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#there isn’t a set American image
communistkenobi · 24 days
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Obviously art does not rest on methods, media, or the amount of effort a person exerted in making it, but I think AI art is yet another way that capitalism is changing the form and function of art (separating artworks from their original meaning on a different and even larger scale) and given that it is made by exploiting workers (the original artists and the people they pay pennies to sort through it to remove disturbing images) it makes people feel yet more powerless in the face of corporations so there is a big negative reaction to it. This negative reaction may not be articulated in the way you want but I think it's very understandable that people have reactionary feelings about large scale corporate exploitation.
just for the record before I respond, I am replying to this ask in good faith just as you are asking in good faith, I’m not angry at you and many of these questions I’m asking are rhetorical, for the purposes of reflection. So please no slapfighting in the notes, thank you!
First: I’m not disputing exploitation. in fact privileging AI as uniquely exploitative handwaves away the massive amount of exploitation that artists already endure and have endured for a very long time, as well as the horrific amounts of labour exploitation involved in mass producing the ‘tools of the trade’ so to speak.
But this is, again, a non-sequitur to my argument, which is that art produced under exploitative, destructive, “lazy” or politically repugnant conditions is still art. MCU films are art regardless of the fact that they are 3-hour long informercials for the American empire and require massive labour exploitation from CGI animators, actors, film set workers, and everything else: advertisements are art: AI art is art. Horrifying, trite, unoriginal, bad, socially destructive, maybe all of those things are true and we can talk about the merits of those claims (I certainly have strong opinions about them), but what is politically gained from saying bad, unoriginal, horrifying, or trite art isn’t art? Whose definitions are we using here, and if those definitions should be universalised, what does it mean for artists who are only unoriginal, only bad, only whatever else?
I return to my original example: are children not qualified to be artists if they only make “bad” art? I used to trace movie stills from Harry Potter photo books as a child because I loved the characters - am I a fraud for doing so? Am I given grace for my incompetence and “theft” on the basis of me “still learning how to do real art”? When does this grace period end? If we argue that only struggle can produce art, what level of struggle? Struggle for whom? Drawing isn’t difficult for me because I was taught how to hold a pencil, read, write, and draw by a western industrial publicly-funded primary school by a teacher paid with public tax dollars, supplemented with help every night from my mother and father, two married cishet middle class people in a mostly stable (if miserable and verbally abusive) marriage - all of which is resting atop stolen indigenous land. Under what historical conditions can arguments for artistic struggle be made? When we argue for struggle(/hard work/whatever) as the basis of art we are pre-supposing a universal subject whose struggle is globally standardized and calculable - which in all of these discussions on here is (implicitly, though sometimes explicitly) a white able-bodied settler living in a western state who benefits from universal primary education that teaches them the foundational skills of how to make art. You can probably add university educated to that too, given how many of these arguments seem to be swarmed by undergraduate students.
Arguing that there needs to be some threshold for method, labour, intent, or message for art to ‘actually be art’ is politically reactionary and is what I am responding to. It requires transcendental claims about the Artist as a unique labourer set apart from and superior to all others, one whose skills are universalised and whose intent is always observable and present in their work. So if people want to talk about exploitation they should talk about exploitation, not the definition of art. It’s not my fault people can’t stay on topic!
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straywrds · 2 years
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american whiskey | one-shot
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written for the june event on @skzseasons! —part of the 3racha roommates au
chan x reader (f) ; word count: 12.6k & i am deeply sorry about it ; genre: non-idol au, roommates au, explicit smut with plot (18+ minors dni) ; warnings: multiple povs, drinking, mutual pining, dating apps/nudes, texting, masturbation (m), angst i guess, fluff if you squint, a little bit drunken but consensual & protected sex, just two fools fooling around really, sorry there might be mistakes as this isn't really beta/proof read
If you think that him seeing your nudes ruined his night… Then, truly, Chan is deep, deep into the friendzone and there is nothing he can do about it. 
The price to pay for a not totally shitty place to live near your workplace is, well… a considerable amount of money. But also, roommates.
You do like them. The roommates. You found them by accident through mutual friends—they had just rented a very spacious housing unit and were looking into renting the unoccupied bedroom in it to help pay their lease. You were looking for a place to live that didn’t require a lengthy commute to your new job and didn’t cost your entire salary.
Enter this arrangement, whatever the hell it is. You do like your roommates, but, by God, they can be so loud. 
Tonight is yet another Friday night where you came back home a little earlier than usual. Your team from work always goes out for drinks on Fridays, but two of the members are currently pregnant which gets in the way of late-night drinking with the full team. Which gives everyone a good excuse to head home not too late. Which is absolutely fine by you—if you’re going to drink on a Friday night, you’d rather it be in the much more comfortable setting of your own home.
It’s about 8:30 when you get home. By the various pairs of shoes you notice by the door, you guess that only two out of three of the roommates are here presently. You leave your own shoes over there as well and make your way into the apartment, discarding various items on the way. Your light jacket goes into a closet, your purse on a small coffee table in the living room and your bra is thrown into your bedroom, landing somewhere between your desk and your bed. You will pick it up later. 
You pass the small corner of the apartment that your roommates use as their home office. Three computers are cramped on narrow desks, right next to the bathroom. 
“Hey,” you tell Jisung and Changbin. “You guys worked from home all day?”
“Nah, just had to review some stuff,” Changbin explains, flashing a smile at you, looking away from his monitor for no more than a second. “A lot of stuff coming up next week.���
“There’s leftover rice in the fridge if you’re hungry,” Jisung adds. He, on the other hand, turns away from his desktop computer and swirls his chair in your direction. “We bought beer, too.” 
You can tell that Jisung notices that you are currently not wearing a bra under your blouse. He’s gracious about it, they always are, the three of them, but they always notice that stuff. 
You weren’t sure about living with men, but the mutual friend assured you they were good guys. Still… just like anyone, you like to feel free and comfortable at your place, and this is what you were most unsure about at first. But so far, absolutely nothing blatantly inappropriate has happened, and you’ve even grown closer to the three of them. They’re a likable trio, and you consider them more than roommates. More than acquaintances, even. 
A year and a half into this living arrangement, they’re your friends.
And hell, for what it’s worth, you’re not blind either. They’re all good looking guys, they work out, take care of their image… You see all of it, but as responsible adults, both parties are perfectly able to cohabit together. 
So Jisung notices that you’re not wearing a bra, but he casually leans back into his chair and crosses his arms over his chest with a smile on his face. 
“Chan isn’t home, as I’m sure you’ve noticed,” Jisung says, his gaze finally trailing back up to somewhere roughly above your neck. “The boss wanted to talk with him.”
You gasp, putting a hand over your mouth in surprise. “Oh god, is it really happening then?” you ask, your heart jumping in your chest at the revelation. “Is he going to get that big promotion?”
“I think so,” Changbin replies, also turning away from his screen now. “Either that or he gets fired.” 
“He can’t get fired,” you point out. “He’s too good at his job for that.” 
“I’m better than him,” Changbin insists. 
Jisung gives him a not-so-gentle slap behind the head. Bickering ensues. Noisy bickering, as usual. Again—you like your roommates. But they can be so loud.
You’re not particularly hungry as you’ve had food with the drinks earlier, so you announce that you’ll shower now and relax later, hoping that the other two will also relax at some point in the evening, allowing you a few hours of, well, calmness. It all depends on what they decide to do… if they choose to play video games, then you’ll hear them shout and complain until 2 or 3 AM. 
At least they’re funny. And they always order more food and drinks than they need, so you get plenty of leftovers. The eye candy is just a bonus… 
The shower helps relax you a little. You take your time washing your body and cleansing your hair, even allowing yourself a few special skin treatments along the way. By the time you stroll out of the bathroom in the blue silk bathrobe your sister gave you on your last birthday, the sky has effectively gone dark. You can hear conversations in the kitchen while you brush your damp hair, so you make a quick job of finishing that and exit the bathroom.
“Chan!” you cry out, finding him around the kitchen island with Changbin and Jisung. He has a wide smile on his face, and the three of them are holding shot glasses. You notice a bottle of amber liquid resting on the island, too. All of this can only mean one thing. “You got it, then?” 
“I sure did!” Chan pushes a glass towards you and fills it with the liquid. As you get closer, you notice on the bottle that it is imported American whiskey. “I was even given this whiskey!” 
“Fucking ass kisser” Changbin utters dryly, but his smile is revealing his true feelings. 
“Oh my god, Chan, congrats.” He opens up one arm and you give him a quick hug, wrapping one arm around his waist for a few seconds before pulling away to taste the whiskey. It burns your tongue, then your throat, then your eyes. But the flavor is complex and unique. “You deserve this!” 
“Thank you.” You notice Chan’s flushed cheeks, and wonder how many shots he’s had already—but even if it were 5 or 10 shots, it doesn’t matter tonight. He should celebrate. He works harder than anyone you know and is so dedicated to his job that he often forgets himself. “Thank you for putting up with me when I’m so stressed about work. All of you.” 
“Ah, shut up, let’s not be too emotional, let’s just drink,” Jisung says to ease the sudden increase in emotion in his friend. “Felix is coming over later, maybe more people too. Should be here soon. We’re gonna play the new game expansion.” This, he mentions to you, as a polite warning that you will not be getting the calm evening you were hoping for. But that’s alright—Chan deserves a fun night.
The guys have been particularly enjoying a newly released video game and while you liked it too, you definitely did not like it as much as they did. They had been expectantly waiting for the new expansion to drop and you feel like they did deserve some unrestrained fun, and to be as childish as they wanted. All of them often worked late hours and skipped sleep to have a good job performance, after all.
But Chan especially. So you actually take the bottle of liquor and pour him a generous shot, sliding it towards him, before pouring some for each of you as well.
“To Chan and his success,” you say, raising your glass. 
Changbin and Jisung echo you, and the four of you down the shots before slamming your glasses on the countertop. Chan’s ears are bright red, and it’s quite endearing. He’s not used to being the one being praised. It’s always him showing appreciation to others and much less often him getting the attention. 
“Have fun, you guys,” you say with a smile. “Thank you for sharing your celebratory liquor with me,” you add to Chan, dipping your head politely, “it was delicious.” 
You make your way towards the hallway to get to your room—you’ll at least change into clothes, especially if they have people coming over. 
“You’re welcome to join us,” Chan calls from the kitchen after you’ve disappeared. You smile to yourself, thinking of the genuine warmth in Chan’s voice when he speaks to you—or to anyone, really. You don’t know many people who are as kind and as caring as he is. So, it makes sense that he wouldn’t want you to feel excluded. “If you want, of course.”
“Thanks, Channie, I’ll come and say hi later!” you reply from the hallway and enter your room before closing the door behind you.
Tonight isn’t so different from other Friday nights for you—you put on your noise-canceling earphones and browse the internet to unwind a little while deciding on which drama you’d like to see next. You always select carefully, as you don’t like to waste two or three episodes deciding if you like the show at all. 
The little party outside of your room, however, is quite inviting. You usually try not to mingle too much, so as not to bother your friends. After all, they work together for the same company, and while you celebrate Chan’s success, you’re simply not a part of their team, and you know to respect this.
You think of Chan’s clear invitation, though. How he said you were welcome to join them. 
You also think of the smell of his cologne and the warmth of his body when you hugged him earlier. 
Again. You are not blind. You have eyes to see and these eyes see that you live with three very good looking dudes who work with other very good looking dudes. But Chan is a little bit more your type than the others. Not that you have a type and not that you’ve ever considered Chan to be anything but your roommate and friend. 
But. Chan is a little bit more your type than the others. 
You close your eyes and sigh. Your initial plan when moving in was to stay here no more than one year, giving you enough time to acclimate to your new job and neighborhood while seeking an apartment for yourself.
But the guys always order more food and more drinks than they need. But the guys always have excellent music playing in the background. But the guys always respect you and your space. 
But Chan is a little bit more your type than the others. 
This is the whiskey whispering things to your mind and you know it. The whiskey and the beers you had when you were out earlier, too. That, and the very long week you’ve just had at work—everything is working together to distort your thoughts. 
This isn’t the first time you think about those things. A few weeks ago, you came back home after lunch, when the building your office is located in had to be closed because of an electrical issue. You didn’t think anyone would be home, honestly. But if someone had to be home on a weekday afternoon, you wouldn’t have expected it to be Chan out of all people.
But Chan was home that day and he didn’t hear you get in, you figure. You hope he didn’t. You hope he doesn’t know what you saw—the door of his bedroom wasn’t completely closed but the sounds that came out of it simply couldn’t be mistaken. He had been watching porn and apparently furiously jerking himself off to it. 
You had never really thought of him that way before. Like. Sexually. You had simply noticed that he was handsome, selfless, and sweet. And, frankly, you didn’t really think of him that way today. Sexually. It was just the whiskey and the fact that Chan works out and smells nice. That was all. Nothing else. 
Well. That, and maybe a little bit the fact that you’re lonely and very busy with work. Too busy to seek out and date, even casually. 
And Chan is a little bit more your type than the others.
There are a few things you normally do on a night like this. You either get drunk enough that you’ll fall asleep within an hour, you either take out your favorite sex toy and get off a couple of times until you feel better, or you open the dating app you’ve been using for a few months and see if any of this can take some of the edge off. 
You take out the earbuds to get a better sense of what’s going on in the living room. It sounds like the big video game celebration is still going, and like there’s a little bit of a ruckus out there—probably the same group of 8 that usually crowds the living room, a few Friday nights once in a while. Maybe you could sneak your way out of your room and go grab a beer in the fridge… 
So you choose to do that, taking your phone with you after you’ve opened the dating app. You don’t use it for dating. You use it for fucking, like everybody else. It’s not that successful and literally, all of the hook ups you’ve had from it so far were rather disappointing. 
But tonight you just need a distraction. 
So you swipe left and right on your way to the kitchen. It’s easy to go unnoticed because the living room isn’t connected to it, but you can only smile when you hear the boys having their fun. ‘Felix how could you kill me! I thought we formed an alliance!’ ‘Oh my god Jisung, did you just fucking kill Seungmin?’ ‘CHANGBIN YOU’RE SHOOTING AT ME, YOU NEED TO SHOOT THE OTHER TEAM!’ 
The whiskey is still on the kitchen island. You hesitate but ultimately choose to pour yourself a glass, as it had been offered to you earlier anyway. You don’t even wait until you’re back in your room to drink it, hasty of experiencing that unique flavor again. Except that you almost choke on it when, after a few random swipes, the dating app presents you with the profile of someone you know very well. 
In his profile photo, Chan is standing in a corner of his office at work, smiling wide and making a funny pose. You know this picture was taken by Changbin a few weeks ago, because Chan himself showed it to you on his phone, explaining the backstory that came with it.
More whiskey follows the one you’ve already had. This is expensive imported stuff and you should pace yourself. 
It feels rude to swipe left on Chan, so you decide not to do it and swipe right instead. To your surprise, you’re notified of a match. Meaning he has swiped right on you before… 
But just to be polite, right? 
You pour more whiskey into your glass and quickly return to your room, afraid that someone—Chan especially—would leave the living room and see you sneaking around for liquor.
You continue browsing the app, trying very hard not to think about the match with your friend. It’s almost working—or maybe the whiskey is working, rather—until you get a message. From him. On the dating app. When he could very well text your phone number, as he always does.
Chan: lol  Chan: is that what you’re doing in your room rn lol come hang out 
You click your tongue, chasing the whiskey with more whiskey. You ignore the message for a few minutes, deciding to look at other matches you got. One other guy has already messaged you to compliment the shape of your tits on your profile photo, so you engage in conversation with him. You would never do this if you were sober.
But you’re not sober.
So you click on the conversation with Chan. 
you: aren’t you playing games with your friends?  you: i took more whiskey btw. thanks! 
He responds almost immediately. 
Chan: they’re all better than me. i keep dying so i’m letting the kids play while i watch Chan: also you can have as much whiskey as you want :) 
Texting one of them while living in the same apartment instead of getting up and telling them directly something isn’t a new concept. In fact, it’s almost a daily occurrence for the four of you. You regularly send voice messages to Jisung to berate him when he doesn’t clean up after himself in the kitchen, or Changbin likes to facetime at least one person when he finds a bug in a corner, as he feels lonely when he has to get rid of them on his own. The apartment even has his group chat and it’s quite active. 
You really, really like your roommates. They’re your friends. 
But Chan is a bit more your type than the others.
you: ok thanks! don’t let them be too mean to you Chan: :p come say hi later!  you: sure! 
You leave the conversation there because the other chat you’re having with the guy who likes your tits is getting a little heated and it makes you feel things. ‘fuck I bet you’d let me come on your tits’
He is wrong. There is no way in the world you would let him do that. But you’re bored, and you can’t get the smell of Chan’s cologne out of your mind, so you reply ‘wanna see?’ 
You finish the whiskey in one go after sending that risky text. You feel warm under your skin and pull your tank top just above your bare tits, preparing to take the picture—you asked him if he wanted to see, but you know what the answer will be. They always want to see. So you angle yourself, arch your back, and take a few nudes—you already have a small collection of them on your phone, but you like to update them once in a while. 
You make a quick job of sending your two best pictures as you don’t particularly like doing such things. The act of sending the pictures itself is still strange and foreign to you, despite it being common practice in people in your age range. 
For what it’s worth, you know you’re not going to go out tonight and meet this guy. You’re certainly not going to let him come on your tits… You’re just trying to distract yourself from the guy you really can’t think of—
A notification pops up on your screen.
Chan: uh. did you mean to send these to me?
You look at your phone in disbelief. You must be drunk—there is no reason for Chan to keep on messaging you from the dating app. Maybe he sent the message to you instead of someone else, because you haven’t sent him anything. And there’s no reason for him to be sending you this text, these words, in this order—
But you already have opened the app again and checked the text conversations in it. 
And this is how you realize you’ve sent the nudes to Chan instead of sending them to titsl0v3rb0i69. 
You hear footsteps in the hallway and you hold your breath, hoping nobody will come knocking at your door right now because you can feel your face is bright red from embarrassment. There’s nothing left for you to do except to seriously start looking at other apartments, preferably on the other side of the city entirely. Hell, you’ll settle for paying more rent if it means you can leave this place sooner. 
You’re never gonna be able to look Chan in the eyes again.
It was him in the hallway. You can tell because you recognize his footsteps, and you hear the sound of his door closing behind him. His bedroom is right next to yours, something that never bothered you until tonight. Until right now. Poor guy is probably so shocked and embarrassed that he needs a minute on his own—you can still hear the gaming party in the living room, so everyone is still there. 
How difficult can it be to change your identity? To become a new person and move somewhere far away?
