#mid span jointing sleeve

[rcguish]

a collection of snippets from some of the discord happenings ( silver and grusha threads <3 ) : first date ; day one, into the morning.

pretty cute is something he’d only heard blue say to him, years ago. that was different, this is different. instinctively, free hand rises to touch the thickest part of the scar displaced off of nose bridge, and he feels somewhat prepared to speak in rebuttal. but silver sees the pure sincerity in the depths of grusha’s eyes, like he spoke from his heart rather than in deception, and it felt real. like he couldn’t dare to argue, like it was anything other than fact to them. blue’s words ring once again in his mind. maybe even thinking of kissing them?

companion moves back, and he almost makes a noise akin to a whine — almost — before their gazes meet and heart skips its beat again. without a thought, eyes flit from eyes to lips, and back up again. there’s a beat of hesitation, movement before a pause that has silver holding his breath — would he? and when a hand clad in a mitten rests on the side of his face, silver hums again in a low, deeper note that really did sound like the slightest whine. maybe touch was quickly filling in some distant and forgotten about part of him, maybe some part of him he had to kill to survive. with grusha’s eyes closed and them unable to notice at that moment, silver lets his gaze fall to their scarf and hidden away lips once more.

he sees grusha work himself through something that he can’t see. notes the inhale / exhale, a conscious effort in releasing the tension that gripped their frame ; and just that alone brings a soft smile back to the ends of silver’s lips. i’m proud of you. self soothing was never an easy feat, it was a hundred year long war that took place in the span of minutes. maybe hours, maybe days. they did it in seconds, no matter how forced. it was a start. [ ... ... ] “i —“ no, that wasn’t right. the arms that had released grusha, now holding to the crease of their arm that was cradling his face, clench and unclench. from laying gentle, to fists above cloth, to a quiet uncertainty in movement. “…no, you.” the words that fall almost lamely from his mouth are enough for a quieted huff of air evolve into a soft laugh.

though chill had set in to his extremities, and conscious thought had started self-allocation towards subtly steadying his breathing, silver doesn't spend more than a second on the idea as it came to him. gently releases his grasp and reaches to the top of his jacket collar. pulls down the zipper, sliding off external warmth before folding it into a neat blanket and laying it on top of the scarf on grusha's leg. thankfully, successful planning ahead with knowing they'd be outside longer, had led to him layering two long sleeved shirts underneath. or else he'd be left with just the normal one.

his motion stills as silver’s caught up in his amusement, though — a slight raise of his eyebrows and a firmer sort of smile settling on lips. “gold’s dubbed my joints as ‘rice krispies’, if that makes you feel any better. i can only imagine what your groan sounded like ; mine was a prelude to him getting thrown into the nearby river.”

"though, i'd say being on a high-altitude and ridiculously cold mountain is hardly anything in comparison to being frozen over." slides layer off and holds it out to start folding -- frozen over? he really just said that? silver slows to a very quick stop, mid-fold, before he turns his face slowly to meet with theirs. the amusement fades to the glint of a grimace, hesitant to see / hear what they'd possibly react like to that simple fact that had been so casually thrown out. ( was he that exhausted? ) and just like that, suddenly it was hard to even try to recall semblance of normalcy in a social conversation -- but damn, did silver want so badly to keep holding on to that lightheartedness they shared all night since their first comfort. even if it did scramble his inner script somewhat. "i, uh -- yeah." awkwardly shuffles himself over to the couch in front of the larvesta, right in a fit of avoidance of one of his worst topics. "glaseado watcher's orders prove to be just right once again -- these little guys are also amazing."

grusha brakes in front of him and silver’s eyes snap open in a sudden defense in his awareness to another presence. they hadn’t snuck up on him, but it felt like it — and did his heart pound against his ribcage like it was desperate to escape, desperate to run away from his childhood and the memories that haunted him. ( escape what? escape where? ) no, no, not like this — there’s a coldness to the corner of his eye, that only after bringing a gloved hand to swipe at it does it pull away and he’d realize there was wetness on the tip of his finger now. not like this. not like this. how could he break so quickly? how could the simple resurfacing of that render him so wrecked to the point of almost / practically welling up? silver had lived those days over and over again since they happened, had it plague his mind like a weighted reminder to watch his fucking back, always. [ ... ... ] there’s a distant and subconscious part of silver that brings his hand to his belt, retrieving familiar pokeball of weavile so that he could materialize beside him and crawl right into silver’s lap — as he barely registered both presences. a stretch of quiet, save for the sounds of pokemon finishing their meals. he forces himself to breathe, those exercises he had once found and come to put into ( albeit, poor ) practice as soon as blue fur and red feathers grounded him back, slowly, into this home. a safe place, away from the torment of the past. he tries for a subtle wipe of the corners of his eyes when the burning dissipates, even if no tears had managed to spill over — but he knows damn well such a reaction wouldn’t have gone unnoticed. and so he rests his head back, exhausted, against the headrest of the couch when heartbeat starts to slow. weavile rumbled like a purr in his lap, a welcome vibration against his legs that bring platinum gaze back to multicolored. “…it’s… a long story.” quiets once more, letting hands absently run fingers over weavile’s fur. “i think it’d be better to tell you — another time.”

silver looks at grusha like he was the one thing tethering him to that earth in that moment -- and he was. "i was supposed to die, there… i should've died. so many times i was captive, i should've died, but i didn't -- and now that i'm here, living into adulthood…" his voice cracks, thick with sadness and fatigue. he was tired. "i feel like i'm living on borrowed time. i should've…" opens up his fist and takes firm hold of their hand properly. he doesn't have the strength to finish that sentence, and head turns / gaze drops to lose itself in weavile's fur. manages to breathe out a shaky whisper, "i'm sorry." [ ... ... ] and like he had read silver’s mind, he’s being pulled into the tender warmness of contact. a side hug. it felt reminiscent of the time silver had leaned over and done similar for grusha during his moment of vulnerability, and the faintest shadow of a smile plays at the ends of his lips. and those words only solidify something in his heart. home… a sanctuary away from what he’s survived. home could be a person. and maybe home was becoming grusha.

grusha equates him to light and silver feels like he couldn't breathe, somewhere in between wanting to speak to keep up rapport and wanting to turn around and finally kiss him. he tries to steady himself and his fluttering heart, instead, and prompts maybe that final push he needed. "i want to do this more. this -- dating you. i…" has to break a light chuckle at that, something stronger than just a huff of air. "i wanna keep dating you. i don't wanna let go, not if i can help it."

a slow yawn ends in the forming of a thought, " 'guess you could call me your boyfriend, then." and this time, not a single thought sets off any alarms or self-criticizing rabbit holes. this time, all that fills his mind is relief. the walls were coming down, and the weights on his shoulders felt noticeably lighter. like he had shed another barrier that kept him from fully interacting with the world. a small smile settles this time, and doesn't fade ; relaxation despite the butterfree running amok in his ribcage and the familiar ache settling in his head. [ ... ... ] though his timbre is deeper and edged with sleepiness, with words perhaps the slightest bit harder to fully enunciate, it's a thought he doesn't dare keep in anymore. "really... would like t' kiss you right now."

"i've never kissed anyone before, either." it's an unspoken thing but he wants to assure them, and himself, anyway. "so if we bump teeth, i'm sorry." but it's at that where silver breaks, ducking his head with a giddy / nervous laugh. ( it was too much to look grusha in the eye at that moment, with the intent of action right there! ) huffs out air in a lighter chuckle, bringing legs forward so that he sat properly against them, facing them rather than side by side. moment of time passes where he catches his favorite eyes in the world and holds that gaze, and silver's so sure the fondness and adoration lights his normally-dark eyes brighter than even the adrenaline of battle. ( windows to the soul, they truly were. ) "i'm stalling, huh?" he holds gaze, still, even when fingers begin ministrations of removing his gloves once again ; and when leather is set to the side, shaky hands slowly rise and hover just around grusha's cheeks. " i'm -- i'm nervous, too," voice cracks into a whisper but never once does silver's smile falter as he finally rests his hands so gently on their skin. and the intimacy from the moment alone, from holding his face with no barries in between, has trainer breathing out and closing the gap between their lips.

he leans forward and steals another chaste kiss from grusha’s cheek, right before moving to stand — ( hates how cold his fingers and cheeks feel without them touching him) and stretch with arms over his head. his head pounds for a second, but sleepiness dulls the pain without expression. but — the cacophony of joints cracking and popping from the time he’d been sitting and they all set into place is something he outright laughs over. “what was that about twenty four going on to forty?”

he moves around the chair to grasp the handles, beginning to push grusha forward and it's at that moment where it really, really solidifies for him just how much this gesture meant. for them to trust him, or maybe it wasn't about trust -- grusha had been warring inside of himself for a long time, that much silver had recognized from personal experience. there was something in their head that trainer couldn't quite understand fully, a meaning to their previous words that he was sure he'd spend more time ruminating on ; silver told himself, in due time, he would understand his puzzle. he just had to keep trying. [ ... ... ] grusha then points, and silver snaps his attention away to follow the direction to the vulpix sleeping so peacefully together. that's where he breaks and audibly gasps, a shaky and semi-muted thing as to not disturb them ( and the headache threatening to sour his excitement ).

he almost, almost begins to sit and lay down when he realizes that his pokeballs were still attached to his very-real and still-worn jeans. there's a moment where he contemplates several things at once : toss the jeans entirely and deal with the apologies he'll have to doll out to his pokemon as a result, or simply place them all on top of the thrown ( silver wanted to laugh at that ) clothes on the wheelchair and deal with the discomfort of ... sleeping in jeans.

grusha makes a noise also, shifting around that almost had silver daring to try opening his eyes again to take them all in, but then he stops. probably settling back down, or just getting comfortable again ; silver turns off of his back and to the side facing them, sleepily and blindly reaching out / feeling around for their arm or shoulder or anything. meets with something his brain barely registers as a distinct part of their body, but it's warm, so it's them -- and lets his brain focus on the sensation of rubbing small circles into the shoulder (?) of his ...

the pain's still very much present, but it's eased significantly now, with half-lidded eyes ; he's grateful for this moment to be as untouched as possible. grusha's face this close, sleep-addled and lightly imprinted from the pillow case set his heart beating quicker, and quicker, like he'd just gotten up and started running about. perhaps even more than he usually did. their voice, practically cracking with the first use, coaxes a quiet coo from silver as the smile takes its place on his lips. it lessens some after seconds of basking, but doesn't fade as his hand snakes around their shoulder and into their hair. "mornin', you..."

few hours... silver's eyebrows furrow somewhat, a quick calculation in his head had put their average amount of hours somewhere between seven and six... he's sure he's slept the entire time, too, if the heaviness in his bones is anything to go by. there's a way that grusha moves, where he starts suspecting something more ; but he doesn't dare bring the question up, not yet. his hand releases their hair in their turn, instead now resting over their cheek and thumb resuming a back and forth motion under eyes. "...'m sorry. did i move too much?"

there are beats of time, however long they may be doesn’t matter in the slightest to silver — where grusha is quiet. but their hand rests over his and all he focuses on is the feeling of their skin on his, all around something so used to only feeling glove lining. [ ... ... ] he almost, almost asks a question — amazingly enough, his mouth thinks better of it, and decides to stay quiet on the matter. “if you’re sure… but the pill-cutter won’t be needed, i think i’ll gladly take that dose.” he coughs at that, though, amusement lacing itself into his voice yet expression remained neutral in a practiced sort of way. “well, you see, they probably wouldn’t if i took them every time. i have the wondrous method of toughing it out, as they say.” there’s a humorous lilt to his voice, but it’s dry and almost erring on the side of self depreciating. “i’d just go to bed or keep trying to go about my day. but, i don’t really… feel like ‘just dealing with it’ right now, so — medicine sounds good.”

right hand clenches into a momentary fist in a contained physical reaction to thoughts so damn desperate to jump into a self-fulfilling rabbit hole. grusha's puff is enough to snap silver out of it, though, skin on skin contact a consistent reminder of what was right in front of him. what was real versus what his mind wanted him to believe. his hand loosens itself to relax, and a nerve catches fire under that released tension ; there's a slight wince that lands in a twitch of the eyebrow / wince in the crease of his eye. "i don't particularly feel like moving right now, myself, so... fine by me." if he lay here with grusha, nothing hurt ; it's the movement that got him. silver was not going to complain at the extra time to bask in the contact of his home. [ ... ... ] but that -- that's enough for eyes to fully open past a lazy / concerned half-lid, take in every aspect of their face while they bare their chest wide open for him. there are logistics here that silver puts thinking about on the back burner, atleast in this present moment. he glances down for a second at most to where their leg lay propped, though it's fleeting and he's magnetized back up to him. "i'm guessing..." speaks carefully, "that isn't really a recommended thing to do?" grusha's choice / correction of words is noted. the further concept of why? is pondered over while questions borne out of desire to help take the forefront of silver's mind. why could be a lot of reasons, though he's inclined to suspect some issues with self-perception, perhaps how silver might perceive him, it could be... a lot of things. it could be none of them at all.

there is hesitation, uncertainty in all of grusha’s movements and lack thereof that has silver’s eyebrows furrowing slightly downwards in anticipation. he’s grateful for their hand betraying everything they dared not say, a glimpse into their likely racing mind, and when jerky movements take over those fingers he leans forward to press a kiss against the heel of his palm. i've got you. so silver patiently waits and listens, following every gesture and movement, putting things together in his mind and letting pieces fall into place on their own. [ ... ... ] they had both shown each other, in what feels like so little time, almost the rawest parts of themselves ; and to that, silver knew deeply how important, special, this moment's become. how special he felt to be allowed to see grusha like this, to hear him, feel him. that overwhelming sense of gratitude and other emotions has silver scooting his body infinitesimally closer (despite that bone-deep ache of protest), hand reaching up to slide fingers through somewhat messed hair (adorably so) and come to rest against cheek once more. “…thank you. for — telling me about this. i know it’s not easy.” how special it felt to know him. he pauses for a moment, ruminating on all that grusha had divulged him. planning out what to say, slight anxiety and pressure on making sure he says the right thing. it’d be his worst luck to slip up just once, say / insinuate something, break all that trust that had been built —

here, silver tries to train his cognitions to override that negative feedback-loop -- that with enough time, he'd have a fully finished 'flow chart' for grusha, as well -- just in the way alone how silver watches him so keenly, and all that he does, so fondly. he'd meant it when he said he was here to stay, no matter how long. no matter if duty had called him elsewhere, no matter if the day came where pasts might reel ugly heads -- silver was sure that he'd find his way back to grusha, every single time. and so time would pass, just like in this very present moment : in every sour note, every little inch of bitterness, every eye roll, and every sigh. their foreheads meet, and though he's quiet in letting grusha speak free without judgment or pressure of time, silver finally kisses their fingers, featherlight and almost inaudible in the quiet. kindness... that was another thing he hadn't expected someone to recognize, let alone say he possessed. "we have all the time in the world." said not just in response to grusha, but a second meaning as a comfort to himself. a veiled double meaning that, verbalizing aloud, has his own frame melting just that littlest bit more.

when grusha disappears around the threshold, silver allows himself to roll onto his back and finally give in to a full body stretch. it's a slow thing, unravels first at his legs as joints creak and begin their sounds in all its glory, before arms reach up past his head and it's a euphoric feeling. euphoric, yet marred by the physical protest he feels start to seep in after that initial exhale / groan of contented pleasure. it's manageable enough that this would've been a 'tough it out' day, rather than a bedridden one. silver's grateful for that semblance of dignity to remain in tact, atleast for now -- while he's sure such a description or day would be met with good company, there's still that part so hellbent on keeping his pain a secret. dulled away and kept under wraps, only for him and his pokemon to witness and bear. [ ... ... ] "coffee." his response is immediate. "although, i'm not opposed to a good cup of…" trails off as the movement by his feet captures attention within the instant it happens -- but there is not a single threat in sight. except, of course, the threat to his heart. silver can't even dare hold or mitigate the reaction that follows ; jaw going slack and eyes blown wide with surprise, wonder, something almost childlike stirring in the pits of his chest. he looks back to grusha, then to the vulpix ; back to grusha, and the vulpix once more and this time the grin that splits his face, stays. he coos softly at the small fox, a somewhat giddy laugh exhaled in a shaky breath. and when he speaks, it's soft for fear of startling small creature, for fear of letting his excitement become too much. "hiii… i -- i don't have any treats right now, but…" slowly holds out his right hand, fingers gently curved as a presentation of scent. "well, i promise i can bring them and double next time, as compensation."

