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outmakingmoonshine · 5 months ago

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I wrote this reply a few weeks ago about the 773 tattoo on Carmy's arm that really looks like 223. You'll have to read that first because I'm not gonna explain it all again here and you'll need context to understand this post.

SPOILERS below if you haven't watched to the end of S3 yet

Right before this in Marcus's mum's funeral scene he's talking about having someone who really listen to you and pays attention to you and the camera does a not so subtle zoom in on SydCarmy's faces. Then the next scene is this one where Syd says she made the margins wider on the menus because Carmy always writes in them. We already know Carmy pays close attention to Syd and he does really listen to her even though it's like he gets amnesia right after and does the opposite of what she wanted, he does really try to listen and understand her in his own way. This an example of Syd really paying attention to Carmy immediately after being told how significant it is and how good it makes you feel. Carmy looked shocked that she paid attention to him and went out of her way to do something thoughtful for him and said "That's really nice. Thank you." Then Carmy goes on to do a checklist of the things they both need which also showed he knows her too.

Keeping the number meta above in mind, I'm not sure who first mentioned this (pls link the post if anyone knows so I can credit them) but sydcarmy both represent the number 2. In the post above I spoke about when the two 2's (sydcarmy) face each other and finally turn to take notice of each other. I'm pretty certain this scene was a small glipse of what their future together would be like if sydcarmy did face each other without anything or anyone coming between them. They become a cohesive unit, working together as one just like they were in this scene. Sydcarmy are mirrors of each other in many ways, just like the twos are mirroring each other on the clock behind them. I know one is technically a 5 but visually it's a 2 backwards and how else would they symbolize two 2's facing each other on a digital clock? Imo these numbers in this scene represent this moment being a good thing and a glimpse of what they could be, plus the whole scene gave me strong married couple vibes.

In numerology 9 represents completion/the end. The next number, 10, begins the cycle from 1 again or you could say it evolves, moves forward and keeps growing. 9 has other asociations but the core foundational meaning of it is completion. It's telling us in the end they will face each other and balance each other out, mirror each other. "Mirroring is an act of love." If that number sequence in the background of this specific scene isn't positive SydCarmy foreshadowing idk what is. This scene, the context, subtext and symbolism in it alone lets me know the sydcarmy love story and endgame is still very much on track. We're just taking a detour for now, like 99% of will-they-wont-they ships do right before the end of the story.

This shot showed directly after a Carmy/Claire opening scene in 3x05 and Carmy was laying in bed staring at it in some of the darkest blue lighting I think we've seen in the show.

I think this may even be a few shades darker than the sex scene with Claire. Imo it's because Carmy's in his darkest place now, he knows how he feels and who he wants but he can't have it. Carmy metaphorically turned to face Syd in the panic attack scene then fully turned, paid attention and listened to her in the table scene. Now he's somewhat aware of his feelings for her, tbh I think he does know but he's avoiding it because he's in a really dificult situation with Claire and he already let Syd down again after promising to be there for her. He doesn't love Claire romantically but he doesn't wanna hurt her either He's just stuck which is what I think this season was about, Carmy's still mentally and emotionally stuck in the freezer. Carmy said saying sorry to Claire was too hard and I think that's because he knows he has to tell her he doesn't feel the same way and it's gonna hurt her. We keep seeing cute flashbacks with Claire but I don't think it's because he misses her, I think it's because he feels really guilty that he lead her on so much because that's what the scenes were showing. He was acting all loved up with her and it's interesting that we the audience/Carmy never saw that last season and we're only seeing now it in hindsight. Remember the show is telling us the story through Carmy's eyes.

I said in the post above I initially thought the number 3 represented Claire and/or Marcus, but in 2x08 Carmy (2) asked Richie (3) to be the "go-between" and give Syd (2) an I love you note, literally putting the three in the middle of the two 2's so it made sense it probably represented him at the time.

And maybe it does, idk, he's been getting between them since S1 in one way or another, directly or indirectly. But it more likely represents anyone that comes between them. The third wheel so to speak.

Notice how the 2's aren't facing each other here in 2x08 because this was before Carmy faced what Syd means to him in 2x09.

And you may be wondering if the mirroring numbers represent how sydcarmy end up why isn't Carmy's tattoo 753? Well 753 isn't the chicago area code so it would raise questions why Carmy had a random tattoo of 753 so I think it was a choice to keep the symbolism but keep it subtle.

I didn't expect s3 to feel this bad (I should've tbh, this show always makes you feel the most) but I didn't expect it to go well for sydcarmy. That's why I posted this post the day before the episodes aired reminding everyone what the show told us to expect. They did warn us this wasn't gonna be a mushy gooey love story. It's not gonna be cute and sweet, it's gonna be ballbreaker and that's what Carmy's doing to Syd. He's doing to her what the NY Chef did to him. He's already making her sick, making her have panic attacks and he knows he's a "bad boss". He glanced her way when they were talking about it at the table in 3x10. When I saw Carmy confront NY Chef, for a moment I thought they were gonna have Carmy say the same to Syd one day in the future (this is how bad the whole situation felt while watching the show, it was truly horrible to watch) but I really don't think so. Carmy doesn't want to be anything like that arrogant guy so I can only imagine he'd be the complete opposite with Syd (someone he genuinely cares about) when he finally pulls his head out of his ass, metaphorically gets out of the freezer and faces the situation he's in like Cicero told him you have to run straight into it, you can't avoid it.

Even though this season was very hard to watch I think the same amount of subtext, symbolism and metaphors that pointed to sydcarmy in the last seasons is still all there. It's just more difficult to see, especially after 1 watch because there were barely any scenes that seem good for them on a surface level, they all went to Carmy/Claire. But underneath the surface a lot of the scenes imply good things are still to come for sydcarmy imo.

#sydcarmy spoilers #the bear spoilers #sydcarmy meta #sydcarmy #the bear season 3 #i really hope this made sense #i've only had a few hours of sleep bc of how stressful S3 was and I just wanna get this out asap #the bear fx #chef's kiss #carmy x sydney

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riconas · 1 year ago

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congrats on finishing your exams!

for your consideration: rain oral knotting swiss. it's so much for swiss to take but he's desperate to make rain happy

this is what happens when you overestimate your cock sucking abilities

tags: blowjobs, oral knotting, praise kink if you squint

“Good boy,” Rain groans.

Swiss looks up at him through his lashes. He’s drooling all over the place, but his mouth is so full there really isn’t anything he can do about it. Not that he minds. Not that Rain minds.

“Put your hands behind your back.”

Swiss obeys. He loves it when Rain gets bossy. Loves to be on the receiving end. Rain knows how to get his head nice and quiet, how to get him pliant and easy, and he abuses that knowledge all the time.

Again, not that Swiss minds.

“Gonna let me fuck your mouth?” Rain asks, breathless. “Gonna let me fill you up?” His hand comes up to hold the back of Swiss’s head, fingers threading through his hair, and Swiss shivers in anticipation. He nods, just enough to let Rain know he’s heard him, and presses the flat of his tongue to the underside of Rain’s dick.

Of course he’s going to let Rain fuck his mouth. Of course he’s going to let Rain fill him up. What silly questions to ask.

Rain makes a sound between a whimper and a groan. “Make me cum,” he demands, though the breathlessness in his voice really detracts from the effect.

“Mm-hm,” Swiss tries to say, but it comes out sounding so garbled, so stupid, so he stops trying.

Maybe this is a ploy to get him to shut up. If it is, it’s certainly working.

“Tighter,” Rain growls.

Tighter? Swiss thought he was doing so well. He hollows his cheeks, moulds his lips around the shaft of Rain’s cock, sucks extra hard when he slides up to the head. The full blowjob repertoire, et cetera.

“Gonna knot your mouth,” Rain pants. “Fuck, gonna give it to you—open up, open up—”

Rain pulls him in, thrusting at the same time, and Swiss gags when he feels Rain’s cock hit the back of his throat. By pure instinct, he tries to lurch away, but Rain holds fast, that merciless grip on his head not letting up.

He can do this. Dew lets him knot his mouth all the time. How hard can it be?

“Good boy,” Rain gasps. “Oh, fuck, good fucking boy.”

Swiss closes his eyes at the first burst of warmth in his mouth, followed by the all-too-familiar taste of Rain’s cum, salty and bitter and so very good. He tries to swallow, but there’s no room—Rain’s knot is beginning to swell, locking itself behind his teeth, putting pressure on his tongue. He opens his mouth wider in an attempt to accommodate it, but the space is filled in no time. He’s stuck.

“Swallow it,” Rain growls, gripping the underside of his jaw, keeping it closed nice and snug. “It’s not in all the way. You’d better take all of it.”

Desperately, Swiss tries to relax his throat, to let Rain push it in a little further. It helps, but only marginally. There’s nothing more he can do.

A couple of tears squeeze their way out of the corners of his eyes and run down his face. Once they start, they don’t stop; before he knows it, he’s sobbing quietly around Rain’s cock, shoulders taking the brunt of the strain as he tries to keep his teeth to himself. His jaw is so sore, and his nose is so stuffy, but he can’t breathe through his mouth, so he has no choice but to endure it.

“You’re okay,” Rain says, brushing the tears away. “Slowly. You’re breathing too fast.”

Satanas, it’s so much. Too much. His jaw hurts, no longer the pleasant ache that gets his head all light and hazy. This is sharp, throbbing pain, radiating down his neck, muscles stretched so tight he swears something’s sprained.

He’s going to be so nice to Dew after this.

“Good boy,” Rain says again, and all the angst dissipates. Swiss moans around his cock, more spit and cum dribbling out of his mouth to splatter on the floor beneath him. He wants to ask Rain if he’s making him feel good. He needs to know. Needs to please him.

In a last-ditch attempt to keep himself sane, he reaches up to cup Rain’s balls, and plays with them like that, squeezing, rolling—as if it’s going to make Rain’s knot go down any faster. It’s a good enough distraction for him, anyhow. Takes his mind off his poor jaw.

Until Rain shoves his hands away.

“Behind your back,” he says. “Don’t make me repeat myself again.”

Well. That’s not good. Swiss stares up at Rain, pleading, but he can’t beg with his mouth filled, so it gets him nowhere.

Doesn’t matter, he supposes. Just as long as Rain’s happy.

#rico writes #thank you! i too am happy my exams are over #swiss x rain #swiss/rain #the band ghost #fanfiction #ficlet #nameless ghouls #rain ghoul #swiss ghoul

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centrally-unplanned · 1 year ago

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Doing some tab closing and I enjoyed this piece a lot; it has a clean thoroughness on investigating each of the different possible causes of the Baby Boom of the mid 20th century.

For those who don't know, the Baby Boom, despite what is often taught, probably had little to do directly with World War Two - it was not a phenomenon of soldiers "coming up" and releasing their pent-up baby-making drive. This is most easily proven by the fact that countries that didn't participate in the war had the same boom! And that the boom was already starting in the 1930's.

Its cause is still unproven, but the article makes a solid case for it primarily being a product of affordable housing (which itself is connected to WW2 in some ways) and more importantly medical technology, as maternal mortality declined between 1930 and 1960 by ~90%:

Which is another classic case of the 'short' being made by time into the 'long' - most people probably think of safe pregnancy as this gradual process of improving sanitation & medical technology throughout the 19th and 20th century, but in fact the lion's share of the decline was the invention of antibiotics that could treat sepsis over the span of 20 years. The "price" of having a child, combined with the housing boom creating the space for it, induced a fertility bump.

The article ends by stating that these forces could, in some way, be reproduced - that if today you make pregnancy safer and childcare cheaper again, you can get a similar rise. I think this is the false, solutionist optimism that only a concluding paragraph can bring, however. For one, if that was the case, you think you would evidence along the income spectrum of that - for a 75% income band couple in Sweden or the US, housing is more plentiful then ever, and pregnancy safer than ever, but in the main fertility continues to decline across every band (the super-rich in some countries are a tiny exception).

But more importantly, I think it mistakes why this happened. If you portray it as a cost-benefit calculation, as "oh the price of kids is way down now, lets shift our consumption basket", then sure it sounds replicable. I don't think that is right, however - you should instead look at this as a cultural revolution induced by rapid change.

The role of women in the workplace & wider society was undergoing a ton of flux in this era, and it was in a period of "contestation" - these changes were not settled or agreed on by society at large. What a woman should "do" with her life was very open, and many factions still pushed for a form of family traditionalism. The counter-forces to that 'benefited' from things like maternal mortality as counter-arguments; women (and their husbands) both desired the old way but feared the price, one they no longer had to bear due to no longer being mass farmers. That was the equilibrium of the 1920's.

Then technology came along and throw the whole game into whack, changing the equilibrium. It was so rapid, so sudden, it induced a culture shift. You can metaphorically think of it as like a consumer rush, buying the hot new toy - in this case the hot new thing was safe pregnancy and houses to raise the kids in. Everyone wanted a piece of that *new* possible life, different from the old. It was, in a sense, a fad.

Which you cannot replicate - its done. We have the tech, we have the wealth, it didn't last. The culture shift that began of the 1960's was absolutely a response to new equilibrium of the 50's, its gender roles were never stable. Radical new technology (like exo-wombs) could change that, sure, create a new hotness. But 5% reductions in maternal mortality or slightly cheaper childcare won't cut it. It could shift the margins, but it can't make a boom.

Or so I predict at least. Its certainly hard to quantify that dynamic, but I think if you study how people saw themselves & family in that time, this comes out from the narratives of the time - with no equivalent today.