Out of all people, you had to send these to him. It had to be him who saw your fucking tits? Why? You want to tell yourself it’s all going to be okay, that, after all, you and Chan are both adults—if he uses the dating app, he is no stranger to sending and receiving nudes as they are a common occurrence on such apps. You want to tell yourself that you’ll just get over it, over the embarrassment, the shame. But you know you never will.
Because Chan is very, very much your type.
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you: Chan im so sorry you: i really didn’t mean to send this to you. im sorry  you: fuck i’ll move out asap 
Chan reads the texts, his back still leaning against his bedroom door which he just closed behind him. He reads your words, he reads them in your voice, imagines your cheeks flushed with shame. He always liked your face, always thought you were pretty and had nice hair. Cute lips. You almost always have lipstick on and he’s certain that your lips taste nice. 
Chan: you don’t have to move Chan: i deleted the texts. i barely saw anything 
That was a lie. He had noticed you sent photos, so he had opened them, of course. He didn’t expect… this. So he clicked on them. In the middle of the living room, with all of his friends/coworkers around. Thankfully, they were too absorbed in their game to notice anything.
But he had just turned away a little, and he had looked. At you. He had looked at your tits, the smoothness of them. The curve of your arched back. The second photo showed the bottom half of your face, your lips slightly parted, and blood rushed to his cock. 
So Chan is in his room now, trying to calm down. He takes deep breaths, but he’s a little too aware of the fact that only a wall separates him from you. You’re right there, on the other side… 
you: really? you didn’t see it? 
Here is one thing about Chan—he is not a very good liar. He is not a good liar and he doesn’t enjoy lying, not even through text, so it takes a lot of effort for him to be texting you about these lies.
Chan: i saw just a glimpse Chan: im sorry. shit, im sorry 
He takes more deep breaths but it doesn’t make much of a difference with the embarrassing situation that’s currently happening in his shorts. 
He’s seen you before. Not naked naked, but he’s seen you through the crack of your door when you were just changing shirts because of unexpected weather, he’s seen you with just a towel around your body. Seen you in more revealing outfits.
For an instant, Chan considers these memories of you not-fully-dressed, and he realizes that it ever rarely ended up with his cock remaining soft. 
Chan is drunk and this is why he finally admits to himself that he thinks you’re hot. This whole time, he tried so hard to fight it. Blamed his lack of hook ups for the occasional lewd thought about you. Blamed his busy schedule for his lack of hook ups. Blamed the fact that it was easy to have these thoughts about you because you are his roommate, and he spends a lot of time with you.
you: why are you sorry? it’s my fault  you: if you didn’t see too much… then it’s ok  you: please don’t think that i’m just a slut who sends nudes to anyone  you: im just drunk. and bored 
Chan reads your texts and it doesn’t help. It doesn’t help at all, because he hadn’t even considered the very obvious fact that since these nudes weren’t meant for him, they were meant for somebody else. 
He wants to stop his brain from typing the text he is currently typing, but there is a severe lack of blood flow to his head, and any attempts from his two last brain cells to prevent the texts from happening simply… fail.
Chan: lol im drunk too Chan: and bored 
The very second he presses ‘Send’ on these, Chan wants to disappear into the ground forever, and be forgotten. He simply wants to be unmade, for these are the cheesiest, lamest, fucking dumbest risky texts ever sent in the history of humanity. 
For these, he blames his aching cock, rendering his underwear uncomfortably tight. 
He just needs to jerk off—which he will do right now. It happens sometimes, as it happens to anyone else, for sure.
Then he’ll go back to the living room and get even drunker, and hopefully, he will be able to laugh it off with you as early as tomorrow. 
It’s not his fault that you’re cute and smart and really nice. It’s not your fault either so he doesn’t blame you for it. But it’s certainly not his fault if you smell good and if he saw you in this blue robe earlier, the one he likes so much. If he was going to fuck you, which he won’t because you’re his friend and his roommate and he doesn’t want to mess anything up, but if, he’d hope you’d be wearing it while he fucks you.
He prays that nobody notices him when he leaves his bedroom and darts towards the bathroom. It’s common courtesy in this apartment to notify the other tenants when one is going to shower—in case they need to use the bathroom before—but Chan ignores that unwritten rule and starts the shower to warm up the water a little. He just needs to jerk off, and then he’ll be fine. It’s been a long day, and you weren’t wearing a bra under your robe. And he saw your tits, your beautiful, round—
His phone vibrates on the counter as he’s pulling his shirt off his shoulders. The shirt falls to his feet as he dares to look at the screen.
you: but. why are you bored?  you: the living room is full of your 7 closest friends and you got a big promotion! you: go with your friends, Channie. im really sorry about the pictures. i didnt want to ruin your night 
Channie. His cock twitches painfully when he reads this. Fuck—sometimes, other people will use this nickname with him. Occasionally. As a joke, mostly. But it never feels quite the same as when you do. When you say it, it makes him feel special, like he matters to you in a unique way.
And he likes that feeling a little too much. But that angers him. He’s an adult, and yes, he’s too busy for dating or for hook-ups, but he does respect you. He respects you and he fucking wishes his cock would respect you, too. 
If you think that him seeing your nudes ruined his night… Then, truly, Chan is deep, deep into the friendzone and there is nothing he can do about it. 
Chan is not a good liar.
Chan: you didn’t ruin my night. don’t beat yourself up Chan: you could never ruin anything for me Chan: goodnight <;3 
Chan knows that he will not text you anymore tonight, for these were the three worst texts sent in the history of ever, and he deserves to be struck by lightning for sending these pathetic messages to you.
Again. He blames the sudden blood flow to his cock for becoming the worst idiot alive in a matter of seconds.
He manages to get out of his boxers and pants—not without a fight, as they feel much tighter than they usually are, and that irritates him even more. He hates that just a couple of nudes did this to him. 
The water burns him so he adjusts it until it’s more comfortable, and Chan just stands under the shower until he feels calm. Or almost calm. He’s still thinking of you—now, it’s impossible to think of anything else—but he’s peaceful about it. He’s in the friendzone but he gets to be your friend, to laugh with you. You often watch horror movies with him and he likes it because you get scared and you sometimes hide behind his shoulder… 
And he gets to smell your hair and feel you close. 
As a friend. 
Well. Friend or not, that doesn’t stop Chan from locking his strained cock into his hand, staring down straight at it, almost as if he still can’t believe it’s hard. He squeezes faintly, just enough to feel himself, and pumps one, two, three, four, five, six… until he lets go of himself, ashamed. This is wrong. It feels so, so wrong—it’s even worse because he brought his phone in here and he didn’t delete your pictures like he said he did. 
This is wrong and unfair to you, his friend... But he’s so hard, for you. His fingers find his phone which he left on a shelf opposing the water to keep it dry. His fingers also find your nudes again, and the phone returns to the shelf, screen left on. 
Chan’s mouth is watering at the mere idea of feeling your nipples in between his lips… how he would twirl his tongue on them just to feel you. To tickle you. 
No no no. This is wrong, too wrong. 
Chan’s eyes avoid his phone now, but they land on your shower products. He always thought you smelled good, and he doesn’t even think twice before grabbing the first bottle he sees, opening it up, and taking a good whiff of it. 
Fuck—your body wash just reminds him of your skin, the feeling of it against his when he hugged you earlier, in that blue robe… but Chan doesn’t hesitate to pour a generous amount of the soap into his open palm and begin to rub the foam onto his chest, his arms, to cover himself with all of you. Your products smell like sunshine and like flowers and like you.
Chan doesn’t bother with rinsing out the body wash and moves on to your shampoo, which he lathers generously on his hair, his cock still aching but he ignores it. Ignores how tight and sore his balls feel. Ignores how it makes him feel to smell you on him. 
But he thinks about you. Your hands, cute and delicate, taking him, touching him. Your pink lips locked tight around his cock. 
Your tits bouncing when you ride him, and the smell of you, just you… his hands on your waist, pulling you onto him, slamming you on his cock until you come undone and until he fills you up— 
Chan’s train of thoughts is interrupted when he touches his cock again, as it sends a jolt of electricity through his body. Fuck, he’s just so horny for you, like he bottled it up all this time and it just needs to get out… 
He squeezes himself so hard that he just knows he will feel sore from it tomorrow, but as Chan strokes himself, he can’t stop a deep moan from escaping his lips, followed by a whimper—he bites into his own fist to muffle the sounds, hoping nobody heard that, leaning with his free hand on the ceramic wall, his forehead pressed against it. He doesn’t even need to look at your nudes on his phone—the images are printed in permanent ink into his brain. 
He doesn’t want to think of you, he respects you. But he thinks of your tongue, he thinks of your tits, he thinks of pulling your hair while he fucks you from behind, your back arched just like in the pictures. You, screaming his name with that pretty mouth of yours…
Chan comes without warning—he just feels one powerful wave in his gut and pleasure takes control of his whole body for a few seconds. He feels the pulse of his length in his hand and watches as his cock twitches under his own touch, and as his thick cum spills out of him and goes into the shower drain, some even splashing on the ceramic wall he’s facing. The rubbing and squeezing continue until he’s empty and until all of the aftershocks have stopped making his shoulders jerk, the pressure within him finally alleviated. 
If post-nut clarity is real, then it hits Chan at that moment. How he disrespected your friendship and your trust in him. 
He uses his own body wash to clean his hands and cock and rinses his body and hair with care. When the water’s off, he finally deletes the nudes off his phone. It was so wrong. What he did was so wrong.
A random towel is grabbed from the closet. Chan dries himself with it and does a short walk of shame from the bathroom to his room. His friends are still having fun in the living room. Your bedroom door is still closed and he can see from the small crack under it that your light has been turned off. 
He gets in bed, ready to sleep, feeling somewhat calmer after a strong orgasm and a hot shower. Calmer, but not soothed.
Chan doesn’t sleep.
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You wait after Chan’s shower is over and after he returns to his bedroom to decide what you should do. 
By now, a few of the guests have left the apartment, leaving Jisung, Changbin, Felix, and Minho still in the living room. There’s music playing at low volume and discussions at an even lower volume, but no more loud video games, no more shouting. 
The thing that you want to do is rather straightforward. You want to get out of bed, reach for your closet, find in it your vibrating sex toy and get yourself off. 
But Chan is in the room next to yours and you would bet all the money in your bank account that he isn’t asleep. 
And there are the four other guys in the living room—all of them could hear you, maybe.
But Chan is a little bit more your type than the others. And the whole ordeal tonight—it makes you feel things.
You could, also, not use the vibrating toy, which is loud. You could get yourself off using your hands alone, or using the toy without turning it on, which you do rather often to avoid being heard. 
It’ll have to do.
Your clothes land on the floor in a matter of seconds, and your legs spread open just enough for your hand to reach your folds, which you find definitely not dry after what you heard, while Chan was showering. You close your eyes, your cheeks warm, a strange flutter in your stomach.
Chan went to take a sneaky shower. And you heard him moan at some point into it. A muffled moan but it was there and you are certain you did not make this up. 
You jump at your own touch, at the contact of your cool fingers against your wet heat, but that doesn’t stop you from parting yourself open, fingers kneading nicely with familiar motions, juices coating you in a matter of seconds. 
But it doesn’t feel like it usually does—it’s nice, and you like the way you touch yourself, hover onto your clit, tease your entrance… but you feel empty. Ashamed and empty. You know, you just know, that your fingers won’t be enough. You guess that even if you managed to muffle the sounds of your vibrator, it still wouldn’t be enough.
For just a second, you wonder where that insatiable hunger is coming from.
Your room is dark, but you twist your neck to look at the wall separating your room from Chan’s. God fucking dammit. 
Did he moan… did he moan because of you? Because of the nudes he saw? Or was it an unrelated moan? 
Did he just… did he jerk off in the shower? It has to be that, right? But then, could it be possible that he did it to the thought of you?
The problem is that you’re not drunk enough. You can still feel the whiskey affecting you, but to get over… whatever the hell happened tonight, you need to be a lot more drunk. 
So you find your robe on the back of your chair and wrap yourself tightly in it before leaving your room to sneak to the bathroom, where you feel like a little clean-up is in order. 
While you’re drying your hands on your towel, you notice that the products on your designated shelf of the shower, have been moved. In over a year of living here, it never happened before, as the guys had very little interest in your preferred products.
You lock eyes with your reflection in the mirror. Flushed cheeks, round eyes, disheveled hair—you’re a mess. You’re a stupid, horny mess. 
Maybe not just horny.
Maybe disappointed.
Maybe you made the mistake of sending those nudes to Chan. It was an honest mistake, you didn’t mean to do it. But it happened and he didn’t do shit about it. Maybe he jerked off in the shower, maybe he didn’t. Maybe you were hoping he would send you a picture back, just a quick little dick pic in return, signaling that he had enjoyed what he had seen. Maybe you were hoping he would at least say that you’re beautiful or something like that.
But Mr. Manners himself is way too fucking nice and now you are frustrated, in more ways than one.
You quickly make your way back to the kitchen and find the whiskey still on the kitchen island. There is a lot less of it than there was earlier, but it’s fine. You guzzle down a couple of shots right there and it burns your throat just right. 
Maybe you should text titsl0v3rb0i69. Maybe he doesn’t live too far from here. Maybe he could fuck you and make you forget Chan.
There is one second during which you consider going into the living room and acting all nice to Jisung. If one guy would be down for it with you tonight, it would be him. If you had sent him the nudes instead of Chan, you definitely would have gotten a response out of Jisung. 
You pour yourself another shot and drink it, and that’s when Chan appears in the kitchen. 
For some reason, you’re surprised to see him there, as if the apartment wasn’t leased in his name, as if you hadn’t come across him in this very kitchen hundreds, thousands of times. But he’s here. You see him pull his headphones down and they rest on his neck. You faintly hear the music that’s coming out of them. 
It’s dark in the kitchen, as you left the lights off, but you can tell Chan has a very serious expression on his face.
In the living room, there is a lively conversation about politics. And also about internet memes, for some reason.
“Hey,” Chan says to you from the other side of the kitchen island. 
There is a bottle of American whiskey in between you, but it feels like nothing. But it feels like everything.
But Chan is a little bit more your type than the others.
“Hey,” you echo, your voice trembling, your mouth dry, while Chan pours himself two shots of whiskey and drinks them one after the other.
That’s it. You’re thankful the room is dark because you’re blushing and you can feel it. You’re also feeling warmth pooling at your core, despite the cleanup job you did over there earlier. 
Chan has you wet, and all he did is… nothing. He did jack shit in response to your nudes, and that has you turned on? How fucking pathetic is that?
This is when Changbin enters the kitchen. He’s obviously in a fantastic mood and doesn’t notice the awkwardness in the room.
“Chan, man, we were celebrating without you!” Changbin points out with a laugh. “Sorry.”
“No, it’s okay,” Chan replies, his voice smaller than usual. Less steady. “I was, uh, tired.” He drinks another shot quickly, avoiding looking at you or Changbin.
“Sure. Big day for you,” Changbin chimes in with a nod, then he leans back towards the living room to speak to the guys over there. “You guys want anything?” 
“Just bring the lemonade pitcher,” you hear Jisung say. “And glasses. I’m thirsty.” 
You’re thirsty too. You ask Changbin to pour a little bit of the lemonade into your glass before he leaves with it.
The conversation about politics vs internet memes resumes. The taste of lemonade clashes with the taste of the whiskey.
Chan is no longer on the other side of the kitchen island, he’s near the fridge, to your left. 
“Look, Channie—” you begin, turning to him, your heart beating fast in your chest, “I’m really sorry.” 
You hear Chan inhale sharply, almost as if he had been hurt. But he doesn’t look hurt. You know this because he’s taken a few steps towards you, and he is so close now that you recognize the song that’s playing from his headphones, still hanging around his neck. 
You gulp painfully, looking up and into his eyes. 
“Channie—” but you don’t really know what to say. You don’t really want to say anything, anyway.
You can smell him. His body wash, his deodorant, the laundry softener lingering on his black t-shirt. Him. That’s how close he is—much closer than he was just a second ago, or are you just making this up? 
This is a song he plays often. You realize that you only know this song because of him and because he plays it when you two are hanging out, alone. 
It doesn’t surprise you when Chan reaches out his hand to cup your face, doesn’t surprise you when his thumb brushes on your cheek, on your mouth… you part open your lips for him, your breath shallow, an earthquake taking place in your chest.
From the bottom of your heart, you didn’t mean to send him these nudes. 
But you did, and he is finally doing something about it—Chan’s thumb is on your open mouth, your tongue just barely pressing against it. 
Under Chan’s touch, all of the frustration you felt earlier evaporates in a second.
He says your name slowly, meaningfully, his voice husky and deep. “I know we’re drunk, but can I please kiss you?” he then asks under his breath.
You manage a nod and, in the process, Chan’s thumb rubs against your lips, which feels a million times better than your hand between your legs did earlier. So much better, that you have to repress a whimper but not for long—a second later, his face is just centimeters away, the song playing louder from the proximity, and then Chan’s whiskey mouth is on yours.
He wraps you in his strong arms, pulling you closer to him, as his lips force yours open. The sounds of your wet tongues and lips meeting make you dizzy, and when you let out a small moan of appreciation, Chan deepens the kiss, his tongue pushing past your lips hurriedly, purposefully. 
You stretch your arms to wrap them around his neck, pulling him closer, molding your body against his. You become aware of your breasts pressing onto his chest, and of the fine silk of your robe, cool against your warm skin. You wonder if Chan can feel your nipples. You wonder if Chan can feel how much you want him. 
Your ass hits the counter behind you when Chan pushes you backward, and he groans into your mouth when he presses his crotch firmly against you. You only stop kissing when you need oxygen. 
But you need Chan more. 
You’re pretty sure he’s hard. 
“Chan—” you whisper, your mouth trailing away from his mouth. You pause, pressing your tongue against his earlobe before closing your lips around it. He moans when you begin sucking just slightly, and he pushes you harder against the counter. “—wait—” 
You’re the one telling him to wait but you’re also the one going back to kiss him hard on the lips, you’re the one moaning into his mouth. You’re the one who runs your hand through his wavy hair, which you know means he simply let it air dry after his shower earlier. This is your favorite look of his—casual, laidback. 
Eye fucking you. 
But Chan responds to your hesitation and pulls away from you, a glazed look in his eyes, his mouth wet with your kiss. 
“Sorry,” Chan whispers, taking a couple of steps back. “Shit. Shit shit.” 
A loud series of laughter erupts from the living room, making you both jump and look in the direction of the door frame. From what you gather from the conversation, the guys are headed this way for a late-night snack as well as beers, as the lemonade didn’t quite cut it for them, apparently. 
