#expensive sounds vol 1

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[bardic-inspo]

Blood in the Mortar

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x Vampire Bride Tav

Rating: Explicit (Smut!!)

Key Tags: Vampire/Blood Bride Lore, Service Dom Astarion, Sexy Use of Telepathic Bond, Evil Power Couple, Torturing a Captive, Choking, Biting/Blood, Masquerade, PIV, Cunnilingus

Summary:

“I wanted to see you right where you belong,” Astarion whispers, the sound as sheer as the lace he wrecked. “So beautiful on your throne.” It started on Naomi’s knees, this new life of passion and pleasure unbridled. Astarion didn’t know he’d be hers, just as much as she’d be his, when he bit her thrice, bled her dry, and gave her just one drop of his ascended blood.

Cross-posting from my AO3 account. This is my first BG3 smut fic. If you like it, I'd love to know! Click here if you'd prefer to read on AO3.

“To whom can a vampire bare its soul and admit its fears? From whom can it receive consolation for the past, comfort for the present, and hope for the future?...The vampire is drawn emotionally to a mortal and decides, because of the strength of this emotion, to make her his bride…The happiness of the vampire becomes tied up with the prospective bride, and its well-being depends on hers.”

-Van Richten’s Monster Hunter’s Compendium, Vol 1

Astarion twists the stem of his wine glass, idly tilting the contents within. His assorted guests warp in the bulb of it, swaying between rosy red and clear crystal.

A gravelly voice interrupts his game. “Quite the menagerie you’ve gathered here, Lord Ancunín.”

Astarion doesn’t bother to stifle his sigh. There’s no mistaking him as the lord of the house, even masked as he is. Astarion’s ensemble this evening is pitch dark velvet swirled in crimson thread and snaking silver. His mask glimmers in the same shade of scaled metal, set to complement the curve of his cheekbones, with only miniscule, twinkling rubies encrusting the edges. Nothing meant to outshine the searing color of his eyes. The mask might be silver, but it’s a red dragon Astarion embodies for this particular masquerade.

This party’s for more monstrous company, after all.

No expense was spared for the ‘menagerie’. A grand piano, polished to an opalescent white, plays under spectral hands at the heart of the ballroom alongside a string quartet. A starlit Baldur’s Gate glistens outside the windowed east wall, framed in gold drapery to match the shimmering flecks in the white marble floor. Lavish wine and better blood pour freely; his guests have only to lift their empty glasses to have them brimming again.

Even with all the ornate masks, in the shapes of creatures exotic or fierce, none of the fangs in the room are fake. All the titles are, save for his and his consort’s. Astarion’s lip curls with distaste.

This masquerade was meant for nobility of a supernatural stature. Vampires, warlocks, lycanthropes. Those who lead them. But what his doors received were lowly spawn. Servants sent in their masters’ stead to get just a glimpse of the one and only vampire ascendant, and then to scurry back and tell tale of him. Cowards.

There’s only one human here who’s just human.

Astarion offers him a well-practiced shrug of a laugh. “I do hope you don’t feel out of place among us more…colorful sorts. Lord…? Forgive me, what was it again?”

“Isn’t the point of a masquerade not to bother with such trivialities?” The stranger chuckles hastily. “In any case, I am not lord. Only a humble apprentice to the most renowned wizard Waterdeep has to offer.”

Ah, yes. The invitation was sent for the newly named archmage, filling the god-shaped hole Gale left behind in the wake of his own ascension. Astarion’s eyes flit over the lanky, unkempt apprentice who addresses him instead.

His hair hangs in honey blonde waves past his shoulders, like the mane of the beast he seeks to imitate. It’s a lion’s mask the apprentice wears. Perhaps a poor attempt at humor. The effort would’ve been better paid towards penance, and a sheep’s head would’ve suited him far better than the guise of a predator. Anything would’ve been more fitting than the baggy business he calls a shirt.

Astarion clicks his tongue. “That still doesn’t give me a thing to call you.”

“I am Enrik, if it pleases you.”

“No surname?” Astarion asks with an arched brow.

“None of consequence, my lord,” he replies with the uneasy edge Astarion’s entitled to.

“Well, Enrik, I hope you find our masquerade pleasing.”

“It has certainly been enlightening thus far.”

“And how’s that?” Astarion asks brusquely. He never did like wizards.

He doesn’t like the look on this one’s face, either. The lion that should be a sheep surveys the room with a pitying expression, like he’s watching some petty amusement. A zoo. Gods, or a circus. And what would that make him, Astarion the Ascended, if not a clown? Astarion’s fingers tighten on the stem of his glass, an imperceptible change to any eyes not keen enough to catch it.

“Why, it’s been only a year since your ascension,” Enrik says. “You’ve accomplished much in short order. It’s quite remarkable.”

Astarion’s nose twitches. Praise. From cattle. How quaint, and ill-fitting.

His expression abruptly eases. A refined, familiar scent carries to him from across the crowd. A note of lavender, twined with his favored bergamot.

“And you’ve already enthralled some truly magnificent specimens,” Enrik carries on, oblivious. “Take this fine creature, for example. What a pretty thing to have strung along on your leash.”

Astarion feels her before he sees her. She wipes a palm down the sheath of her skirt, smoothing out some infinitesimal wrinkle. The music smooths, too. With that one simple motion, it bends and blends into something deeper, fuller. All of the lesser spawn of Astarion’s making straighten their slouched shoulders.

He feels the tug of her in his head, and then the cool stroke of her hand to his back, the soothing feel of her fingers combing through his hair, and the gentle scrape of her nails against his scalp. It takes a concerted effort to suppress the pleased groan that bubbles in the back of his throat. All this from across the room, without so much as a glance, let alone a touch.

Hello, darling, he thinks, and she hears it just as if he’d spoken aloud. Aren’t you ravishing?

Her skirt is snow-white crepe that clings taut to her shapely hips before fanning out at her feet. It’s the same lovely shade of ivory as her hair, twisted in a braid like a crown around her head, with the rest falling sleek down her back. A black lace bodice sets just off her lilac shoulders, with gloves to match. Floral stitching vees down from her waistline. The same embellishments decorate the skirt’s edges.

His dark consort, his Naomi once-Tavriel-now-Ancunín, weaves leisurely through the partygoers. The thorny prickle of Astarion’s irritation inspires a little lift at the corner of her mouth.

I’ve been called so much worse, she thinks. It sounds suspiciously like a laugh. I think you called me ‘creature’ just yesterday. Should I not have taken it as a compliment?

Astarion’s scowls. He should be grateful to have your name in his mouth. To even set foot in our home. Let alone speak to me like that. Or at all.

But think of how much fun he’s started, she answers, chipper. You were so bored before.

She’s not wrong.

If they’re not the guests you wanted, Naomi continues, cool and calm, then they’re intruders, aren’t they? Whatever should we do with them?

A slow smile steals its way onto his lips. Just when I thought I couldn’t love you more. Miracles never cease.

“Do you know what they call her?” Astarion says aloud, to worse company. “Other than mine, of course.”

“She was the hero of Baldur’s Gate.”

Astarion waves a manicured hand irritably, as if swatting away a stray fly. “One of them, true, but isn’t there another name that comes to mind?”

The man swallows thickly. “The Siren of the Sword Coast.”

"And yet here you are," Astarion sneers, "ready to dash yourself upon the rocks like a little ship blown astray. I can hardly blame you."

His eyes soften, just past the shoulder of Enrik’s gaudy doublet. In the low flutter of candlelight, he spies the sheen of amethysts set among delicate feathers wrought from silver. He'd had the mask made for Naomi with the likeness of a swan in mind.

Still, as pretty as it is, his favorite gleam is those eyes. She still kept the kiss of violet in them, even in death. It mingles with the red in her irises, like a rich, dark wine.

"She is captivating, isn’t she?" Astarion sighs, a faint smile grazing his lips. "My beautiful bride."

“Forgive me my lord, I meant no offense,” Enrik says, eyes down with deference. “I’m merely an admirer of fine things. And a messenger for my fine master.”

“Do your duty, then,” Astarion says tersely, his smile evaporating.

“My master understands that power is the only currency that holds any weight for men of your making. He has much of it to share, if you're likewise inclined.”

Astarion laughs coldly. “And what does your master wish for me to share with him, exactly? I don’t bite just anyone, after all.”

A swallow bobs in Enrik’s throat. “He only means to make mutual use of your shared arsenal. Like you mean to make of his, my lord. He could work wonders with even just one scream. He could bottle it--”

Astarion clenches the wine glass in a chokehold. He could kill this wretched cretin here, now, bare-handed. Or have him drawn and quartered. Or--

No one knows their manners these days, Naomi sighs inside his head. But if you want to play along and see what this archmage would pay, I’ll--

Astarion’s jaw clenches. You won’t be screaming for him, little love.

It earns him an eyeroll. It wouldn’t be like that--

It won’t be at all. Astarions sends his answer with the weight of a stone.

He sips his wine, boring into Enrik with a hard stare. “Don’t you know swans make the most achingly beautiful music?”

Enrik’s eyes dart anxiously over Astarion’s burning ones. “Only just before they die, so the stories go.”

“Before someone does,” Astarion drawls, as the vintage seeps sweetly down his throat. “You see, my beloved, oh, she’s a monster, too. She so does love the taste of blood in her mouth, now that she’s supped of mine.”

Enrik edges back, shoulders hunched small like the prey he is. “I-I’m just a messenger my lord. Killing me after you’ve so graciously offered your hospitality would be the same as breaking a mirror. It would only cast ill luck on you and your house.”

A gloved hand wraps Enrik’s shoulder. He shirks from that delicate grip like it's scalding. At long last, he finds the decency to shut up.

Naomi’s fangs gleam like the bottle in her hand. “More wine?”

The white marble of the ballroom shimmers like freshly fallen snow. All the curtains are drawn back, cinched aside for good measure. Shadow and sunlight slice the floor in slanted strips. Gritty ash piles where the light lies, coils of rope strewn among the gray dust of guests gone for good.

Only one remains.

Sprawled motionless across the floor, Enrik lies nose-to-nose with the knife edge of day and darkness. It’s only a silhouette that keeps him from being swallowed by the glow. Only Astarion’s grace shades him.

The vampire ascendant cuts a sharp shadow before the arched windowpane. Brightness clings, soft as clouds, to his curls, his lean edges, and his jaw. His velvet coat crumples at his heels as if it were nothing more precious than the ash heaped around him. He’s blessedly bare from the waist-up, resplendent in the sunlight while he surveys his domain awash with it.

It calls to mind the man who took Naomi out into the woods all those months and nights ago. What he looked like when she woke and found his back arched, chin tilted skyward. What she’d do, and what little she wouldn’t, to see Astarion slip into bliss every day as easily as slipping out of a coat.

It’s Naomi’s grace that finally rouses their disheveled company. A rolling melody, played on piano, pours from her fingertips and crests with the morning birdsong drifting in. Enrik groans against the grain of it.

At once, the music cuts to quiet. Naomi’s hands hover over the keys, knuckles twitching in faint longing. Then, she turns on the bench and turns her attention towards her restless audience.

“Good morning,” she says brightly.

Enrik squints up at her. His brown eyes leak with the light, even though he’s sheltered from it. They dart across the room, skimming like stones over water, before they sear into Naomi.

“You.”

“Who else were you expecting? You’re in my home.”

Rope binds Enrik’s hands and heels. He tugs at the ties, or tries to. He hasn’t yet figured out it’s all for not.

Naomi stands, her heels clicking staccato to the tile. As she goes, she paints a palm over the piano keys, stroking each octave from root to rise. Music flows freely again all on its own, even when her hand falls away.

She comes to loom over her captive, lips pursed. “I hear you said some very rude things to my husband.”

Enrik folds against the floor, panting for breath.

“You should be so grateful for our hospitality,” she says. “Should have been. That’s all behind us now, isn’t it?”

Feral noise rips from his throat. Like a dog, he lunges, snapping for her ankles. She side-steps into the light, not bothering to flee any farther than an inch. He freezes, ogling the shiny toe of her shoe now parallel to his nose.

“You don’t fear the sun?” he gasps, quivering.

“I need not fear anything.”

Naomi lifts her head, meeting a scarlet stare brimming in equal measures affection and amusement. Sunlights melts over the bare of Astarion’s chest, spurring her tongue to wet her lips. He leans against the glass, head angled back, eyes slitted in satisfaction. A slow smile unfurls on his face.

“You should be grateful, too,” Naomi says with a sneer, “to lay here and not just a little to the left.”

“W-What do you mean? What did you do to me?!” Enrik’s eyes bulge. He squirms in a sudden panic, to no avail.

Naomi tilts her neck to the side and taps at the scar Astarion’s teeth marked her with. Her fingers fan down on her own throat, savoring the shape of that succulent memory. Of the last bite he gave her in life. Of his lips swirling comfort into her skin before sucking her down to the last drop. Of the look on his face, the awe he had, when she next woke.

The faintest leak of breath, soft as down, passes from Astarion’s mouth.

“You--you--! You turned me!” Her hostage sputters. Naomi frowns darkly.

“Oh not me,” Naomi snaps, incredulous. “I’m only a weak little spawn puppet, according to you. According to you, the only good thing I can do is scream. How could I manage to turn you without choking on my own leash?”

She gags for good measure. He doesn’t get the joke. He hasn’t caught on to the other joke yet. Which means she’s safe as can be, even this close. So long as she stands on the other edge of Astarion’s shadow.

Astarion turns. His silhouette twists with his movement. Enrik shrieks like a swine.

“Oh, that wasn’t good at all. You can do better.” Naomi presses out a strained sigh, crouching down to fist a hand in his hair and yank his head upright.

Enrik bares his teeth as if they aren’t dull and flat. “Filthy bitch!”

The insult doesn’t so much as chip Naomi’s serene composure, but it puts a twang in her head, along the invisible string that links her and Astarion. His anger lashes in her mind like a restless tail.

“What a vile little ingrate,” Astarion snarls.

She lets her hostage’s head roll from her palm, cheek smacking the tile. Enrik writhes against his restraints. Naomi clicks her tongue in reproach. I’ve barely even touched you yet.

Green magic threads between her gloved fingers, glittering. She snaps them and says, “Scream.”

And he does. Loud enough to drown out the crescendo coursing from the grand piano. Inside of Enrik’s skull, the song isn’t nearly so sweet. His back jerks up and away from the floor, head bent back, eyes torn wide in terror.

His cries pitch with the slink of Astarion’s shadow stretching nearer. Sunlight clings close behind his heels. Naomi’s fingers flex and the spell recedes.

