and hardened all the same at the mere suggestion of them.
âHow did he respond when he saw you in âem?â Aida pried and Rosey thought maybe sheâd misjudged her, and she was merely a lonely gossip shut up in this dark hold for too long. Rosey caught a glimpse of herself in the future. âDid he find you arousing?â
Rosey wasnât about to divulge that but the rosy blush that earned her his nickname was quick to answer for her. âWhatâs the equipment?â
âA wooden cock.â Aida replied with commendable bluntness.
Rosey hadnât even contemplated the existence of such a thing. Her marveling face mustâve said so.
âAttached in the common place on the wearer with a harness.â Aida was eager to share and Rosey felt unsettled again at the knowledge that cruelty and degeneracy were the only two subjects that seemed to bring the woman joy. âPlenty aâmen like beinâ with men that way but thereâs those that like a woman to take âem thataways, too.â
âSo they-â Rosey couldnât help herself, the curiosity too burning to be tamped down, â-theyâŚsuck on it?â
Much to her surprise, Aida looked a little puzzled herself for a brief moment before replying, âWell, no, not usually. They pay me to fuck âem.â
âIn the mouth?â Rosey persisted, annoyed at the splitting of hairs between taking and being taken orally.
âNo, in the ass!â Aida was equally annoyed until she realized by watching Roseyâs bewildered expression that the girl wasnât playing dumb.
âHow doesâŚhow does anything fit up there?â she balked, certain Aida was having a laugh at her expense. From the stigma of sucking a man that she had learned from youth, she naturally assumed it was because it was associated with acts performed by sodomites and was the one way men could pleasure each other without a cunt. âHow large is this wooden -object?â
âGirl,â Aida smirked, âweâre talkinâ cock, wooden and otherwise, goinâ up the back way. A throat ainât got nothinâ on the squeeze of a tight ass.â
An array of emotions and wonderments hit Rosey all at once, converging in her mind to fill her with that tantalizing tingle of newly acquired knowledge mixed with a substantial amount of shock and concern over the likelihood of the Captain having engaged in this activity. Which further exacerbated her curiosity as to why he would find the mere suggestion of a renewal of that type of indulgence arousing. âDoes that not hurt?â she asked.
âLike hell if you ainât prepped right.â Aidaâs graying tongue flicked at her lips and Rosey felt a pang of dread in her stomach.
âHow does one prepare for that?â
âStretchinâ the rim out.â she shrugged, âAll my clients pay for that -after all, if theyâve got time and money to pay a woman to bugger them, you can count on it that theyâre much too delicate to take it raw.â
âBut if youâre just, out and-â Rosey bit her lip to try to find a kinder word but it was ugly business no matter how one put it, âif one was out hawking oneself?â
âBeaumont,â Aida lifted a tattooed brow at her transparency, âyou can count on it that the Captain done felt like his insides were getting scraped raw most times. Ainât no oil in a back alley or bent over a barrel, but sometimes, sometimes it mustâve been good. Heâs got a lingering taste for it, or maybe he just likes pain.â
âYouâve done this, for him?â Rosey asked dismally and wished she hadnât even before it rolled off her tongue.
To her surprise Aida answered, âNo. reckon he took enough real cock to keep him staggerinâ well into the weekday most times.â
âBut not anymore.â Rosey noted once more while raising her chin, and as if noticing her shift in mood, Aida began to retreat towards the door.
âNo, not anymore.â she agreed before spitting out, âGone a whole year without sellinâ ass and he already misses it. Some folks are born whores.â
âSay that of him again and Iâll blow your brains out.â Rosey promised, and by then she had retrieved her pistol.
âKeep your eye out for those photographs.â Aida responded tersely, making as if to go.
âYouâve a claim to them?â Rosey leant forward in the cot, persisting in pressing the issue.
âMm, yeah, I do.â Aida eyed the pistol warily.
âWhat- what kind of photographs am I to be looking for?â Rosey asked, exasperated and curious only for her own sake. And his. âIf he had such an apparatus there could be all manner of prints! And Iâve heard with the mechanism that some may be undeveloped-â
âThese are developed.â Aida laid her hand in the door knob, âOlder, too, youâll tell by the style.â
âIâve never seen one in the flesh! How am I to discern style?â Rosey protested. âWhat kind am I looking for?â
Aida stared hard at her before her mouth twisted, âOh, youâll know what kind when you see them, Beaumont.â
Roseyâs hands had turned from clammy to frozen in her attempt to disguise her panicked breathing. âBeyond the photographs, what is it you want?â
Aida stood by the door of the small room and swayed, side to side like a considering crow and Rosey gave her all the time she needed.
âI know you wanted me to catch you.â She insisted gently.
âHmph.â Aida grunted, contemplating a confession it seemed, or else another mode of attack. Rosey would never know.
A knock rang out from the other side of the door and Aidaâs hand flew to her own mouth, signaling with a finger to the lips for Rosey to be silent. To play that the room was empty. Rosey wouldnât be caught abetting a woman as displeasing to the Captain as Aida and chose to ignore her.
âEnter!â Rosey answered instead, clear and assertive.
Aida was forced to move back from the opening door as the formidable bulk of Sister Rosetta entered, looking first at Aida and then down to the spilled trunks, then up and across to Rosey on her rumpled cot.
âMiss Beaumont,â ever the stickler for etiquette, Rosetta ignored the intruder for the time being and addressed herself to the one she was seeking, who also happened to be the lady of the boat, âDr. Nicholas informed me that yesterday you charged him with a meeting this afternoon to reviewâŚcertain questions you had?â
âOh, yes, yes I did.â Rosey recalled her fiery stipulations for allowing the doctor to stay aboard. She didnât miss the way Aida watched this interaction with avid interest.
âHeâs asking a time, maâam.â Sister Rosetta prodded, she was being awfully respectful and Rosey wondered if the woman knew of her recent marriage or was merely setting an example for Aida. Either way, Rosey appreciated it.
âHow about, a umm, an hour from now?â Rosey calculated, âWe ought to be on our way by then, and the more nauseating swells should have subsided. Nothing like going over numbers when the boatâs rocking.â
âIâll see to it heâs conscious by then.â Rosetta replied with deferential irony and Rosey filed that remark away for later. âExactly what are you doing in here, Overton?â she asked the old prostitute next.
âI was returning her clothes to her.â Rosey spoke up and Rosetta, in line with her newly found deference for Rosey Presley, accepted this fib with narrowing eyes but tight lips. âAnd, as thatâs done with,â Rosey went on after a burdened silence in which Rosettaâs judgmental stare impressed upon her the need to doâŚsomething, âyou may go, Aida.â
Aida did not exit in haste, she slipped behind Sister Rosettaâs considerable bulk and gave a searing, lasting, parting look of what Rosey feared bordered on conspiratorial camaraderie before shutting the door behind her.
Rosey sat on her cot and fought the urge to fidget on the cot, to kick her leg and scuff her boots under Rosettaâs unwavering observation. That hideous, vibrating apparatus was still lying sideways on the floor.
âChild?â Rosetta broke the silence at last and Rosey ground her teeth at the sudden absence of all respect and deference, merely parental concern remained and no small rebuke in it. It had been a show for that whore, then, and nothing changed. Nothing ever changed, Rosey would always be stuck as that cloistered little girl who grew up to be a stunted young woman.
âIâm glad you came by Sister, Iâve a complaint against you.â Rosey spoke up, daring this due to the sting of repeated losses of authority, first to Aida and now to her.
âWith me?â Rosetta repeated, seemingly astounded.
âYes.â Rosey smoothed her hands out on her lap, âIt would seem a confidence I trusted you with a few nights gone, a confidence I would have kept to myself if not so shaken, was repeated to the Captain in its most gruesome and twisted manner.â
âBy me?â Rosetta repeated, eyebrows raised nearly to the band of her exquisite turban.
âThere was no one else to insinuate what he now believes as gospel truth.â Rosey pointed out icily, âHe is under the impression, Sister, that he forced himself on me the other night.â
âUnsuccessfully!â Rosetta protested, âHe knows he was unsuccessful. Thereâs no harm done.â
âThe harm is in the intent!â Rosey cried out, âAnd in the fact he believes himself capable of it! He wonât even-â with effort Rosey reined in her narrative to the details proper to be shared, âhe would barely trust himself alone in his own room with me. And while that has been surmounted by vows and begging on my part -he isâŚtentative.â
âNot a bad thing.â Rosetta pointed out, chin lifted, âA man that -hungry, a man like that oughta be tentative. And that night should have proved it to you.â
âWhat occurred that night was not unwanted.â Rosey enunciated, near to a rage, âAnd I would not have him think otherwise. I did not tell you otherwise. I confided my wants to you and admitted my sins, that I wanted his babe! His love! And you took that, took that temperance of mine and told him he was a brute?â
Rosetta swiped her hand over her brow a half a dozen times as if battling something quite heavy before deciding on a course of action and hauling up the rickety chair to sit in front of Rosey, amidst the wreckage of the trunks. âYou think well of him.â she noted and before Rosey could more adamantly rephrase this moderate sentiment, she held her hand up for silence, âAnd itâs well that you do. And it is well for him, too. But with such a man, it is well for him to know what he is capable of, and to not think too highly of his own restraint. Not when we are speaking of something as heavy as this.â
Rosey did her best to listen and give such a statement itâs due weight and consideration, but peeved at continued insinuation of her own naĂŻvetĂŠ felt compelled to retort, âMaâam, Iâve seen a woman forced, my own sister in fact, I donât need to be told about heaviness. Iâm telling you now, I object to saddling a man, however volatile and, and, and hungry as you call it, with the taint of such cruelty. He would never.â
âYou think I care about the act?â Rosetta scoffed but gently added, âChild, thereâs sins and then thereâs harm. And then thereâs bringing a child into a world not fit to care for it. And thatâs what I object to. Thatâs what he objects to. And thatâs what deserves heaviness and fear from such a man, and you should fear it too.â
Rosey swallowed hard, the shift in Rosettaâs tone becoming softer than sheâd ever seen and it took her unawares. In vain did she summon back her old ire, instead like a helpless student, she waited for more.
âDonât be so eager for a babe, girl.â Rosetta murmured sadly, âNot in times such as these. Even good men betray you, and even the ones who donât -theyâre not promised tomorrow to provide for you. And in your case, without him, thereâd be no Captain Presley to buy your child and bring him up as his own.â
Rosey tapped her boot on the floor rhythmically as an assorted pattern of clues formed in her mind and suddenly it was quite plain, all those hours teaching him math in her presence and watching her watch him frolic with the captain and her so very angry at the colonel for threatening him- âCal is yours.â Rosey realized, âHeâs your son.â
Rosetta pursed her lips and nodded, more vulnerable looking than Rosey had ever seen her stoic face, âAnd it would do him no good to know.â he mourned, âFor I had a man, and he was a good man with ivory skin, blue eyes and a wife, and he told me heâd come back for me. That was a whole war ago.â she noted, âAnd the only man who came was Elvis, bought us both out of our debt. Freedom ainât sweet when ya canât eat and when the color of your skin affects your childâs chances. If you were to have a bastard, youâd be nearly in the same case as me.â
Rosey leant forward and tentatively laid a comforting hand on the stalwart ladyâs knee, âIâd no idea. Not when I was teaching him -and you, right there, holding your tongue. I cannot fathom it.â
âOne day,â she murmured, âyouâll love someone enough to hold your tongue, even if you want to claim them. And what kind of parents would you be? A man of pleasure and a murderess? This isnât a just world and itâs certainly not a kind one, youâd never get to keep your child. Promise me, never a child, if I could spare either of you that, I would, thatâs why Iâm sayinâ what I am saying.â
âI canât make that promise.â Rosey gasped, heartsick and persuaded, âI-I canât, itâs not for me to make. Not alone.â
Sister Rosetta received this with grudging admiration for Roseyâs loyalty to his headship over her.