You look over at Chan, the warmth in your gut more prominent than ever. In one swift motion, you grab the bottle of whiskey on the kitchen island with one hand and Chan’s wrist with the other, and you drag him away from the kitchen, away from everyone else.
You guys make it to Chan’s room because it’s closer than yours, and hurriedly close the door behind you just in time before being seen by anyone. Or so you hope. 
It’s dark in here except for the small lamp on Chan’s bedside table on the wall opposing the door. 
You unscrew the bottle and drink some whiskey, offering the liquor to Chan when you’re done. He eagerly takes it from you. When your fingers brush him, your heart flutters. 
His mouth is glistening again but with whiskey this time. You kiss him, licking the American whiskey off his lips.
“God, you’re so beautiful,” he whispers, pressing his forehead against yours. “Your mouth tastes so good…”
You feel a shiver pass through you, all of you, when he says that.
You need him. Now.  But Mr. Manners has other plans. 
“We don’t have to…” Chan begins, putting the lid back on the whiskey and setting the bottle on his desk. “We really don’t have to if you don’t want to.” 
You pull away from him, away from the door, further into his room. It smells like him here. You’re not often in his room. Rarely. 
“Aren’t you hard right now?” you ask openly. You’re drunk and horny. “Didn’t I fucking feel you just moments ago?” 
Chan squirms uncomfortably near the door but takes a step towards you. He’s wearing black shorts and you can’t see, but you felt him. In the kitchen, more laughter, and plates clinking. 
“We don’t have to even if I am,” he tells you, his voice low, his eyes on you, on all of you. Your body. “I respect you.”
You contemplate it. Hell, even in your drunken state, you appreciate it. But you have other plans. “Then fucking disrespect me, Channie.” 
Chan’s headphones are taken off from his neck and he leaves them near the bottle of whiskey on his deck, and he pulls you close, kissing you once more. God, kissing him is a little too good. In your mouth, his tongue is insisting. His tongue is wet and warm and exhilarating.
His hands are on you, now, caressing your body and feeling you up, through the fabric of your robe. 
“What if this ruins our friendship?” he asks, his face somewhere in your neck. 
“You said it yourself earlier. You said I could never ruin anything for you.” 
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Chan was a fool to think it would never come to this. 
“You said it earlier,” you tell him. He can see that your cheeks are flushed, despite the relative darkness. “You said I could never ruin anything for you.”
He lets his hands rest on your waist. Standing in his room, with you, right now, is surreal. It’s something he hadn’t even dared to dream of, even if he is slowly becoming aware that he’s wanted this for a long time. 
In the end, you give him a quick kiss. “Channie. It’s okay if you don’t want to. But if you want to fuck me, do it. I really, really want to fuck you.” 
There’s something about this undeniable consent that turns Chan on even more. He looks into your eyes as you undo your robe, revealing to him your beautiful and inviting body. Your smooth skin, your soft and perfect breasts. Ultimately he allows himself a few seconds to look at them. He’s dreamed of that. But he doesn’t dare to gaze below your waist—Chan is afraid it would drive him mad to do so just then.
You sit on the edge of the bed and pull him closer. When he goes to sit next to you, you stop him, making sure he stands in front of you. And then you make sure he’s looking at you in the eyes when you tug on the waistband of his shorts, doing a quick job of pulling them down. They fall around his ankles, and you waste no time cupping his aching cock over his underwear. 
You’re not looking at his face now, you’re looking at what your hand is touching, biting your lower lip. “Channie, you’re so hard…” You lean over, lift his shirt just a little, and kiss his navel. “Didn’t you come earlier, in the shower?”
The honest question startles Chan, but he’s drunk and you’re relentless in your slow rubbing of his length. It’s making him crazy, even through fabric. 
“I heard you,” you go on, a shy smile painting itself on your pink lips. “I hope you moan like that when you come again.” 
You emphasize your wish by pressing harder on his cock, effectively making him moan. The laugh that escapes your lips is sinful. 
The underwear quickly join the shorts at Chan’s ankles, and he kicks them both away.
“Oh fuck…” is all you manage taking in the sight of his erect length. “Channie. Were you hiding this from me this whole time?” 
Again, Chan makes a move to go sit next to you, as he’d very much like to lie down and kiss you some more. But you open up your slender hand and delicately spit into it. He’s too stunned, too hard, to even realize what is about to happen, but you immediately grab his cock and experience the feeling of it in your palm. Chan is experiencing the feeling too, and it’s so sudden and good that he feels his guts tighten, the muscles of his thighs tense up. 
“Like this?” you ask, finally looking up at him, giving a few tentative strokes, rotating your wrists to accentuate the motion. 
“Y—yeah,” is all that Chan can manage, watching your hand work on him. You stroke all of this length slowly, often squeezing at the base, taking your time. It feels good there, and all over, too. Feels like he’s floating.
Your hand slows down even more when it reaches his tip again, and your thumb brushes on it, smearing his precum onto his length. “You’re leaking, Channie…” 
As if he doesn’t know. As if he isn’t ready to come right then and there at the sight of your bare tits and your thighs. 
“Wonder if you taste good…” 
You lean in a little, mouth open, the tip of your tongue visible. God, you are so beautiful. You lock your lips around his tip and he feels your tongue twirl and twist against him. He jerks, surprised by the softness of your mouth, by the shock of pleasure that just shot through him. 
And then you pull away from him, your tongue out, showing him the precum you’ve gathered from him, resting on it. There’s some on the corner of your mouth, too, lazily dripping down onto your chin. Chan watches carefully as your tongue retreats into your mouth and as you swallow what you just took from him.
“You do taste good, Channie…” you wet your lips with your smooth tongue, spreading the taste of him all over your mouth. “Did you like it?” 
Chan nods, his legs weakening. “Y—Yeah.” He whimpers when you take him in your hand again, but his head falls back when you reach with your other hand to fondle his balls, palming them, squeezing them nicely. “Oh, fuuu—” 
His cursing is lost to an exhale, covered by the sound of your laugh. 
You take him inside your mouth again, using one hand to pump and work what you can’t quite fit in. Your head bobs onto him, emphasizing everything, the way you often tease his tip with your tongue, how plush your mouth feels around him, your hand tugging and squeezing his balls, the sound it makes when your mouth moves around his girth… 
It doesn’t take long before Chan’s eyes roll at the back of his head, and before his hands stretch out to lay on top of your head. Doing so makes it so much better for some reason, and all he can do is buck his hips into your mouth. When you moan around him, the vibrations from your voice rumbling against his flushed cock, Chan thinks for sure he will come. But he doesn’t, by some miracle. Fuck, he never wants this to stop. 
You’re good at this. 
Chan hasn’t had that much sex. Like, in general. He’s had some. With women he didn’t really know, with women he never even saw the morning after. It’s just easier this way. After they’re done fucking, he’ll let them fall asleep in their own bed—he never brings girls here—and sneak out of their place. And that had always been okay.
He hadn’t had that much sex but he had enough to know this is the best oral he ever received. The way you sometimes tighten your grip but never on the same area twice, whether it’s with your lips or your hand, the way you make efforts to take just so much of him in your agile mouth—it’s close to being torture. Because you know exactly when to slow down, too. 
Your hollowed cheeks when you give him a good suck. The way you fondle his balls, too. Kindly. Lovingly. It’s close to being torture. The best kind of torture.
Tonight he will fuck you and he will wake up in the same apartment as you. Realistically, you would continue to cohabit, same as before. 
And that does not bother Chan. It doesn’t scare him, because tonight doesn’t feel like the hook ups he has with other girls. It’s you. He knows you. He likes you. 
It makes a delightful pop sound when you release his cock, and Chan groans, his fingers closed into fists in your hair. He looks down at you and you look up at him, your beautiful lips swollen and raw from the sucking, your chin covered in drool and precum. 
Chan lets go of your hair to rub you clean with his thumb, but when he goes to wipe himself on his thigh or something, you grab his wrist and take his thumb in your mouth eagerly, not letting any of his taste get away from you. When you’ve licked him clean, you bite into his flesh delicately, making Chan’s cock twitch painfully. 
He thinks about how today went. His day started normally, he worked hard, skipped lunch break to review some stuff… he was asked to meet with the big boss, got a promotion, which was followed by several meetings… They gave him this bottle of American Whiskey, which he shared with his friends and with you. You drank a lot of whiskey.
Chan wonders if you were just whiskey drunk when you accidentally sent him the nudes.
But, by god, isn’t he glad you did. 
Chan pushes you against the mattress. He does so nicely and politely and you let him do so while he kneels by your side. He can’t wait to fuck you but, also, he can—he wants to touch you, to feel you, even if his balls are sore, even if his cock is straining. You still haven’t let go of his thumb and he watches your face, your mouth, as you lie on your back in his unmade bed, as you nibble and suck gently onto his thumb. 
“Can I touch you there?” Chan whispers, his free hand lingering on your inner thigh, his fingers dancing on your skin. You tense up when he touches you, and he bites his lip when a frown appears on your brow. It’s not the bad kind of frown. And it’s so fucking hot.
“Please, Channie, fuck, yes, yes,” again, the consent sends electricity through his body, and Chan moves his hand further up between your legs. 
He’s barely grazed the smooth skin of your heat but he knows you’re wet. He feels it on your thighs, feels the warmth emanating from you. There’s a loud ringing in his ears. He makes sure to look at your face when he finally presses two fingers against your wet folds.
He never would have expected the sound that you made at that moment. Fuck, he gets close to coming, again, and he gasps as he focuses on you and not on the throb in his cock. 
“Channie,” you whine, squirming on his bed, spreading your legs open just for him, exposing your smooth, wet pussy to Chan. “Yes please, please, please, I need it… need you…” 
You arch your back, opening your legs even further, rolling your hips to fuck yourself onto his hand. Shit, this is too hot, and Chan feels warmth flood his face at that sight—you, using his hand to chase your high, your tits moving with you. Now that you’ve released his hand from your mouth, he uses it to touch them, cup them, squeeze them. 
You’re so wet against his hand. He rotates his wrist until the inside of his fingers is facing your folds, and he gently rubs you, making small rotating motions, alternating with back and forth rubbing to tease your entrance. The blue robe looks so good on you. 
And you look so good in his bed. 
You’re warm and wet. A lot more than he had anticipated. Still on his knees, he caresses you slowly, feeling your whole body come alive under his touch. Your head sinks into the mattress, and another moan again, louder this time—the most beautiful moan he has ever heard.
But also a little loud. Loud enough to be heard outside of this room, for sure. 
He considers it. You, still fucking yourself onto his hand. His flushed cock. 
The crowd, still cooking in the kitchen. His friends.
To hell with it. He uses the hand that’s not fucking you to muffle your voice, pressing it against your mouth. But fuck, it’s almost as if you like it because you only make more sounds… and writhe harder on the bed. 
God, he loves feeling you. So he feels you. Your soaking wet cunt, your mouth biting at his hand. He explores your pussy with his fingers and you stare at him when he brings his hand to his mouth so he can discover your taste. You taste sweet, you taste nice, and he thinks he might want more of that. 
When he brings his head close to your navel, he also lets go of your mouth to spread you open and lift your thighs just enough so that they can rest on his shoulders. Shit, you smell good, too. He can’t be moving too much, because his cock is rubbing against the bed in this position, and he might just come all over himself… 
But, he focuses on you. 
“I’m not… I’m not used to this,” he tells you, his voice low, leaving a few light kisses on your inner thighs. 
“Channie…” He can’t handle how hot you sound when you say his name, when you beg him. 
Chan forgets his lack of experience and uses two fingers to spread you open, kissing your inner thighs, your lips, your entrance, before his tongue reaches you, and you melt. 
You know better than to let the whole apartment know he’s making a mess of you, so you bite down on your own fist as Chan licks and laps at you, making sure every flick of his tongue is as impactful as possible. At least, being so busy doing that makes the ache in his cock a lot less distracting. 
When Chan presses his face harder against you, and your hips meet him there, rolling and bucking and you’re effectively fucking his face, biting your fist is no longer enough to soften the beautiful sounds you’re making. You sound so hot—Chan is pretty sure he could come just to the sound of your voice right now. And maybe the fact that you’re grinding against his face. 
“Fuck yeah… yeah… yes… Channie…” your hand finds his head, his hair, and you press on it for leverage, to get a better angle. Chan just continues his diligent work. “Oh my god, oh god, god…”
The string of curses escaping your mouth doesn’t lie. You bury your face in his pillow just nearby, your body going limp except for your back—you’re arching it so nicely, Chan just knows you’re feeling good.  
He feels a throb under his tongue as you accelerate your grinding. He needs to breathe but when he feels a second throb, he decides he’d rather run out of air than stop now.
So he keeps going, and sneaks a couple of fingers in your entrance, feeling your slick walls around him. Shit. Shit. Shit. Bad idea. He might just come now. You feel too good, too wet—and now you’re not just grinding against his face, your fucking his fingers, and he’s stretching you with them. Your pussy is smooth inside and out, and it feels like heaven.
There’s another powerful throb, and your walls clamp around his fingers before he can even add a third one. Wetness floods Chan’s mouth, your wetness, and your moans flood the room. The pulse of your pussy would be enough to push him over the edge under other circumstances but to witness something as beautiful and magical as your climax feels too special. It never really happened to him before, and he likes it. It was never so… intimate.
He laps at you gently until you calm down, until your back is relaxed again and you’re lying motionless on his bed. Your chest heaves with your deep breathing, and the sounds of your exhales are like music to him. He did this. He did this to you. And it feels good.
Your face is red and there is a little sweat pearling on your temples… but you are the hottest thing Chan has ever seen, has ever touched, has ever tasted. 
He wipes the lower part of his face with the back of his hand as you tug on his shirt to pull him closer, kissing him hard. 
Your mouth tastes like him and his, like you. Your legs are still open and he’s in between them, and Chan feels his cock begging for some attention. 
“You did so well,” you whisper to him, your mouth against his, your hands busy pulling his shirt off his shoulders. When he’s fully naked, you feel his strong body under your palms. “Channie… can you fuck me, now?” 
Chan dives in for another kiss, blindly fumbling in the drawer of his bedside table. Your hips are rolling again, your core threatening to graze over his flushed length. 
His fingers finally encounter the familiar wrapping of a condom, so he quickly pulls it out of the drawer and straightens his back to apply it. You prop yourself up on your elbows, watching him carefully. 
“You’re so big…” you whisper as he barely manages to apply the condom. But he does so, and he watches you watching him. 
“I didn’t know you liked cock this much,” he tells you, feeling a little bit bolder after you came all over his face. He really wishes you had sent him nudes before, on accident or not. 
“Haven’t actually had your cock yet, babe,” you tell him with a smirk that gives him chills. But your voice is trembling and he wants to fuck you dumb. “Please, Channie...” 
You calling him babe gives him dangerous ideas—fuck, he almost wants to fuck you over and over all night and sleep with you, in this bed, so that you can call him like that tomorrow morning, too. 
Chan looks at you straight in the eye when he takes his cock in his hand to guide himself inside you. Your smirk disappears. Your breathing stops, too, when he pushes himself inside you, burying his whole length in your wet heat. 
God, you are tight, and wet, and good. Chan takes a few seconds to enjoy this feeling, hoping he will never forget it. The way your pussy hugs his cock, how good it just feels to stretch you…
It’s you who moves first, pushing yourself even further onto his cock from under Chan’s weight, closing your eyes and your head falling back onto the mattress very quickly. You’re whispering things, filthy things, curses, but he can’t make out all of them.
Chan leans over, his face hovering over yours. You’re beautiful. You’re a mess, your breath smells like his cock, and your pussy is tight. Is he just horny or is he falling in love?
“So big…” you manage, your voice weak and strained. 
In any case, Chan gives a careful thrust, kissing your neck as he does so, before slamming his hips into yours, harder, a few times. You wrap your legs around him, obviously in a hurry to feel even more of him, and that closeness does something to him, and he needs to fuck you even harder. 
So Chan pulls out, mostly to readjust his angle and his weight on you, but in doing so he catches a glimpse of your pussy—flushed, white and creamy and beautiful. Shit. Shit. You’re wet like that, good like that, and it’s all for him. 
You catch him staring and surprise him when you sit on the bed and put your hands on his shoulders. You raise your knee just enough and push Chan down onto the mattress, rolling with him until he’s lying on his back, just like you were a second ago. 
His back sinks within the blankets and the mattress as you climb on him, your hands on his abdomen to keep your balance. You straddle him and waste no time guiding his cock, the condom covered in your slick, back inside you. 
Chan feels you sink onto him, taking him all, and he watches his cock disappear inside you all the way to the brim.
You’re full with him and you bend over to kiss him, your hands on his chest now, keeping him in place. And that’s how you begin to ride Chan, moving your hips softly, tentatively at first. Perfectly. 
Using his body for support, you move onto all of his length, up and down, the rolling of your hips sending waves of pleasure into him every single time you sink back down. Every time, Chan fears he might slip out, but you quickly take him all again, and again, and again—
Chan is sweating now but so are you. Your hair is sticking to your face, and the way you’re relentlessly bouncing on his cock, chasing your high, makes him dizzy. Your tits are bouncing with you, and he squeezes them sometimes—but every time you slam onto him a little harder, he falls back down in the bed. When he’s not squeezing your tits, he’s gripping at your waist and he knows, he just knows, that it will leave bruises.
You’re a little too good at this. 
Chan presses his hand against your lower belly, waiting for the right angle until he can reach your clit with his thumb. When you feel him there, you put your own hand on top of his, making him press harder. By now, you’re fucking him faster, and the bed is slamming against the wall, but both of you are too far gone to actually realize what this entails. 
You say his name, over and over. “Chan, Channie… babe… Channie, yes, yes… don’t stop…” He likes the way his name sounds when it comes out of your mouth, just like he had liked the way his cock had looked inside that mouth.
“Channie Channie Channie Channie I’m so close so close so close don’t stop fuck fuck fuck fuck—” 
Again? Shit. He’s close, too, but he ignores it. If he fucking comes, then, he comes, but he wants to feel you clamp around his cock, no matter what. It was so good when it was just his fingers, he can’t imagine how that would be.
It does surprise him when you come, and it seems like it surprises you, too. Your eyes roll at the back of your head, and then your head follows—it falls in between your shoulder blades as your back arches for him, making you reach an even deeper point, if even possible. The sounds it makes when you sink onto him now are unholy. Wet, filthy. Every time you move on him there’s more juices and more slick gushing out of your perfect cunt and he feels it trickling down on him, smearing his cock, his inner thighs. Fuck. Fuck.