Her magic leaves Enrik sniveling, inching like a worm away from the slice of light between Astarion’s legs. Astarion huffs softly. With a wave of his hand, a ghostly one apparates behind him and snags the curtains closed.

Astarion’s scent sweeps with his sleeve -- the sweetness of brandy, mingled with the woodsy smell of rosemary. His knuckles gently brush the side of Naomi’s cheek. Instinctively, she leans towards the touch.

“Precious thing,” Astarion chides with a pout. “You’re being far too sweet to him. Here I thought you only had room in your heart for me.”

Naomi inclines her head, eyes narrowing by a hair. “My sire would see me be crueler?”

Astarion’s thumb grazes her lips. At once, she parts for him, teasing the pad of it with her tongue while he toys with the tip of a fang. He presses in, watching his skin bend to near-breaking, as if to test her sharpness. Before any blood’s drawn, he draws his hand down to cradle her chin. His voice is smooth as satin, though his stare is a hardened one.

“Your sire would see you spoken to with the respect you’re owed. And he needs you to kneel, dear one.”

The words are a weight to her shoulder, easing her down. But the heft is a comfort, not a compulsion. He could compel her, if he wanted to.

He hasn’t yet.

One day, she thinks, he will. And he’ll feel the weight of whatever chains he’d wrap her in through the bond that binds them tighter than the tadpole did. He won’t do it without good reason. Naomi doesn’t need a reason to kneel for her lover. That he wishes it is enough.

When her knees meet the ground, she feels the shape of Astarion’s smile pressed against their bond like it’s pressed, wet and wanting, against her mouth. She feels the dainty tug of his teeth coax her lips apart. Tastes the coppery tang of her own blood and the velvet undercurrent of his within her veins. The heat of him, still such a novel thing in his ascended body, bleeds from his skin to hers, fanning the newfound ache between her thighs.

In her mind, and his, his lips pour down her bare shoulders. His fingers fist in the fine fabric of her dress, ripping it to ruin. He leaves none of her untouched. To anyone else’s eye, they’re not even touching.

Naomi’s eyelids flutter. She downs a hard swallow. Good girl, he says, just for her.

To their captive audience, he spares no such kindness. Astarion raises his foot above Enrik’s ankles, letting it dangle for a moment. It drops like a hammer to an anvil. Enrik bucks with a fresh scream and a sickening crack.

“I’d never give a miserable little wretch like you the gift of immortality,” Astarion spits. “You wouldn’t know how to appreciate it.”

Confusion flits between the pain and panic in Enrik’s eyes.

“That’s right,” Astarion seethes. “You’re not a vampire. You aren’t worth my consort’s teeth. Or mine.”

Crunch. Another ankle shatters. Another shriek claws the air. Astarion strolls, leisurely, to Enrik's hands next. He grounds his heel into the pop of fingers breaking beneath his boots. Their hostage heaves a broken sob.

“Sh, sh, sh, oh, it’s all right,” Astarion croons. “I happen to have just the knife for you.”

Astarion crosses back to his coat piled near the window and draws a dagger from its folds. Rhapsody. Cazador’s blade. Naomi hasn’t seen it since they claimed the Crimson Palace for themselves.

Brightness glints off the twined edge, a match for the harsh and singular focus gleaming in Astarion’s gaze.

So that’s what Astarion was smiling about, as he basked by the window. What had him so peacefully quiet and content. Murder was on his mind, even then.

Not the only thing on my mind, little love. She feels the slant of his smirk in her head, as if it ghosted past the hinge of her jaw. There’s no trace of it on Astarion’s stony exterior.

He plucks the crystal wine glass from the sill while he’s there, rotating the stem as he saunters back over. Blood flecks the fine leather of Astarion’s shoes. He plants them on either side of Enrik’s torso. He seizes Enrik’s collar, yanking harshly until he’s kneeling, too.

“Fuck you,” Enrik spits. “Fuck you both! My master will--”

“Darling,” Astarion trills, grip unwavering, “Would you..?”

Magic swirls sticky across Naomi’s tongue. “Ad Lapidē.”

Violet runes blaze to life beneath their captive’s knees, capturing him in perfect stillness. His mouth hangs agape with unspent vitriol. Astarion’s hands recoil, twisting the dagger in one, and the glass in the other.

“Your master,” Astarion sneers with a dark laugh. “Too much of a coward to show his face, so he sends you. His sacrificial lamb, sent to speak to me about sharing my dearest treasure, like he isn’t the scum beneath her shoes. He had to know I wouldn’t hear of it. But he didn’t care enough about you to even taint your blood. That’s right. My lesser spawn sampled you just like they would any cattle. But my beautiful bride hasn’t had one bite, not yet. Not until I was sure you were sweet enough for her palate.”

Astarion strokes Rhapsody down the man’s outstretched neck. The barest streak of blood leaks from the scrape. Astarion’s eyes skate over the ash piles around the room, wistful.

“All it took was a sleeping potion,” he muses. “Just a few drops. Now all of the spawnlings sent by all of my lessers are dust. You’ll wish to join them, before this is done. And you will. When I decide we’re done.”

Naomi’s eyes fasten to the blood beading down Enrik’s pallid throat. Astarion digs in ever-so-gently with Rhapsody’s tip, just enough to start a stream running. He presses the cup beneath it. Slowly, the crystal fills red to the brim. Her mouth waters.

Astarion looks up abruptly, eyes wide and soft as his malice dissolves to fondness. “Darling, you do look famished. Open up for me, dear.”

Naomi’s chin lifts, lips parted. Astarion tilts the glass to meet her with the utmost care.

“I won’t have your grime and sweat on her lips,” Astarion hisses in Enrik’s ear. “Only your blood. You don’t deserve that…” He sucks a sharp breath in. Naomi watches with rapt attention as it stutters through his chest. “...pretty little mouth.”

Blood, rich and smooth as cream, slips across her tongue. Her eyes slip shut with it. With each swallow, syrupy warmth spreads slowly through her chest, down her legs, through arms, to her every inch. Too soon, it’s taken from her. Naomi’s eyes flutter open. She’s taken all of it, already.

“More, my love?” Astarion hums happily. “You only have to ask.”

“More,” she says at once, lips still wet.

Astarion carves. The insolent apprentice bleeds without a sound. Again and again, the cup fills. He tips it to her lips, and Naomi drinks until her eyelids grow heavy.

Her body thrums like it remembers the pulse that used to play through her veins. She’s warmer than a dead woman should be. Even the air itself feels like the kiss of steam tingling against her skin.

It’s then that Naomi feels Astarion’s lips in her head again, sucking little marks down her throat that match the rosy flush heating her cheeks. She pants out of habit, out of instinct, and not of need. Out of want for him to watch what he does to her. As if he doesn’t already know.

One twist of Astarion’s wrist turns the little leak of blood from Enrik’s throat into a fountain. Naomi’s spell dissipates in violet sparks. His body slumps over, lifeless. Blood runs from him in little rivers, rushing to fill the grout lines between the tiles.

Astarion cradles one last glassful in a delicate grip. His face clears of any clouded rage as he gives the glass an experimental swirl. Wordlessly, he tilts the cup to her mouth once more.

Naomi gasps. Wetness paints her chin. It streams down her neck, drips down her sternum and between her breasts, still bound in lace. Astarion drips with it, down to his knees in fluid motion. Somewhere behind him, the wine glass shatters. In her periphery, she sees the shards glitter like frost.

“Oops,” he says, low and shameless.

Barely any blood made it to Naomi’s mouth this time, but she doesn’t mind one bit. Astarion crawls to her, catlike. She’s only spared a moment to admire the lithe muscle flexing through his naked chest before he leans into the hollow of her throat. Silver curls brush soft beneath her chin. And then, she feels the tip of that devilish tongue take a tentative lick of the mess he’s made.

And gods, what a mess she must be. Blood smears from her neck to her navel, near-black on her blue-gray skin. Dark like Astarion’s eyes, with pupils blown wide and hungry. A flare of heat twists low in Naomi’s stomach. Her thighs shift, wet with it.

Thread rips in her ears. Rhapsody drags delicately down her side, scratching faint like a quill. The lace of her gown splits without resistance. There's none to be had against that mouth of his, just as busy as his nimble hands.

Astarion laps, dainty, down the path of her swallow. His coy smile curves with a petal-soft laugh against her collar bone. Naomi laughs, too, breathless as his tongue chases lazily after the spill. Breathless as the day he took the last breath she needed.

Ever since, Astarion’s given her everything she could want, without leaving her wanting for more than a moment. Now, her knees will never grow numb, no matter how long they bend against the marble. The chill of it can’t phase her, either. Even if it could, Astarion’s drawn the curtains wide. When she kneels for him, it’s only ever on sun-soaked stone.

Astarion treasures her. Cherishes her. Lavishes her with love and pleasure and wealth and power. Preserves her like prized silver, polished with such devotion so she’ll never know the tarnish of time. She’s his spawn. His wife.

But above all else, she’s his pride. The very thing that rules him. The only thing that still does.

Naomi wants to be in ruins with him. To be the last pillars of a broken world already so far beyond repair before they were dragged through it. Aeterna amantes. Until the fall of everything.

Until then, this, the low groan he gives her while her fingers stroke red through the plush white of his hair, the heady hum in her blood, the bloom of someone else’s waking color in her cheeks, the way Astarion looks at her like there’s nothing else at all, the way he tears into a dress he paid a fortune for, the hand he knots through her braids to wreck them -- this is everything.

Astarion tosses Rhapsody over his shoulder to join the broken wine glass, just like any other worthless trinket. His deft hands curl into the tears in her bodice and tug. At once, it gives way to his grip. She would, too, were it not so binding. Naomi grounds out a gasp. Her skirt pools at her knees, leaving her bare but for the warmth of Astarion’s roaming hands and the daylight pouring over them both.

“Do you know why I wanted you down here, pet?” He asks softly.

Astarion’s eyes latch to hers while his teeth toy at the curve of her breast. His tongue slicks over to soothe where his fangs grazed her, and then it melts against a pert nipple, taking it in with a lewd suck.

Naomi paws for a coherent thought, but all she finds is a pleading hum. He nips her again, just enough to see her tit tremble from the pull when he draws away. He leaves her nipple glistening and the underside of her breast peppered in pink before moving on to the other.

“To torture me, clearly,” Naomi pants. Her hands still tangle in his hair. Amusement glimmers in his gaze as he plants a chaste kiss to the inside of one of her wrists and sets them both back at her sides.

“Oh no, my sweet. I would never,” he says, chin resting flat against her navel. He looks up at her with wide, doey eyes, full of faux innocence.

He slinks lower, laying a line with his tongue that ends in a kiss just above where her skirts still shield her. He shifts them aside, ripping where he needs, until it’s only one little piece of black lace covering her cunt. Astarion growls against it, nosing at its edges, his back bowed, stomach brushing the floor. His teeth find the waistband and tear that, too.

Hot breath fans across the other mess he made. Naomi wavers on her knees. From that minute motion alone, she can hear how he’s soaked her.

But Astarion doesn’t disprove her theory; he leans back abruptly, straightening up to his knees again. An arm loops slack around her waist as he circles around to her bare back. Naomi’s lips twitch. If this is the game he wants, it’s too soon to beg. The thought inspires another needy flex through her cunt. His other hand slides to cup the heat of it, and Naomi whines. Reflexively, her back arches. Astarion pulls her still.

He catches the side of her jaw, angling her back into a biting kiss. It’s over before she wants it to be, his lips red and glistening with what he stole from her. Without him, her mouth burns from the cut.

“I wanted to see you right where you belong,” he whispers, the sound as sheer as the lace he wrecked. “So beautiful on your throne.”

For a brief moment, he draws away entirely, leaving her with nothing but a lonely chill. And then, his back comes flush to the floor beneath her. His body splays behind her. The heat of his mouth crests against the heat of her cunt, his face fitted between her thighs, his lips hovering so close, but not close enough. His breath alone snags the one halfway through her throat.

“Oh,” her realization comes out quivering.

The tip of his nose nudges, just barely, against her clit, spurring her hips to roll. But all she gets from that mouth is mischief and a quiet snicker. He shifts his cheek, laving a long stroke of his tongue to the tender crux of her inner thigh before sealing it over with a tight suck. When he bites down, he draws out her blood with a rough moan.

Astarion pulls back, his smirk glazed in her, his eyes aflame. “Oh, darling, I’ve barely even touched you yet. And you’re so very wet for me.”

“Touch me, then,” she hisses between her teeth, raking her hands through his perfect curls and fisting them there.

His eyes spear into hers, hard like the way he clenches her ass and pulls her hips down. Even as it sets her on fire, his mouth gives her mercy. Astarion’s tongue melts hot across her cunt, swiping slow and dexterous. Not for the first time, Naomi thinks she might like to die like this.

It’s not so different from how she died. It started on her knees, this new life of passion and pleasure unbridled. Even then, Astarion already knew the shape of her body like he knew his own hands. Every curve, every intimate bend, how to make her speak in noise instead of words. The hidden language behind every whimper she makes, every shiver.

So he knows exactly what he’s doing while his tongue teases gentle circles around her clit. He knows, by the time his timid little laps blend into a needy suck, that she’s so, so sensitive. Astarion’s hungry groan seeps into her slickness. She feels him like a current and clenches again, just as hungry.

Every feeling he gives her gives him an echo back just as strong. Every thought in her head is in his head, too. He eats her cunt and feels fed by her pleasure curling in the tips of his toes. He didn’t know he’d be hers, just as much as she’d be his, when he bit her thrice, bled her dry, and gave her just one drop of blood back.

But Astarion knew her body before she was his bride. Now, he knows her mind. A part of him lives there, as she does in his. As he drags his pale, elegant fingers between her folds, he drags her head through a dozen depravities. Filling her with nothing but thoughts of how he’ll fill her properly.

He could have her against the arched windows lining the east wall, body pressed so pretty to the glass so he can see the imprint of it even after she peels away. She could feel the heat brimming off the sun outside, washing over their empire. He could taste her sunbathed shoulder while he fucks her senseless. His little love, dipped in honey. So what if someone else sees. Later, he’ll see to them not seeing anything ever again.

He could take her here, on the ballroom floor. Pull her down just as she surfaces from the pleasure he’s paid her, and roll her beneath him to bury her in it all over again. Make love on the marble streaked with the blood of their enemies, where hundreds of dignitaries have danced and dined on countless evenings before. But none of them were ever blessed with such a fine feast as he. The stone would be hard and unyielding against her back, and he would be just the same, driving into her, relentless. At least it’s far prettier than the dirt they used to fuck in.