âThere was a woman aboard, little over a year ago,â Rosettaâs tone turned dreadfully measured after her brief vulnerability and Rosey braced herself, knowing the tale was worth heeding if so circumspect a woman took to divulging secrets, âshe was wealthy as was her husband. And the Captain had a fear that she had begotten a child off him.â Rosetta paused as if weighing her narrative once more, âHe was most careful about that, you see, with his work, such as it was, most careful. It was paramount to him. But with this woman it was feared. Some couples are harmless, some women are needy, and some are depraved. They all pay the same. But,â she folded her hands again and again before rising and speaking to the door, âbut this particular couple, they were crueler than most. Thwarted his precautions knowingly. Seemed to delight in it, like it was a lark to taint themselves with him. Itâs a common thing paid for, a sort of abetted cuckolding with the husband engaged. It wore on him, Miss Beaumont, years and years of seeing marriage so demeaned and him being the instrument for it but -never to such ends as this. I donât know what Etta tried, and I donât know what Aida planned, but when these helpers failed he came to me.â
âWhat -what did he want?â Rosey begged. âWhat did he intend?â
âI donât know.â Rosetta sounded like a jaded witness, âBut he told me of it, told me he was begging God to finish that woman, anything to prevent a child of his to be raised by such degenerates.â Rosetta turned back to her, looking over Roseyâs head, âHe gave himself back to God that night. And stuck to it until you came along. The next port of call he sent me to their room to deliver a telegram that had come in. It read of an emergency, the couple demanded a ramp be lowered before the boat had fully docked, they were eager to be off. Considering his passenger's request paramount to an order, the Captain lowered them a ramp.â Rosetta locked eyes with Rosey as the girl guessed a million endings to this harmless tale, âThat was the only time Captain Presley has ever lost passengers while unloading. Crushed them between the hull and dock.â
Rosey found her mouth had gone dry when she tried to swallow her shock, choking on her own emotion, Rosetta went to the wash basin and brought her the pitcher, encouraging her to drink.
âDonât you ever think that man takes the prospect of a child lightly.â Rosetta ended her caution quite simply and Rosey gave the pitcher back with nerveless hands.
âYou think he-â she could not say it the first try, which was ironic enough considering what unaccounted and horrible things sheâd laid to his account when she first met him, â-killed them?â she whispered.
âCourt ruled it was an accident, Me. Cash was an advocate.â Rosetta acted suddenly as if she was arguing against her own narrative, âAnd since then the Captain became a most revernat disciple of the gospel of his youth. Thereâs nothing more to be gained from guessing. Till you.â she added, âNow it bears some worth in repeating. Just, bear in mind when youâre fooling and heâs suggestible -he donât take it lightly, child. He donât take it lightly.â
Rosey repacked the trunks when Rosetta left her, unable in her rearranging to help herself from snooping in some small way. There was nothing very remarkable save a large assortment of knives that looked as motley as possible with different inscriptions and initials on them, suggesting other owners. There were strong ribbons of silk, too, 10 times longer than needed to tie up even Roseyâs long mane of hair, and clasps too, cosmetics of coal and rouge in tidy little containers. And a hairbrush that looked innocuous enough until one examined the phallic handle. Rosey nearly dropped the thing in startelement that she was holding something with veins and ridges so similar to the real thing while being pantomime.
It felt disloyal and she dropped it back into the trunk. It thudded dully on the wooden bottom and still no photographs were to be seen. A single cameo was wedged amongst books and when she cracked its decaying hinge open she found a picture of Captain Phillips looking ten years younger and without a lick of gray. Wartime portrait. She tucked it back in place and threaded the strange assortment of thin silk shifts and a large corset, as if for a big boned woman, around the more delicate things and stacked the books as best she could manage.
This done she went to her meeting with the doctor, such as it was with a table set up in a closet beside the Boilers that held pitchers and hoses in case of a fire in them, foggy and lost in early memories of the captain. Not the sunlit frolics of childhood that were dimly returning to her the longer she stayed with him but that dreadful first night they met. She wracked her brain for the little details sheâs once worried to shreds in her fear of him but had since been smoothed out like so much jagged ivory in a near completed sculpture. She recalled the way he shoved through the New Orleans riff-raf with unblinking authority and the way heâd snapped his fingers and bought her with only mild protest from other bidders. She thought of his playful refrain to her these day âNo murder, Rosey!â and realized with an ache that he may not have meant it so lightly. He was begging her off a path he had been down. The more she thought of him in those early days and the fear he elicited in her, the more she realized him capable of the tale she had just heard.
âJust once I wanna hear Old Beaumontâs daughter say âcockâ while grinding back on mine.â he had been so mean with his words that first time, goading and venomous at her for her lofty origins. Or was he just used to speaking like that to highborn ladies who got a thrill from a working class man soiling them?
It was more of a wonder that he was capable of love now, and hated himself as faintly as he did, with such a history. Each new little discovery of it that she made was like pricking her fingers on hidden pins in a seemingly complete cross stitch. If she could run above deck now and hug him and have him lave her pricked fingers with his tongue and promises -she would.
Instead, âGood afternoon, docter.â She greeted and closed the door of the closet behind them.
She took the seat on the far wall, which was only about three feet apart from himself with a rickety board serving as a desk. Rosey laced her hands around her ink pot atop her accounting books with admirable poise and gave him a smile. Dr. Nickâs smile wavered but he returned it all the same.
âTo be perfectly honest, Miss Beaumont, I am confused by this, uh, interview, shall we say?â he admitted as she laid out her papers and asked for a list of drugs and medicines used in the captain's care. âI am not beholden to you or owe you any information, the art I practice is guarded by oath and the law of this land states no boat of this size can traverse without a doctor, i am thus immune to any threat you may make or change you may attempt. You are a purser, maâam, and I am a physician. I suggest we keep to our respective callings, the better to pass this trip in a harmonious manner.â
âI am indeed a purser,â Rosey dipped her pin in the ink with methodical precision, âand as such I am to make an account of what comes and goes in our revenues. I am not here to play chemist sir, I am merely here to ascertain to what purpose we spend nearly 40 dollars monthly on Mercury. salts?â
âPah.â
âThe boat pays for that, sir.â She reminded, âAnother ten for opiates, another thirteen for -â
âYou are new to book keeping, yes?â Dr. Nick interrupted.
âNo, I am not at all new to it.â Rosey answered truthfully.
âBook-keeping in a brothel, then?â he guessed, âJust as you would pay for lye or salt marsh to seed your fields, this vocation requires a vast array ofâŚfertilizers. Stimulants and relaxants and numbing drugs -the human body can only sustain so much on its own power, Madame. I shall spare you the details but there are illnesses to treat as well. Rife amongst such work.â
âSpare me no details, which illness is which drug curing, Doctor?â
âThe Mercury -Aida ingests that morning moon and nightly on my orders.â
âThatâs why the entire woman is turning silver, I suppose?â Rosey shuddered and noted it down.
âAn unfortunate side effect.â he conceded, âAlong with vomiting and wasting, the disease can be attributed for the rest of her symptoms, the mind and vision. The rotting of brain matter and soft tissue that you have no doubt smelled. She is not alone, half the boat relies on Mercury to keep the rot at bay.â
âHow long?â Rosey asked, âHow long must they be on it for a cure?â
âGirl, there is no cure for such filth.â he grunted, âWe are talking of back alley, degenerate diseases, lowborn blood and the judgment of God on all such products of lust combining to waste them away.â
âAnd what are you treating the malaria with?â Rosey moved onto another Devine pestilence that she was certain the captain suffered from.
âI donât recognize anyone with it.â he objected, âNo swollen tongues or yellow eyes.â
âIt can be chronic-â
â-no, not in my study of it, it canât.â he shook his head with surety, âSyphilis, thatâs what weâre fighting aboard, and the Clap. I suppose we should think of getting you on a regimen if youâve been having -relations.â he muttered with what Rosey truly thought might be blunt concern for her welfare. âThereâs no cure, but these medicinals they are -essential for any quality of life to be maintained and for comfort to be found at the end. Essential. Syphilis, Itâs a spirochete you see, not at all like a bacteria, under a microscope it looks rather like a corkscrew drilling its way into each cell, siphoning off the life from it.â
Rosey swallowed thickly at that image and jotted down another column, âWhat symptoms was the captain experiencing that such a disease was suspected?â the difference between himself and Aidaâs derangement were obvious, but perhaps that was just a matter of time.
âHe runs fevers, he has sweats, he is fatigued,â the doctor rattled a mundane list of ailments boredly, âhe engaged in sodomy. Itâs clear.â
Rosey bit her lip at the recent revelation as to the details of that act and retorted softly, âHe vomits, almost every morning, he vomits. Does that not sound more of cholera, at least?â
âWhere would he have gotten cholera?â The doctor scoffed.
âHe was abroad for years during the war!â she retorted heatedly, âAnd was held prisoner in Elmira of all places -do you not think that sufficient to contract an illness without contracting the wrath of God, too?â
âWas he kept there?â Dr. Nick showed grave surprise, âI didnât know him then.â He explained as if that were an end to it, nothing remarkable about having judged a patientâs case without any history given. âI was hired by Colonel Parker to help ease him in his vocation, and for the occasional assist when sleeplessness took hold. Youâve nothing against sleep drafts do you?â he suddenly asked in horror at her ignorance.
âIâm here to account, sir.â she managed in a horse whisper and marked the Mercury salts for two, all the rest having been discharged from service. She started another column for unaccounted drugs which she figured she could assume with some surety that the Doctor himself indulged in.
âWe really ought to get you on something, it spreads you know.â he insisted not unkindly.
Rosey shifted in her seat and thought of her innocence still so resolutely intact. âI think youâll find that won't be necessary, sir.â
Come evening they were still at it, tallying figures and dosages that ran like Greek in Roseyâs head to the lulling of the familiar boilers clang, making white noise beside them.
A grating scrape silenced them both as the jarring sensation of the boat catching on some unknown barrier below them cast the fear of God on them both. Not in all her time aboard had Rosey heard something remotely similar. Not even when the Captain sidled the great monstrosity up the docks. He parked his boat smooth as a dance master, a little bump and sway and theyâd settle as the ropes tethered them.
Not so this screech, it reminded Rosey and the doctor both that they were in a floating cask. Following was a disorienting little tip where the ink pot began to slide towards her and she caught it, unnerved by the small but unmistakable turn the boat was taking.
âHave you ever-?â she broke the silence as they still stayed unbalanced like a buggy relying on a single wheel for a reckless curve.
âNo.â Dr. Nick had his eyes searching the ceiling as the lamp above them stayed slanted to the side like their balance. âHeâs makinâ the turn,â he surmised sounding a little awed, âweâre headed into the Missouri.â
Rosey wondered if sheâd feel it when the water changed, beyond the boat righting itself after the turn. She wondered if the Captain would at least, with those keen hands and attuned senses. Would the current change? Would the depths affect his grip on the wheel? Was the strain of the boilers her imagination or was it like they were truly fighting for access into the giant tributary. Would the river gods let him in? Hand braced on the wall as her chair went slightly askew beneath her weight, Rosey let up her first little prayer in ages and it sounded strangely directed towards the captainâs talent instead of God.
Up above decks the Captainâs eyes smarted from kerosene fumes and hours of squinting into the pale lamp-illuminated river mists, they gathered like shrouds on the old Mississippiâs surface as the inky waves danced into the edge of the black sky. Elvis felt like it was a funeral procession of sorts, all black robes and white smoke like heâd seen in New Orleans
âDonât count me out yet, ole Miss,â he thought fondly, âwatch me come back to you old girlâ.
Jerry was to take the evening watch and still refused to go down below to catch his nap, too anxious for the damn turn into the tributary like the rest of them who knew anything about anything. Elvis tried to comfort himself that if he ran them into a sandbank and drowned them all, first day of the job, heâd at least be responsible for killing General Sherman.
As it was Elvis sniffed away the smarting fumes and gritted his teeth at the gnarly scrape that wailed into the night as he toggled the massive wheel to his left, a little too much, too soon? Or was he too late to thread the damn needle? The current felt like a damn whirlpool keeping him at bay and he had to stick out a foot off his high stool to force the wheel straight on his course. It was unnerving the way it would have spun and spun them to oblivion if heâd let go the slightest bit.
âYa got it, ya got it.â Cashâs rumble sounded steadying in his ear and once again Captain Presley gave thanks for the Divine intervention and kind suspicions of Mr. Binder who didnât trust his investment that far westward without the Waterway Committeeâs watchdog tagging along to guard it. The fact it was ole Johnny Cash from dear dead days gone by and more recent redemptive ones, only made it kinder. Between Roseyâs pardon and Cashâs presence, Elvis was ready not only to repay Mr. Binder generously but even to like the man. âYa got it, donât spook, man.â
Johnny kept the damn unhelpfully small print map up in the right half of Elvisâ view, thumb tacking it to the top of the wheel for the past half hour as Elvisâ glued his eyes to each treacherous little bend of the entry way heâd never probbed before.
âWhich one is it, damnnit?â he hissed to himself as every little juncture was running together on the map and maybe he shoulda brought his glasses if he knew this was going to be more about reading for hours straight and far less about seamanship.
Cash reached over him and wiped the off the compass with his jacket cuff and that was all the rebuke Elvis needed for his small tantrum. âInstruments ainât lyin.â Cash grunted.