#the fertility transition

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balkanradfem · 11 months ago

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Mending a bag with a broken zipper

So if you've never replaced a broken zipper, it might seem like a daunting task, but it's actually very easy. I've only done it once, on a jacket, with no tutorial, and it worked perfectly, and looked awesome. So I am very confident I can do it right.

The scariest part is just removing the old zipper. It feels wrong to rip your garment or bag apart, especially if you don't feel like you're capable of putting it back together, but one needs to keep in mind that the garment can't be used unless you do it, and this is for the best.

(My gardening bag, made out of canvas, has 7 pockets, but the main zipper stopped working.)

First thing to do is to see if you have a good zipper to use as a replacement. Zippers are actually expensive to buy, but you can easily accumulate tons of them by simply removing the zippers from old pieces of clothing you no longer want. I also get clothing from other people who don't want it, and if it's completely ungiftable and useless, I will cut out all of the zippers, elastics, buttons and any decorative stuff that could potentially be used elsewhere. That's why I have a good collection of free zippers! Here's what I found I could use:

I've decided on the lowest, black zipper, just because it was the smallest and I wouldn't have to cut much off, I can use the bigger zippers for bigger projects. I don't care what color it is, as long as it works. I was also contemplating using a fun green color for the project, to highlight that it was a mend and to make the bag more colorful, but the brown thread was so perfectly suited for the bag, I ended up going with the more boring option.

Now how to get the zipper off? I turned the bag inside out to see better how it's connected. I needed to find the thread that connects it to the outside of the bag, and you see that light thread at the edge between the bag and the zipper?

That's whats holding it together. So I cut that thread and started picking it off, and once you manage to rip a few seams, the zipper starts to separate and come off. Sometimes violence can work in this situation, if you have a very sturdy fabric, you can just pull them apart. But in my case, the inner lining is pretty fragile and was starting to tear when I pulled hard, so I just patiently cut it off little by little. Seam ripper would work great in this situation, but I don't have one so I just made it work with scissors.

And the zipper came out! Here's a comparison from old zipper to new, new is slightly bigger but it won't be a problem, bigger zippers can always be trimmed. You can also see how the zipper was connected to the canvas fabric on the outer side, and there's also lining fabric on the inside that's now loose. So far so good!

Now is the part where potential mistakes are possible; I need to remember that the bag is inside out, so the opening part of the zipper needs to be facing inwards, and it also needs to go the direction all other zippers on the bag are going (I later realized I messed this up, oops.)

I'm now lining it up with the bag, and even though usually I'm too impatient to pin stuff, I yield and acknowledge that in this situation, the zipper needs pins in order to be sewn on evenly. This is actually the part where some choices can be made; you can decide how much of the zipper will be shown outside! You can sew it on so that only the zipping part is visible from the outside, or give it a wider margin so you can see the zipper fabric too. If you're sewing with a flimsy fabric, it's best to give it a wide margin, because soft and flimsy fabrics can often get stuck in a zipper if they're sewn on too close. My canvas fabric cannot get stuck, so I'm pinning it pretty close, but later in the process I did give it a bit more of a margin, because it 'felt right'.

I've started sewing it on!

So about the edges, if your zipper doesn't have a stopper there, or if it's too long and you've cut the edge off, you need to sew the both sides together, so that the zip cannot zoom over the edge and fall out. This is something I've done on both sides, to make sure it's secure, and it doesn't need to be tidy, only very firm and impossible to break apart. I'm hand-sewing it with a continuous stitch, which is very easy and it looks nice enough. At this point I completely neglected the lining and I'm just sewing it onto the outer fabric, but this is okay, I decided it was easier to ignore the lining for now, and just focus on making sure it looks nice from the outside.

Here you can see me stitching all the way to the other side, and again firmly stitching the both sides of the zipper together, so they can't break apart. Then I turned the bag back from inside out, to see how it looked on the outer side, and it looks good, this isn't professionally made, but it looks well done! I decided to then pin and stitch the other part while having the bag turned correctly, so I could see exactly what I was doing from the outside, while again, ignoring the lining.

And now the outside part is completely done! It looks so good, partly because the bag is a little faded, but the zipper looks new and well preserved, so this is like an upgrade for her. Here I'm now turning it again inside out, to fix what I've ignored before; the length of the zipper, and the inner lining.

I finally cut off the extra length, it's already sewn up and I'm happy with it, so I'm sure I can safely cut off the extra. On the second to last picture you can see the lining is all over the place and not even reaching the zipper, that's completely fine because I can easily stitch it to the zipper in about 3 minutes. It would have been a nightmare trying to stitch it all in one go and constantly worrying if both the lining and the outer canvas are in the correct position, this way I had an easy time stitching it to the canvas, and only a few minutes of easy extra stitching to make sure lining is all connected. I only pierced the zipper with this stitch, not all the way to the canvas, so this little fix is completely invisible and it doesn't matter if it's not the neatest.

And here we go! The bag is fully functional, completely ready to be used and enjoyed again, with her new flawless zipper, and I think this was a great way to spend an hour of my time.

#mending #sewing #diy #fixing a bag #zipper sewing #zipper #visible mending #canvas bag

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8iunie · 2 years ago

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Måneskin: “When you get famous, people just want to know who you’re f**king”

The global Italian rockers open up about discovering themselves, mastering fame and finding their genderless sound. (posted on 20.01.2023)

It’s late morning and Italian rock band Måneskin are comfortably seated in a swanky West London hotel room, already kitted out in signature Gucci, jet-black eyeliner, and clean-cut 70s-style statement suits. The quartet, an electric gleam of cool against a silver-spotted setting, are nonchalantly scrunched into a deep turquoise couch. Their suave image serves as a reminder of how far they’ve come since their early Italian X Factor days.

Over a year has passed since the group’s whirlwind takeover as glam rock stars conquering the Eurovision Song Contest 2021 and they’re showing no signs of slowing down. In fact, the band’s authentic image and relentless sound has earned them over six million followers on their band’s Instagram account — a figure greater than the population living in their fashion capital hometown, Rome, where the rock and rollers were born. Måneskin’s rise as next generation figureheads isn’t too unconventional, after all, plenty of breakthrough acts – ABBA, Celine Dion, One Direction – have cut their teeth on televised competitions. And as game-changing winners, the rock band are eager to start writing their own legacy.

Måneskin’s commitment to being more than a hazy Eurovision memory is not to be unexpected. The band have committedly popped where you would least expect them – the 2021 BRIT Awards, Gucci’s luxury Aria campaign, or Disney’s live-action adaptation of Cruella – reminding us that they’re not going anywhere. And, just yesterday, the Italian artists spontaneously flew to London for a glitzy one-off showcase to debut their emo ballad, The Loneliest, co-written by British producer MNEK. While they’ve marginally recovered, the band are still buzzing from last night’s sweaty reception at Camden’s The Underworld in front of 500 die-hard fans. (“Oh my god, it was like a sauna in there,” bassist Victoria De Angelis chimes in, her voice hoarse from the manic show). It doesn’t matter if they’re pulling off last-minute sold-out performances or rubbing elbows with Guns’N’Roses, the Eurovision victors are doing it in style: flamboyantly dressed and with a compelling sense of gratitude.

Now, whether they’re rocking fashion red carpets or main stages, Måneskin are ready to make their presence felt. “We’ve gained a lot of successful things in the last year and we’re really happy about all the paths we’re going through,” drummer Ethan Torchio says, gesturing to the wider band. “We never had a specific ambition to gain or to achieve anything. It’s all about how we approach it day by day.”

While the band may not have pinned their hopes on a specific accolade, Måneskin’s shared teenage experiences primed them for their rapid accession as one of Europe’s hottest rock exports. Forming at high school as a unified three-piece, Ethan Torchio joined the gang after responding to an online open call out for a drummer. This fateful pairing, alongside the band’s long-standing friendship has become the crux of Måneskin’s outlook. “We all have a very clear vision — we are very bitchy,” Victoria says confidently, smiling. “We have very specific ideas. Being only four [of us] and not having overproduction, we think that our individual sound really makes the difference”. Ethan, who’s taken to perching on the couch armrest, echoes his bandmate: “We’re perfectionists.”

As Måneskin’s latest album, RUSH!, dawns, the artists have been busy splitting their legacy between Italy and the rest of the world – from showcasing support for Ukraine at Coachella in California to bringing their rock and roll swagger to The Green Fashion Awards alongside style icons Karolina Kurkova and Elisa Sednaoui. “These two ways of expression (rock and roll) are ways in which we have always liked to measure ourselves,” youngest member Thomas Raggi says in accented English. “We like to alternate them because they represent the different musical souls of which the band is composed.”

Måneskin’s rock and roll philosophy is more than a reliable shoehorned statement. Much like their striking clothing, it fits like a well-worn mantra. (“In a younger age, it really helped us define our personality and stand out in some way,” Victoria says.) Growing up in a “very conservative country”, the artists found the music scene as an opportunity to experiment with their image as teenagers. Labelled as “weird” or receiving “a lot of judgements” wasn’t going to hold Måneskin back. Instead, the alternative act learned to lean on each other for support, she says, and strengthened their bond. “It really helped to have a purpose and have this project together. It made us feel reassured that we’re doing something cool and we were allowed to be ourselves.”

As the band found themselves migrating from headline to headline, they became accustomed to facing off gossip together. Ask them about the cocaine-meets- Eurovision moment and they all laugh, sharing familiar smiles with each other. “We were already so successful in Italy so we got kind of used to hearing speculation about us,” Ethan shrugs. “The huge Eurovision blowout was a good moment of our lives because we were all at a point of growing and personality building.”

But the speculation didn’t just stop there. The questions of drugs subsided and talk about sexuality quickly rose to the fore. At the time, a quick internet search of Måneskin’s name would lead to autofills poking questions at everything to boyfriends, girlfriends, and identity labels. “We’re not very touched by these kinds of comments. We all are very sure of what we are and how we want to show it,” Ethan responds. Although the band were quickly dismissive of the online talk, a bigger lesson loomed, frontman Damiano David reveals. “In Italy, we did not discover that there’s more than one sexuality until we got to use social media. Just like everybody else, I was [use terms] ‘straight’ or ‘gay’,” he candidly shares. Since then, the vocalist admits he’s taking on “more knowledge” to better himself as an ally — “I’m fully straight but this doesn’t stop me from being an ally. I’m on the side that has to learn new things.”

The band’s public discussion of identity has been one they’ve decidedly kept close to their chest, until now. “We understand people can get very affected by [speculation] because they’re making themselves sure of what they are and how to express [themselves] to their parents or to their friends,” Ethan empathises. As a member who has faced the brunt of opinion, the drummer pauses, choosing his words carefully: “[Trying] to guess people’s sexualities is one of the worst things to do — it’s very bad.”

A time that was particularly testing for the band was when Måneskin’s provocative Want To Be Your Slave music video hit the internet. A visual centred on sexual liberation and self-expression, the band quickly faced questions on their aesthetic and affiliation to queerness. “People are curious about it because it’s been quite a taboo topic for many years, it’s something now that other people are so interested in, not only with celebrities, but just generally with everyone,” Victoria says. She recalls times in high school where similar-aged teenagers would guess whether an effeminate boy is gay or not. “Like, who the fuck cares?!” she huffs. “People are really interested in the private lives of the artists. They look it up because it makes them feel like they know you better or it’s just to gossip or break a scandal.”

A brief pause falls over the band and Damiano shakes his head, prepping an answer: “I think it’s easier. It’s just not that complicated. When you get famous, people just want to know who you’re fucking. It’s just sick curiosity.” The inner-band debate strikes up again as Ethan proposes the media curiosity is fuelled by a misdirected want for knowledge and understanding.

While this is one the few times the band disagree, they respectfully onboard one another’s opinions as they take stock of the bigger conversation. The root of animated discussion breaks open as the members begin to turn the question inward. “I don’t really know how to identify. In the past years, I’ve been identifying as bi, but, lately, I’m having no interest in boys. I’m discovering [my identity is] developing,” Victoria says, her striped brown tie falling forwards. “I like some girls and then it changes to ‘okay, I almost don’t like any boys at all’. It is something constantly… It’s lesbian but also Harry Styles.” Damiano cracks up with laughter and Ethan quips that the former One Direction star is christened “the chosen one”. Circling back to her line of thought, the bassist proves she’s hardcore with her closing line — “It’s just who you are and you can really express yourself and I think this is like what matters the most and what we think is real rock and roll and freedom.”

Måneskin are no strangers to taking a stand. If you ask us, it looks like they love causing a bit of a stir. Mid-last year, the band, once again, caught headlines after Damiano and Thomas shared an unplanned kiss on stage at the Polsat SuperHit Festival. The band vividly recalls fans sharing the impact their music had on them. “When you get there and see how you can help thousands of people, it really makes you understand the difference you can have in that moment,” Victoria reflects. The group’s commitment to ensuring freedom of expression is larger than a few lyrics in a song – it feeds into their interviews and on-stage actions too.

“Being part of this generation it’s hard. It’s useful to take some strong positions on topics, because we need some strong actions. We’re just trying to do our part,” Thomas elaborates, explaining Måneskin’s move to be controversial every now and then. “We also try to improve ourselves every day. But at least you can try to find and to look for the right thing to do.” Lead singer Damiano backs up the decision to use their platform to back political causes. “If you have the courage to speak up about things, I think it’s very, very helpful,” he says earnestly. “We have to be able to understand when it’s better for us to take a step back and let those really affected people talk about it, because we are just allies and we’re not getting discriminated against, but we can try to be empathetic and use our voice and our power to help everybody.”

