#the heady life of a working artist...

[briarrolfe]

I had to apply for public liability insurance,

and it turns out the people who do public liability insurance for artists like, DO PUBLIC LIABILITY INSURANCE FOR ARTISTS.

So I guess if you ALSO are someone who needs Australian public liability insurance as an artist, or are just looking for a list of cool new careers, you can check out Duck For Cover.

[p0orbaby]

All This Money, Darling, What Else Is Left to Do?

summary: you’ve moved to barca for work, you meet alexia

warnings: SMUT 18+, strap use, bathroom sex, how original

a/n: based on this request !

word count: 1.1k

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You’ve never been good with Spanish, which is unfortunate considering you’ve just moved to Barcelona to film a series that’s supposed to be your “dark, gritty” transition from Hollywood darling to Oscar-worthy actress. A role that will, in your words, “finally earn me that little golden bastard.” The director had only sighed in response, muttering something about Brits and their insatiable thirst for awards, before handing you a script written entirely in Spanish.

You’ve got all the superficial things down: tousled hair that looks like you just rolled out of bed in a sultry way (when in reality, it took your stylist an hour to perfect), designer sunglasses that scream “I’m too famous to be bothered,” and a wardrobe carefully curated to say, “I’m an artist, but I could still outdress you at a red carpet event.”

The language, though, remains your Everest.

Which is how you find yourself at a party hosted by some up-and-coming director who might actually be a waiter – it’s hard to tell when everyone here looks like they stepped out of an indie film. The only reason you’re here is because your agent insists you need to “immerse yourself in the culture.” Apparently, the key to embodying a brooding Spanish detective is to drink sangria and eat patatas bravas at a rooftop party with people who don’t recognise you. Or worse, pretend not to recognise you.

You’ve been nursing the same glass of wine for an hour, half-watching as a group of women discuss something with intense, dramatic flair. You’re only half-listening until one of them catches your eye.

You don’t know her name. Not yet. But you know she’s trouble from the way she moves. She’s all sharp edges and grace, the kind of woman who makes every hair on your body stand on end before you’ve even exchanged a word. When she looks at you, it’s like she already knows you – all of you – even the parts you try to keep hidden behind layers of well-crafted mystique.

You make a mental note to stay away from her. Which, naturally, means you’ll be making out in the bathroom with her within the hour.

And that’s exactly how it happens. One moment, you’re trying to figure out what the hell “Tarjeta amarilla” means, and the next, she’s pressed up against you, lips smashing into yours like she’s been waiting her entire life to taste you. It’s heady, intoxicating, the way she devours you like you’re something she plans to enjoy slowly – but not yet.

The bathroom is one of those annoyingly chic setups with a waterfall tap and hand towels that look like they should be in a palace. It’s also incredibly small, which is fine because she’s pressed up against you, and suddenly there’s no need for space.

You don’t know who makes the first move. It’s all a blur of hands and lips, and somewhere between her tongue tracing the line of your jaw and your fingers digging into her hips, you figure out you don’t actually care.

Her name’s Alexia. You learned that somewhere between her pushing you against the wall and slipping her hand under your bra. Alexia, whispered like a prayer. Or maybe it was a curse. She’s too good at this. Too good at the way she takes control, the way she knows exactly where to touch you to make you gasp, arch, and cling to her like she’s your lifeline.

And then she’s guiding you to the sink, bending you over like it’s the most natural thing in the world. It probably is for her – something about the way she holds you down with one massive hand and undoes her jeans with the other tells you this is far from her first time.

You glance up at the mirror, and there you are – tousled hair now a genuine mess, eyes blown wide, lips kiss-swollen and desperate. You look every bit the part of a woman who’s about to get absolutely wrecked.

Which is exactly what happens.

Alexia’s behind you, and then something cool and smooth is pressing against your entrance – a strap, because of course, she’d have one at the ready. You bite your lip, half to stifle a moan and half because you don’t want to give her the satisfaction of hearing you already coming undone. You’re an actress, after all, and the best performances are always the ones where you keep the audience guessing.

Not that it matters. The second she pushes in, you’re a mess, nails scraping against the sink’s surface as you try – and fail – to keep yourself together. She’s ruthless, setting a pace that leaves no room for pretense. It’s rough, raw, the kind of fucking that makes you forget your name and what you’re supposed to be doing here in Spain in the first place.

“Te gusta, ¿verdad?” she murmurs in your ear, voice low and teasing. And by her tone you just about make out she’s asked you a question.

“Fuck, yes,” you gasp, any attempt at playing it cool flying out the window as she thrusts harder, deeper. The sound of skin against skin fills the small bathroom, along with your increasingly loud moans. There’s no point in being quiet now – everyone out there either knows what’s happening or will by the time she’s done with you.

It’s filthy, the way she fucks you – no pretense, no gentleness, just pure, unbridled lust. You’re half-certain you’ll have bruises tomorrow, and the thought only turns you on more.

“Mírate,” she breathes, voice laced with dark amusement. “Miss Hollywood, siendo follada como una vulgar zorra"

You whimper in response, because you don’t know what else to do. You don’t understand a word she’s saying. Yet you’re still reduced to nothing but pure pleasure, body trembling as she drives you closer and closer to the precipice.

And then she does something with her hips – some angle that has you seeing stars, and you’re gone, crying out her name as you come harder than you’ve ever come in your life. The kind of orgasm that leaves you breathless, boneless, clinging to the sink like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

But she doesn’t stop. Not until you’re shaking, overstimulated and begging her to – not until she’s milked every last bit of pleasure from you, until you’re nothing but a panting, sweaty mess in her extremely toned arms.

When she finally pulls out, you collapse against the sink, legs barely holding you up. Alexia’s still behind you, hands sliding up your sides in a way that’s almost affectionate. Almost.

“That was…” You try to find words, but they’re lost somewhere between the haze of lust and the aftershocks of your orgasm.

“Sí,” she agrees, smirking as she steps back, giving you just enough space to turn around and face her.

There’s something in her eyes, something that says she’s not done with you yet. And despite the fact that you should probably get back to the party, should probably straighten yourself up and pretend like you haven’t just been fucked within an inch of your life, you can’t bring yourself to care.

[romchat]

The Time of Fever (Ep. 1-3) visual analysis: The Metamorphosis

Ho-tae: "I woke up to find myself transformed into a monstrous insect, lying in bed"...What is this? A story about a guy turning into a bug? Dong-hee: If I turned into a bug one day, would I still be Kim Dong-hee or just a bug?

From this piece of dialogue and the cinematography alone I know The Time of Fever is going to cause me a lot of pain. The only way to describe its style is palpable.

The moment our two main characters, Kim Dong-hee and Go Ho-tae, appear together, we can see the friction and unnamed longing between them.

Notice how often the first episode uses shots with three distinct compositional layers to provide depth and complexity to the relationships portrayed on screen:

In most of these shots, the composition places Dong-hee in the background with Ho-tae on another layer completely--they're distant and never quite aligned on what they want out of the relationship. Despite how these two characters were brought together by their mothers' friendship--I love how the second screenshot uses their bodies in the foreground to frame Dong-hee and Ho-tae--it's that very connection that also creates a wall between them. Although Ho-tae is excited about rekindling their friendship after moving away two years prior, Dong-hee doesn't want to betray his aunt's trust by admitting his romantic feelings for him.

And so he recedes into the background, alone and inscrutable.

The fact that Dong-hee also compares himself to Gregor from Franz Kafka's The Metamorphosis hits like a sucker punch.

Like Gregor, Dong-hee lives a sort of transient and almost functionalist lifestyle. After being kicked out of his home by his abusive father, he focuses on his school work and trying to get by. He is isolated and his queer awakening only makes him feel more disoriented and misunderstood--he feels like Gregor in his insect form.

And yet we still see moments where he allows himself to yearn for something more and how Ho-tae begins to do the same.

(Side Note: I love love love the show's use of backlighting to highlight the lines of the actors' bodies. It's so simple but intimate and erotic as if the camera is acting like Dong-hee's artist-eye trying to memorize Ho-tae's muscular beauty.)

One of my favorite stylistic choices of The Time of Fever is how it uses close-ups to represent the characters' subjective POV and desire.

Like Dong-hee's sketches, these shots are the fragments of everyday life that are so small yet feel oh so significant while on the path towards self-discovery.

They're gloriously tactile, the shallow depth of field eliminating extraneous detail, allowing us to experience the heady excitement of accidentally grazing your crush's skin or looking into their eyes during a rainstorm.

I don't think I've seen desire that achingly displayed in a hot minute.

And so it makes sense that as Ho-tae begins to undergo his own metamorphosis and understand his own feelings, we see more and more visual parallelism in how their desire manifests.

(Side Note: The second screenshot above is such a gorgeous shot. That inky black negative space not only showcases Ho-tae's gaze at Dong-hee's lips but also his reaction to the realization that hits him. Great 2 for 1.)

I can't wait to see what visual storytelling the next three episodes bring.

[musedeluce]

Protection Detail

Rafayel x Reader – (He didn’t actually hire you to protect him as a bodyguard, but you don’t know that, and of course you take your job seriously.)

Tags/Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, Slight Angst, Slight Violence, Hospitalization, Blood and Injury.

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It was dusk, and the heady, but ultimately pleasant scent of different perfumes swirled through the air as people moved throughout the exhibit. Floral,citrus, earthy, fresh, there was such a variety of scents. Inhaling, you did your best to identify the specific notes. It was something you did for fun, and also to hone your senses, as keen senses could save your life, and others one day. An ornate chandelier twinkled, illuminating the grand exhibition hall. People dressed in beautiful, high quality clothes milled about, moving from painting to painting. From your vantage point on a balcony overlooking the exhibit, everything seemed to be going quite well. As Rafayel’s hired bodyguard, you were never that far from him, but you took care to be as unobtrusive as possible. Right now, you had just finished a security check and were on your way to relieve the security guard you had asked to watch him while you were gone, for 10 minutes at most.

“Thank you.” Taking your post, you make sure you can see Rafayel clearly and keep an eye on the environment around him. As if he knew you were looking at him, he turned his head, his vibrant, swirling indigo eyes meeting yours for a moment, as it to make sure you were still there, before he turned away to speak with a guest.

“No problem. Nothing really happened while you were gone. Mainly, Thomas has been introducing people to him to briefly talk and then whisking them away again while he stands there looking austere.” That’s so like him, you think, amused at him purposely being the minimum amount of sociable he could be. You were lucky in this regard, as you didn’t have to socialize with anyone at all. The security guard walked off and you remained, alert to any trouble. Slowly, Rafayel circled throughout the room with you following discreetly, and he would sometimes glance back at you before he moved. For a few hours, that’s how the exhibition continued. Everything was calm, people mingled, delicious food and drink was consumed, and honestly it was a great time.