âEither of you bastards wanna ease us into this whirlpool, be my guest.â Elvis had to get his anger out or else tip them and he felt better right away at the guffaws it inspired.
âFuck no.â Jerry chuckled nervously in back and Elvis hated him for the way he was just shy of talented enough to do this and thus could warm his hands around a hot canteen of coffee while Elvisâ numb and braised hands cramped on the wheel.
âEase is the right word.â Johnny chuckled, âdonât let Lamar spook and gun us in.â
âI know, I know.â Elvis grunted as he felt himself get in a groove, the current finally splitting at the bow on either side like a welcomer instead of a barrier, âI-I think Iâm in, Iâm -Iâm in somethin.â he added unsure, âLemme me in sweet Missouri, lemme in Big Muddy.â
If one of the soldiers beneath them had been atop he might have laughed at the language or thought it pantomime but it wasnât, none of the rivermen laughed, they just bit their lips at the necessary double entendrĂŠs and prayed the fickle water would listen.
âMhmm, nice nâ easy youâre in, I feel what ya mean -tell Lamar not to spook.â Cash urged Elvis again as the boat began to tug into the bend as it ought, causing the deck and the whole dark horizon to tip to their right as they turned west.
âHe knows!â Elvis bit back, knuckles white as the wheel tried to tug him fully to the side, his thigh working harder to pull him upright again.
âDoes he? If it were me I wouldnât trust a single fella who ainât a professional lover not to gun it in, full steam ahead, right about now.â Cash admitted.
âLamar donât ya Fuckinâ do it!â Elvis grabbed the horn and hollered down to his boilers, âMake her swallow us whole if ya do!â and it was just in time too, the boat began to rattle and hum as if a few more scoops had been added and the bellows worked a few pumps beyond direction. âQuit pumpinâ so hard, damn you.â Elvis hollered again and his amplified voice rattled around the boilerdeck like Hades sending out a decree into the underworld, it made Rosey perk up across from Dr. Nick. âI tell ya when to add coal, fucks sake -no intuition for feelinâ it give, some folksâŚâ Elvis trailed off in a grumble and let the horn fall with a clatter back in place.
The current of the Missouri runs southernly from its source in the great northwest and where it meets the Mississippi just north of Saint Louis, it forms a churning caldron of wrecks, tide pools and sediment. Enough steam is required to make the turn and keep oneâs progress against a current that flows over eight miles an hour, yet too much steam and it will tip you right into the swirl of the conjoining streams.
âSweet Jesus I feel like Iâve been turninâ for hours.â he groaned, his shoulders burning from the strain, âGonna run into the opposite bank this way.â
âHow she feelin?â Was all Cash replied.
âLooser.â
âLooser bad or looser good?â
âWhen is looser bad?â Jerry asked with a snort.
âLooserâs bad when your fuckinâ wheel spins like a roulette wheel, ya idiot.â Elvis helpfully supplied.
âYeah, never seen that yet.â Jerry conceded that he was a very good first mate and hadnât allowed such a thing to even happen.
âI-I dunno man sheâs loose but- but I feel her tug-â Elvis bit his lip and tried to process both the instruments and the leading of the wheel. â-left.â he decided, âSheâs tugginâ left.â
âThen show her whoâs boss.â Cash grinned and thumbed at the droplets on the map, squinting himself at the small type. âYou plan to tuck us in before Kansas City for the night? Nice lil cove right about there.â He pointed at the map with his big blunt finger but Elvis had his tongue between his teeth and he leaned on the wheel spokes to pull the boat right.
âJust trying to get past this bend then Iâll think about goddamn coves.â Elvis grunted, âShe wonât stop sucking mâbow to portside.â
âWant a hand?â Cash asked mildly.
âFuck me itâs like asking the wife to fuck this mistress.â the captain muttured instead, switching from pleading with the river to begging his boat to go where it wasnât built for, its high top decks -so spacious and regal for entertainment or speed- precariously teetering in the rough nâtumble of the backwoods river. âOoooh hell she's tugginâ,â he exclaimed finally, âLamar, Lamar! Gimme more now!â he yanked at his own controls, a stick that precariously opened the steam valves at whim so long as enough coal was supplied below, and the Proud Marie lurched into the turn with all the rage of an offended deity. âCash? Wanna help?â he barked, wild haired and sweating in the gas light and looking more in his element than Johnny had seen him in ages.
âBless me no, you juggle your own women.â he smiled instead. âPay attention to that tugginâ, now. Donât wanna die now weâve threaded the damn thing.â
âOh Iâm payinâ attention, alright.â Elvis laughed. âBut now sheâs tuggunâ like the currentâs suckin me âstead of pushinâ, Cash.â
âHow fickle is woman.â Cash mused while lighting up a cigar.
âJust think,â Jerry piped up encouragingly, âcouple more hours of this then you can go lay on soft bosoms and catch some shut eye.â
Seeing as how it was already past ten in the evening, the thought of more hours was more tortuous than conciliatory. âJerrah, how about you fuck off and make yourself useful. Light my cigar fâme again, damn mists keep puttinâ it out.â
âYou canât just breathe tobacco up here.â Jerry pointed out even as he struck a match and cupped it to the Captain's face.
The captain glanced at him, all sooty lashes and water speckled cheeks in the warm glow of the kerosene wick, âWatch me.â he puffed, as he felt the river give him a lane and he slotted in, pulling his wheel straight again. âThis got me sweatinâ like a whore in church.â he whistled, no longer jealous of Jerry and his coffee.
âWorks every time.â Cash agreed with a knowing smile and Elvis grinned back.
âWeâre in boys, weâve well and truly entered her.â he announced a mile in and half in, and had there been daylight, the mouth leading to the Mississippi would have been seen slowly shrinking behind them like a portal to the known world.
âDone so gentle, I'd bet she didnât even bleed.â Cash patted Elvis' shoulder and he smiled back, fighting the urge to slump over the wheel and fall asleep now the dayâs worst was over.
A few hours passed and the Captain did tuck them into a cove for the night, running the ropes out the hawser holes to secure them to the beached wreck of a more unfortunate predecessor on its banks. He woke Jerry where heâd slumped in his chair for his watch.
âSay hi to Rosey for me, EP.â he mumbled and Elvis didnât begrudge him after having slapped him around a bit to thoroughly wake him.
âSo you kept her aboard?â Cash asked him as they tromped down the multiple flights of ladders to the lowest deck, handrails and boot grips slick with mist and the single lantern Elvis held doing little to light the way.
âCash, she killed for me.â the captain reminded in a dazed murmur.
âSheâs really somethinâ then?â Cash made conversation as they creaked open the side door, an absolute racket of a sound in the otherwise sleeping boat, and stepped into the starboard side of the stables.
âWhadda you think?â Elvis sassed with smug awareness that Rosey really was something else.
âAnd ya love her?â Cash rumbled on in that easy way of his that would have you declaring shit you didnât have figured out yet.
âWhadda ya think?â Elvis answered again and started weaving through the horses instead of going to his little closet and its cot and warm bosoms, âHellfire, itâs a sea of horses down here.â he muttered as he walked down an aisle of where the tethered yet majestic creatures nipped at him with eager muzzles or else swished him with elegant tales, âPoor Beans, sâlike berthing on a transport. Bullshit steerage accommodations for mâboy.â he bemoaned when he found him and Cash assumed Beans forgave all with the nearly amorous way the horse flung his head neck around Elvisâ and the two swayed in a cheek smashed embrace.
Removing himself from the equine reunion, Cash busied himself with going to the far side where the racks of loose hay puffed out between wooden slats and grabbed himself a bundle to replace Beanâs trodden supply. When he returned he found Elvis in discussion with someone, and after initially assuming it to be his tetched horse, Cash realized there was another fella down here with him, not one of the crew, just a sleepless soldier come to keep his horse company, or the other way around.
âBest cure for it.â Elvis was agreeing pleasantly to something the man had said and Cash assumed it was insomnia, âMâboy hereâs always my first choice. Is your berth comfortable, got everythinâ ya need?â
âYeah, itâll do.â The man replied a few horses deep into the row and Cash squinted trying to make out a discernible facial feature in the gloom and all he succeeded at was recognizing yellow colored hair. âSleep a whole lot better of theyâd kept the female comfort aboard.â the man added with a joke.
âAinât fittinâ on a government boat, they says.â The Captain maintained a neutral tone and took to unsnarling one of the braids in Beans withers.
âI bet the rich bastard who ran this kept a few, ya know?â The man disagreed with a grin, âThe guys have pooled together, weâve got a decent amount of cash for anyone who wants to give us a tip to where we can find the maids. Canât run a boat without maids.â
âYou can.â Elvis replied a little harshly, âLeastwise theyâre all men.â he added.
âWell, if we get desperate enough...â The fellow joked.
âIf ya get desperate enough youâll find yourself sucking lead outta my pistol âfore I let you mess around with my folks, that clear?â The captain crouched and yanked up the lantern heâd set on the floor and pushed it into the crowd of horses to make out the manâs face for future reference and illuminating his own. The man was nearly middle aged and was unremarkable really, in every way, except for the glinting brass uniform buttons running down the front of his navy blue jacket.
âWh- shit me, you the captain?â the man asked in surprise, putting his hands up in a pacifying way, âSorry sir, just kidding is all. Itâs gonna be a long trip.â
It was indeed, nobody knew that better than Elvis and he decided the fellow was jovial enough, hell- if it werenât for Roseyâs presence the captain would have taken such a joke in stride and he knew he was being irrational about it. Heâd let rip with such humor himself at times and it didnât mean anything, it didnât and there was no use antagonizing his human cargo on the first day over a joke. The scuff of Cashâs boots behind him reminded him he didnât need to be bowing up at everyone, mildness was the order of the day.
âYeah, gonna be real long.â Elvis agreed and they exchanged tired smiles at each other, the fellow was missing a front tooth on his lower set and had a shock of golden hair that had turned a little straw-like from hard living. âYou got a wife or kids?â he asked, stepping aside so Beans could munch on the hay Johnny brought.
âNo, no Iâm unattached.â the fellow replied, âItâs better that way I figure.â
âWhores donât miss ya.â Elvis deducted with a conciliatory grin and the man took the offered olive branch with a knowing smile.
âI suppose they donât.â the man laughed back. âYou seem awfully familiar,â the man went on, âhave we met? Did you used to work transport during the war?â
Elvis didnât quite have the heart to tell the guy that even if they had met he was about as remarkable as a piece of straw and thus not memorable, a nice person didnât deserve the insult so Elvis said instead, âJudging by your accent, I highly doubt Iâd have been carryinâ you down river.â
âYou an old Rebel then?â
âYouâre a New Yorker?â
âI am.â
âYeah, then, seems not.â Elvis shrugged, âUnless,â an awful thought struck him, â-you always been in the Calvary?â he inquired, his own interest peaked, knowing without a shred of vanity that his own face was not particularly forgettable and so when folks told him theyâd met before he tended to believe them.
âNo, used to be infantry.â the man was puzzled by this line of questioning, âBought my own commission five years ago.â
âShieet!â Elvis exclaimed, thinking heâd cracked it, âYou ever guard at Elmira?â
âYou were held in Elmira?â the guy repeated in disbelief.
âUhuh, you ever guard there?â
âHell no, a shit detail that.â the man was offended, âI was down chasing General Hood in Alabama.â
Elvis squinted at this dead end and stippled his fingers on Beansâ back, trying to think of an alternative meeting. âHood was doing the chasinâ, if I recall.â he snarked.
âAnd we were doing the killing.â the guy smiled back and Elvis let it be.
âDonât leave the damn candle goinâ till it burns down,â Elvis warned as he and Cash turned to go, âthe hay would be happy to catch and keep us from ever makinâ it to the Dakotas.â
âI wonât!â the man replied and as they walked down the cramped hallway that led to Hodgeâs room and then Roseyâs, Elvis felt with the keen discernment of too much time spent in dark alleys that there were eyes pinned to his back in the dark hold, watching where he and his lantern went for the night. Elvis could curse the builder of this ship for all its lonely little cubbies, but he knew how to make use of them. Those eyes burned him all the way to his turn and he felt like scratching his shoulder blades, the itch was so strong.
Natural curiosity was a reasonable reason to give the man, but Rosey made the captain unreasonable, and before he turned he doused his wick and Cash stumbled straight into his back.
Instead of grumbling, his friend muttered, âlead on.â in a quiet tone that suggested he got the Captainâs ploy.