The four-piece have chalked up a reputation for being unpredictable and stylishly outrageous, but this consensus doesn’t sway the young band. If anything, their years in the on-screen media pipeline has taught them how to utilise the spotlight. It doesn’t matter whether they’re discussing music, tours or politics, the band inevitably comes back to the value of being authentic for their fans (“We just feel very close to them,” Victoria says protectively.) At the centre of their overlapping comments on friendship and frenzied life changes, Måneskin are humbly aware of how their fanbase supports them. The bassist continues, saying it’s important to create a place where everyone can be who they want. Pausing, she periodically slips into Italian, asking her bandmates to translate a term.

“It’s obvious everyone wants to be free for who they really are. In my experience, at first, I was so concerned and worried ‘who am I if I do this’ or that I’m something else or that I’m changing, but it’s [best] to not be worried about these things,” she says passionately. “We want to create with our fans and to put everyone in this healthy environment. And doing this really gives strength to young people or people who are in more oppressed situations to have courage to see that it’s okay.”

There’s no doubt Måneskin have distilled their lived lessons into this new record to create a rock and roll oasis. From beat-thumping inductions to media gossip to tongue-in-cheek comments on becoming the “kool kids”, the monstrous, hardcore noise of RUSH! has it all. “For me, it is a very personal record. It tells the story of how I came to discover myself and what I want to be as a person and as an artist,” Damiano explains. “All this frenzy led me to look inside myself, somehow I felt free to express a part of me that I had kept more hidden.”

The album is a chaotic amalgamation of crushing guitar riffs, full-throttle lyrics, and sonorous vocals sways through lines of Italian and English. Måneskin’s charge forward with spluttering drums, cranked up instrumentation, with songs pouring their original larger-than-life stamp into their broad rock productions. At their height, the band’s best tracks (La Fine, Gossip ft Tom Morello, Kool Kids) ignite like a blazing stage sign giving direction to Måneskin’s inevitable rise as one of today’s spirited rock acts.

An evolution from their gutsy sophomore studio release, Teatro d’ira: Vol. I, new album RUSH! captures the spark of each member. “Each of us had the freedom to follow our own personal direction. This time we didn’t look for the synthesis, the lowest common denominator between our different personalities, but we kind of added them up, exalted them all to the same level, and despite everything I think we still retained our identity,” Victoria shares.

With that, the band did not shy away from splurging on animated guitar hooks or fret over going too heavy with the familiar political zing of their rock tunes. Victoria adds: “We live in the concern of a progressive loss of people’s rights and we are afraid that this common thought is growing. In the track La Fine we refer precisely to this thought. Our music wants to be free and genderless. The goal is that people can identify with our message without having any definition of gender or category.”

After months of mania and unrelenting bouts of success, Måneskin are eagerly positioned to take on what’s next. And with a sold out arena in London already on the cards, it won’t be long before they’re greeting roaring fans once more. But, for now, as they savour the release of RUSH!, the band have found renewed strength in their amped up sound. “We have found our synthesis in diversity. This record is a point of pride and artistic growth for us,” Damiano reaffirms. And in a lesson learned by all, Victoria shares a final note of uplifting advice: “Never be afraid to express yourself. Always be free!”

WORDS BY ZOYA RAZA-SHEIKH

PHOTOGRAPHY BY FABIO GERMINARIO

#måneskin #maneskin #article #interview #january 2023 #my posts 💫#gay times magazine

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lesvegas · 2 years ago

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New Vegas - Now Under New Management!

In 2301, the city of New Vegas had been a raiders’ paradise for nearly twenty years. Backed by an army of robots, a hedonistic courier has rendered the Mojave untouchable by anyone who would take the keys to the city from their cold, dead hands. But it was only a matter of time before someone else aspired to become the new king of the wasteland, and all they had to do was be born within the Strip’s walls.

Chapter 1: Vegas Lights [ao3 link]

Casino floors never had any clocks or windows so the patrons could forget about the illusion of time. It was easier to give away everything you had on games and drinks when you weren’t being reminded of a family or a boss expecting to see you at a certain time. If you were particularly susceptible, you could waste entire days and nights and all your savings on the slot machines until you had nothing to bet but your own life. This was just one of many ways some guys in the old world managed to suck the money out of idiots with disposable income despite starting their businesses in a desert.

They weren’t stupid enough to not take advantage of the view, though. If you already forked over the cash, you could have access to taking up space in a casino hotel’s luxury suite, complete with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. If you don’t look too hard, you can just bask in the glow of the pretty Vegas lights, bright enough that you can forget missing the natural night sky.

I won the lottery by being born in one of these rooms. I’ve never had to pay a cap for anything. I’m not even twenty and I’m already king of the wasteland. And up here in my ivory tower at the top of the Tops, I can only stare forward at the lights for so long. Even a ruler with no responsibilities has to look down at his subjects sometimes, and I’ve been making a habit out of observing the street below.

There were no rich kids wasting daddy’s money or wealthy men and their gold diggers out on the town. There were no small-time vendors selling trinkets and snacks or criers promoting the acts of the week. There were no tourists from the West or lucky locals from Freeside. Hell, there weren’t even any whores flaunting their goods outside of Gomorrah anymore; they were all inside, where it was marginally safer. The Strip was packed, always, but never with anyone that was worth a dime.

It was mostly raiders down there. Worthless fucking raiders. They had to still be raiders; they didn’t actually do anything around here to earn all the caps they spent at the casinos. Not that they had to spend much when Fresno made this place a raider’s paradise.

“You need to open the window when you chain-smoke.”

I didn’t look back at my father. But I did open the window a crack before he could ask me again. The coolness of the night air almost made it possible to ignore the smell of blood, sweat and shit outside. I took a fresh cigarette out of my case sitting on the windowsill, used the last embers of the butt between my fingers to light it, and took a drag. I tossed the useless butt out the window, watching it fall, almost hoping it’d light up one of the palm trees below. Maybe it’d fall and crush some of those Fiends sitting around on the sidewalk, inhaling Jet, blissfully unaware of their inevitable demise. Wishful thinking.

“Wider, please.”

He was reclining on the sofa where he had been for hours, reading a pristine copy of Tales of a Junktown Jerky Vendor again. There was little else for a man like him to do when there was no real work to be done. According to the posters in Vault 21 and some old books I’d read, my father was an ideal man; he was reserved, he prioritized me and his ‘wife’ above all else, he only ever drank or smoked when Fresno did, kept his hair neat and wore a shirt and tie every day, spent most of his free time reading-

“Auguste?”

I shoved the window open all the way. Fine, let the whole room smell like shit, see if I care. If he really preferred the stench of the Strip to the scent of cigarettes, I could keep the window open. Let the sounds pour through, too, all the yelling and obnoxious music. He’d learned to tone out the noise years ago.

I looked back at him over my shoulder when I felt him staring at me. He was sitting up now, holding the napkin he used as a bookmark between his fingers, debating if he was finished reading or not. The room was smokier than I thought, I’ll admit it, but he didn’t need to be on my ass about it. I put my cigarette out. “Happy?”

He slipped the napkin between the pages he was on and closed the book, leaving it in the corner of the coffee table before standing up. His shirt was only slightly wrinkled from lying down and his blond hair was still perfect without any product. If only I was so lucky.

“Is this about Brutus?”

I must have looked real upset just then, because I saw one of the rare instances where my father looked like he actually regretted asking me something. I spoke up before he could even think to apologize.

“Is what about Brutus?” I asked, coming off way more defensive than I wanted to.

“Your…” He paused, trying to find the right word that wouldn’t piss me off. “Mood.”

No, of course I’m not still upset about losing my best friend. He was just some dumb animal I’ve had since my tenth birthday. Just a stupid puppy Fresno gave me with the hope that I’d be so distracted I’d forget my father even existed. God forbid a ten-year-old want his father’s attention sometimes.

“It’s been a week. I’m over it.” I lied, then tried to change the subject before he could pry. “You never complain when Fresno smokes indoors.”

“I’m not Fresno’s father.”

“Obviously. That thing doesn’t have a father.”

I thought I was pretty clever, but he didn’t seem to like my joke very much. I closed my cigarette case and pocketed it before he could come and take it from me. “Am I wrong?” I continued. “Would someone with a decent role model be responsible for this?” I made a sweeping gesture out the window with a splayed hand.

He approached the window, and I stepped aside to let him have a look. There was absolutely nothing new down there that he hadn’t seen, but he seemed to be looking for something anyway. He eventually spoke again without looking at me. “I don’t see why you care about what goes on in the streets. You only go outside to have dinner or catch a show. Your life is confined to suites, bars and casinos. Nothing that happens out there has any relevance to you.”

He took a step back and closed the window half-way. He pulled his sleeve up to check his watch. “You’re as safe and taken care of as any young man can be. Your only concerns are what happens within these walls.” He pointed out, then walked over to the coat rack by the door. I followed him.

“What about you, huh?” I asked. “Did you really come all this way just to be some weirdo’s trophy husband?” “Auguste.” He always spoke more firmly when I talked shit about Fresno. “If you’re so unsatisfied with the state of New Vegas,” He put his coat on. “You’re more than welcome to do with it what you will once you inherit it.”

The idea of this city becoming a monarchy was still bizarre to me. I was basically a prince set to take over once Fresno finally croaked, sure, but it still felt wrong somehow. A city like this shouldn’t really have a ruler. Stars and casino owners, sure, but even a mayor wouldn’t feel right. Maybe I was just too used to the hands-off approach Fresno had taken since before I was born.

“You didn’t answer my question.” I said. “Come on, you told me you left Reno for Vegas. Didn’t you ever have dreams for this place that didn’t involve… this? You said Reno didn’t have opportunities anymore, what with the families, and the, uh…” “The NCR.” “The NCR!” I snapped my fingers. “New Reno had no room for new ideas or new money, that’s what you said. It was all family drama and politics. New Vegas was really new again, a real diamond in the rough, the last real city in the world. You always said you wanted to start something out here, so why are you just letting raiders run it into the ground while you’re wrapped around Fresno’s finger?”

He only buttoned up the bottom two buttons of his coat, and took a look at himself in the mirror by the door. “I didn’t just leave Reno because it lacked financial opportunities. It also lacked any reason for me to stay.” He said. I already knew he didn’t have any family he wanted to tell me about. “I came to Vegas to find a purpose. And, eventually, I found something more important to me than any ambitions I previously had.” “Yeah, that’s real sweet.” I teased. “But seriously, what did you think it’d be like today, twenty years ago? What did you really want before you met Fresno?”

I was so close to getting a real answer out of him, I could just feel it. Something in his eyes seemed to give way as he adjusted his tie, but it was closed off again when the door suddenly opened.

Fresno, my father’s ‘wife’, seemed eager to see him but frowned when they saw me. I don’t think they’ve ever smiled at me. “Oh, I thought you’d be alone in here.” They said to him. “This is our suite.” I pointed out. “We share it. I live here.”

“Whatever.” They said dismissively, then smiled at my father. From the way he’d been checking his watch and the way they were dressed, it was obvious they had a date planned tonight. They had a date planned almost every night, but this one must be a fancy date, because Fresno was wearing a white shirt under their leather jacket. “Dinner and a show downstairs? Or the Ultra-Luxe?” They asked him, leaning in close enough to kiss him. They weren’t wearing lipstick today. “What are you in the mood for, my Valoire?” My father had the audacity to look at me instead. “Would you like t–” “No.” I said firmly. I wasn’t going to be dragged around as a second thought. I had business to attend to, anyway. Before I could give them a look of disgust, I turned around to return to my place at the window, looking down.

Fresno probably wanted to say ‘you weren’t invited, anyway’, but held their tongue. The only thing stopping us from lashing out at each other was the fact that my father seemed to like us both equally. He was very careful not to lean one way or the other unless one of us were obviously in the wrong.

I heard the door open, and a pause before it shut again. It might have been a moment of hesitation. Maybe my father and I would continue our conversation later, maybe we wouldn’t. But I already knew enough to know that any real individuality he had was destroyed years ago. He was devoted to Fresno, they were devoted to him, and neither of them could care less what happened in Vegas. It was all on me to make something of this place. Where a king fails, a prince inherits his mistakes.

I closed the window the rest of the way and got a glimpse at my reflection.

Despite my best efforts, I was the splitting image of my ‘mother’. Oh, I had my father’s strong nose and his bright blue eyes, but that was where the similarities ended. I had Fresno’s complexion, their fiery hair, their strong jaw, their obnoxious freckles, and their weak frame. There was only so much I could do about that, but I made up for it in keeping my hair short and tidy, and only ever wearing suits. Yes, my suits were much flashier than my father’s, but that was warranted in this city. And red was my colour.

I took out my cigarette case and opened it. There were only a couple sticks left. I lit one and saved the last for later as I turned my gaze down to the street again.

One of these bastards shot Brutus, and I was going to return the favour. But it’s been seven days since and I still hadn’t figured out who’d done it. All I really knew for sure is that it wasn’t a Khan; for all their faults, they weren’t stupid enough to pick a fight with me. They had their own home somewhere in the desert and treated Vegas like the attraction it was, for the most part. We were also their biggest buyer next to the Fiends. No, they knew well enough not to fuck with me or my dog.