While surveying the grand hall, something slightly out of place caught your eye. A lone figure stood gazing up that the pinnacle of the exhibit, close enough to touch the masterpiece painting.. too close. His posture was stiff, his back ramrod straight and his hands, his hand were clenched at his sides. You couldn’t here anything from where you were but the man seemed to be talking to himself, mouthing words, probably bitter, ugly words if his body language was any indication. It reminded you of someone you had met before. Abruptly, the man whipped around and stalked through the crowd...straight towards Rafayel. Naturally, you started moving towards Rafayel as well, maneuvering to intercept the man before he reached the artist.

Physically dealing with a person is always supposed to be the last resort, with de-escalation being the main goal of any bodyguard. The response should always be proportionate, and the goal should always be the protection of your mark. Security people do not exist to punch people out, they’re only supposed to do that if that’s the only option. Hence, why you positioned yourself in between the man and your employer, who also happened to be someone you considered dear.

“Why should he get all the attention? Just him? My work is just as good, but I’m paid dust!” His voice was tinged with a sickly green, the tone bitter and rotten. “All his work is boring and generic. Inspiring? Unique? Don’t make me laugh. “ His noxious laughter seemed to echo throughout the hall, the sour smell of alcohol on his breath shed more light on the situation.

“Sir, are you feeling alright?” You kept your voice neutral, changing your expression to one of concern despite your annoyance. It was a better approach to ask this question and questions like it instead of immediately asking them to leave, or what they were doing as that was much more confrontational. It had the added benefit of often confusing them, and actually making them consider their actions. Unfortunately, this time it failed.

“I’ll feel perfectly fine when you get out of my way.” The man tries to get all up in your face, but you remain unruffled.

“Sir. I can’t do that, but I might be able to help you in some other way. Do you want a glass of water?” He sneers, and spews spit in your direction as he snarls at you.

“Bitch, get the fuck out of my way. I don’t need a fucking glass of water.” He attempts to push you aside. Annoyed, but not surprised, you effortlessly grab him and flip him around, locking his arms behind his back and start to escort him in the direction of the exit. Hearing some soft footsteps approaching, you knew Rafayel had seen what was going on. Hopefully you could get him out before Rafayel made it to you.

“Okay, sir. I’m going to have to escort you out for getting physical.”

“How dare you put your hands on me!” The idiot was starting to make a scene, but it’s not like you cared. You were doing your job, and he was making himself look bad, a scene wouldn’t affect you. “Rafayel is the one who deserves to be humiliated! He’s got you all eating out of the palm of his hand because of some pathetic art that has no soul!” Other security guards approached, and you made the decision to hand him off to them so you could get back to Rafayel, and so that this person wasn’t with you when Rafayel got close, he was about 2/3rds of the way to you. After the initial outburst, people, seeing it was just someone being drunk and poorly behaved, returned to what they were doing as soon as they saw it was being handled.

“Escort him out, please. And call him a cab or something, he’s drunk, on both jealousy and alcohol.” You push him into the custody of the same man you had asked to watch Rafayel for a while. Turning on your heel, you stride in Rafayel’s direction and meet up with him quickly.

“What’s up?” He asks, tone casual and almost playful, but not quite.

“Just some drunk idiot.” You shrug, and fill Rafayel on what happened, leaving out the specific insults upon his art.

“HEY!” The sharp yell behind you was followed by the footsteps of someone directly sprinting towards Rafayel, and you. Instinctually, you whip around, pushing Rafayel behind you. Icy pain exploded through your head, which had snapped back with the impact of the man’s punch. Itaking the punch was something you knew you were capable of, and since he had now punched you, you could now take more actions. Also, there was no way in Hell you were gonna let some drunken, pathetic sod even touch Rafayel, let alone punch him. The sod in question could now also be booked for assault. All of these were reasons you took the punch, and also because the man had acted quite quickly, and you spent any extra time you had to react to him getting Rafayel out of the way, so you also took the punch because it was one of the only actions you could take at the time.

Unimpressed, you look back at the man, who was apparently sobering up as realization of what he had done dawned in his eyes. You punched him in the stomach as hard as you could, for the purposes of subduing him and possibly, a little bit, for your own satisfaction. Writhing on the ground, event security surrounded him and finally he was kicked out.

“What a mess.” Muttering to yourself, you turn to Rafayel, making sure he was alright. “My apologies, Boss.” You gently touch your nose, your hand coming away with crimson blood on the tips of your fingers. It wasn’t broken but that wasn’t the only thing you had to worry about, whenever you took a blow to the head it was always possible to get a concussion, and bleeding from your nose wasn’t a great sign, especially since you hadn’t actually been punched directly in the nose. “Are you okay?” You eye him, examining his body up and down. “You seem to be, but I’d like your verbal confirmation.” Rafayel grabs your bloodied hand, making a show of examining it, and your face, closely.

“Your devotion is astounding.” His tone is playful, teasing. “I should reward you with a trip to the hospital, the most magical location in the world.” Gasping, you play along, a smile twitching at the corners of your lips.

“The hospital? I’ve always wanted to go there, what a great reward!” The two of you make your way to one of the exits, walking side by side which is unusual as you were either in front of him or behind him depending on the situation. Everyone lets you go, even Thomas.

“Your chariot awaits.” Rafayel opens the passenger door for you, deciding that he would be the one to drive - quite honestly, a good thing because you felt a headache developing, and you couldn’t tell if it was a concussion headache, or just one from being punched.

“Your powers of perception are most impressive! What tipped you off about that pathetic knave?” Rafayel continued his teasing, which you were grateful for. It would serve a dual purpose of keeping you engaged, important if you had a concussion, and honestly just making you feel better.

“Alas, it’s nothing so impressive as you may think. The knave reminded me of someone creepy I had met before.”

“Oh?” Rafayel arches an eyebrow. “Do enlighten me, noble knight.”

“Hush.” You giggle, and then become more serious. “Remember how our second meeting was because I needed to investigate one of your paintings? The man tonight reminded me of Raymond, the collector who bought your painting. They both had the same...creepy and obsessive vibes. I honestly suspect that what happened to Raymond was orchestrated somehow, and that he brought it upon himself. This man today, also brought what happened upon himself.”

“Interesting!” Rafayel’s playful voice adapted a silken tone.”You don’t talk a lot about your other job! I feel left out, and this topic is much less boring than some jealous drunk. Who do you think orchestrated what happened to Raymond?”

“Well, the most likely suspect is you, as the artist. You have the most control over the painting itself.” Equally as playful as he was, you continue to speak. “But, who cares? I trust your judgment, given what I know of you, though I suspect I don’t know that much. I also trust my own judgment, and there was something seriously off about Raymond. Hence why when this guy reminded me of him, I was on alert.”

“How flattering! To think, the best hunter in Linkon trusts my judgment as much as their own.” A genuine, soft smile graces Rafayel’s pretty face. A minute later, you’re at Akso hospital, making your way to the emergency room. Luckily for you, it wasn’t very busy and the wait was short. Unluckily, you were admitted overnight for observation, because even though you seemed to be fine, they wanted to know for sure, and there was the extra factor of your protocore syndrome to consider.

“Honestly Rafayel, it’s okay if you leave.” He had been allowed to go with you once you told them you wanted to see him, so you could inform him of what was going on. “I’ve spent a lot of nights in this hospital alone. I just wanted to make sure you knew what was up.”

“What? And leave you alone after you so valiantly protected me? Not a chance.” Rafayel takes a seat on the hospital cot he had set up. “Besides, we apparently need to discuss your rather worrying tendency for self-sacrifice. I’m a bit mad, you know.”

“Mad? Why would you be mad when I was protecting you, a job you explicitly hired me to do?” He gasped in mock outrage.

“You only protected me because I pay you? In that case -” His tone softens. “If I stop paying you will you stop trying to protect me?”

“Rude! I didn’t just protect you because you pay me, I genuinely wanted to protect you. I don’t want you to get hurt, especially not if there’s anything I can do about it.” You were earnest, and frankly Rafayel was scared to hear it, but so impossibly happy. “So, I guess the answer to that question is no.” Your laugh was invigorating.

“Humans are all so selfish. Always acting how they want with no regard for anyone else.” The cot creaked as he leaned backwards, the fresh, energetic smell of his cologne wafting through the air, and his voice was quiet, enough so that you suspect he was talking to himself. You responded anyway.

“That’s not true. Humans are too varied to make blanket statements like that and “Humans are inherently evil and horrible.” Rafayel hums in response, studying you, the pause in the conversation growing heavy.

“I’ve decided. No protecting me if it hurts you.” He gets up off the cot, and spreads his arms, wordlessly asking for a hug. You open your arms in response, and he envelops you in a soft, strong and comfortable hug. “Your life is precious and important. I’d much rather experience life with you, not be a reason you got hurt.”

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A/N: He's my favorite!! I think a lot of people do not actually understand his character, and portray him as simple, immature, clingy, and whiny. He's playful and fun, yes but also quite patient and calculating, among other things. His character is quite complex and he's very, very smart. For instance, during the car ride he's trying to get more information, not just flirt with the MC. XD I have THOUGHTS

[bridenore]

Author rec : wolfpants

Wolfpants is one of my favorite authors. Here are a few recs, listed in alphabetical order.

August by @wolfpants [3k]

Summer, 1998. Harry Potter arrives at the Manor to return Draco's wand. The problem is, he keeps coming back.

Aurora by @wolfpants [5k]

Eighth Year at a half-built Hogwarts, and Harry is not following Draco Malfoy anymore. At least, that's what he's telling himself.

Everybody Hates a Tourist by @wolfpants [51k]

On a stag do in sunny Brighton with the Gryffindor lads, the last person Harry expects to run into is Draco Malfoy. After a glimpse of Malfoy’s Muggle life in Britain’s gay capital, Harry’s curiosity gets the better of him and he finds himself returning to the seaside again and again, drawn to the city, drawn to this new version of Malfoy that Harry barely recognises from school. Meanwhile, Draco’s just trying to live his big and best queer life: working for the weekend, chasing hot men, getting lost in Brighton’s nightlife, and making friends with the neighbourhood cats. Why does his former school rival and crush have to show up and spoil everything?