Or--

A new picture snaps from Naomi’s mind to his, with the dip of his tongue to her entrance, a staggering spike of pleasure, and an unbidden whimper.

The piano. Pearly white with jet black keys, so pristine, so gorgeous with blood spilt red down the sides. Naomi poured over the side, ivory hair tinged with crimson, cascading over her bare, bent back. Astarion’s fingers buried in her hips, planting the promise of bruises, his body bucking wildly into her as he finally--

Naomi’s moan hits the high pitch of the ceiling. She grinds, needy, against the pair of fingers he crooks inside of her. His thumb spreads her slickness back and presses to the pucker of her ass.

So eager for me to fill you up. His voice in her head is a caress. Her hips roll with the sound. His thumb dips inside her ass with the motion, and Naomi gasps as she eases into that delicious stretch.

But darling, I haven’t fed all night, Astarion pouts, mouth moving with agonizing slowness as his eyes flutter shut beneath long black lashes. Naomi’s eyelids grow heavy, too, as she’s lost to that lovely, slick click of his lips. A meal like you is meant to be savored.

He fucks her holes leisurely, with the air of someone who knows he’ll be back for more before long. It brings to mind those long, lithe fingers, folded between the pages of a book to mark his place. All it takes is an effortless flex of them to keep her coaxed open like this. Her body draws taut as he leans her over the precipice of her own pleasure.

If you need more, my dear, by all means. Take it.

He growls into their bond like he’s the one devoured. Like he can plead ignorance to how he’s taking her apart with his hands, his mouth. Naomi catches a whine between her teeth. Astarion’s free hand cups her ass, urging her into the thrust her body bends towards. She parts a hand from his hair to brace flat to the floor beside his face, the other knotting anew in his silver curls.

Desperately, she rides against the flat of his tongue, against that long, refined nose, fucking herself back into the curve of his fingers. Every pull of them pulls her under, deeper into her own ecstasy. Her body grips him back like she means to drown him, too. The tip of his tongue flicks her clit in relentless rhythm, starting off a shudder she can’t stop.

“Don’t stop,” she begs within and without, the jerk of her hips growing frantic.

His mouth is mercy. When she comes for him, she’s wreathed in heat, slick with sweat, every nerve in her body alight with the most blissful burn. A strangled cry breaks in her chest. It buries the song now trembling from the piano. Naomi shivers out a sigh, and the keys shiver with her.

Astarion wraps his arms tight to her thighs, anchoring her through the aftershocks. When she stills again, her body throbs with a heady rush of blood, pleasure, want. Every part of her is limp with it, save the pulsing, rigid press in her mind and in his trousers. She’s putty in his hands even as his fingers leave her. Naomi twitches back towards the touch he takes away, body aching with his absence.

Naomi’s knuckles unfurl, stroking soft through the tangles she wrought. What a sight he is, his hair in utter disarray, his mouth a mess of blood and lust and her. An ease settles into his graceful features, not so different from that quiet contentment he wore while leaning into the light by the window. His eyes simmer with it, lips drawn in a soft smile.

Without warning, his grip tightens. Naomi stifles a huff of surprise as she’s taken down, marble kissing smooth to her spine. A pale hand cradles her head, cushioning her fall. In a blink, he’s hovering over her bare body and dipping down to catch her in a fever of a kiss. It’s a needy, sweltering latch of lips, tangy with her own sweetness as much as his.

“Here?” She purrs to the seal of his mouth.

She lets him feel the way the word alone makes her body tense. Waiting. Wanting. Their bond curls with it, crooked and beckoning in his head. The way his fingers bent a few moments before, buried in the heat of her.

A long breath passes out through his nose, his eyes sliding half shut. A smirk tugs at the corner of her mouth. But his cheek turns by just the barest hair, and Naomi’s attention follows after his.

Music flutters, breathy, off the black and white keys. The piano stays a pretty picture of perfection, among the deaths little and large they’ve littered throughout the ballroom.

His teeth trace the angled edge of her ear. Naomi keens with the sting of it as she’s swept from the floor.

“There.”

She’s caught in his kiss again as he carries her. One swipe of his tongue to where he bit her lip before has her quivering. Has her a world away from the one still around them. Vaguely, she’s aware he’s somehow rid her of her gloves and shoes. She hears a dull, wooden clatter, and then a resounding thud. The piano plays on, but it's muted.

Astarion doesn’t bend her over the way she mused. Instead, he seats her on the polished wood of the piano’s closed lid. His hands leave her back to push her knees apart, scoop beneath them, and pull her spread legs to the strain trapped in his trousers.

Naomi grins, her fangs snagging his lower lip as he tries to part from her. Astarion’s answering groan is rough like a scrape of sandpaper. It leaves her mouth raw, tingling, alive with a pulse that plays to the tune of his pleasure. She wants more of that noise. More of the happy purr it pours into her head from his. One drink of that sloppy, slap happy look on his face sates her more than blood ever could.

You’ve given me everything, he told her, once. But now, all she can think is more. Take more. Take everything.

Astarion grinds his hard length against her in answer. The sweet friction makes sweeter music in their mouths as Naomi moans with the motion, too. Still, there’s far too much fabric for her liking.

Astarion’s fingers make fast work of it. He unlaces his pants only enough to free his cock, parts from her only enough to push her back and clamber up after her. Then, he’s on her again like a second skin. Her cunt throbs with the press of his cock, the tip of it wet and seeping against her thigh. She tries to fit a hand between them, to wrap her palm around his girth and feel with her hands, not just her head, how badly he has to have her. Astarion doesn’t leave her space for it.

It’s not his hands that put her flat on her back, against the body of the piano. It’s the sudden swell of his adoration ballooning from his brain to hers. The weight of his affection pins her there beneath him, utterly paralyzed, as the music flows on under both of them. He’s brimming with it, and it washes over her in a wave, a cup overflowing.

His curls hang down in his eyes, wild with the look of a man starved. “You’re going to scream for me, little love,” he says with the slightest slur. The thought smears from him to her, burning in the back of her mind like a pull of liquor. He brushes her snarled hair back until it tumbles over the piano’s edge, white over white. “I’m going to make you. And I want to see that beautiful face when I do.”

“Please,” she starts to say.

But barely any of it makes it past her lips. Astarion never leaves her wanting for more than a moment.

“O-Oh,” she stammers instead, as her soaked cunt splays to his cock sliding home. Astarion pushes out a moan as he pushes into her. He hooks her legs with his arms, folding them up and back.

“That’s my girl,” he pants, forehead heavy against her own. His thumb circles her cheek, a feather-light counterweight to the thickness he seats inside her. He watches her intently, fixated. Hypnotized. “My good, good girl.”

Kisses and praise tumble from between his teeth, down her cheek, to her throat. Naomi’s head rolls back while she relishes the wet, smacking mantra that’s the mess of them. He’s not tender with his tempo. He doesn’t have to be. You could ruin me. I’d let you ruin me, she thinks again.

And how beautiful he is, in ruins with her. No more composure. No more restraint. Sweat streaks his brow as it bends beneath his focus. All there is is the blend of them, the slow rock of the piano underneath them, and the scattered, stranded pieces of a melody left in their wake.

It could break. The thought cracks through her, through them, with the wooden whine of the piano legs taking the shift of their weight. Astarion crushes her worry beneath the thrust of his hips, any notion of it lost to the head of his cock pressing just where it needs to make her see stars.

Naomi bites down on her own lip, grounding herself in fleeting pain and the tang of blood. He’s not even touching her clit; he doesn’t have to. He floods her with how it felt when he did, when his tongue rolled against the swell of it, just the tip of it teasing that sensitive little bud. How she felt to him, so silky and slick in his mouth. How amazing it feels to finally fuck her, to take what’s his and have her take him so, so tightly.

He could ruin her. Snap her like the creaking legs of this instrument, not long for this world. It would be almost as effortless as the way she spreads for him. But instead, Astarion fills her. Every shift prods the crown of his cock against the sweetest spot inside her cunt.

Naomi’s fingers claw into Astarion’s back as he bucks wildly. Tears sear in her eyes. The tell-tale pressure in her pelvis builds near-blinding.

“Scream for me, darling,” he growls against her neck, out loud this time.

Her cunt throbs with his command. But she doesn’t heed it. Astarion lets out a low, steaming hiss.

“I said scream, dear,” Astarion says, his velvet voice edged in warning. The sparks of his indignation spit flinty in her head alongside a flicker of excitement at her defiance.

He wants to feel the rush of her own power with the spasm of her cunt as she comes undone. He wants her magic to spill into him as he spills his seed inside of her. Wants to taste it with the rest of her. If Naomi was nothing to him, she’d still be the siren; it’s not a power Astarion gifted to her. It was hers without him. It is her. And she’s his.

“I might break the glass,” she whispers, wary of anything louder.

“Oh, my love,” Astarion says tenderly, a husk in his throat as his hand wraps loose around her neck. “You can break everything.”

Astarion kills her hesitation. She’s never felt more whole. She feels holy, feeling her own perfect squeeze around his cock, feeling herself fucked in his body and her own. Feeling what she does to the man who already has everything, but will never have enough of her.

When Naomi screams Astarion's name, it’s everything else in the room that shatters.

Glass crashes from the windows. They burst one after another in quick-fire succession. Astarion buckles against her body with the sudden, decisive snap beneath them. His hips jerk, rutting erratically. Warmth spurts into her with every shudder down his spine, every pulse of his cock.

He cuts her cry with his teeth buried in the crook of her neck. Naomi clings to him as her cunt convulses. It’s the bite that takes her apart, knowing he tastes his own name in her throat and thinks--

Mine, mine, mine.

Naomi’s head drops limp. Astarion’s grip on her neck gives way to soft circles stroked against her cheek again. Mine, she thinks, as his ruby eyes watch her keenly, awash in the soft glow only she knows.

Even after Astarion stills, the room spins dizzy from her upside-down view. She blinks it all back into place, but some pieces won’t fit together again so easily. They’re far closer to the floor than when he slipped inside of her. The piano legs splay at odd, splintered angles. The floor glitters with glass like crystalline teeth, ready to bite the heels of any who dare tread their hall.

Astarion slides out, and she shivers with the fade of his warmth. He sits up, his gaze sweeping the shattered windows, his smirk smug and wet with her. “Perhaps all of the Gate heard you. The gardener did for certain.”

Naomi sits up, too, leaning forward and letting his shoulder take her weight. Her forehead comes to rest against his collarbone. She finds an easy smile while relishing the way his heart still hammers his chest. She did that, in multiple senses. Absently, he tucks the hair sticking to her cheeks back behind her ears.

“I guess I’ll have to kill her,” he adds, chipper. “I suppose, for now, we can spare all the others.”

“She’s already dead enough, dear,” Naomi sighs.

A tiny, discordant note of sadness plucks in her chest, among the pleasant haze settling over her. Astarion stiffens against it, as if she reached out and pinched him. She doubts he’d be so eager to slay one of his spawn for the same crime of hearing her come for him.

The gardener is hers, of a sort. Not a vampire -- Naomi can’t make those. Before Naomi sang her awake again, the gardener was just a sad stack of bones collecting dust in a closet. Now, she rattles along to Naomi’s tune, keeping the flowers trimmed to her liking.

“I suppose you’re right,” Astarion murmurs. His expression softens with fondness, the sort that’s rare to surface unless they’re alone, but never fails to make her chest light and fluttery. “Are you tired now, pet?”

“We stayed up all night,” Naomi laughs faintly.

“Hm,” he nods with a pitying frown. “Let me see to you, my treasure. Don’t you move.” His lips curve, coy, as his eyes flicker back to the wrecked windows. “I wouldn’t want you to strain yourself.”

He saunters back to where his coat lays, now tattered. He returns to settle it around her shoulders, pressing a quick kiss to her forehead.

“You’re such a staunch defender of my honor,” Naomi says dryly, even as the leftovers of their lovemaking start to seep down her thigh.

“Ha,” Astarion shakes with a rolling laugh. “I rather think I’m the thief of it. You were quite the heist. It wouldn’t do to have some debaucherous upstart happen by and think they can make off with what’s mine.”

“I wouldn’t let them live through it.”

“Aw,” he clicks his tongue, “you’re such a romantic.”

Astarion leaves her with her legs strewn over the broken piano, relacing his trousers as he goes. Glass crunches beneath his heels. He stops to ring the bell near the door. A few seconds later, it creaks open a hair. She catches his curt commands to the servant she can’t see on the other side.

“...yes, here, in the ballroom. My consort and I wish to take in the view, and see none of you.”

His lesser spawn are quick to make good on their orders. The door swings open once more a short time later, and in floats a claw-foot tub without another soul to be seen. Magic clings, cloudy, beneath the porcelain belly of it. A pleasant, floral scent curls with the steam from the water within. The tub drifts to the heart of the ballroom and settles with a soft thud before the yawning window panes.

Astarion returns to her as her toes touch the ground again. He frowns tightly, eyes narrowing.

“There’s debris scattered everywhere, my sweet,” he says, saccharine even in reproach. “I wouldn’t want to see you hurt.”

Naomi sniffs a laugh, picking her path carefully. “If I can’t handle a little sharpness here and there, it’s a wonder how I’ve managed to handle you.”

“Oh, it’s simple,” Astarion says, catching her wrist with an effortless flourish. “We were made for each other. By each other, really.”

And Astarion’s made up his stubborn mind that she’s not to take another step, it seems. With a soft huff, he sweeps her off her feet all over again, strides to the tub with her legs dangling over his arm, and delicately deposits her there.

Water laps at the tub’s edges, splashing as she situates herself. She shrugs from Astarion’s coat, shucking it away to join all the other debris they don’t have use for. Heat tingles across her skin, like little, loving nips of Astarion’s teeth. Naomi eases back into the burn of it as the sting settles sweetly.

Astarion rids himself of his shoes and trousers. He dips a foot into the tub, bidding her to make way for him with a gentle nudge. The water ripples as he settles in behind her. With a satisfied sigh, she sinks back against his chest and deeper into the furling warmth.

The ballroom overlooks the well-kept gardens behind the estate. The hedges are high enough, only a spyglass might have hope of spotting them both bare. Under Cazador’s reign, the garden was little more than a sprawl of weeds and webbed ivy. Now, fountains babble between the blooms of pink and blue and violet. If she strains, she can catch the weave of music in the trickling flow, like tinkling wind chimes.