sterling eyes full of fascination, lips parsed somewhat to form an o of a silent sound he muted almost subconsciously when the fox sniffed and gave a tentative lick. silver had always possessed a love in his heart for the vulpix line, thinks maybe that it could've even been a possibility that he would've had a ninetales on his team had the cards not played out like they did all those years ago. if he ever took the time to go about finding something that had given him joy, hope, rather than allowing himself to forget about it / squash it down when the mission was the first thing on his mind. for years. when he'd punish his own self by disallowing any sort of reward to himself, meeting and befriending a vulpix included. it's when grusha lightly scolds and brushes his finger against orange fur that has silver finally taking his gaze away from the kit and to his person. he distantly registers the bite at that, a delayed sort of reaction before the amusement fills in with softness, adoration once again seeping through in his gaze. "it's alright -- it's nothing compared to the bite of a totodile or croconaw." though feraligatr didn't dare as he evolved into his final form, silver knew more than once that it's crossed his pokemon's mind in the early days. and… grusha in this moment reminded him of gold, even if just a little. this was the best part of the house that dexholder had grown up in, the baby pokemon that wandered and roamed freely to intermingle with older ones. the best part that had long ago twisted up silver's heart with envy. he thinks maybe he could ask, even if just for the notion of an assist, but that very same thought's swallowed down and dismissed when he remembers that he'd have to ask gold of all people. nah. [ ... ... ] "they're a rarity in johto, even if they are native." silver speaks almost absently, and those the grin on his face lessens somewhat it never fully disappears or drops from his face. "i don't remember details, but i do remember always admiring vulpix and ninetales when i was a kid. maybe it was an old children's book that stuck with me." maybe it had been something used against him. forced to bury.

grusha speaks, they laugh, silver snorts at that -- a poor attempt at trying to maintain his normally dry banter in return despite the pure lightness / happiness (!!!) he feels practically emanating from his chest. genuinely tries to recall the memories with a reflective look on his face, stroking warm orange fur all the while. “mmm, maybe. maybe something like how if you come across one, maybe your greatest desire comes true — like in the form of a ‘lonely, disabled dude on a mountain.’ one that has really pretty hair and is an amazing person to get to know.” he can’t help the development of snorts into warm laughter at that, amorous feelings leaving him feeling rather playful. flirtatious?

grusha had been changing him, in just the relatively small span of time they’ve both been in each others’ lives. silver had never once imagined a life where romance could exist, his cynicism / fatalism had deemed it unrealistic. and yet, here he sat faced with pieces of his childhood being brought back, handed to him with roses and joy that should’ve been associated with childhood in the first place, waking up in soft morning light to face… to face his companion. partner. home. compass, lighthouse to bring him back in the middle of a storm. and if grusha catches his eyes at the moment – right at the moment that silver had unfocused / reoriented to coo at the vulpix so happily eating up all of the attention by his hands, and back up to them again… they might notice the way how pupils in stark contrast to surrounding silvery-white, seem to dilate the slightest bit. “my advantage, huh… alright, i confess. what if i told you, my evil grand master plan is to keep saying the sappiest things like that so that i could keep seeing how it makes you react? snapshot it all into my mind to paint later.” to adore later. lugia below and ho-oh above, who was he becoming? “to relish in the string quartet i always hear when you blush like that.” ( silver kind of liked it. thought maybe the person he was becoming might actually be someone worth existing. ) [ ... ... ] would you be interested in adopting them, when they’re old enough? his entire body full on stops at that. eyes flit back and forth listlessly, reading, searching again all over grusha’s face. “…really?” he feels numb for heartbeats of time, however long passes – long enough that the two kits voice their displeasure at the lack of attention and he’s quickly (albeit, still absently) resuming the gentle pets. silver thinks of all the years spent learning that how he had raised his pokemon was inadequate, and unsustainable – all the years spent overcoming all of it, and changing for the betterment of each and every single team member. he swallows and there’s a sharp pain from the dryness in his throat. he swallows again and it still stings. “i… i haven’t raised a new pokemon in… years.” in an instant, with just a single blink, silver sees that mask across every centimeter and in the fullest depth imaginable across his eyelids. in the way that such a beloved pokemon / thing had been kept, hung above his head like he was an animal being forced to run, forced to act meaninglessly forever. all of his desires, dreams, wants, being squashed and beaten into the ground until silver had nothing left. nothing to cling to in the recesses of his own mind, and those lessons were taken all with him. from then on, when he constantly failed / deliberately chose not to find things to be happy in. and with the feeling of ice spanning across his skin again – all at once the pain lancing through his hand, his wrist, right into the knuckle of his ring finger and gripping all the way around into his palm is enough for him to hiss. for eyes to shut away for a moment as he lifts off from vulpix and clutches his hand, fingers pressing directly into the junction between carpus / metacarpus when those nuisances of nerves feel like they’ve been lit on fire. and just as quickly as it comes, it goes. slowly he opens his eyes once more, and they hone in on home and the way how he leaned against the bed. and silver releases a shaky breath. [ ... ... ] so instead, silver nods. and despite the overwhelming disbelief melting into a tentative joy, he finds himself leaning in close to their face. finds that same hand to find their cheek again, lured in by the pull they had over him. "you're… too kind to me. but i -- " inhales, breathes out, "i won't let you down."

grusha takes his hand and kisses it, and silver feels overwhelmed with it. he’d been somewhat more acquainted to touching pokemon without the barrier of leather, and thus feeling the soft fur hadn’t been too much of a shock to his system – but the skin to skin… the way how their lips felt against that ache, it had become nothing short of intoxicating. silver found he actively wanted this, all of them, so much more. but — what if grusha had found out about silver and how he used to treat his team? what if, in the face of all the ugly sins of his past, they decided he wasn’t as suitable as they thought he was? silver feels the weight of his own heart on the verge of breaking at that thought, something like a familiar old ugly grief rearing its head. right in the shape of solid carved ice and menacing black holes for eyes and a smile. no. he was better than that. the connections that he’s forged and nurtured with his team made them a proper team, rather than extensions of his own being – and silver would never, ever revert back to the way he was. a strange, unusual confidence fills his chest from the back of his neck, down, to shooting through his heart and filling him with warmth to all of his extremities.

“we have all the time in the world,” he repeats. and when he says it that time, certainty like steel weaves itself into his bones. it’s that time that the doubts hanging over his shoulder constantly, finally don’t dare to ruin this. grusha’s fingers release his, finding themselves fixing up silver’s unruly sleep-mussed hair and he feels warmth itself finding ears / nape of the neck first. almost feels himself duck in shyness, an impulse to hide away the less presentable parts of himself (especially his hair, especially when he’d learned that for so long he’d been a wreck of a kid). but silver doesn’t give in. instead he looks at grusha in that moment, his grounding force / reassurance, and sees his favorite eyes and all their adoration and, for the first time it’s enough for silver to just simply sweep away his woes. and when vulpix squirms herself free from his lap, silver doesn’t bother to hide the laugh in earnest that flows off of his lips. and earnest turns to sheepish / flattered, an insecurity shining in the light and met with praise instead. “i’m glad one of us finds it cool. maybe i could learn to like it from your eyes.” [ ... ... ] and almost on cue, that unusual slip of hair practically announces itself and all silver could hear was a deep, bassy melody. he’s filled with a deeper sense of calm in response, his grin softening as he leans up and kisses their forehead / twines fingers with that darker lock.

[dustedmagazine]

Alexander Von Schlippenbach — Globe Unity (Corbett Vs. Dempsey)

The Globe Unity Orchestra notched more than a few accolades. It was the first European free jazz big band, and in retrospect, the first improv supergroup. During a history that spanned over 20 years of fairly steady work and a more recent pattern of convening every ten years, it has carried a standard for concerted international effort to improve the world through the transmission of sonic energy. They didn’t call it Globe Unity for nothing; its ranks were a model of multi-national cooperation, and it traveled far from its birthplace in Germany, thrilling and outraging audiences in locales as distant as Chicago and New Delhi.

Composer, pianist and lead Alexander von Shlippenbach didn’t necessarily have all of that in mind when he put the first GUO together. He didn’t even call it that; “Globe Unity” was just the name of the first piece it played. In the mid-1960s, he was part of a circle of musicians who had already been contributing for some time to the loosening and intensifying of jazz’s strictures in Europe. But he was not one who chose to forsake all he had learned in the process. Born in 1938, his post-war education included tutelage in classical composition, as well as a personal affinity for modern jazz. The two side-long pieces on this LP represented attempts to incorporate the sounds of free music into extent jazz and classical orchestral forms. 

When this music was first performed at the 1966 Berlin Jazz Festival, Schlippenbach combined the top German free jazz combos — the Gunter Hampel Quartet, Manfred Schoof Quintet, and Peter Brötzmann Trio. The next month, he recorded “Globe Unity” and “Sun” in Cologne. The personnel list is a heavy who’s who, and some folks might zero in on the names of the two drummers, Jaki (then spelled Jackie) Liebezeit and Mani Neumeier. In times to come, each would shape the rhythmic content of freak-forward German rock music, in Can and Guru Guru respectively. But that’s not what they played here. In concert with Schlippenbach, who played tubular bells, gongs, and both the interior and keys of his piano, and vibraphonist Karl Berger, they provided a multi-hued manifestation of otherness and density. The two bassists added as much seething presence as pulse. Sometimes dramatic, other times exotic (which was not viewed then with the skepticism that it sometimes is now), and only very occasionally swinging, the rhythm section transcended its duties within the big band idiom to contribute immensely to the music’s orchestral qualities. 

The horns, however, are what made this music massive. You don’t need the back cover action shot of players in the studio, confronted by overflowing music stands, to know that their united projection was charted out. The time when the orchestra would take on instant composition at an ensemble-wide scale was still a ways off. But by incorporating the broader tonal and timbral resources of the contemporary avant-garde into organized blocks of sound, they achieved a complex and looming sound which was matched at the time only by Sun Ra’s Arkestra. When individual voices cut through, either as breakaway soloists or connecting joints in the multi-segmented compositions, they functioned both as foci for the energy and agents of structural cohesion. 56 years on, it’s still thrilling. 

Globe Unity has gone in and out of the print since its first release by SABA in 1967, and this its return to the physical realm is welcome. This edition, licensed by the historically astute Corbett Vs. Dempsey imprint, is confined to limited CD and LP editions that recreate the original LP’s gatefold sleeve. It’s gorgeous, but one has to point out that anyone who is likely to buy a CD is also unlikely to be able to read Schlippenbach’s much-reduced liner notes unless they supplement their normal corrective eyewear with a magnifying glass. Old eyes would benefit from either a fold-out insert or an online resource. But music like this is for hearing more than reading, and this reissue sounds gloriously present and alive.

Bill Meyer

[poison--ivory]

Uninviting Cataclysm(Alastor x Reader) Chapter 1

Daily routine isn't always good

(You call the old couple mom and dad) *Also sorry I didn't mention until now that you have really curly hair and your biracial(so you can decide what your skin color is)* •You were also raised up north and still kind of speak with that dialect• 

June 6, 1915 Age: 20

  The morning sun pushing through the curtains along with the sound of dogs barking slowly woke you up. Forcing yourself up and managing to bear from the comfort of your bed and it's still warm sheets. First, tidying your bed spread neat before mom could scold you.

  Making your way to the wardrobe to gather clothes for today's venture, you grabbed a (f/c) V-neck, short flutter sleeve dress that hits mid thigh. With matching flats to best match your dress. Oncing over the choice for today you thought it was best enough. Setting them on the bed and quickly making your way out of your room and into the hallway.

 Swiftly moving down corridor to the bathroom to freshen up before breakfast. Seeing that your old mom already set a nice bath for you. Letting your gown carelessly fall off your frame and removing your undergarments. Mindlessly going into deep thought about your day.

  You usually go to the library to read or grab a book. Maybe chat with the sweet old lady and her seven year old grandson who run the place. Then, possibly taking a stroll around the fair that just open for the summer. By that time your already bringing your twin something for lunch.

  Later, you either stop by the market to pick up groceries or you help your mom take care of wealthy white kids. Their parents pay mom a great deal to care for their children. She does literally everything for them from making meals to sewing dresses or little suits. But, some clients left after my brother and I showed up I guess they didn't want their children to be near a person of color for too long. The ones that stayed seem nice enough. My personal favorite being a middle aged man, Henry Bourgeois, who always said, 'hello' and gave me small tips for caring for his daughter Sally.

  Your skin started to prune sitting in the water for too long. Stepping out of the tub and snatching a towel from the rack you started to dry off. Starting with hair and slowly making your way down to your toes.

  Wrapping the towel around your womanly frame you crept back to your bedroom and got dressed.

__________________________

Once downstairs the smell of bacon and spices hit your nose and triggering your mouth to salivate. Walking into the kitchen you found your mom just about done with her last plate to place at the table with the two others. You greeted her with a warm hug and a 'Good Morning, Mom'. She smiled back and gave your cheek a quick peck. Then went to sit in your chair and wait for your plate.

"Good Mornin', sweetheart. How'd sleep?" She asked, turning back around to slide the eggs on the plate.

"Better than yesterday I can tell you that for sure. The dream I had was so realistic with the flames of hell melting my flesh. I could of sworn that my eyes busted through my soc-" You were cut off by a plate slamming down in front of. Looking up mom had a stern look to her aged face.

"Now ya need ta stop talking 'bout ya dreams like that. Really unladylike especially in public," She spoke with a slight authoritative tone. Lightly limping to her chair she spoke again, "it's just a dame should stay in her own lane. Not that I don't wancha to get a little fire on me now. Men just don't like that talk ya know."

Nodding to her response she took the answer and went on her to turn up the radio for the daily news.

Good Morning, ladies and gentlemen and welcome back to the radio show.

   Staring your favorite radio host, I Alastor, to brighten up your morning with a few songs, but let me darken your day for just a minute with such sad news. Another body was found by an egg last night floating down the bayou.

  Coppers have yet to capture this Button man. This tallies up to over twenty people in a span of two years.  Now what most of you fine folk want to listen to here we have, Mr. Artie Matthew's play the 'Weary Blues'

The piano playing filled in the silence that would have been forks hitting plates trying to pick up flimsy fried egg.

 The killings haven't been new and have been the norm for awhile. You can hear people talking about it at every street, alleyway and bar.

 The coppers haven't caught the guy yet and it puts lots of people on edge. Especially people with families.

 Nearly shoving food in my face causing mom to tell you to slow down. But, hardly listening you shove the rest of the bacon into your mouth and make your way to the sink to scrub your plate and placed it on the drying rack.

"Bye, mama. I'll be back before you know it!" You yelled from the front door way and before you could venture outside she yelled back.

"Pick up some milk and bread before ya get home, would ya?"

"I will, mama."

"Have a safe trip and the cabbage on the table for ya." She slightly limped over and gave both of your cheeks kisses.

Checking the table you hurriedly snatched the money and skipped out the door. Slamming it shut behind you.

Walking down the curvy road that leads into the city. The walk leads you through a small, little wood patch and into a small clearing that slowly shows small businesses and shops. The library is located near the school which is pretty far off from other buildings.

Reaching your destination, the library stairs are long wide, and white cemented staircase with two pillars on each side with the big doors that lead into the actually building. Pushing pass them you nearly run into a little boy, Joseph Bonnefoy.

"Oh, where are in such a rush to?" Smoothing out your dress asked in a slight taunting tone.

"Granny said I could go out for a short break. I'm getting myself a few chocolates as a snack." The words rushed out of his tiny mouth. Hardly catching his breath when he was finished.

"Well aren't you grown now, Joseph. Next thing you'll tell me your getting old enough to get your own house." Jokingly ruffling his hair, he smiled and waved off vanishing from sight once down the incline.

Sauntering into the building you noticed that Claire Bonnefoy wasn't at the front desk where she usually was. Probably in the back.

Making your way down the aisles of books you traveled around for a good five minutes passing books you didn't find interesting or they didn't have good covers. Coming across a couple of good ones you touched 'The Good Solider' reading the summary you decide to give it a try. °°It's set just before World War I and chronicles the tragedy of Edward Ashburnham, the soldier to whom the title refers, and his seemingly perfect marriage plus that of his two American friends.°°

Strolling around the aisle for a bit more you grace yourself with some dark writing. Traipsing on to some dark fiction you grabbed a fairytale book of the 'Grimm work original fairy tales'. Walking back to the front, Mrs. Claire was already their and ready for me. Smiling I greeted her and handed the books over. Smiling she rung them up and complimented the choice for this week.

" How have you been, Mrs. Claire. Not to intrude on your personal life, but is it true that the last person who died lived close to you." You questioned.

"Sadly, yes 'n I've been thinkin' of sendin' little Joseph up state with his aunt 'n uncle in Arkansas for awhile 'til this calms down." Her shaky hand clenched around the book harshly, "Or if they finally catch the bastard whose doin' all of this maybe mah little boy can stay. 'Til then mah old joints can't move like they use tah."

" Lititle Jo 's gonna feel so sad, he really likes New Orleans."