Look For Me In The Sun by @wolfpants [8k]

Harry and Draco are on the run in America after a mysterious string of werewolf-like attacks in the Muggle community causes the Ministry to  impose new and harsh anti-werewolf legislation. Giant trees, crashing waves, seedy motel rooms, and the long and winding coastal road awaits them, but will they ever be able to go back home?

Summer Place by @wolfpants [14k]

Draco has the perfect life: a perfect house on a perfect street with his perfect husband. It’s all he’s ever wanted. So why does something still feel wrong? 

Thickets by @wolfpants [17k]

When Draco returns to the UK after two decades of building his career as an internationally-renowned artist to look after his ailing, estranged father, he crosses paths with his former flame, Harry Potter, in the most unexpected way.

Under Giant Mountains by @wolfpants [33k]

Harry doesn’t know where he’s going. Everyone else has  their life paths figured out; he doesn’t even know where his map is.  Who’d have thought Draco Malfoy bathing in a Norwegian forest would be  the guidepost Harry needed? In which Harry’s trip to Norway to  visit dragon-wrangler Ron introduces him to hikes from hell, mysterious   natural magic, foraging, magical bathing, a new and bizarre friendship, and the frustrating, heady allure of his former nemesis turned sexy   globetrotting field researcher.

Waiting for the Moon to Rise by @wolfpants [8k]

When Harry and Draco move into Grimmauld Place straight out of Hogwarts, the last person they expect to find taking up residence is Bill ‘divorced, dishevelled, and dangerous’ Weasley. But what if their new, furry little problem is the help they need to finally bring them closer? Stranger things have happened, Draco supposes.

I hope you enjoy these stories as much as I did!

[splatsvilles-fashionista]

The appeal of One Piece

I know everyone's a bit sour on One Piece after the clown stunt tumblr pulled, but with the live-action series out and the anime popping off on social media, there's more eyes on this goofy pirate story than ever, and I've been dying to talk about it, so now's the time.

A lot of the conversation around One Piece is steeped in hyperbole, and it's hard not to be hyperbolic when you're talking about a work of almost unprecedented length and popularity. With that in mind, I wanna try to explain what makes One Piece so good in a way that is concise, spoiler-free, and that will give you an idea if this might actually be a story you'll enjoy.

And I do actually think a lot of people who would enjoy One Piece are currently writing it off, and I think a lot of the blame lies on assumptions people have about shonen as a genre. One Piece is no doubt a shonen, with young and teen boys as the primary demographic, but it is also first and foremost an adventure story about a group of quirky outcasts setting out to follow their dreams, despite (or often in spite of) the crushing weight of reality.

But you can't have an adventure story without a world to set that adventure in, and what a world Eiichiro Oda has crafted. One Piece manages to feel like it has fully realized an entire planet, with every island we travel to having a very distinct sense of culture and visual identity. A lot of care has gone into building the history and politics of these places, and the mechanics by which their more out-there elements, like the sky-high ocean geyser or the mountain with an upside-down waterfall, function. As such, it is a setting that afford its story a lot of variety, while also being able to tackle a lot of very heady topics like authoritarianism, racism, and abuse in intelligent, nuanced ways.

But just as important as all of islands we visit are the wonderful characters we meet. A lot of people aren't into One Piece's exaggerated cartoon aesthetic, and I respect that, but it does lend itself to a lot of very unique faces and body types that make its cast of 1000+ characters a joy to behold. This is admittedly less true of the more conventionally attractive women, many of whom look very similar, but this is does not extend to their writing. Oda is very good at imbuing his characters with life, pulling on their histories to give them personalities and quirks that are often as funny as they are sad. Everyone I know that reads One Piece has a side character that they stan hardcore for, be it the lovable klutz Donquixote Rocinante or the petulant ghost girl Perona.

And all of this is especially true for our protagonists, the Straw Hat Pirates, each one of which is a deep, multifaceted character whose drive and dreams can be traced back to their often heartbreaking origins. I know I mentioned it at the top already, but at its core, One Piece is ultimately a story about a group of hurt, lonely individuals who find in each other not just friends, but a family that will support and protect them as together they chase their dreams in the face of a world whose systems have been built to squash them underfoot.

All of this is brought together by Oda's exceptional artistic skill. While as mentioned earlier, One Piece's cartoony artstyle isn't for everyone, it's by no means an accident. One Piece is a story set in a cartoon world, and Oda is able to give even his most ridiculous characters and places a tangible sense of physicality, making everything feel real within the confines of the page. While Oda has a team of assistants to help him, he still does the brunt of the art himself, and his dedication to his craft means the comic is full of panels that are breathtaking in their complexity and visual density.

But it's not just his technical skill that makes the art of One Piece so good, it's that Oda is also very good at letting his art speak for him. Compared to a lot of other big shonen manga, One Piece doesn't lean as heavily on the dialogue to give the readers all the necessary information, but can convey a lot of what is happening and how characters are thinking and feeling through its artwork. There's some sections where this doesn't hold as true (and they are frequently less well-liked as a result) but it makes One Piece a far lighter read than its soon to be 1100 chapter-count would make you believe.

But the thing I think makes One Piece the most exceptional of all, and what makes me recommend it despite its length, is that as a story, One Piece has a remarkable clarity of vision. One Piece has a stance and a worldview that it does not waver on, and it is present from the very beginning. It's is romantic story, about the power of faith and dreams, about people's right to be free and be who they want to be, and about how the beauty and wonder of the world makes its worth its danger and uncertainty.

One Piece knows what it wants to be from the very beginning, and because of that you don't have to wait for it to get good. A problem that a lot of longform media struggles with is that the opening hours are a slog to get through, because it doesn't show you its hand early enough for you to know if it's something you'll like, and that is not a problem One Piece has. It is exactly what it is going to be from the beginning, only in a simpler, cruder form that it is going to expand upon to become the sprawling pirate fantasy epic it has grown to be. This clarity of vision also makes One Piece very rewarding for attentive readers, as it frequently hints at future places and characters, and plants story seeds that it pays off hundreds of chapters later. It does a lot to make the world feel big and interconnected, and makes One Piece very fun to re-read as you pick up on things you missed the first time around.

It is frequently recommended that new readers start with the initial 100 chapters, the East Blue saga (which is what the live action series adapts, for the record), to see if One Piece is right for them, and that's the note I am going to end this post on, as well. East Blue uses its 100 chapters to tell a fairly self-contained story that introduces the first half of the core cast, setting the stakes and building its world while giving you plenty of interesting places, bizarre creatures, and wacky action all the while. It is One Piece showing you its hand, with the promise that if you like what you see, it'll have so, so much more in store for you

[joannasteez]

untitled work (two)

pairing: roman reigns x black reader , cody rhodes x black reader warning: smut. minors do not interact pls. authors note: in the process of writing for tanks of blood, this came to me so here it is. word count: 800 tagging: @333creolelady @harmshake @kill-the-artiste @southerngirl41 @thesamoanqueen @theninthwonder @empressdede @spritelucozade @2-muchsauce @hypno-bear-tini

cody was still trying to register his current state of affairs. fully suited still in a well color matched three piece. but very badly exposed. or rather thats how he feels. fully clothed but somehow so very bare. 

but this is what was asked of him. 

"come in a suit. she has a thing for you, and for the suits". 

and he didn't know why he followed the instructions so willingly. with such diligence. or rather, he knew why, but it was always so much easier to skate around the scarier truths. hide and cower away from the finality of them. because no honest man wanted to admit that he was into another mans wife. not aloud anyways. 

but roman was insistent. calm and insistent. diligently following the simple instructions given to him. 

a cracking smack against tender skin strips cody of his disassociation. and then comes the gentle breaking of a moan to sedate his wanderings. your legs open wide and revealing. held to keep from some sudden mindless urge to close. and when that pleasure of pain overtakes, you arch and tremble. your soft body caving into the strength of romans chest. 

your lips are kiss swollen. chest heaving and the fabric made to cover over is tattered viciously. cody was very obviously late to the party. the thick heat of the air beginning to swelter his skin. his tongue watering, icy blue eyes slipping slowly over the hard perk of your nipples and the heavy pulsing at your clit. and yes, maybe he'd thought of this once or twice. in the dead of the night, comfortably alone and left to play with his thoughts. 

but his imagination had so obviously failed him. disrupted by the will of his own ideas and likings. but the ease with which you could moan at something pleasurable made for a terrible weakness in his knees. he wanted to be the cause of something that sweet. something that raw. 

roman caresses the inner heat of your thighs. a soothing go against the skin before the intensity of his palm breathes with life. slapping against it. each thigh and then a beat. his own groaning mixing in as he does it again. his fingers slipping soft and delicate over the mess of your slit. such an abrupt and devious exit from the pain he'd just given. his lips kissing gentle into your neck. licking into the skin as his finger drives knuckle deep to slot against the throb of your pussy. 

roman laughs into a moan. surely feeling just how desperate and needy his wife is. the sticky wet thrust of his middle finger lazy. roman kissing his way from your temple to your cheek. "she's kinda like you in a way rhodes. she likes her pain". 

the mess of his finger leaving with an easy slip to join the others. a tight methodical pattern of bursting pats to your clit before he's rubbing over it. driving you wild and stressing the limits of your moaning. 

"tell him what you want", roman adds. his lips at your ear. 

and the gears in cody's body oil over. ready to do and perform. and if his mind were anymore sober and void of need, he would bristle from just how ready he is to do. so damn servile. but he can't help it. 

"start with the tie", you rasp. the burn of your eyes meeting the blue of his. "take it off slowly". 

and you've never looked at cody so intently. with such want. dazed and your teeth tensing over your lips. a mouth he hopes he can get to taste before the night is over. 

the thick of romans fingers remain at your clit. a delicate teasing touch. "what do we say when we want things sweetheart?", his thumb and his pointer giving your clit a soft pinch that forces your hips to cant. 

the headiness of your arousal driving the work of cody's hands to undress more efficiently. 

"we say please".

your words drifting into a moan. 

"go ahead then".

"cody, please". 

and he's never relieved himself of a suit and tie before so fast. his button up left to lay idle along the hotel floor. knees dipping into the bed till his lips purse, tongue sweeping in to kiss your lips. and when the thick of romans fingers mix to slip against your tongue, cody finds neither the will or strength to care. licking against the taste to savor your arousal. 

his balance shifts, laying flat against the bed till his lips hover teasingly over your slit. a moan pushing easy from his chest as he dips his tongue against your clit. lips pursing over as he suckles gently. your fingers driving through his cropped blonde hair till you're thumbing his nape tenderly. 

a collection of moans melting in with the call of his name . 