A soft breeze tickles her ears, sending gritty glass and ash scattering over their floor. Astarion clenches a soft sponge in his grip, wrings it out, and starts to scrub her skin in slow, deliberate strokes. Naomi’s head tilts back beneath his tender care, every rub taking the tension from shoulders.

She turns after a time, and he starts to wash blood from her front, while she wets her hands and works the redness from the white of his hair. Her fingers linger along the slants of his ears, rubbing delicately, until she catches that satisfied hum in his throat that leaves her lifted, floating on the buoy of his happiness.

The water never cools or clouds; magic still swirls in the steam, even long after they’re free of blood and grime. Astarion rakes hand through her hair, his fingernails digging pleasantly against her scalp.

“You are divine as ever,” he rumbles. “Rest now, pet.”

And she does, slipping soundly into a trance, soaked in sunlight and lavender oil with her lover wrapped around her. Only Astarion sends her to the sort of rest that reaches her soul. His presence is sanctuary.

It’s his disquiet that wakes her suddenly. He still strokes her hair just as gently, but he levels a hard-cut stare out over the garden, his lips set with the same stoniness.

“No one will ever take you from me,” he murmurs, as if to himself.

“As if they ever could,” Naomi whispers back, reaching up to graze the edge of his jaw.

Heavens help the fool who tries. Any who dare to hatch such plots, to harbor such ill will in their Crimson Palace, will find themselves laid to rest with all the others. Their enemies’ gravestones are just bricks in their empire, every one of them laid with blood in the mortar.

Astarion dips his head down, the hint of a smile curling at the corner of his mouth. “I suppose it might be fun to see them try. In the meantime, my love, I’m of a mind to keep you spread for me for the next tenday.”

Naomi laughs. The sound echoes around the otherwise vacant room.

Astarion’s grin only grows, the tips of his fangs sharpening his smile. “Did I say something funny, dear?”

His lips crush down against hers in a kiss consuming.

[positivelybeastly]

I've got another question for you--how did you feel about Young Hank's "magic arc" during All-New? I've got thoughts and such, but I know this will spur a good detailed response, so!

As you intimated, I do indeed have thoughts, though I caution that my knowledge of this particular phase of Hank's stories I know maybe least well? The 90s and the mid 2010s are my biggest weak spots for Hank knowledge because of my distaste for storytelling trends in the former, and the general just. Disarray of most Marvel books in the latter.

That being said, I did read the books because I was interested in seeing how they handled it.

In a nutshell? Untapped potential. This was most acute in X-Men: Blue, which was simultaneously the best written of the three time displaced books, but which also seemed most interested in focusing on Scott and Jean at the expense of Hank, Bobby, and Warren. The epitome of this was the culmination of the demonic temptation arc.

The fact that it's all brought back to Hank's ultimate desire to want to be there for his friends, to support them, to be there for them in ways he doesn't feel like he currently is able to, is a big plus to me, at least.

That has, at its heart, always been my read on Hank's character - that if he moves on his moral compass, that if he does something rash and ill-considered and dumb, then it's out of a place of misguided good intention, and never malice. That's the heart of my issues with X-Force's characterisation of him as evil, it fundamentally misunderstands that a good majority of his 'bad' decisions are done based on compassion, and it can't bear to even pretend he was ever good or compassionate.

Even his decision to break time in All-New vol. 1 was born out of a want for Scott to be his friend again, out of moral cowardice, out of an inability to hurt and kill a man he once loved as much as his own family. Yes, it was filtered through a dozen brain aneurysms, but that is why he did it, ultimately.

It's also maybe why he's always gotten on with Scott, and then why their 'break up' was so acrimonious. Scott's willingness to do anything to keep mutantkind alive is mirrored by Hank's willingness to do anything to make sure his friends stay alive, but (at least until X-Force), Scott's willingness manifested as morally abhorrent but tactically sound decisions, while Hank's willingness manifested as morally 'better' (no-one got killed) but intellectually stupid decisions that ended up tying things into knots and making them more complicated in the long run.

It's just that, you know, none of this ever really got codified in the books, so it looked like Hank was doing dumb shit to be petty, because Bendis doesn't care about Hank's emotional state.

But anyway.

Hank must be set apart, and appreciated, and loved, or he is nothing. He can't stand to be ignored, or considered useless. That's just the way he's wired. He'll do anything to remain necessary. So far, so good. That's a good read on him. This is the miracle child effect that's dogged Hank's mentality since he was born.

This is really good set-up!

And then it completely bottles it.

I was so excited, man. I thought, okay, so since Warren and Bobby are barely interacting with Hank, and Jean and Scott have their weird love triangle going on with Jimmy Hudson (fuck off), adding Bloodstorm to the team means that she must be a foil for Hank, right? This issue, which introduces her and gives us a view into her mind and makes it clear that she thinks so very highly of Hank, sets up a friendship, maybe even something more, right?

Wrong.

Oh.

Bloodstorm and Hank barely interact again, and Bloodstorm just becomes another accessory to the Scott-Jean-Jimmy triangle, turning it into a weird 'I-don't-give-a-fuck-what-geometric-shape-this-is-'situation. I was so disappointed, man. Instead, Hank is given an almost entirely off-panel relationship with Gazing Nightshade.

And his relationship with his older self?

This is about it for their meaningful interactions, if you don't include him being a bitch to older Hank in Uncanny #600 and Hickman's New Avengers. Considering Hank has changed the most, and was, for the majority of the time the displaced O5 were present, the character who remained alive and whole and who had the most story potential to mine (Warren was memory wiped, Jean was already dead, Scott would go on to die, and Bobby was whatever), the fact that these two barely interact just made me not really care about younger Hank, especially because of two simple facts.

One, young Hank has always been the worst and least interesting version of the character (well, until Percy's Beast came along) because he's just big guy who talks eloquently, and that's fine for a 60s comic, but all of his really unique aspects only came out when he turned furry.

So, you're starting with the least interesting version of the character, which . . . is fine, you can always improve on that. But I don't really feel like they did, because it felt like there was a lack of interest in really moving Hank forward. Both Hanks were stuck in a rut at this time, so, you know, I guess they match, woo. But it just kinda sucked to see so many issues where young Hank was around, and he'd just. Not really do anything that couldn't have been done by another character. He never interacted with any characters that older Hank had special relationships with like young Scott or Jean did, and he wasn't forming new relationships that I could be excited about, either.

Two, younger Hank gets angry at older Hank, right? For bringing them here, wrecking the timestream, all of that? He makes disparaging remarks about turning into a blue homunculus?

Not one single writer every had older Hank turn around and point out that the man who turned them into a blue furry beast was WAY closer in appearance, emotional temperament, and history to young Hank.

Yes, older Hank may be the guy who did it, twenty years or so ago, but younger Hank was the guy who is GOING to do it, because of the tendencies that his magic arc showcased, because of the pride, because of the ego, and his older self, who HAS that context, who KNOWS what he's like, who is AWARE of his personality flaws, NEVER blames him for that! Never takes him to task for the moral grandstanding!

Because here's the thing - yes, Hank CAN be proud, and he can have an ego, but the WORST of it died when he mutated himself, because he fucked up his entire life in the course of one night and he was never able to fix it, just recover from it! He learned!

Young Hank hasn't learned that lesson yet! And despite older Hank being there, and knowing that already, they NEVER talk about it! It's just brushed over! Absolutely goddamn maddening.

Young Hank re-learned a lesson that older Hank knew, and we didn't even get the parts where older Hank even tries to impart that knowledge, because we've got to spend time on bamfs and crossovers to the Ultimate Universe and Kid Apocalypse and the future Brotherhood and a minivan that's bigger on the inside and oh my god what are we even here for, guys? Why are we ignoring this character's obvious main foil, his older self???

. . . Anyway.

It was interesting see Hank turn to something other than science to keep him going, because he knows this is something that's within him, that science is something this version has gravitated towards and excelled in, but he knows that's not always a multiversal constant.

Science is a part of him, but it is not him. Science is just a mechanism by which he understands why, by which he understands because. Hank McCoy wants to understand why something happens, he wants to understand the because, and how he gets there is changeable. So the magic arc should really have been a fulfilment of the promise of these pages from Endangered Species.

But I don't really feel like it really went anywhere. I don't feel like anything new was revealed about Hank through his flirtation with magic. He'll do anything for his friends, even make desperate, dumb decisions; he'll transform himself in the pursuit of knowledge; he'll fix what he broke, and people will take him back with a slap on the wrist and then they'll go back to mostly ignoring him. (It was very significant to me that young Hank's demonic corruption happened without anyone noticing, because Hank is a king of seeming fine while his life is falling apart, and some things really do never change.)

All of these character traits had already been established by previous storylines, but better, tbh.

It was repetitious, just like older Hank's repeating arc going on at that same time of making a massive science mistake, feeling guilty and vowing not to do it again, only to be reset the next time they wanted to do a big crossover event with a big science mistake to fit. I can only stand to see the same things repeated without any attempt to break the cycle or progress past it so many times. This is partly why feline Hank's story has always felt so impactful to me, because it always felt like it was moving forward and he was changing and growing. He learned. At least, it felt like he did.

I don't really think anyone was learning anything in All-New vol. 1 and 2 or X-Men: Blue. I felt like I was just killing time, reading a mostly Scott and Jean centric book that Hank occasionally guest starred in.

As for what came after Extermination - the fact that no-one picked up on the fact that older Hank should have known magic once the memories merged is kind of confirmation to me that no-one at Marvel had any real interest in exploring this side of Hank, so I couldn't and can't quite get excited about it.

It would've been at least neat to see evil Beast break out the magic when he got cornered, but like everything else, Percy ignored that, too. If new Hank has these memories, it has yet to be established on panel, and he seems to be more of the traditional Hank wheelhouse, just progressing in a different way, as detailed in the Infinity Comics releasing atm.

If I had been reading at the time (I stopped around 2015, before Hank got into magic), I probably would've been more invested in the idea of Hank learning magic, but as it is, I came back to it a year or two ago while I was waiting for X-Force to finish, and knowing that it all ended with 'and then the time displaced arc didn't matter to anyone but Scott and Bobby' just meant I looked at all of this like, this is a lot of set-up for plots that never happened and never really went anywhere. Shame. There really was potential here.

I kept staring at Hank, waiting for him to do something, to have a romance, to be tested again and succeed or fail, to show he's learned his lesson or not, to bond with Bloodstorm over temptation, to talk with his older self about what he's learned, but instead, he would have one issue of focus, and then fade into the background while everything else took precedence. I just got bored and started flicking through.

I'd be curious to hear your thoughts on it, though. Maybe there's a issue I missed or didn't pay attention to that will 'unlock' this arc for me and make it all crystallise in a way. I'd love to be wrong.

[tofueggnoodles]

They’re Back! Araiso Private High School Student Council Executive Committee Vol. 1 Scene 5

Click here to listen to the track on youtube.

Summary: All's well that ends well. The three new members of the Executive Committee get a taste of the exciting school life they’ve been longing for, even as they impress the old-timers with their efficiency.

--------

Matsubara (sighs): The Student Council election went off without a hitch.

Ainoura: And we’ve completed the enrollment of the new members for the Executive Committee.

Murota: Thanks to Fujiwara’s quick thinking, we averted a crisis which would have spelled an end to the existence of the Executive Committee.

Fujiwara: Enough with the empty praise already. Even after what I did, you guys are still treating me like a spare.

Tokito: What are you sulking about? How disgusting.

Katsuragi: He’s just depressed because guys with better looks than him have joined the Executive Committee.

Tokito: What’s that supposed to mean? Hey, there’s no need to feel down, Fujiwara.

Fujiwara: Tokito-senpai...! 🤩

Tokito: In the first place, I, the universe’s Number One handsome idol, have always been in the Executive Committee anyway. You’d be Number Three at best.

(Fujiwara gasps in exasperation. A chime, similar to one heard when praying to a picture of the dead displayed on a Buddhist altar, resounds.)

Ainoura: Ah, Fujiwara just dropped dead on the spot.

Matsubara: That reminds me – where are Osamu and his friends?

--------

Ryuunosuke: Ah, look out, Shuuji! Stop tottering like that!

Shuuji: Why am I being made to carry the heaviest stuff?

Osamu: That’s obvious. It’s because you’re the strongest one among us.

(Someone slides the door open.)

Ryuunosuke: Hey, you old-timers! This is not how you should be treating us!

Kubota: Welcome back.

Shuuji: Damn it! My hands hurt!

(He and the other two drop whatever they are carrying.)

Ainoura: Oh, that’s a lot of stuff. So you’ve been out shopping?

Murota: You’ve brought this many plywood planks too.

Katsuragi: Of course they’ve. From now, we need to prepare the stage props for the Snow Queen play. Everyone, get to work!

(The others comply with sighs of resignation.)

Katsuragi: What about the expenses claim for the material?

Osamu: We found a hardware store, a woodworker and a dressmaker in the neighborhood which offer the required material at low prices. Moreover, since we were buying in bulk, we successfully negotiated for a fifty-percent discount. In the end, we reduced the total cost to approximately sixty-two percent of the budget.

Ainoura (whistles): Well done! Can you put together a detailed statement of the expenses?

Osamu: I’ll have it done in five minutes.

Ryuunosuke: And so, with a small portion of the money we saved, we bought everyone ice-cream!

Tokito: Oh, how thoughtful of you. I’ll have thecrispy chocolate cone!

Shuuji: Ah, that’s unfair of you to go first.

Tokito: Old-timers ought to get the first pick. Isn’t that obvious?

Kubota: Ah.... this one looks delicious – it’s miso ramen flavored. Wanna give it a try?

Osamu: I’d be fine with the rum-and-raisin ice-cream.

Matsubara: The green tea ice-cream’s mine, okay?

Murota: Is the banana-flavored one sweet?

Ainoura: Yay! The chocolate chip ice-cream’s still left.

Fujiwara: W–what about me?

Katsuragi: Hey you guys! Eating is fine, but get on with the work while you’re at it.

Ryuunosuke: Here you go – a strawberry-flavored ice-cream for you, Katsuragi-chan.

Katsuragi: Er, thanks. You’re definitely cut out to be a host, Ryuunosuke. [https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Host_and_hostess_clubs#Host_clubs]

--------

(Sounds of hammering and woodworking.)

Tokito: Still, this place feels cramped now that there’s more of us.

Kubota: It’s become more lively too, so that’s not really a bad thing, is it?

Tokito (laughs): That’s true.