Honestly, I don’t think it was a Fiend, either. They’re stupid, sure, but there were two types of Fiends: the ones that were fucked up and mellow, and the ones who were fucked up and aggressive. The former occupied the Strip, the latter were in Freeside if they were lucky. If a Fiend was going to attack, they’d do it to my face, not shoot from afar. I can’t imagine they’ve got good aim after taking God knows how much Jet.

Then there were the 80s. They weren’t too common around here, even with Fresno’s affiliation with them. All I ever see them do is act tough and ride those goddamn ‘motor-cycles’ they’re so obsessed with. Loudest fucking things in the wasteland. The second this city is mine, I’m outlawing them for good. Maybe they knew what was coming and wanted to strike first. Maybe I’m overthinking it.

That left the Scorpions, Vipers, and Jackals. A dwindling gang, a cult, and the weirdos that now ran the fanciest casino on the Strip. Not including any individual raiders that weren’t really part of a group. Hell, maybe there was no real motivation behind it; people shot and killed animals for fun all the time. Maybe Brutus and I were just unlucky that night. I don’t fucking know. But I still want the head of the son of a bitch that did it.

I stepped away from the window. I wasn’t gonna make any progress watching ants go by. I figured my father and Fresno had freed up the elevator by now, and so I left the suite to head downstairs. I had my own date at Gomorrah.

Thanks for reading. Fresno belongs to my partner, @thespiral <3

#fnv #fonv #fallout new vegas #falloutfun #fnv fanfiction #fonv fanfiction #fallout fanfiction #oc: auguste/augustus #oc: valoire

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sabraeal · 1 year ago

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Desert & Reward, Chapter 16

[Read on AO3]

Obiyukiweek 2023, Day 2: Worship

Also written for @jj-carstairs for her birthday, which marks the FIRST TIME I've managed to get it out for her actual birthday, since it always falls right over obiyukiweek. Thankfully this year both her birthday request and the theme for the day overlapped nicely :3

After all his attempts to forge the Second Prince’s favorite dagger into a proper blade, Lata has managed to hammer one useful bit of information into Obi at least: protocol isn’t so much a rigid set of rules squatting between vellum margins, as old as the peerage itself, as an equation. A complicated one, the sort with letters instead of numbers and operations that take a room full of clerks the better part of a day to churn through. A system of fussy bookkeeping that would make Kazaha salivate if he was ever allowed to crack the spine on it.

He’s gleaned enough from his scattered lessons in knighthood to know that station and situation are two of its variables, but for how all that solves for precedence— well, that’s a mystery that’s best left to his betters. But what he does know is: His Majesty has a lot of it.

Not enough to declare primae noctis, the way they said the North’s High King once did— not that he suspects there’d be many complaints, should Elder Highness try to claim his due. But he's clearly got enough wiggle room to cut in for the primae dance-us or whatever the court liked to call it. No other reason for the royal mouth to take so satisfied a slant, for him to close that white gloved hand around Miss’s with such relish.

“Oh my,” His Majesty hums, those midnight eyes rounding to innocence. “I trust you will find no offense in my asking, my dear marquis?”

Obi doubts this man was innocent in the cradle, let alone now. But that's hardly His Majesty's angle. Oh no, he's more interested in Miss's attention-- or rather, directing it right to where Obi would like it least. She turns, concern etched into the space between her dainty brows. “Obi…?”

But it’s too late; Obi’s scuttled his stormy scowl to smiles and sunshine, letting only a hint of wryness break through. “None at all, Your Majesty. Simply wondering if you made it a habit to take pretty young brides on a tour around the ballroom.”

“Only when I am the one hosting their wedding,” he replies, one side of his perfect mouth tugging up into a smirk. “After all, is it not the host and the woman of highest rank who open the floor?”

If he were Master, all it would take was flutter of eyelashes and cock the head, and the royal personage would be halfway up the curtains, just from anticipation. But His Majesty is not just immune to that sort of game; he invented them. So Obi smiles wider, aiming at the only crack present in the royal armor. “I would have thought that would be your wife, sir.”

“Ah, I am afraid the blame for that lays squarely in my own court, my lord.”

Fingers perch on the back of his hand, a touch so light Obi would be tempted to call it the wind if he could not see the glove. One that is more lace than silk, baring enough skin from wrist to elbow that Mrs Carre would call it unseemly. Or at least she would if the style were not sure to sweep the next season by storm, since it is the queen consort that touts it.

“As much as I am loath to admit it...” The tilt of her head is demure, modest as would be expected of a consort, but the hand that curves over the round of her belly is not; no, that is as proud and protective as a lioness with her cubs. “At this juncture, it is recommended that I leave the dancing to much more…nimble young ladies.”

Obi covers her hand with his own, mouth slanting into his most charming smirk. “I could be nimble enough for the both of us, if milady wished.”

Her Majesty might play the retiring young queen well, but when Obi looks at her, steady and steely as her brother was on his walls, it’s not hard to remember that the ladies of the North had weathered sieges in their husbands’ stead, and waged wars in their absence.

And started more than a few of them, by the grin she smothers. “I do appreciate the offer, my lord marquis, but tongues would wag. I hardly think your wedding needs to spur on gossip.”

Any more than it already has, the twitch of her lips implies. A point he’d love to contest, at least on Miss’s behalf, but between the carefully composed timeline of their supposed courtship, and their lengthy disappearance between the ceremony and reception, they’ll be keeping the rumor mill churning well into next season. Perhaps even longer, provided no young lady made herself a hasty marriage, or a hot-headed buck put himself on the dueling piste.

Just the way His Majesty planned, if that smirk of his is anything to go by. “If my lady wife would like to cause a scandal, she need only say the word, and I would be happy to oblige.”

The offer rolls off his tongue with the ease of a born rake, but Obi’s not fool enough to miss the fierceness in his eyes, or the way his body turns toward her, like a bloom following the sun. Nor does it seem to escape Her Majesty either.

“You devotion honors me, my lord, but I think we both agree that there is no lady of higher rank than a bride on her wedding day. Now” —that sharp gaze cuts to him, smile honed to match— “it may be no grand dance, but perhaps you might escort me to my chair, my lord?”

The orchestra plucks nervously at their instruments as Her Majesty settles into her seat, waiting until her hands fold over the curve of her belly before the first bow slides over strings. His Majesty steps out, bow so graceful it could be a dance in itself, and Miss—

Well, she manages something like a curtsy. Late, of course, and begrudging every inch— deference to royals hardly comes easy to those born under Shenezard kings— but Elder Highness has long been accustomed to covering up unsightly blunders. It’s with something a little sharper than a smile that he sweeps her out onto the floor, the gold lace of her gown belling out into a shimmering spiral of starlight around her feet before she settles into his arms.

There is a brush of a hand against his sleeve, and Her Majesty’s smile meets his frown. “They make quite a pair, don’t they?”

Obi lets his gaze skirt back across the floor, watching Miss’s feet as the king of Clarines leads her through a waltz. The last soirée they attended in Lilias— a lifetime ago, it feels, though it can’t be more than nine months— she’d tripped right over his foot and nearly took out the punch. Careful, Miss, he’d hummed, struggling against a grin. They won’t ask us back if we break the good crystal.

She’d only considered the table, flushed and dewy, hair sticking to the back of her neck, and muttered, Maybe we should try again.

Lata would always harp on how a proper partner was the difference between a poor dancer and an unremarkable one— hear that Miss? Obi would sigh, he’s only asking us to be not bad— but Obi never quite believed him, not when six years of soirées and fraught night masques had only brought Miss up from active danger to potential disaster. But now, with His Majesty, she practically floats over the parquet, lighter than air, not a single stumble. And Obi—

Well, he doesn’t seethe with jealousy, not even a little. If there’s a little smolder in his chest, the barest simmer beneath his skin, well that’s just…heartburn. Got to avail himself of some of those little passed hors d’oeuvres going around.

“He knows how to handle her,” he admits, definitely not through his teeth. “You might not even have to ask them to bring the ice up, after all this.”

If Her Majesty were not the epitome of elegance and graciousness, then Obi would be half tempted to say she smirks. “She is much improved from the first time I saw you two dance. But that is not what I meant. Look.”

It’s an effort to scrape his gaze up from the floor, to let it linger over the scintillating sway of her skirt, to force it to rise up to where silk and lace give way to skin and see—

And see how her brow lies smooth, the corners of her eyes crinkled as even now she smiles. Not politely, not for show, but from joy, and she is— is—

Radiant.

“She would have made a pretty princess, wouldn’t she?” Her Majesty sighs, wistful. Obi watches Miss’s head tip back with a laugh, the long column of her neck exposed, and ah, he can’t disagree. “But not a happy one.”

Obi snaps his gaze down to stare, but the consort only smiles, watching her husband not so much dance as float across the floor. “What—?”

Miss might be the one who is the center of attention tonight, who is supposed to be the spectacle to which all noble eyes are drawn, but there’s quite a few that track the Countess of Yuris as she crosses the ballroom, dropping into a curtsy at the consort’s feet. Obi expects elbows and knees and feathers too, each inch ceded a battle Kihal refuses to be routed from, but instead—

Instead it’s so elegant she might well have been born to give them. A practiced motion, if not a sincere one. Which it isn’t, not when she straightens, head cocked, and demands, “And just what are you two whispering about?”

“What ifs.” Her Majesty’s mouth eases into a softer curve. “Could have beens.”

“You better not be having second thoughts.” If looks could kill, the one the newly-minted countess gives him would at least get him lost at sea. “Shirayuki is better than you deserve, no matter what fancy title they gussy you up with.”

Obi couldn’t agree more; even if he woke up tomorrow yoked by burden of a Your Highness, he’d still be a beggar in his mistress’s court, a interloper with no grace but what she deigned to give him. But to say so would spoil the sport; that arrogant little lift to Kihal’s chin would drop to something more earnest, her stormy eyes clearing to a gentler sea, and haah, death would be kinder than her pity.

Instead he cocks his head, an eyebrow following suite. “Now just how did you managed to sneak in here, your ladyship?”

“Sneak?” Her eyes flash, not like lightning or flame, but like a shadow cutting beneath the water. “I didn’t sneak in! I came through the door like everyone else, stupid fanfare and all!”

He hums, enjoying the way her fingers fist in flattering blue organza. “But I’d been under the impression you should be sweeping down the grand stair on Master’s arm, all eyes on you like the princess you will—?”

“Sh!” Kihal springs toward him, and oh, if they were not in front of the who’s-who of Wistal society, those hands would not be at her side. Too bad; it’s been ages since someone’s gagged him with any amount of intent. “The paperwork might be all signed and dried, but” —her voice drops down to little more than a hum above the music— “Izana thought it would be best not to announce our betrothal at a wedding that supposedly happened months ago.”

His grin stiffens, a dead thing collapsed across his face. “Well, that’s His Majesty for you. Always knows best.”

Her startled eyes try to catch his, but they’ve already skittered away, chasing after Miss’s skirts. Easy to find when the candles here set her alight, embers turning to flame as she turns in His Majesty’s arms.

“I can’t believe it.” Where Her Majesty alighted to the cushion that would serve as her throne for the evening, Kihal slumps, a round cheek dinted where it rests on her fist. “You really got her to go through with it.”

The consort’s polite smile takes a wicked edge. “You act as if it were any sort of challenge. I think you will find that Lady Shirayuki had few objections to how this particular arrangement unfolded.”

“I was hoping she’d come to her senses before paperwork got involved.” Kihal favors him with her most sour glare. “It’s bad enough I might have to listen to you as a peer, now she’s got to do it as your wife.”

“That so?” Obi leans in, letting his smile pull as wide as his patience. “You know what I heard? That—”

“Ah, is it over already?” Her Majesty sighs, so wistful he can’t help but trace her gaze out to the floor, to where the fire of Miss’s dress has banked, along with the music. “Ah, these first dances never last long enough. But at least that means you have opportunity enough to ask your wife to—”

“Too late,” he snorts, watching as Miss is flooded with partners, each more well-turned and -titled than the last. “I think my mistress’s dance card is full.”

The consort’s smile curls at a corner. “Well then, maybe if you ask Countess Yuris to oblige you, you might have the opportunity to cut in.”

He glances down at where Kihal lounges, her scowl conveying how unlikely a favor that is to be granted. But this is hardly Obi’s first time haggling at the market; he keeps his eyes fixed on her, stare as steady as his brow is arched, is that your final offer? implied.

With a sigh forceful enough to make waves, she relents. “Fine. But only because I know you’re more tolerable than an actual lord.”

It’s not until they’ve taken their places, the frantic beat of a a polka sweeping the floor, that Obi realizes: he has never danced with anyone but Miss. A natural fleetness of foot and years of learning to anticipate his mistress’s specific flavor of clumsiness has kept his toes from being bruises, but two gallops about the floor with the young countess in his arms, and—

Ah, well, she’s certainly not as graceful as the other ladies on the floor, but she doesn’t need his help. Insists on not taking it, really, nearly wresting the lead from him when he takes a hop too slow before a turn.

“I thought,” she grits out, “that a footpad would be lighter on his feet.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, my lady.” He grins into the gale of her glare. “I was a thief, not a highwayman.”

And assassin, too, but he hardly thinks she’ll appreciate that detail. “Then you have even less of an excuse,” she huffs. “What did you do? Stomp around and pick pockets? Honestly.”

It’s not that Obi’s competitive. Well, he is, but that has nothing to do with the way he pulls himself straight, shoulders squaring until every inch could pass for a lord. His arm tightens around her waist, anchoring her to him, and with a smile that would make a shiver go down the spine of every guardsman in Wirant, Obi flings her into her next partner.