[askinkiskarma]

・❥・ Moth To A Flame

Pairings: Neteyam x Omaticaya!Reader

synopsis: you have an amazing, patient, caring boyfriend, but you still can't help being drawn to Neteyam like a moth to a flame

warnings: smut (p in v, fingering, creampie, soft!dom neteyam, marking), mentions of blood, cheating, strong language, minors do not interact 🔞

wc: 1.3k words

a/n: a little gift for @mightyneteyam x hope you enjoy, bestie!! Inspired by Moth To A Flame by the Weeknd. This made me feel all sorts of things, i wish i could share with the class but i'd probably get banned from tumblr

ps: i also think 'you right' by doja cat works so well with this oml

'Cause he seems like he's good for you

And he makes you feel like you should

But does he know you call me when he sleeps? 

But does he know the pictures that you keep?

You don't know how this happened. You can't even remember how it started. The only thing you know is that, while hugging your incredibly patient, caring, beautiful boyfriend, you somehow once again found yourself eyeing Neteyam from across the room, once again getting lost in his predatory gaze and unruly smirk, that was reserved for you, once again giving him the small head signal that told him to meet you later, in your secret spot, that you frequented way too often, that you desperately wanted to be in right now, instead of here, at this celebration, where the music was too loud, and the people were too chatty, and your promised-mate was too sweet.

It ate at you - the guilt, each day and night. Enough to not do it as often as you probably wanted to, but not enough to stop. You knew it was wrong. You were promised to someone else. And he was the best person you've ever met, and he treated you so well, and he loved you and cherished you, and you loved him. You wanted him, but you needed Neteyam. Whereas your mate gave you stability and comfort, your quixotic affair with Neteyam gave you life, gave you thrill, gave you excitement, and you couldn't imagine ever being without it.

"I feel like you want to get caught, yawne." he says with a smirk as he rips off the top covering your breasts, as he immediately dives in and captures one of your hardened nipples in his mouth and sucks, until it hurts, until it bruises, until you moan. You shake your head weakly, mewling softly as two of his long digits slip past your folds, getting coated in your juices, as his thumb teases your clit, and all of a sudden he's a painter and an artist, and you're his muse and his canvas all in one, and you knew you would become a masterpiece by the time he was done, by the time you were done. This man knew you, every dark, twisted facet of your being, and he used it to his advantage, and you could never complain, because he used his advantage to yours, because at the end of the day, you were his muse and he was your creator, and you'd follow him into the pits of hell as long as he never stopped painting you.

His lips travelled from your breasts up your body, leaving a trail of spit in their warm, illusive wake, until they reached your neck, where he sank his teeth, where he marked you, and you couldn't find it in you to resist and protest, not when the rush of adrenaline travelled from the puncture wound all throughout your body, until it reached your core, until it sharpened and amplified the pleasure that was building in as his fingers slipped in and out of you with ease and grace, and you came, moaning loudly in his mouth as his tongue coated your own with a heady mix of blood and spit.

"Yes, you do, yawne. My scent is on you. In you. You let me mark you in bites and bruises, you let me come in you. You want him to find out, don't you? Want him to leave on his own so you don't have to do the hard work, huh?"

You shook your head again, fastening your legs around him as he raised you by your ass, your back against a tree, his length prodding at your sopping entrance almost playfully, teasing you with the promise of another mind-blowing orgasm. He reached down in order to align himself properly, and when he pushed in, you squealed, his tip enough to make you lose any insipid fragment of self-restraint, or of critical thought, or of thoughts of what or who you left behind at the party. Your hands find his shoulders in an attempt to gain some leverage, some control over the way you knew he would claim you, he would use you, but when that proved futile, your hands moved to his neck, bringing him closer to you, until you met in a sloppy, messy kiss, abound in flickering tongues and blood from sinking teeth finding pink lips, and the nature chirped in whistling tones and high-flown melodies, singing for you, or to hide you - either way, a welcome distraction.

When he bottoms out, you cry, and he kisses your tears away, and for a second, it doesn't feel wrong anymore, but feels like twin flame souls coming back together, where they planned on being for eternity, until the end of time. His pace is rough and calculated, each stroke brushing the spongy part of your walls that made you see glimmering stars, and you knew what you came here for was once more within your reach, so close you could taste it, just like you could taste him, his blood and your own amalgamated together on your lips.

“Just say you want me back. Just finally admit it and I’ll let you come on my cock next, how’s that sound?”

It was tempting, the confession that was barely contained within your soul, that you wanted to scream at the top of your lungs most days, that you bit back with a groan now, because you were happy with a better man... you should be happy with another man. But this man, this glorious, nefarious, beautiful man took all the available space in your mind, even now, after all this time, and you wanted him, and wanted to keep him. In moments like this, it didn't feel absurd or unattainable anymore - it felt real.

“Do you think he knows? Even subconsciously, do you think he knows deep down what a little slut you are? How much you ache for me, how much you like to get fucked until your knees shake and your mind quiets? How you give into me, how your back arches and your mouth falls open as I fill you with my cum? Do you think he understands to some level that no matter what you say, no matter what he thinks, you’ll always belong to me, and only me?”

The words were harsh and cruel to some, exciting and titilating to you, and so, so true. Your resolve was weakening with every thrust, with every vibration of his voice that you felt in every cell of your body, until it was depleted, in the same way you needed to be.

“Say it, sweet girl. Say it and I’ll let you come on my cock.”

“I’m yours. All yours.”

“That’s right. That’s a good girl. Come for me, baby. Let me hear your pretty moans, so I can fill you up.”

You do as you're told, and the masterpiece is final when the explosion of colours, intense and luminous, splatters on the canvas, when the cries and shakes turn into music put to paper, when your arching back is just the final ensemble of a sculpture carved in marble. You both pant as your legs fall limp around him, but he doesn't let go, keeping you close, his head in your chest, breathing you in, helping you off your high.

"I want you back. We're inevitable, you and me. Please, just take me back."

Your mind, now clear and finally able to rationalise, is torn between what you knew was good for you and who you saw at night, every time you closed your eyes. You wondered if you would ever be able to choose.

Or tell me, does he know where your heart lies?

Where it truly lies, right here with me, babe

Where it truly lies, my bed, babe

Where it truly lies, in my arms, babe

Where it truly lies

taglist: @fanboyluvr

[sky-kiss]

Sending prompt for Dadphael! Maybe the kids getting in trouble but Raphael is low key proud they managed to pull it off. I just need Dadphael in my life and I love baby Orin.

A/N: I can do this. Not the best, but hopefully you chuckle.

Dadphael: He Shouldn't Be Surprised, He Robbed His Dad Too

Raphael's first reaction is blinding rage. A voice in his head screaming how has it come to this? How, in the name of the gods above and below, by all of Asmodeus' grace, could his spawn have been so colossally, unequivocally stupid?

His second reaction is begrudging respect. 

He settles somewhere in the middle, screwing his eyes shut and pinching the bridge of his nose. In the most even tone he can manage, the devil says, "Explain your vision."  

Orin's brow furrows. In contrast to her brother, who has adopted an expression of absolute contrition, his daughter seems to weigh her answer. Her expression shifts, visibility reactive to the path of her thoughts: confusion, desperation, irritation, all in quick succession. 

She settles on a petulant. "Haarlep?" 

"Are you naming your inspiration? Or enquiring after the source of your damnation?" 

She turns her nose up, crossing her arms over her chest. "Both." 

"Mm, then, in the spirit of fair play," he steps forward, linking his hands at the small of his back. "Yes. They sold you out. Let this be a lesson to you, pet: trust carefully. Better yet, trust none but me." The impudent little thing snorts. Raphael holds his hand out, "And now, an explanation is in order: why have you robbed me?" 

Carlyle steps forward, the pilfered item in question held before him. Orin favors her brother with a look. It is so simultaneously venomous, and so pleading that the boy cannot fathom how to proceed. "We meant to return it, Father, truly. But Korilla would not allow us near portals…" 

"With excellent reason." 

"...and we needed the scroll to contact an associate on the Prime Material." 

"Why." 

"Don't tell him, stupid," Orin hisses.

But Carlyle is determined to come clean, his sense of fair play and respect for his sire winning out over whatever fear his much smaller sibling might inspire. He hands the scroll of dimension door back to Raphael, standing tall and proud. "A gift, father. Haarlep gave us the location of one of your preferred artists. We'd hoped…" he shrugs, attempting a smile. And it is fundamentally strange to see his own expression reflected at him, all on the face of himself in miniature. "To commission something." 

The idea reeks of sentiment rather than bloodlust. Carlyle's idea, then, not Orin. Raphael eyes the pair, suspicious, irritated. "And how did you intend to pay for this work?" Orin produces a back of coin from her pocket, grumbling as she hands it over. "Ah. Is there anything else I should expect to find missing?" 

They answer as one: "No, my duke." 

"And you know better than to lie to me, yes?" 

"Yes, father." 

"Off with you then, little failures. Consider what you might have done to succeed. Learn from this." He is feeling magnanimous, infernal wine still heady in his system, a night of potential pleasure stretching out before him. Let them take this as a lesson and be done with it. 

A decision he comes to regret later. 

The little shits are, in fact, acting as a distraction. Haarlep has slipped from the House (also highly against protocol). Haarlep contracts the artist for the little beasts, and they present their gift to him a month later, beaming and unrepentant. 

He is caught entirely off guard, delighted and horrified in equal measure. Conniving wretches! Little thieves! They beam at him, a united front, unrepentant and full of potential. 

He still sends the little shits to their room without supper and confines them to their wing of the House for the next month. 

He's proud but too petty to pass up seeing the look of betrayal on their little faces.

[johnwickb1tsch]

you're the worst thing (i'm addicted to) Part 4

a john wick x Helen'sSister!Reader fic You are Helen's baby sister. When you meet John Wick at Helen's graveside, he invites you to dinner to celebrate her birthday. Set a few years after the first movie, 2-4 never happened. Use of y/n. Warnings: canon typical violence. Future reference to threat of noncon, (not John! because he's our assassin sweetiepie). Mourning. Smut. Grey areas. Questionable decisions. Sweetheart!John, BAMF!John Depressed!John - If you can handle the movie you should be fine here... PART 1 PART 2 PART 3

PART 4.

When the night of your art show comes, you do not expect to see John Wick in the crowd. You had not heard from him since that night when he gave you the orgasm of your life, then disappeared from your apartment like he’d only ever been a dark dream.

Though your panties had disappeared too, and you strongly suspect he’d taken them with him.