âYouâre in here with Lamar,â Elvis opened the door to one tiny berth with double hammocks, âCharlie and Cal are across and Iâm in through there to a storage closet.â
âYour girl got a gun?â Cash asked instead as he stood on his threshold, âI donât like that sonuvabitch.â
âWhat do you take me for?â Elvis smacked his shoulder, âCourse she does and not just any, I got her Stan Whatieâs lil ivory project.â
âNo, hell, the Cherokeeâs?â
âMhmm, won it over cards.â Elvis said.
âIâll be damned, you romantic bastard.â Cash marveled, âDonât tell my June, itâll heighten her standards and I donât trust her standards on a game of cards.â
âI wonât.â Elvis snickered and bid him goodnight, creeping through the dark into the next room and fumbling between the cots till he thought heâd found Cal and placed a soft kiss on his forehead.
âYouâre precious, ya know that?â Charlieâs voice murmured back instead and Elvisâ head reared back with a shocked snort before he turned to the other bunk and its far smaller and utterly unconscious snoozer and repeated the kiss on the forehead originally intended.
He then felt along the wall until he felt the small latch and he pushed it open to find Rosey in nothing but her nightgown, still burning the midnight oil with her nose in a Pharmakea encyclopedia.
âBaby.â he whispered in greeting, tip-toeing past the chair and the trunks to their cot and being pleased as punch by the happy little cry she gave as she flung herself up in the bed to receive his kisses.
âElvis!â she acted as if it had been years and her love had grown in the meantime and the small kiss he meant to give turned into a full embrace and his intentions for keeping away until he could strip from his work coat and keep her nightclothes unsoiled were irreparably thwarted by her vigor. âToday was a year long, Iâve waited and waited.â she moaned into his mouth and he grinned pleased against her cheek and peppered it with kisses that smelled of tobacco, âYou smell of kerosene.â she laughed once she finally released him and he grinned down at her happily.
âYou alright, darlinâ?â he asked as he began to unbutton his coat, âHowâre them bruises.â
He nodded to her chest and she rolled her eyes before assuring, âTheyâre fine.â
âI wanna see.â he insisted, but made no motion to make her, just kept popping buttons on his leather coat and she rather shyly tugged the wide scoop of her neckline down to show the tops of her breasts, unsure if this was routine or if she was meant to be seductive.
âAww poor bubbies,â he mourned at the still present marks of the bindings, âHoist âem up a little, I wanna see the undersides.â
With burning cheeks, Rosey scooped a breast in each hand and pushed them above the covering of her linen gown. The flash of hunger that seared though Elvisâ compassion made her shift in want on the cot.
âYou been puttinâ the oil on âem like I told ya?â he asked.
âYes I have.â
âSâvery important, donât be lazy about it.â he insisted. âPoor pretty babies, canât believe I hurt âem like that. Gotta put oil on âem.â
âI know Elvis.â she agreed, âAnd what about you? How was it? We felt when you made the turn!â
âDid ya?â
âYes, and I heard you yelling at Lamar.â she smiled shyly and he didnât know why she looked so pleased about it.
âOh.â he exclaimed, âSorry âbout that, didnât mean to be so angry. He's just such a bull about these things and ya gotta just ease it in, insistent but not forceful, ya know?â
âDonât be sorry.â she simpered breathily and licked her lips, âYou sounded like you were-â
âLike what?â He asked, genuinely confused, as he tried to find a place to hang his coat, âWe really need more pegs in here.â
âYou sounded like -a lover.â she hissed the last part, knees drawn up to her chin on the cot and he could pinch her cheeks, she looked so cute in her bashfulness.
âDid I?â he hummed, turning towards her as he emptied his various pockets of knives and timepieces and the like. âAnd did that excite my lil girl?â
âMaybe.â she whispered.
Oddly, he sniffed the air at her answer and squinted as if the findings puzzled him, âYou ainât played with yourself though, have ya?â
âWhy- no. No I havenât.â she gaped in some surprise.
âSee, Iâd know.â He told her with surety, âWhen Iâve been above deck all day I get my senses cleared, ya see? And when I come back down I can sense anything.â
âOh.â her cheeks still flamed.
âWho else has been in here?â He asked after another sniff and his face darkened.
âOh,â Rosey startled, âSister Rosetta, she stopped by to remind me of my meeting, and Cal too, for a bit.â
âAn-who else?â he asked with the look and tone of a man who already knew.
âUh, well then there was Aidaâ Rosey kept her voice light, âshe came so I could return her clothes to her.â
âWhyâd you return them?â
âWeâre done with them.â she replied, puzzled, âArenât we?â
âNo, no, not necessarily.â he frowned, âAnd whatâs the rush to return âem? She ainât goinâ nowhere?â
âI just- I didnât think. Sorry.â
âI donât want you near her, you hear me, Rosey?â
âI-I do. But it wasnâtâŚshe just came by.â
âI bet she did.â he seethed and he undid his vest with savage jerks and Rosey swallowed hard.
âI understand. But -no harm done this time.â she tried to pacify.
âYou donât need to seek out whores for friends, alright?â he went on, âAnd you donât need to listen to whores for nothinâ regarding us. If I wanted a whore Iâd go get me one. Some things are left better untouched, lil girlâs brains beinâ one.â
âIs she dangerous?â Rosey asked.
âOh she done a thing or two in her time.â He agreed mirthlessly, âAnd been done a thing or two back, I suppose.â
âThe doctor says her brain is rotting from the illness.â Rosey crossed her arms uncomfortably at the recollection and the rather obvious proofs of the same that being around the woman gave. Even the stench of flesh rotting that lasted hours after sheâd gone. No amount of perfume or douched lemons could contain it.
âWhy was he tellinâ you âbout her case?â Elvis demanded again. âHe donât need to be tellinâ a lady like you âbout syphillisânâshit.â
âIs that whatâs killing her?â Rosey asked.
âMost likely.â he shrugged, âThey injected the mercury salts into her eyes for it a couple years ago, didn't do shit to slow it. I take âem orally and they burn. A- a-a-and I âmember thinkinâ while I was holdinâ her down for it: nobody ever paid us more for a bit a pain as I paid for that fuckery.â
âYou paid for that procedure?â she shuddered.
âShe begged me, they said it would help. I-I-I hate her but -I couldn't just let herâŚrot.â he shook himself, âI'd rather someone shoot me âfore I get to that point. Why was he tellinâ you all this?â he argued again, brows knit and a hurt expression on his face, âWhy you digginâ into all this?â
âElvis,â Rosey sighed and he took a breath too, as if aware he was tired and cranky, âthe meeting was to discuss medications, you recall? We -our boat- spends an inordinate amount on medicines and opiates for ourâŚso-called employees.â
âYeah, cause this way aâlivin makes you sick, Rosey.â His hands smacked his sides listlessly. âSâwhy Aidaâs so doped up. Fuckinâ terrifies the shit outta me, and if I didnât think God wouldnât like, it Iâd toss her overboard as bad luck. But no way around itâ
âBut you couldnât have always felt that way,â Rosey reminded, âyou were lovers once.â
The captain stopped what he was doing and spun round to face her with some alarm on his face, âThat what she told you? That we was lovers once?â
âWell,â now that Rosey thought on it, Aida hadnât explicitly said so, sheâd just listed herself in a line of the Colonelâs erstwhile spies and remarked how seduction was integral to such a role, âno, sheâs didnât say so exactly-â
â-Well we werenât!â he declared adamantly, as if for his own benefit as much as hers, âDoinâ shit to another body so folks pay ya donât make ya lovers. It jusâ donât, Rosey. No moreân me shoveling coal with Lamar makes us married.â
âAlright.â she replied just as adamantly in order to calm him and held up her hands while she was at it. âSo yâall didâŚworkâŚtogether?â
âI reckon you already knew that.â he muttered, yanking off a boot rather clumsily, âWhyâre you so nosy tonight, anyways, hmm?â
âI-I just wanna know you.â she sighed.
âYou do!â
âKnow *of* you.â she clarified what bit of self recognition sheâd come to realize this morning.
âKnow Of? Wh- whatâve you been drinkinâ down here girl?â The captain laughed, âGettinâ all philosophical on me. Ya know me, historically, biblically and a lil too well. I ainât got any notion âbout takinâ you into sordid lil avenues of my life that donât make no difference now.â
âBut I think they do!â Rosey protested a little vehemently and he stopped midway through easing off with his workboot, hand cupping the scuffed heel as he stared her down. âI think itâs pertinent! All this stuff we donât speak of! Why -you donât sleep some nights and I dream terribly and -you havenât even showed your interest to me since you learned who I was!â she managed to insert the most pressing aspect there at the end and felt proud of herself for carrying on through his stare.
âLil girl, you gone tetched?â He asked mildly, stumbling over to the cot, one clunky boot on and his other a sock foot, laying his beautifully fashioned and wheel calloused palm against her forehead, âWhy, I ainât barely drank anything all day for fear of washinâ away the taste of you this morninâ. Not shown interest? -huh.â
âI mean -your own.â she pointedly stared down at his belt buckle, or rather, the prominent seam below.
âRosey!â he laughed at her, âIâm dog tired a-and I -my interest has been shown. Sweet Jesus I ainât got the brains for this. Not tonight.â
âSo you can manage it dog tired with Aida but not with me!â she shot back and they both seemed to be equally surprised that she was harboring such expired jealousy.
âI can manage it fucked outta my mind with a gal who didnât use to look the way she does now.â he growled and then went on in a mocking voice, âAnd itâll cost ya only three silver dollars to watch, maâam.â
Rosey sniffed and shrugged off the barb, figuring she deserved it, âEtta gave me a remedy for this.â she whispered hopefully instead.
âOh I bet she did.â He eased off himself and stood straight again to work on his remaining boot, âAnd Iâd rather eat fire ants, thank ya.â
âWhatâs wrong with it?â
âOh itâs great!â He assured with a laugh, âFor the first five hours. Then ya start thinkinâ bout amputation. If I catch you slippin Horny Goatweed in my tonicsânâshit Iâll take you over my knee girl, I ainât teasin.â
âI wonât.â she swore, disturbed at the mere notion of slipping anything into anything he took.
He patted her cheek in acknowledgment before sitting down heavily beside her and setting to yanking off his grimy shirt, the pit stains dark and visible as he raised his arms and struggled with the garment.
âWhatâs this really about?â he asked softly as the fabric cleared his flushed face, his hair soft and mussed, grease defining each half-hearted curl at the nape of his neck.
âIâm beinâ silly.â she acknowledged with a shy smile.
âAinât no crime that.â he smiled back, âNot on my boat. Hell, there ever been a time you ainât silly, girl?â
âMaybe not.â
âDidnât think so.â he teased, leaning back against the wall in a slump on the cotâs sagging bedding. âCanât I jusâ be tired, Rosey?â he asked again, âAnd Iâll let you be silly.â
âFair enough.â she sighed.
âWell go on now, be silly. I done told ya you could.â he prodded with a finger to her rib and she jerked from the tickle.
âI know you donât wanna talk about it.â she shook her head, âAnd you're tired so- so I wonât make you.â
âI donât wanna.â he agreed but added sweetly, âI donât wanna talk about mine but Iâll listen to yours, long as you need. Whatâs goinâ on up in that noggin? Too many figures, hmm?â
âSecrets more like.â Rosey mumbled petulantly.
âLord, you got more?â he sighed and didnât seem angry but she let out a scoff that heâd think she meant her own, she thought of the photographs.
âNo,â she chose to leave it be, âno, Iâm talking about more curatives.â she teased.
âGirl, just cool it.â he laughed, âIâll lick ya again.â he offered hopefully and with a little twinkle in his eye that could almost pass for energy.
âWhat about turtle soup?â Rosey dodged, hopeful that a teasing reference to the first night they met and her naivete and his flustered concern for her eating the aphrodisiac back would rouse a smile.
It did. Predictably his mouth quirked and those pillowy lips looked twice as lush and full now set in a heavy thatch of two day old stubble. He let out a groan of playful aggravation with her preoccupation.
He gently grabbed her listless hand from her own lap and placed it on the rough denim covering his crotch. âYou do what ya like.â he sighed, âCanât promise nothinâ.â
The seam was rough but not stiff, as if heâd worn those trousers into softness even at that most vulnerable juncture. As always with his package there was something to pet, even as she ascertained he was not fibbing, he was as soft and tired as he ever got and remained so despite her touches. Even in sleep he was stiffer. She let her hand cup the soft stones spilling on either side of the thick seam, far down between his legs, rubbing at their full undersides and wondering if they ached like her breasts when confined. He shifted on the cot, not in a restless movement at all, but rather as if to settle in for whatever she wished, his legs spreading wider. He even bent his knee and raised his leg to plant one bare foot on the cot, spreading himself as wide as a girl for her attentions, his tall frame cramped and folded by sitting sideways on their little bed.