"Yes, I know dear. But, I'd sleep betta at night if he was somewhere safa." She slide the books in a paper bag and handed them over. A melancholy smile on her sweet face. "Been saving up on a train ticket for some time now. Most folk don't come by tah rent out books anymore. So, it took some time 'n hard work tah earn the money."

The killings have did put everyone at alert. Well, most people still hang out past sun fall just to watch the city come to life. Which I won't lie it is gorgeous to witness the night come to life. But, for old bims like Mrs. Claire she's dang plum tire and could use the time to calm her nerves. Maybe I should visit more once Joseph''s left.

"Thank ya, Miss. (Y/n). I'll see ya next week or so."

"The pleasure's all mine and I'll give these books back in no time."

Waving to the old bim you make your way back out the library and on tour way to your next destination.

    Making your way back to the house to fetch Issacs's lunch you had to maneuver your way through the crowd of busy people scrambling around to get out of the sweltering heat and catching up with friends.

 Your brother works at a boiler repair shop. Fixing cars and getting scraps of cabbage to make up for the bills that weren't paid. He's always been a hard working guy, he's selfless and protective. I still remember when we were kids and father used to hit him, so hard, but came to my defense whenever I was in trouble.

 Traveling down the dusty road you made it to the repair shop where two boobs stood out front. One was always silent and the other was a continuous flirt whenever you came around.

As soon as they could hear your shoes hitting pavement the flirt Clay shot up to welcome you.

"How are doing this afternoon, (y/n)." His hand went out to grab your, which you quickly pulled back, "you know that offer still stands that if you wanna get tonight."

"I would, but I'm pretty sure your wife would raise all hell." Walking past him to look further into the garage. "Where is my brother, is he not here?"

Floyd spoke up, which startled you. His voice is pretty deep and gravely for a man only four years older than yourself. Blowing the smoke from his mouth he tapped the ash upon the ground to stare at you.

"He left early to go out with his dame. Told us to tell ya not to worry too much and that he'll be back home later tonight." He stole another drag from the cigarette.

"He could at least gave me heads up before I came all the way out here. What I'm supposed to do with this now." Dangling the bag of food from side to side.

"I'll take it off ya hands for ya." Clay swooning in to steal the bag and retreat back to standing next to Floyd. "Wish my wife could cook like your ma."

  Huffing you said your good byes to them both with a very excited 'see ya' from Clay and a small wave from Floyd.

  Once far away enough you groaned louder to reduce some irritation of making this heart felt trip. Pulling on your face to stop tears from forming you sighed and kept walking to your next venture.

 The scratch mom gave you was enough for bread and milk. But, she also gave you enough to get something special from you little trip. You decided on a cup of coffee at the nearest restaurant with a beignet. It sounds so good right now and with more pep in your step you made it to the store in no time.

  The corner store was full of people that day bustling around to grab what they need and storm out. You being the small self you are you tried to cram your way in and failed miserably. You tried this process several times and came out with the same results. Someone bumped into your small frame and sent you falling backwards. Gloved hands snatched you up before you could hit the ground.

You were in a state of shock before being knocked out of your stooper by a young man who you realized pulled you off to the side. With eyes wide you tried to make conversation, but no words would come out the only thing you could look at was his face.

"T-Thanks for helping me." You tried to mustard a smile, but it came out weird.

"You look like you were in quite the pickle their, my dear." Hands still on your waist he motioned with his head down the street. "You know there's a nice restaurant around here that serves the best venison. I think you would just adore it. Could possibly calm your nerves my treat."

Mouth still dry you tried to speak, "I don't want to impose on your lunch regimen." Shaking your head and slowly moving backwards.

"Oh, but I insist my dear I did invite you didn't I." Pulling you closer by the hip, your face heated up more than normal. Now following the man who you didn't even pick up the name you two made your way around the corner and down the street.

  Stepping inside the small business you noticed only about six or eight people in here. Nicely decorated with bar stools and five booths along the wall and a bathroom across from the front entrance. But, it did smell really delicious in here maybe it won't be,  so bad to have just a bite to eat. He did say he was paying. He lead us to a small booth in the back and waited for me sit down first before taking his seat across from me.

 "Why did you bring me here I barely know you, sir?" Playing with your fingers to ease your nerves by making your fingers stretch and squeeze together.

 His eyes looked off to the side in deep thought before he shrugged. "You looked interesting, my dear." Reaching over he scratched under your chin and his smiled covered more of his face. "Smile my dear you know your never fully dressed without one."

 Making a smile fall upon your lips you smiled back. His eyes slightly narowed and his smirk stretched a bit. Suddenly, a very curvy and thick lady stood in front of our booth.

"Oh, Al are here to hear me sing again tonight. If you are your way too early, hun." She giggled.

"Oh no my dear, Mimzy. I'm here with a new friend of mine. She's going to have seasoned venison." His arm motion towards me and I froze on the spot.

Sticking your hand out for handshake, "HI, my name's (y/n). Nice to meet you."

She stared you up and down before slowly taking your hand and managing a small smile on her face. "You must be a fan, Al here, right. A lot of dumb dora fall head over heels for this man."

 I guess she read the confused look on your face and answered for you. "Alastor, the radio man of New Orleans."

"Oh, sorry I guess I didn't notice." Turning your attention to Alastor, "sorry I didn't recognize a popular figure like yourself."

"It's fine dear a lot of people don't recognize the voice with the look." I'm guessing he's talking the creole look. To be honest a lot of people don't sound like the ethnicity on the phone until you see their face. But, I can't really judge I get turned down in person more than on the phone looking for a job.

"Well I'll go tell the servers the usual for you, Al." She looked you over, again. "What will you have?"

"She'll be having the same as me, mim." Alastor strong smile had her face painted in a light pink. She straighten her posture and cleared her throat and told us it it'll come out in no time. Once she gone I asked how long they've known each other.

"Mimzy and I go way back when she was a small singer. Know she travels from time to time to spread that lovely voice of hers." You just took noticed he speaks with hands a lot more than most people. But, you seem to like that.

 Smiling back you told him that really amazing. It was you mothers goal before she stated using. He asked you about your occupation.

"Well, I really wanted to be a baker, but no plots are open, too expansive or I'm not the right skin tone for this establishment." Looking up for just a second you could have sworn the smile on his face fell and quickly went back into place.

"Isn't that just dreadful." He focused up at the ceiling for awhile and shot his head down to smirk at me, "How would like to work for me for a fair price a hour?"

"What?"

[manfredice]

✧ ✶ ✦ // @jeevastm​​​ asked     ( different headcanons ! )           ❝   5, 10, 14 & 18 for different hc questions!  ❞ 

        5. Do they prefer movies or TV shows? Why?

     oh DEFINITELY tv shows, they’re much better for his attention span and they have set times. but tbh i think leo is more of a youtube / short independent documentary kind of person 

       10. Do they eat breakfast? What’s a typical breakfast look like for them?

      ~no~ lmao this man Struggles to feed himself, he usually drinks coffee first thing in the morning and either smokes a joint or two cigarettes and SOMETIMES he’ll have like three hostess mini donuts if they’re lying around

        14. How do they eat their popcorn? What do they put on it?

     regular movie theater butter, babie! he loves that shit, just slather it in like a cup of oil and he’ll be happy. he also likes cheddar cheese powder on it but he’s always picky about the brand

        18. What is their preferred weather? What would be a perfect weather day?

     low to mid 60s°F / around 16°C, nice enough for a long sleeve shirt without getting hot, but he can push the sleeves up or take his jacket off if he wants to or gets hot all of a sudden. ideally there would be a few clouds, unless he’s out at night, in which case he likes a clear sky so he can see the few stars that can be made out among all the detroit lights. he also really likes the feeling of air on his face, if it was windy then that would be ~perfect~

[bubblesthemonsterartist]

Obi as a martial arts instructor/assistant instructor, and Shirayuki as the student who keeps needing help with her floor maneuvers >:3c

Prompts are currently closed. I will announce when I am open! :)

Apropos to nothing, Obi saunters to the middle of their little circle, lifts up a single leg and falls like a particularly tall tree. His flat palms slapping flat against the mat is ear splitting.

“Okay!” Obi grins like he hadn’t just rattled her teeth just by watching him, and rubs his hands together gleefully. “Can I havea volunteer? Ulkir, do you care to be today’s sacrifice?”

Kai flushes, turning his face into his sleeve. “I went last time,” he mumbles, looking towards his partner with a plea in his eyes. Shiira clears his throat and looks away.

“Come now,” Obi purrs, flat on his back with a smile made of sharp white teeth. “It wasn’t that bad.”

Shy brown eyes sharpen into a glare. “Easy for you to say.”

“It was a learning experience!” he insists. “You’re only going to get better if-”

“Sensei,” Ryuu’s cuts the both of them off. His voice is soft, but there is censure there strong enough to make Obi freeze mid-sentence. “It’s not fair to have Kai go again. There’s a new person.”

Those sharp yellow eyes flicker to her, then quickly away, his grin growing stilted. “Miss is just observing today,” he explains, voice gentling. “She can go next time.”

“She’s wearing a gi,” Ryuu argues, frown deepening. “New people go first.” And he says it so matter of factly, so blatantly, as if- as if these rules were known to all but her.

Obi and Kiki exchange a glance, a flicker of worry passing between them, and Kiki shifts forward, reaching out to touch Ryuu’s shoulder-

“I’ll go.”

It’s like the room seizes at all once. Or maybe it’s just her. Shirayuki’s fingers fist at her knees, face flushed, and- and she doesn’t even want to be doing this. Doesn’t want to be here. She’s only here because Mitsuhide insisted it would help. But if Obi thinks she will just accept him babying her like this, he’s got another thing coming.

Jaw dropping in- surprise? Shock? Concern?, Obi waves his hands ather in denial. “Now, now, Miss…”

“Ryuu says it’s my turn,” she points out, tipping forward onto her hands and knees and crawling into the center of thecircle. “Now what do I do?”

Huffing, Obi looks at Kiki again, and Shirayuki distinctly sees his lips move, mouth forming what looks to be trouble.

“I didn’t quite hear that, Sensei,” Shirayuki says, so sweetly, sitting back on her heels. “Care to repeat it?”

Obi eyes her. Then sighs, scrubbing his face as he flops back onto his back once again. “I said, ‘Fine, Miss,’” he clips, knees drawing up. Extending his hand in a welcoming gesture, Obi gives her his broadest smile. “Well, then, come on. Wouldn’t want to give you anything less than the full experience.”

Tilting her head in confusion, she wonders just how closer he needs her to be. Shifting forward until her knees brush his side, she asks, “Here?”

A small wave of quiet laughter tinkles like bells across the room, and her cheeks heat, just a little. She was just doing what he said. But even Obi’s lips are trembling with what - she hopes - is humor.

“He meansget on,” Kiki says, not unkindly, but even those placid indigo eyes seem to be teasing her. “It’s called ‘mount’ position for a reason.”

“Oh. Oh!” Heat floods her face so sharply it scalds. “Oh, I mean- I guess, um- how doI-“

Obi’s eyes slide off and behind her. “Shiira,could you…?”

“I can do it!” Shirayuki yelps, bracing her palms across Obi’s chest and throwing her leg over hiswaist. He’s broader than he looks at first glance, and the sudden shock of a very solid man against the inside of her thighs has her stuttering for words. “I mean- um- here? Here is okay?”

Obi mouth opens and closes twice before he manages to make his voice work. “Yes, Miss,” he replies, and she’s- she’s proud. Proud that she could shock his voice hoarse like that. Proud that she was able to prove that she didn’t need coddling, no matter the reason that brought her in here in the first place. “Although you should get your weight off your knees. It would be easy for me tothrow you off like this.”

“Oh,” Shirayuki replies, and her face burns at a steady boil, but she sits back, settling herself down until she’sseated on his stomach. “Then like this?”

He huffs a laugh. “Drop your weight. I won’t break.”

She looks over her shoulder at the rest of him. “But I don’t want to crush you!” she protests.

This time, Obi laughs outright. “Trust me, you won’t.”

“But-”

He taps her thigh twice in quick succession, jolting her upright. “Settle, Miss. If Mitsuhide’s weight can’t crush me, the whole 90 pounds of you definitely won’t.”

Shirayuki mouth flattens into a thin line, but slowly. Carefully. With one eye on him. She relaxes her muscles until her weight settles downfully.

“Good,” Obi grins when she’s done, voice dropped low, and it’s so soft - so nice - that she almost forgets that she is supposed to be annoyed with him. She even preens almost, having completed such a simple task. Then, all at once, she’s reminded of their audience when his chest vibrates beneath her palms, voice booming, “Alright! So!What we’re going to do first is a simple choke hold-”

~ ~ ~

For all the awkwardness of the first few moments, Obi’s teaching style issurprisingly economical. He demonstrates a hold, guides her step by step on how to copyit, then how to break it, and sends the rest of the class to pair up and copy. Rinse and repeat for about ten minutes.

It’s on their third hold that he states the obvious.

“You’re no good at this, Miss,” he grins from above, her arms pinned to her chest, and she glowers athim. “My weight is off. You could throw me if you wanted to.”

He’s not wrong. Not precisely. With his weight all on one arm, she might be able to shove him off of her and gain the higher ground, but instinct is hard to break and she does exactly what he has hold her not to do. She squirms, attempting to wrench her arms out from beneath his open palm. He only pushes down harder, the bone of her wrist digging further into her sternum until she gasps at the shock of pain.

“How am I supposed to get out of this when you’re bigger than me?” she wheezes, going completely still. The pressure lets up, just a little. “I’m small!”

“So is Miss Kiki,” he counters, jerking his head to the side. 

Shirayuki follows the motion, and Kiki is not ten feet away, currently wrapped up with a man who has a whole six inches and 50 pounds on her. His arm wraps around her neck, bringing her down and beneath him. Shirayuki almost reaches out, almost calls for her, but with the casual grace of a house cat mid-fall, Kiki twists, flipping him off of her and onto his back with enough force that he’s knocked breathless. In the next moment, her torso is swinging off of his, thighs and shins laying across his crest with his arm cradled between her thighs. It only takes two seconds of her levering the arm back, pressing the power of her hips against the delicate joint of his elbow, and he’s yelling, free hand tapping frantically against the mat.

“See?” Obi drawls.

“Kiki is really strong,” she argues. “And a black belt.”

“Miss.”

His voice rakes across her, equal parts disappointed and scolding, and her frown deepens. “I can’t even move my arms,” she points out, tugging at them to emphasize her point.

“It’s all about proper application of force,” he replies.“You could overpower me. If you wanted to.”

Shirayuki stares at him, eyes wide, and her- her heart flops uncomfortably in her chest. “How?” she asks. “I’ve never been able to-”

“Because you didn’t have the right tools. That’s why you’re here, right?” he asks, thumb pressing against her wrist as he pulls back and it’s- very nice to breathe again. She revels in it for so long that she almost misses the next sentence. “The trick isa proper hold.”

Shirayuki swallows. Hard. Her eyes fastened to the way hisfingers wrap around her, the gap in his gi and the peek of a scar spanning his chest, as he leads her to his collar. “Oh?”

“You’re right. You’re tiny. But that’s what can make you an excellent fighter,” he says, dry skin sliding up to open herpalm, then to close down around the thick material. “But first, you need every bit ofleverage you can get. Now. Tighter.”

The average square inch of human skin has over 1000 nerveendings, and right here, right now, she feels as if all of them are alight.“Like this?” she manages, gripping until her knuckles are as white as his clothes.

“Yea,” he hums, and the vibration of his chest against herknuckles feels… nice. “Just like that.”

Shifting slightly beneath him, her knees draw up on either side of his hips. “And then?”

“I think you know.” His lips cant up in a smirk. “Do what you saw Miss Kiki do.”

She’s not entirely certain what Kiki did, but she- she tries, sharply shifting her weight so she rests on her hip and not her back. The movement makes her tug, makes her pull Obi’s gi with her, and then it’s nothing to just- press with her shins against his waist and the weight Obi had resting on a single knee goes toppling right over.

It’s just physics, but it feels like magic when the room stops spinning and she’s back on top of him, staring down at his pleased grin.

“Not too bad for a half pint,” he drawls with a wink. “Now. Time to finish me off.”

[zarafoodrecipe]

How Alessandro Michele made Gucci relevant again

"A way to live." That phrase, that concept, keeps coming up with Michele, and it's a key to his transformation of Gucci from a label that had drifted far from the conversation to one at the centre of it. He isn't just selling robes, slippers, handbags, things, though he certainly wants customers to buy those, which they've done in numbers that have returned Gucci to peak cultural relevance and extraordinary financial success. He's selling a sensibility: eccentric, eclectic, inclusive. And he's doing it with every mode of communication at his disposal.