The gallery is packed this night. It’s a group show, and you’re hardly the main act, but it’s a huge stepping stone for you as an artist. Gallery X is nothing to turn one’s nose up at, and you dare to hope that maybe, just maybe, things might get going from here. The art world is just as much politics as it is producing work, and you were never good at that part of it all.

Helen was, bless. She presented strong work, but she also knew how to read a room, and whose hand to shake, and how to tell someone to go to Hell with a polite smile. You know that her final gift to you was the cachet of her name in a collaboration, and maybe, just maybe, if you play your cards just fucking right, this could be your break.

You recognize the faces of people with big names in the art world here tonight. Critics, museum curators, journalists, and collectors. They’ve all come out to play, and your heart has not slowed its frantic pace in your chest for the past hour since opening.

You snag a glass of champagne from a passing tray, even though you hate the stuff, and that is when you see him through the crowd. He’s across the room, tall and forbidding in a dark suit, his long hair framing his angular face. You can practically feel the weight of his gaze upon you, through the crush of all these people. For a moment, time stands still, as your eyes meet his.

You have thought of him a thousand times since the night he left you sated yet ravenous in your bed. A hot flush blooms across your skin, a spear of desire shooting straight to your loins as you remember what he did to you with that perfect mouth, and those big hands, and those soulful eyes. God, but you would have given him anything, after one look from those yearning dark eyes.

He is dressed well, but he doesn’t exactly look well. There is an edge to his stare; an intensity.

A hunger.

An agonizing thrill runs down your spine; for a moment you have to look away. It’s just too much.

By the time you turn back, he is gone.

You continue to mingle, chatting with your friends and acquaintances, sipping some of the bubbly to try to calm your nerves. It doesn’t work; you feel as though you have a live wire under your skin, a thousand volts of raw emotion running rampant through your veins.

It would have been easier, had it only been lust, or even just pity. But there was something more to it, something substantial and heady and warm, and that made it a much harder beast to slay.

You slowly make your way around to look at the other pieces. It’s the polite thing to do, and interesting too. The theme of the show is Loss. Perfectly broad, and the subjects of the works vary wildly.

In front of a massive encaustic abstract a low voice in your ear stops you in your tracks. “I feel like I owe you an apology.”

You turn your head slightly to find John standing ever so near, so close you can feel the warmth of the solid line of his body behind you. The room is packed and it’s almost necessary to stand this close just to be heard, but still, you get a dark thrill out of it.

“Oh?”

“I feel like I took advantage of you, last we met. I am sorry.”

You turn to face him, standing close enough to kiss. Thanks to the heels you’re wearing, you don’t have to crane your neck too far to look him in the eye.

“Actually, I was kind of thinking I took advantage of you.”

This clearly surprises him, his eyebrows rising. Ah, this dear, sweet, man. You didn’t take him for being naïve, but he is a little older, and the claws of traditional gender roles cling hard and deep.  

“Helen wanted me to look after you, and I—”

“Gave me the most incredible pleasure of my life? Yeah, it was pretty terrible. You’re a selfish beast.”

He blinks at you, clearly stunned. Then his eyes narrow, the hunger from before sharpening to a cutting edge, and a scintillating thrill runs down your spine. You cannot shake the feeling that you’ve just pulled the tail of a tiger; a predator both magnificent and deadly. Mostly it’s excitement; but just the slightest hint might be fear. There is something brimming below the surface of this man that you know you don’t entirely understand. You aren’t sure yet if it is passion, or violence—or maybe a combination of the two. You wonder if Helen ever got to see behind the mask.

Somehow, you are certain she did, and she had not run from him. Perhaps that is what makes you brave tonight.

“You don’t mince words, do you?”

“Helen was the tactful one.” 

“I actually found her refreshingly direct.” 

“But I'm just abrasive. I've been told, believe me. It's because I don't apologize before I tell men what I really think.”

“I don't want your apologies.”

“Either way... I'm a big girl, John. You don't have to be the responsible adult between us.”

The corner of his mouth ticks at that. 

“I feel like I should at least try.”

You shrug, unable to stop yourself from fingering his tie, fighting the urge to wrap your fist in it and pull him to you again. You’ve missed him, and standing this close, what you really want to do is climb him like a tree, and the crowd be damned. “Suit yourself.” You force yourself to stop touching him, although he didn’t seem to mind, or intend to stop you. You sigh deeply, warring with yourself as ever.

This is all so very fucked.

Maybe the truth is the best way to go.

“I like you, John. Maybe I’m just lying to myself, thinking Helen wouldn’t be pissed, but…maybe she’d be happy we’ve found each other.”

You dare to look him in the eyes, and once again, he looks as though he is drowning.

Fuck. You have to go.

You force yourself to step away from him, because your skin feels like its on fire. “We’re all going to Bar Rosé later to celebrate. You’re welcome to come, if you want.”

You retreat to greet a friend who’d come all the way to Manhattan from upstate to support you, and you can feel John’s eyes boring into you as you walk away.

For the rest of the opening you follow him out the corner of your eye. As though he's a magnet, you simply cannot help it. You are achingly aware of his presence, even if it's from across the room. 

He pauses before your piece of Helen for a very long time, letting the crowd mill around him like a rock in a stream. It’s heartbreaking, really, the way he stands there before her, transfixed. A part of you wants to go take his hand, support him in what you know is yet another painful moment for him. But in the end, you decide to let him process it alone. A little later, you notice him talking to the gallery owner. Chummily, almost like they know each other. Of course, Carol Banning had known Helen, so perhaps you shouldn’t be so surprised. 

When the evening is winding down John Wick is nowhere to be found. You're a little disappointed, and a little bit relieved. You're not sure what you think you're playing at, but deep down, you know it's so fucking twisted. 

You meet with your comrades from the show, some artists you knew before, and some new acquaintances too. You hail a van cab to go a few blocks to Rosé. Tonight was a success. Someone bought your painting for a massive amount of money. More than you’d ever dreamed you could charge for a piece of your soul put down on canvas with paint. Carol had assured you it was appropriate, and you guessed she knew her clientele. A part of you was distressed to part with the piece you’d created with blood and tears and Helen’s art, and a part of you was relieved to let it go. You completed the cycle. You were sending Helen out into the world, where she would be remembered, and celebrated, for the remarkable woman she was.

It should have felt like victory, but in truth it was bittersweet.

You are 98 percent sure you don't let it show. Your friends are giddy with the success of the exhibition, and the last thing you want is to bring them down. You are too, truth be told. You were interviewed by not one, but two journalists this evening. One who even worked for the Times. Maybe it’s just curiosity about Helen Morgan-Wick’s baby sister, but…Helen would have told you to stop overthinking and enjoy it.

So perhaps, you will.

True to its name, the neon lights that accent the room at Rosé are pink. The glassware is too. You’re sure it’s a play on seeing the world through rose tinted glasses…but the drinks are strong, and the ambiance is fun. After a round your friends want to dance. You agree, and the four of you have a great time until you pick up a bogey. A man keeps trying to dance up on you, not getting the hint when you sidle away, not engaging with him whatsoever. Finally, you get tired of dodging him, and decide to get another drink. He follows you, leaning on the bar while you wait for the bartender’s attention. “I'm Sasha,” he says in thickly accented English, looking you up and down. He’s not bad looking at all, but there is something in the way he looks at you that makes you uneasy.

“Hi,” you answer, not keen to give him your name.

“You come here often?”

“Not really.”

“What are you celebrating tonight?”

“Who said we're celebrating?”

Had this pushy creep overheard you? Had he followed you from the gallery?

Another voice cuts in from behind you, a string of Russian that almost sounds like a command.

Your unwelcome suitor frowns, answering in the same language. 

You turn your head to find John standing close behind you. You hadn’t noticed him come in; it’s as though he materialized from the shadows. When he puts a hand on your waist you do not flinch, hoping the other guy will get the picture. He frowns, looking between you. He says something quick over your head, and the only word you catch is blyad.

 You’re pretty sure it means fuck.

There is a heavy moment rife with tension between the two men with you stuck in the middle, before the Russian makes a hissing sound between his teeth and goes. He doesn’t just go to the other side of the bar, however. He leaves the premises, slinking out the door, and you turn to look at your savior.

“Wow. What did you say to him?”

He shrugs. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Did you know him?”

“Hmm. Sort of. From work.”

You tilt your head, staring up at him. He hasn’t removed his large hand from your hip, and even though its possessive and maybe it should bother you, you revel in his touch. You’re not usually one to get off on men fighting over you, but it’s hard not to feel a little glow of primal satisfaction at the exchange. It makes you feel bold, and maybe you run your mouth a little. “Yeah? So did Helen know?”

“Know what?”

“That you’re an ex mafioso?”

You’re 99 percent sure you’re making a joke, but from the sharp way he looks at you, a trill of warning rolls down your spine. He leans down to speak in your ear, “You have quite the imagination, young lady.”

That warmth in your chest descends to pool between your thighs.

The bartender saves you from digging this hole even deeper.

“What can I get you, Mr. Wick?”

“Blanton’s on the rocks,” John answers, then looks to you.

“Vodka martini, please,” you answer.

“We have Smirnoff, Absolut, Grey Goose, Stoli…”

Before you can answer that Smirnoff is fine John answers, “Stoli.”

You raise an eyebrow at him as the bartender goes to pour your drinks. “Thanks.”

“Life is too short to drink bad vodka.”

You huff a laugh at that. “So, do you know every bartender in New York, or…”

“Probably just in Manhattan,” he jokes with a ghost of a smile.

You turn so that you are facing him completely. You have to stand close to hear each other, you reason. It has nothing to do with the fact that this man draws you like you are an asteroid caught in his gravity. If you collide…you have no doubt you’ll burn to pieces.

“Congratulations, on tonight,” he says, and you believe he means it. “Helen would be proud.”

“Thanks. Feels surreal, to be honest.”

“That’s fair.”

You find yourself looking at his tie again, fighting the urge to use it to tug him closer. My, but you are becoming a needy creature in this man’s presence. You have to remind yourself that you do not, in fact, know him that well. Even if it feels like…he could have always been yours. “It’s nice to see you again,” you dare venture, looking up from beneath your lashes.

“Likewise.” He touches you lightly, just below your chin. Your eyes meet, and you feel pinned by those dark orbs, somehow certain he can see right through you,

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but…are you okay?” Like on Helen’s birthday, you imagine tonight must have dredged up plenty of emotions that just maybe this poor man would like to bury once and for all.

“I guess I deserve that, after how I behaved.” He is, undoubtedly, referring to the way he fled your apartment a month ago.

“I’m not mad, I just…genuinely want to know.”