Your walls clamp hard, and Chan feels the pulsating orgasm overtake you. He sees you come undone, your pussy throbbing around his cock as you just go limp, as pleasure fills you. You’ve never been as beautiful as this, he is sure of it.
Chan comes too—of course, as if he could help it—somewhere in the middle of there. It’s sudden and strong, and your pussy is unbelievably tight around him when he feels the first spurt of cum flood in the condom, his cock pulsing within you. You feel it, too, and you moan.
And he moans. 
“Channie, yes,” you groan, slumping over him now, your face in his neck. But you’re still riding him, not quite done with your release. “Moan for me, just like that.” 
As if he could help it. Your cunt is better than anything he ever fucking felt, and he’s still coming, his muscles tensing up, his hips bucking into you from below. You ride him the whole time, draining his balls expertly. Every load he shoots soothes him, makes him see stars. He fills the condom, his eyelids fluttering, his face buried in your hair.
“Oh god,” Chan manages when it’s over. It’s over, but his legs are trembling and he feels weak and dizzy. Everything you just did feels so dirty.
You keep him inside while finding his mouth to kiss him softly. He kisses you back, his fingers brushing on your waist, your ass, your thighs.
You retreat a little, his softening cock released from your wetness. He moans when his cock slips out of you, followed by a trail of your sublime slick. Chan kisses you before turning away to carefully remove the condom and dispose of it after tying a knot in it. He has tissues on his bedside table, and he helps you clean up. 
“We gonna regret this, aren’t we?” you ask, his back facing you as he’s still trying to wipe up all of the slick you’ve smeared onto him. There’s just so much of it. So much of his own cum, too. He fucking loves it.
Chan looks behind his shoulder. You’re sitting on the bed, your back leaning against the wall. You look properly fucked out and he loves it. He loved every moment of this with you. It was the best sex he ever had and the best anything had ever felt. 
“Maybe,” he admits because despite all of this, the situation is complicated and he knows it. “I liked it, though.” 
Your lips curve into a soft smile and you join him on the edge of the bed, putting your head on his shoulder. “I liked it too, Channie.” You kiss his skin where your mouth is closest to it and make an attempt at closing your robe, but it’s been crumpled badly in the past half hour.
Chan leans towards his desk and hands you a clean t-shirt that had been resting on the back of his chair. He even watches you after you’ve gotten up to shrug the robe off and put his shirt on. Your pussy is still flushed, still beautiful. 
“I like this, too,” he tells you, his cheeks turning warm again. 
You look into the mirror over his dresser, checking yourself out from a few angles. “Yeah, looks good on me,” you say, “but you looked better.” Even if he just came, this makes his cock twitch a little, and there’s a fuzzy feeling in his gut.
You wink at him from the reflection in the mirror and turn to pick up your crumpled robe on his bed. When you begin to walk away, Chan grabs your wrist softly and pulls you in for a kiss. A last kiss. 
Or maybe not.
“I might want to do this sometime again,” you whisper against his mouth. 
“Any time,” he tells you, his hands on your thighs. “I’m glad you sent me those nudes. Too bad for that other guy they were intended for…”
You chuckle and he does the same. In the end, he lets you go and watches you exit his bedroom. It doesn’t take long before he hears the water running in the shower, however, Chan is a bit thirsty from all the fucking and kissing, so he quickly puts some clothes on and heads to the kitchen. 
The apartment is dark and quiet, which is why he nearly has a heart attack when he finds Jisung in the kitchen, drinking a glass of water and eating cut-up fruit. The only source of light comes from the street lights outside, but it’s enough.
Chan stops in his tracks, cheeks flushing with shame. He tries to collect himself, tries to act cool as he goes to grab the pitcher of filtered water in the fridge—maybe Jisung didn’t hear anything, after all. Right?
“Hey, Channie,” Jisung says to his back, and Chan understands the meaning behind that, behind the intonation. The heat on his cheeks gets worse as he faces his friend to get a glass from the cabinet. 
“Hey,” he manages almost spilling water all over the kitchen island. “Uh—look—” 
“If you’re going to apologize, don’t,” Jisung warns him. “Next time, just try to fucking keep it down, will ya? Didn’t need to hear any of this. Can’t unhear it anytime soon.” 
Chan drinks his water in silence as Jisung walks away, slapping his back a little harder than he needed to. At least, his time with you will have been worth the embarrassment. And he will gladly do it all over again, as soon as you'll need him.
... The End
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2K notes · View notes
fuckyeslilkim · 7 months
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Lil Kim's Squat Pose Is Iconic. Its Photographer Discusses it for the First Time
In a rare interview, Michael Lavine discussed the day he shot Lil Kim’s Hard Core cover, the booklet, and that feisty, nearly 30-year-old poster we just can’t get enough of.
Even though Michael Lavine has photographed OutKast, Ghostface Killah, JAY-Z, Missy Elliott, Foxy Brown and many others, he didn’t start out capturing larger-than-life rap acts. Like multiple moments throughout his career, he just fell into the next phase of artistry, which was deifying a generation of Black storytellers.
Lavine’s interest in photography goes way back. He led his high school’s yearbook committee as the head photographer. Soon after, at Washington’s Evergreen State College, he studied traditional street photography in the style of Robert Frank and Garry Winogrand. While in Washington, he befriended the group responsible for the record label that became Sub Pop, and documented a then-emerging sound that, to this day, continues to inspire chart toppers. He wasn’t interested in being married to any particular genre or group though, because boxing yourself in isn’t the move. “I just never felt comfortable kind of being pigeonholed in anything to my own detriment. It's not good for business to do that,” he said. “You're supposed to kind of dive in, not pull away. But that's just how I was wired. I wanted to do my own thing.”
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After fostering the trust of music industry greats (“I started working for Rick Rubin. He was one of my first clients and he hired me to shoot a bunch of his Death American acts because he was starting to do metal at that time,” Lavine recalled) and becoming a Black Book highlight, he fell into shooting some of the biggest rappers on the scene. His knowledge of capturing Black talent helped. “I was very good at skin color and doing warm skin tones and lighting people,” he said. “For some reason, I think there was this problem with white people who didn’t understand how to light Black people, which was just ridiculous.”
In short, he came, he saw, he snapped. Legacies were cemented in the process, most notably with an image of one of the greatest female rappers that has become one of hip-hop’s most beloved and recreated photos — Lil Kim’s iconic squat seen ‘round the world.
Below, the retired photographer gave Okayplayer a rare interview where, for the first time, he discussed the day he shot Lil Kim’s Hard Core cover, the booklet, and that feisty, nearly 30-year-old poster we just can’t get enough of.
This interview, which took place over multiple conversations, has been edited and condensed for clarity and length.
When did you first meet Lil Kim?
The date was 7/30/96. The anniversary just passed.
What was your first impression of her?
My impression overall was she was not like she is, as in the present. She was very quiet and under the thumb of Big Un. Remember Big Un?
Are you talking about Lance “Un” Rivera?
Yeah. He was there. He was the man in charge of her and was kind of in control of the shoot. Kim didn't say a word. I don't think I spoke to her once about anything, but we had a nice rapport in front of the camera. She was great and we made a lot of pictures together, but I felt like there was this circus going on around us and it was just me and her. You get this intimate bond with your subject a lot of times. She's in her lingerie and rolling around on a bed. So, I was trying to be my normal, respectable self, and being professional and making the images with her in tandem.
I would direct her like, "Let's try this. How about coming over here? What if we lean this way?" There were a lot of sets. We had rented a brownstone in Manhattan probably. It was a couple floors. It might have been two floors. So there was a bedroom, a little balcony, a fireplace, and those big doors.
I interviewed Kim last year and she told me she just kind of dropped into the squat pose naturally.
It was very spontaneous. When you're doing photo shoots, at least when I was working, it was an organic process and you let things happen. It's like a creative flow. Whenever you have a creative director there holding out a [composition] like, "Here, do it like this," it just was always bad and kind of nothing. It was like the safest way to get whatever it is that they had in their minds. But to make a great photograph you have to let things happen. You just have to go with it.
There was no layout for her to do that pose. It just was natural. Part of it, I spent a lot of time low angle, meaning I was always kind of lying on the floor, crouching down myself. So, it's possible that one of the reasons she did it was because I was probably sitting on the floor looking up at her because that's kind of how I do. My style was based on the hero, meaning my job was to make people look like heroes with iconic style.
My style was based on making people look cool and giving them lots of options. So, we would take a lot of different kinds of photographs. I used different kinds of lighting. We moved very quickly. A lot of things happened and it was very much an exciting experience. Somebody had a set prop person there bringing flowers. For the cover shot, we had all those flowers in front of the fire, and the bear skin rug we brought that in. It was a normal hip-hop shoot. I was intimidated. It was a very hard day. Everybody was being kind of tough and intimidating, and nobody would talk to me.
Were you scared?
I was never scared, but they all had guns. It's not that I was scared..scared is not the right word. It's more like I felt kind of out of place a little bit. I didn't even speak with Kim. I was dealing with Un mostly, and Un had a lot of ideas. So we were trying to do all the things. I was getting coverage for him. He wanted to have her hold the honey bear. Remember, there's a shot of her holding a honey bear on the black satin sheets? We had a lot of props. I had a props guy. His name was Jerry Schwartz. He was very good and we had brought a bunch of stuff.
So, for example, I remember Puffy came in for a shot and I did one shot with Puffy and Kim together. And Puffy, I worked with him many times. He didn't even say hello to me.
I was just like, “Really? Do you have to be that way? You're so cool you don't want to embarrass yourself talking to the photographer, actually acknowledging him?”
I never really felt at home around Puffy. I think at that time, because I don't think he's like this anymore, but at that time he was — and I know this happened to several other people that I've witnessed throughout their careers — they're really striving. It's very hard at the beginning and they'll push, push, push. They're just about their thing and they don't care about you. So, he was yelling at everybody all the time.
On set that day?
Not that day. Other days.
Oh, just in general?
Just in general. Barking orders. But that day he came in briefly and we did the shot and then he left. There's one shot, I don't know if you've seen it, of them together on a wall. I don't even know why he was there. I can't remember. He had something to do with the record, I guess.
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"There was no layout for her to do that pose. It just was natural," Lavine said of the image.
The image came out as the poster, “Lil Kim Coming Soon.” When you're there that day, you have no idea what images are going to stand out. Zero. There's just no way anyone could know. It isn't until there's time to contemplate the session when you edit it and you start to live with the images. And the graphic designer who, I can't remember who it was. Maybe you can find that out.
Maybe.
Let's see if there's a name on here. I don't know. Big Beat records? I don't know who that would've been. Atlantic maybe? I think it was Atlantic Records, no?
Lil Kim was [signed to] Atlantic.
It was Atlantic? Maybe it was, I don't know who it was. Liz Barrett? There were a bunch of people in the Atlantic art department at the time. I could probably look at the invoice.
Do you still have the invoice?
I don't know. Let's see if I do. '96...
If you do, you're the best records keeper of all time.
Yeah, there's Kim and Puffy right there. I have the whole job here. Ed and Carl were my assistants. The location was 24 West 10th Street. That's where we shot it. Here's something for you. Ready for this?
Yes.
So, these are notes from my conversation with the manager. "Little Kim. Female. She's the other woman, somersaults in bedroom, not raunchy. Doorway of bedroom, satin sheets. Blouse, undone. Honey in hair, on bed and on phone. Down pants. Unbuttoning pants. No whips and chains. Classy, sexy, lush, lustful. Candles in the background. Fruits and chocolates." There you go.
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The notes Lavine was given prior to the Lil Kim shoot.
So, those were the notes that you were given before the shoot?
Yep. Those were the notes I was given before the shoot.
"Not raunchy" really stands out because I think you conveyed that.
"Not raunchy" — peekaboo, sexy shit.
Oh, man. Well, you did it. You accomplished the goal. And that actually flows really well into my next question, which was what do you believe they were trying to convey with the shoot?
It was funny that they hired me because I was known for not exploiting women in my photos. That was one of the reasons I didn't ever shoot women because back in the day, you were expected to shoot women with clothes off. I refused to do that and I never did it. I think this crouching picture was the raunchiest picture that I had ever done. Actually, that's not true. I did one once. But it was not my normal style, shall I say.
But also, it's an empowering image. I just generally felt uncomfortable sexualizing women throughout my career. That shoot was uncomfortable for me because I had to do that, and I think she was a little unclear as to what she was doing herself. I have no idea. I didn't talk to her. I'm not sure what she was thinking. Years later, I talked to her because we were both well complaining about this image being bootlegged.
She did mention that during our interview. That people were making t-shirts and making their own memorabilia.
It's completely illegal what they're doing, and it's got to be the most bootlegged image of mine. It's like whack-a-mole, you can't stop them. You send out your lawyers and then they just shut down and open with a different name. I could probably go out, spend some time and sue them all and she could, too. Who has time for that? If you have a lawyer and you have a lot of money, you could do that.
That sounds like a lot.
I mean, it's unfortunate. But she was talking about trying to do some merch of her own. The smart thing to do would be to get a deal with Merch Traffic or somebody that does merch, and then they would take care of trying to squash the illegal competition. But I thought that she was going to maybe have that happen this year, but I haven't heard from her.
But the image is just getting more and more famous. It's funny, you never know what kind of resonance an image is going to make and impress upon the culture at the time when you make it. It's rare that there's an instant classic. It's very hard to have that kind of impact these days just because of the nature of social media. Back then, there was a poster and that poster was the only poster. There was no other place to see it but the poster.
Now, it's everywhere.
That image really stands the test of time. Very few images stand the test of time like that image that I've worked on. It's one of my more recognizable images and I have a lot of them.
You do.
So, what can I say? It was a perfectly nice day. She was lovely. We had a nice rapport. The pictures came out great. I continued to work for many years after, and I'm retired now.
What made you jump into hip-hop photography?
Well, that's a funny question because I think my whole life, until recently, has been me falling into things that I wasn't planning on. I was driven to do photography so I was on that path. But if you would've told me my senior year, my fifth year of college, I was going to be shooting rock bands for a living for the rest of my life, I would've said, "Really?" I would've had no idea. But that fifth year [of college] I got a job to shoot a rock band and it just turned into —
The rest of your life?
It turned into the rest of my life. I never said, "I'm going to be a rock photographer." I never said that until I was one. Then, I had no plans on shooting hip-hop. It was an up-and-coming market at the time. I didn't know anything about it. I was friends with Kurt Cobain hanging out at rock shows, and really was unaware of a lot of hip-hop.
I did some hip-hop jobs early. I shot De La Soul, who I loved. I shot a few bands and hip-hop acts that were popular around that time. I got to know a lot of people in the business over time because I worked in it for so long. I was really close with Groovy Lou, who I loved as a stylist. June Ambrose. A lot of people.
But this was a defining moment. That shot, that poster when it came out, it made a lasting impact. It's still gaining speed. At that time, nobody knew who she was.
Did you know who she was?
I might've heard her name but not really. I just got hired on jobs. That's how I learned about people. I listened to the record before anybody else heard it. I got it first. But a lot of people were that way — I would learn about them on the job. That's how you learn because if I'm shooting 100 jobs a year, I don't have time to do anything but the job that's in front of me.
Did you listen to the album before the shoot?
Oh, I'm sure, of course. I don't remember the exact moment I listened to it but I always did. But that was part of the job, and we listened to it all day long during the shoot because that's what we did.
When did you realize that photo was really making waves?
Well, I think it happened over time. Obviously, the poster immediately was like, “OK, that's intense.”
Was it everywhere? Was it all over town?
It was everywhere. And when the poster came out it was powerful. It was a dramatic statement and it sent shock waves immediately. It was clearly influential at the time, I will say that. It was shocking and effective. It put her on the map.
Do you think it put her on the map more so than the cover?
Oh, yeah. The cover, who knows what the cover looks like? Nobody does.
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farawayfromwanting · 5 months
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Title: House Calls (Jack Daniels x fem!Reader)
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Rating: Explicit
Summary: From The Cowboy universe. Jack is on a trip to visit some of his old Statesman friends but he’s missing Sugar (and their unborn daughter) something fierce. When FaceTime isn’t enough, he does what he does best and sets up a little surprise for his new wife.
Warnings: Language, pregnancy, married flirting, some body worship (implicit and explicit), making out, breast play/sucking, unprotected PiV (you know what I’m going to say). Post-The Golden Circle, non-canon compliant. No use of Y/N.
Word count: ~2.8k
Notes: Inspired by a few photos shared by @ladamedusoif earlier but then it kind of took on a life of its own. It’s been a while since I revisited Jack and Sugar, and I’m sure the same goes for some of you. It could easily be a standalone, but if you’ve read the series, it falls somewhere in the middle of the Epilogue—Sugar is around four months along with Talia here.
I’m not gonna lie—I struggled a lot with writing this for a lot of reasons I won’t go into, but I really do want to share it, so here goes.
For Rose, and for Jules (@julesonrecord). With love.
{divider created by @saradika}
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“Look at you, all gussied up and pretty. Where are you off to?”
“Believe it or not, Ginger’s elopin’ with her girlfriend,” Jack says, the camera bouncing slightly as it sits on his dashboard, angled towards his face. “She asked me to come and sit in as witness.”
You smile softly. “So she’s fully forgiven you, huh.”
“She has.” His voice is almost as soft. “I’m grateful. Not sure I deserve it, but I am.”
“You’ve worked hard, sweetheart. More than made up for the past.” You curl your legs up under you and rest your cheek on your hand. “I’m sure they’re glad to have you back.”
“Not back. Just…visiting.”
The car coasts to a stop and he looks down at your image, brown eyes shining. “I miss you, Sugar.”
“I miss you, too. When do you get back?”
“Day after tomorrow.” He bites his lower lip, and your heart does a little jump. “How are you feeling?”
With a shrug, you laugh a bit. “I’m okay. Tired.”
“I can imagine. She givin’ you a break at least?”
“Active as ever,” you reply, your hand falling to your belly — rounded, but only gently. “Think we might have created a soccer player, Jack.”
“No child of mine is playing that European crap sport,” he laughs. “Maybe she’ll be the first female NFL player.”
“No child of mine is playing that American danger sport,” you shoot back. “Maybe we’ll teach her Irish stepdance instead.”
His smile is warm, easy. You’re thrilled to see it — the unexpected pregnancy had brought up a lot of memories for Jack, and it had kept him just shy of distant for a little longer than you’d liked. Conversations were had, tears were shed, but now… He couldn’t wait to meet your little girl.
“I’ve gotta go, Sugar. Ginger’ll kill me if I’m late.” He offers a wink. “I love you both. Very, very much.”