The Gucci bomber jacket inspired by Harlem designer Dapper Dan. Credit:Getty Images There are, for example, the collaborators he chooses and the celebrities he pulls into his orbit. His reaction to the graffiti artist Trevor Andrew, aka Gucci Ghost, who in late 2013 and 2014 scrawled the label's signatures all over Brooklyn and Manhattan, wasn't a copyright infringement suit or a cease-and-desist order. It was a formal invitation accepted to make clothes together (for Gucci's autumn 2016 collection). Michele's response to an outcry last year that he had copied from the legendary 1980s Harlem designer Dapper Dan a famous bomber jacket panelled in dark brown mink fur, with voluminous monogram-printed balloon sleeves was to say yes, he did, proudly and in tribute. Then, to prove his respect, Michele teamed with Dap for a joint line of apparel and set him up to work on it in an impeccably restored corner brownstone in Harlem whose lowest level, just beyond an ornate gate, is an atelier with a wall of blood-red drapes facing the street. "I didn't believe it, you know, until Cinderella saw the carriage the carriage with all the horses," Dap tells me when I drop by. "I thought, 'Wow, I guess I'm going to the ball.' When Michele introduced Gucci Bloom, the first new fragrance under his watch, he assembled unconventional ambassadors: Dakota Johnson, best known for being trussed and teased in the Fifty Shades of Grey movies; the young Canadian photographer and video director Petra Collins; and Hari Nef, a transgender actress and model. The Michele message, which never falters, is that the world of luxury is infinitely elastic, that Gucci is a palazzo with room for everybody and that the way to live is together, in harmony, in all of its overstuffed rooms. What to wear? Michele has on a pair of white leather sandals studded with dozens of crystals, sweat socks, frayed jeans and a bulky plaid shirt in baffling tension with the silk scarf above it. He's a fop. He's a lumberjack. He's a hipster. He's also a Christmas tree, ornamented to a fare-thee-well. He loves jewels, typically wears multiple bracelets and necklaces and has bulbous rings one shaped like a fox, another like a wolf on all his fingers except for his thumbs. He's his own Manhattan, his own mosaic. He's messy and mesmerising. Just like his ready-to-wear designs, which jumble elements, patterns, time periods and allusions that were seldom if ever jumbled before: pussy bows on men's shirts, babushkas atop power suits, sneakers under gowns, stripes with plaids, the old-fashioned meeting the space age. He's unrestrained with colour, promiscuous with layers and gaga for floral patterns, animal imagery and corporate logos. Where Tom Ford's Gucci spanning a decade, beginning in 1994 was minimalist, emphasising glamour, Michele's is hectic, emphasising irreverence. I sometimes wonder if he was put on this earth to liberate fashion writers from the adjective "sleek" and acquaint them with "magpie". "Beauty doesn't have limits," he tells me. "It doesn't have rules." When he took over at Gucci, he says, "fashion was talking about something that didn't exist anymore, this kind of posh world of beautiful legs and beautiful hair. I was just talking about humanity. I was trying to find a new energy in the street, not in the jet set." You still need a certain budget for Gucci. But you don't need a certain bearing or taste. "It was a revolutionary act to come in and do what he did with this company," Leto tells me, calling Michele "the Steve Jobs of fashion". Elton John, who was the muse for Michele's Spring 2018 women's and men's collection and his collaborator for a capsule collection in September last year, likens his exuberance to Gianni Versace's. After Versace's death, John thought he'd never gravitate to a famous designer's apparel again. "I didn't think there would be anyone out there worth it," he says. But when he began his farewell tour in September, he did so with a wardrobe by Michele, who creates "clothes with humour", John tells me, adding: "He's making clothes for basketball stars, for US National Football League stars, for people who feel they're not being judged for what size they are. That's important. Most designers make clothes for anorexic stickpins. He's making clothes that everybody can enjoy." John socialises with Michele, knows him well and says Michele's personality also distinguishes him from others in his industry. "Fashion is known for people being divas and being grand," John says, "and I can think of a lot of fashion designers I wouldn't want to spend five minutes with, probably 90 per cent of them. And he's just very down-to-earth."

Michele with Elton John and Johns partner David Furnish at a Gucci launch in London. Hes just very down-to-earth, John says of the designer.Credit:Getty Images Jared Leto, Elton John: this wasn't Michele's crowd before 2015, because for most of his career first at the Italian knitwear brand Les Copains, then at Fendi, then at Gucci, where he designed bags for Tom Ford before rising to become an associate designer to Ford's successor, Frida Giannini he was only modestly known outside the companies he worked for. That changed in a blink, in one of the most unexpected and consequential fashion stories of the last quarter-century. Ford's Gucci was a sensation, its air of hedonism and hypersexuality in perfect sync with the prosperity and libido that defined Bill Clinton's US presidency, but during the Giannini years, from 2005 through 2014, the label lost its mooring and its lustre. It didn't turn heads. It didn't prompt talk. Above all, it didn't communicate anything specific about its time. Michele's Gucci, in contrast, is engaged in a consistently spirited and occasionally profound conversation with the zeitgeist, drawing from it, adding to it and revolutionising fashion in the process. Young consumers plant their flags and sculpt their images on social media, so Gucci, under Michele, does too. They expand and even explode the old parameters around gender, sexual identity, race and nationality, and Michele takes that journey with them, even leads them on it, giving them a uniform for it, a visual vocabulary with which to express it. The emotional genius of what he has done is to affirm their searching. The commercial genius is to create totems for it and, in the process, democratise what we historically called "luxury goods", a phrase too haute and hoary for the party he's throwing. Franois-Henri Pinault, the chairman and CEO of Kering, the luxury conglomerate that owns Gucci, says before Michele took the reins, the problem at Gucci wasn't really sales, which remained respectable. "The perception of Gucci as a fashion authority, as one of the trendsetters, was declining," he says. He fired both Giannini and the company's CEO, who was also her romantic partner and the father of her child, and started over, bringing in the Italian businessman Marco Bizzarri as a new CEO and charging him with finding Giannini's replacement in all likelihood, a fashion nova from another label. When Bizzarri met Michele, then 42, for coffee one day in late December 2014, he was just trying to learn more about the company. Michele, he tells me, "certainly wasn't on the list of candidates". But they talked and talked about the more joyful culture that the company needed, about history and art and life, about how fashion is so much more than merchandise. The conversation spanned three hours, and when Bizzarri contacted him almost immediately afterwards to ask for more time to talk, Michele realised that he had joined the roster. Bizzarri then laid down a challenge that became fashion legend. Gucci was about to present its new autumn 2015 menswear collection, and Giannini had essentially finished it. What if they scratched it and swapped in a collection by Michele? He had a week: five days for the clothes (36 looks in all) and two days for the staging of the runway show, every last detail of which, from the models to the seating arrangement, Michele subsequently changed. "It was a way for me to see if Alessandro was willing to take risks," Bizzarri recalls, "because considering the kind of turnaround that I had in mind, I needed a person who was willing, like me, to take big risks and maybe make big mistakes. If he was going to tell me no, then I didn't want to be with someone who was risk-averse." Michele was emboldened partly by his knowledge of the size and skill of the design team at Gucci. But mostly, he just didn't think about the insanity of what he was trying to pull off. "Somebody gave me the chance to do something beautiful, and when you are working on something beautiful, you don't feel the pressure," he says. "I work to create something that is in my brain, and I don't feel like I have to impress people outside." The result, unveiled in mid-January 2015, was where the pussy bows came in, along with other necklines and fillips usually associated with womenswear. He used both female and male models, so interchangeable in their looks that they became a grand, genderless blur. They wore berets, spectacles, scarves. Androgyny cosied up to cheeky intellectualism, and in a slightly off-kilter palette: an announcement of his willingness to play with colour more daringly than his forebears at Gucci had. These weren't his boldest hues, which would come later, but they were surprising, under-appreciated ones: the gunmetal end of the blue spectrum, the rustier shades of brown, each sometimes throwing a pure, vivid red into more brilliant relief. At the show's end, instead of taking a solo bow, Michele brought his whole team on-stage with him, which was another declaration that a new day had dawned. Only then did the nerves kick in. "I'm not shy in my private life, but I'm really shy when I have to go out in front of a lot of people," he says. "I'm more than shy. I'm terrified." But the applause, he remembers, "was like the biggest hug I've ever felt in my lifetime." Some fashion insiders muttered privately that Gucci had gone mad. But both Pinault and Bizzarri were impressed by Michele's instinct to transplant his own quirks and obsessions into the brand. It gave his designs authenticity and palpable emotion. "He's one of those guys who, despite the size of the brand, despite the power of the brand, says, 'This is my personal creative universe, and I will work with that and the icons and symbols of the brand to create something new,' " Pinault explains. "And he was right." The success that Gucci has had with that approach was a factor in Pinault's decision earlier this year to appoint the unknown 32-year-old British designer Daniel Lee as the new creative director of Bottega Veneta, which Kering also owns. "I asked him about his own personal aesthetic," Pinault says, referring to Lee, "and then tried to find if there was any compatibility between the designer and the brand." The gender fluidity of Michele's work was what drew the lion's share of attention at first. "I was very surprised," he says, because it wasn't a considered provocation or political statement. "I thought that it was such a normal thing." It was happening in the world; it needed to happen in fashion: "This is not a time when fashion can stay inside a box." Popular culture certainly wasn't staying inside that box; just a year earlier, the pioneering television dramedy Transparent had debuted to enormous interest and huge acclaim, and less than six months later, Caitlyn Jenner would appear on the cover of Vanity Fair. The LGBT consonant cluster was being elongated, litigated and traded in for more flexible banners like queer and genderqueer, and "binary" was suddenly a dirty word. Fashion hadn't fully reckoned with that. Michele did intuitively, intelligently and expansively.

Alessandro Michele with his team on the runway after his first Gucci show. Credit:Getty Images That was hardly all that distinguished him. Both the clothes and the voluminous notes that he distributes at the shows betray an erudition and a roving, restless mind that have a lot do with his deep roots in Rome. He grew up in the heart of the city, to parents who revered the arts and had the resources to enjoy them and expose him and his sister to them. His mother was an assistant to an Italian movie executive, and thus steeped in the world of cinema, while his father, a technician for the airline Alitalia, was a sculptor in his spare time. "I walked through these antique ruins from the very first day of my life," he tells me when I visit him there in June. We sit on a green velvet sofa under a dazzling coffered ceiling in his office in a palazzo that was built in the early 16th century according to plans by Raphael. It's now Gucci's design headquarters. Rome is overflowing with the archetypes and iconography of various epochs, layering them, cluttering them, bringing them into collision. When you step out of Gucci's Renaissance digs and glance to the right, you can see a bridge over the Tiber lined with baroque sculptures designed by Bernini and, on the far side, the cylindrical hulk of Castel Sant'Angelo, built in the second century by the Roman emperor Hadrian as a mausoleum for his family. All of this visibly informs Michele's perspective and style. "I spent time with my dad not in the park, not playing sports, but just going to museums," he tells me. "So I spent time in front of these beautiful statues and all these faces and bodies." "Rome is in Alessandro's veins," says Elisabetta Proietti, who taught him when he was a student at the Accademia Costume & Moda, a three-year school with a single program in both fashion and costume design just a few short cobbled blocks from the Gucci headquarters. Proietti is continually struck by the impact that the school's dual focus had on his work. To produce costumes, she says, you must be fluent in the gradations of the past, and Michele's collections for Gucci are indeed like glorious excavations the fashion equivalent of archaeological digs (here the Elizabethan, there the Victorian, a nod to tsarist Russia, a wink at Ziggy Stardust) narrated in a century-hopping, decade-scrambling vocabulary of flowing caftans and boxy jumpsuits, floral and animal prints and brocades. His fascination with yesteryear is even more intense than his and other designers' more common flirtations with the present pop culture. And it's coupled with his insatiable appetite for reading, roving, learning. "He's interested in everything," Proietti says. "He's extremely, extremely curious." Hari Nef recalls that when she first met Michele, at his request, over dinner in West Hollywood at the Chateau Marmont, she had recently graduated from Columbia University, "this program where I had been required to read Virginia Woolf and the Greek tragedies and Homer and Aeschylus. These were all fresh in my head, bouncing around." Michele was game. They bounced around in his head, too. "Frankly," Nef tells me, "these were nerdy topics I was rarely able to engage with people in the fashion industry about." The "fashion industry" isn't something Michele cares to dwell on or in. Among the reasons he favours Rome, he says, is he's unlikely to bump into the designers, journalists, publicists and celebrities who define that demi-monde. His thoughts aren't contaminated by what is deemed trendy. "I want the separation," he says. "I need the separation. I'm not really inspired from fashion. I started from other points of view." His longtime romantic partner, Giovanni Attili, is a professor of urban planning whose scholarship has focused on such subjects as the Haida Nation, an Indigenous tribe in British Columbia. Michele and Attili don't steal away to Tuscany or the Amalfi Coast for breathers. Instead, their holiday home teeters literally atop a gorgeous, ludicrous butte of sorts called Civita di Bagnoregio in central Italy. The village has a year-round population of about a dozen, largely because the earth under it is crumbling and the structures require constant maintenance. "I love the house because it's like it's falling down every year," Michele says. "You don't know how long it will be there. And you don't care. It's a reflection of our life, you know?" On the inside of his left bicep, he has a tattoo of Attili's nickname, Vanni, while his own, Lallo, is tattooed in the same writing and place on his right arm. They're a matching set. The couple met 13 years ago, over the internet, in a funny way. Michele had just gotten a new laptop, and a friend was showing him how the Facebook precursor Myspace functioned, insisting that he sign up.

Models carried replicas of their heads at Guccis autumn 2018 fashion show in Milan.Credit:Getty Images "I was aghast at these kinds of things," he says, but he played along, connecting with one of his friend's 700 acquaintances Attili because of his profile picture. "It was just the view of a beautiful landscape in Canada," Michele recalls. As the two exchanged messages, Michele remarked that he had no idea what Attili looked like. Attili, amused, pointed out that his face was right there, in that landscape. "I didn't realise," Michele says, "that if you clicked on the picture and made it larger, there was a little guy inside. I didn't know I had the possibility to get inside that picture. I was really bad." Which is strange, because one of the hallmarks of Gucci under Michele is how clever it is about social media and what a commanding presence it has there. Michele has more than 400,000 followers on Instagram, where he posts a hypnotic array of pictures that underscore how readily his designs, with their embroidered symbols and explicit pop culture references, translate into viral images. That's integral to the traction that Gucci has found with young consumers. "If you're constantly documenting yourself, you want to be wearing things that are a little over-the-top or statement-oriented," says Phillip Picardi, who was until recently the head of Teen Vogue. Michele makes that possible. "He's managed to do maximalism in a very chic way, and that's perfect for your Instagram grid or your Instagram story." The adolescent protagonist of the critically acclaimed independent movie Eighth Grade, released in July in the United States, ends each of her YouTube videos by saying, "Gucci." It's her equivalent of "cool". In Rome, I watch Michele work with about a dozen colleagues on his spring 2019 menswear collection. Boxes upon boxes of jewellery crowd the tables where they sit. A kaleidoscope of fabric swatches dangles from the walls, and there's an easel of potential T-shirt designs that reveal a current fixation on Dolly Parton, her 1973 song Jolene and the movie The Bride of Frankenstein. I have no idea how they all hang together but then I don't think that I'm supposed to. Four male models charting varying degrees of androgyny wander in and out, quickly changing clothes. Some of their shorts have billows and pleats that evoke skirts. A shiny long-sleeved shirt and an even shinier jacket look as if they're made from hot-pink and turquoise plastic. The wispiest of the models, his long hair gathered in a bun, appears in a pale mauve shirt with traditionally feminine construction, burgundy slacks with wide hips and, over them, a white jockstrap. As Michele fusses with sleeve lengths and frets over colour combinations, Bjrk's Utopia album plays in the background. (Naturally, he designed her outfit for the video of the album's first single, The Gate.) The word I hear him use most often suggests the playful attitude that he brings to bear on everything he designs. It's not bello, or "beautiful". It's carino "cute". At one point, I ask him which of his collections he was most pleased with which one expressed exactly what he wanted it to. He cites the collection with the dragon, his autumn 2018 womens- and menswear show. It was titled Cyborg, and the dragon wasn't the half of it. Several models carried replicas of their own heads. Others had masks obscuring their faces. The clothes kept pace with that eccentricity: royal blue turbans, a multitiered black pagoda hat and colourful patterned head scarves. Rhinestones galore. The plainest suit and the palest jacket had Major League Baseball insignia, just because; a ruby sweater with sleeves that looked like enormous, fuzzy dust mops had "Paramount Pictures", with the iconic mountaintop image, across its chest. He says that he was contemplating the nature of identity today: how everything from the poses you strike on social media to the accessibility of cosmetic surgery allows you to hide, expose or wholly transform yourself. "It's like a laboratory, you know?" he says. "Your life can be like a laboratory. In the past, the idea of being human was what the earth and nature gave to you." That's not so anymore. He calls this era "post-human", explaining that "you can really manipulate everything. It's pretty scary, but it's also pretty interesting. You can lead different lives. You can decide to be different things." And fashion must reflect that, too. By Michele's reckoning, it can no longer be a leash, tethering you to someone else's ideal. It has to be a licence, setting you free and giving you the tools to figure out your own. "Fashion now is like an old lady that is dying on a bed," he said in Harper's Bazaar last year. "I think we can let this old lady die." I ask him if that makes what he is doing post-fashion. He ponders that for a few seconds, letting it sink in. "Probably it's true," he says, "because in a way, it's like, I don't care about fashion. I'm trying to say that fashion is a platform. The way you look is the way you live." No stranger can decree that. It comes together incrementally and sometimes haphazardly, in a fitful and imperfect process of discovery, the way every story and every city does. Why pretend otherwise? Why not just celebrate it? Most Viewed in Lifestyle Loading https://www.smh.com.au/lifestyle/fashion/how-alessandro-michele-made-gucci-relevant-again-20181126-p50id1.html?ref=rss&utm_medium=rss&utm_source=rss_feed

[winetae]

⇁ as the cauldron bubbles (m)

witch!au + aphrodisiac (m) 

⚬ pairing⇁Namjoon x Reader

⚬ genre⇁smut, fluff? || witch!au, enemies to lovers

⚬ warnings⇁ dubious consent at the end bc potion, sexy times in a classroom, cumplay, dirty talk ^^

⚬ word count⇁10.2k

what makes for a potent potion? step one. in one room, gather two people who seemingly dislike each other  step two. stir in a pinch of snark and four ladles of sexual tension step three. wait until everything simmers to a boil

✘ spoopy masterlist

a/n;  behold !! the most basic of plots ! ty amy for reading this over & telling me to post it;; ilux100

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“Kim Namjoon, you can pair up with," there's a pause while the professor sweeps the room with his beady gaze.  "_____."