His soft state inspired soft touches and Rosey found some stupid contentment stroking his sack through the worn denim, running the back of her knuckles up to his shaft that he had tucked nearly to his belt. She realized that despite her boredom with today she was tired too, tired of thinking and tired of mental exertions and ever since heâd taught her, she found this physical outlet far more relaxing than a sleeping tonic.
âI kneed a man here, between the legs, once.â she whispered like a child telling stories at a sleepover and squeezed his sack just the smallest bit. His eyes that had drifted shut while savoring her touches opened up in flutter.
He didnât seem perturbed by that, by her need for violence, just drowsy from being petted. She should make him sleep. âYou can smack me thereâŚif ya like.â he whispered back, entirely serious and not even slightly hesitant. âIf ya like -or, or pinch?â he added again as if heâd missed the mark oniy by sheer variety of options as she remained frozen in concern by the offer.
âI donât.â she got out at last and he shrugged and let his eyes close again. âI-I donât want anything but gentleness for you.â she expounded and he bit his lip and held his peace for a moment as Rosey mentally smacked herself at the realization he did tell her things, they did talk aboutâŚthings. He just didnât do it like a girl unburdening herself or a sinner in the confessional. He offered little insights freely like this one and she was too busy being horrified to notice them for what they were: confidences.
âJusâ tonight, right?â he asked and meant for it to be teasing but it felt burdened.
âMaybe he likes painâ -Aida had said.
âIâd-â Rosey weighed her options with this newfound awareness in mind, perhaps he would tell her more often what he wanted -like the first few weeks- if she remained a blank enough canvas for him to create on, âIâll be whatever you want.â she settled for that and began palming him again, enjoying the way the fabric between his legs was still a little damp, either from mist or else his sweat from sitting at the wheel, legs unable to spread or air out. The way his shoulders were dry but the pits of his shirt could be wrung out suggested the same and some strange, torrid appreciation for his toil made Roseyâs mouth water.
There was an oil stain down at his inner thigh and she thumbed it thoughtfully and felt how the fabric was stiff from the stain compared to the rest. He made a soft little noise of contentment under her touches, his one hand busy in the most lazy way with petting her hair that fell all the way to her hip.
Touching. Being touched. God! sheâd had so little of it in her life, and so much fear of it for so long and now she was leaning beside a man petting the damp seam of his trousers like a cat's neck. She wedged her hand under his thigh for leverage and bent herself to kiss at him there.
She could hear the staccato of his gasp even from there. âRosey I-I ainât even washed, sweet cheeks.â he warned softly.
âI know.â she answered and her voice was a moan, inhaling his pungent sweat, nothing clean about him and she rubbed her face in the pure distillation of his daily exertions like a cat in heat. âI want to smell you.â she told him and it made him swallow hard as she laid her hand on his thigh, the one spread out with his foot up in the covers, and spread him even further, that damned inherent flexibility of his being tested by the strain. His outer knee hit the mattress and it was Rosey that moaned at his ability and Elvis felt like he might shatter into fragments at the erotic pride that rushed through him at the thought of having impressed her.
âSometimes itâs better, feeling rather thanâŚbeing felt?â she tried to explain against the damp denim.
âI know!â he sounded more awake and enthused than he had all day, more than even this morning. âI-I know itâs -itâs glorious ainât it?â and he pet her hair again with happy fervor until she rose up and knelt in front of him, beginning to undo his belt determinedly.
âYouâll wash in the morning.â Rosey decreed as she unfastened the buckle and tugged at the button holding in his warm belly.
âYes lilâmama.â he agreed with hoarse meekness and drew up his other leg to make her efforts easier.
She opened the fly and tugged it apart, being hit by a wall of musk as heâd predictably poured himself straight into the denim this morning, sans underpants to collect the sweat. He was nearly steaming in that denim hammock. She envied the wash maids and their tasks.
She told him as much and laughed incredulously. âYouâve gone silly.â Elvis swore again.
âNo, they treasure your sweat-soiled clothes, Iâm sure of it.â she shook her head and reached out with the tips of her fingers to touch the dank appendage and its hammock of swollen stones, the dark curls of his wiry hair almost shiny from the sweat. âThose girls find your trousers -they fight over them i wager- and the winner holds them up and presses them to their faces like this-â and she put her face to him like a girl kissing at the reflection of a still pond, her hands winding around his waist and digging into the damp back of his trousers, kneading sticky, plush flesh there, too. â-and then she licks at your trouser seams,â and Rosey underscored her point by doing the same to the imprint of his seam on tender pink flesh, âand she moans over the tartness she tastes and the rest of them hate her for what they canât have. And if sheâs really brave-â Rosey couldnât believe her own mind at this rate but face pressed to the Captainâs musky balls, she wasnât truly in possession of any rationale beyond him, him and him, â-sheâll take them to the little closet with the feed sacks and sheâll prop herself up and sheâll touch herself to the smell of you. Wishing she could thank you for your hard work.â
âI havenât any washer maids.â he whispered while looking down at her eyes with wide, guileless blue ones that were somehow playing a part with their projected innocence while being more himself than anything else about him. âI got rid of them all.â he says.
âThen Iâll have to wash them myself.â she murmured back, raspy and coy, âAnd Iâll be the one to thank you accordingly.â
The Captain sucked in a breath so hard at this predictable reply that his bottom lip went with it, pinned between his teeth âtill the vibrant pink turned white under his cruel bite. âCan I watch?â he asked, his voice hoarse with hope. âWatch you be my lil washermaid?â
âSo long as you donât let maid know.â Rosey cautioned with a smirk and dug her hands deeper into his backside, pulling him apart absentmindedly until she felt his cock wag beneath her chin with the first ounce of interest shown tonight. She reared back and stared at the docile thing, twitching pathetically when she dug her nails in a little harsher once more. He sucked in a breath and turned his head to the side and Rosey took her hands out of his trousers to tug the front of his pants further down those sturdy thighs.
Sheâd no real intention of exciting him after all, only missed him and wanted to taste him before sleep. Tomorrow or next month or eternity was ahead of her to sort out why he responded the way he did. For now her duty was to put him to sleep where he belonged ages ago.
âA big man like you has got to be discreet,â she plotted with him and his face eased as they returned to their play, âthe little washermaid wouldnât know how to face the captain if he found her in such a degradi-â
â-uninhibited position, yes, God, yes!â he interrupted her with an appreciative rush and turned the subject sweet.
âYou'll wash in the morning, I want to smell you all night.â she murmured again as she stood up and fully tugged his trousers off over his long feet, making him close his legs from their previous bend.
âYesâm.â He murmured a little dazed and he looked like he was answering while asleep, the poor man was so visibly tired and she tenderly pushed his naked form to lay down the proper way, all the way flat, on their bedding.
She was not sure what it was about skipping a bath that made him seem more manly, more than he even usually was, but seeing his figure laying there naked on the ratty sheets, hairy and greasy from sweat and the stubble coming in thick -she palmed a breast at the sight of it, distracted from her debate as to keep her nightgown on.
âStrip.â his eyes fluttered in an effort to stay open but they flicked up and down her cotton gown and his eyebrow moved in a motion that was as eloquent as a hand waving it off. âYouâll be warm enough wâme.â he assured her of what she was already sure of.
Rosey drew the gown over her head and tossed it beside the Captainâs denims, only her long hair a covering over her shoulders as she stared down at him once more, savoring the beauty she was about to embrace before reaching high above her and turning the gas lamp out.
Plunged into darkness, she shuffled the couple feet left before her shins hit the cotâs edge and a large, warm hand cupped the back of her thigh and tugged her in. She fell atop him and wiggled till she was tucked into his side, her hand petting at the light fur on his chest and her nose nearly buried in the swamp of his underarm.
He grunted disbelieving at her choice. âHowâre you feelin?â she asked, touching his forehead in the dark with the back of her hand, finding it a little clammy but not fevered.
âMâtired.â he replied and none of that had anything to do with Dr. Nicholas and his ponderous list of life
-threatening diseases the man beside her was supposedly harboring.
âYouâre not holding offâŚmaking love to meâŚfor fear of getting me sick, are you?â she whispered the concern of the day, finally.
âI-I told ya why Iâm holdinâ off, Rosey.â he sounded a bit pained but not angry.
âYou promise? Youâre not just putting it off to spare me -something?â She begged.
âThereâs been nothinâ I was ever less inclined to put off, my girl.â he murmured tiredly as he turned on his side, mashing his face into her breast, giving an accentuating hump of his pelvis against her hip.
âAll my life, I ainât ever been the first choice.â she muttered and his arm tightened around her, âIâve killed for other women, for Maddy, the ones who were chosen. Wanted, when others-â she trailed off before picking up in a thin voice reedy with confusion, â-I was talkinâ with Rosetta earlier and I realized I-I was there. I was there for it and not even they wanted me. A dozen men, one woman, and I-I was left alone. I know I should be glad of it.â
Elvis stared at the blackness that somewhere shielded a face he longed to read, but that poor little voice told him a world enough of hurt. He clutched her closer and was going to ask what on earth she meant, who and when and what sort of want she referred to when Rosey added as through in a sob:
âPoor Maddy.â
He startled and turned to grip her in a hug, processing what he was frightened she meant. âThat -child, that ainât no compliment.â he begged her to understand. âEven some of the worst donât go for -you were a child.â
âWas I? I donât recall.â she whispered.
âYes you were.â he declared it, made it truth, âJusâ âcause you only recall it now youâre grown, donât mean you werenât a child back then.â
âIâd forgotten.â She repeated, numb in horror at the thought of what else was buried.
âYou -you recall anythinâ more?â he asked what he was so very scared to know, hardly sure he could carry the weight of more but certain only a coward would make her carry it alone.
âIt took ages.â she whispered, âMy knees hurt somethinâ awful from kneeling behind the stove. Took forever for them all to stop.â
The captain crushed her to him and she gripped his back like a shield, âYou can tell me, Little Cricket.â he soothed, âCan tell me anythinâ at all.â
âCan I?â she sniffled .
âMhmm.â
âThen I will -if I recall.â
âGood girl.â He whispered into the damp of her forehead, placing an almost fatherly kiss there.
âSo you planned on it, marryinâ me fully? Sickness and all, you swear?â she smiled at the pitch black hollow of his throat, grateful to have it out and trying to gauge with her hands whether a fever burned his life away even now.
âRosey, I didnât once plan on you.â Elvis admitted with an affectionate pat and promptly fell asleep.
Go ahead and scream and speculate and gush all you want, I love. Hope you enjoyedđ
**dialogue credit to Captain Smitty
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Shapeshifters is seeking models for an upcoming chest binder photoshoot!
This time we are looking to showcase an expanded range of nude shades, so we are looking for BIPOC models, especially folks with mid- to dark skintones.
The job: Come to our studio in Brattleboro, VT on February 2nd of 2024 for 4-5 hours, put on a few different chest binders in mesh, lace and skin-tone fabrics, and get your picture taken a lot by our awesome photographer.
The offer: $100 cash plus $250 in store credit, OR, $250 cash. Some travel expenses may be coverable for the right candidates.
To apply, fill out this form right here.
No experience necessary. Just be ready to have fun.
Thanks, y'all!
#modeling#chest binding#qtbipoc#yes we have more browns again!!!#oh my god the quest for skin tones that are not BEIGE VARIANT NUMBER 80#it has gone on so long
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Sure, I'm over-tired and over-caffeinated and procrastinating on work, so here are my official thoughts on my image edits/gifs getting reposted on IG, pinterest, etc.:
These thoughts are for me and MY posts ONLY
I post self-made gifs and de-watermarked pics here mainly because i want these things to be seen, but seen outside of my public self. The relative anonymity of a tumblr blog is perfect for me. When 'content' I have worked on migrates to IG without credit to me that is actually preferable to me. To see gifs that I've made get lusted after on IG honestly gives me great satisfaction, a little smirk to myself, and it's not exactly that'd I'd be embarrassed to be outed as the gif-maker, but like....it's not like that's what I want to be known for in the larger world, you know? Like of all the things I create - gifs and mostly illegal photoshop edits fall to the very bottom of the list of things I make for credit.
And not to sound nauseatingly self-righteous but like....are we not just here to enjoy Mike's beauty as a person/muscian? Are we not just here to appreciate the actual creatives behind the content? The video makers, the camera operators (and I think it's a crime that those folks are often not credited), the photographers? Hell, even the concert bootleggers? At this point in my posts I try my hardest to track down the originator of the actual image, etc. Because lord help me, is the hypocrisy of wanting my own credit for images that I am literally removing visual creator credit from not clear enough? I understand that there is labor involved in curating/finding these things in the sea of otherwise grainy and lackluster imagery, but at the end of the day I put in that labor as a service to myself...so that something I love that someone else has ultimately created is out there in the world...and my only regret is that when it gets transferred the metadata/og photocredit is sometimes lost.