Kubota: I hope that someday, even when we’re no longer here, this place will still be filled with boisterous members working together like this.

Tokito: I’m feeling a bit envious of them.

Kubota: Are you now? If it’s you, no matter when and where, you’ll always be able to enjoy life to the fullest, won’t you?

Tokito (laughs): Naturally. If you doubt that, why don’t you try confirming it yourself?

Kubota: How shall I do that?

Tokito: Just stay by my side and watch me.

Kubota: The whole time?

Tokito: The whole time.

Fujiwara: You two! Don’t get lovey-dovey there!

Shuuji: Eh? What are you talking about?

Katsuragi: It’s nothing. You’ll get used to that sight before very long.

Ryuunosuke: Won’t you help us nail these planks in place, Tokito?

Tokito: Yeah. Leave it to me.

(Someone slides the door open.)

Student: Hey, Executive Committee! The first-years from the soccer club just got into a large-scale brawl at the school entrance!

Ainoura: Ah, and at such a busy time for us too!

Tokito: Right on! Let’s go, Kubo-chan!

Kubota: Okie-dokie.

Ryuunosuke: Wait a minute–

Tokito: Chamu, Tatsu, Shuuji – you guys come along too. [Tatsu: Ryuunosuke’s nickname, likely written with the same kanji as the one for Ryuu.]

Shuuji: Eh?

Matsubara: Nothing beats a hands-on training, does it?

Fujiwara: What about me?

Murota: Odd jobs are worthy undertakings too.

Katsuragi: I don’t mind you guys going off to stop the fight, but come back promptly as soon as you’re done.

Osamu: Give us twenty minutes.

Katsuragi: That’s too much. Fifteen minutes would be more than enough.

Kubota: Well then, let’s start the countdown. (runs off with the other guys)

Ryuunosuke: They’re fast–

Tokito: You guys are slow!

Katsuragi: Good grief. It’s just impossible to find the time to get tired of life while hanging out with you guys.

--------

(Round brackets): actions and sound effects. [Square brackets]: translator’s notes or clarifications. Double asterisks **: Stuff I am not sure of. Suggestions for improvements and corrections are more than welcome.

[brainbuffering]

Love's In Sight Review

A: Uoyama, T: Nova Skipper, L: Kyla Aiko, E: Jack Carrillo Concordia 

[ID: English Cover for "Love's In Sight" Vol 1. A teenage girl in a pink sweater vest and skirt school uniform presses herself up against a teenage boy dressed all in black. He has a black emo style haircut that covers one eye, but shows off a large scar across the other. She has wide blue eyes that are not looking directly at the boy. In one hand she holds a cane. Her other hand is feeling his face, a thumb stuck in his open mouth. He looks Incredibly flustered.]

"Love blooms between a tough delinquent boy and a spunky girl with a vision impairment! Morio Kurokawa is the toughest-looking tough guy around. Yukiko Akaza is a self-possessed girl with a vision impairment attending a school for the blind. The whole city fears Morio, but Yukiko sees the real him-he's a soft sweetheart who's just searching for his place in the world! Mori the Black Panther has won over a hundred fights. He's beloved by his goons and feared by the public. But now, he faces his biggest challenge yet when he meets Yukiko...and falls in love at first sight! Can Morio outgrow his delinquent roots and turn over a new leaf for his unexpected love?" 

When I first heard about this book, my immediate thought was that of complete and utter dread. I assumed from the plot summary and the cover image that it was just going to be a series of jokes at the expense of the female protagonist. Because haven't we all seen that before? Disabled people being the butt of all the joke and never the one making them, despite disabled people being some of the funniest folks around? 

But upon finding out via Twitter that the translator, Nova Skipper, had low vision as a child which was partially corrected by surgery, and that the book was inspired by the mangaka’s experience with her father's sight loss, I became more interested. If the translator understood what it was like to be visually impaired, then I could at least rely on some level of authenticity. 

And boy oh boy am I super glad I gave this series a shot! Disclaimer as always, whilst I am physically disabled, I am not Visually Impaired. Or rather, my Visual Impairment comes in the form of double vision that is corrected by medication and only requires I sometimes wear an eye patch/black out lens. Therefore I cannot confidently say whether the series is ableist towards visually impaired people or not, but without a shadow of a doubt it absolutely has its heart in the right place! 

The series takes a real hard look (no pun intended) at the different struggles people with visual impairments and other disabilities face all whilst being genuinely funny and heart-warming. The jokes are never at Yukiko's expense, if anything they're targeted at the able-bodied people around her! And when her visual impairment is used for laughs, it's in a way that feels natural and that she can own. For example, when she bumps into Morio because he is wearing all black and she cannot differentiate between him and a tree, so he runs off to buy fluorescent clothing resulting in an easy to spot boyfriend but a man she doesn't want to be seen dead with. 

[ ID: Morio and Yukio stand outside a clothes shop. Morio is dressed in a pair of jeans, a long sleeved TShirt, and a mesh vest with a smiley love heart on it. The TShirt is labelled as being orange, the jeans red, and the vest black and day glow yellow. "Spar-KILL" sound effects dot around him. M: "How's this, am I easier to see?" Y: "You're easier to see… but harder to be seen WITH." ]

The series does a wonderful job of explaining what it means to be visually impaired, and the different forms that can take. Uoyama uses her medium superbly to give the reader an excellent idea of just what Yukiko's level of vision is. And whilst the fact that it started out as a Pixiv Comic means that the layouts are rather samey (always just four horizontal panels), it's clear that she chose manga as a means to tell this story for a reason. Even if comics are sadly still an inaccessible format for many visually impaired people…. 

[ID: Panel 1) A highly satirised image of a public park in black and white where no details can be made out. There are "Vroom" and "tweet tweet sound effects" Y: Here's fine Kurokawa. M: For real? Let me walk you home. Y: I'm familiar with the way back. 

Panel 2) A highly saturated head shot of Morio where none of his facial features can be made out save for a vague outline of his eyes and mouth. M: Well, okay. I wanted to but… 

Panel 3) Same image again. M: What's up Miss Yukiko? Y: …. 

Panel 4) Half body shot of Morio with his hand stretched out. There are even fewer of his facial features visible. There is a "Tap Tap" sound effect to imply that Yukiko is walking away with help of her cane. Y: It's nothing. Bye. M: Huuuuuh? I wanna know! ]

On a personal note, I really related to the complicated relationship between Yukiko and her older sister. The way in which she felt smothered by her constant attention and concerns, whilst also understanding that she does need help with things. Mostly though, Yukiko just wants to live as a teenager who makes their own poor decisions. It can be difficult to get the balance right as a disabled person between getting the help you need and having the independence you crave. Between doing what is sensible, and doing what is fun. For me, that was staying up past midnight to go to convention parties even though I knew it would increase my seizure risk, for Yukiko that's wearing the shiny and pretty high heels her boyfriend buys for her even though they're a major trip hazard. 

The story doesn't just focus on Yukiko's experience of the world though. In volume two, it's clear that the Mangaka instends to show how society's snap judgments and so called "norms" harm everyone. Morio is shown to struggle as a child because of how his grandmother's lack of wealth and poor vision means he wears tattered second hand clothes. In adult life, he's shown to find it nearly impossible to find even a basic job because people make snap judgments about him because of his facial scar, something that is completely beyond his control. In an incredibly touching flashback, we're shown how a queer character is made to feel angry, and vulnerable, simply because he must live in a society that views him and the way he loves as "different" and "other". 

This book isn't just for disabled people, it's for anyone who has ever felt like they've been left out by society or judged prematurely based on things beyond their control. It's about making connections between people, and embracing both our individualities and our similarities. I would say it does an excellent job of showing the importance of understanding solidarity between seemingly different marginalised social groups, and I very much look forward to finding out what happens in volume 3, which should be coming out in the UK sometime soon.

[thesinglesjukebox]

PEGGY GOU - "(IT GOES LIKE) NANANA"

It's summer somewhere, and it's also 9PM somewhere.

[7.05]

Kat Stevens: Peggy's continued shameless tactic to lure me in with random snippets from Ibiza Anthems vol 1-4 mixed by Alex P & Brandon Block is absolutely working. [8]

Oliver Maier: Absolute head-empty stuff. Pretty 90s inasmuch as it sounds like "I Like To Move It" for a corporate boat afterparty. In, like, Dubai. [6]

Jacob Sujin Kuppermann: The kind of big dumb pop hit that feels all the sweeter after a half-decade of sophisticated, fashionable house music from Peggy Gou. Somehow, I feel like this is her true form -- a hook-focused trickster spirit hitting all the dopamine release points as quickly as possible. Everything else -- all the long-form odyssey-like qualities of her earlier work, all the couture and style and glamor -- fades away. In pop music -- and "Nanana" is excellent pop music -- all that is secondary to the sheer sugar-rush joy on display here. [9]

Crystal Leww: Peggy Gou has made something like five songs in like five years, and yet somehow her status in dance music is now enormous -- she regularly sells out massive crowds in at least three continents despite incredible price tags (her last NYC show was on a Wednesday and tickets were one hundred and forty eight American dollars each). Yet, if you've ever seen a video of Peggy Gou DJing, it's all cameras up, with no one seemingly doing any actual dancing except maybe Peggy herself. Her whole schtick is like the culmination of the blurring of lines between DJ and influencer -- it's seemingly just as important to be seen at a Peggy Gou show as it is to actually enjoy a Peggy Gou show. All this being said, all five or so of Peggy's songs sound so incredibly warm and timeless despite the fact that they are perfectly engineered to trend chase after all. "(It Goes Like) Nanana" hops on the trance and eurodance revival that's been percolating the last two years, with an unmissable ATB sample and yet unlike what it's ripping -- corny, goofy, silly -- it's engineered to be so cool, conjuring images of exclusive parties on yachts and perfect bob haircuts that cost $1,000 a pop. "It Goes Like (Nanana)" works because it gives anyone a chance to feel like they could be a part of that exclusivity - it's a song meant to played in rooms with wood paneling and on expensive soundsystems while twirling around in circles with your best friends. [7]

Nortey Dowuona: She used to be good, what the freak happened? Are we all so desperate to run back to 1985 just cause Studio Ghibli was founded that year? They're not shuttered yet! [5]

Wayne Weizhen Zhang: Peggy Gou never changes, nor does she need to. [7]

Ian Mathers: She just doesn't miss! What's that? Lenny Kravitz? No idea what you're talking about. [8]

Scott Mildenhall: Finally, a song worthy of a one-hour YouTube loop. Peggy Gou's work doesn't feel formulaic so much as geometric -- "Nanana" has the colour and kinetics of a game of Breakout, pinballing predictably, but forever satisfyingly. [8]

Katherine St Asaph: Bliss is the absence of thought. [7]

Alfred Soto: In Peggy Gou's eternal 1998 and 1987, plinkety-plonkety pop house is the lingua franca. I'll admit to confusing "(It Goes Like) Nanana" and Kylie Minogue's "Padam Padam." Who wouldn't? [6]

Joshua Minsoo Kim: nah nah nah [4]

Claire Biddles: The Peggy Gou: The Complete Singles compilation that comes out in 2034 is going to be the greatest dance pop album of all time. [8]

Edward Okulicz: I didn't have "Peggy Gou gets an actual hit single" on my 2023 bingo card, but if you'd told me that it was going to happen last year with a song that steals as much from K-Klass as it does from ATB, I wouldn't have batted an eyelid. The whole song's as slick as the little "9PM" guitar line and if it's too soft to be a real floor filler, that seems like a decision rather than a flaw. [8]

Aaron Bergstrom: Answering the question, "How do you get from 'I Go' to 'featuring Lenny Kravitz" in one step?" [6]

David Moore: I love the small touches in this, especially the chintzy pitch-bend synth guitar, even though this song's massive success after "I Go" kind of feels like when a major director finally gets an Oscar for a merely competent movie after getting snubbed for their masterpiece. I'll take it, though. [7]

Peter Ryan: In the right light a bit of a supercut of Annie's Endless Vacation tracks. I can't complain; Gou's track swells in sync with the lyric's devolution into a heady non-verbal state. She gets it -- don't think, just move. [9]

Brad Shoup: Now this is a Eurodance text: verb choices just a couple degrees away from expected, similar clauses chained together, a big arrow pointing at the universal hook. If ATB could clone his hit i don't see why Gou can't. I dunno if this is a one-off trance dalliance but if not: try "The Lonely One" next. [7]

Taylor Alatorre: A dance song which performs its intended function ably and effectively, and which is committed to becoming a throwback club hit even as it is afraid to commit to representing anything beyond that. Those little bent synth phrases after the chorus sound cool. [6]

Will Adams: A panoply of musical choices designed to hit every pleasure point in my brain -- mindless, wordless hook; house piano chords; organ bass; synthetic guitar straight from an ATB classic -- that its slightness doesn't really matter. [7]

Vikram Joseph: This deserves to be heard under a high sun by a glittering sea so much that, listening to it for the first time right now, I almost want to hold myself back from it so that I can save it for the summer of '24. But to do so would be futile, because there's nothing delayed about the gratification that "(It Goes Like) Nanana" provides. It's so deeply kinetic, decorated with lashings of house piano, sweet pulses of synth and a fleeting quarter-century echo of the motif from "9 PM (Till I Come)"; it might have a big, dumb club-goading chorus but it's also smart enough to under-stay its welcome. Best just to give yourself entirely to it -- I mean, it's summer somewhere. [8]

[Read, comment and vote on The Singles Jukebox ]

[xtrablak674]

Hard Times on Brown Hill

[Originally published in Fashion Fag Magazine January/February Vol 2, Issue 1, Number 5, 1995, edited for clarity]

"I ain't never asked nobody for nutin' what I got, I got my own damn self."

I was at a dinner party the other day and the question goin' round the room was 'what was the first album you ever bought?' Sounded innocuous enough. I thought about it a hot minute, wantin' to give the most truthful answer.

"Salt-n-Pepa's Express Yourself."

A silence seemed to rise in the room.

Wrong answer?

No.

That album came out in the late eighties. I believe the answer expected by the sea of white in the room was supposed to be an album from the seventies.

I felt ashamed.

Ashamed of bein' poor, ignorant, and so god-damned honest. I was quiet for the rest of the evening. I was told to come to the party and be myself I was and I got hurt.

Later at home I reflected on the evening and thought.

'Theys white folke they don't know no bettah.'

It was a potent question. Growin' up being best friends with poverty, I knew we didn't have, and being a brite n sensitive child I never asked for nutin' I knew how to make due wit what we had.