The sound of your name rouses you from your slumber, "Huh?"

Eyes glassy, you slowly blink away the spots of white light that speckle your vision. Still slightly disoriented, it takes a few drawn out seconds for the world around you to come into focus.

The first thing that catches your attention is how cold you are.  

The chilling temperature makes it easy to mistake the early weeks of autumn for the dead of winter—with every inhale, cold air rushes into your lungs and drives off any remnants of your drowsiness. Your hands are painted an angry looking red, like you've just dunked them repeatedly into ice cold water, and each joint is stiff, refusing to cooperate when you will them to move. Any attempts to magically dispel the numbness in your limbs are useless; you're not capable of wrapping your frozen digits around your fountain pen, let alone your wand. Left with no other choice but to cross your arms and shove your hands under your armpits, you try to warm yourself up in the most primitive way you know.

It's only then that you notice the room you find yourself in is dank and dark, illuminated by dozens of candles that are bewitched to remain suspended in mid-air. Even the inanimate objects aren't immune to the coldness that seeps through the thick stone walls, you remark internally, watching as the tiny flames flicker wildly, seemingly perturbed by an invisible gust of wind.

The classroom could really benefit from some redecorating, you think not for the first time, eyeing the glass containers that line the walls with distaste. The pickled animals floating about in glass jars and cobweb-covered cupboards look like they’ve been untouched for centuries. The style has long been outdated but your professor is either too lazy or too sentimentally attached to his pickled salamanders to change the decor. You shake your head in disapproval.

All talks of unsettling decorations aside, how are you supposed to concentrate in class when your ears are about to fall off from the biting cold? Something should really be done about the lighting and insulation, at the very least. No one in their right minds would want to work in such drastic working conditions. It’s no wonder you have such a difficult time focusing...

Next to you, Nahyun subtly motions to the side of her mouth, the movement pulling you from your grumbled thoughts. You mirror her actions only to find you've been drooling in your sleep. Mortified, you hurry to wipe the trail of saliva on the back of your sleeve. The material is left with a damp imprint that you hastily hide away by burying your hands in the large pockets of your robe. She shoots you a disapproving look and you can tell by the way her nose upturns that she’s going to reprimand you for dozing off once class is dismissed.

You’re mentally preparing your excuse, trying to piece together a speech that will worm your way out of her scolding, when a shout of outrage drowns out the rest of the class’ whispered conversations—the sudden outcry making you jump on your stool. You twist around in your seat, eyes straining to find the source of the noise. From where you're sitting, you can only make out the side of his face, but it's enough to see the displeasure pulling at the corner of his lips.

“What? Why?” Namjoon makes a distressed sound in the back of his throat.

The professor heaves a long-suffering sigh, suddenly looking like his wrinkles have deepened in the span of ten seconds. He levels Namjoon with a stern expression, arms crossed over his chest. If not for the spectacles that slowly slide down the bridge of his nose, he probably would have successfully intimidated his student with his show of authority.  

“I’d rather work with Jung than her.” The muscles on his face are strained, his expression stiff. 

Ignoring the way your insides tangle at his tone, you hiss out his name, offended. Admittedly, your grades aren’t impressive, but unlike Jung Hoseok, your concoctions have never sent anyone to the hospital.

While it's true your potions have made testers sick on occasion, your mishaps haven't been nearly as bad as Hoseok's. And, okay, while the incident with Minhee had been unfortunate (no one would voluntarily want a set of spiral horns to grow on their head), the damage certainly hadn't been irreversible or life threatening. Wouldn’t one take the temporary horns over whatever poisonous mixture Hoseok is capable of brewing?

As if to spite you, Hoseok chooses that moment to turn around in his seat and shoot you a smirk. He apparently doesn't care if Namjoon insults him in passing, so long as he's not branded as the worst student. Fighting down the overwhelming urge to throw dragon dung fertilizer in his face, you curl your fists at your sides, already thinking of three different hexes to try out on him.

How could Namjoon prefer to work with the certified class clown? When had your reputation taken such a hit? You can’t help but feel like you’ve been defamed and your blood boils at the injustice of it.

"Kim Namjoon." This time there is no mistaking the edge in the professor's voice—his warning razor sharp. "You will work on this month's assignment with _____."

The finality in his tone leaves no room for discussion, and even the dim lighting can't hide the way Namjoon visibly wilts in his seat, reluctantly accepting his fate.

Nodding in satisfaction, the professor resumes his task, pairing up the last few students that have yet to be called. As the rest of the names are droned out, you stew silently in your seat, fixing Namjoon’s figure with incredulity. Through it all, he hasn’t even looked at you once. Something about that irritates you, like a bug bite that demands to be itched.

You wish someone had asked for your opinion, because as far as you’re concerned, you’re equally displeased with this arrangement. For as long as you've known him, Kim Namjoon has always kept to himself. He says he prefers it this way, but you think it's because no one has the patience to deal with his obnoxious personality. Namjoon is smart, yes, but he's so far up his own ass that it makes it hard to be around him for long periods of time. After all, no one wants to befriend people who constantly reiterate how much better they are than you.

Although...maybe this is just from your perspective. Despite all the flaws you find in him, you’re not deaf to the gossip that surrounds him. According to the whispers you’ve overheard, his aloofness only adds to his ‘mysterious charm’.

Your nostrils flare as a snort escapes you. What a load of toad’s spit. There’s no doubt in your mind when you say Namjoon is as charming as one of the pickled bats in the shelved glass jars. How could anyone find him attractive? He never has anything positive to say—unless it’s about himself. His confidence borders on arrogance and you’re not sure why anyone would find that appealing.

The space between your brows creases as you ponder the question, your gaze set on his side profile.

Well, you suppose that from an objective and impartial point of view, his proportions are nice. He has broad shoulders and long legs, plush lips and a set of dimples you would find adorable if they belonged to anyone else but him. There’s also no denying that he’s scary smart. When he answers questions in class, you can’t help but grudgingly respect him.

It’s such a shame that his brusque personality overshadows all of his good traits because he has a lot of things going for him.

It also wouldn’t be a lie to say that your dislike for him stems from the fact that he seems to hate you for no justifiable reason. It’s not like you’re being delusional and making this up—his earlier adamant refusal to work with you proves that he isn’t your biggest fan. In your opinion, Namjoon’s hostility is unwarranted as you’ve never exchanged more than a few words with him. What have you ever done to make him dislike you? Whenever you accidentally make eye contact with him, he never fails to scowl in your direction, like your mere presence offends him.

So it’s no surprise that his behavior rubs you the wrong way. Who is he to pass judgement on you? You know your grades are far from piercing the top tenth percentile, but it's not for lack of trying... It’s upsetting that he would determine your worth based off some grade. You don't know what preconceived notions he has of you, but you're determined to prove to him that you're not a slacker and you're more than willing to pull your own weight.

With this thought in mind, you waste no time shoving your belongings into your bag once the lesson is over, eager to get a word with him before the next period begins. Your notes crinkle as you stuff them away, a bottle of ink almost spilling all over your textbook, but your attention is only focused on Namjoon who has already one foot out the door.

“Where are you going?” Nahyun asks from beside you.

“I’ll see you later after dinner.” It’s not really an answer, but she accepts it with a wave of her hand.

You swing your bag over your shoulder, uncaring whether or not the contents get knocked over in the process. Mumbling excuses while pushing aside the students in front of you, you’re careful not to bump into any fragile classroom equipment on your way out.

Outside, the corridor is already busy with students rushing to their next lesson. There’s a short moment of panic when you can’t spot him among the throng of students. Worried that you’ve missed your chance, your shoulders slump forward in defeat, but the worry soon deflates within you once you spot his figure rounding the corner.

Breaking into a sudden jog, your bag flaps by your side as you run, bumping against the bodies in your way.

“So, when are we starting?” You pant out as you reach him, drawing his attention to your slightly disheveled appearance.

There's an easy smile on your face—one that's intended to look inviting and friendly. The purpose is to show that you’re not holding any grudges against him and that you’re ready to leave everything he’s said in the past. A proverbial olive branch, so to speak.

Regrettably, he doesn't seem to take note of your efforts. He stops and gives you a once over, eyes lingering on your bulging bag—still open, messy contents on display.

“There is no we,” Namjoon hurries to correct, adjusting the bridge of his glasses as he does. Your curious gaze tracks the movement, following the slope of his nose, until finally your eyes meet his coffee brown ones.

From up close, you can almost discern the different shades of brown in his irises. It’s an interesting mix of colors that reminds you of ground coffee beans and the fallen leaves that dust the ground outside. For a short moment, there is silence—Namjoon stills as you examine him, his expression impenetrable—but the moment is broken when the light overhead is reflected on the frame of his glasses, easily distracting you.  

“Why do you wear those?” The filter between your mouth and thoughts doesn’t seem to be functioning correctly, and the question leaves your lips before you have time to stop yourself.

He makes a noncommittal noise in response, either not understanding your question or not bothering to deign it with an answer. You reckon it's probably the latter, but that still doesn't stop you from rephrasing your question for clarification's sake.

“Why do you wear those glasses if they don’t have lenses?”

There's genuine curiosity laced in your tone, your gaze fixed on the odd accessory like it's the most interesting sight you've laid your eyes on all week. And in a way, it is. You’re not sure if that’s a testament to how uneventful your life has been lately, but you choose not to dwell on the facts.

“It’s called fashion.” He spares you a condescending look, “Although, I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

You hum, your shoulders raising into a shrug. He’s probably right about that one...  A glance down at your outfit reminds you that you’re wearing mismatched socks again—the gaudy, orange colored sock clashing with your pink, polka-dotted clad foot. At least your feet are warm, you pout, wiggling your toes in your shoes. You think it looks kind of cute! But then again, you have the color vision of a mole, so your opinion probably doesn’t count for much.

Your head snaps back up when you realize he’s walked away, leaving you standing in the middle of the corridor, mismatched socks and all.

Rude. Of course he would be the type to walk away mid-conversation.

“You never answered my question!” Huffing, you do your best to catch up, your legs struggling to match his pace.

Damn it, why does he have to have such long legs? You curse silently. One stride of his is probably equivalent to two steps from you, and you’re starting to think he wants you to break into a sweat when he suddenly quickens his gait.

“I don’t know how to be any more explicit,” he says, slowly coming to a halt before rounding on you. You instinctively take a step back, slightly overwhelmed by the way his frame towers over yours. From this distance, he looks more intimidating than before.

“I’ll do the project myself. Don’t even worry about it. Go do..." There's a slight pause as he chews the inside of his cheek, unable to come up with an answer. "Whatever it is you do, and just let me handle things on my own, understood?”

Your forehead wrinkles, confusion written plainly on your face. You're not sure if you understand what he's trying to say so you repeat back the words, your mind whizzing as it tries to process everything.

“Um—what? On your own? But we’re supp—”

“Look.” Impatience mixed with frustration reads on his face, his handsome features twisting into a scowl. “The assignment is worth a third of our entire grade. I can’t let you ruin that. So stay out of it.”

“But—”

“You want to pass this class, don’t you? I’m offering to do all of the work. Free of payment. Without any stipulations.” His sentences are clipped, his curt speech leaving you no openings to respond.

Taking your shocked silence for an answer, he gives you a short nod before bustling away to his next class.

Frozen, your mouth opens to call after him but no sound comes out. You’re sure you look like the fool he thinks you are, though you can’t bring yourself to care. It’s infuriating how little he thinks of you and how easy it is for him to disregard you. Does he believe you to be that incompetent? Or does he just think too highly of himself? Either way, you hate how he never lets you prove yourself  when you deserve at least that much.

The frustration that boils inside of you is what ultimately steels your resolve.  

As much as you want to work on the potion on your own and show him how capable you are, you’re painfully aware of your own limits. You have half a mind to leave him be and deal with the consequences of his arrogance but as he so kindly reminded you, the project is worth a crucial third of your grade. Realistically speaking, your grades can’t afford to suffer from any schemes of revenge. That’s why despite wanting Namjoon to regret his every decision, you convince yourself that it would be better to try to work with him instead of against him. Besides, the potion isn’t designed to be completed alone. You know that no matter how smart Namjoon has proven to be in the past, he won’t be able to finish everything on his own.

However, this proves to be easier said than done.

Getting Namjoon to see things from your perspective would be a thousand times easier if he would just stop ignoring you. He’s not even subtle about it; whenever he sees you approaching him, he turns on his heels and quickens his pace.

How are you supposed to work with him if he runs away at the mere sight of you? You blow a lock of hair away from your face as he once again manages to escape before you reach him. Namjoon’s lean legs are too much to go up against... At this rate, you wonder if you’ll even be able to talk to him before the end of the month is over.

It’s more tedious than expected, but you manage to intercept him in front of the library after lunch. You don’t miss the look that flashes across his features, but you choose not to comment on the displeasure your arrival brings him. It’s not like you've been looking forward to talking to him again, either. Truthfully, you would rather entertain a conversation with a brick wall than have to tolerate his presence.

Talking to him is but a small sacrifice in the grand scheme of things. Think of your grade, you remind yourself as you swallow down the lump of nerves in your throat. For some reason you can’t make sense of, your heart stutters nervously in your chest. Dismissing the flip-flopping in the pit of your stomach, you attribute the jitters to your dislike for him.

“It’s important,” you stress, grabbing the sleeve of his robe as he tries to retreat. He freezes, his gaze fixed on the firm grip that encloses his arm. The intensity of his stare is unsettling and you’re consequently forced to relent.

Slowly, you unclench your fingers, the slide of the fabric smooth against your skin as you let your hand fall to your side. “Stop avoiding me.”

“I’m not,” he denies too quickly for you to believe him. “What is it? I’m busy.”

You bite down your retort before a snarky remark spills from your lips. No matter how much you want to give him a piece of your mind, the objective of this conversation isn’t to antagonize each other. Trying not to lose sight of your initial goal, you do your best to remain civil despite him making it abundantly clear that you’re just a nuisance to him.

“We need to divide the work we have to do so that we can complete the assignment on time. The more you put this off, the less time we’ll have.”

“I’m doing it on my own so stop worrying about it.” There’s no denying the patronizing tone in his voice but you choose to sidestep it like everything else.

"Don't be ridiculous. It's a group project," you insist, unyeielding. "We're supposed to work together. I know you're smart Namjoon, but there's no possible way you can gather all the ingredients and make the potion on time by yourself."

Last you’ve checked, there are well over forty ingredients that are needed for this and a good dozen of them have to be prepared at least two weeks before the day of brewing. If he chooses to go down the solo route, he’ll be shooting himself in the foot. He’s smart enough to know this, too.

There's a reason you've been paired off in groups of two, after all. Namjoon’s intellectually gifted brain does not come with an extra set of arms. He needs you, even if his pride can’t handle verbally admitting so.