“Hey!” she gasps, on her return. “You could have warned me.”

“You wanted me to lead, didn’t you?” he hums, guiding them through their next bout of hops and turns. “So I led.”

There’s not a lot of extra breath to go around— the court loved to keep its waltzes lively, let alone their polkas— but she spares one to huff, “You might actually be fun, if you weren’t so obnoxious.”

He lets his mouth hook at a corner, parting for the barest flash of teeth. “Part of my charm, so I’m told.”

“Funny,” she grunts, obliging him to lift her— only a few inches, enough to guide her into the next turn. “I don’t think that’s how Zen put it.”

His grin hones sharp enough to gleam. “He wouldn’t.”

The dance separates them for a long moment; Kihal spins out with grace, footwork clean if not particularly inspired, before falling into him again, a frown marring the skin between her eyebrows.

“There’s not many of our neighbors here,” she remarks, the way the consort might on the weather or the cut of his coat. “Just the two of us.”

“And Lata,” he reminds her, grinning into her glare. Still, the observation sobers him. “A couple of nights ago our favorite traitor mentioned he didn’t see any northern lords in attendance either. Not besides Miss Kiki— and, I suppose, Sir.”

“Hisame Luigis.” It’s good to know there’s a name that can make her face darken quicker than his. “I hate to give anything he says any credence, but he’s right. I know Izana only wanted a guest list that would keep their mouths shut about the date, but…”

But if Obi were to write the list himself, there’s a bunch of friendly faces that would be here that he can’t help but notice are not.

Kihal heaves another sigh. “I can’t believe Izana’s shoving me into this whole thing with only you to back me up.”

“Oh? Is that so?” He lets his mouth hook into a grin. “That’s not what I heard.”

She blinks, passing around his back before she snaps, “What?”

“I heard…” He leans down, enjoying the way her nose wrinkles. “That you asked them to give me Conti.”

Her jaw drops. “E-excuse me?”

“His Majesty said you practically begged.”

Her cheeks flush, not the way Miss’s does, all pink and hot, but the way his does, just the subtle darkening of the flesh pulled taut across her cheekbones. “He did not.”

He didn’t, but it’s more fun to smirk as they sashay another step or two, to put a little more glee into his clap. “He told me that you made it a condition of your engagement. Because you trusted me.”

“I-I…” Oh, if he knew this was going to make her so left footed, he would have brought it up half a dozen turns ago. “I just thought you’d be an easy lord to throw over, if you made yourself too obnoxious. Can’t use any of your thief skills on a boat.”

“You know what I think?” He favors her with his smarmiest grin. “I think you like me! You might even find me tolera—”

A hand clamps down hard on his shoulder, holding him in place. Not for the first time, Obi curses Mister’s preternatural instinct when it comes to ruining his fun. “Ah, excuse me, Ki— er, my lady,” Sir says, a polite smile stretching his mouth. “But I’m afraid that I must—”

“Ooooh, are you cutting in, Sir?” Obi gasps, hand pressed to his cravat. “I knew I didn’t practice the lady’s part for nothing.”

“N-no!” Sir doesn’t scowl, but he comes close enough to give him a shiver. “I was only going to say that I was sorry I was going to have to steal you away. You’re needed elsewhere. Right now.”

“Please.” Her eyes roll, like a ship on a storm’s swell. “Don’t apologize, Sir Mitsuhide. You’re doing me a favor taking him off my hands.”

“Aw, now that’s not—”

Sir’s hand tightens on his shoulder. “I thought that might be the case. Come on, Obi, you’re needed…elsewhere.”

#obiyukiweek23 #day 2 #obiyuki #akagami no shirayukihime #snow white with the red hair #my fic #desert and reward #ans #not the MOST obiyuki content in this one i'll admit but like. it's their wedding #he's pining and angsting you know it works #I keep rejiggering what this whole reception will look like because i am DYING to get to the end of it #but i'm guessing another 1-2 chapters of pining and plot #and then i get to misbehave >:3c

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thevanitychariot · 23 days ago

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The Chariot: Issue XVIII

A Decade of Recognition: The Impact of the Ross Awards

By: Fabiola Quinteiro Original Publication Date: 31 October 2024

The Ross Awards, established in 2014, originally aimed to honor excellence in film, yet its first ceremonies revealed a significant lack of diversity. In the beginning, every nominee and winner was White, sparking criticism about its limited representation.

Over time, this lack of inclusivity drew increasing scrutiny from both the public and the entertainment industry. In response, the Ross Committee was formed in 2020 to address these issues directly. Under the leadership of Hans Neumann, the committee was tasked with promoting a more diverse selection of nominees, encompassing a wider range of backgrounds, race, and perspectives in the awards process.

This year is the tenth anniversary of the Ross Awards and is celebrated as the most diverse yet, reflecting years of incremental change. Less than half of this year's nominees are White, with over a quarter representing minority groups, including Black, Native American, and Latino actors. Avatar: The Last Airbender made history as the most nominated film, while the ceremony also marks the first time Native American actors have been recognized in multiple acting categories.

Still, Latino representation remains a challenge, as Society of the Snow, a film with a majority Latino cast, received no nominations, and Menendez, another Latino-centered story, saw two-thirds of its acting nominations go to White actors. Despite these issues, this year's nominees represents a shift toward more inclusive storytelling, building momentum for future progress.

This year also marks the first nomination for Vanessa Harding (Best Actress, Becoming Madam Secretary) since her historic win with Mademoiselle in 2019, bringing her total to seven nominations, tied with Caleb Adams for the most in Ross Awards history. Over the last five years, she faced a challenging landscape despite her dedication to creating films that explored women's empowerment with much of her previous works being criticized for presenting narratives that prioritized a White perspective over the voices of marginalized communities, particularly in her films Frontline (2021) and A Woman in Arabia (2023). Acknowledging this feedback, Vanessa has shifted her storytelling approach, actively working to amplify the contributions of women of color while ensuring that the stories of marginalized groups are told by their own communities.

The Ross Committee has been instrumental in fostering this change. Led by Hans Neumann, the committee has focused on eliminating bias and reducing nepotism within the awards, emphasizing the importance of recognizing diverse stories and creators. Under Hans's leadership, the Ross Awards reached milestones like last year's wins for Richelle Paisley, the first Black Best Actress winner, and Faisal Mansouri, the first Middle Eastern Best Actor winner. Now as Hans prepares to step down, his departure has opened conversations within the industry about who will take on this important role. Many believe that appointing a person of color could further the Ross Committee's mission of championing equity, ensuring that the awards continue evolving toward true inclusivity and representation in film.

This year's Ross Awards ceremony also marks a pivotal moment for Hollywood as it will announce the next president. Emerson Wright, who has significantly influenced the industry the last five years, will officially step down on January 2025. During the ceremony, the next president will be revealed in a highly-anticipated moment, with contenders including Kimona Lange, Dubois Carmichael, and Julian Lunacharski.

Wakefield Maddow Elected as President of the Ross Committee

By: Fabiola Quinteiro Original Publication Date: 6 November 2024

The recent Ross Committee election has sparked significant discussion in the entertainment industry, as five ambitious candidates vied for the prestigious role of committee president. With Hans Neumann stepping down after four years of service, this election marks a significant shift in the committee’s leadership. Ultimately, Wakefield Maddow emerged victorious, becoming the first elected Black president in the entertainment industry. His election signifies a promising step toward diversity and modernization within the Ross Committee.

The Ross Committee, responsible for overseeing the annual Ross Awards has faced mounting pressure to bring fresh perspectives and diversity to its leadership. This shift is largely fueled by recent calls within Hollywood to promote inclusivity, transparency, and representation across all levels. Maddow’s election, therefore, aligns closely with these goals and has been widely celebrated as a progressive move for the entertainment industry.

The field of candidates included several notable figures, each with unique qualifications and ties to the industry. Godfrey Howard, the current Chief of Staff under outgoing President Hans Neumann, faced significant challenges despite his extensive experience. Though highly knowledgeable about committee operations, Howard’s close association with the established leadership and his lack of popularity in the movement for diversity worked against him, with many voters seeking a fresh face to lead the committee forward.

Adessa Polanski also drew considerable attention. As the daughter of Neal Polanski, the former Vice President of Hollywood Studios, she carries a complicated legacy. Her father’s career ended amid accusations of corruption, racism, and nepotism, casting a shadow over her candidacy. While Adessa has established herself as an independent figure, many questioned her ability to bring meaningful change to an industry still grappling with her father’s controversial impact.

Julia Lombardi entered the race with strong connections, running as Vice President alongside Julian Lunacharski in his campaign for President of Hollywood Studios. Her simultaneous involvement in both the Ross Committee election and Lunacharski’s campaign raised concerns among voters. Many wondered if her focus was on enacting meaningful change or simply securing a position of power. This divided commitment led some to doubt if Lombardi genuinely aimed to drive change within either organization or if she was more interested in climbing the ranks of Hollywood’s leadership.

Two other candidates, Cairene Langdon and Wakefield Maddow, represented a new generation of leaders. Both are recent graduates from Lawrence Harland University’s Leadership in the Entertainment Industry program. Langdon’s experience included internships within Hollywood Studios, while Maddow worked as a production assistant with Cygna Entertainment while pursuing his studies. Despite their relatively recent entry into the industry, both Langdon and Maddow demonstrated a strong understanding of industry operations and modern leadership principles, which appealed to voters eager for change.

In a decisive outcome, Wakefield Maddow was announced as the next president of the Ross Committee, an election celebrated as a significant achievement for diversity and modernity in the entertainment industry. His election marks the first time a Black president has led the Ross Committee, an achievement that many view as a milestone in addressing the longstanding issues of representation within Hollywood’s leadership circles.

Maddow’s first actions as president-elect reflect his commitment to building an inclusive and skilled team. He has named Laszlo Knight as his Vice President and Cairene Langdon as Chief of Staff. Knight, a fellow graduate of Harland University, has extensive experience as a casting assistant with Cygna Entertainment, and his appointment complements Maddow’s vision for the committee. By bringing on Langdon, who possesses deep insights into Hollywood Studios' operations from her internship experience, Maddow strengthens his leadership team with fresh perspectives.

Outgoing president Hans Neumann has expressed his full support for Maddow and announced plans to mentor him over the next several months. Neumann’s guidance will be invaluable as Maddow navigates his early months in office, especially as the Ross Awards quickly approach.

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medaura123 · 2 months ago

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Best Health Care in India

India's healthcare landscape has experienced significant changes over the decades, transforming into a dynamic and fast-growing sector. Serving a population of over 1.4 billion people, the challenges of delivering quality healthcare to such a diverse population are immense. Best Health Care in India Despite these challenges, India’s healthcare system has evolved with contributions from both government initiatives and a growing private sector, alongside technological advancements and innovations. This essay explores the healthcare landscape in India with a specific focus on Medaura, discussing its structure, accessibility, technological progress, ongoing challenges, and future outlook.

Structure of Healthcare in India

India's healthcare system is a unique mix of public and private sectors. Public healthcare, managed by the Ministry of Health and Family Welfare, operates at various levels, including national, state, and district. Public healthcare’s primary objective is to provide preventive and essential medical services, particularly to underserved and rural populations. Public facilities such as primary health centers (PHCs), community health centers (CHCs), and district hospitals are vital for ensuring healthcare access in remote areas.

On the other hand, private healthcare has experienced rapid growth, especially in urban regions. Private institutions offer specialized treatments, advanced medical technologies, and high-quality care that meets global standards. This sector plays an essential role in reducing the burden on public hospitals and providing a wider range of services in cities and metropolitan areas. Medaura is a prime example of private sector contribution, focusing on innovative solutions to bridge gaps in healthcare accessibility and quality across different regions.

Accessibility to Healthcare

One of the most pressing issues in India’s healthcare system is the disparity in healthcare accessibility between urban and rural regions. While cities are equipped with modern hospitals, diagnostic centers, and specialty clinics, rural areas suffer from a lack of infrastructure and medical professionals. This urban-rural divide presents significant challenges in providing equitable healthcare access. The government has taken various steps to address this gap through initiatives like the National Health Mission and Ayushman Bharat, which provide insurance and healthcare services to economically disadvantaged populations.

Medaura has been instrumental in improving healthcare access, particularly for marginalized communities. By leveraging innovative healthcare models, such as mobile health units and telemedicine platforms, Medaura ensures that people in rural and remote areas can receive timely medical attention. Additionally, Medaura’s commitment to cost-effective healthcare has allowed patients from lower-income backgrounds to access high-quality services without incurring exorbitant medical expenses.

Innovation and Technological Advancement in Healthcare

India has become a global leader in healthcare innovation, particularly in fields such as telemedicine, pharmaceutical production, and medical devices. Telemedicine is one of the key areas where India has excelled, making it possible for patients in rural and hard-to-reach areas to consult with doctors remotely through mobile applications and video conferencing. This has opened up new opportunities for providing care to populations that would otherwise struggle to access healthcare services.

Medaura has been at the forefront of this telemedicine revolution, offering cutting-edge solutions that connect patients with healthcare providers regardless of geographic barriers. By embracing digital health platforms and AI-driven diagnostics, Medaura is transforming the way healthcare is delivered in India. It has invested in wearable health monitors, AI-based medical imaging, and mobile health solutions that improve patient outcomes and promote preventative care.