I remember these white kids' parents who lived upstairs, givin' us their kids unwanted toys, I remember my brothers and me would relish those toys. As an adult reflecting on those memories, my mouth gets dry and shoulders tense. 'They don't know no bettah...'

Why am I so angry? There ain't nothing wrong wit bein' po', right? (We we're so po we couldn't afford the 'or')

What happened at this dinner party shot back into my head as I begin to plan how I was goin to swing rent this month; my funds havin' been seriously depleted, wit havin' to pay two months of rent by myself, bein' unemployed, and my unemployment benefits having stopped unexpectedly.

Some people once said to me that I am a survivor. I hate that. Their wrong I am a Liver, I LIVE. I don't nickel and dime my life away. I'll be homeless and livin' on the street and buy $80 shoes on sale (which I still own, thank you kindly) or hungry and jobless and pay twenty dollars for a nice meal. Lord knows I may step off the curb and get hit by a taxi, at least my belly be full and I was happy.

Nobody is promised tomorrow.

I LIVE.

I don't 'piss away' my money. I use my money to make myself and my friends happy.

Recent events and my personal growth have made me began to wonder and question who my friends are. Time to do some house cleanin'.

If I've said it once I've said it a thousand times. I DUZ WHAT MAKES ME HAPPY. Life is too short to be tip toein' and sayin' 'Well I should have done this or that'

No regrets.

No apologies.

No guilt.

Just live.

Do what makes you happy.

You want to know what makes me happy. It makes me very happy that I totally support myself on the career of my choice, which I get great pleasure out of. Not scramblin' and stuffin' myself into some shirt and tie to work at some temp agency that would make ME miserable. I'd rather be back on the streets huslin' then to get myself caught up in that kind of shit.

Someone else said, why don't you go on public assistance? I said NO! Ain't you hearin' me? Aren't my feelings clear about this shit!! Don't you get IT yet?

I am where I am and have everything I got by doin' it my damn self. Not cause somebody gave me something. I am very independent, not because I want to be. I don't have a choice, I have to be. I don't have no nest egg sittin' 'round for me. I ain't got no parents or family that could help out or drop a few hundred every now and then. If I do not work, I do not eat. If I do not make sure that I cover my living expenses, then I lose my home, and I am on the streets. Y'all say, 'you know you could stay wit me.'

I won't.

Because I've busted my ass to make a home for myself, I was homeless ever since my mother died, I was a visitor in my grandmother's house.

I don't ask nobody for nutin. And the hardest thing for me to do is ask for help or anything, so I don't. In those very rare occasions that I do it hurts me deeply when people question my life choices and fault that for my current situation. Who the fuck are they to question me for anything? Can they say as I can that:

I AM HAPPY WITH MY LIFE.

I feel that I am a very self-indulgent-selfless person. Meaning, I am very self-absorbed but because of that I am very giving. My friends don't usually have to ask me twice for nuthin' 'cause I'll give it to them without hesitation. I keep tellin' people. I hold more value in friendships then family relationships.

You fambly says 'Well you gotta do it cuz you fambly' Well yo friends ain't. And they don't gotta do shit for ya. if they don't want to; for me that is the stronger bond. I had hit a financial wall this month, and after much reluctance, I broke down (swallowed my pride, dry) and began to ask some of my friends if they could help me out.

As I said at the top of this piece, 'I ain't never ask nobody for nutin'. The changes and judgements I had to go through just to get a 'possible' commitment on some money was so difficult. It was as if these few people were tryin' to say 'I told you so', once again judgin' my choices.

I just want everybody to know.

I will never do it again. I will move out on the street first.

And as I said I I'll be doin' some house cleanin'.

[Afterwords: Lord Black Jesus there is a lot going on here even as I was re-reading this for the first time since probably thirty years ago when it was written I was reliving the pain, anger and betrayal I was going through as I wrote this. There is so much rage in these words, which is so clearly expressed through the constant repetition of "I ain't asked nobody for nuthin".

God bless the child who has their own, I think this was maybe a little more than a year since I had left college and I already felt like I was failing, not understanding that those formative adult years can be difficult. You're trying your best to assert your own identity, stand on your own and be reliant on yourself, and no one else. It can be extremely frustrating when things aren't coming together for you to do just that.

What had complicated my particular situation was the fact that when I leased that apartment I did it with a high school friend Henry Diaz. Henry, I guess got overwhelmed and bounced with little to no notice, I was left holding the proverbial bag, never expecting to have to pay the full amount of the rent by myself and currently being in-between gigs, was a recipe for disaster.

I will frankly admit my financial literacy wasn't what it is today. It seems quite irresponsible when you don't have your months rent to be out buying shoes you can't afford, and also being elaborate in buying a meal you also can't afford or frankly justify when you are otherwise quite food insecure. But I also know that what I was really doing was bolstering my mental health trying to make the best of a bad situation by doing things that I thought would make me feel better.

But who in their twenties is making smart financial choices? Y'all don't even need to answer because I know if we're being truthful we know we all could have done a whole lot better there.

I wasn't sure if I wanted to do the fact-check here or not, but I think its important to actually acknowledge the truth of the situation, not our romanticized or distorted version of the historical accuracies. There was a huge difference between Henry and me, something I couldn't see clearly until decades later.

Henry truly was poor and without additional resources, whereas I had monies left over from the fund that my grandparents had saved from my mom's insurance, the monthly social security payments and any other monies that came in as my grandparents in essence adopted me and raised me till I was of legal age. What I would discover later is that they didn't use any of these benefits but added them to some kind of high-yield investment that amounted to roughly forty-two thousand dollars by the time I was ready for college.

It was naiveté on my part when I actually reported this amount on my college applications, if I had kept my mouth shut this could have been a slush fund for any off-book college expenses, the HEOP program could have covered the primary cost. But by my third semester I had checked out emotionally and stopped attending any classes. Being homeless and in college just wasn't working with the emotional and spiritual toll it was taking to navigate a primarily white educational institution. I had done the math, and I said it would make more sense to leave while I still had some funds left and I could start working proper in the field I had chosen.

So I lied, I did have help in form of this allotment my grandparents had put aside for my college education. I leveraged these in getting my first apartment. I am pretty sure I was the one who paid the security deposit using these funds. And I clearly remember the trip to IKEA to buy furnishings, and the matching futons I bought for Henry and me. I also bought our kitchenette and the ridiculously too big forest green sectional couch for our living corner, yes corner, it wasn't big enough to be a room.

But there was truth in that I didn't ask for any of this.

It was also true that while my grandparents household was upper middle-class, in my mom's house we were probably living at or just below the poverty level. The curious thing about children is that where ever you started is usually where you stay mentally, and even though my grandparents had more means, I had lived my entire life without any real choices or options, and assumed that things were the same in my grandparents home.

In a way it was, my paternal grandmother who was always pinching a penny so hard the penny would go OUCH. Her thriftiness would pay-off with the infirmities she had later in life, because her own money would be used to take care of her. But I clearly remember all the Pathmark no-frills products we had in our cabinets, which would bring me the ridicule of my peers. At this time I didn't realize that store brand and brand names were more or less equal to each other. Her mentality towards saving and hunting down bargains was similar to my moms and I thought, we still didn't have, so I never asked. I never even thought to ask.

Unlike some of my white peers who lived in mortgaged homes with allowances and equity. I had lived in apartments for most of my young life, dealing with unpaid rent and roaches. Having money of my own in my mom's house wasn't even a concept. My grandparents did give me an allowance at eleven I think it was fifty cents or so, I was grateful because prior to then giving me money without a clear cause was never a thing.

Albeit somehow my mom scraped together a couple of dollars for those Scholastic book sales that I really loved to get books from. She wanted to encourage my love of reading even if I was just ordering Heathcliff paperbacks. Curiously my allowance in my grandparents also went towards books. I can recall us driving to the Barnes & Nobles off of Central Avenue and me voraciously trying to figure out how many new Choose Your Own Adventure Books I could purchase. I had such an extensive paperback collection by the time I went to college, I was so sad I would later loose it all.

Now, was I really happy? Or was I over-stating this alleged happiness to make a point? Even though at this time I would begin to have some of the worse seasonal depressions, I do believe these were happy times. Even with all the struggling and ultimately the multiple roommates I had in my first apartment, I was in my twenties and resilient as fuck, and looking for adventure around every corner.

There is one theme in Hard Times on Brown Hill which is still thematically relevant to me today. I am always asserting that I have no regrets, and I would like to believe this to be true. In all this uncovering of the past, I look back and consistently I applaud the decisions I had made, never having the least bit of trepidation about the outcome whether good or bad. I think this is something that I realized then and still realize now. You do the best you can with the information you have on hand, and need to be comfortable with the outcome whatever it is.

Consistency, another thing I love about myself. I am extremely consistent. I said in the piece that I would never put myself in a position where I had to ask for help from folks and I was good to my word, I never have. This instance of disappoint even so far in the past taught me people's true nature, that not everyone is truly rooting for you, they are all secretly judging you and your decisions. I figured out this is all well and good if they weren't paying my bills, because their opinions and judgments were moot.

I would get over my shame about accepting public assistance, I didn't realize at the time that there were other things tied up in my decision not to get the temporary help that everyone is entitled to, no matter what their background. It was the residual feelings of shame I had about my father who was constantly on some form of assistance whether it be disability benefits or public assistance, and I couldn't recollect once him holding a job. He was never a vision of self-sufficiency to me and I wanted to do everything to avoid being just like him.

The white people in this piece also serve a special role collectively. One of the largest issues of cultural adjustment that I had to deal with in college is classism. Obviously racism and homophobia were at play but I had never encountered the level of wealth these white kids on my campus had. This is obviously a reoccurring theme even from my childhood as I admit to the resentment I felt about getting the discarded toys of white children.

There was a theme of always feeling less-than in the presence of whiteness. And I will say that this speaks to more of a systematic issue than an individual issue. If because of your whiteness you have benefited from the legacy of white supremacy in my opinion you need to acknowledge that and take the stance of an anti-racist.

I think I would have had an entirely different experience if even one of the white people at that party would have diffused my awkwardness with something like, 'oh I love Salt N Pepa, Chick on the Side, is my jam!' I wouldn't have felt othered. I would have felt included and that my contribution had the same value as any one else's.

This is for me is the burden of whiteness acknowledging because of some obvious historical imbalances that you have had more opportunities and options than those who are not white, and that you should be hyper-sensitive to when in fellowship with non-whites that you're making sure their experiences are just as relevant and unique as yours.

A reoccurring question I have had from the whites my entire life is, what can I do? Well bish, I just told you what you can do.

I gave the whites a little too much grace in the piece saying they didn't know no better, why do Black people always have to excuse the bad behavior of the whites, why can't they be culpable for their misgivings?

My big takeaway from this piece is that starting out in life can be hard and very complex and difficult to navigate, but its important if you are saying you will be there for folks, that you will indeed be there for them without any judgement, qualifications or hesitation. Personally I am hyper-cognitive of affirming the young folks who I interact with, letting them know that this is a time of change for them, and those that they thought were so close were actually the ones who weren't, and like myself they may need to do some house cleaning.]

[Photos by Brown Estate]

[kaoarika]

Early this week I was able to watch Undelu's first episode and I still have the same complaints I had due to the first impressions I DID have when it aired WAY back last year :)

I don't think the first ep needed to be SO artistry or too symbolic in some parts. I mean, I know ex-SHAFT staff worked on this... but I still don't feel it needed it (the tilt heads meme that SHAFT is full well known is still rotting in my mind after all these years, it seems) and I feel it goes better with stuff like 3gatsu rather than... Undelu.

OH, the first sequence is NICE and it implies in some way or form that might be the anime adaptation of To You From Me, with all the context/parallels of the Loops, Victor, Juiz and the fact that I ALWAYS forget Undelu happens in some weird alternate world than ours... but it didn't have to go hard like THAT, lol (also some parallels with IRL Undelu's anime adaptation vs the manga... I have read reactions that are ALL over the place for the pacing of the anime's season, so, that might be fun :)) )

I miss the crowd from the first scene of Fuuko and Andy... it feels so strange and lonely... it works better that there was a crowd and not... just THEM???

My brother insisted to watch it with the LatAm dub, so I cannot really be against it. So far, it's good... but it feels a bit... weird because it's ALSO using other Spanish translation than what the manga uses (I always suspected that the manga is using Spain's manga TL and it's being "fixed" for it to be neutral) and there's also the biiiig familiarity of reading the manga in English. SO. WEIRD.

To put it briefly:

English -> Spanish (Manga) -> Spanish (Anime)

Unluck -> Desafortunada -> Infortunio

Soemthing about synonims and words and nouns that are rarely used in Spanish becase there are alternatives that are better well known and used in our dialect and some feel like REAL, REAL deep cuts that I have rarely seen other ppl use in prose context (ie unluck is basically mala suerte)

Andy is named like such in the LatAm anime's localization because "Anti-muerte" and Anti -> Andy sound similar I guess (we all know it's because Andy - Undead and it's pronounciation in Japanese as its a borrowed word from English... so)

I know that Tozuka never anticipated the series would get translated other than English (and I think he even mentions that his assistants may know a bit better English than him, regardless), so there's going to be nouns and such that would be weird in my language translation later on (Unjust and Unfair both mean "injusto" >.>, the manga opted for "Ilegal" for Unfair... and yet it still doesn't sound right when certain someone gives hints of what their real ability is >.>, it TECHNICALLY has the same meaning as "injusto" in certain situations -ie cheating-, i will be real, but other than THAT...)

The dub is okay, so far. I think Edson Matus is the highlight because he fits Andy's gruff voice a lot (yet I want to listen to Youkyan, because... Youkyan) and he is currently one of my bro's fave dub actors at the moment (he voices Charlie in Smili*ng Friends, and I concur, he sounds awesome there). look, I am SOOOO tempted that in any chance they get him here, I will bring either vol 1 or my figure to get it signed (below the figure base, sorry :V*)

STILL A FREAKING DAMN SHAME D*SNEY+ GOT THIS, THOUGH.

(I'm just looking at the next new anime adaptation releases of Blue Box and Sak*amoto Days in Ne*tflix and... FRICK, you know?)

*Reminder that I don't go to anime cons since 2017 because going on my own is not fun and it's basically "rinse and repeat" with merch stands and the expensive tickets for all that and a conventions monopoly and open secrets about the whole organizing event thing????