Namjoon's bottom lip juts out as if he means to voice his dissent but he ends up pursing his lips with a resigned expression. You have to bite down your triumphant grin (although you know you haven't done a gone job hiding your expression of satisfaction if the leveled look he aims your way is any indication).

“Don’t make me regret this,” he finally sounds out, acting like he’s the one doing you the world’s biggest favor. You’re tempted to call his bluff but hold yourself back from doing so. “Meet me in the library at eight after dinner.” Namjoon shifts his weight from foot to foot, looking like he would rather be anywhere but here. He adds as an afterthought, “Don’t be late.”

“I won’t!” You chirp out after him, a toothy smile on your face as your heart swells with elation.

As soon as you realize how much his grudging acceptance means to you, you stop in your tracks. Since when do his words hold that much importance? You don’t care about what he thinks in the least. You’re just glad because his agreement to work with you means that you’ve won the battle.

In truth, you’re surprised he hadn’t put up more of a fight. Considering that his stubbornness is second only to his arrogance, he let himself be persuaded with more ease than expected...

“It’s because of my feminine wiles,” you’re quick to inform Nahyun during dinner. “He couldn’t resist me.”

“Mmh, sure. Whatever you say.”

“Are you even listening to me?” A piece of broccoli lands on the table as you spit out your words.

She spares you a disdainful look, dabbing the sides of her mouth with her napkin, “I really wish you wouldn’t talk with your mouth full.”

As an apology, you make a show of gulping down the food stuffed in your mouth. You immediately regret doing so when some vegetable gets stuck in your throat in the process. Next to you, Risa pats your back as you try to cough the burn away.

“Do you even chew your food? How do you even fit all of that in your mouth...” She sneers, unimpressed. “Your cheeks are like fucking pockets or something. Like a chipmunk.”  

“Maybe that’s why Namjoon wanted to work with you,” Risa giggles mischievously, dodging when you try to hit her arm. You accept the glass of water she hands you with a glower. “He wants to see those skills for himself.”

“Stop that.” You elbow her side for emphasis, drawing a hiccuping sound from her lips. “I wouldn’t let Namjoon near me. Not even if we were the last two living beings on Earth.”

Your friend snorts loudly, not convinced by your words at all.

“When she’s not sleeping, she’ll make goo-goo eyes at him during class.” Nahyun’s voice chimes in. 

“I do not!” You protest hotly, betrayed, and proceed to stab a carrot with your fork to vent your frustration. “There’s a difference between plotting his downfall and wanting to give him the suck.”

“Maybe you’re planning on sucking the life out of his balls.” The image her words conjure up makes your face turn beet-red. “Death by ejaculation.”

You’re suddenly flooded with a very graphic image of you on your knees between his legs, your hands resting on his thighs as you look up into his dark brown eyes. It’s wrong, it’s so wrong, yet that hardly puts a stop to your overactive imagination. If anything, your mind goes into a frenzy; each improper scenario begets an even more obscene one—an endless loop of obscenity.

“Your ears are red.” 

Risa raises a knowing eyebrow in your direction, your group of friends erupting into snickers when you hurry to cover them up behind your hair. 

“Leave me alone,” your moan is muffled by the hands that cover your face. 

There’s no use arguing your innocence because you know they’ll just keep on teasing you. You huff in irritation, a pout on your face. The most annoying part of it all is the fact that you’re taking their banter too seriously. 

By now, you’re sure your face is flushed scarlet. You pat your cheeks, feeling the heat radiate off of them as you do. Why are you letting yourself get so worked up over this? Usually, you laugh off these jokes easily but for some reason you can’t pinpoint, the mention of Namjoon’s name has you losing your cool.

You just hope that you’ll be more composed in Namjoon’s presence because the last thing you want is for him to get the wrong idea... His ego would only inflate to immeasurable proportions if he thought that you got easily flustered around him. And that’s just something you won’t allow because contrary to whatever your friends might insinuate, you’re definitely not attracted Namjoon. He just happens to be smart and good looking, which is always a welcome combination but certainly not enough for you to be swayed over to the dark side. 

Thankfully by the time eight o’clock rolls around, you’ve shaken off all indecent thoughts. You march into the library, head held high, determined to show your friends how wrong they are. Weaving through the different rows of bookshelves, you’re careful to duck whenever a heavy volume whizzes past you through thin air whenever they’re summoned. You finally find Namjoon hidden away in the reference section of the library. His body is hunched over a thick tome, his fingers mindlessly flicking through the yellowing pages of text.

Namjoon nods in acknowledgement, pushing a dusty looking manual in your direction, “This one has a list of common ingredients used in ritualistic magic. I bookmarked page 546. You’ll find information on magical herbs used in any healing draught by skimming the chapter.”

He puts you to work at once, and justifiably so; there’s a lot of groundwork to cover before you can start making the potion. This particular assignment requires you to figure out the exact measurements that are needed as well as the time of preparation and fermentation of each ingredient. It’s a combination of theory, math, and in-depth knowledge of astronomy and the effects of the moon on the tides. There are a lot of calculations involved that make use of the lunar calendar and the position of the Jupiter, requiring complex formulas you rarely use. 

It’s hard. And more than once you want to groan out loud and pull at your hair in despair, but the knowledge that Namjoon is here has you swallowing any complaints. You would hate to hear him spit out, ‘I knew working with you was a waste of time,’ so with that in mind, you redouble your efforts.

The pair of you work in silence—the only sounds that can be heard are the scribbling of pen on paper and the sound of pages being flipped when you search for the necessary information. Immersed in your work, you don’t pay any attention to the world outside your self-made bubble. 

From time to time, Namjoon pauses to crack his knuckles, his gaze drifting towards your working form. He takes note of how you chew the cap of your pen when you stop to think, your brows furrowed as you concentrate. Seeing you so committed for once throws him off-guard; he can’t recall you being this focused in class—all you ever do is get into trouble by your professors for sleeping or daydreaming when you shouldn’t be.

It’s nearing midnight when his chair creaks as he gathers to his feet. Rubbing your eyes in fatigue, you watch him put away his textbooks and papers with longing, wishing that you too could pack up your stuff and call it a night. 

“You aren’t leaving?” He glances down at you when he notices you haven’t budged from your seat. “It’s late.”

“Not yet. I have to finish this for tomorrow.” You direct a glare at your worksheet you still need to read over and complete. “I’ll be here for a while.”

To your surprise, he leans down to examine the papers himself, propping one arm on the table and the other one on the back of your chair. 

Namjoon hums while leafing through the stack of papers, “Ah. The magical properties of the Mandragora root and its uses in potions... We went over this in class last month, do you remember? Following Levi’s teachings, the root needs to be dug up on the day of the moon for it to be the most potent. Preferably after the vernal equin—” 

But you can barely hear him over the thrumming of your heart. All you can focus on is the way he crowds your personal space, leaving you no room to breathe. His face is way too close. Try as you might, but it’s damn near impossible to listen to his explanation when his sudden near proximity has your mind reeling. 

He smells of sea salt, ginger lilies, and...something else you can’t quite identify. The bizarre blend of fragrances should have you pulling away, but instead you find yourself drawn to it like a moth to a flame. Before you do something ridiculous—like lean in closer to have a proper whiff of him—you turn your head away to stare at the words he’s pointing at on the worksheet. The sentences in front of you all blur together to form an inky block of text and you don’t realize you’re spacing out until the sound of a sigh snaps you out of your reverie.

“You’re not listening.” 

Your gaze flits up to meet his and you have the decency to shrug sheepishly. He taps the worksheet with his finger, redirecting your attention to the material you need to learn before the night is over.

“Can you even recall who Levi is?” Namjoon levels you with an expectant stare and you flounder, your mind momentarily at a blank.

“Um,” your eyes shift to your textbook, hoping that the book could provide the answer. “He was a French occultist.” The response isn’t as detailed or lengthy as you would have hoped to give him, but he nods right away, his lips quirked into a small smile. 

“That’s right. His methods are now obsolete, most of them proven false, but his works on transcendental magic perfectly exemplify the ceremonial magic that was popular in Europe during the nineteenth century.”

Namjoon’s voice drones on, the words failing to sink in. It’s not that you don’t make an effort to be more attentive, but your mind is just too preoccupied with other thoughts for you to concentrate on his impromptu lesson. 

Why hasn’t he pulled back yet? He’s so close that you can practically feel his chest vibrate whenever he speaks and it makes you wonder if he’ll stay perched next to you for much longer. How does he expect you to listen to him when he’s so darn close?

When you risk a glance at his face, your gaze can’t help itself from perusing his features. Your eyes flit from one beauty mark to another, lingering briefly on a faint scar near his eyebrow before trailing down to observe the way the muscles in his jaw work when he talks. 

It takes a second too long for you to realize he’s saying your name, but when you do, you meet his piercing stare with flushed cheeks. Embarrassment colors your face red because you’ve been caught staring. You can’t even play it off, your ogling too blatant to be ignored.

He says your name again, his voice low and so pleasing it makes you want to melt in your seat, and you gulp nervously, ignoring how quickly your heart jumps at the sound. Even as you try to appear collected, you already know it’s a lost battle. Knowing how observant he is, there’s honestly no use hoping he hasn’t noticed how distracted you are.

The air around you suddenly seems heavy, charged with tension. There’s a dryness in your throat that makes you yearn for a glass of water. You wait for him to say something more, but all Namjoon does is stare at you, his face not giving any of his thoughts away. The scrutiny makes you feel bare and exposed, like he’s dissecting your every reaction, and it takes everything in you not to shy away from him.

“Are you...” He trails off, letting his unfinished sentence hang in the air. You find it difficult to look away from him, especially when he’s peering at you so intently.

While you wait for him to continue, his face inches closer to yours. His movements are so slow that you even find yourself wondering if it’s just a product of your imagination. But as more time passes, all traces of doubt are erased. He’s impossibly close now. You just aren’t sure if it’s intentional or not... Either way, the nearness makes your head spin. 

It’s only then that you realize how he’s practically caging you between his arms. You’re so flustered you don’t know what to do with yourself. Pinned to your seat, you have nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. There’s definitely no mistaking how much closer he is to you now than before; maybe it’s in all in your head, but you swear you can feel his breath ghost over your skin. 

What is he...?

Blood rushes to your eardrums and you swallow thickly, expectant. In hindsight, you'll ask yourself why you let your eyes close, but in the moment all you do is hope the pounding in your chest isn’t loud enough for him to hear. 

But nothing happens. 

Namjoon makes an awkward coughing sound that has your eyes blinking open in confusion. 

“Er, I’m going to head on to sleep.” You notice at once that he refuses to meet your gaze. “I’ll see you tomorrow, same time.”

You watch him take his leave with a twinge of disappointment in your chest. Shaking your head, you do your best to rationalize your conflicting emotions but the answer you come up with is so preposterous that you dismiss it at once. Honestly, what’s gotten into you? How could you let yourself get this this way? It’s late and you’re just sleep deprived, you convince yourself.

Still, there’s no shaking off the embarrassment you feel whenever you relive the moment before he said his goodbye. Even days later, you’ll catch yourself thinking about it only to bury your head in your arms with a groan. You don’t even want to imagine what Namjoon thinks of you now. 

To distract yourself, you launch yourself in your work with determined focus. After checking over the calculated measurements with Namjoon, you both set out to collect the necessary ingredients for the elixir. In your zeal, you end up gathering a greater quantity than strictly needed. You’re not sure what you were expecting, but when you show the fruits of your labor to Namjoon, all he does is scold you for wasting ingredients instead of acknowledging your efforts.

It doesn’t sadden you. It doesn’t. 

"I guess substituting salamander blood for dragon blood was a bad idea."

"You. Idiot."

"Shut up, okay. I know I fucked up, y'don't have to rub it in." You mull over your limited choices, trying not to get swayed by the panic that rises inside of you. 

In your attempt to salvage the situation, you add a pinch of powdered moonstone into the simmering potion and hope for the best. Namjoon’s hand is too slow to stop you from doing so—your name spilling from his lips in warning a second too late.

Time seemingly slows down.

You watch the dust sprinkle down into the cauldron in a whirl of white, the sight but a crude imitation of winter snow. They fall through the air softly before speckling the mulberry colored substance and dissolving into the mixture.

The reaction is instantaneous; the fire under the cauldron crackles ominously as the contents slosh around, bubbling to a boil and threatening to spill over. You peer down at the mixture, trying to assess how badly you’ve messed up—yet again—when a cloud of smoke puffs into your face without forewarning. You sputter into the potion, feeling the vapor seep into your lungs smoothly like liquid silk.

Namjoon yanks you away from the cauldron by the collar as the lavender colored fumes suddenly veil your vision, making your eyes water from the unexpected sting. You can feel the weight of his glare on the side of your face, but you wisely chose to ignore it, still hacking in an unattractive manner. 

The tang of honey and wildberries is heavy on your tongue, the flavor stuck in the back of your throat like a strong aftertaste that refuses to be washed down. Your heartbeat is loud in your ears, the palms of your hand sticky with a thin layer of sweat.  A warm tingling spreads from your mouth to your lungs—the feeling so intense you feel like you’ve just swallowed the strongest shot of single malt whisky. It’s so distracting that you barely register the grumbling beside you.

"Three hours, ____. Three hours of our work now down the drain because someone here made an elementary mistake."

"It's—" The sentence is cut off, silenced by a growl.

"I don't want to hear your excuses!"

"We still have time left," you say feebly, feeling yourself shrink in his presence. You can physically sense the intensity of his glare; your skin prickles under the weight of it.

"Not nearly." Namjoon snaps, his jaw clenched. “Can’t you do anything right?”

He then proceeds to shake his head, laughing to himself like he can’t believe what’s just happened. Your stomach sinks at the sound of his disappointment, your chest constricting all the more because of the look of exasperation he aims your way. 

Tears well up in your eyes as you realize the scope of the damage. So much effort you had put in gone to waste... How are you ever going to be able to rectify your mistake? You need to pass this class if you want to finish your studies and start your apprenticeship. All of your future plans will be pushed back because of your carelessness. 

“I’m sorry,” is all you can say. 

“Are you seriously going to cry?”

You try to deny his accusation but your pathetic sniffle gives you away. Normally you wouldn’t be this emotional, but tonight you’re feeling particularly sensitive. Maybe it’s your time of the month. Hormones or not, there’s no dismissing the heaviness that sits in your chest, restricting your every breath. 

To your horror and embarrassment, two big, fat tears trail down your cheeks and you have to clench your eyes shut to prevent anymore from spilling out. Namjoon is visibly taken aback from the intensity of your reaction and he pauses, unsure of what to do. All his anger seems to melt away, instead replaced with concern.

“Hey,” he says, crossing the space between you with a single stride. “Let’s not cry, okay?”

“I just,” your bottom lip trembles as you hiccup, “I, I ruined everything.”

He hushes your wail, his hand coming up to prevent you from talking any further. You look up at him through watery eyes, confusion twisting your expression. 

“No more of that. I’m so—” He avoids your inquisitive gaze, his palm still pressed your mouth. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you. And it’s, it’s not your fault. It’s unfair to place the blame on you when I was in charge of checking over our inventory before starting the brew. I, um, and besides, there’s no point in dwelling on this. It’s now a thing of the past. I’m not mad at you but I will be if you keep shedding tears over something like this.”

Namjoon tries to sound stern but you’ve been spending so much time with him that you can see right through his act. He only lets his hand fall from the bottom half of your face once you nod your assent. The limb hangs awkwardly between the two of you until he shoves it away in his pocket. 

“I am sorry,” you manage to croak out softly when you’ve finally pulled yourself together. “I shouldn’t have been that hasty.”

“I told you it’s in the past now.” He shrugs in an attempt to act cool about it. “We just need to work hard on the rest. I guess all the ingredients you over-stocked on will prove to be useful, after all.”

You slowly let yourself be convinced by his words and redirect your focus on the potion. There’s no use moping about when you could be using that time to finish the assignment. You only have three days left until the full moon appears which is when you have to distill the brew. 

And while, yes, you could have gone without having a repeat of steps 13 through 28, there’s noticeably less tension between you and Namjoon this time around. Namjoon seems more relaxed around you, coming over to monitor your progress from time to time. You’re not sure if it’s because he doesn’t want you to break into tears once more, but he’s careful not to be curt with you. 

The extra amount of care, no matter how small, has you feeling warm and fuzzy inside. You welcome the attention he gives you with open arms. A small voice in the back of your head whispers something about how you shouldn’t be giving in so easily, but you pay her no heed. 

You’re cutting up bat wings when you feel it—a sudden shiver runs down your spine and has you standing straight up like you’ve just been shocked. Namjoon gives you a curious glance once he notices how you’ve frozen in place, knife still suspended in mid-air.

“You alright there?”

“Mm,” you nod, your confusion evident by the way you furrow your brows. “Just—ah, nothing. There must be a cold draft somewhere.”