For those that DO feel a sense of injustice over their curated/scanned images being reposted cross platform...I really am open to how we might address this? Is there something to do other than feel slighted/angered? I'm not saying that feeling isn't valid, but feeling it alone doesn't keep it from happening and I'd rather you live your life free from it.
Let's have this conversation....I'm not saying I'm right here...I'm saying I've made peace with my own posts...let's get you to make peace with yours in a way that makes sense with you.
#not mike#exactly#mike adjacent#please excuse my cuntiness and incoherence#im on puppy hours and im a right bitch#this is a topic i see quite a lot in the mike fandom and im serious when i say i literally did not encounter this in the phil fandom???#like what is happening??
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Updates and Expectations
Hey folks. Couple of important notes before we get into the meat:
To accommodate spoiler warnings, we generally ask that future set mechanics not be used until a set has had its prereleaseâi.e. don't use Duskmourn mechanics until the contest announced on September 15th, since the prerelease will be on that Friday the 20th. Again, this is minor, something we'd prefer, but not the end of the world. We've talked about this on Discord but not on Tumblr, so some folks might not have heard about it. Our bad.
If you're somehow not submitting from a Tumblr account, please add some way to tag you, or literally any information whatsoever. We've had a couple folks submit from email addresses and, well, it's frustrating when we're not even sure if you're gonna see comments later.
As everyone knows, all cards need artist credit for discernable pictures. If it's a random set of pixels like what I usually do, don't worry about it. If it's a text art description, also don't worry about it. Original art? Credit yourself, you gorgeous maestro! Mashup art from other MTG cards? Gotta credit 'em all. Stock photo? Find the original photographer and/or credited group. Game screenshot? Credit the developer. Use your critical thinking skills and find solutions; we have faith in y'all's abilities.
Alright. Now for the other stuff.
Commentary on cards, as everyone knows, can range from some quick snippets to a massive essay-long series of thoughts and opinions. I range from about 4,000-8,000 words for mine. Now that I'm working on Saturdays, it's going to be a bit tight to get things in in the afternoon, but that's what Friday (and the week in general) is for. I'm in a fortunate position regarding time, space, and experience in writing.
As some folks might've noticed, commentary isn't always on time with the contests in question. The long story short is that there's no easy solution to this. If I was running this full-time solo, I would barely have time to write for myself during the week. Even divided, commentary is a massive undertakingâand it isn't always tenable.
Going forward, the winners and runners should still be around their right time barring extenuating schedules and circumstances. Commentary will just not always be available for the rest of the entries, especially if there are larger numbers. I don't think that limiting the number of entries is a good option, and there are just too many factors for this position to warrant that every judge fulfill commentary every week. I'll try to get in commentary as much as I can, and in this position I'm grateful that I'm able to get it all done to the degree that I have over the years. Not everyone has that time or energy, and it's more of a toll than meets the eye.
In the #fair-talk in Discord, Judges can ask any questions you might have about the card and offer their opinions and insights. That way, you can get some in-depth comments on your card that may not be available in lieu of full commentary. If full commentary is available, then feel free to read up and read away!
One last note: THE EARLIER YOU GET YOUR CARD IN, THE BETTER! Late entries are totally fine, but speaking from experience, doing commentary over the week becomes more difficult when we have multiple entries down to the wire. Sometimes timing and schedules make things difficult! The fact is that timing still matters. Help us help you.
We're all here for the love of the game. We all understand that mental taxes are just as taxing as anything. And, I hope we all understand that writing is really hard. Be well, stay sharp.
@abelzumi
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"Really, believe me, I'm Elvis Presley"
Can you imagine a time when Elvis was not famous just yet and people kinda ignored him?
Of course we know he wasn't famous his whole life but it's so impressive knowing about a time when people saw him face to face and couldn't care less. I invite you on reading about a few of these moments. There's my personal written in here and also - properly credited - info and text from the website Elvis Australia and Mr. Alfred Wertheimer's accounts on moments shared side by side to Elvis in 1956. Here we go!
"Those are words the King probably never had to use again. But on this train ride to Memphis from New York, the two young woman didn't believe who he was. So Elvis pointed to Alfred Wertheimer, and asked the girls why he'd have a photographer taking his picture on a train if he wasn't Elvis Presley. Good point! The girls then seemed to believe him, but still turned down an invitation to his concert at Memphis' Russwood Station July 4th 1956. This photo is either july 3 or July 4, 1956."
Text from: https://www.elvispresleymusic.com.au/pictures/1956-july-3.html | Recollections by photographer Alfred Wertheimer.
July 4th, 1956 - Elvis during a stop at Sheffield Alabama. Elvis ordered chicken and snack cakes - Photo by Alfred Wertheimer.
What a shot! Elvis is looking at the camera, everyone else is looking at the food. No one is paying any attention to Elvis! Guess the folks didn't know they were buying chicken a la king. Text from: https://www.elvispresleymusic.com.au/pictures/1956-july-3.html
July 4, 1956 - Elvis at Chattanooga train station. This is (most certainly) the moment we talk about below.
Another example Mr. Wertheimer mentioned on being around Elvis and how he was still not quite famous yet by mid 1956, which may bothered him someway - or at least kept him anxious, hopeful and working hard to achieve his goals, is this:
Q: What was your relationship with Elvis like? Alfred: I used him and he used me in a symbiotic way. You see, he was almost at the point where he was being recognized as a national star, but not quite. I'll give you an example. Once, in a railroad station in Chattanooga, Tennessee, we were waiting to change trains. Elvis went over to a magazine rack and picked up a movie magazine. He found a photo of himself inside and says to me 'Al, can I have a pen?' I gave him one and he scribbled his name inside the magazine. Then he goes over to the two girls working at the magazine rack. He had the spread open to his picture, showing it to them. He's also looking back at me with a huge Cheshire Cat grin. Their reaction was 'That'll be 35 cents sir'. (laughing) Elvis said to them 'No, this is for you. I'm Elvis Presley'. Finally the girls agree that it is. In the meantime, I'm capturing pictures of all of this, which is really what Elvis wanted. He knew one day that he would be very famous, and he wanted to capture on film these kinds of moments.
Source: https://www.elvis.com.au/presley/interview-with-photographer-alfred-wertheimer.shtml | Published: August 12, 2023 | Alfred Wertheimer's accounts on Elvis. Note: I recommend you read the full interview.
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Anyway⌠That was only normal, given the circumstances but still impressive! Soon, not long after that, Elvis Aaron Presley, the Tupelo country boy, the former truck driver, was "ELVIS PRESLEY, the King of Rock and Roll", and he had all the attention he always hoped for. And it never ceased. Not even death could do anything to stop him from being adored. If he only knew... âĽ
1. April 19, 1960 - Elvis greets fans from train door at T&P station in Fort Worth on layover en route to film 'GI Blues' in Hollywood. 2. Backstage in Toronto, ON on April 2, 1957 - Elvis canadian fans
1972.
1956.
#elvis presley#elvis the king#elvis fans#elvis fandom#50s elvis#elvis#elvis history#elvis and alfred wertheimer#1956#alfred wertheimer#elvis photos
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Some Answers To Your Questions (Transcribed by Janice's Daughter Naomi)
May 7, 2024
Hi all,
This is Janice's daughter Naomi again. We've been getting a lot of questions from some curious new followers and thought we'd just compile them all here in one post. Mom tends to veer off topic when she gets going so I'm here to transcribe the important bits and leave out the rest.
Q&A
Q: Can you tell us more about your alien abduction?
A: 1997 - October 14th. Matthew Mark Luke John and I were in a brief period of separation and I was home alone with Naomi. I'd just put her to bed around 7 o'clock and walked outside to have a cigarette (Camel blues - and while we're on the subject, why don't they allow smoking indoors anymore? We used to be able to light up an honest to god Pall Mall in the middle of Catholic Mass back in the 70s) [note from Naomi: this rant went on for 13 solid minutes before I got her back on track]. Anyway, I walked out to stand on the front porch and I passed out. Next thing I know, I'm getting strapped up and suspended from the ceiling, high in the air with my belly down and gooch out. I couldn't see anything but the floor at least 10 feet beneath me. There were probably nine or ten little guys looking up at me from below like town perverts waiting for an upskirt shot. Ugly little fuckers. You could see through their skin to their organs. I'm pretty sure the one who strapped me up was the leader because he had a hat. Then suddenly the lights went dark and I screamed - and that's when I heard three other screams. Definitely human. I have no idea who they were or where they are now and it tortures me twenty four hours out the goddamned day. Then I felt a big ol' gust of pressure and I was transported to some sort of void. Black all around me. A few seconds later the Hat Guy wheeled a TV in front of me and turned it on. For the next 3 hours and 15 minutes, the screen played James Cameron's "Titanic", which I found very odd as the movie wasn't due to release on Earth until December. As soon as the credits rolled I woke up in my bed as if nothing happened. I almost thought it was a dream until I dug into my morning bowl of cottage cheese and tasted sulfur as if my entire mouth was painted with the stuff. Now anything I orally consume tastes like that. I have to get my nutrients through a DIY feeding tube I engineered in '98. Patent still pending but I hold on to hope.
Q: You don't seem too worried about your missing husband, but your daughter Naomi does. Why?
A: I don't know - you'll have to ask Naomi why she cares so goddamned much [note from Naomi: he's my dad]
Q: Your bit isn't funny
A: Is this some type of internet explorer slang?
Q: Why do you hate your 4 year old grandson so much? Do you hate kids?
A: I love children! Zachary is not a child. He is a government drone. [note from Naomi: We're working on this relationship]
Q: If you could find the other victims from the night of your abduction, what would you ask them?
A: Oh, too many questions to name! But to start I'd ask if they also watched Titanic or if they got a different film like Boogie Nights or Good Will Hunting.
Q: You say you're single and looking - what kind of partner are you looking for?
A: Anyone who can slap my ass and ride a hog, honey (MUST be willing to assist in twice-daily tadpole experiments)
[note from Naomi: please do not indulge her in this, I am begging you]
---
That's all for now, folks.
Once again, my father is still missing. Last seen wearing a tweed suit in Atlanta, Georgia six months ago, black toupee, 5'3", ~230lbs, walks with a slight limp, favoring his left side. His full name is Matthew Mark Luke John Christ.
Please, PLEASE reach out if you have any information whatsoever on his whereabouts. As Mom said before, there are no known photographs of him as he is staunchly against photography as a concept and industry. If it helps, he looks a little bit like John Goodman if John Goodman was 5'3" with a black toupee and a limp.
Maybe we'll do another one of these if we get some more questions in bulk - Zachary and I are moving in with Mom to help her out until Dad comes back so things are a little chaotic here as you can imagine. Until then, please spread the word about my father if you can.
-Naomi
AND janice xx
#alien abduction#janice christ#missing#titanic#boogie nights#good will hunting#AMA#q&a#questions#interview#answers#camel#camel blues#catholic mass#smoking#cigarettes#smoking indoors
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Behold, the king of online cartoons
Ex-Hanna-Barbera whiz Fred Seibert blazing a trail with YouTube network
A couple of times over the years, then-USA Todayâs entertainment and tech reporter (and photographer) Jefferson Graham was nice enough to feature me in an article about the cartoons I was producing. First time was in the late 90s with âOh Yeah! Cartoons,â but in 2015, with streaming video finally reaching the mainstream press (Channel Frederator actually started in 2005) and Grahamâs animator son joining our network, he revisited.
Thanks to animator Michael Hilliger, who sent over his copy of the article in 2024.
By Jefferson Graham USA Today July 17, 2015
LOS ANGELES â Fred Seibert wants you to have his card.
And his phone number. He even won't mind if we print his [email protected] e-mail address right here in USA TODAY.
Seibert, 63 is the online toon king, with 400 million views monthly to his Channel Frederator network on YouTube, but he's never sure where his next hit will come from.
So he's always out there looking, at schools, industry gatherings, book signings. You name it.
Next weekend, he'll be at the Vidcon convention near Los Angeles, a gathering of folks who make their living off YouTube, which is where most folks see his online `toons.
"I have no ideas," he says. "But I recognize talent."
That's for sure. Seibert, then president of Hanna-Barbera's cartoon studios in the 1990s, is credited with discovering Seth MacFarlane, the creator of the Family Guy, fresh from college, when he hired him to work on Hanna-Barbera cartoons.