India’s pharmaceutical sector, often referred to as the "pharmacy of the world," has also been a crucial driver of healthcare innovation. The country is one of the largest producers of generic drugs and vaccines, which played a pivotal role during the COVID-19 pandemic. Medaura's collaborations with pharmaceutical companies have facilitated the availability of affordable medicines and vaccines, ensuring wider access to essential treatments and preventative care.

Challenges in Indian Healthcare

While India’s healthcare system has made remarkable strides, it still faces several challenges that impede its full potential. These challenges include infrastructure deficiencies, shortages of healthcare professionals, and public health crises.

Infrastructure: Despite advancements in urban healthcare, rural areas continue to face significant infrastructure gaps. Many villages and small towns lack basic healthcare facilities like clinics, hospitals, and diagnostic centers. Addressing this issue requires coordinated efforts between the public and private sectors to expand infrastructure development in rural and underserved regions.

Human Resources: India struggles with a shortage of healthcare professionals, including doctors, nurses, and paramedics. The doctor-to-patient ratio is significantly lower than the World Health Organization’s recommended standards. Additionally, healthcare professionals are concentrated in urban centers, leaving rural populations underserved. Medaura is working to address this issue by training local healthcare workers and deploying them to areas where their services are most needed.

Public Health: India faces the dual burden of communicable diseases like tuberculosis and malaria, along with the rising incidence of non-communicable diseases such as diabetes and heart disease. This creates immense pressure on healthcare resources and necessitates large-scale public health initiatives focused on disease prevention and early detection.

Government Initiatives and Policies

The Indian government has launched several healthcare initiatives aimed at improving access to healthcare services and reducing financial burdens on citizens. One of the most significant programs is Ayushman Bharat, which provides health coverage to millions of low-income families across the country. By offering financial protection from high medical costs, Ayushman Bharat aims to improve healthcare outcomes for vulnerable populations.

Medaura has supported these initiatives by offering complementary healthcare services that align with the government’s goals of improving access and affordability. Its efforts to provide low-cost healthcare, especially in areas where the public healthcare system is inadequate, have been widely appreciated.

The Future of Healthcare in India

The future of healthcare in India is promising, with exciting advancements in medical technologies, increased investments in healthcare infrastructure, and a growing focus on preventative care. Telemedicine, digital health platforms, and AI-driven diagnostics will continue to revolutionize healthcare delivery, particularly in remote areas. Medaura’s innovative healthcare model positions it well to play a pivotal role in shaping this future.

As healthcare becomes more digitized, AI and machine learning technologies will enhance medical diagnostics, personalize treatment plans, and improve patient outcomes. Medaura is already pioneering these technologies to deliver faster, more accurate diagnoses and effective treatments for a wide range of medical conditions.

Preventative care will also play a key role in India’s healthcare future, as lifestyle diseases become more prevalent. By emphasizing early detection and encouraging healthy lifestyles, healthcare providers like Medaura can reduce the strain on the healthcare system and improve long-term health outcomes for millions of people.

Conclusion

India’s healthcare system is a complex and evolving entity that has made significant progress in addressing the needs of its vast population. Through the combination of government initiatives, private sector growth, and technological innovations, India is making strides in improving healthcare access, affordability, and quality. Medaura stands out as a key player in this transformation, using innovative approaches to tackle the challenges of accessibility, cost, and technology in healthcare. With its forward-thinking healthcare solutions and commitment to improving patient outcomes, Medaura is well-positioned to lead India’s healthcare sector into a bright and promising future.

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1001albumsrated · 5 months ago

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#21: Miles Davis - Kind of Blue (1959)

Genre(s): Modal Jazz

Of all 1001 albums in 1001 Albums You Must Hear Before You Die, Kind of Blue might be the most heavily written about, and likely one of the most talked about as well. If someone says "hey I'm curious about jazz but don't know where to start" (or, in 2024, googles a recc chart), this is unilaterally the starting point. Kind of Blue is the Rome that all jazz roads lead to (and from!). I wouldn't say it's my favorite jazz album, and you can argue endlessly on whether it's the best, but it's without a doubt the most centrally located. The tunes are highly accessible, but possess enormous theoretical depth and showcase exceptional technical prowess from the players. And while sales numbers are far from everything, Miles drove sports cars and dated models for a reason: Kind of Blue is RIAA certified 5x platinum as of 2019, making it the best-selling jazz album of all time by an enormous margin (beating the 2nd highest, Herbie Hancock's Head Hunters, 5 times over; no, I'm not going to count the fucking Kenny G Christmas album or whatever, we're talking real jazz here).

It's also a landmark in the explosion of modal jazz, turning previous hard bop and bebop styles on their heads. You can find more compelling music theory explanations of modal jazz elsewhere (I'm confident there's an Adam Neely video somewhere that does it justice), but the short version is that it moved the focus from a more traditional "this song is in a key, play chords from that key and solo over them in the same key" approach to a more open ended approach of playing with a focus on the mode rather than the key, allowing for a much wider tonal palette for improvisation and creating a wildly different sound (you can think of modes as a both a subset and a superset of keys; they essentially rearrange a key to change the root note it starts and ends on while maintaining the same collection of notes, which in practice can dramatically change the feel of the key and allows for modulation between keys to sound more enharmonic. This is a super simplified explanation, again, go learn about the theory if you want to know more).

To me, this album is an old friend. This is one of the first albums that really made jazz click for me. Like most non-jazz listeners, I felt at the time like the bulk of jazz I heard was either dreadful old man coffee shop music or the sound of toddlers causing a directionless racket in the studio. I remember being in my bedroom as a teenager, listening to low quality rips of these tracks in the early days of YouTube, mind blown at the sounds I was hearing. It was laid back, but still had a lot of motion and technicality, and was deeply evocative. Today, so many years later, I feel the same things I felt then. Kind of Blue is one of those very rare, special albums that simply doesn't wear out. I've heard it a million times and can anticipate every note, but it's still a joy to listen to every time.

The version I'm listening to today is the 2007 Japanese SACD (another fascinating element to Kind of Blue is how radically different the various versions of it out there sound, with different mixes often completely rearranging the soundstage). This edition is one of my favorites; it's still the more modern Mark Wilder mix and benefits from the higher degree of clarity his mix brings, but it has a warmer, more laid back feel to it than most of the other iterations of his mix on various other formats. My chief complaint on his Miles mixes in general has always been that they're overly bright, to the point of Miles' trumpet often sounding harsh, and this is one of the very rare versions of the KoB Wilder mix that feels more natural to me.

I'd also be remiss if I didn't mention the quality of the personnel on this one: the sextet here is an extension of Miles' "First Great Quintet", featuring the dynamite rhythm section of Jimmy Cobb and Paul Chambers, with the impressionistic Bill Evans on piano (and his replacement Wynton Kelly on Freddie Freeloader, as Evans was mostly retired from the band at this point after burning out from the band's rigorous touring schedule), and the all-star sax section of John Coltrane and Cannonball Adderley. All of the players (with the exception of Cobb) were great bandleaders in their own right, and all were top-notch players. We'll see most (if not all) of these folks again on this list, with a few showing up later as bandleaders. This is one of the things that I've always found appealing about jazz: every week is a crossover episode. I'm forever discovering that a player I love played as a sideman on this other album, and the bandleader on that one used to play with this other guy, and so on in a web that seems to stretch out forever. Jazz is far from the only thing I listen to, but it's one of the easiest genres for me to get engrossed in on account of the constant interconnections between players (my obsession with Wikipedia and Discogs diving and biography reading doesn't help).

Also of historical interest is the fact that only a few weeks after recording the final KoB sessions, John Coltrane would return to the studio to record the legendary Giant Steps with his own band; this album, for reasons beyond any and all comprehension or semblance of good taste, has been excluded from 1001 Albums. It's laughable to omit both it and My Favorite Things, both of which are major touchstones in jazz (soloing over Giant Steps, referring to the song rather than the album here, is still a mountain that any serious jazz player will climb today during the process of mastering their instrument). And maybe it's my huge obsession with free and spiritual jazz talking here, but I think there's a strong argument for including at least one of Coltrane's freer post-A Love Supreme albums; his interplay with Pharoah Sanders is spectacular, as is the way he and his wife Alice lock in, and those albums would go on to inform all flavors of "out" jazz and experimental music to come (also, while I'm complaining, it's equally ridiculous to omit both Pharoah Sanders and Alice Coltrane from the book as bandleaders, and doing so really shows the authors' collective ignorance when it comes to any jazz that cuts deeper than surface level).

Ok, I'm done griping about the list (for now). Anyways, Kind of Blue is one of the highest pinnacles of musical achievement, yes you MUST hear it before you die. If you somehow haven't heard it, log off and go listen. You'll thank me later.

Coming up next time: we pivot back to country with the legendary Marty Robbins album, Gunfighter Ballads and Trail Songs (or, for the terminally online, the one with Big Iron on it 😉).

#1001 albums #1001 albums you must hear before you die #1001albumsrated #album review #now spinning #jazz #modal jazz #Miles Davis #Kind of Blue #SACD

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speedyposts · 10 months ago

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‘Forecasts of a Labour landslide are probably over the top’: UK analyst

London, England – Britain is expected to hold a general election in the second half of 2024 and Rishi Sunak, the United Kingdom’s Conservative leader, is under pressure.

The right-wing party that has governed Britain for more than 10 years is far behind the main opposition Labour Party in the polls.

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How to Get AdSense Approval Quickly a Personal Journey to Monetizing a Niche Blog

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Earlier this month, a YouGov survey of about 14,000 people published by The Telegraph newspaper predicted that Labour could win 385 parliamentary seats. The Conservatives are on track to keep just 169 seats, a sharper loss than in 1997 when Labour’s Tony Blair triumphed over John Major.

On the world stage, observers say Sunak’s decision to join the United States in targeting Yemen’s Houthis in retaliation for their attacks in the Red Sea and his refusal to call for a Gaza ceasefire could affect his approval ratings.

Al Jazeera spoke to Tim Bale, a politics professor at Queen Mary University of London, about the upcoming election, the challenges facing 43-year-old Sunak, and Labour’s chances.

Al Jazeera: Sunak faces several crises. As he struggles with a bid to deport refugees to Rwanda, the Ukraine war is still raging, as well as Israel’s onslaught of Gaza. Is he the right person to manage Britain’s foreign policy and government right now?

Tim Bale: I think you’d have to say he’s a bright guy. He’s a hard-working guy. So he’s probably across all the issues in as much as any prime minister could be.

I think his problem on the world stage is that very few of his interlocutors presume that he will be there by this time next year, which means that his influence is inevitably less than it otherwise would be.

At home, he suffers from the same problem in that I think any of the solutions he proposes, or any of the actions he takes, will always be seen as temporary rather than Britain’s policy going forward.

Al Jazeera: Many British Muslims and pro-Palestinian Britons say they are disillusioned with the two main parties since neither has vociferously called for a lasting ceasefire in Gaza. What impact will this have on the Conservatives, when it comes to the election?

Bale: I think it’s very unlikely that it will have any impact on the Conservatives’ vote because very few people who would be exercised about the war in Gaza, certainly on the Muslim side, will be supporting the Conservatives anyway. Their vote among Muslim voters is generally very low.

It’s possible that were we to be drawn, for example, into a wider conflict involving Yemen and were to start having to commit more forces to that theatre of war, I think the public might react against that and that government very much.

Concerning Labour, there’s a lot written about the threat to some Labour MPs representing constituencies with very high Muslim populations.

But very often, they have very, very big majorities, so even if there are some people in those constituencies who feel very strongly about Gaza and therefore vote against Labour, they’ve probably got a sufficient cushion to survive.

Also, it’s kind of reductive to suggest that voters with an Islamic faith are purely defined by that faith. They also have to operate in an economy that is suffering from a cost-of-living crisis.

Al Jazeera: As the new year gets under way, what are Sunak’s priorities?

Bale: The obvious one is the stop the boats issue and the ability or inability of the government actually to bring an end to people coming across the Channel to claim asylum.

The other issues are perennials [like] the state of the economy. Some people now suggest that Britain will go into a recession before the election, which is never good for a government.

Clearly, inflation is going down, but perhaps not quite as fast as people might want it to.

People are still suffering the cost-of-living crisis that they’ve been in for a year or two now.

The other big issue that the government doesn’t seem to be able to do anything about is the state of the National Health Service, the huge waiting lists and the difficulty in finding a [family doctor].

One possibility, towards the end of the year, will be the US election and the extent Donald Trump does or doesn’t endorse Rishi Sunak.

The possibility that Trump should be elected before we hold an election will make people feel that the world has suddenly become more unstable and, therefore, perhaps more inclined to vote for the current government than for a new option.

Al Jazeera: Election polls signal an election defeat for the Conservative Party, with a loss not seen since 1997. Is this likely?

Bale: It’s very difficult to imagine a government this far behind in the polls at this stage of the electoral cycle, with a PM who is, relatively speaking, very unpopular, presiding over an economy that is at best bumping along the bottom, and an NHS that most people seem to think is falling apart, will be able to win an election.

Obviously, Labour have got a big mountain to climb because they did so badly last time around. They have to win an awful lot of seats in order to win a majority.

But I think that looks now eminently possible. Still, I think forecasts of a landslide are probably over the top.

Al Jazeera: What trends are we seeing from early polling, particularly among the Britons who traditionally voted Labour but switched to the Conservatives in the 2019 election?

Bale: It’s clear that the Conservative Party has lost a lot of support in those seats that it flipped from Labour. Partly because [ex-UK PM] Boris Johnson was quite popular, partly because [ex-Labour leader] Jeremy Corbyn was very unpopular and partly because those seats were heavily in favour of Brexit.