“I love you, too,” you reply, fighting the urge to stroke his cheek on the screen. “Give my love to Ginger.”
“Will do. Call you later.”
Jack doesn’t call that night, at least not before you fall asleep watching The Daily Show, but he is on FaceTime the very next morning, barely a half-hour after you climb out of bed. You’re still in your robe and slippers, but he looks like he’s just stepped out of the pages of Cowboy Weekly. Stetson firmly on his head, perfectly-fitted red flannel with just enough buttons open to show the top of his white singlet, moustache groomed neatly over brilliant white teeth as he smiles into your eyes.
“Mornin’, Sugar!”
You yawn, and he laughs. “Jack, it’s barely nine in the morning. How are you so awake?”
“Up with the sun, you know me, Sugar.” He tucks his lower lip in, appraising you. “Goddamn, you’re pretty.”
“I look like a disaster.”
His eyebrow shoots up. “I said you’re pretty. Do I lie to you, darlin’?”
“No.” You finish steeping your tea and toss the bag away, settling at the table with your phone propped up on the napkin holder. “How was Ginger’s ceremony?”
“Sometimes I forget that girl’s name is Elizabeth,” he laughs. “But she and Nina were gorgeous. Lots of tears shed. Can’t say I wasn’t among ’em.”
“Big, tough-guy Jack Daniels crying over a wedding? I’d kill to have seen that.”
He grins. “You did, about two months ago, remember?”
“Hmm, no, I think you’ll have to remind me,” you reply, holding up your hand and moving your finger so your wedding ring shimmers. “I have no recollection, it seems.”
“Real funny, Sugar.”
You take a sip of your tea and watch him as he walks. There’s no indication of where he is or what he’s doing, but you’re a bit surprised to see that he’s not driving. “What are you up to, Jack?” you finally ask when curiosity gets the best of you.
“What do you—”
He’s cut off by the doorbell, and you groan. “I swear to god, if this is another cable company salesman I’m gonna warn him about the six-shooters my husband keeps in his closet.”
Jack laughs. “Don’t go gettin’ me in trouble, now.”
“Be right back.” You tighten the belt around your robe and shuffle to the door, unlocking it and pulling it open.
You are completely unprepared for your husband to be standing on the other side, now-disconnected phone in hand.
“Hey there, Sugar.”
“Jack!” You fling yourself into his arms, and he stumbles back as he grabs you, laughing. “Why… How are you here?”
He doesn’t answer right away, instead steadying you both so he can bring his lips to yours. He still tastes of toothpaste and minty mouthwash, so either he didn’t have coffee before getting home to you, or he stopped to re-brush before he rang the bell. Either way, it’s a comforting thought that he cared enough to make sure you didn’t get a taste of the drink you missed so much.
You curl your fingers into the back of his hair, feeling his hat push away from you as you shift your kiss over his mouth. When you finally break apart, nearly gasping for air, you meet his eyes again. “You’re home.”
“I am,” he replies, his thumb stroking over your spine. “I missed you too much to stay, so right after dinner I hopped in the car and drove back.”
“That’s a…seven hour drive.”
“Mmhmm.” He presses another kiss to the tip of your nose. “Worth every minute for this right here, Sugar.”
You grab his hand and pull him into the house, slamming the door behind you. “Easy, darlin’, easy,” he murmurs as you press into him, your lips finding his again.
“Don’t talk to me like one of your horses, Jack,” you tease, nipping at his lower lip.
He chuckles, and you feel it against your chest low in his own. “Jesus, Sugar, I leave you for two days and you’re this worked up?”
“I’m pregnant, you idiot. I’m this worked up after two hours.” You kiss him again, your fingers clumsily trying to figure out his belt without pulling away from his body.
“Hey, hey, slow down,” he urges, his hand catching your wrist as he pulls back. “Baby, I am all for givin’ you whatever you need right now, but there’s no need to rush.” He presses a kiss to your lips and uses the wrist he’s holding to pull you gently towards your bedroom. “You’ve got me for as long as you need me, alright? Take your time.”
Something about the tone of his voice soothes your mind, which has been racing since you opened the door. You wordlessly gesture for him to sit on the bed, and when he does, you move to stand between his knees. He kisses the roundness of your belly, and you push his hat off to comb your fingers through his hair before tilting his head up and bending to part his lips with your own.
“What do you need, Sugar?”
Jack’s voice is low and husky, his palms flat against your hips as his breath ghosts over your mouth.
“Just…keep kissing me, Jack.”
He smiles, the faintest of blushes crossing his cheeks and making his freckles pop as he pushes you back only enough to close his knees. Tugging you over, he lets you sit on his lap (“Don’t worry, I’ve got you.”) and slips one hand up over your cheek as he kisses you, just like you asked.
Jack is an excellent kisser. It’s not just the plush, soft lips or the gentle, probing tongue, either. He’s slow. He’s thorough. He takes as much as he gives, and no more. He knows just when he needs to pull back, to let you breathe, but he never goes so far as to leave you feeling unsatisfied.
He brings his hands into it slowly, too. Besides the one that has taken up residence on your face, his other has stayed on your waist, kneading little circles with his fingertips as you sit with him. Now, it slides a bit, up your side, his thumb playing at the underside of your breast through your shirt.
“Jack,” you murmur against him. “You can take it off.”
He smiles, and you feel it, his hands moving to the waistline of your top and pulling it up in a mostly-smooth, easy movement. It catches just for a moment on your nose, and you laugh broadly; him making quick work of it before rubbing his thumb over the place it had been. “All good, Sugar?”
“All good, Jack.”
His eyes trail down from yours, over your throat, over your chest, down to your belly where he brushes the knuckle of his index finger over the swell. “Look at how beautiful you are,” he whispers, and it’s reverent. “Didn’t think you could get more beautiful than the day we met and yet you just keep doin’ it.” He lifts his head and catches your gaze again. “And I’m not just sayin’ that because of the baby, darlin’. I mean it.”
You card your fingers through the hair over his ear, admiring the strands of grey that seem to multiply with each passing day. “You’re not so bad yourself, cowboy,” you grin, letting your hand slip down to rest between the collar of his shirt and his throat. “I’m a lucky woman.”
His eyebrow quirks, just for a moment, but you catch it. “I’m gonna lay you down now, okay?”
“Okay.”
He does just that, holding you steady as he lowers you to the mattress; when you’re settled among the blankets he stands, toes off his boots, and tugs off his flannel and tank top.
“Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” you say without pretense, your fingers reaching up to brush over the little pooch of belly that sticks out just slightly over his belt.
“Watch your mouth around the baby,” he winks, climbing beside you. He kisses you more, harder, deeper; his hands move slowly and deliberately along your torso. It’s gentle over your belly, but when he gets to your breast, he squeezes, hesitating just slightly in case of resistance.
You offer none. It feels amazing, and the sigh you let out tells him all he needs to know.
He keeps it up, his fingers pressing and massaging, the pads of his fingers brushing delicately over your nipple to bring it to attention. He does the same on both sides, leaving you mewling and panting with desperation.
“Please,” you whimper. “Jack.”
Your husband can read you like a book, and he knows exactly what you’re begging for. Finally relenting his assault on your mouth, he drags his puffy, wet lips down the column of your neck and wraps them around your right breast.
“Oh, god!”
Jack giggles against you, his tongue swirling over your nipple, his lips dragging over your sensitive skin. Once again, he plays it even—one side, then the other, back and forth. By the time he knows you’ve had your fill and starts a line of the world’s tiniest kisses back to your mouth, you’re pretty sure you’ve soaked through your panties, your pajama bottoms, and maybe even your quilt.
“What next, darlin’?” he asks, his teeth scraping your pulse point. “Tell me what you need.”
Routine would be his mouth on you, followed by you returning the favor. Right now, though, you’re not sure you can wait any longer, and you tell him so.
“I need you inside me, Jack,” you say. “Now.”
“Oh.”
He takes you at your word, clambering off the bed to strip out of his jeans. It seems your foreplay has done its job on him, too, and his cock springs free, hard and red and already leaking a bit at the tip.
“Jack,” you repeat, “now.”
He bends at the waist to tug your bottoms off, both the pants and the underwear coming off and falling to a puddle beside his feet. He reaches behind you to grab a pillow and tucks it beneath you before running his fingers through your wet folds.
“Oh, Sugar, you are ready for me, aren’t you?” He smiles when you whimper and slides you just a little closer to the edge, making sure the angle and your legs are comfortable.
“Baby,” he says as he notches himself at your entrance. “You tell me if you get uncomfortable, okay?” It breaks the mood, but only for a moment; in fact, him taking this moment to check in on you makes you even more turned on. You nod, and he returns it.
“I love you.” The last word is punctuated with a sharp but careful thrust into you, and he bottoms out almost immediately thanks to your arousal. “Oh, shit.”
“Jack!” you gasp, reaching for him. He grabs your fingers, lacing them with his own against your thigh where it sits on his hip.
“C’mon, darlin’,” he groans, sliding nearly completely out of you before pushing in again. “C’mon, Sugar, take what you need.”
You actively clench your muscles around him, watching as his beautiful dark eyes roll up in his head. “Harder, please,” you urge. “You won’t hurt me, I promise.”
He changes his footing, hand still linked with yours on one side while the other holds your knee aside, giving him room. His thrusts stay even, but speed up, get rougher, and you hear the noises in your throat spilling forward without effort. Combined with other sounds in the room—the wet slap of skin on skin, Jack’s grunts and swears, your sighs and moans—it’s pornographic.
And just what you need to get where you want.
“Baby,” you say, trying to steady your voice. “Baby, please, lemme get on top?”
You wish he didn’t have to leave you to swap positions, but it’s hard enough normally, let alone while your belly is starting to get in the way. He kisses you, his hair and moustache sweaty, as he lies beside you, taking both of your hands to give you leverage as you swing your leg over his waist.
Taking his cock in one hand, you cling to his fingers as you guide it inside you, letting the moment settle as you acclimate to the new sensations. Jack isn’t a small man by any stretch of the imagination, but the pregnancy has given you a little leeway in that area—you can take him in much easier than you used to. In turn, you also feel a hell of a lot more when he’s buried deep.
After a few seconds, you find both of his hands again, using him and your knees to allow you to find the rhythm you need. “Oh, Christ,” you hiss as the arch of his hips and the downward thrust of yours find just the right spot. “Oh, fuck, Jack, I’m not gonna last.”
“It’s okay, Sugar, it’s alright.” His voice sounds strained too, and you realize just how much power you hold over him right now. “Like I said, whatever you need.”
It could be seconds, but it might be hours. Either way, suddenly and all-too-long later, you’re tensing up, crying out, tears springing to your eyes. You feel yourself gush around him, something that happens only rarely, and you’re about to apologize when he goes stiff and you feel him burst inside you.
“Oh, fuck,” he growls, and you nearly come again just at the tone of his voice. He clings to your thighs, his nails almost hurting but you don’t care as you double over best as you can, your own palms pressing hard into his pecs. 
After a few minutes, he rolls you carefully onto your side, slipping out of you. You feel both hollow and completely full as he rests his hand on your middle. 
“You okay?” he asks, his lips brushing your shoulder.
“For the moment,” you reply suggestively. “Don’t think I’m anywhere near done with you, Mr. Daniels.”
“Oh, I hope not.” He chuckles, kissing your arm a little more firmly.
It isn’t long before your bladder—and your logical brain—have you getting up to use the bathroom. Jack’s been dozing beside you despite his best efforts to stay awake. You don’t mind, and you don’t blame him; the long drive home to you definitely took a lot out of him and he hasn’t really slept in almost a day. 
Needs met and hands clean, you rejoin him in bed, your body curling around his. Even with your baby bump, you still fit neatly against him, and he instinctively wraps his arms around you as you settle in. 
“Welcome home, Jack,” you whisper, leaving the smallest of kisses on his chin. “We both missed you.”
“Mm,” he breathes. “Give me five more minutes, Sugar.”
You can’t help but laugh.
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odinsblog · 9 days
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Donald Trump took the stage in Greensboro, N.C. last Saturday calling for rounding up millions of Latinos across America and putting them in mass detention camps as part of “the largest domestic deportation operation in American history.” Unfortunately, this kind of rhetoric has become so common among the MAGA Republican playlist that it’s tempting to see it as a joke. But that wasn’t just somebody’s racist grandfather running off at the mouth or a standup comedian with bad taste playing to the crowd. My parents and grandparents would have called it a dog whistle, but my generation should know it’s a bullhorn. But whatever you call it, it was calculated, drafted, tested and approved as part of the far-right Project 2025 plan to turn back the clock on civil rights, women’s rights, workers’ rights and democracy itself. It was the white Christian nationalist agenda on full public display in all its un-American glory and we can’t afford to take it lightly.
Now, if you haven’t heard about Project 2025, don’t feel bad. Most people haven’t. Founded in 2022 by the ultra-conservative Heritage Foundation, it’s an organization led by Trump insiders preparing for one nation under Trump if the twice impeached and four times indicted former president wins the November election and to call them dangerous is an understatement.
What do you think about overhauling federal law enforcement so that the Department of Justice and the FBI, designed to be independent and insulated from political influence, were controlled directly by a newly elected and emboldened President Trump so he could protect his minions from investigation, arrest and prosecution no matter how many laws they broke? Project 2025 loves the idea.
Want to bypass the Senate confirmation process and stop notifying Congress when we sell weapons to foreign governments? Project 2025 does. What about terminating every diversity, equity and inclusion program in the federal government? Project 2025 says right on. What do you think about invoking martial law, using the military as local law enforcement and locking up Trump opponents? Project 2025 calls that progress.
But how do they plan on doing all this? After all, the federal government is more than just one person in the Oval Office. Trump already learned that lesson when federal employees and even some of his own appointees refused to break the law just because he said so.
But Project 2025 has a solution to that roadblock. They call it Schedule F and it’s a plan to fire as many as 50,000 federal employees and replace them with dyed-in-the-wool MAGA fanatics who swear their loyalty not to America or the Constitution but to Donald J. Trump. They’re not even trying to keep it a secret. But why would they?
You see, Project 2025 isn’t confused about who they are. They’re the MAGA Manifesto committed to the unapologetic vision of right-wing nationalism and they don’t care who knows it. Let’s be honest, these guys are attacking President Biden for pushing “racial equity in every area of our national life, including in employment.” Is that supposed to be a bad thing? Are we supposed to think our president should not be fighting for equality and justice?
That’s what Project 2025 says. But that shouldn’t surprise us. After all, they don’t think folks who look like me are real Americans. Neither does Trump.
But they’re not clowns. They’re highly trained, well-funded political operatives dedicated to winning in November and remaking America in their white nationalist image. They’ve spent the past two years putting together a plan to do just that setting the highest stakes imaginable for this election.
(continue reading)
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brydelynch · 2 years
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THE RAVEN CYCLE AS A NETFLIX ORIGINAL SERIES. SEASON 1: THE RAVEN BOYS.              [ Templates 1/2 ] ID under the cut.
[Image Description: A fan-made gif-set of an imaginary Netflix adaptation of The Raven Cycle.
The first gif contains the titles and visual previews of all episodes of season 1. The layout of the first gif mimics the user interface of Netflix. Episode 1 is titled: The Corpse Road. Episode 2: Blue Lilly, Lilly Blue. Episode 3: The Trees Speaks Latin. Episode 4: All Good Things Come in Trees. Episode 5: Two of Swords. Episode 6: Memento Mori.
The following gifs are snippet from each episode, the footage are taken from various tv shows and movies.
Episode 1. A gif with a majestic tree the size of a mountain in its focus. The tree, which is barren of leaves, stands in the horizon of a snowy landscape. Men clad in medieval armor stand to the side in the foreground, their gaze on the tree. A strong wind blows against their battered clothes. It looks like a scene out of a legend. Unreal and mystical. Subtitle: Gansey, voice over: Have you heard of the legends of sleeping kings?
Episode 2. We see the side profile of a teenager of African American and Māori descent. This is Blue Sargent. She’s played by the actress Sasha Lane. There’s a silver star shaped glitter on the cheek she has turned to us. She sits in the rear seat of a van. The seats are mounted sideways so we can see the front of the car. In front, we can see a young man in the passenger seat, speaking and messing around with whoever is driving.
Episode 3. A forest. Sunlight shines through the branches in myriad of colors. Blue, red, green, pink, yellow, all colors of the rainbow. Fungi grow out of most of the trees and they’re in different colors too. It’s a dreamlike scenery. The subtitle says: Ronan, voice over: “Arbores loqui latine. The trees speak latin.”
Episode 4. We trails along the side of a classic car. The windows of the car are rolled down. Inside it, we see a young woman asleep in the passenger seat. In the rear seats are two boys: one with curly blond hair, asleep, and one with a buzz cut. The one with the buzz cut is awake. He rubs at his eyes groggily.
Episode 5. A young man. He’s white and thin, with graceful features and fair, barely visible brows. There’s a bruise on bridge of his nose and right eye. Subtitle: “Rags to riches isn't a story anyone wants to hear until after it's done.” This is Adam Parrish. He’s played by the actor Harris Dickinson.
Episode 6. A skeleton lies on the floor of a forest. We move closer and closer to the skeleton. The skeleton had been gagged, his legs and his arms tied behind his back. This is Noah Czerny.
/End ID ]
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A Timeline of Events in the Artemis Fowl Series
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If anyone's interested, I did do an actual analysis for where I pulled some of these dates from. But because I cannot type succinctly to save my life, it's 5,000 words long, so that's below the cut. I also put the timeline there again, but in three separate images, so hopefully they load well enough to be fully legible if the above isn't.
A thousand thanks to @sadbitchapologist and @zahnie for their help and advice with this, despite neither of them having any more than the barest interest in the series and therefore having no clue what I was on about. Thanks also to @orangerosebush for fielding completely out-of-the-blue questions about the French school system, so I didn't have to attempt to navigate web search results to figure out what mandatory gym classes were like for the sole purpose of plotting Luc's birthday on here.
An Analysis of the Timelines in the Artemis Fowl Series
A Brief Introduction
The Artemis Fowl series is made up of eight books covering a range of years and events. I wanted to see how accurate the timelines present in the books were, as well as try and plot out some other details implied in the novels but not explicitly stated, to have a better understanding of the overall world-building. To that end, I went through the series and made the above timeline. I colour-coded it based on the relevance of the specific items to certain categories, namely Humans, Fairies, Villains, and the Series itself. This does mean that some things could have fit into multiple categories. For instance, you will see some items involving Opal categorized as Fairy-Specific (such as her college years, as those are fairly neutral to the main plot or her villainy), Villain-Specific (such as her setting up her emergency fund, as that is mostly related to her schemes as opposed to relevant to her existence as a fairy, or part of the main plot of the series), and Plot-Specific (such as her opening the Berserker Gate, the primary plot point for the final book).