He bites his lip as he’s thinking, and its all you can do just to watch him, wishing it was you with his lip between your teeth instead. Finally he answers, “I am as okay as it is possible for me to be.”

It is the most non-answer you’ve ever heard.

Sensing your dissatisfaction with this pointed evasion, he digs a little deeper, leaning in so that his words are only for you. “I didn’t exactly lead a happy life, before Helen. After she passed…I was certain I would never want anyone ever again. You kind of threw a wrench into that.”

“Sorry.”

He gives a little huff of self-deprecating laughter. “Don’t be. I…I like you, y/n. Please, forgive me, for…everything.”

You don’t believe he’s telling you all this to win sympathy, or using it as a line, like so many men would. It’s just facts, and you are moved to the bottom of your soul. Somehow you know that this is not something this man would casually admit to just anyone. “John…” With your heart in your throat you find yourself reaching for him, touching his fingertips with yours on the bar. “It’s ok. You don’t owe me an apology. You don’t owe me anything.”

He tilts his head to look at you, his dark hair swinging into his face. You feel bold enough to reach out, brushing it behind his ear. His eyes close at your touch for the barest moment. It’s so easy to forget that you are in a crowded public venue, with him near. “I owe you my gratitude, at the very least.”

You shake your head, prepared to deny it, but then your drinks arrive, and the moment is somewhat shattered. “Want to sit with us?” you ask, indicating your merry band of artist misfits with your chin. He nods, following you, though his hand has found that place at the small of your back again that warms your blood to an agonizingly slow simmer. Carol has joined you, and you wonder if John will feel awkward, fraternizing here in unspecific but obviously friendly capacity with his sister in law.

Yikes. You do not like it, when you think of it that way.

However, Carol Banning is a veteran of the New York art scene, and she has seen much worse scandals than this. She doesn’t even bat an eyelash, greeting him warmly from behind her large black-rimmed glasses. They chat more about the show, and the state of the art world. Carol mourns that no photographers currently working quite have an eye like Helen did. Then she points a crimson painted claw your way, surprising you. “But this young lady. She’s going to do some interesting things, I have a feeling.”

John salutes you with his dwindling glass of amber liquid, a smirk on his lips you don’t entirely know how to read. “I have no doubts.”

After you finish your drink you find you are ready to go. It’s been a long day, and a big night. Tonight, you fulfilled Helen’s dying wish for you, and somehow you feel simultaneously accomplished and sore to the bone.

“Can I drive you home?” asks John quietly in your ear. It sends a bolt of heat straight to your center, warmth pooling in your loins as you remember what happened last time he made such an offer. You look at him, wondering if he wants an encore, or if he just wants to see you home safe. His face in that moment is so handsome it hurts, but utterly unreadable to you.

“Sure,” you answer, sensing that somehow you’ve just signed your fate over to him with your name on the dotted line.

You hit the street, the cool night air a relief after the close press of the bar. John offers you his left arm, and you take it gladly, leaning on his shoulder a little more than you really need to. Part of it is that last martini with what had been truly excellent vodka—and part of it was just a need to be close to him. A part of you thought you’d never see him again. The fact that he is here, solid in the flesh and you can touch him, kind of blows your mind.

“I’m not parked far,” he assures you, and you nod with a sleepy smile. At the end of the block you see his car parked on the street. It’s a little menacing, you think to yourself, looking at the dark paintjob and the sleek lines. Definitely a car designed to be a predator of the road; something that will run you down and eat you, no matter how fast you try to run.

As you near the vehicle three shadows separate themselves from an alley. John freezes in his tracks, pushing you behind him. You recognize the guy from earlier, Sasha, who is flanked by two intimidating henchmen. He speaks to John again in Russian, and John replies in kind. It pisses you off that you don’t know what’s being said.

“Speak English,” you demand, half-stepping out from behind John.

A low chuckle runs through the men before you that makes your blood run cold. “I said,” enunciates Sasha slowly, “That if he hands you over now I’ll let you both live. He’ll just have to watch as I fuck you like the whore you are.”

“Nice. Very original, fuck head.”

His self-satisfaction morphs to anger. You are scared, but you’re not showing it like you should, and it’s ruining his fun. You use John’s body to shield the fact that you are dipping into your purse for your pepper spray. Why the fuck can’t you ever find anything in your purse when you need it?

What comes next happens so fast you almost can’t register it. One of the toughs made the first move forward, but John is like a hurricane upon them, deflecting strikes and breaking arms, punching one guy in the throat and kicking another in the gut. He throws one with some kind of complicated grapple and flip ninja shit before hitting the other again in the knees. In the blink of an eye two of them are down on the ground, leaving John to take on Sasha, who has drawn a knife. You see that one of the grounded henchmen is fishing behind his back for something. Without thinking you surge forward, knowing it’s a matter of life and death. As his hand raises with the gun you goalie-kick it from his hand, dousing his face with mace.

“Motherfucker!”

The gun goes off before it skitters across the street and under a parked car. He howls with agony, clutching his face, trying to wipe the concentrated capsaicin out of his eyes. In the next moment there is an arm around your waist, pulling you towards the parked cars. You are so caught up in the adrenaline rush that you react without looking, but John catches your hand with the mace, keeping it pointed away from the both of you. “It’s me,” he says, taking the tube and slipping it into his pocket like he doesn’t trust you not to let loose again. “You did good, honey. Come on.”

As he is bundling you into the passenger seat of his car you look back to see Sasha is writhing on the sidewalk with his knife in his leg, shouting what undoubtedly are expletives in Russian. You vaguely wonder if he might bleed to death as the Mustang rumbles to life and you roar away.

“Holy shit!” you exclaim, trembling with adrenaline and you guess, a bit of shock. “What the fuck just happened?”

“Are you hurt?” he asks, deeming it the more pertinent question.

“No. I’m…fine,” you say, looking down at yourself. “Jesus, are you hurt?” You look over at him to see that he is bleeding from a cut on his brow. “Oh my god, let me see.” You reach for him but he holds up a hand. “I’m fine, believe me.”

You catch one more glimpse of the wreckage behind you as he makes a right turn, downshifting. The car surges forward, pressing you back into the seat.

“You totally laid those guys out!”

“Yeah.” You study him from the passenger’s seat, his hard expression highlighted by the passing headlights. His jaw is clenched so tight you think he might crack his teeth. “I'm sorry you had to see that.”

You think about the three guys he leveled out like a human tornado.

“You've got some moves, Mr. Wick.”

He just sighs, sounding so very tired.

“Yeah.”

“Should we…call the cops?”

He looks over at you like you should know the answer to that question, but shit, this is the most violence you’ve seen up close in your entire life. Finally, he just shakes his head, seeming a decade older in that moment. “It wouldn’t do any good,” he assures you.

Except, maybe get him arrested, you reason. Because even though it had been self-defense…the carnage he’d left behind was unreal.  

“Helen said you used to work in security?”

“Yeah.”

“Jesus Christ.”

He huffs a laugh at that. “Hardly.”

“I still don’t fucking get it.”

“Get what?”

“Why…this even happened? Men don’t exactly brawl on the street over me.” For Helen? Maybe, more likely, but not you, the boho weirdo who is lucky enough to kind of resemble your model-beautiful older sister, but will never be half as lovely or charming. You suspect there is some other reason this went sideways, that has more to do with John’s professional life before he retired from security.

That job description is holding less and less water the more you think on it. Helen was always super cagey in talking about what John Wick did for a living. You’re starting to get a better idea as to why that might have been.  

John surprises you when he holds out his hand to you across the center console. “I would fight an army for you,” he tells you softly, and goddamn if you don’t believe him. You take his hand, comforted by the strength in the long fingers wrapped around yours. You only let go in between him shifting gears, and you don’t really say anything else until you pull up in front of your building.

“Come on,” you say, swinging open the heavy door of the sportscar. “I’ll take care of you.” The look he pays you is somehow both raw and predatory. A thrill of anticipation runs down your spine, because at this point you’ve lost your mind, and you don’t have the sense to be afraid.

<<PART 3 PART 5>>

[vitanithepure]

Too short to throw it on AO3, so I'm sharing this here. I don't usually do this with warm-up writing, but it turned out too precious to let it sit never to be read by anyone besides me.

Astarion was an aficionado of finer things. Take, for example, the hand he held in his own. The fingers were delightfully elegant. Long and slender, nails neatly trimmed. Marred only by a few paper cuts, hazards of a wizard’s trade. He brushed his lips over each of them, savoring their warmth. 

The hand was smooth, even after weeks of hardships on the road, all the fighting. Astarion spent long hours admiring them, watching Gale working the strands of Weave like an artist would stroke a paintbrush over a canvas, like a maestro moving the bow over the strings of a violin.

Each knuckle shaped perfectly to be kissed, smelling of dusty tomes, burnt candles and an earthy undertone, something distinctly his. Astarion needed no chiromancer to read from the inside of the palm. He knew that Gale was destined to be cherished, to live a long and healthy life. He’ll personally make sure of it.

And so his lips continue their journey, led by the pulse just beneath the skin. His beloved looks at Astarion with half-lidded eyes as he opens his own. The book Gale was holding with his free hand now discarded on his lap, all his focus on his gentle ministrations.

He looks for consent and he gets it in a softest of smiles, a shaky breath of anticipation. Astarion finds it hard to draw his eyes away, so he decides against it. He’s sinking into the dark pools of his lover’s eyes, just like his teeth do into the warm skin. 

He tastes the heady, rich blood on his tongue. Just a little, just enough, and he feels intoxicated, but from drinking in the intimacy, the comfort and trust between them. A kiss only they share, and all the things that make it theirs and theirs alone.

[gaiaseyes451]

Return to Eden - Chapter 3 - Final Chapter!

Chapter 3 - the final chapter! - of Return to Eden is live. Our story from @goodomensafterdark is now complete. I may visit this universe again in the future, but the story has a definitive resolution now (for all my WIP adverse folks and those who avoid angst before the comfort is written :) ).

Also, there is art at the end of the story - the piece that inspired Return From Eden was a gift from the r/GoodOmensAfterDark Secret Santa. Go check out the artist, copics_on_copypaper over on insta!

Return to Eden is rated Explicit, this chapter is Mature. Please, mind the tags for Chapter 1.

This work can be read alone, but it will make more sense (and be more impactful) if you've read Fractured and Shatter first - they're all part of the Before Eden There Was a Garden Series.

Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale averted the second coming and were trying to pick up the pieces of their relationship when Aziraphale became plagued with nightmares. After hearing Aziraphale murmur a phrase from a previous life in his sleep, Crowley went in search of the one place that may be able to set everything right. Now Aziraphale must decide how much he wants to know and if he wants to remember at all.

Excerpt (Continue reading on AO3):

~*~*~

Aziraphale stepped up to the wall, tentatively ran his hand over the stones he’d placed in the Eastern Gate, smoother now after eons of wear deep in the Earth’s mantle. The wall was low, worn down such that it resembled a border around a garden bed more than the formidable structure of Biblical times. “Why did you bring me here?”

Crowley paused, his expression both sorrowful and hopeful. His eyes roamed over Aziraphale’s face, as if he were trying to recall and memorize every expression. “Shall we go in?”

“Eden,” Azraphale whispered and he took the first tentative step over the ruins as Crowley followed.

The garden was familiar yet foreign. The path leading from the Eastern gate to the center of Eden was visible but overgrown by vining ground cover and grasses. The lushness of what had once been a carefully curated paradise had been allowed to flourish unrestrained. Tree limbs intertwined creating a canopy over the path that blocked the stars from view and could hide an angel and demon from curious eyes. The night blooms of primrose and gardenia and jasmine created a heady perfume as they competed with the day flowers and shrubs for their chance to thrive. 

Aziraphale wandered down the path in silence. Even in its overrun state he knew Eden. He recalled delighting in the blooms and birdsong, eyeing the serpent of Eden warily before making his acquaintance on the wall, guiding Adam and Eve down this path to be exiled through the Eastern gate. These memories he recognized, they were familiar and bracing—he had turned them over in his mind time after time until they were worn, smooth and comfortable. He was unprepared for the flashes of other recollections, fleeting and rapid like lightning, illuminating what he knew into sharp contrast to what he had once known. Before he could grasp the flashes, make sense of the fragments they plunged back into the darkness.

“Crowley, I can’t do this.”

A firm hand on his bicep turned Aziraphale toward the demon and he looked into his earnest, golden eyes. “You can, Angel. One step at a time. I’m here.”

Aziraphale slowly shook his head. “This is too much. I can’t- it’s all running together. Like that night- I don’t,” he paused. “I don’t trust myself to know what’s real and what’s not.”

“Then trust me.” His voice was soft but brokered no argument. “Sometimes the only way forward is through.”

Aziraphale wasn’t listening, his eyes had locked onto a patch of sweet peas that had grown unruly; the shoots casting tendrils on the surrounding plants as a makeshift trellis. He knelt on the path beside the plant, wrapping the delicate tendril around his index finger, contemplating the wafer-thin petals of the white flowers. Crowley watched him, silent and waiting.

~*~*~

As always, a huge thanks to my beta readers @the-literal-kj and @hakunahistata!

[dagwolf]

 In any event, here's a tasty interview excerpt:

Speaking of doing a lot of different records and working with a lot of amazing songwriters, I own a ton of the records that you've done over the years. One, in particular, I'd like to ask you about is Paul Simon's Graceland. I obsessed over that thing when I was young. Do you have any recollections of working on it?

Oh, I have plenty of recollections of working on that one. I don't know if you heard the stories, but it was not a pleasant deal for us. I mean he [Simon] quite literally — and in no way do I exaggerate when I say — he stole the songs from us.

...

The interviewer's softball question leads to an extended rant that rolls on for over 1500 words. There's no clear way to verify Berlin's claims. But it's interesting to consider his characterization of Los Lobos' “collaboration” with Simon at a moment when the latter artist is being trumpeted as the latest hipster influence, like David Byrne and Gang of Four before him. It must be a heady moment for Simon. New York's much respected Brooklyn Academy of Music is feting him with a sold out month-long residency celebrating his post-Garfunkel career — a tribute fest that finds everyone from Byrne to Ladysmith Black Mambazo singing his songs, a residency whose final week — starting April 23rd — includes one of the top 10 ever most unlikely co-bills: Grizzly Bear, Gillian Welch, Josh Groban, and Olu Dara.

WTF, indeed.

After the jump, Steve Berlin's entire diatribe on Los Lobos' “collaboration” with Simon, including a rare dis of legendary former Warner Bros chief Lenny Waronker.

...

Really…

Yeah. And you know, going into it, I had an enormous amount of respect for the guy. The early records were amazing, I loved his solo records, and I truly thought he was one of the greatest gifts to American music that there was.

At the time, we were high on the musical food chain. Paul had just come off One Trick Pony and was kind of floundering. People forget, before Graceland, he was viewed as a colossal failure. He was low. So when we were approached to do it, I was a way bigger fan than anybody else in the band. We got approached by Lenny Waronker and Mo Ostin who ran our record company [Warner Bros.], and this is the way these guys would talk – “It would mean a lot to the family if you guys would do this for us.” And we thought, “Ok well, it's for the family, so we'll do it.” It sounds so unbelievably naïve and ridiculous that that would be enough of a reason to go to the studio with him.

We go into the studio, and he had quite literally nothing. I mean, he had no ideas, no concepts, and said, “Well, let's just jam.” We said, “We don't really do that.” When we jam, we'll switch instruments. Dave will play drums, I'll play something. We don't really jam. Especially in that era. Louie will be the first to tell you this – he was made to play drums. They forced him to play drums. He's not really a drummer by trade. He's never practiced a moment in his life. Not once in his life did he sit down at the drums because of his love for drumming. The other three guys made him play drums in the early days, so he sort of became drummer by default. He hates playing the instrument, I think. Again, you should ask him, but I don't ever ever, ever get the sense that he was one of those dyed-in-the-wool, John Bonham, let's-play-drums-for-three-days-straight kind of guys. So consequently, as the core band was comprised then, we never jammed – never ever. Not by accident, not even at soundcheck. We would always just play a song.

So Paul was like, “Let's just jam,” and we're like, “Oh jeez. Well alright, let's see what we can do.” And it was not good because Louie wasn't comfortable. None of us were comfortable, it wasn't just Louie. It was like this very alien environment to us. Paul was a very strange guy. Paul's engineer was even stranger than Paul, and he just seemed to have no clue – no focus, no design, no real nothing. He had just done a few of the African songs that hadn't become songs yet. Those were literally jams. Or what the world came to know and I don't think really got exposed enough, is that those are actually songs by a lot of those artists that he just approved of. So that's kind of what he was doing. It was very patrician, material sort of viewpoint. Like, because I'm gonna put my stamp on it, they're now my songs. But that's literally how he approached this stuff.

I remember he played me the one he did by John Hart, and I know John Hart, the last song on the record. He goes, “Yeah, I did this in Louisiana with this zy decko guy.” And he kept saying it over and over. And I remember having to tell him, “Paul, it's pronounced zydeco. It's not zy decko, it's zydeco.” I mean that's how incredibly dilettante he was about this stuff. The guy was clueless.

Wow. You're kidding me?

Clue… less about what he was doing. He knew what he wanted to do, but it was not in any way like, “Here's my idea. Here's this great vision I have for this record, come with me.”

About two hours into it, the guys are like, “You gotta call Lenny right now. You gotta get us out of this. We can't do this. This is a joke. This is a waste of time.” And this was like two hours into the session that they wanted me to call Lenny. What am I going to tell Lenny? It was a favor to him. What am I going to say, “Paul's a fucking idiot?”

Somehow or other, we got through the day with nothing. I mean, literally, nothing. We would do stuff like try an idea out and run it around for 45 minutes, and Paul would go “Eh… I don't like it. Let's do something else.” And it was so frustrating. Even when we'd catch a glimpse of something that might turn into something, he would just lose interest. A kitten-and-the-string kinda thing.

So that's day one. We leave there and it's like, “Ok, we're done. We're never coming back.” I called Lenny and said it really wasn't very good. We really didn't get anything you could call a song or even close to a song. I don't think Paul likes us very much. And frankly, I don't think we like him very much. Can we just say, 'Thanks for the memories' and split?” And he was like, “Man, you gotta hang in there. Paul really does respect you. It's just the way he is. I'll talk to him.” And we were like, “Oh man, please Lenny. It's not working.” Meanwhile, we're not getting paid for this. There was no discussion like we're gonna cash in or anything like that. It was very labor-of-love.

Really…?

Yeah. Don't ask me why. God knows it would have made it a lot easier to be there.

And Lenny put you guys together thinking it would be a good match?

Well, “It would be good for the family.” That was it. So we go back in the second day wondering why we're there. It was ridiculous. I think David starts playing “The Myth of the Fingerprints,” or whatever he ended up calling it. That was one of our songs. That year, that was a song we started working on By Light of the Moon. So that was like an existing Lobos sketch of an idea that we had already started doing. I don't think there were any recordings of it, but we had messed around with it. We knew we were gonna do it. It was gonna turn into a song. Paul goes, “Hey, what's that?” We start playing what we have of it, and it is exactly what you hear on the record. So we're like, “Oh, ok. We'll share this song.”

Good way to get out of the studio, though…

Yeah. But it was very clear to us, at the moment, we're thinking he's doing one of our songs. It would be like if he did “Will the Wolf Survive?” Literally. A few months later, the record comes out and says “Words and Music by Paul Simon.” We were like, “What the fuck is this?”

We tried calling him, and we can't find him. Weeks go by and our managers can't find him. We finally track him down and ask him about our song, and he goes, “Sue me. See what happens.”

What?! Come on…

That's what he said. He said, “You don't like it? Sue me. You'll see what happens.” We were floored. We had no idea. The record comes out, and he's a big hit. Retroactively, he had to give songwriting credit to all the African guys he stole from that were working on it and everyone seemed to forget. But that's the kind of person he is. He's the world's biggest prick, basically.

So we go back to Lenny and say, “Hey listen, you stuck us in the studio with this fucking idiot for two days. We tried to get out of it, you made us stay in there, and then he steals our song?! What the hell?!” And Lenny's always a politician. He made us forget about it long enough that it went away. But to this day, I do not believe we have gotten paid for it. We certainly didn't get songwriting credit for it. And it remains an enormous bone that sticks in our craw. Had he even given us a millionth of what the song and the record became, I think we would have been – if nothing else – much richer, but much happier about the whole thing.

Have you guys seen him since then?

No. Never run into him. I'll tell you, if the guys ever did run into him, I wouldn't want to be him, that's for sure.

That's an amazing story. I can't believe I never heard it before.

We had every right and reason to sue him, and Lenny goes, “It's bad for the family.” When we told the story in that era, when this was going down, we were doing interviews and telling the truth. And Lenny goes, “Hey guys, I really need you to stop talking about it. It's bad for the family.”