Now that Brexit has, to some extent, disappeared in the rearview mirror, it is less of an issue for those voters, and what matters more to them is the kind of bread-and-butter issues like the economy and the NHS.

One would expect a lot of those seats to return to Labour given how poorly the government is judged to be handling those particular issues.

The government is also in trouble with so-called blue wall seats (which are loyally Conservative).

These are seats in the south and the east, which are rather more affluent. [The Conservatives are] very hard-line on immigration, on “woke”, and all that kind of stuff is not popular among well-educated people who often live in those affluent areas.

Generally speaking, [the trends] show that the government is regarded as exhausted, out of ideas, and too right-wing for many – and that doesn’t really bode well for its electoral chances.

Al Jazeera: What could we expect from a government under Labour’s Keir Starmer and the impact on European politics?

Bale: I think that’s the $64,000 question, in a way, because Keir Starmer and Rachel Reeves, the shadow chancellor, have presented a very cautious campaign.

They’re not offering far more spending. They’re not really levelling with people [on the] taxation required to help public services recover from the 10 years or so of austerity that we’ve seen.

I suspect that the Labour government would be rather more radical and more inclined to spend money than people think, and raise taxation.

In terms of the impact on European politics, generally speaking, Europe seems to be swinging to the right.

Were a Labour government to be elected, it would at least give some people in Europe the hope that it’s not completely impossible for a centre-left government, a bunch of social democrats, to win power.

Al Jazeera: Will the climate crisis be an election issue?

Bale: What is very urgent is the climate emergency. Although Labour has talked about a kind of big green investment fund, I think they will probably play that down because they’re worried about Conservative criticisms of the cost of that programme.

But if someone were to look back on this election in 50 years, when the planet will be much warmer, and we’re suffering all sorts of consequences as a result of that, they may well say, why were they talking about fairly trivial things when the world’s burning?

This interview has been lightly edited for clarity and brevity.

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unknownjpegs · 10 months ago

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antarctica

Benji watches from the cracked living room window, eyes trained below to the sidewalk. Suddenly, a figure jogs out the front door, directly into the center of the road. A dark vehicle approaches down the rain-wet street, dodging several double-parks.

The figure pauses beneath a yellow flickering glow — only working streetlight on the whole block, because it’s a shit fucking neighborhood. He feels his mouth twitch slightly; the figure is dressed entirely in black for the purposes of camouflage. Kinda hard to fit in, go unnoticed, with that telling flash of red hair.

And fuck, if he tries so damn hard not to get caught up in the exact color, poetic in his mental comparisons of it to molten metal, or rust, or maybe closer to certain dried leaves on the first few stretching weeks of autumn—

Xavier turns on the glow-splattered asphalt, head tilted slightly up. There’s a pretty, toothy smile on his face that grows wider as his eyes crawl up the facade of the building.

He’s searching, as he often does, for Benji in the window, as he often is.

Benji’s hand lifts off its own accord, lips curling slightly as he waves. The movement catches that meandering focus. When green eyes snap directly to his across the distance, his chest aches with a distinct pain of humanity so strong that it startles him. And worse, it cinches more and tighter as Xavier throws both hands up to wave, too.

So fucking cute, that wide exaggerated sweep over his head. So him.

His whole sternum continues to constrict when they tuck between his head, fingers knit together in a cup around his skull. His face has lit up even more, if possible.

Oh no, Benji tries to bite back a daft, embarrassingly open smile by worrying his bottom lip. Oh, for fuck’s sake. You have got to stop doing shit like that. Making it so damn hard not to get attached.

There is a soft bubblegum pop! behind him. He jumps and stumbles to the side, his back against the wall.

“Shit, Ina!”

He hisses at the inch-taller vampire in the center of the room. She looks strange in Xavier’s apartment. Her long legs, wrapped in fishnet, stretch out bare beneath a tattered too big cotton t-shirt that reads He Proposed At Monongahela National Forest.

“Congrats,” Benji says once he’s gathered himself, with a gesture at her shirt.

“Thanks.” She pops another bubble, head tilted. When she peers at him like that, huge eyes unblinking, she seems more like a strange storybook animal on the margins of a page. “This place smells like sex.”

Benji’s face heats at her pragmatic observation. He’d just spent the last hour drinking lazily, on and off, from a pale neck — or else his face would be incapable of blushing, would remain cold.

“How’d you get in?”

Ina lifts an arm and points towards the hallway, towards Xavier’s bedroom. Even at the suggestion of it in his mind, the heat gets more pronounced. He has to look away from her when the myriad of images flash in his head, irrationally concerned that she’ll see them.

He wants to keep things to himself. Things like Xavier spread out in the messy sheets, Benji’s hand pressing him down by the center of his chest. The graceful, mind-numbingly pretty stretch of a freckled back when he’d flipped over. Gentle dip of his spine under Benji’s tongue, debating whether the simple taste of sweat and skin was more intoxicating than blood. How soft his grunt had sounded when Benji circled his waist, tugged him towards the edge of the mattress. The high, needy note his airy laugh had found on a winding climb as Benji dropped to his knees, slid a needling bite into the back of his thigh.

“Wow.” Ina says, an eyebrow hitched. “Did you hear anything I just said?”

No, Benji admits to privately to himself, but it must show on his face.

“I said, the window was open. I followed you,” she repeats in her dry lilt. “I was wondering where you kept running off to.” Her bright eyes dart around the living room. His discarded boots, his jacket over the back of the couch some of the only decorations in Xavier’s sparsely adorned space. “Now I get it.”

He lifts his arms, gesturing in a circle, and then lets them drop heavily back to his sides. Here I am. Nothing exciting. “What’s to get?”

“It.” She replies, eyes pulsing wider. On anyone else, it might be a cheeky, esoteric joke. But Benji doubts a single word has passed her lips that she doesn’t mean genuinely. “You have to be careful, though.”

Benji snorts immediately at the prospect. Not that Xavier couldn’t, because he was capable and well-trained and strong, fuck was he strong, but —

He falters.

Xavier wouldn’t, is the thing. Not could…because yeah, he was capable. But given the opportunity, Benji trusts that he wouldn’t. That’s the thing he finds so preposterous, that makes him laugh. He wouldn’t give Benji a reason to be cautious.

“You’re laughing,” Ina says, sounding slightly miffed as she perches on the armrest of the couch. “But I didn’t tell a joke. You do have to be careful with these types.”

Benji waits for her to expand on that, but she doesn’t. Only stares at him, eyes glowing in the darkness. “Sorry? These types.”

“They’re weak,” she raises a palm when he opens his mouth to argue. “Oh, stop. They are. We both know it, don’t get all,” the hand flaps between them, “Like that.”

“He could kill me if he wanted,” Benji defends and then frowns. Kind of a weird defense to make.

But Ina seems to understand where his mind’s going, because she snaps her fingers.

“Exactly. He could, but he’s weak, so. Won’t. That is what I’m trying to tell you. Doing this, over and over like you are.” Benji watches her whistle and circle a finger at her temple. “They go all wuh-oh.”

“It’s not every day,” he argues. “I’m being careful.”

“I’m not talking about just the feeding.” She says, standing. “It’s all of it. This, you, the weakness, the bedroom. It’s trust and surrender. Once you have that from someone it’s addictive, isn’t it?” Ina taps her nose. “Both ways.”

He doesn’t respond, because the honest answer is yes. It’s fucking addictive because it feels like it’s meant to be there. He thinks of Xavier’s hair in the streetlight, and glances away from her eyes once more. Sometimes it feels like she’s peeling him open at the sternum, finding truth where it sleeps idle in his dead guts.

That’s where I tuck him, comes the thought, and she watches it flit across his face. Clicks her tongue against her teeth and then strides forward, taking his shoulders in her black-tipped hands.

“If you want to keep this one like it is, you just need to give it a break once in awhile.”

“He.”

“He,” Ina corrects immediately. “Take it from me — they enthrall easily. Get attached. Not in a sexy way, Benji,” she clarifies, grinning at his embarrassed scowl. “I mean, dissociative-attached. Like…walking blood-bag. Unwell, no thoughts up there.” She pats his shoulder and lets her hands drop to her sides, chirping a phrase that Benji can’t translate. “You don’t seem the type to enjoy a husk that is always amenable.”

Benji imagines forest-green eyes flat of light and life, that emotive ferocity stifled, blurred, by obedient subservience. It isn’t the idea of submissiveness that rolls his stomach with nausea, nose wrinkling — he likes looking down to Xavier on his knees, listening to breathy, ruined begging.

No, the nausea wrenches him because none of it would be presented as an option. Behavior forced by whatever dangerous bond Ina warns against.

Benji swallows the lump in his throat. “No, I wouldn’t like that.”

Ina shrugs. “So be careful. Take some breaks.”

His eyes drift towards the window, but Xavier’s long gone. The yellow glow of the streetlight is empty.

“I will,” he promises.

The very next evening, Benji is back at his apartment.

He tries not to think of that conversation. Tries to ignore the wriggle of anxiety in the back of his head as he watches Xavier shrug on a hoodie, hands flattening messy hair as his head pokes out.

“We taking yours?” He asks, approaching Benji where he sprawls in a rickety chair at the kitchen table. “Gotta be honest, makes me kind of insane to think about.”

He leans down slow, palms sliding across the table behind Benji and caging him in. He’s got a smile on — little dangerous, glinting thing that draws Benji’s focus down to that fucking mouth. He tilts his chin up, tips of their noses briefly bumping together.

“Why am I not surprised you’re a fuckin’ bike passenger princess?” He teases, holding Xavier’s gaze until, inevitable, the human shies a bit and glances away.

He stretches upright, slipping giant warm palms up Benji’s arms to his shoulders, fit them in a gentle cup around either side of his jaw.

“Think I could pull off a crown?”

Benji stares up at him, imagining it, hypnotized by how Xavier’s back to the window sets a luminous halo of moonlight peeking through his hair. You would look good in anything, you fucking bastard.

“Easily.” He breathes.

They end up taking Xavier’s old pickup. Ancient, but operable, and in pretty good condition.

“I like working on stuff. I’m good with my hands,” Xavier had said, leaning across the console to snap his passenger’s seatbelt in place despite the ‘really?’ look Benji shot at him. He’d flushed, bent slightly into Benji’s space, and looked up with big, genuinely embarrassed eyes. “Ha — I mean…I meant, like, mechanically. Didn’t mean it like that, swear.”

But Benji had already been reaching to wind fingers into his hair, affectionately amused and pulling him closer, closer. They’d kissed hungrily until the windows fogged a bit, until Benji had that overwhelming feeling of ‘more, please’. Motivated by the desire to crawl into Xavier’s lap in the driver’s seat, he’d flung himself forward with the urge to move, to be as connected as possible.

And then there had been a loud, tearing rip.

“Oops,” Benji had muttered, plucking the frayed half of the seatbelt now loose and broken in his lap. “Shit, sorry.”

Words’d been barely out of him before he was being dragged into another kiss, Xavier’s whining, panting groans offered hotly into his mouth.

“Christ— oh my fucking God — Benji, oh —” he’d been murmuring between kisses even hungrier than before. “Fuck, why was that so hot? I have to drive, dude. Jesus.”

Benji navigates them to the field. It’s a fucking miracle itself that they get there unharmed. Xavier’s the worst driver he has ever had the displeasure of being in a moving vehicle with — including Ina, who sometimes laughingly jerks the wheel to play chicken with oncoming traffic.

He slips out first, hopping down into tall grass and tossing the plastic bag printed Thank you! into the bed of the truck.

“Damn,” Xavier’s saying as he shuts his door, head tilted up. “You weren’t lying. I didn’t realize it would be so…”

“Right? Only gotta get out of the city a bit, and it’s like this.” They meet at the back of the truck, pausing as their eyes do too. Benji grins. “Ina — friend of mine, uh, ‘nother vampire, she’s real old — she says the best place to see it all is Antarctica. Y’know, ‘cuz nobody is there. Just you and the sky. Makes it proper…” he waves a hand, lacking a good descriptor. “Incredible.”

Xavier whistles and tilts his face towards the cosmos, eyes darting around. Benji watches him spin in a slow circle, trying to find pictures amongst the stars. He could point a few out, if he felt like he had the braincells to rub together to remember, but Xavier is — he looks — he’s so —

Fuck. Benji thinks.

He glances down, eyebrows raised and lips curling. “What?”

“Oh —” Benji laughs nervously. It’d been aloud. “I just…” His hands lift uselessly, and the withholds the urge to let one drop to Xavier’s waist. “Just think it’s cool, right? That’s fuckin’ everything, right there.”

Xavier laughs and turns towards the truck, unlatching the mechanism to lower the tailgate. He braces both hands on it, tongue poking out from between his lips. “Makes my head hurt to think about, sometimes.”

“Right. It’s just…everything.”

Fuck, Benji thinks again, and catches his wrist. Xavier’s pulse hammers away, jolts on a beat when his cold fingers encircle it. That makes him grin, eyes lidded as he peers up at Xavier’s confused, hesitant expression.

“Okay?”

“Yeah,” Benji says, voice low. “Fucking super. Really.”

Now he allows his hands to find the magnetic pull of that body. Fits them against the firm, tapered flank of muscle that drives him mental to look at, much less touch.

Benji puts no effort at all into lifting him. Big hands scrabble at his shoulders briefly until Xavier’s laughing breathlessly, shocked. His back arches off the taillight, chest heaving.