Before we really delve into things though, we should establish the baseline assumptions I was working with. Firstly, I am only using the original series. I have not used anything written in The Fowl Twins trilogy, given that those books seem to ret-con a considerable amount of the original information, and that is far too many headaches to give myself. Any supplemental series information, such as the short stories found in The Artemis Fowl Files, or anything from interviews is also not included. The premise here is: using just the original books, what is the event timeline of the world? The second thing we need to establish is that I am using the North American releases of the novels. I did make notes on where each bit of information comes from, but there isn’t really a citation style for this kind of thing, so I’m not sure how relevant that is. The third assumption is that the first book takes place the year it was originally published. According to my copy, the original publication was 2001, with the first American paperback edition coming out in 2002, and the first mass market paperback being released in 2003. This means our starting point is in 2001.
For sake of clarity, this analysis will start with setting the dates of the books and continue on from there.
The Basics of The Books
With that out of the way, let’s talk about the first book, Artemis Fowl (AF). It is actually not until the very end of the book that we get a solid answer for when it takes place. It’s only in the last few pages of the novel that Angeline Fowl leaves her attic room after all the plot points are tied up and announces that it is Christmas Day. This might be cause for concern – Angeline had not previously been established as a particularly reliable narrator – but given that we are asked to believe that Holly’s ‘feel better’ mood booster worked, and that neither Butler nor Artemis balk at or question the pronouncement that is Christmas Day, we’ll accept that it’s true and move on. This means that, with Butler’s earlier announcement that he was stuck doing four months of stakeout, we can say with a fair amount of certainty that Artemis obtained and translated the Fairy Book in September 2001, and managed to capture a fairy in December of the same year.
Moving on to Artemis Fowl: The Arctic Incident (TAI), we are given a decent chunk of information, albeit spread out a bit. The first is the announcement that the ransom drop for Artemis Fowl I is to be held on the fourteenth. The fourteenth of what, you might ask? Well, we are told that Artemis is currently thirteen years old. Clearly, things are past September 1, 2002 (we know Artemis’s birthday is September 1 based on information in both the fifth and seventh books). We are also told that Luc Carrere has been trading with the goblins for six months, starting in July. That puts us in either December or January, but we can narrow it down further since Artemis gives us another helpful clue. He mentions they are not expecting to see the dawn while attempting to rescue his father in the Arctic. There are only a few latitudes on Earth where polar night (of any type) occurs, and at Murmansk, polar twilight occurs between December 10 – January 2. Combining all of this, we learn that TAI takes place December 14, 2002, give or take a few days to either side.
This can be corroborated by information in Book 3, Artemis Fowl: The Eternity Code (TEC). After Holly heals Artemis Senior, we are told that it takes over two months for him to wake up. Since we are specifically told two months, as opposed to two and a half or three, we can conclude that the events of TEC take place in March 2003. Mulch gives us some information that confirms this. He was living in LA “less than four months ago,” and since he was conscripted to help with the events of TAI in December, a March plotline fits the bill. We are given further confirmation as well: Spiro mentions that Artemis will be fourteen in six months. A specific date for Artemis & Co.’s attack on Spiro’s Needle can be pulled from the throw-away line that Pex and Chips are “burying” Mulch on the full moon. A quick web search tells us that the full moon in March of 2003 takes place on March 14, and the rest of the events in the novel take place roughly two days to either side of that.
In Artemis Fowl: The Opal Deception (TOD), the fourth book in the series, we are given several very clear indications of when the events take place. Firstly, Artemis is contemplating that at fourteen years and three months old, he is the youngest person to successfully obtain The Fairy Thief. Based on previously noted details that his birthday is in September, the events of TOD must take place in December of 2003. Additionally, we are told that things are the middle of winter and Opal has been in a coma for eleven months and counting as of the end of TAI, another December plot.
Artemis Fowl: The Lost Colony (TLC) requires the most math and interpretation so far to figure out when it takes place. We know Artemis is still fourteen, so the main events clearly happen sometime between January 2004 and September 2004. Beyond that, we are using a fair amount of context clues. Artemis and Butler have evidently been traveling for four months looking for demons, so we are dealing with events in at least May. But that still leaves us several summertime months to work with, so to establish a timeline here, we will need to look forward a bit. In the sixth book, Artemis Fowl: The Time Paradox (TTP), it’s noted that Artemis is not yet fifteen, and has, on multiple occasions, spent the full moon in the study. Ergo, he’s spent at least a few months back from Hybras. If he has been back for two months and not yet turned fifteen, he would have had to have returned by July at the latest, and since he returns almost three years later than he leaves, we are looking at him returning in either May or June. This would have him disappearing to Hybras – and by extension, dealing with the earlier events in the book – in June, July, or August. After his conversation with Minerva, he notes to Butler that they “are planning a June wedding,” which wouldn’t make sense to say if they were currently in the month of June. From all of this, we can extrapolate that the first three-quarters of TLC take place in late July or early August 2004, with the triumphant return of our intrepid heroes occurring in June 2007.
As previously stated, TTP mentions that Artemis is still not fifteen, but is nearly there. He has also been home again for at least two months. This would put the events of the sixth book in August 2007. At least, the events set in the current time period. TTP does bring back time travel, and with it some problems. We are told that Artemis and Holly jump back nearly eight years to Artemis being ten and trying to fund searches for his missing father. This would put the events of the past in early 2000. However, other details presented regarding Artemis Senior’s disappearance, which we will discuss later, make that impossible. Artemis also admits, in TEC, that he was eleven when his father disappeared, not ten. If we take a bit of creative license with our interpretations and base the time-jump to the past on other presented information as opposed to the dates given in TTP, we can say that Holly and Artemis instead return to early 2001. This lines up with further details, such as the sinking of the Fowl Star (as calculated a few paragraphs down in this analysis) occurring in December of 2000, and the textual confirmation in TTP that it’s barely two months past that sinking when Artemis brokers the deal(s) regarding the silky sifaka lemur. Since, at the end of the day, the time jump impacts very little in the grand scheme of things, and the year 2001 actually fits in better with other textual evidence and events, that’s what I’m going with for this timeline.
The seventh book, Artemis Fowl: The Atlantis Complex (TAC) gives us a very helpful base point! It takes place on Artemis’s fifteenth birthday, September 1. From our previous results on setting dates for book events, that would be September 1, 2007. The sections in which Butler and Juliet are fighting mesmerized wrestling fans and meeting up with Mulch are noted in the novel as happening “the day before,” which would fall on August 31, 2007.
Artemis Fowl: The Last Guardian (TLG), the eighth and final book in the series, creates some problems. If we assume that Artemis starts receiving treatment for his Atlantis Complex immediately after diagnosis in TAC¸ that would put him receiving treatment in September 2007. We are told he is certified as cured after six months. Yet we are also told that the rest of the events of the book take place in the week or so leading up to the Christmas holidays. Everything so far has said that the Artemis Fowl series follows the current calendar, in which case there is no way that six months can fit between September 1, 2007 and December 25, 2007. However, the only reference to Christmas is in two lines noting that the Fowl parents were planning on holidaying with their children on a foreign beach. If we simply say that six months have passed, and they are instead planning on spending the Irish school system’s spring holidays in the French Riviera, everything else lines up much better. So that’s what I’ve done. This would also put the resurrection of Artemis, after the events of the book and a further six months have passed, at roughly September of 2008. There is a pleasing symmetry to Artemis being born and then re-born in September, though if you want to get really technical and say the events of TLG take place during the 2008 March full moon as Opal claims (as noted in another web search as March 28), a six-month wait time for the clone to grow would put the resurrection in October. Still, there is something to be said for having a boy’s ghost haunting a clone of himself close to All Hallows. Since it’s the last plot point of the series, you can choose which you’d like; it doesn’t have to lead to anything else after it.
Let’s Talk Timelines: The Beginning of the Line to The End of The 19th Century
Now that we have our baseline book time periods established, we can get into the math used to determine some of the events in the timeline above. Several events are easy; we are given specific dates for them. Turnball Root meets Leonor in 1938, Juliet wins the Miss Sugar Beet Fair beauty contest in 1999. Other things are based on some basic math, such as Artemis claiming his parents got married fourteen years prior to AF¸ putting that event in 1987.
The majority of the items on the above timeline, however, do take some mathematics, extrapolation, and interpretation to plot out. To try and keep everything organized, we’ll start at the far left of the timeline, and work our way forwards, looking at events oldest-to-newest to explain why they are where they are on the graph. I won’t be getting too in-depth on everything in the graph, since I’m not sure how relevant the notes on the very minor side characters such as Carla Frazetti are, but I’ll at least try to touch on some of the more relevant points.
To start with, the Battle of Taillte was noted in the 2000’s as being ten thousand years ago, putting that at 8000 BCE. Similarly, the last dome breach at Atlantis was apparently eight thousand years ago in the 2000’s, so that would be 6000 BCE. Troll sideshows were legal in the early middle ages, which implies they were not legal after that. A quick web search says the early middle ages ended around 1000. The first crusades were in 1096-1099, and as those crusades are the start point of the Butler-Fowl working relationship, a point for noting that comes next on the graph.
From there, we get into more modern – relatively speaking – events. Briar Cudgeon and Julius Root are noted as attending the LEP Academy together and being raised in the same tunnel, as well as having about 600 years of history together. If one assumes “being raised in the same tunnel” is similar to the human equivalent of “growing up in the same neighbourhood,” we can assume the two were born roughly 600 years ago, in the 1400’s. Vinyaya is portrayed as being of a similar age to Root, so her birth can also be put in the same general era. We are also told that Fowl Manor was originally a castle built in the fifteenth century, that in the early 2000’s the theories of timeline corruption were first introduced over five centuries ago, and that cloning has been banned for over five hundred years, so those three events are also tossed into the 1400’s.
Julius Root is noted as doing his LEP basic training 500 years ago in Ireland, so that would have to be in the 1500’s. He would have attended the Academy before then, putting that in the mid-to-late 1400’s. As previously stated, he was in the Academy with Cudgeon. Opal also met Cudgeon in college, and competed with Foaly for science prizes there, so they were all in school at the same time.
Mulch now enters the picture. We aren’t ever given a specific age range for him, but we are told about his career. He has, apparently, spent three centuries in and out of prison after a couple centuries of success as a thief. This would make him at least five hundred years old. There is a brief mention that he tried the athletic route at college before becoming a thief, so he would have to be an adult at that point, putting his age at roughly 550 years during the events of the series.
We then enter a period filled in from one-off lines throughout the series, presumably added to give some depth to the world. Things about the wine cellar at Fowl Manor being a seventeenth century addition, Captain Eusebius Fowl and his crew dying in the eighteenth century, and Mulch first faking his own death over two hundred years ago.
Time Marches On: The 20th Century
There is nothing of much relevance to linger on between the 1550’s and the 20th century, so we’ll jump ahead to the 1900’s, when we have Holly Short’s birthday. She is in her eighties during TLC, and her father died “over twenty years ago” when she was “barely sixty” as of TAI. Based on that, she would have been in her early eighties in 2002, putting her birthday sometime in the 1920’s. What a doll.
A few more birthdays now appear, and we’ll ignore, for the most part, some of the irrelevant ones. I don’t think we are at all concerned with Gaspard Paradizo’s birthday, or Mikhael Vassikin. We are, however, rather more interested in Jon Spiro, Domovoi Butler, and Artemis Fowl I.
Jon Spiro enters the series in TEC, as a middle-aged American. A quick search on the Internet says that middle age is generally noted as being between the ages of 40 to 60. We are told that Spiro has worked in three main industries over the past two and a half decades. Additionally, we are told that law enforcement has been “trying to put [him] away for thirty years.” If we assume he entered the working world at twenty, spent five years developing his professional self, and then started going down a path of questionable legality to get the police after him, that would put him at fifty-five in 2003, and born in the late 1940’s.
It was a bit easier to determine Domovoi Butler’s age, and we can get more specific with his actual birthday. We are told that he is forty at the start of TEC, and he is still forty during TOD. From that, we can assume his birthday is not between March – December, which means it has to be between January – March. Now, we can just leave things there, but contextually, Butler says in late March 2003 that “a lot of people know [him] as a forty-year old man.” Since I doubt he’s the kind of person who introduces himself by announcing that his birthday was last week, we can assume that his birthday is not in March. Since about half the books in the series take place in December, and there is never any mention of Butler’s birthday coming up soon, we can likely assume it isn’t in January. We can therefore conclude Butler was born in February, 40 years before 2003, which puts his birth year in 1963.
We then have Artemis Fowl I. This one took the most extrapolation to determine. We know he has run an ethical empire for a few years as of 2007, which coincides with his return to his family after being kidnapped by the Mafia. He apparently ran a successful criminal empire for two decades before that, though, so in 2007 he has been working for at least 25 years. Based on the interactions he had with his own son, I’ve assumed he was also taught to take over the family business from a young age. If he started working at his age of majority at 18 (as possible in the 1980’s in Ireland, based on a web search), we can assume he was born in roughly the mid 60’s.
Billy Kong, born Jonah Lee, is one to touch on. He plays a large role in TLC, during which we are given possibly the most backstory of any villain in the series. He was evidently born in the early 1970’s, and was eight years old in the early 1980’s. Mathematically, that can only lend itself to so many birth years, so it’s easy enough to put his birthdate somewhere in 1973, and his brother’s death date in 1981.
While we’re here, let’s talk about the 1980’s. A lot of things happen in the 80’s, so we’ll be here for a few paragraphs. Butler would have graduated Madam Ko’s Academy in the early ‘80s, Artemis I would have started working in his family’s business and stolen some warrior mummies (of note, the theft is only noted as being in Artemis Sr.’s “gangster days,” but if you are a young, rich criminal, you’d likely commit a wild theft in your early years as opposed to your thirties, which is why this is put in here). Additionally, in the mid 1980’s, Holly graduates the LEP Academy and her mother dies, as noted in TTP when she is contemplating missing three years of her friends lives.
Butler would have started his five-year stint in Russia with an espionage unit in the mid-to-late 80’s, and become a big brother in 1985. Juliet is noted at being four years older than Artemis in AF in 2001, and he is twelve then, making her sixteen at the time. We can extrapolate the month from TEC, wherein she is apparently eighteen when she is called regarding her brother’s apparent death. At the time, we are told what gifts she received for her birthday, implying it was fairly recent. Additionally, Artemis was only thirteen at that time, which would make Juliet five years older than Artemis. If, however, we trust that acolytes at Madam Ko’s start their training on their tenth birthday and get one chance to graduate per year, it would make sense for that one chance to be on their birthday, or within a day or two to allow for as much training time as possible. Since Juliet was in the midst of this one graduation evaluation when she gets the phone call and joins the crew for the March heist at Spiro’s Needle, she’d have to be born in March. (We can also corroborate this with some details from AF: if AF  takes place in mid-September, that would be just after Artemis’s birthday, which puts the 4-year age difference back into play.)
Spelltropy begins for the People in 1987, if it appeared 20 years ago from 2007. Artemis I and Angeline Fowl would get married in 1987. They would have their first child, Artemis Fowl II, in 1989, as calculated by Artemis being twelve during the initial siege of the Manor in December 2001. Artemis II’s grandfather was noted as having been dead for over ten years at that point, and it was mentioned in TEC that Angeline married her husband before he really took over the family business, so those events would likely happen when Artemis was but a baby in 1990.
The ‘90s are a period where a lot of things are happening, but few are particularly important. Spelltropy has a cure found, Minerva Paradizo is born, Juliet begins her bodyguard training and her brother refuses to let her shave her hair. These, and other events in the 90’s, are mostly calculated by math along the lines of “Event A happened X number of years ago,” but since the 90’s was mostly a time of worldbuilding events rather than plot events, we’ll just skim over the specific details.
‘You Are Here’: The 21st Century, and Where The Storytelling Begins
Welcome to the 2000’s! The kick-off point of not only the 2000’s, but also the entire series, is the sinking of the Fowl Star. We aren’t given a specific date for this, but we are given enough information to extrapolate the date. Specifically, in September 2001, in AF, we are told Fowl Sr. has been missing for almost a year. In TAI, in December, we are told he has been missing for almost two years. That does have the potential to have the ship go down in either December or January, so we need to use a bit more details from TAI to make a final determination. Mikhael Vassikin and Kamar were told to dump Fowl’s body in the Kola if he didn’t wake up in “another year,” so they’ve been looking after him for one at that point. Fowl Sr. wakes up two weeks before the deadline, and as noted earlier, the ransom drop for him takes place December 14, after he has been awake for perhaps a week. From that, we can tell that the deadline for “another year” was mid to late December, putting the initial sinking of the Fowl Star in late 2000.
The analysis gets a bit confusing at this point, because 2001 is when future Artemis and Holly join the party via time travel, as well as having their regular selves in the timestream. Essentially, we’ve established the timeline for the events of TTP above, so we know the whole lemur fiasco takes place in March 2001. Artemis wakes up at the end of that book thinking about fairies, which ties in rather neatly to him then dragging Butler across three continents for six false alarms (with an assumed approximate 3 weeks between each jaunt) before striking metaphorical gold in Ho Chi Minh City in September. During their time-traveling, Holly also gets a chance to talk to Root, who wonders why she isn’t in Hamburg, which was noted in AF as Holly’s first major failure as a Recon officer and was nearly preceding the events of AF. The time-traveling would also mean that Opal would have had to harvest her DNA for future diabolical plans before March 2001, when her younger self travels to the future. Since it takes up to two years to grow a clone to adulthood, and her clone has to be ready in September 2003, we are a few months off in the time requirements, but really, for a practice that’s been outlawed for 500 years, I can offer a bit of leeway.
We are now well and truly in the thick of the main events of the series. Most of this will be tied into the initial assessments we made way at the beginning of this essay, where we established when each book occurs. Because of this, we aren’t going to spend time on anything plot-related. However, a brief note on Turnball Root and Artemis’s Atlantis Complex is likely in order. Artemis was, as previously stated, dealing with his return from Hybras and the after-effects of stealing magic during July and August of 2007. His Atlantis Complex, and Turnball Root’s plan to escape the Deeps prison, are in full swing in September of that year. We have a brief note in TAC during the evacuation of Atlantis, that Turnball had, a month before, spied on Artemis and noted his Atlantis Complex developing. Therefore, Artemis’s Complex likely came into play in late July or early August 2007. This is close enough to Artemis’s magic theft to make sense for the deterioration of his mental health, and enough time for Butler to have started to notice something was wrong, as he did. We can therefore assume that Atlantis Complex, at least in the case of magic-stealing humans who have a propensity for time travel and getting involved in supremely complicated and improbable plots, develops relatively quickly.