For Seibert's "What a Cartoon!" series for the Cartoon Network, Seibert hit ratings gold, signing up the creators who churned out hits like "The Powerpuff Girls," "Dexter's Laboratory" and "Johnny Bravo." Their series debuted as shorts for first for Seibert's series.
He still serves as executive producer of "The Fairly OddParents," a TV series he began producing in 1998 when it debuted on his "Oh Yeah, Cartoons," series. It's been running ever since on Nickelodeon.
Seibert's biggest audiences, however, have come from online, to the tune of some 1.9 billion views for 'toons like the Bee and PuppyCat and Bravest Warriors.
We had Seibert as a guest on our #TalkingTech podcast in June. At the time, he was averaging 300 million monthly viewers to the Channel Frederator network. Now he's already up to 400 million monthly viewers, and predicts he'll top 700 million by year's end, and 1 billion by 2016.
The reason for the massive growth is that unlike before, when animation was targeted just to young kids, either for Saturday morning TV, and kid-based cartoon TV channels, anyone of all ages can view `toons online.
Seibert's Cartoon Hangover, a Frederator section where he shows the best of his `toons, bills itself as the channel for "cartoons that are too weird, wild, and crazy for television."
âBee and PuppyCat,â about a young woman with a hybrid dog-cat, is written by Natasha Allegri, a woman in her 20s, about a character in her 20s, and thus, obviously not targeted to the traditional animation crowd.
"No matter what your interest online â whether it be anime, or science fiction or comedy cartoons, there is a place for you," Seibert says. "TV has a tough time supporting the sub-genres. Online is all about sub-genre."
Channel Frederator is what's known as a multi-channel network. Cartoons run on YouTube, but his network promotes them, sells ads and distributes the proceeds to some 2,000 of his video makers.
Through Frederator, the channel makers learn about which color to make their thumbnails to find larger YouTube audiences (he recommends yellow) and which keywords to use in the descriptions ("funny" always works, he says.)
"We give them the tools to grow their performance," he says.
Dominic Panganiban, a 24-year-old animator from Toronto, joined the Frederator network in November, and has seen his subscriber base grow ten times since.
He had been working with Full Screen, another multi-channel network that works with YouTube creators to help them monetize their videos and attract larger audiences.
"Frederator was a better fit, because they cater more towards animation channels," Panganiban says. Because Frederator attracts folks who enjoy cartoons, "I have more potential here."
By being part of the Frederator network, Australian animator Sam Green says he's learned about how to better promote his cartoons, and gotten access to a database of free music and sound effects to use in his cartoons.
He too has seen a spike in traffic.
Being with Seibert "helped me move from my mother's garage to affording my own apartment in the big city," he says.
How did the traffic for both creators go up so dramatically?
Seibert promoted the cartoons to his audience. With 2,000 cartoon makers, that's a lot to choose from. He says he'll plug as many of them as "show an interest" to growing their audience. He looks for people who post new work regularly, stay in touch, and ask "what we can do to help them more."
And despite the massive online audience, Seibert isn't making money yet, and doesn't think he will for another three years.Â
"Our cartoons are 3-4 minutes long, and the average American watches 6 hours of TV a day," he says. "We have a long way to go to even that out."
Photography by Jefferson Graham, July 2015
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Hi Minnie, hope youâre well. Saw your reblog about not reposting artwork, and it made me wonder what your thoughts are on something sort of similar.
Most people on here would probably agree that stealing someoneâs fan art or fanfic is wrong. But thereâs also something Iâve noticed in a smallish, maybe medium-sized fandom Iâm in that has gotten some new fans recently. Maybe it happens in other fandoms too. Using Chris for an exampleâletâs say someone found a rare old interview with him in a print magazine that didnât seem to be known in the fandom, so they scanned it and posted it. Most people would just reblog or like it. But someone else might nab it and post it on their own Tumblr blog or Twitter or Discord, etc.
Now, I think thatâs not so bad if they at least credit and link to the original post. But most people donât bother to do that, and are happy to accept the credit as if they were the one who found it. This happens fairly often in my fandom now (and it seems to be mostly the newbies doing it) and Iâm not sure how to address it as I seem to be the only one who notices or cares.
Itâs not quite as bad as stealing someoneâs art, because theyâre literally just sharing an interview or pic or whatever which they technically donât own in any way. But I still feel like itâs slightly shady to do if itâs something rare, or maybe if thereâs already a very similar âlegacyâ post thatâs well-known in the fandom. What are your thoughts on it? Should we basically accept that as soon as we post something itâs free game for the internet, or try to have a bit more, IDK, Tumblr decorum, lol.
I know some of itâs down to excitement and eagerness to share things, and of course people donât necessarily see every post even in a small fandom so they might not know that someone already posted something. But the frequency of it happening makes me think maybe they just want all the notes to themselves.
Have a great day â¤ď¸
Hi darling! I'm doing well, thank you, I hope you are too! Thank you so much for your message, this is actually such an interesting question, and so eloquently put, too.
I definitely recognise what you're describing, it happens occasionally in the Stucky / Sebastian / Chris fandoms as well, and I basically feel the exact same way about it that you do. I agree it's not quite on the same level as stealing/reposting fanart or fanfic, and it also ranks below using gifs without credit and passing them off as your own, because all of these kinds of works take a great deal of effort and time to create, and are overall very personal in nature.
That isn't quite the case for photos or interviews that people dig up and post, but even that takes time and effort, and so in my opinion, the decent thing to do if you want to share that sort of content to another platform would be to ask permission first, or at the very least to give credit to whomever posted it first (although it is of course hard to determine to whom the credit is really owed in this case, because you could argue the credit belongs to the original photographers/authors only, but of course that is often arguable too when they've been released publicly etc., but hey, how hard is it really to be like "I found this here, thank you to this person to bringing it to my attention!" or something to that effect?)
So yeah, basically I think there can't be any hard rules for this sort of reposting, but I do absolutely think that ideally, everyone should always try to be decent about it, and not just repost stuff they've just seen someone else post and act like it was their own discovery, especially if it's something rare. There are definitely folks around who do this often and shamelessly, ostensibly for the notes and clout. It's not a crime, but it is kinda lame imo, and just bad fandom etiquette.
I hope that answers your question and that you're having a wonderful day yourself! â¤ď¸
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Close Encounters of the Preferred Kind - (MCU/Justified Crossover)
Part 2 in my wholly unintentional Two Snipers series.
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Justified/The Avengers (MCU) Crossover (kinda)
Pairing: Clint Barton/Tim Gutterson
Word Count:Â 2066
Warnings: Fluff (kinda sorta, if you squint), canon level violence, aliens, cussing, a lot of cussing.
Summary: Set after the events of 'Bad Mistakes (I've Made A Few)', this is the second meeting of our fateful couple, with aliens invading, families meeting, and, of course, Tim's long-suffering boss, Chief Deputy Marshal Art Mullen. Life gets messy when worlds collide.
Authorâs Notes: 100% did not intend to write a follow-up to BM, but these two don't really do things on my timeline or my schedule. Anyway, the idea of this made me laugh, this is what happens when you introduce your Boo to your people, and everybody had issues. Oh, and the mood board was all me, with picture credit going to their varying photographers.
Eastern Kentucky is not where one expects Armageddon to start, but there it is and there they are.Â
âWhat the fuck am I looking at, Art?â the sniper asked his superior officer as he stared unflinchingly down his rifle scope. When heâd gotten the call that all hell had broken loose in Nobleâs Holler, Tim figured it was more methed up psychopaths who were unclear on the local mayorâs penchant for pig sticking. Purple creatures falling out of a hole in the sky with more tentacles than a jellyfish was not on his bingo card.Â
âI got no idea,â the older man answered, never once looking up from his binoculars, âbut my suggestion is nothing but headshots.â He paused as he loaded his own rifle and stretched out on a bluff overlooking the mayhem next to Tim. To look at the Chief Deputy in his tie and button down shirt, he didnât seem the type to get down on the ground and dirty, but most folks underestimated him to their peril. The man taught at Glynco and was a badass well before Tim got proficient with a slingshot, much less a rifle. âAssuming that those are actually their heads.â
âCopy that.â There was nothing quite as satisfying as brass ejecting from the port and watching his target become iridescent green mist.Â
Alien invasions were not generally the purview of the United States Marshals Service, but occasionally, needs must.Â
The giant millipedes had massive tentacles and leathery purple skin which was impervious to conventional small arms fire; the only thing that seemed to fell the murderous, marauding bastards was a shot through he presumed was the eye, a target approximate the size of a navel orange, or through the mouth, an open maw about the size of a peach. Luckily, the produce section had never been an issue for Tim.Â
Heâd been shooting and reloading for the better part of an hour after the damn portal opened up, doing his best to defend Ellstin Limehouseâs normally quiet enclave as best he could. It was the least he could do, even if he didnât exactly trust the guy. Their interpersonal issues had nothing to do with the welfare of the innocents being set upon by these nightmare fuel monstrosities.Â
Correction: âBy comparison, my nightmares are a breeze.â
When the first creature fell without his intervention, Tim was startled enough to jerk back from the ledge and take his eyes off the scope, just in time to see the honest-to-God Captain America shield go flying past the end of his rifle, taking out a creature coming up on his flank that heâd missed before bouncing back to its owner with disturbing accuracy.Â
âI am entirely too old for this shit,â Art grumbled as he rolled away from the edge to reload his rifle with all the annoyance and irritation of a deluge of Friday afternoon paperwork.Â
âI will be goddamned,â Tim murmured reverently as his brain processed what was happening. Creatures began falling left, right, and center as a roaring overhead signaled the arrival of Iron Man while the roaring on the ground was the giant green menace known as the Hulk ripping through these things like they were made of tissue paper. But that wasnât what held his interest.Â
There, big as life and dressed in form-fitting purple and black kevlar, was the luscious not-so-little secret heâd been keeping since his detail in DC. What should have been a routine job a couple months ago turned into a three-night-stand for the duration of the operation, and then some flirty texts back and forth and more than the occasional round of phone sex in the time intervening. None of that could have prepared him for seeing Clint in action up close and personal.Â
The armless black suit emphasized every unreasonably pretty inch of the man, from his ridiculous arms that wielded a bow as ably as he hefted his own rifle, shot after unerring shot bounding and leaping nimbly from cover to cover, down to the perfect cupcake ass that fit in his hands just so. Goddamn the man was so pretty he could be considered a potentially lethal distraction.Â
âYou gonna watch or are you gonna shoot?â Raylan demanded from his right as he stretched out on the ground with a rifle to join the party. The cowboy had been late to the party since he and Rachel had been left to man the office in Lexington, but once gunplay became the order of the day, Tim knew it was only a matter of time before the man in the infamous tan hat showed up. That he was able to convince Rachel, their normally by-the-book and most level-headed colleague, to come out on an alien invasion spoke to the manâs ability to charm the devil himself out of his seat in Hell.Â
âFuck you,â Tim snarled, but without any heat behind it as he took up his position again and began firing once more at the few remaining creatures on the ground below them.Â
From start to finish was just under three hours of sustained fire, and when Tim finally rose to his feet to survey the area, the story was told in the sea of expended brass cartridges and rivers of green blood running through the streets of the valley below. Black trucks were rolling in from both sides of the holler with SHIELD logos on them, signaling the cleanup crew.Â
âYou know what time it is now, right?â Raylan asked with a devilish grin as he doffed his hat to shrug out of his ballistic vest. Heâd stripped down to a form-fitting white t-shirt and looked more like heâd been called in from a day off than from a day at the office.Â
âWhatâs that?â Art demanded as the guys helped him to his feet, brushing an annoyed hand over the wrinkles and streaks of dirt that his wife Leslie would likely fuss over later. After she yelled at him about going out on an alien invasion not two months out of a stint at the heart hospital.Â
With a shiteating grin and the pop of a peppermint Altoid in his mouth, Raylan nodded toward the collection of superheroes at the edge of the fray, watching the cleanup proceedings begin and talking amongst themselves. âThe interagency debrief, of course!â He was off before anyone had a chance to contradict him, leaving Tim, Rachel, and Art to chase after the cocksure cowboy.Â