Amazing. Talk about bad for the family.

I know. Again, it's just so incredible how naïve we were back then. You can't even imagine that era of music when you'd actually listen to your record company president who told you to shut up because “it's bad for the family.” Now, I'd tell him to go fuck himself.

[mybeingthere]

Thinking of all the gifted folk artists who produced art to help them to get through difficult times, to reflect their rich inner life, to tell spiritual stories and to make their surroundings beautiful, we must remember Afia Zecharia.

And Shana Tova to all the Jewish friends!

"Afia Zecharia arrived to Israel from the Jewish community in Yemen.

They say that she was born in 1905 in the province of Abyan opposite Somalia, although nobody knows for sure.

She was married at the age of 10. Since childhood, she worked painting the walls of a "palace" of the local lord. In her young eyes, it was a magnificent palace but in the presence of the lord, she had to hide her Jewishness.

In 1949 during the well-known Ethiopian Jews repatriation to Israel, Afia arrived in Shlomi in the north of Israel near Lebanon.

Afia, her husband and 7 children got a big two-story house with almond trees in the garden. Around the house grew plum trees, pecans, pomegranates, apricots, fig trees, so it looked like a corner of paradise.

Afia's husband, jealous and possessive, forbade her to paint the walls of the house and she suffered in silence. She was a beautiful woman, heavily made up and wearing heavy Yemeni jewellry as well as heady and strong oriental perfumes.

She had projects in mind...

When her husband died she resumed her painting, starting like a little Yemeni girl, where she was interrupted, but this time using car paint. She painted only indoors, at night, when no one was watching her. Afia Zecharia was over 80 years old.

She said angels came down and helped her. Her neighbors heard her talking to herself or maybe to the angels ...

Little by little, from floor to ceiling, every inch has been covered! Even in her 90s she climbed on the table to paint the ceiling.

Afia often bought dolls at a market and decorated them as to Yemeni brides.

Her work, beyond inspiration from her homeland, has a feel of the aboriginal paintings, each symbol having a meaning known only to insiders.

Her neighbors say she died in 2002 at age 96 and her granddaughter says she was 104."

After many administrative battles, the municipality finally agreed to preserve the house and work of Afia Zecharia. (Retold from Le Naaba)

https://www-ayeletbar-co-il.translate.goog/%d7%91%d7%99...

[suzie-guru]

Heey Suzie, im a big fan of your writing! Including “Between the Shadow and the Soul” , which is easily my favorite fanfic lately, and I wanted to ask you if you are still going to continue it because I, and many other people, love it very dearly, and it would be a shame for a master piece to go unfinished. Please think about continuing it for you fans. Love you 🥰

This is an incredibly old ask and I’m relatively sure you’re into other fandoms and things now. First, thank you for the love and the kind words. However, I wanted to answer this because of something specific in this message:  “Please think about continuing it for you fans.”

I’ve been thinking about some things that I need to get off my chest here, the reason why I’ve been away from Tumblr and, honestly, why I will continue to be pretty minimal in my activity on the site. 

First and foremost, there’s something I should state - almost everyone in my family, including myself, is in a service career. Nurses, teaching, the clergy…those professions are very normal to go into in our family. And it’s also very much the norm in our family to put others before ourselves, to help whenever we can. I’m not saying this to brag, it’s a fact. And it’s also a fact that we are so ingrained to perform services for others above anything else that we often neglect our own personal needs and health and self care. 

One of my biggest struggles is being a people pleaser and needing validation from others. Unfortunately both of these traits have led me down some very detrimental paths, and I turned to very unhealthy coping mechanisms to deal with it. I’ve grown enough and have learned enough to understand that self care is just as important as service, that setting boundaries isn’t selfish, and that one can be compassionate without letting themselves be consumed in the process. 

How does this relate to this ask, to me not being on Tumblr? 

Tumblr was where I got almost all of my social interactions, the one place I could cut loose with other people. I had genuine friendships on here, very close relationships. The Strange Magic Fandom experience was a heady, loving and beautiful one, and it was a huge part of my life, as were the people I met through it. It was my everything, even through the longest, darkest depressive period I’ve ever had. 

Time went on, as it does, and people came in and out of the fandom, but I had my close friends and all was good. Until I noticed after a few weeks that they weren’t interacting with my personal posts like they used to. They weren’t as constant as they had been. 

I felt left behind, rejected, overlooked. I was asking myself, what I had done? Did I fail them in some way? What way? Was it the fact I wasn’t creating content? Did they finally realize I wasn’t worth their time? 

I was deep in an anxiety spiral, and my self loathing was in full force. Each time I went on Tumblr and saw these people interacting and posting with others but not me, it hissed at me that was reminded how I was no longer important, how I would always be left behind unless I was putting others first, “you can only use the depression period as an excuse for so long…” 

For my mental and emotional health, I stepped away from Tumblr. I spent the next few months reading and working out and drawing and hiking and working and living my life. Those months turned into years. And I didn’t feel the need to come back, dive in as deeply as I had. The hurt had caused the departure, but now I recognized something else. 

I was making Tumblr my haven of validation. My whole self worth was tied to it. And when I didn’t create fanfics or update them, I thought I was failing my friends, exposing myself as a subpar artist, a bad person. 

When I wasn’t. And I’m not. 

My stories are deeply personal, and I pour myself into them. And that takes time. And I have a life to lead along with all that.

The saying “write for yourself” is an odd one - I believe it and I don’t. Creators need feedback, interactions with what they create. It helps their process and inspires them. When I read a book or go see a movie, I’m inspired by it. Creativity fuels creativity. 

Fanfiction has a blessing and the bane of being able to directly communicate with the author. The comments of those who read my fanfics are deeply deeply deeply treasured by me. I can’t even begin to say how much they mean to me. 

My stories are personal but I share them because I want to. People see themselves echoed in stories, and that’s why they matter. I want to share my stories because I want to give others the same experiences I’ve had reading stories. 

So I do write for people in that I share my stories. But I also write for myself. I write because the words won’t leave me, because the scenes keep playing in my head, because I want to chase after all the questions. I write to get the damn thing out of my head and onto the page so I finally have space in my skull. I write to satisfy my soul, hungry hungry hungry thing that it is. 

But I have learned a hard lesson, and I know myself better now then I did when I started posting fanfiction. And while I’m absolutely certain it was not intended in such a way, “continuing it for you fans” is something I will not set store in because I’ve been down that path. I don’t like what it did to me, what I did to myself.

I plan to continue my stories. But I will no longer apologize for taking my time with them because it is just that: mine. 

[dustedmagazine]

Leathers — Ultraviolet (Artoffact)

Leathers’ music melts the crystalline precisions of darkwave with the warmth and sweetness of dreamy synth pop. But just when you start to really feel pop’s embrace of sunny vibes on Ultraviolet, the dream fades, and darkwave’s characteristic thematics (borderline social spaces, BDSM eroticism, anxiety and depression) start to prickle your skin. It’s a compelling combination, sonically and emotionally, and Leathers’ songs materialize it to great effect — a pretty good trick for a first LP to pull off so consistently.

We shouldn’t be surprised. Shannon Hemmett has been releasing songs under the Leathers band name since 2016, and she has been making music with Vancouver post punk act Actors for even longer (her Actors bandmate Jason Corbett does some work on songwriting and production for Leathers). She’s had time to clarify and refine Leathers’ aesthetics, and her professional work as a graphic designer and tattoo artist suggests the extent to which craft and image are important to her. It shows. Ultraviolet is a considered record, shaped and presented with thought and care. If all that sounds a little too heady, don’t worry; the record’s strong libidinal charge invests it with life, hard, passionate and sometimes dangerous.

See “Fascination” — and yes, “see” is the wrong verb when what you really do is listen. But the indicative meaning in that usage of “see” has additional significance here. Hemmett intones, simultaneously cool and hot, “We could stay together / For one last Polaroid.” Is this a photoshoot? Or lovers at more informal play with a camera? The lyrics don’t really clarify: “The camera flashes light / Licking at your skin / Coming into focus / Strike that pose again.” “Licking” is figurally powerful, and its parallelism with “coming” eroticizes the lyrics. Certainly someone is turned on, and the song’s power in part derives from its refusal to locate the arousal precisely — in the photographer, the subject, the singer, the listener. The moment remains maximally open, and Hemmett sings, “Elevate / Penetrate / Fascinate.” “Penetrate” feels at least a little gratuitous, until you clock the tune’s imaginary gambit. Everyone, all those aforementioned parties, wants to get inside the situation, to be the focus of the song’s energies.

Hemmett’s interest in the power of image is expressed repeatedly on Ultraviolet, from the cinematic metaphor of “Day for Night” to the more bitter treatment of illusory desires in “Highrise” (“Like a page from a magazine that’s come to life / … Living your best life / You’re never satisfied”). We’re smart enough to know that chasing images of the “best life” is seldom the way toward sustainable satisfaction, but we can’t seem to stop, as a culture or as individual psychologies. We are charmed by excesses, we chase, we go too fast. One of the best songs on the record, “Crash,” dramatizes the excitements of the chase and the disaster that frequently ends it. A synthy bass throb dominates the song, a tense pulse that sets up another flirtation with darkwave gratuity when Hemmett breathily intones, “Punish me for wanting more”; near the song’s end, that gets truncated to “Punish me,” plaintively.

That’s another instance of an ostensibly titillating surface doing some substantive work. The full lyric for the couplet is “Punish me for wanting more / I’m the one you can’t ignore.” There’s a smartly compressed articulation of the two-way play with power that informs a lot of dom/sub relationships, and darkwave is at its best when it opens a song’s erotics to wider representation of social forms and to more public dramatizations of power’s flow. The record’s title track pursues a different strategy for expressing that, projecting a dream of desire into a “prison made of glass.” Maybe that’s a reflective surface, or a camera’s lens, but it seems more likely that it’s a phone — the thing we use, perhaps more than any other tool, in our ceaselessly scrolling chase for something akin to happiness, or at least the charge of arousal. To feel alive.

But our relations to our phones are indeed a prison. And the truncation in the refrain of “Crash” ��� to the bare plea, “punish me” — is another way to express the way desire can get converted into a portable carceral space, a deformation of desire that we carry around in our heads, keeping us trapped in unfulfilling pursuits. Leathers proposes an implicit means of escape in the songs themselves, which are exciting and emotionally laden. They provoke, in the best meaning of that word. You’ll want to dance, and not to escape feeling, but to move further into it, as a body feeling real things in real space. That’s the mark of good music.

Jonathan Shaw