This leaves just one major discussion point from the last few books: the age of Artemis’s twin brothers, Beckett and Myles. The twins are first introduced at the very end of TLC. They are written as being two during the events of TTP, three during the events of TAC, and four during the events of TLG. Regardless of the time-traveling shenanigans of their elder brother, it is impossible for the twins to age two years in the eight months between Artemis’s return from Hybras in June 2007 and the finale of the series in March of 2008, so we need to look at what makes sense.
Myles has already potty-trained himself, and done so at fourteen months, so they must be at least that old. Their other behaviours would make sense for them to be two in TTP. Diapers are still a part of their lives, and their language and vocabulary fit what a two-year-old would have, at least in Beckett’s case. Since Artemis was surprised by their existence, it doesn’t seem likely that  Angeline would have known she was pregnant, or at least not have told Artemis yet, when he went to Limbo. Ergo, they can’t be any older than two, since (one would hope) Artemis would have noticed his mother’s pregnancy if the twins were any older.
Additionally, in TLG, we know Artemis gave his brother a birthday present, so he had to have been around during the twin’s birthday at least once. With this fact, the twins cannot be born between March – June, which just leaves the question of when are the twins born?
 The most logical answer is February 2005. If Angeline was early on in her pregnancy, say six weeks (which is when most women start noticing symptoms), when Artemis disappeared in July 2004, she wouldn’t necessarily have told him yet. Then, if we assume that since most twin births occur around the 35-week mark, that would math out to having the twins be born in February of 2005. Fast forward, and they would turn one in February 2006, and two in February 2007, which puts them at the correct age for the events of TTP. [One could argue, of course, that a twin pregnancy in an older woman (unfortunately, there is nothing in the series to indicate Angeline’s age) and in a woman already dealing with significant stress could result in a very premature birth, thereby voiding any of this math and leaving the whole question of the twin’s birthday unanswered. However, since I’d rather not subject the Fowl parents to the strife and misery of having one son missing and presumed dead, and their younger children in the NICU with a low survival rate, I’m working with the assumption that the pregnancy was a healthy and normal one.]
The brief comment from Juliet in TAC about the twins being three can be passed off by them being a little over two-and-a-half and Juliet not being around as she is touring in Mexico. By the time TLG takes place, in March of 2008, the twins would have had their third birthday, allowing for Artemis to give Myles his chair as a birthday present, Beckett to be old enough to no longer need diapers, and the behaviours to act more like children than infants. While this doesn’t quite allow for the repeated textual confirmations in TLG that the twins are four, we’ll go with what mathematically makes sense.
That brings us to the end of the timeline! Not everything is touched on in the timeline, and not everything in the books is plotted (we are never given enough context to know Foaly’s or Opal’s birthdates, for instance). But the main events of the Artemis Fowl series are all analyzed, mathematically or logically or textually corroborated, and plotted out, for use or ignoring as personal preference dictates.
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silentglassbreak · 22 days
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The plot with Jolly at the fest sound like very interesting story. I'd love to read it
I didn't get too much detail on this one, so I'm just going to run with it? First time writing for Jolly, so let's give it a shot.
**After writing notes: WOW this one went in an entirely different direction than I expected...
It just happened. I hope someone enjoys it. LOL.
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Soft smut, mentions of death
Sweater Weather
Why does no one ever have the balls to tell Noah he’s being a diva?
Listen, the man is my brother. We’re family. För alltid mitt blod. I would take a bullet for him, and I have no doubt he would do the same for me.
But, sometimes, he’s so fucking irritating.
How hard it must be to have such talent and be so attractive, everyone loves you, and you work hard to maintain an image. However, taking out the stress and pressures on the only guys who also know how being in this band feels?
Noah was arguing with one of the stage techs, telling him that the image they had prepared to be behind us doing our set was wrong. He’s right, they had prepared the image of the mannequins, when it was supposed to be the album cover, but that wasn’t this poor little man’s fault.
“God, it’s not a hard fucking thing to do!”
“I’m sorry, dude. I’m putting in the request to have it switched.” The man wasn’t exactly cowering, but he was intimidated for sure.
I stepped up behind Noah, letting a gentle hand fall on his shoulder. I could feel his muscles relax slightly under my fingers.
“C’mon man. It’ll be fine. We have an hour until our set. They’ll get it fixed.”
I felt him take a deep breath, and saw how he closed his eyes to center himself. This was something I taught him.
The tech scurried away, leaving us alone in our tent.
It was so fucking hot, which was interesting, given we were in Michigan. Upheaval festival was one of my favorites. It was a smaller event, which meant a more regular experience with the fans. Usually, it also meant better food and beer vendors.
“Hey, guess what I found?” Nick came bounding into the tent, a large mug in his hand.
“Beer, I assume?” Noah pointed his attitude at Nick, who rolled his eyes in return.
“They have a beer garden! Jolly, they’ve got a Swedish ale you might dig!”
I snorted. “Guarantee it isn’t actually Swedish.” Grabbing my hat from the couch, I placed it over my long hair that was pulled back in a low ponytail, and headed for the exit.
“I will go check it out though. Folio out there?”
Nick nodded. “He was spotted, so he’s chatting with some fans.”
I smirked. “Let’s hope he can get out before the set.”
Noah turned and looked at me. “Don’t be late getting back, please! We go on in under an hour.”
Shooting him a thumbs up, I headed for the mayhem of the festival.
As suspected, there was nothing Swedish about the beer, but it did have good flavor. I stood to the right of the beer garden, sipping my mug, and people watched.
It was always so fascinating to see the mix of people who came to these shows. European festivals were one thing but American festivals? You saw everything from multi-colored hair to breasts only barely covered by mesh tops or pasties. It was a sight to behold.
After a moment of zoning out, I looked down at my watch to see I still had twenty minutes before we had to head to the stage. Noah was likely bursting because I wasn’t back yet, and I smiled to myself at the thought. He could sweat for a few minutes, would do him good.
Deciding I should at least start making my way back there, my eyes scanned for the direction I needed to go, somehow getting turned around. Eyes searching over heads and bodies, I didn’t even see the person coming toward me, knocking my shoulder directly into them as I began walking forward.
My beer sloshed over the edge of the cup, pouring foam down the girl’s arm.
“Fuck! I am so sorry!” I turned, and my eyes locked onto the face in front of me.
Wisps of natural, dirty blonde hair floated in the slight breeze, framing a tan, small face. The rest of her hair was pulled up on top of her head in a bun, tightly secured. Her eyes were lightly lined with black, mascara clinging to her lashes. Pink, full lips covered by only a thin gloss were hanging open, startled by the cold liquid on her shoulder.
“Shit! I didn’t even see you, I’m so sorry!” She apologized, wiping her arm with the sweater tied around her waist. Her white tank top was now an amber color on one side.
I couldn’t speak. She was gorgeous.
“Jesus, I’m such a fucking klutz.” She groaned, hastily grabbing napkins off of the cart behind us and wiping at her arm, and then at my hand.
When her ice blue eyes looked up at me, I felt the air rush back into my lungs.
“No, no that was my fault. I’m very sorry.”
When the realization crossed her face, I saw it like a firework exploding behind her vision.
“You’re Jolly fucking Karlsson!”
This made me chuckle. “Something like that, yeah.”
I reached a hand out, which she took graciously, smiling at me with a wide, toothy grin.
“It’s such an honor. I’m a huge fan. I was actually rushing so I could get back to see your set!”
Her words snapped me back.
Fuck.
“Oh, good! I’ve got to get over there! But, uh,” My brain was working overtime. “maybe I can find you after? You can buy me another beer?”
I let any suave I had take over, which seemed to work decently, given she blinked multiple times.
“Sure, of course!”
“Jolly!” My head snapped over to see Matt barreling toward me. “Dude we go on in ten minutes!”
Looking back, I watched as her face fell slightly, my arm now being physically pulled in the opposite direction. Being led away, I hollered.
“I’ll meet you back here!”
I was only given a nod, and a wave in response.
-
The set was electric, Noah's earlier nerves rolling off of him comfortably as he put on a show. Nick was absolutely flawless on his bass, flipping his hair over and over. Folio, as usual, lost himself in the drum beats, freestyling here and there.
I, however, was way off my game. Something about my encounter with the mesmerizing blonde earlier kept me thoroughly distracted. Over and over, my eyes swam through the sea of people in the crowd, trying my hardest to find a blonde messy bun and steel blue eyes, but it was in vain. I couldn't see anything.
I thought about her again and again, unable to shake the feeling of wonder from my bones. For whatever reason, I needed to see this girl again. Her aura, her energy, it radiated beauty, rarity, like a gemstone.
Pärla. A magnificent treasure.
The thoughts racing in my brain made me lose my focus more than once. During Nowhere to Go, I missed several notes, my guitar making an awful screeching sound. I forgot to sing backup vocals during Limits entirely, earning me a glare from Noah, and a look of concern from Nick.
I had ignored it, and continued on, my eyes still searching. It was hopeless. I would find her after. I had to.
Once Dethrone concluded, and I ran off stage, setting my guitar down, I felt a hand pull my arm, flinging my backward.
"Dude, are you okay?" Nick looked straight at me. "You drunk?"
I furrowed my brow. "Of course not."
"Well, you don't really fuck up on stage, Jolly, so what the fuck?" Noah was standing directly behind Nick, eyes shooting me down with fury.
I shrugged. "I'm sorry. I was looking for someone."
This made them both leer backward a moment. "Who?" Noah asked.
"This girl. I met her at the beer garden."
They reacted equally differently. Nick let up a sly smirk, his eyebrows raising. Noah, however, narrowed his eyes.
"You almost blew the set for some broad?"
Rolling my eyes, I turned toward them. "I didn't blow the fucking set, Noah. Quit being so dramatic."
I could see the fire burning behind his irises, which I would definitely pay for later in the form of his attitude.
"Are you fucking kidding, dude?" Noah began scolding me, but Nick held up a hand.
"Chill. Jolly never fucks up, ever." He turned to Noah, giving him stern eyes. "And the set was fine."
Huffing, Noah stomped away, throwing a tantrum like a child.
I smiled at Nick, grateful. "You know how he gets at festivals."
Nodding, I began to walk away. "Got to go."
Waving him off, I weaved through all of the people behind the stage area, making my way back out to our tent, where Davis and Matt were already packing up equipment. I grabbed a clean shirt out of my backpack, and slipped it over my head. I pulled half of my hair up in a tight bun on top of my head, and slipped on my sunglasses.
Headed back out, I noticed the sun was nearly set, and the beer garden area was almost vacant, most people over by the stages. Sleep Token had just started, so the vendors were long abandoned by almost everyone.
I found the napkin cart, and stood, arms crossed, scanning around. After about ten minutes, I had to remove my sunglasses to be able to see clearly as night was falling. A chill ran up my spine as the temperature began to drop. No sign of her, but I didn't mind waiting.
Thirty minutes.
Forty-five.
One hour.
I stood, eyes glancing around, head bobbing to Sleep Token's heavy bass and Vessel's incredible vocals. However, my mind was elsewhere. Maybe she didn't want to miss their set? Maybe she forgot where to meet? I didn't know how to find her.
I didn't even know her name.
It was a mystery, and I couldn't get it out of my head. I was going to have to give up soon. The festival would be ending, and I would have to get back with the guys, head back to the hotel. The thought made my stomach sink. Why was I so entranced with the idea of this girl? All she did was spill beer on me. Why did I insist on finding her?
"Jolly?"
I spun, much faster than I should've, on my heel, and was met with cold, freezing blue eyes, staring up at me. Her gloss was worn off, and her eyeliner was smudging ever so slightly under her eyes. Her bun was long gone, blonde hair now free-flowing down across her shoulders.
"Pärla."
Her smile was confused. "Uh,"
"It means gem. I didn't know your name, so I decided to go with that."
The blush on her cheeks was a sweet addition to that gorgeous sun kissed skin.
"I like that." She rubbed her palms on the front of her jeans. I noticed her sweater was now around her shoulders, covering the beer stain on her tank top. "I'm sorry, I know we said we'd meet after your set. I had to get one of my friends back to our hotel."
Shaking my head, I waved her off. "No worries."
"Did you wait long?"
An hour wasn't a long time, I don't think.
"Nope."
With a finger pointed at the beer garden, she asked, "So, you want that beer?"
I perused this. I wasn't much for a drink right now, comfortable with just talking to her. "You going to have one?"
Shrugging, she looked over toward the crowd. "I don't think so. I've got to get back to the hotel with my friends soon. One of them is really drunk, and is a sick mess."
My face soured. "That doesn't sound fun."
Scrunching her face, she stuck her hands in the pocket of her sweater. "It isn't. I'm pretty annoyed about it, actually."
Nodding, I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket. I had been ignoring it for a while.
Matt: Dude, if you're coming with us, we gotta go now.
I typed a quick response.
Me: Meet you back at the hotel.
We walked around the festival grounds for a while, just chatting about different things, somehow managing to distract her from the fact that she should go back to her hotel, and I, mine.
"You're from Florida?"
She nodded. "Daytona. I hate it."
"Why? Isn't it sunny and beautiful all year-round?" I chuckled.
She joined me. "Sure, if you like a lot of drugs and alligators everywhere."
We found some benches, having a seat. I pulled a pack of smokes from my pocket, lighting one.
She stared at me, smirking. I lifted the pack toward her. "Want one?"
She shook her head. "I'm okay. Thanks, though."
Blowing out the smoke, I turned my attention back to her face.
"So why come to Michigan for a festival?"
Her eyes were lost on the crowd, amused. "Why not?" She leaned back on her seat. "I love the adventure of traveling. Seeing different cities. If I get to enjoy good music while I'm at it, why not?"
"You get to meet a lot of cool people doing it, huh?"
Looking over to me, I saw her lips turn up slightly. "Yeah, I do."
A cool silence fell over us for a moment while I finished my cigarette.
Out of my peripheral vision, I saw her head turn toward me. "It's closing."
We noticed the bodies moving past us toward the exit. I nodded. "We should get going soon."
I swore I saw a flash of disappointment cross her features, but only for a second before a look of excitement crept across her face.
"Hey, you want to go somewhere?"
I raised an eyebrow. "Where?"
Smirking, she stood, pulling at my arm. "I know a place, c'mon."
With no time to protest, she pulled me, and I had to nearly jog to keep up. I watched her hair, looking nearly silver against the bright lights at the parking area, fly behind her as she ran toward the Uber line.
We waited, and I slipped my sunglasses back on, and tried not to be obvious.
Once our turn came, she leaned forward to give the driver the address, quiet enough so I wouldn't hear. The driver raised a brow.
"I'm pretty sure it's closed for the night."
She waved at him. "Just go. It'll be fine."
With a nod, he began driving. I stared at her. "Are you taking me somewhere to kill me?"
Her teeth flashed. "You'll have to wait and find out." And she turned to look out at the darkness beyond her window.
Something inside me wasn't worried.
We walked along the boardwalk, out onto the sand. We could hear the soft waves crashing, but it was difficult to see beyond she shoreline.
"Welcome to Lake Michigan!"
The stars, bright and vast, seemed to bounce off of the stillness of the water. It was breathtaking. She bound ahead of me, slipping her shoes off and holding them. Her eyes were fixed on the water, before she dropped down in the sand, looking up at the sky.
I followed suit, taking a heavy seat next to her. It was so quiet, so calm. We weren't supposed to be here at midnight, but something in the chilled air felt so serene.
"What did you call me before?" Her voice was even, still looking at the sky.
"Hm?" I had to shake out of my thoughts.
"At the festival. You called me a name. In another language."
I smiled. "Pärla." She looked back at me. "It means gem."
A warm grin spread across her lips. "I like that." She echoed her earlier sentiment.
It occurred to me at that point, that she still had not told me her first name.
"What else do I call you?"
Her eyes narrowed, thinking. What was there to think about?
"I think that'll do."
I raised an eyebrow. "What?"
Her gaze turned back up to the sky. "Pärla. That's good."
"You're not going to tell me your name?" Confusion laced my voice.
Hugging her knees to her chest, her eyes transfixed on the stars, she bit her lip. "Not yet."
It was strange, but what could I do?
Silence fell over us again, but she eventually spoke up.
"Do you ever miss Sweden?"
Clearing my throat, I mimicked her body language, pulling my knees up.
"Sometimes. It's my home."
Her lips were pulled in a tight line, and I saw what looked to be a tear brimming at her eyes. "I never miss mine. I'm never going back."
"Why not?"
Turning to look at me, a slow tear rolled down her cheek, but she held a sad smile. "I'm happy right where I am."
Trying to process what she said, I struggled, because all I could feel was the urge to grab the tear with my finger, and wipe it from her face. I kept my hands to myself, however.
"So," I tried to lighten the conversation. "how long have you been a fan?"
This made a genuine grin crack across her face. "About a year. I heard you guys for the first time on TikTok. When I looked into the music, I was hooked."
I nodded, listening to the smooth sounds of the waves. "Yeah, that's how a lot of people found us."
"It's good music. I really enjoyed the new album."
"Yeah, it was fun to make."
She looked directly at me. "Do you like being in a band? What's it like?"
That made me huff out a laugh. "It's something else, that's for sure. Chaotic, at times. Rewarding, most others."
Amused, she crossed her legs under her and turned her body to face me. "What are the other guys like?" I raised a brow and she smiled sheepishly. "I'm not trying to fangirl, just curious."
Shaking my head, I turned to face her as well. "Nick is awesome. Mediator when things get tense. He tends to keep a cool head easier than the rest of us." I sighed. "Folio is...young. He's so lighthearted, and full of life. I envy that sometimes." She smiled at that.
"And Noah is..." I trailed off, choosing my words carefully. "Brilliant, but can be a lot sometimes."
"Like how?"
"Like," I intertwined my fingers. "he gets anxious. He's a perfectionist, so there's never room for error. It can be a pain in the ass, but we owe a lot of our success to it."
She nodded. "He's talented."
"Very. So, we put up with it, mostly."
Peering up at me from under her lashes, she spoke low. "And what about you, Jolly? What are you like?"
This gave me pause. How do I answer that?
"I'm..." I really had to think about that answer. "I don't know, really. I'm just, me? The guys call me the 'Dad' of the group, but I'm really only a few years older than Nick."
A hand slid over my knee, and I glanced down at it. "Well, I don't know you very well. Only from what time we've spent the last few hours, but I think you're very interesting."