Both of you go back to work but there’s a niggling sensation in your lower belly that makes your vision blur at the edges. You don’t realize you’ve minced up your bat wing into unusable smithereens until it’s too late. For some reason, you can’t bring yourself to care. This should have been your first warning but somehow you fail to notice that something isn’t right.

The determination you felt at first slowly dwindles. Your eyes turn glassy and unfocused, your heart rate speeding up without any prompting. There’s a tingling warmth that envelops your body from head to toe, similar to the feeling you get after you drink several glasses of mead. You feel lightheaded all of a sudden, your body too warm for your three layers of clothes.

A clattering noise pierces through the fog in your mind. You turn your attention to Namjoon who is rubbing his forehead with the back of his hand. From this distance, you think you can spot sweat beading at his hairline. 

“It’s hot in here, isn’t it?” You don’t expect your voice to come out breathy, almost seductive. 

Namjoon’s head shoots up at the sound, his eyes zoning in on your figure. It’s then that you notice how big his pupils have become; even in the poor lighting, you can see his eyes darkening as the seconds tick by. 

The pools of black betray his growing arousal, and to your dismay, you find that you are equally affected. You’re short of breath, hands clammy with sweat, heart pounding so hard that you’re scared your ribcage won’t be able to contain it. 

Namjoon says your name cautiously, his eyes widening as he does, “You added moonstone into the potion, didn’t you?”

“Y-yeah. Why?” As comprehension dawns on him, you fidget anxiously, trying to decipher what the realization implies. 

You’re afraid that you’ve messed up some way, somehow, again. When he fails to answer right away, you make an impatient sound in the back of your throat, too tired for games. 

“What are the uses of moonstone in potions?” 

“Why can’t you just tell me?” You whine, frustration making its way into your voice. Now really isn’t the time for a tutoring session. 

“They’re used in love potions, primarily. But also in aphrodisiacs. I think the moonstone powder must have reacted to the crushed rose thorns we added earlier.” Sweat drips down his brow as he speaks and you can’t help yourself from wiping it off with the sleeve of your robe. Namjoon gulps, his adam’s apple bobbing up, before continuing, “You only added a pinch so I think whatever fumes we inhaled will be flushed out of our systems pretty quickly.”

“I accidentally made a sex potion?” your mouth drops open as his words settle in. 

“An aphrodisiac,” he corrects automatically. “That’s why, um, you’re turned on right now.”

“I’m not turned on!” 

Namjoon glances down at your chest quickly, like he can’t help himself, and you follow his gaze. A wave of shame crashes over you when you notice your nipples are erect and poking through your clothes. Just how fucking hard are they to be showing through your bra and jumper? You cross your arms self-consciously but the action only draws more attention to them. Your ears burn with embarrassment. 

“It’s okay,” reassures Namjoon. “It’s normal, I know this is just a bodily reaction to a stimulus and that it doesn’t hold any meaning. You don’t have to be embarrassed.”

“Uh.” You know he’s just trying to make you feel at comfortable, but you can’t help but feel bad about it all. Because he’s wrong. You know...that even without having inhaled the fumes, you’ve been entertaining thoughts you really shouldn’t be having about him. For two long weeks, you’ve tried to ignore the filthy images that are planted in your mind, but this damned concoction is bringing them all back to the forefront of your mind until all you can think of is Namjoon’s long fingers and large palms, his long legs, his soft looking lips... Your imagination runs wild with an infinite number of scenarios, each more salacious than the last.

Maybe aphrodisiacs make you lose your rationality because you can’t stop yourself from saying, “What if it does hold meaning?” 

Namjoon is smart enough to catch the implication of your words but he still freezes, tilting his head like he doesn’t quite understand what you’re hinting at. 

“I’ve thought about you before,” you confess in a small voice. Something in your chest leaps as you try to gauge his reaction.

He licks his lips then, and you can’t tell if he’s deep in thought or if this revelation excites him. 

“H...ow?” he finally asks, voice low and hoarse. The sound instantly shoots straight to your core. You want to hear it croon in your ear. You reckon you could listen to him talk all day about nineteenth century ceremonial magic but only if he keeps talking in that specific tone. “Ah, I thought so... Back in the library, that night... But you’re always so cold with me, I thought I had perhaps read the signs wrong...”

His dimples poke out as he laughs in disbelief. “All this time, I thought I had made things awkward between us because I projected my fee—”

You put an end to his rambling with a kiss. 

It’s not as smooth as you imagine it to be in your end; there’s some fumbling around as you try to match your heights. You wobble on the tips of your toes in order to reach him, but he easily leans down to accommodate you. Namjoon’s large hands settle on your waist, pulling you closer to his body. His lips feel softer than you imagined them to be and you feel your body melting into his. When he kisses you back, it’s like a current of electricity zaps through you. The fiery sensation from earlier comes back in full force, your insides knotting with pleasure. 

Every heated kiss has you wanting more. You’re insatiable, your thirst a long way from being quenched. Namjoon seems to understand your needs right away and he nips your bottom lip, his tongue licking into your mouth. 

Your body vibrates, hot all over. A pleased purr makes its way to your lips and Namjoon eagerly swallows up the sound. 

“I’ve been waiting a long time for this,” he whispers hotly against your mouth. “Are you sure you’re okay with this? We can stop now.”

“Don’t you dare,” you hiss, your fingers clutching onto his clothes, refusing to let him go. It would be the ultimate cruelty to leave you hanging now. “I want you now.”

“Here?” Namjoon chances a glance around the room, wondering if it was worth the risk. 

“On the desk,” you pant, breath cut short. Desire pumps through your veins and you feel high off the feeling. He hurries to comply to your wishes, hoisting you up onto the cleared desk with no visible difficulty. 

The fog thickens, your vision focusing solely on Namjoon and the trail of fire each touch brings. You expect Namjoon to be patient and take his time with you, but he ruins that particular fantasy when he tugs your tights and underwear off in one go. 

He spreads your legs open so he can have a better look. Your gaze never leaves his face, more interested in his reactions. He doesn’t disappoint; you watch him groan to himself, his hand reaching down to briefly palm the front of his slacks. You track the movement, only to bite your lip when the sight arouses you further. The bulge in his pants looks so inviting you instinctively outstretch your hands for a feel, but Namjoon swats your hands away in disapproval. 

Whatever complaint you have dies in your throat as soon as his fingers touch your core. It doesn’t take much on his part for wetness to gather on his digits. 

“This okay?” You nod in response because fuck, yeah.

There’s no drawn out foreplay; he hones in on your sensitive spot right away, intent on drawing out your moans and whimpers. He circles your clitoris with single-minded focus. His hungry stare eyes the way you glisten for him with such intensity, you’re convinced he’s seconds away from devouring you with his gaze alone. The heat of his stare makes you squirm harder against the stroking of his fingers. 

Tiny whimpers escape you before you have time to subdue them. But honestly, who could blame you? Under his skilled ministrations, just how are you supposed to stay silent? 

You’re losing your mind, is your last coherent thought before lust eats away at your insides. All that runs through your mind is a constant loop of Namjoon, Namjoon, Namjoon. You chant his name repeatedly as if your vocabulary consists of only that one word. 

“So pretty like this,” he awes, panting. “You smell so fucking good, I’ll definitely have a taste of that pussy later.”

Your mind barely registers that there’s going to be a round two, when he sits down in the professor’s chair, and pulls you into his lap.

“Pull my cock out,” he coaxes, his hands reaching to discard your sweater. You shiver when you feel his fingers ghost over your bare skin. “I want you to stuff yourself with my hard cock until you’re full.”

There’s no real thinking on your part; it’s as if he’s saying the words you want to hear. Even through the material of his slacks, his hardness is deliciously thick, and you can’t help but imagine how good the stretch will feel inside of you. Your mouth waters from anticipation. Belly taut with excitement, you pull down his zipper and reach for his erection. 

He’s smooth and hard in your hands. Stroking the head of his cock with a curled fist, you relish in the sounds of his throaty moans—the throbbing in your clit erasing all coherent thoughts from your head, leaving it blissfully blank. Your body immediately reacts to his arousal, the sound, sight and smell too much for you to handle. You rut in his lap, already desperate for friction—the pace is frantic, the movements clumsy. It’s not enough. A hiccuping sound leaves your parted lips as you try to relieve yourself. 

“Go ahead,” Namjoon chuckles, a hand on the small of your back. “Take what’s yours.”

The words have you keening, and you impatiently lift yourself up to your knees so you can line his thickness at your entrance. You’re so wet, fluids trickling down your inner thighs, that the head of his shaft slips, bumping into your clit as it rubs against your flesh. After failing repeatedly to relieve yourself, you whine low in your throat, frustrated. 

Taking pity on you, Namjoon stills your hips with one hand and guides his thick member with the other. You do the rest of the work, the growing need between your thighs almost unbearable at this point. When his erection finally slides in home, you can’t help but clench around his hardness, trying to pull him deeper inside of you.

“Fuck!”  

The stretch makes your head tilt back, your eyes closing. You’ve never felt so satisfied in your life; there’s no describing how good his warm member feels as your walls close in around it, the friction everything you could have hoped for. Fingers gripping the scratchy material of his sweater, you hurry to set a rhythm that suits your needs.  

“Tight,” he rasps, mouthing at your neck, hands busy squeezing your ass. The trail of wet kisses he leaves on your neck set your skin on fire. The feeling so overwhelming, you’re not sure if you want more or not.“So fucking tight, I’m, fuck, nnghh. Oh fuck!”

You clench around him, loving the way he squeezes your ass cheeks harder, his hips thrusting up into yours with abandon. You move your hips with purpose, head tipped back, moan after moan falling from your lips. The incessant noises of pleasure seem to spur him on, Namjoon’s hips raising up to meet the fluid rolls of your hips. 

“Namjoon, you’re so good inside me, feel so good,” you bounce up and down on his lap, unable to stop yourself from moving. Every new thrust makes your sanity weaken a little more. You’re so far gone that your wanton display doesn’t even affect you. 

“Yeah? You love me fucking you, just look at you,” there’s that familiar arrogance back in his tone, but for once, it doesn’t make you want to silence him with a spell. This might be the only time you don’t mind him getting cocky... Namjoon looks so good under you, his hair matted with sweat, that you honestly don’t care. His hard shaft fills you up so nice that any other thoughts are inconsequential. 

The pleasure that simmered beneath the surface of your skin is now all consuming. You feel it bubble to a boil with every thrust inside your soaking center, and you know it’s only a matter of time before the dam breaks. Throat parched, it takes a few tries before you can properly formulate a coherent sentence. 

“I’m c-close,” you warn him, still undulating your hips. 

“Good,” he growls, his eyes darkening even more. They’re like magnets, and you find you can’t look away from his gaze. 

You don’t expect him to rise to his feet and place you on the desk again, one of his large hands cradling your head so it doesn’t bump into the hard surface of the polished wood. You blink up at the ceiling, disoriented. “I’m gonna fill you up and then you can come. Want to rub you to an orgasm with my cum, okay?”

“Mmhm,” you nod quickly, too impatient to really care who comes first or where. 

“Gonna fill you up so good,” he groans, broken. His hands roam the expanse of your bare skin with such care, as if he’s committing each curve and crevice of your body to memory. “Fuck you good like you deserve.” 

He smiles down at you with such sincerity that you don’t doubt his promise for a second. The expression is so unfamiliar on his face, so radically different from his usual cold facade, that your heart misses a beat. Your tense muscles relax as you give your trust to him. 

The sudden forceful thrust makes your eyes blow open in surprise. From this angle, he reaches deeper than before; you feel like each snap of his hips against yours robs you of breath. Each slam of his hips makes your body jostle, the desk shake; and you have to hold on to the edge of the desk to stop your body from sliding off. 

Namjoon leans over you, your body now sandwiched between the hard desk and his body. One of his hands pull down the cups of your bra before he attaches his plump lips to one of your breasts. Wet heat teases the sensitive nipple, electrifying every nerve ending. All throughout, he doesn’t break eye contact, a gleam in his gaze that has your stomach turning. The nips and licks on your sensitive skin make you cry out his name; you’re unsure if you’re asking for mercy or for more. 

The pleasure builds at an alarming rate, and you’re convinced you’re about to cum all over his cock when he suddenly buries himself deep inside you, spurting his sticky fluid all over your walls with a cry of your name. He ruts against you, hands holding your hips in place, while he milks the last of his orgasm for all it’s worth. You feel the warm sensation ooze from within, and you gasp, back arching, wishing for that extra push so you could join him. 

“Got it all inside of you,” he pulls out slowly, careful not to let his cum spill. “Are you still close?”

“Mmm,” you nod, head lolling back, lashes wet from unshed tears. But you can already feel it slipping away from you, and you want to cry from the unfairness of it all.

His fingers are quick to rectify your problem. He plays with the stickiness at your entrance, coating his long digits with his pearly sheen, and uses the fluid as lubricant. It’s messy and slippery, but he drives three fingers inside of you, his eyes observing each shift of your expression caused by every curl and thrust of his fingers.

Your mind is hazy, hips meeting his movements of their own volition. The lewd, obscene noises remind you that his cum is inside of you, mixed in with your own arousal. The knowledge makes your head spin, and your stomach knots as you imagine how fucked out you probably look right now---hair mussed, eyes glassy, skin shiny with sweat and slick.

A plea disguised as a moan rips itself from your throat. Your hands reach out for him, your fingernails digging into his flesh as you call out his name. The flare of pain he feels when you rake your nails across his skin doesn’t deter him from his goal.

“You’re doing so well, so beautiful like this.” He praises with a sigh, body still draped over yours like a warm blanket. The words make you ache. “You’re so swollen right now, so pink and swollen, all fucked up because of me, isn’t that right?” He rubs soft circles around your bundle of nerves with the hand that’s not lodged inside you. “Hm? Are you going to come for me? I want to feel you come around my fingers with my cum in your dirty pussy.”

Maybe it’s the fact that Namjoon is the one spewing such filth, but at his words, something hooks the insides your stomach and yanks hard. 

You tumble to the edge without needing further prompting, your chest thrusting forward as tremors wrack your entire frame. Heart beating to the point of bursting, your mouth falls open in a silent scream of ecstasy. The aftershocks never seem to end, the vibrations making your entire body shake with pleasure to the point of oversensitivity. An overwhelming amount of pleasure, probably enhanced by the damned potion, has your vision turning white. All other noises fade into nothing. Darkness greets you then, pulling you into its embrace until you have no other choice but to fall.

A week later, when the professor calls your name, you hand him the bottled elixir without meeting his eyes. The clear mixture glimmers through the glass when the professor holds it up to the light. 

He examines the glass bottle carefully from all angles, “You didn’t have too many problems, did you?”

There’s an short, awkward silence as the both of you look at each other not knowing what to say. You look away first, not trusting yourself to answer the question without erupting into giggles. If only he knew the truth...

“No,” Namjoon finally answers, sheepish. He shoves his hands into his pockets as if that would disguise his fidgeting. “We work well together, actually.”

“I'm so glad you managed to put aside your differences for the good of the project,” the old man beams at the pair of you, a proud smile on his face. “I knew you would be able to do it! I should pair you two up more often.”

“Ah... yes, please do.”

It takes a monumental effort not to smack the smug smirk off his face. 

[sandyyy0708-blog]

soccer is probably the regarding by far the most well-known sports

Detachable cleats possess guys which might be detachable as they are normally comprised of hard plastic using metallic guidelines fixed. The benefit using the sorts is that their it may be transformed would depend around the the weather. These types of copa mundial blanche boots have been for experienced customers.Soccer is probably the regarding by far the most well-known sports in planet among people spanning various ages and also genders.

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 If you're creating a tough period searching out the correct females botas de futbol nike mercurial soccer shoes, this post may possibly ability to help.Clothing additionally a significant part of soccer. A couple of elements on the consistent could be the tank top, bermuda, and leg wear. Baseball jerseys will be in to help keep you great and pull away apart sweating as run across the area. Short-sleeved cycling jerseys are good for summertime practices, along with long-sleeved tops benefit you upon colder sum. How when the hat match? It will likely be unfastened adequate let you shift readily, although so reduce which it gets found about other folks participants how to boost the comfort fighting for that ball. Baseball pants are created to allow total lower-leg movement and may also tumble someplace in mid-thigh and also the top of the joint. To complete your own standard, you need to acquire baseball hosiery. They should be big enough to cover your leg pads, and also solid adequate to give feet several distress absorpting.

[actionnerdgamerlove]

Do You Want Me Now - Chapter 6: Violet Eyes

Read on AO3

CW: Explicit...everything. Except violence. Graphic language, graphic sex, 18+ please.

Summary: Jask and Yen meet, and fuck, in a fancy club bathroom.

Little Lark [4:10 PM]: You’re sure you and Aiden don’t wanna come with me tonight?