[lboogie1906]

Jill Heather Scott (born April 4, 1972) is a singer, songwriter, model, poet, and actress. Her 2000 debut album, Who Is Jill Scott?: Words and Sounds Vol. 1, went platinum, and the follow-ups Beautifully Human: Words and Sounds Vol. 2 and The Real Thing: Words and Sounds Vol. 3 both achieved gold status.

She made her film debut in Hounddog and Why Did I Get Married? She starred in The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency. She released her fourth album, The Light of the Sun. She starred in the film Get on Up. She released her fifth album, Woman. She appeared in Black Lightning as Lady Eve.

She was born in Philadelphia. She grew up an only child, raised by her mother, Joyce Scott,q and her grandmother. She attended Temple University. While working two jobs, she studied secondary education. She planned to become a high school English teacher. After three years of study and then serving as a teacher’s aide, she was disillusioned with a teaching career.

She starred in Steel Magnolias. She stars in First Wives Club, a TV adaptation of the film.

She has established the Blues Babe Foundation, a program founded to help young minority students pay for university expenses. The foundation offers financial assistance to students between the ages of 16 and 21 and targets students residing in Philadelphia, Camden, and the greater Delaware Valley. She donated $100,000 to start the foundation. The foundation was named after her grandmother, known as “Blue Babe.”

She married Lyzel Williams (2001-2007), a graphic artist and DJ. She has a son. #africanhistory365 #africanexcellence

[memarcusthecreator]

Here’s a sped up version of one of my upcoming track off of my new album called “Expensive Sounds Vol. 1”

It is called “Attention”. Stream the rest of my music here ⬇️

[chill-in-heat]

Behind the face, inside the heart, the dream is broken:

No gift shops, no souvenir Finnish witches or scarlet circles to manifest the presence of those who have never left. [1] Here the two extremes meet: [2]

Takeshis left arm he held a bit stiffly as a remaining memento of their last meeting. [3] They were really good friends, went to the playground together and set things on fire. [4] They pushed people on slides and knocked them all over [5], before they blacked out.

Today, the sun shone brightly; as brightly as if it looked upon no misery or care; and, with every leaf and flower in full bloom about her; with life, and health, and sounds and sights of joy, surrounding her on every side: the fair young Kati lay, wasting fast. [6] In the garden all around them they saw myrtles with their berries and other shrubs associated with the goddess. [7] Takeshi looks at Kati, confused by the abundance of remembrances. Face to heart talks [8]:

“Woman, fragile flower! [9] Say, do you know how this house works?"

"Ay, I do," returned the girl, meeting his gaze. [10] "There is a violet core surrounded by various shades of yellow. [11] It is very difficult to part them, for they commonly act together whether they attack, proceed, or turn back. [12] What, my dear fellow, didn’t you know that?" [13]

Even more confused than he was before, Takeshi took a step forward with confidence. A dangerous confidence. [14] He looked at her standing for a while, and then got onto his knees to see her better, changing his glasses from time to time and showing his amazement without saying anything. [15] He draws attention to the risk of bad experiences that the bride may have had and handed her a note he found in his pocket [16]. It said: "I salute, love and embrace you.” [17] The face takes off the mask.

Suddenly, the building produces a completely different feeling of transparency [18], but, using his glasses, Takeshi disclosed the material cause to be one that arose from feelings. [19] His desire was to combine the sense of continuity with the satisfaction of traditional workmanship and design. [20]

"Do you have sympathy for it, do you find it inspiring or you feel forced to do it [21] Kati asked. "Because it doesn't want to do what you want to do."

"I want stimulus, and I want it now!" [23] But since drugs from Europe were not only expensive but tended to lose their potency on the long voyage east [24], Takeshi had to resort to different instruments. “Suppose that you want a dinner in your own language?" [25] he asked Kati. "Where would you take me?"

"Helsinki, the town full of souvenir shops, strip shows and shooting galleries. [26] It will include all the hotels, swimming tanks and candy stores you desire." [27]

So he arose and went in after her and they gave not over going till they reached a saloon [28], live in the garden, a small space, with a few friends. [29] As they passed along, Kati saw something blue in the hedge, and said, “There’s some periwinkle in flower yet!” [30] In entering the saloon, which contained these beauties Kati so much sighed to see, she felt a trembling of love. [31]

What was once a neglected or even avoided space has now become the focus of intense public interest. [32] Railway stations unfold like iron butterflies, airports glisten like cyclopic dewdrops, bridges span often negligible banks like grotesquely enlarged versions of the harp. [33]

A sort of spiritual therapy was carried out there, involving music, dance, and theatrical spectacles and readings of marvellous stories. [34] The door, hidden. [35] Lethe was there.

[1] Anzaldua, This Bridge We Call Home, [2] Buffon, Natural History Vol 4, [3] Asimov, Complete Robot Anthology, [4] Koolhaas, Elements of Architecture, [5] Carter, Shaking A Leg, [6] Dickens, Oliver Twist, [7] Calasso, The Marriage of Cadmus and Harmony, [8] Joyce, Ulysses, [9] Wollstonecraft, Complete Works, [10] Dickens, Oliver Twist, [11] Wollstonecraft, Complete Works, [12] Buffon, Natural History Vol 7, [13] Proust, In Search of Lost Time Vol V The Captive The Fugitive, [14] Glotz, The Greek City and its Institutions, [15] Harrison Wood Gaiger, Art in Theory 1648 1815, [16] Foucault, The History of Sexuality Volume 3, [17] Rousseau, Collected Works of Jean-Jacques Rousseau, [18] Koolhaas, Elements of Architecture, [19] Leatherbarrow Eisenschmidt, Twentieth Century Architecture, [20] Ackroyd, London A Biography, [21] Koolhaas, Elements of Architecture, [22] Koolhaas, Elements of Architecture, [23] Koolhaas, SMLXL, [24] Herbert, Floras Empire British Gardens in India, [25] Koolhaas, Delirious New York, [26] Carter, Shaking A Leg, [27] Koolhaas, Delirious New York, [28] The Book of the Thousand and One Nights Supplementary Nights, [29] Serres, Hermes Literature Science Philosophy, [30], [31] Rousseau, Collected Works of Jean-Jacques Rousseau, [32] Gandy, The Fabric of Space Water Modernity and the Urban, [33] Koolhaas, Junkspace with Running Room, [34] Foucault, History of Madness, [35] Koolhaas, Elements of Architecture

[therecordchanger62279]

THE WISH LIST

I was reading Record Collector this morning, perusing a column called The Vinyl List, and I noticed that a lot of the forthcoming releases on vinyl are expensive boxed sets with multiple LP's by particular artists - and not any of them especially interesting. That's because these boxes are not "art." They're "product." It's something to throw at the market to see what sticks. How much thought goes into a vinyl boxed set of an artist's first, say, eight albums. You repress those first eight titles, and put them in a box, and slap a $250- $300 price tag on it, and collectors reach for their wallets. No thanks.

How about being a little more inventive? For instance, I was wondering if there was a vinyl boxed set I could be persuaded to buy that contained records I already owned? Turns out, there is. And that's why this piece is titled The Wish List.

Chuck Berry, as far as I'm concerned, invented Rock & Roll. He's one of the genre's true greats. His best records are foundation pieces for any serious collection. Chuck made a lot of records. But his is a history, and a catalog that can be distilled into a 10 record, boxed set edition that would be the best first purchase you could make if you decided to build a collection of Rock 'n' Roll vinyl records.

If I owned a record company, I would license, and press the following Chuck Berry records for my box:

Chuck Berry's Golden Decade - a superb 2 record collection of Chuck's early hit singles.

Chuck Berry's Golden Decade Vol. 2 - a deeper dive into Chuck's multitude of hit singles. That's also a 2 record set.

Chuck Berry's Golden Decade Vol. 3 - a final 2 record collection that rounds up the rest of the best of Chuck's 45 rpm radio fare.

Chuck Berry's London Sessions. The 1972 comeback record, half studio, half live, and featuring the #1 hit, My Ding-A-Ling.

Rock It. A 1979 return to recording after a four year break. One of Chuck's overlooked gems. Robert Christgau's Consumer Guide graded it a B+.

Hail! Hail! Rock 'n' Roll. The 1987 soundtrack album of a live concert filmed as a finale for the documentary on Chuck's life. Lots of special guests including Etta James, Linda Ronstadt and Keith Richards. And Chuck is in fine form.

Chuck. Berry's final album released in 2017, six months after his death. It's a terrific last will and testament to his enduring legacy.

I own all 7 of these titles (10 records) already on vinyl. Why would I shell out for new pressings of records I already own? Because the first four titles above were all on Chess Records, and the editions I own were pressed after owner Leonard Chess died, and the label was sold to GRT. GRT used low grade vinyl to press their records, and consequently, all of the Chuck Berry records I own under the GRT imprint could use a 21st century upgrade. I would happily pay for new pressings. And even though the remaining three titles (released on Atco, MCA, and Dualtone respectively) sound just fine, I like the idea of having a definitive, career-spanning Chuck Berry collection all in one place in a nice looking box with a well written, nicely illustrated 12X12 booklet to go with it. That's number one on my wish list. If there's an enterprising record label owner out there reading this, please get on it right away. If you do, I can have it before my next birthday.

[counsellormurdock]

have some matt murdock headcanons to share?

oh man, yeah, i got a few :joy:

re: matt's senses - i'm a firm believer that they can easily exhaust him when used at length or intensely (see dd. vol 5 issue 14 where matt develops a nosebleed by trying to listen so hard for the absence of sound in order to find blindspot / muse). extended use of his senses to navigate and fight leaves him thorougly exhausted if he doesn't moderate himself (and we know matt is aces at moderation). because of this, his skills & training in being able to expertly navigate in traditional ways as blind people do is incredibly important. following a few days stretch of constantly vigilantism, matt just wants to check out and in order to get around relies on the skills he learned in his O&M classes back in the day.

re: matt's cowl that only covers half his face - this was intentional. yeah, it might make it easier to recognize him, to put two and two together that matt murdock is daredevil, but being a disabled man, matt knows how inaccessibility can disparige and increase stigma and ableism. by only wearing half a cowl, matt's able to better assist the Deaf and HOH within his city. Hearing loss is not something that matt can easily detect with his own senses, and if he covered his mouth he'd be removing his help from this community of people.

@ live action: always expressed displeasure at nelson & murdock being on the second floor with no elevators. again, a roadblock being truly accessible.

firm believer that matt murdock is pansexual demiromantic (always pretty quick to sleep with people but takes that deeper emotional connection to form that last relationship).

two main reasons matt refuses to having a seeing eye dog: 1. the overall assault having a dog would have on his senses ie. loud, smelly and they shed. 2. obtaining a seeing eye dog is an unnecessarily difficult and usually expensive process and he wants those trained dogs to go to other blind individuals who need that mobility aid more than him.

off the previous point: matt also makes a yearly contribution to 'the seeing eye' a foundation that provides specially bred & trained dogs to the blind. a non-profit that relies on donations, matt keeps his anonymous, not needing the recognition. (the amount varies, but in the comics where matt & foggy have a pretty successful law firm it's a sizeable donation).

at his confirmation, matt chose joseph as his name. st. joseph was chosen by god to care for mary & jesus because of joseph's love for god. he was also a man of great compassion for others and his desire to protect people was honorable.

matt dislikes lent - not because of sacrificing a luxury to show his faith but because of the weekly fish fries that a large number of churches hold. it's the entire city smells like a fast food grease trap.

doesn't own a lot of books due to the size in which braille books are in respect to the printed versions. he has a couple, mostly his favorites that he keeps, as well as a lot of his law texts - which are unruly and massive, but they were a bitch to carry and remind him of how he became a lawyer. he doesn't really reference them much, since they are quickly outdated and obtaining more recent versions in braille is difficult. this is one area where matt depends on electronic copies/screen reader technology to stay up to date.

in dd vol 6 issue 8 matt mentions that reading in braille reminds him of work and enjoys audiobooks for pleasure. he's picky about the ones he listens too, wanting a good plot and a nice narrator to listen to. he only listens to them when there's true downtime, it's not something he plays on commutes or while on patrol. they're reserved for the pleasure of relaxation.

also, he enjoys being read to, especially from people he cares about and is close with. it doesn't matter what it is, listening to his loved ones voice will always calm him down even when anxiety and depression feel like they will tear him apart.

there are two separate issues of dd comics where matt doesn't say a word the entire issue. i cannot remember which ones, i know one is from the 80's when doctor fear has the entire city infested with demons and idr the other but i know it exists. BUT, there are days where everything is just so overwhelming that matt doesn't need to add his own voice to the mix and doesn't say a word - his quiet days.

his love language is words of affirmation - the boy just rly needs to hear that he's doing a good job at things.

it doesn't take a lot of alcohol or other drug to get matt drunk/high. what someone might consider tipsy, matt feels is closer to a stage of drunk. his blood alcohol content is still the same as another individual of his size drinking the same amount. so, matt can still go drink-for-drink but he seems like he can't hold his liquor as well as a "normal" person.

dislikes texting, especially with people who don't know proper etiquette when texting someone who uses a screenreader. strings of emojis become incomprehensible nonsense and he won't bother listening to the end if he has to listen to "winking face with tongue winking face with tongue winking face with tongue" over and over.

okay, i think that's where i'll call this, i could keep going forever, but thank u for the ask !!

[beepboop358]

hey! hope you're well! id love to know your thoughts on Mike saying his life began the day they found El-love at first sight which is odd given what the writers have said before-and the fact that Mike says that he can't hate Max because he's only known her a week. Its clear mike lied to El cause he was ready to drop her when they didn't find will so its odd why he's using this narrative if presumably he isn't one to make rash decisions people like with max? idk I think I'm just angry with Vol 2

hey!

I talked about this a bit in the slides for Vol. 2, but Mike’s monologue makes no sense if it’s genuine because the writers tweeted before that they don’t believe in love at first sight, but Mike says he fell in love with El the moment he first saw her, which I feel like has got to be an indicator that that boy is lying about everything he said in that speech (if we can still trust that tweet from the writers that is, and the duffers didn’t forget it 💀 like they forgot Will’s bday...) And he spends all of season 1 trying to get Will back and he’s even willing to do that at El’s expense… he calls her a “weapon to fight the demogoron” and that they are “no use to Will if they’re dead”. Doesn’t sound like true love to me… Sigh. I really hope this monologue was all just Mike being fake or else it really ruins 2 ships in the span of a few seconds which I didn’t even know was possible until a few days ago.

hope you’re well! xx

[daresplaining]

Sorry if this has been asked before, but are there any panels/comics that reflect/point to Matt's taste in music? I feel like there's maybe one or two, but I don't remember what they'd be... And if you find any, or don't, do you also have any personal headcanons regarding the matter? What do you think he likes listening to? If you're up to answering any of this, that is. I know it's maybe an odd question. Thank you so much if you're able to, and even if you aren't! I love your blog and have an awesome day :D

    Hi! It's not an odd question at all, and it's something I really enjoy thinking about and haven't discussed in a while. Matt's taste in music is an aspect of his character that I'd love to see explored more, since it is compelling from both a character/personality angle and a sensory one (much like his food preferences, another woefully under-explored topic). However, it has been touched upon. Notably, we have evidence from multiple runs that Matt is a jazz fan.