“Ohhhkay. What the fuck.” His fingers squeeze. “Fuck, you are strong.”

“Coulda done that before,” Benji admits cheekily, eyebrows jumping brief and suggestive. “Just so you know.”

It has exactly the effect he suspected, so he’s smirking as Xavier nearly whimpers and yanks him forward. It’s an awkward angle to make work for a kiss, but they do; Xavier has to balance low on Benji’s hips, legs around his waist, sat uncomfortably against the bumper, to get their faces close enough.

When Benji flirts fangs at his collarbone, Xavier moans filthily and presses their bodies tighter together, arms locked around his shoulders and grip fierce in his hair.

“Want it,” he says, eyes fluttering open to find Benji’s. “Please.”

And usually, Benji wouldn’t hesitate to follow that pleading command. He’d relish the give of flesh beneath those sharp points, moan like a beast as they pop through layers into the warmth pulsing beneath. He’d lap at the blood that welled up, grind his hips at it on his tongue, tuck his fucking whole face into the smell and heat and taste.

Except he doesn’t — not that he doesn’t have the urge. He always does, always wants to bite down somewhere soft on that pale body. The desire is present even when he’s not thirsty. Even after he’s just drunk his fill, watching Xavier writhe beneath or above him, catch his breath with rolling eyes and a satisfied smile. He watches that and has the urge to — not even bite. Just put his mouth there. Be close.

“Later,” Benji promises vaguely against soft skin. His tongue darts out to lick over the pulsing blue cord of a vein: hello, see you soon, I’ll be back for you. He brings their lips together again, whispering. “Just this for now.”

When they finally part, Xavier’s eyes are glazed, mouth swollen in so specific a pink to him that Benji nearly dives in for more.

And Benji has long become used to the cold of his own body — had never felt it like a lacking of anything but heat. Same way his brain filters out repetitive noises, he doesn’t need to spare thought towards, Benji doesn’t think of the cold.

Except now, when they part. When Xavier pulls away to his feet, drops the tailgate, and crawls shakily into the truck bed, it feels cold. He feels cold.

Benji watches as he yanks a variety of blankets from the narrow backseat and spreads them out into as cozy a nest as he can manage, in these circumstances.

“Should I be jealous that you keep those at the ready?” Benji jokes, because he feels more than cold. Feels like something’s lacking — something that is too big to acknowledge. There, like a background buzz, that he can’t give thought towards.

Xavier dips his chin shyly, cheeks red not just from the kissing or scrape of Benji’s stubble. “I just — when…if people — I want them to be comfortable.”

“Oooh, want ‘em comfortable, hey?” Benji teasingly snorts to offset how the insinuation (People? Who? When?) prickles strangely at his scalp . “I’ll bet.”

Xavier tugs him forward as he climbs up too, and the collision of their bodies together into the pile has the whole vehicle jerking. They laugh and tangle together and shove; wrestle a bit, Benji always keeping himself carefully and tightly in check. Aware that too hard a grasp on a bicep might fracture bone, a push to ribs might crack one.

Eventually they settle side by side, propped and seated against the rear window. Benji had retrieved the convenience store haul he’d picked up before heading to Xavier’s earlier. Now, he dumps it upright. Several bottles of water spill out, rolling in the bed of the truck between their legs. Along with a variety of snacks, an assortment of candy, and because it lights up Xavier’s face, a few sugar-packed energy drink.

“No iron pills?” Xavier jokes, rifling through the pile to find a bag of chips.

“For what?” Benji asks stupidly, snatching it away and offering a bottle of water instead. “Finish that first. Your lips are chapped.”

Xavier leans forward and puckers dramatically, eyebrows waggling. “Just lick ‘em for me.” He falls back laughing when Benji shoves him away by the cheek, slumped into the corner. Long legs kick out, one tossed over the edge and the other across Benji’s own.

“I mean, this stuff is unhealthy. Where’s all the spinach and vitamins and iron-rich foods and, like, shit that’ll beef up —” he pats his inner elbow theatrically. “These bad boys.”

Benji’s eyebrows furrow. “Why the fuck would I get you spinach? So y’can sit there and munch on it like a rabbit? You don’t even like it.”

Xavier sits up with that toothy grin in place, delighted about something. “Jesus Christ, you are so totally oblivious it’s crazy.”

They lay there for hours. Spin together in cycles of quiet chatter, wild laughs, and comfortable silence. At one point, Xavier adjusts across the blankets, snack wrappers crinkling. They haven’t been far from one another, but now there’s more space on either side than between. Both have toed their shoes off; Xavier’s trainers are a neat pair near the dropped tailgate, while one of Benji’s is kicked beside them and the other had been flung off the side into the grass. He’ll have to find it before he goes. Before he has to go, because in a few hours, the sun’ll be up and this will be over.

Take a break.

Fuck. And what if he finds that he can’t pull himself away? What then? He thinks of Ina. Her tendency to be there one moment and gone the next. How it had felt to have her there through his change, her soft touch and whispers of support and physical help, when he needed it. And also how it had felt to find her simply gone one day.

His eyes flick over the blanket of night, the tiny far-off dots. He envisions Ina floating between them, waiting to collide with one of those tiny pinpricks. Tries to imagine himself doing the same. Shudders.

“Cold?” Xavier asks immediately and then snorts. “Oh, fuck. That was a stupid question, huh?”

He lifts a plaid duvet over both their legs anyway, shuffling closer. They press together from thigh to shoulder, warmth seeping into Benji from every centimeter of pale skin against his.

Sometimes, even after several years, he finds he still needs practice to get used to his new senses. Occasionally, and especially when he’s feeling overwhelmed, everything will wash in like a tidal wave, too much all at once.

Benji looks over at Xavier, cheek bunched against the blanket beneath them, and gets the distinct sensation of nonexistent breath catching like a choke in his throat. Everything rushes in. At a distance, far: the gentle patter of a squirrel’s steps across the field, finds the scent of apple blossoms in an orchard three kilometers away, the sound of —

Right next to him, close: the sound of a singular heartbeat. Xavier’s distinct, clean smell and its nearness multiplying in thousands, to the extreme. Benji fights the urge to roll away as his ears ring, as the dizzy-headed feeling of too much all at once crashes over him.

All of that. Just from — fuck. Just from looking.

Instead of shifting away, Benji faces him. Tucks one arm under his cheek. The other hovers awkwardly over Xavier’s chest, makes him feel young and immature. Makes him nervous and inarticulate.

Xavier glances over and his eyebrows furrow a moment. Then he reaches up. Pats Benji’s hand where it floats midair, presses it down until it rest over his heart, and tangles their fingers together.

Benji’s, still in his chest, feels like it lurches and swings loose.

“You sure you’re not —” he grins boyishly, bright but embarrassed by something. “You okay?”

Tongue feels heavy in his mouth, like a weight to the door that prevents it from opening, he swallows and nods. If he tries to speak, he’ll fuck it up.

He can’t even think.

Nothing coherent to think at all, so no pointing trying to verbalize it — although he feels like he should. When it comes to Xavier, it feels so clear but so jumbled. Complicated. He’s only — Benji has only sunk fangs into him a few times. So Ina must be right. Has to be, about that nefarious bond. He feels it like a tether, like a jumbled mess. Feels something, at least.

He thinks about Xavier and it’s useless to describe. Like every time he trusts his fingers fit around something tangible, something suitable to share (See? This. Right here, this thing. This is the feeling. Do you get it?)— it’s sinking and gone back beneath the mess. There’s just so much there, too much to share that he wants to offer.

It especially difficult like this. Xavier, like this. Soft and relaxed, silver-lit by the moon that Benji is fated now to walk under. There’s nothing to fucking say about it — it’s just…Xavier in moonlight. That’s all he can manage.

Xavier in moonlight.

Oh, you fucking prick, he thinks solemnly, suddenly aware. You got me.

That overwhelming feeling bounces around in his chest cavity like it needs to be directed. Benji doesn’t have a translatable place for it, so he slips it into the space marked annoyance. This body splayed out beside him, warmth addictive as it presses against his side, long pale arms folded behind his head. It annoys him.

Benji’s eyes trace over the strong slope of that freckled nose, linger at the slight divot in his cheek from his soft, barely-there smile. Trace and memorize, file away.

Look at you. Piss off. Beneath hands folded across his abdomen, Benji’s stomach flutters. Not really, not like it’s alive or capable, but the feeling of butterflies is there all the same. Fuck. I’m gonna start comparing you to the sky. That’s it, then, isn’t it? I don’t come back from something like that. Once you start thinking that way, night-fucking-sky, you don’t go back. Everything — fucking everything — is about to split into before you and after you. I can tell.

“Xavier.”

“Hm?” The human glances over at him again. Benji notes, as he reaches for his cheek, the painted purple streaks of exhaustion under his eyes. He’s not gaunt by any means, but his cheekbone curves inward slightly, the hollow of his throat pronounced.

You need to eat better, Benji thinks as he rises enough to lean over. And be careful.

With a palm braced above his shoulder, Benji brings their faces together. Nose bumping again, as they had in Xavier’s apartment. When his wrist brushes the side of his exposed neck, Xavier jolts a little. Laughs immediately after.

“Cold?” Benji echoes with a grin. He feels long arms wind around his shoulders, deft fingers immediately delving into the tangled mess from laying down so long. Working out some of the knots.

Xavier doesn’t say anything in response. His gaze is sleepy as it slips over Benji’s face, but he nods and pulls beseechingly with that grip in his hair.

Just as they’re about to kiss, electronic birdsong chirps from beneath them. It takes a moment for him to realize where it’s coming from, patting at several pockets before Benji retrieves Xavier’s phone from his back right pocket.

“Thanks,” Xavier blushes when Benji pats over the spot, teasing and appreciative. Then, as he looks at the screen, his eyes shoot wide. “Oh fuck. Man, sunrise. How is it that late already.” He flops backward, arms petulantly crossed over his face. “We only have an hour.”

“Early, already,” Benji corrects, the joke airy and distant. His eyes are fuzzy but summarily fixed on the thrum of a pulse in his wrist. He feels twitchy. Too much all at once, at that ringtone. Because…

“Xavier.” The redhead lifts an arm to peer at him. “Xavier, ‘ave you got an alarm set for sunrise?”

He frowns. “Yeah, of course.”

Benji crashes forward, gathering his face up between cold palms. There’s a muffled noise of surprise laughed into his mouth and it doesn’t take long for it to twist into a pleased, rumbling hum. Goes high and hitching, solid little huh of a moan because Xavier seems to realize Benji’s not laughing. Benji is deadly fucking serious. His brow tightly furrowed, mouth in a strangely annoyed sneer even as it presses to Xavier’s again and again.

And Benji finds his chest aches as if he needs air — of course he doesn’t, but when he pulls back with a groan they’re both panting. Xavier in particular, who gasps and clutches at him like he’s drowning.

“Damn —”

The pitchy, ragged croak of Xavier’s voice makes him feel like a fucking feral. He tastes the rest of the sentence off his tongue, throwing a leg over that slim waist so his knees rest on either side of the other man’s hips. Benji slides the hands framing his handsome face to nest, needy and tight, into red hair; he thinks of it glowing under the streetlight, thinks of the arms around his torso waving enthusiastically, thinks of him now, all silver under the stars.

Benji moans obscenely into the next kiss, and for a time the rest of it is like that, too. Obscene, messy. But his hands don’t waver from their cradle at the back of Xavier’s head, and even though they grind together on a particularly hard bite to a lip or glance of tongues, Benji doesn’t otherwise move. He doesn’t slink lower or make the night witness anything more explicit than it already has — they simply kiss, because it truly is all he needs in the moment.

And even when Benji soothes gentle, sucking kisses down the pale column of Xavier’s neck, even when Xavier’s strong chin tilts wantonly, the human has no reason to prepare for the sweet pain of a bite. It doesn’t come.

Benji will forever be cold, will from this point forward need to leech warmth into himself instead of radiating it out. But there’s something like heat in his chest, as they kiss and just kiss; something that fills him up, something that manages to temper even the ever-present pang of thirst. It’s not warmth, but it’s something.

They kiss until Xavier’s phone goes off again, and still more for a few moments after that. They kiss until Xavier has to pull himself bodily away, holding Benji at arm’s length with hands flat to his chest. He’s panting, he’s grinning, and he laughs when he’s got to firmly push to stop Benji from pouncing once more. Because — because his hair is an absolute tragedy of cowlicks and mess. There are marks near his mouth, dotting his jaw, trailing his neck, disappearing in a line of red across his collarbone into the soft, loose t-shirt he wears.

None of them are bites.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” Benji tells him earnestly, eyes darting all over as the attempts to take him all in. “Xavier, you are just…fuck.” He laughs roughly. “Feel like I’m in Antartica.”

Xavier goes charmingly, completely red. In fact, he’s blushing the entire drive back. Pink down to his chest — which Benji discovers by teasingly lifting the hem of his shirt as he slips out of the truck.

Benji watches from a window in the manor as Xavier (horribly) drives the truck into the yellow glow of the rising sun in its peek over the horizon. He shuts the curtains to blot the light out, chest tight. Benji wonders if he’s still blushing. Benji wonders if his hair is the same color it is under the sun as it is a streetlight.

Benji wonders if maybe Ina was right in warning him to be careful. Because now all he can think is before and after. It feels very much like surrender.

#writing #ua #bp #xw #bp x xw #vampire au

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