Lambert [4:11 PM]: Well, Himself is working, and I’ve got grading to do (THANKS FOR NOTHING JERKFACE). Also, The Sugar Cube is not exactly my kinda joint – WHY are you going there again?

Little Lark [4:13 PM]: Boss, those are MID-TERMS. I can legit not grade those, you have to read their submissions. Sugar Cube wasn’t my choice – believe me, it’s about as much your kinda place as mine. I’ve been told I have to wear heels, Lamb. If I break my ankle, you’ll know why.

Lambert [4:20 PM]: Get someone to take a picture or send me a selfie. I want to see you looking ridiculous, Jas. I live for this shit.

Little Lark [4:22 PM]: You’re lucky I love you, jackass.

Lambert [4:23 PM]: ILY, too! DON’T FORGET MY SELFIE.

Larkin had been invited to go out for celebratory drinks for a friend in her department at the University – invited to drinks at the poshest, most pretentious, and most reminiscent-of-a-rocketship bar Oxenfurt had to offer.

The Sugar Cube was a very trendy Euro-style bar, all glass tables and chairs, multi colored lights and bass-pounding dance music. Larkin had been a couple times before, always at the invitation of someone else, because her usual attire of goofy t-shirts, converse sneakers and sweatshirts wasn’t going to cut it here. She opted instead for a pair of opalescent dark silver leggings, a narrow black tube top, a see-through silver knit mesh sweater, and a pair of platform black stilettos.

The bar was within walking distance to her apartment, which probably would have been a better idea if she weren’t wearing heels you could kill someone with. She arrived at the bar without breaking anything, and was invited to skip the line by the bouncer who apparently knew who she was (Not as Larkin Pantkratz, that is). She’d forgotten that happened at places like this. She ended up grabbing a couple people she knew from school already in line to bring in with her so they didn’t have to wait out in the cold. She asked the bouncer to take a picture of her, and he was only too happy to oblige, asking for a selfie with her in exchange. She begged him not to post it, but knew that was a pipe dream.

Once inside, she sent the required selfie to Lambert, and went to find her friends, who were already several drinks in by the time she arrived. She grabbed a coke from the bartender, and chatted with people she knew for a little while.

About a half hour after arriving, a woman sidled up to Larkin at the bar.

“You look like something I’d like to do later,” came the seductive purr from Larkin’s left.

Larkin shifted her eyes slowly to her left, turning her head ever so slightly, taking a sip from the straw in her coke. The purr belonged to a woman with dark curls, ruby red lips, and fucking violet eyes. Maybe she was a mermaid. She was fucking working a skin tight long-sleeved white dress, with white and black stilettos to complete her ensemble. The dress fit her like a glove, and Larkin wondered what she had on underneath it.

“That right?” Larkin asked, dryly. “Would you be considered a good choice, or a bad choice?”

“Oh, darling, I’m a very good choice. Why don’t I show you?”

And with that, she got up from her NASA quality barstool, took Larkin’s hand, and led Larkin to the women’s restroom.

Larkin was amused to see the bathroom did not disappoint in terms of continuing the weirdly specific aesthetic. Larkin’s favorite accent she saw before she was devoured was a neon pink sign proclaiming “Please don’t do coke in the bathroom”. Classy. Then Larkin didn’t have much of a chance to register anything other than Violet Eyes’ mouth and hands all over her. All over her. Violet eyes backed Larkin up to the sink counter, nudging Larkin to hop up on it. Larkin became very intimately acquainted with the shape, size and taste of Violet Eyes’ teeth and tongue, as their mouths fought for dominance over one another. Violet Eyes was a fan of biting – biting Larkin’s lips, her tongue, her neck, and then further downward as she pulled off Larkin’s mesh sweater and tube top, leaving Larkin naked from the waist up in the bathroom. At this point, Larkin had no further fucks left to give, leaving Violet Eyes the owner of Larkin’s generous décolletage. Violet Eyes wasted no time in attaching her mouth to one of Larkin’s nipples, and twisting the other rather sharply with two fingers. At this point, Larkin was really just along for the ride. Violet Eyes started trying to shimmy the leggings off of Larkin while she was seated, so Larkin took it upon herself to pick Violet Eyes up by her armpits, grab her shirts and purse, and push them both into an open bathroom stall. Violet Eyes gave a very indignant noise upon being deposited on her feet in the stall. “I am not a sack of potatoes!” Violet Eyes irately exclaimed. “You’re absolutely right. Dressed much nicer, and quite a bit heavier than one.” Larkin retorted, pulling Violet Eyes’ shoes off, so she wouldn’t injure herself. Larkin kicked off her own shoes, and pulled her leggings off, leaving her completely naked in front of the other woman. “Oh, I like you,” Violet Eyes purred, again. Larkin wasted no time in spilling Violet Eyes around, unzipping her dress, pulling it down, and hanging it on the hook on the door to the stall. She found Violet Eyes was wearing a matching set of embroidered white mesh bra and panties. Larkin pulled the panties down, and off, then pushed Violet Eyes’ legs open further to give her better access to her pussy. Kneeling in front of the other woman, she held eye contact for 30 seconds solid, making her intentions known. “Do I have your permission to touch you?” “Fuck, yes, gorgeous, please,” Violet Eyes panted. Larkin pushed her face forward, parting the other woman’s perfectly groomed lower lips, finding her fucking dripping wet. Larkin licked a long stripe up spanning the length of her pussy, then focused on the other woman’s clit, pushing two fingers inside, hearing incoherent moans above her. Larkin began fucking Violet Eyes with her fingers, and obeyed when Violet Eyes pleaded for more fingers. Four fingers now, fucking in and out of Violet Eyes, whose knees had started to shake. Larkin wrapped her other arm around Violet Eyes’ waist, to catch her in case her knees gave out. She focused her efforts on the other woman’s clit, sucking, nibbling and licking. Larkin pulled away, looking up at Violet Eyes. “How do you feel about fisting?” she asked nonchalantly. Read the rest on AO3

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[blastinghopper]

HVOF Gun | HVOF Spray Gun in India

From: sand blasting hopper

HVOF Gun

HVOF stands for High-Velocity Oxygen Fuel, and from its name, it's easy to deduce that this thermal spray process has got to do with using molten materials (or semi-molten materials) at a high speed on substrates. These uses in application Turbine engine fan blade mid-spans, compressor blades, turbine blade roots, bearing journals, stator and rotor disk snap diameters, landing gears, actuators, flap tracks, helicopter rotor joints, and sleeves. These power generation Industrial gas turbines, hydroelectric Pelton buckets, sand blasting nozzles, and blades, exhaust fans. The high-velocity oxy-fuel process was invented only 20 years ago, yet has thrust the thermal spray application range into areas that were once unobtainable. In HVOF spraying, a mixture of process gases, like hydrogen, oxygen, and air, is injected into the combustion chamber of the torch at high and ignited. The resulting gas velocities achieve supersonic speeds. The powder is injected into the flame and also accelerated to supersonic speed.

[anilv89-blog]

Information of Pradnya Electricals

We are manufacturer, exporter, and supplier of an advance range of Transform Isolator, Clamp Connector, Sub Station Clamp Connector, Electrical Goods, Compression Connectors, Line Connector, Terminal Lugs, Barrel Nut, Power Connectors, etc. for the customers in various designs and sizes.

Our products are made using qualitative components that assure durability and high strength to the finished structure. We are equipped with advance technologies and robust infrastructure including machines and other amenities that enable us to fabricate products in compliance with the industrial norms of quality and other related standards. Moreover, we undertake cost-effective and quantitative production of the Power Connectors, Copper Compression Connectors, etc. owing to which, we are able to fulfill the bulk and immediate requirement of the customers efficiently.

Palm connector is used by: LifeDrive, Tungsten E2, Tungsten T5, Treo 650, Treo 680, Treo 700p, Treo 750, Treo 755p, Palm TX, Palm Centro.

Palm Connector

some machines connect via Palm Universal Connector (Older Standard for Palm Handhelds) some machines use a standard Mini USB (Some Low-Budget Handhelds) some machines use a Multi-Connector (Newer standard for palmOne and Palm Handhelds) some early models used model-specific connectors. The Connector can be used to charge the device, transfer data to a computer, HotSync, and play audio. It is the new standard to replace the previous Palm Universal Connector, which performed similar functions but did not have an audio output capability.

This port has also been used to connect to an external microphone or to GPS units.

The connector is divided in two sections: the longer one has thirteen pins numbered from right to left the shorter one has three pins, on the left (3), top (2) and right. The cable shield connectors are located on each side of the thirteen pins.

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[aluprof]

Stick Curtain Wall and Building Movement

When specifiers design glazed façades they wish to see slim sightlines, when installers quote for work they wish to use the most economic system for the project and often opt to use a well respected 50mm curtain wall system.  But despite the systems pedigree, is the ‘off-the-shelf’ design right for the buildings structural design?

When designing any façade there are two main issues to take into consideration, the dead load of the façade itself and the live loads that are going to be imposed on the façade, which includes wind loading and possible catastrophic events such as seismic and blast loadings.  Taking the façade as a single entity, these can be catered for, however, the curtain wall stick or unitised, relies on fixings to the building structure to transfer both loads back at regular mullion spacings, on average at every 1,500 mm.  Catering for movement due to live loads on the curtain wall and thermal expansion, is normally catered for with regular sleeved joints, usually at each floor level.  So far so good, but what about building movement such as floor edge deflection and building sway?

Floors will deflect once loaded with people and equipment, not all structures will be the same and this deflection will vary.  We now face movement in the curtain wall façade itself depending on what is happening within the building.  This movement must be catered for otherwise the facade could easily fail when the building is in use.

Unitised curtain wall systems tend to cater for this movement quite well within their stack joints, but in stick curtain wall the issue becomes more pronounced as there is typically much less room when the glass is stacked in these systems.

Looking at a 50mm wide curtain wall we typically have 13mm edge cover on the glazing and a curtain wall nosing thickness of 10mm.  Taking 25mm to the centre of the mullion we have a nominal clearance of 7mm (= 25mm - 13mm - 5mm [half of the width of the nosing]).  This is a nominal space as we have a facade fabrication tolerance of +/- 1mm and installation tolerance of +/- 2mm.  Glazed units, say 1,500mm x 2,800mm have at least a +/-2mm tolerance on fabrication.  As you can see, the 7mm can quickly reduce should tolerances stack the wrong way.

Given that there is say 5mm around the glazing with the lower edge of the full height glazing located on 5mm glazing packers, should the floor slab deflect more that 5mm will see aluminium moving to touch or load the glazed unit which could result in glazing failure.

This condition is further restricted when cap-less curtain wall systems are specified where the toggle fixings have an average +/-3mm around the glazed unit.

If the building is designed with floors that run between the building structure, such as columns near the floor edge, floor movement becomes increasingly problematic for the facade.  Where columns exist there would be no floor movement, but at the mid-span the floor would move by a given limit, so the floor will ‘sag’ between columns.  Given that the glazed units will be located on a transom with two glazing blocks, the glazed units will also be subject to a slight rotation within their glazing rebate where the floor begins to ‘sag’ downwards.

Each building structure will offer various levels of floor edge movement, but it is crucial to request these details from the structural engineer in any curtain wall installation being fixed back to intermediate floors.  Once the movement is known, this can then be designed into the curtain wall.  The use of special designed spandrel panels or double transoms can cater for this movement and to an extent the rotation of units, this needs careful design often with the systems provider.

For the reasons explained, unitised curtain wall systems are being specified on a more regular basis where building structures are being designed with lighter materials and increased deflection limits, as they can cater for more building movement.

The main issue is to be aware of the deflection limits of the structure that the facade is to be fixed too and how this movement will affect the curtain wall.  Many projects will work exceptionally well with a 50mm curtain wall, given that the structure offers limited movement.  Where required, the move to wider 60mm curtain wall systems will increase the space around the glazing edge to the mullion and transom nosing, which will allow for more movement of the curtain wall frame before the glazing units are compromised.  Unitised systems will cater for greater building movement whilst still offering slim sightlines, high levels of insulation but with the benefit of offering installation times up to half of that for traditional stick curtain wall systems.

At Aluprof we offer our acclaimed 50mm, ‘MB-SR50N’, and 60mm ‘MB-SR60N’ stick curtain wall systems with a wide range of profiles and options to cater for most building designs and cater for structural movement.  Where required our unitised system, MB-SE75, can be used in any facade requirement.  We have a team of facade designers located in the UK to assist any specifier or installer wishing to design using Aluprof systems.

Since setting up the Aluprof Project Office at the Business Design Centre in London, the company has rapidly grown their specification influence in the UK with their high performance architectural aluminium systems.  Further expansion of the companies headquarters in Altrincham now provides specifiers with meeting facilities and an extensive showroom of commercial systems to view.  With overseas growth across Europe spreading into the Middle East and firm roots already in the East of the USA, the company is becoming a global player in facade supply. Further information is available on the companies website at aluprof.co.uk or direct from their UK office in Altrincham on 0161 941 4005.

[medicalinformation-blog1]

What is a solidified shoulder?

What is a solidified shoulder?

Your shoulders can move more, in more headings, than some other joint in your body – barely shocking, at that point, that once in a while something turns out badly. Also, when it does, would they be able to seize up, as well as they can be to a great degree excruciating

Like your hip, your shoulder is a 'ball and attachment' joint. The ball is at the leader of your humerus (the bone in your upper arm) and it sits in a container framed from bone toward the finish of your shoulderblade. The finish of your collarbone likewise shapes some portion of the joint, and a 'sleeve' of muscles called the rotator sleeve pull it every which way. To balance out the joint, there's a container of intense connective tissue surrounding it. This game plan permits most extreme scope of development with least danger of the shoulder disengaging – in spite of the fact that shoulder disjoin more regularly than different joints on the grounds that the 'container' is exceptionally shallow, to permit greater development.

Who is influenced by solidified shoulder?

Solidified shoulder is most basic in your 40s-mid 60s, and influences up to one of every 20 individuals sooner or later. Will probably endure with it in case you're a lady or on the off chance that you have other therapeutic conditions like diabetes, coronary illness, stroke or overactive thyroid. It's not the same as joint pain, and in spite of the fact that it can occur after shoulder damage, it for the most part begins for no obvious reason.

Solidified shoulder is in some cases called 'cement capsulitis' – at the end of the day, the shoulder container gets aggravated (the medicinal term for any irritation is '- itis') and scar tissue frames that sticks the shoulder together, diminishing development. Frequently, it influences the shoulder you don't compose with. On the off chance that this happens, you'll discover your shoulder is hardened and you can't move it to the extent you could. It's regularly extremely agonizing, particularly when you move it yet additionally when you lie on it during the evening or notwithstanding when you're resting.

What are the side effects of solidified shoulder?

The side effects of solidified shoulder have a tendency to experience stages. The primary 'solidifying' stage is generally most difficult, and normally endures from two to nine months. Amid this time, solidness and lessened development progressively deteriorate until the point that they achieve a top as the agony wears off. This next 'solidified' stage normally keeps going four to a year, amid which you may find that pivoting your shoulder is a specific issue. At long last comes the 'defrosting' stage, when your shoulder continuously comes back to typical through the span of one to three years. It's profoundly improbable that you'll ever get solidified shoulder again in a similar shoulder in the event that you've had it once.

How might I ease indications?

Practically every arm development we underestimate includes the shoulder, so solidified shoulder can meddle including heading to brushing your hair to putting your garments on. Since the principal period of a solidified shoulder is generally the most excruciating, torment alleviation is especially essential in the initial couple of months. Your specialist may offer paracetamol, calming tablets like naproxen or ibuprofen and codeine-containing tablets (or patches that discharge a consistent dosage of solid torment alleviation). Steroid infusions into the joint are likewise an alternative if the agony is serious, in spite of the fact that you'll have to hold up half a month amongst infusions and can just have up to three in light of the danger of harming your joint.

Physiotherapy can have a tremendous effect to torment and in addition solidness and scope of development. Your physiotherapist may utilize a mix of extending activities, rub and hot/cool packs. They'll additionally exhort you on activities to do at home. While different medications like TENS machines (which convey minor electrical motivations) and needle therapy have been utilized, they're not suggested in rules in light of the fact that there's practically zero confirmation they offer assistance.

At the point when is surgery an alternative?

In case regardless you're enduring extremely, there are a few surgical alternatives, all done by an orthopedic specialist under analgesic. These incorporate controlling your shoulder to extend and separate the scar tissue in the case, or embeddings a minor telescope into the joint and utilizing radio-waves to separate the scar tissue. You'll have the capacity to go home that day despite the fact that you'll require physiotherapy subsequently.

With on account of 'My Weekly' magazine where this article was initially distributed.

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Tubular Bus Connector Information : Pradnya Electricals

T Connector

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