âCanât get him to even look at paperwork any other time,â Rachel grumbled as they slowly approached the other group.Â
âThis ainât paperwork,â Tim replied, though his eyes were on one thing and one thing only.Â
Like they had a mind of their own, his feet carried him right up until he was close enough to tap Clint on the shoulder. âHow do, stranger.â
The pure joy on the manâs face when he turned around did funny, fizzy things to his insides that he was loath to examine, and were dangerously close to giddy. The man smelled like sweat and looked like heaven, and fuck if all he wanted to do was run his hands over those arms that had held him up against a wall more than once. As it was, he was standing closer than was strictly necessary and well beyond the bounds of âjust friends reunitingâ. The desire to wrap his arms around the man was damn difficult to quell.Â
âI wondered if Iâd get to see you,â the archer replied with a shy smile and flushed cheeks. âI mean, Iâd hoped,â he rambled on, âbut thenââ he gestured at the carnage behind him.Â
For a moment, it was like the world had winnowed down to just the two of them. âI get it. Iâm glad youâre here now, though.âÂ
âMe too.â
And then the moment was broken by the diminutive redhead standing next to them elbowing Clint in the ribs. âWhoâs your friend, Barton?â She was equally clad in black, the kevlar skating over and highlighting every single curve and hollow, highlighting both the beauty and the danger that she embodied.Â
Rolling his eyes, Clint took half a step back to face her more fully. âNat, this is Tim Gutterson of the Marshals.âÂ
Her green eyes lit up as her lips curved into a mischievous smirk. âThe hottie you told me about from a couple months ago in DC?âÂ
The blondâs eyes widened comically as his face shifted from flushed to pale to tomato red with alarming speed. âReal subtle, Nat.âÂ
If his face felt hot before, now it felt like the skin was melting off of him. The idea of Clint talking about him, to Black Widow of all people, combined with the adrenaline dump of the situation only added to the feeling of surreal dissociation. Feeling a bit cheeky, he grinned slyly as he looked Clint up and down. âTalking about me, Clint? My heartâs a-flutter with curiosity.âÂ
âDeputy Gutterson, you gonna introduce your friends?â Artâs voice was a bucket of cold water down his back as he suddenly remembered both his location and his audience.Â
From Raylanâs grin, he knew he would never EVER live this down, no matter how many terrible situations the cowboyâs penchant for prohibited pussy landed them in, and Rachel? Well, she was the office master interrogator for a reason and he knew damn sure that he would be spilling everything he knew to her before they made it to the Lexington city limits.Â
âChief Deputy Art Mullen, this is Clint Barton of the Avengers and âŚâ he trailed off, uncertain how to introduce the Black Frickinâ Widow.Â
She stepped up and shook Artâs hand like a practiced politician. âNatasha Romanov. Lovely to meet you.âÂ
The older man smiled and, while Tim couldnât swear to it, appeared to blush like a schoolboy. âLikewise.âÂ
Not to be outdone, Raylan smoothly inserted himself between them with his hand out and his 1000 megawatt gunslinger charm turned to âthermonuclearâ. âRaylan Givens, Miss Romanov. Longtime admirer of your work.âÂ
She giggled. The assassin actually fucking giggled and her nose wrinkled. âYou can call me Natasha.âÂ
Art watched this scene, the four of them talking amongst themselves, with apocalyptic levels of horror dawning on his face. The sheer amount of paperwork Raylan and Tim, hell Raylan by himself most days, generate was enough to fell a small forest. These folks together were an environmental crime waiting to happen. The potential bodycount of a Raylan and Romanoff team-up was nothing short of an imminent violation of the Geneva Convention. âOh absolutely fucking not.âÂ
All four heads turned in his direction, Raylanâs mouth already open and ready to rock, but he was having none of the bullshit.Â
âYou,â Art pointed to the cowboy, âget in the car.âÂ
âBuââ
âNope,â he held up the finger of doom, the finger of âunpaid time off if he kept on,â it 3was one they were all exceptionally familiar with. âCar. Now.â Turning to Tim, he softened a bit. âSay your goodbyes, we have paperwork.âÂ
Rather than argue, Tim merely nodded, cringing when he turned to face Clint. âDad says I gotta go.âÂ
Clintâs smirk was nothing short of wicked and it was suddenly a billion degrees around Tim. âIâll be around tonight if you wanna meet up.âÂ
âIâd like that just fine.â Anything else he wanted to say was cut off at a sound he rarely heard outside of the comforts of her motherâs house. A sound that stripped away the years and the edge to reveal a girl much more carefree. Deputy Marshal Rachel âI make suspects cry for funsiesâ Brooks was standing off to the side and making googoo eyes at none other than the Brooklyn Boys. Captain Frickin America and the Winter Goddamn Soldier were flirting with his best friend and putting their numbers in her phone.Â
âSee what you did?â Art demanded from behind him as he leaned against the closed passenger door of the sedan that sealed Raylan inside.
âMe?â Tim demanded in affront. âHow is this my fault?â
Artâs face was a mask of vaguely amused sarcasm. âYouâre a bad influence.â
âWell, now thatâs just hurtful. Besides,â he threw his rifle bag in the trunk before slinking into the back seat on the driverâs side and meeting his friendâs eyes in the rearview mirror, âI thought that was Raylan.âÂ
#avengers fan fiction#justified fanfiction#justified#justified fic#tim gutterson#tim gutterson fic#clint barton x tim gutterson#clint barton fanfiction#clint barton#avengers crossover fic#avengers and justified crossover#justified crossover fic#my writing
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Hi there, prof, just wanted to send this to you, to ask if it would be ok for me to repost some of your comics onto r/Pokemedia, a Pokemon RP based Subreddit. I play a Nature Photographer on it, and I was wondering if I could repost your comics onto the server. Someone already posted your Torterra comic there, but I wasn't sure if they'd gotten your permission to post it.
Anyway, I hope you're having a wonderful time, and if you ever feel like Rping, I'd suggest popping over sometime. The community there is great and quite active, and I'm sure your comics would be a massive hot over there! Thanks!
So long as you link back to the blog and the original artist, itâs fine.
I appreciate the ask, really gutting to find your work floating around without credit. Even worse when folks donât ask.
Unfortunately I donât use Reddit, but thanks for the offer.
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Shianâs Thoughts on Shinagawa Division
Ritsuko Okada
âAh⌠so thatâs what sheâs up to⌠running in the DRBâŚâ Shian took off her biker hat and ran her fingers through her bright red hair in exasperation. âHa! Just where was someone like you when people needed itâŚâ she mumbled. âSheâs got a number of accomplishments under her nameâ especially with her use of microbots to repair the human bodyâ and yet sheâs in charge of so many wrongdoings. Can never trust someone like her.â
Miho Kobayashi
âOh⌠weâll if it isnât the CEO of E. L. Medical. Sheâs incredibly harsh and strict⌠so Iâve heard. Iâve done some digging some time ago, her record isnât exactly⌠itâs not tainted but itâs certainly not perfect.â She slapped the photograph on the table with a sigh. âShe⌠ugh, building up a big brand with so many people seeing you as a role model also brings about people who openly want to tear you down. In her case and certain folks, maybe itâs deserved.â
âOn the other hand, Iâm COO of my own bail bond company, so I do have to give her the credit where itâs due. Itâs no easy feat to lead a full company. I at least have my business partner, but Miho Kobayashiâs basically on her own.â
Sumire Shinomiya
âSheâs a genius in the tech world. I never came across her personally, but Iâve heard many stories about her. You know, one of the bounty hunters from my old company didnât catch this girl in time for her court showing after she got arrested for some⌠I donât remember what it was for, she wasnât my fugitive. I heard he lost upwards a million yen because of this girl.â
Shian flipped the photograph over, revealing her cluster of notes. However, several lines ended with several question marks. For someone whoâs got such a terrible record⌠thereâs hardly anything about her before being adopted by her aunt⌠I hate it⌠when thereâs hardly anything about you for me to find⌠you remind me of that one man⌠and I canât stand it.
CodeX
âDefinitely one of the more daunting teams weâve seen. Everyone here has really built up a reputation and they do a good job of intimidating the crowd.â Shianâs lips curled into a smirk. âSorry, ladies. But your little fun in this tournament is gonna have to wait, Pixel Syndicateâs got a goal to reach and we gotta do what it takes. Even if it means trampling over you.â
#hypnosis mic#hypnosis mic oc#hypmic#hypmic oc#hypnosis mic arb#hypmic arb#shinagawa division#codex#ritsuko okada#miho kobayashi#sumire shinomiya#akihabara division#pixel syndicate#shian meizono
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PSA from a fandom con photographer
As some of you know, I'm a con photographer. A while back, a bunch of us joined a group chat together, and we talk about all things cons and photography in there. Recently, the subject of photo theft has come up again, but this time a new comment was made and that's why I'm here.
In the past, I've heard photographers express frustration about people reposting our photos with watermarks cropped out or otherwise removed. Sometimes, these photos are edited further and someone else's watermark slapped on top of it. This is disrespectful, at best, and really offends the original photographer. Usually, this is done in an effort to gain clout online, and not for any artistic reasons. This is not what I'm here to talk about.
I know that a lot of folks on Tumblr use con photos for fic headers and aesthetics and such, especially for RPF fics. (Because we can totally tell whether a photo is Jensen or Dean, even with the background edited out, he's just that good.) It's come to my attention that some photographers would be REALLY uncomfortable with their art being used this way. They don't read fic, they don't understand it, or they just don't want their art used in a way that misinterprets the moment captured in the photo, even if it's fiction.
We need to respect this.
How do we feel when someone reblogs our fics and uses it to prop up an argument about our characters that we disagree with? We feel kinda shitty. That's how photographers feel when their photos are used in ways they weren't consulted about.
How do we fix this?
When you search Google and find an image from a con, do a reverse lookup on that image and AT LEAST TRY to find the original photographer. If the photo has been taken in the last year or so, you can come to me and see if I know who took it, too.
Ask that photographer if they are okay with you using their image in the way you intend. I know this is a pain, but remember how you'd feel if someone used your art without asking permission!
Many times, if you ask, the answer will be yes. Sometimes, it may be no. Please respect the answer you receive.
If you honestly try and can't find the photographer, then at least put a comment captioning this on the post where you use the photo. If you make a good faith effort and express this in your caption, that at least lets us know that you tried.
If you have any questions about this, feel free to ask me!
Personal note from me: If you like any of my photos, you are welcome to use them. I know I don't make the best photos in the fandom, so this isn't much, but it's there.
Also, "credit to Google" or "I found this on Google" is not credit. Google does not create images. Google only indexes them.
Just remember that there is a person behind every image and piece of art you find on Google.
Also, if you don't contact the artist/photographer, how does that person know that you liked their work? They don't. This is the same as if someone reads your fic but doesn't hit the heart or reblog it. Personally, I LOVE getting asked about my photos the same way I love hearing feedback on my fics. Let your photographer know you love their work!
I've been asked about screen grabs and gifs. I'm referencing just those photos taken by people at cons. Screengrabs and gifs also take talent to create, so if you can find out who made them and give them credit, that's awesome. Photos taken from the star's Twitter or IG....that's a good question. Credit would go to them, but they are impossible to ask if they mind. An argument could also be made that they know what might happen to any photo they put out there. (Maybe put a link to the original as credit?)
It was only recently that I saw someone comment about their photo being used to apply a narrative to Jensen based on his facial expression in the photo, and a brief mention of fic happened right after that, and I just got the feeling that certain photographers would not be pleased to know how we use their photos, sometimes.
As far as I know, no photographer has found their photo in a fic header and complained. But based on what was said, if they did, they might not be happy. And not just because most photos used in a fic header end up being further edited to make it work with the header, beyond cropping. For instance, an asexual photographer might feel icky about their photo being used as a header for a smut fic.
TL;DR - Credit your photographers in your headers, edits, and mood boards when at all possible. Make the effort to contact them and ask for permission. Some may give you blanket permission as I have. Some may not. Either way, this is their art that you're manipulating, so please respect it.
steps off soap box Thank you for listening!
#mrswhozeewhatsis writes#incoherent babbling by mrswhozeewhatsis#please credit your photographers and artists and screengrabbers and gifmakers#blessed are the gifmakers
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FOLKS DONT TAKE OTHER PEOPLES POSTS AND REMOVE WHO POSTED IT AND MAKE IT LIKE YOU WENT THROUGH ALL THE TROUBLE TO FIND AND POST. ITS A SHITTY THING TO DO AND THE COMMUNITY FROWNS UPON IT GREATLY.
YOU MAY NOT HAVE REALIZED THAT ITS TUMBLR ETIQUETTE SO LET THIS BE A PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT.
THANK YOU FOR YOUR ATTENTION AND COOPERATION. ALSO ANY PICTURES PULLED OFF THE NET MUST HAVE THE PHOTOGRAPHERS CREDIT ATTACHED TO AVOID COPYRIGHT BREECH. NOW PLAY NICE. đ REPOST EM AS YOU FOUND THEM.
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