[ID: Panels showing Matt Murdock and Glori O’Breen walking arm-in-arm through Chinatown during the day. Matt is in a blue suit and tie, Glori is in a long green coat.]

Glori: "I won't mention a word of it when I take you to a certain pub where they're playin' the real Irish music Wednesday night."

Matt: "If that's an invitation...thanks, but sorry. Not tonight. But tomorrow night I'll take you to a jazz club in the Village. Dave Samuels is performing--"

Glori: "Ah, Matthew, an' aren't we star-crossed! For 'tis I who're busy then!"

Matt: "Okay. I won't feel rejected if you won't."

Daredevil vol. 1 #216 by Denny O'Neil, David Mazzucchelli, Steve Mellor, and Joe Rosen

[ID: A panel of Matt standing in front of a record player in his darkened apartment, pulling a Chet Baker record out of its sleeve.]

Daredevil vol. 3 #5 by Mark Waid, Marcos Martín, Javier Rodriguez, and Joe Caramagna

    He and Maya Lopez also go to a jazz club during their day-long first date in Daredevil vol. 2 #11. I love that this is such a consistent detail (having examples from three different volumes is pretty unusual for such a minor piece of trivia), and it makes a lot of sense. The complexities of jazz would likely appeal to him on an intellectual level and, of course, a sensory one.

    There is a question I've always had about Matt's food preferences: Would he like foods with complex flavors, because he would be able to appreciate the nuances, or would he find them overwhelming and prefer bland foods? And I feel like this same question can be applied to his taste in music: For someone who can perceive beyond the range of normal human hearing, would the sub-sonics and harmonics of complex chords turn them into discordant mush for Matt? Or would they just sound extra cool to him, making simpler, more straightforward music styles boring? I don't have an answer, obviously, but it's a thought exercise that I enjoy because it's always fun to try to get into Matt's head. With this many creative teams implying the latter, I'm happy to accept it, and I love the idea of Matt being a jazz fan. Jazz is bold and spontaneous, just like him.

    Another of my favorite music preference details is this funny moment from the DD/Black Widow era, in which Matt tells some members of San Francisco high society that he's a fan of The Who (I think that he, like Natasha, is having fun at the expense of their snootiness here, but I'm sure he does genuinely like The Who. He also seems to like the Police):

[ID: Panels showing Matt Murdock and Natasha Romanov in a room full of fancily-dressed people. Matt is in a black suit and tie, Natasha is dressed all in blue with big yellow ruffles down the front of her shirt. She is talking with a group of women and Matt is talking with a group of men.]

Men: "...So we left the yacht for the opera! Great stuff, opera! Do you like it, Matt-boy? Yes, what is your favorite?"

Matt: "My fav--? Oh! Uh, 'Tommy,' I guess...by The Who. It's...a rock opera. Very, eh, avant-garde."

Man: "Humph. Hippie music, if you ask me!"

Woman: "So you live alone-- with two men?"

Natasha: "On separate floors, deary. Does that scandalize you-- or just make you jealous?"

Daredevil and the Black Widow #104 by Steve Gerber, Don Heck, Sal Trapani, C. Jetter, and P. Goldberg

As far as dislikes go, Matt doesn't seem to like disco...though Foggy does.

[ID: A panel showing Matt and Foggy standing together. Behind them is a darkened area and the silhouettes of a crowd of dancing people. Foggy is in a brown collared shirt and green pants. Matt is minus his dark glasses, and is wearing a very stylish bright yellow jacket.] 

Matt (caption): "We step inside and it's like walking into an explosion of sound! The music! So much bass-- throwing my senses out of whack-- And worst of all-- it's disco night."

Foggy (singing): "...I'm here to do... whatever I can... be it early mornin'..."

Matt: "Foggy."

Foggy: "Sorry."

Daredevil vol. 1 #374 by Joe Kelly, Jonathan Barron, Ariel Olivetti, Pier Britto, and Ed Lazarelli

    This may be a topic for a whole other post, but I also wanted to say a little about Matt making his own music, because we have examples of that as well.

[ID: A panel with a background of yellowed, stained sheet music. Over top of this is a smaller panel of a hand on piano keys, and swirling past this is a musical staff filled with cartoon images from Matt’s past: boxing gloves, his father, young Matt being bullied, and barrels of toxic waste.]

Matt (caption): "The truth is I hardly read a note of sheet music. I always play by ear. For me, music is the closest thing to seeing. I don't mean knowing where you're going, I mean seeing, the way you'd look at a painting. Every chord has color-- the way memory has a scent. C major smells like an old pair of boxing gloves. D major and D minor are left and right jabs. They are the color of my father's face when he would get mad. E major is coppery-- the aftertaste of a bloody lip."

Daredevil vol. 2 #9 by David Mack, Joe Quesada, Jimmy Palmiotti, and Richard Isanove

    There are a lot of great music details in this story arc, and this scene is one of my favorites because it explores the idea that the experience of listening to/playing music is intensely personal for Matt. You don't need super-hearing to associate specific chords with different emotions-- everyone does that-- but I love how this scene builds on that by drawing connections to Matt's other sense memories and the emotions attached to them. It suggests a visceral, intense experience of music that extends beyond just normal enjoyment. Matt is transported into his past when he plays the piano. (If you take this scene literally, it also could suggest that Matt has some degree of synesthesia, which is also fascinating).

[ID: Panels showing Matt and Foggy in a subway station. Foggy is wearing an olive-green business suit, Matt is wearing a red shirt and blue pants. He hands his white cane to Foggy while holding out some money to an old man who was playing the violin. Several bystanders are looking on.]

Matt: "Sounds like one hell of an instrument. Is it for rent?"

Violinist: "For that kinda money, I'll lend you my feet."

Foggy: "Can you play?"

[ID: Matt puts the violin under his chin and rests the bow on the strings.]

Matt: "Dunno. Let's find out."

Daredevil vol. 3 #1 by Mark Waid, Marcos Martín, Muntsa Vicente, and Joe Caramagna

    This scene is wild and I love it. It's quite long, so I didn't want to stick the whole thing in here, but if anyone hasn't read the issue (What are you doing?! Read it! Now! Go! I'll wait), Matt teaches himself to play the violin within a matter of minutes. The mini-story that this excerpt is from features Matt showing off his hypersenses as he and Foggy travel around Manhattan. Its practical purpose is to introduce new readers to Matt's power-set; in-universe, Matt is doing this to prolong the trip and distract himself, because the destination is the cemetery where his father is buried. I don't think Matt makes a regular habit of playing every instrument he sees-- he's clearly stalling for time here. But he does seem to enjoy it! In any case, I wanted to point this out because it tells us some pretty major things about Matt's abilities. To be clear: this is superhuman. No one learns to play an instrument with any amount of skill this quickly. If they were learning the violin and had extensive viola experience, maybe. (I don't think Matt has viola experience. At least, not 616 Matt.) I'm also going to say that this requires a bit of suspension of disbelief, just like Matt swinging around Spider-Man-style without super-strength does.

    With that said, here's what we know: stringed instruments require some coordination. One hand is doing one thing, the other is doing another. Matt is extremely coordinated-- not a problem. The tuning on stringed instruments is delicate. Your fingers need to land in exactly the right spot on the strings, with the right kind of pressure. There's also bow pressure and placement to take into account: putting just enough force and motion on the bow to get the right tone, and shifting the angle just enough to switch cleanly between strings (this is extra tricky on a violin, where the strings are very close together). This is a neat instance in which Matt would be applying both his enhanced hearing and sensitive touch to the situation. Armed with his super-sensitive fingers and proprioception, he is apparently able to figure out the pressure and bow placement issues. Tuning, though? This is solid evidence of Matt having excellent relative pitch. (Personally, I like to think he has perfect pitch as well, though I don't have direct evidence for it.) If anyone is unfamiliar with the distinction, perfect pitch is being able to sing a specific note (say, A#) without any reference point. Relative pitch is hearing A# and then being able to find other notes based on an understanding of the intervals between them. Matt's super-fast violin mastery suggests that he could play a note and then figure out where his other fingers needed to go in order to play the other notes he wanted. If you're playing an instrument you're not used to, especially a stringed instrument, in which the tuning is so tricky, it takes a while to get the hang of this at all, never mind making it sound good. But Matt, hypersensory badass that he is, just casually does it on a subway platform while waiting for the train.

[ID: The same scene. Matt finishes playing with a flourish, with the notes shown swirling around his head, as a train pulls into the station. The bystanders clap. Foggy looks stunned.]

    ...In any case, my point is that according to this scene, Matt's powers have rendered him superhumanly musical, and I love it. Join a jazz band, Matt.

[forthechubbies]

Mrs. Jeon Vol 4

Synopsis• One nightstand gone Marriage!? The past catches up with Yn when her head over heels husband finds his lost bride and will keep her by any means necessary.

Category's• RomCom, Comedy, and Foul language.

Duos• Yandere! Jungkook x Chubby! Reader

Vol 1, 2, 3, 4,

Aaaand back at the starting point, all on my lonesome in an unfamiliar room; During the brawl Oldest Vs. Youngest, Namjoon decided a lady shouldn’t see this much violence and carried me back upstairs, but this time to a different room entirely.

“I’m sorry, they're not usually like this, I promise- Hyung, let go of Koo’s neck!.”

Moments like this are the reason why I'm proud to be the only child. This room has to be Jungkook’s. His characteristics are oozing out of wallpaper, from the unfinished Japanese theme art of a beautiful half-naked woman to the American 70’s roll and rock posters and the messy music notes scattered across the room.

Funny, music notes but no instruments.

I didn't realize Kook was head over heels for music until now. Well, since I'm here, I should clean up a bit- dirty laundry in the hamper and coats belong in the WALK-IN CLOSET?! Holy, mother of clothes, There's every brand in here. Gucci, Prada, Louis, Calvin Klein; You name it; it's in this closet.

Do I dare look at the price tag swinging off one of his sweater's sleeves? I dare! Oh my god- I wait, it's not that much, twenty-five dollars isn't that bad. However, my heart dropped, discovering my thumb was covering up the rest.

I don’t need a calculator to tell me his closet cost more than my well being. How could he afford luxury goods to this extent? I would understand one or two expensive things like I have a pair of diamond studs I wear that my grandmother gifted me for my eighteenth birthday but, his collection is on a different level entirely. He has a personalized Rolex encrusted with purple diamonds and his signature ‘JJK’ engraved on the dial.

Thinking about it, when dating Jungkook, money was no object, and on the flight here, I tried to make an excuse involving me not wanting to seem like a gold digger, but he gave a soft grin in response.

A private jet, big brand name clothing, real jewelry, and a beautiful beachside home, yet he hasn't spoken a word about his occupation-Dear god, Y-You don't think Jungkook could be..Gulps in some type of Korean mafia, do you?! With his cute demeanor and doll-like features, nobody would be none the wiser.

My mother was right. Men are nothing but trouble. If I had taken my aunt's advice and became a nun, this mess wouldn't have happened.

But the topic neither here nor there, right now, The issue is who in god’s name did I marry? Oh, What’s this? A darling shimmering french rose present stole my attention, as well as a neon purple postage note taped on the end of the ribbon, labeled “ To My Carrot.”

I guess that’s me. I pinched the ribbon and tugged at it but froze when an epiphany hit me; the box is rather heavy. What if the pretty decoration is a cover-up to mask the insidious evil within. WHAT IF it’s a severed head of a well-known mafia boss who was foolish enough to move on Jungkook’s turf, and it’s some kind of barbaric tradition to give your loved one their nemesis.

Only one way to find out, I attempted to keep my quaking hand steady as I unraveled the ribbon, but when coming to lifting the top, I got ahead of myself and let out a blood-curdling scream while falling back on the bed.

A series of heavy footsteps paraded upstairs. The sound resembles the rumble of thunder. The brother's crowded the door frame, shocking no Jungkook to be found. They bombarded me like I was their baby sister who came home from school in tears.

“ You ok? “ Taehyung coddled me and stayed at my side. “ Is it your ankle again?!”

I opened my mouth, but Jimmie interrupted me. “ Did Jungkook’s taste in room design scare you?” He coos, snuggling my other side.

“ Oi! Give her some air! “ Mr.Jin snatched up the youngest by their collars, dragging them away from my side and back to the door frame. “We’re sorry for running in, but we just wanted to make sure you alright.”

They were so worried about a stranger? That's sweet. “ No, I'm sorry for the scare. I'm just fine-”

“ Kitten! “

Last but not least, Jungkook stumbled in, nearly knocking over his brothers to stampede into my arms. Before I utter a sound from my lips, He tucked me close to his chest. He smells so sweet but feels hard due to him working out for fun and has the scent of warm honey.

I could just melt. Jungkook pulled away but kept hold of my hands. Hands so large, pink pretty-and TATTOOS!? When did he!? This confirms everything! The tattoos symbol the way of the mafia and the blood they mercilessly spill.

“ Don’t touch me!” I threw his hands aside, taking cover behind the closet door. “ How could do such a disgusting thing, you-you murderer!!? Prison would be a paradise for a devil-like you.”

“Babe, The fur is not real.”

Fur? What fur?

Kook held up a lingerie robe laced with fur along the bottom and sleeves from the box, No blood, No dismembered body part insight. Jungkook whined. “ The hair is fake l, I thought you would like it better that way, but you look like you seen a dead body.”

“I don’t want anything you bought with your blood money.”

Narrative’s Pov

“Blood?”

“Money?”

The return of the questions. The brothers held their heads in a slight tilt while the little lady went on about Jungkook imaginary gangsta background. In reality, the closest Jungkook got into any physical activity is in his boxing and martial art classes. Such a false acquisition made them double over in tears of laughter, even Jungkook.

Namjoon being the leader, took the responsibility to explain their wealth and occupation through pictures and videos. “ BTS is our band name; We are well known internationally.”

But by Yn blank expression, that may not be true. “ Never heard of you.”