Resting my chin on a fist, I considered her words. "Do you?"
"Yeah, I do. I think you're very sweet. And complex."
"Complex?"
She let out a giggle, which broke the quiet air with a sweet sound.
"Well, you got in an Uber with a complete stranger, without knowing where you're going, and now you're sitting on a beach in the middle of the night."
This made me smirk. "Point taken."
"That's shows adventure. I like it."
I focused on the ring piercing her left nostril, and the small batch of freckles on her nose. Her hair was hanging long, the moonlight illuminating it.
I felt the pull, the same one that brings the planets together. The pull that gravity is made of. Her eyes flashed back and forth between mine, and her lips parted so slightly. Instinctively, I leaned close to her until I could feel her breath against my face. It was cool, almost cold.
When the soft skin of her lips touched mine, she took a breath in, gasping.
My hand lifted to press against her cheek, pulling her closer, and pressing our lips together.
Like a lightning bolt struck the sand between us, we were lit up with energy. Her body lunged toward me, knees climbing up into my lap as she kissed me, tongue pressing into my mouth. My hands wrapped around to her back, pulling her into me, as she writhed against me.
Her hips pressed down, jeans grinding against mine, the lack of friction making it nearly unbearable. My lips kissed down to her neck, sucking and biting at the soft skin. Her hair had fallen over her face, eyes fluttered closed. Her fingers were grazing down my chest, pulling at the fabric of my t-shirt, and eventually landing to the button of my jeans.
My own hands located the access point of her pants, popping them open. Disconnecting for a moment, she pulled back to shimmy out of her jeans, leaving her in a pair of black panties, kneeling in the sand in front of me.
Staring directly into my eyes, she reached to my jeans and opened them effortlessly, unzipping them, my aching cock bulging against the fabric of my boxers. Her hand slipped to the waistband, freeing my erection. I stared at her with intent. Something in her eyes was dark, something I couldn't place.
"Do you want to?" Her voice was so small. So desperate.
I couldn't respond, so I only reached for her, pulling her face back to me. I laid her down on her back, leaning over her and letting my mouth mold over hers, one hand slipping down her stomach, to her core.
My fingers easily grazed past the elastic of the underwear, running through the soft patch of curls just underneath, until I felt the moisture of her lips between my fingers.
She moaned into my mouth as I slipped my middle finger inside of her, curling it to press against that soft, sweet spot that had her breathing erratic.
"Fuck." She breathed against my mouth. My hand was pumping her hard, a delicious wet sound nearly drowned out by the waves behind us.
"I don't have a condom on me, Pärla."
Her eyes snapped open, and she smiled. "I'm okay, if you are."
Morals? Rational thought? Responsibility? What is that?
I was okay. More than okay. This could be bad. Dangerous, even. Something in my gut - no - my soul told me that this needed to happen, and it needed to happen now.
Steady fingers pulled her panties down, slipping them off, before I hovered over her, lining the head up with her entrance.
As slow and precise as possible, I pressed in, my eyes falling closed with the vibrant sensation that engulfed me. She let out a long, deep groan with me.
"Oh God, Jolly."
I let my lips fall back down to the flesh on her neck, thrusting in and out comfortably, savoring the feel of her on my skin.
We went on like this for longer than I would've expected. Our voices echoed off of the water, the darkness swallowing us as our bodies synchronized. Her pussy tightened around me each time I pulled out, begging for more.
Eventually, I sped up the snapping of my hips, leaning up to get a better angle, pulling her knee up to her chest.
Her hands dug into the sand around us, head careened backward.
"Oh Jolly, fuck, so fucking good." She was biting down on her lip so hard, it was sure to bleed.
I was so close. I needed her release. "Come for me, Pärla." My breathing began stuttering. "Let go, for me."
A long, visceral moan left her lips, and I felt her walls spasm around me as I began emptying into her, my orgasm smacking me hard in the chest.
I pumped us through it, one hand holding her face, watching the waves of pleasure rush over it.
Once we slowed to a stop, I collapsed next to her, a lazy smile on my face.
"That was..." I started, too tired to finish my sentence.
"Unreal." Her words were stark. Matter of fact. Her eyes were looking back up at the stars.
I followed suit, zipping my jeans back up.
"I'm glad I met you today, Jolly."
I let my eyes fall on her again, and smiled. "Me too, Pärla."
My eyes opened to a flashlight shining directly on them.
"Hey, asshole!" I squinted, my hands coming up to shield my vision from the abrasive light. "You can't fucking sleep here. Go find a fucking shelter!"
"What?" I sat up, looking up at the person in front of me. A police officer.
"You've got to get out of here, man. I don't want to take you in."
I held my hands up in defense, standing to my feet. My eyes glanced around, realizing I was very much alone.
"Where's the girl I was with?"
The cop raised an eyebrow. "No one but you here, bud. Let's go."
His hand grabbed my arm, leading me off the beach. I turned back toward the water, hollering out into the darkness.
"Pärla?!"
No response. Just silence.
-
A week had gone by, and I was back home.
I had done everything I could think of to find her, but still came up with nothing. No name. No number. Just a physical description and vague location. Have you any idea how many blonde-haired, blue-eyed, tan-skinned girls are in Daytona, FL? It was comical.
After about four days, I had pretty much given up. Part of me felt hurt. Why had she left? Was she okay? She knew me, why hadn't she reached out?
Was she just in it for the sex? Or to say she screwed a member of the band? Did she regret it?
Something felt wrong. Her presence, her energy. It felt so genuine. I struggled to believe she really just ran off, leaving me to fall asleep alone on that beach.
I had Ubered back to the hotel, heading straight to Noah's room to tell him what happened. It was 4AM by the time I made it back, and he looked at me like I was insane.
Still, he showed his human side for a moment, and empathized with me, offering to help try and find her.
Back in Los Angeles, I was sitting in the studio, trying to perfect a guitar rift, when Noah bounded in with Folio. We had everyone together for the next two weeks before we left for the next festival.
"I don't get why people are so scummy."
I raised an eyebrow at Folio's words. "What's that?"
He turned to look at me, falling into a chair. "This article, man. About Upheaval?"
I stopped my strumming, looking up to give him my full attention.
I took note that Noah was scrolling on his phone fervently.
"What about it?"
Noah looked up at me, pursing his lips. "I guess someone got really hurt?"
"Not hurt. Someone fucking died, dude."
This made me furrow my brows. "What?"
"Yeah. Some girl got trampled in the fucking crowd."
Noah rolled his eyes. "The article I read said she had a seizure, and fell into the crowd. They didn't get her out in time."
"During which set?"
"Sleep Token." Noah responded.
"Wow, really? I saw damn near the entire thing. I didn't see anything happen."
"Well, that's the point, man. No one did, until the end. By that time, she had choked or something." Noah handed his phone to me, and I noticed it was scrolled to the bottom of the article.
"It's bullshit they waited so long to say something." Folio chimed in.
Noah shrugged. "Trying to protect the festival's reputation, I guess. Too bad. She was fucking cute, too."
My thumb scrolled to the top of the article, taking a moment as it was long.
When the picture at the top came into view, my hand that held my rig went slack, dropping the instrument on the floor.
It didn't make sense. It was a mistake of some kind.
25 Year Old Female Dies At Music Festival - Safety Protocols Being Investigated
The photograph that stared back at me, mocking my dropped jaw and widened eyes.
"Jolly, you good, dude?" Folio asked as he reached down to grab my guitar, now on the floor.
I couldn't respond. My blood had coagulated in my veins. My skin hardened to stone as my eyes stared at the picture, mind blanking.
The girl in the picture stared into my very soul.
Dirty blonde hair. Ice blue eyes. Small patch of freckles. Plush pink lips.
Pärla.
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fatehbaz · 1 year
Text
Caribbean cruise vacations have a long violent history. Earlier today, I came across one of the early print advertisement illustrations for the Caribbean cruise ship vacations offered by “the Great White Fleet.” And I pondered bananas.
Just as uncomfortable as it sounds. The story of the origin of the Caribbean cruise industry is, after all, also the story of the origin of the term “Banana Republic.”
In 1914, the Great War began as the planet’s powerful empires of old were collapsing, as British, French, Austro-Hungarian, Ottoman, Russian, and Qing/Chinese powers were marred by internal revolt and global warfare. But in 1914, the United States completed their Panama Canal and consolidated power in Latin America and the Caribbean, celebrating the ascent of a “new” empire made strong, in part, by bananas.
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As of 2022, bananas generate 12 billion dollars per year, with 75% of bananas exported from Latin America and the Caribbean.
The planet’s single biggest banana-producing company is Chiquita. The Chiquita brand was previously known as United Fruit Company, which had essentially monopolized the banana industry in Latin America. United Fruit Company has a bit of an image problem, following its theft of Indigenous land across Central America in the early 20th century; its role in provoking the killing of tens of hundreds/thousands of plantation laborers during the Banana Massacre of 1928; the company’s direct role in the CIA-backed toppling of the Guatemala government in the 1950s; and the company’s role in paying to harass and intimidate labor organizers in Colombia in recent decades.
But what of the “romance” and “adventure” of the Caribbean?
So it’s 1915 or 1916.
Middle of the Great War. Classic empires are disintegrating: Spanish empire, British empire, Austro-Hungarian empire, Russian empire, Ottoman empire, remnants of the Qing/Chinese state, etc. And whose empire is rising? United States, an empire expanding in the Caribbean, Central America, and South America. After the 1898 Spanish-US war, as Teddy Roosevelt’s cartoon cavalry conquered Cuba, the Spanish Main belongs to the US of A. The US Navy controlled the Caribbean Sea, and was aiming to expand across the Pacific Ocean, to Hawai’i and beyond.
But the official US Navy isn’t the only fleet upholding the empire. The United Fruit Company had its own fleet.
The text of one of these Great White Fleet ads, from 1916, adorned with imagery of a blue-and-gold macaw and an aerial map of the Caribbean, reads:
“[W]here winter never comes and where the soft trade winds bring renewed health. [W]ith all the comforts and all the luxuries of life you enjoy aboard the palatial ships of the GREAT WHITE FLEET. Delicious meals a la carte [...]. Dainty staterooms, perfectly ventilated [...]. [A]mid the scenes of romance and history in the Caribbean. And with it the opportunity to win for yourself a treasure of health and happiness, of greater benefit than the fabled fountain of youth, sought by Spanish adventurers in the tropic isles of the Spanish Main.”
Who’s leading the charge?
The United Fruit Company!
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From the May 1916 issue of Red Book. Image source, from Archive dot org:
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Another:
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Image source, from Archive dot org:
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“There the Pirates hid their Gold -- and every voyage, every port, every route of the Great White Fleet through the Golden Caribbean has the romance of buried treasure, pirate ships an deeds of adventure [...].”
The Golden Caribbean.
The same region where Columbus murdered Indigenous people, where the US and France had just spent 100 years punishing Haiti with unending economic warfare afters slaves rebelled against colonization, and where the United Fruit Company would now set up shop.
The company’s plantations would expand across Central America, establishing brutal racial hierarchies and essentially controlling federal governments of Central American nations.
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In 1928, over 30,000 laborers were on strike at banana plantations in Colombia. They demanded payment of actual wages, rather than the credits they were given which were mostly only redeemable at company-owned stores in company towns. The US government threatened to send the Marine Corps to intervene if the “subversive” workers would not return to UFC’s plantations. In December 1928, after martial law had been declared, General Cortes Vargas entered the town square of Cienaga (Magdalena) during Sunday gatherings, with machine guns, opening fire on the crowds, and killing perhaps 3,000 people.
In the late 1940s, the United Fruit Company intensified its ad campaigns led by propagandist Edward Bernays (nephew of Sigmund Freud???), who also practiced his skill at manipulative advertising when working to popularize the American Tobacco Company by showing women smoking “torches of freedom” and linking “women’s rights” to cigarette iconography.
Bernays, who explicitly wrote about his “counter-Communist” intention in the ads, was “drafted” in the war to topple ascendant leftist governments. After 1944 and after Arevalo’s labor reforms, Jacobo Arbenz Guzman took control of Guatemala in 1951, and took over 200,000 acres from United Fruit Company and returned them to poor families. Bernays launched propaganda attacks against Guatemala, helping to plant stories about Guatemala eventually carried in the Saturday Evening Post, New York Herald Tribune, and Reader’s Digest. In January 1952, Bernays personally led a tour of Central America, accompanying publishers and editors of Newsweek, the Miami Herald, the San Francisco Chronicle, the Cincinnati Enquirer, Scripps-Howard, and Time magazine. When the CIA-trained military force led by Carlos Castillo Armas invaded Guatemala, with CIA aerial support, installing Castillo Armas as president, Bernays called them an “army of liberation.”
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Bananas and Caribbean cruises aren’t the only culprits in expanding imperial power in Latin America, the tropics, and the Global South.
In 1914, the same year that the United States finished the Panama Canal and consolidated power in Latin America and the Caribbean, Richard Strong was a newly appointed director of Harvard’s new Department of Tropical Medicine. Strong was also appointed director of the Laboratories of the Hospitals and of Research Work at United Fruit Company. Strong toured the company’s plantations in Panama, Costa Rica, Guatemala, Honduras, and Cuba. In the coming years, Strong would also personally approach Harvey Firestone, chief executive of the Firestone company, which owned and brutally operated rubber plantations in tropical West Africa. Research in tropical medicine was thus inaugurated by and dependent on colonial/imperial plantations and racial/social hierarchies at United Fruit Company and Firestone sites across the tropical regions, planetwide. Strong is just one character that demonstrates the interconnectedness of academia, fruit plantations, rubber supplies, food distribution, motor vehicle industries, strike-breakers, military forces, imperial expansion, and other tendrils of violently-enforced racist power.
Today, in 2022, Chiquita maintains twenty thousand employees across 70 countries. 
I think about this as I eat a banana for lunchtime. I think about this when I see the Edenic portrayal of a Caribbean shore, a landscape baked not so much by the tropical sun but instead scarred by centuries of genocide, slavery, and plantation labor, where government officials gleefully report “with honor” on the massacre of thousands.
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“Just a banana, it ain’t.”
Agreed.
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babsvibes · 3 months
Note
Not sure if you reblogged the same thing I did with the top fives, but you get one anyway! Tell me your top five favorite things about Logan Bush!
My friend! I’ll tell you honestly, it doesn’t matter if I reblogged a game or not because I am aaaalways ready to talk about Logan. I’m gonna babble, but I also made a powerpoint that’s easier to digest here if you’re interested- it’s … it’s got pictures 💀💀
He’s so funny. He has no business dropping lines like “you can’t buy me, like a cheap sex lady!” or “why does it look like your butt could take a sheet of fresh-baked sheet cookies out of the oven?”
Because he’s willing to challenge Louise, we get to see more from her character. She’s not bored by him, and she can’t easily push him around. He’s not someone she has to hold back with or that we have to deal with a morality lesson every time we visit this character. We get to have chaotic shenanigans and see how far they’ll go to win.
I’m not sure the creators meant to do this, but they made the perfect example of a narcissistic family dynamic with Logan as both the hero child and scapegoat. There are so many details of Cynthia pushing Logan around and Logan’s deep need to defend his space that make his traits kind of click into place for why he’s acting like the teenage dumbass that he is, which isn’t something you would expect from a high school bully. At least I wouldn’t expect it in an episodic sitcom unless it was a “very special episode.”
His family was set up as a foil family for the Belchers, which makes for really good storytelling when you want to explore socioeconomic differences and how it affects the family structure in that the more a family focuses on image the more their values shift from love to wealth.
Logan cried while watching Freaky Friday and analyzed the theme of love and acceptance found through perspective. He was also a POW breaking from torture, but you know… fun for me because it’s added depth either way. It’s interesting too that Louise punches him and he doesn’t retaliate. He operates under an “eye for an eye” philosophy, so did he decide to let that go or did he think he deserved that? I would pay real American dollars to see what the show bible says about him.
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Text
A Surefly Way
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(Dieter x horror loving female)
Words: 716
Summary: watching an old film of Dieter’s has unexpected results (the fake film part was based on a dream)
Warnings: minor historical inaccuracies, a child cries but it’s all happy adorable fluffy goodness at the end, Dieter being Dieter
Check out masterlist here
“This corn?” Clara asked holding a can out to you.
“Yes, that’s corn.”
“Corn yummy!”
You and Clara had just returned from some errands. She enjoyed helping unpack groceries and you explained the contents as she passed them to you. Having finished with that task, you turned on the TV and left Clara in the living room to play and you set about making dinner.
“Look! Daddy!” Clara pointed excitedly at the TV.
There on the screen was your husband looking rather dapper in a pinstripe suit. You bundled that image away for later use.
“It’s a daddy story,” that was what you ended up calling films featuring your husband.
This particular one was before the two of you met. Surefly Way was set during the Second World War and supposedly about two chocolate factories. The history was dubious at best but at the heart of it was a love story so the inaccuracies could be forgiven.
Clara enjoyed watching any films with her father but never watched many of them as he hated watching himself on screen. This one was age appropriate, so you left her to it. You heard occasional dialogue and made a guess to the plot.
Miss Winslow, daughter of Mr. Winslow, owner of Winslow Chocolates is pretending to be an ordinary factory worker making ration bars for frontline troops. Unknowingly, her American fiancée, Mr. Surefly of Surefly Chocolates, arrives to help in the making of the chocolate. Having no idea what his future intended looks like, he ends up falling in love with her and she in return.
~
“Mr. Surefly is here in England? Shouldn’t he be back home in America?”
“He feels that he’d do better for the troops here. Isn’t this a good chance to meet your fiancé?”
“I’d rather not.”
“Dotty, why?”
“Because I want to fall in love. Not be sold off and shipped off to the highest bidder!”
~
“Americans? What do Americans know about chocolate?”
“Their stuff only tastes slightly better than a boiled potato.”
~
“So Mr. Surefly, is there a sweetheart waiting for you back home?”
“I do have a fiancée, but I’ve yet to meet her.”
“How have you not met the woman you’re going to marry?”
“Let’s say it’s more of a business exchange rather than an act of love.”
~
“You were pretending this whole time? Why?”
“How can I sit here doing nothing while everyone else is off fighting the war? Even the royal family are going their part.”
~
You heard the sounds of the front door as Dieter arrived back home. Clara seemed too intrigued with on-screen father to notice her actual father, so he made his way over to you.
“Clara is watching one of your films.”
“It better not be Cliff Beasts.”
“No, it’s Surefly Way,” confusion crossed his face. “World War Two? Two chocolate factories?”
He vaguely remembered filming something in that time period, so he wandered over to watch it with his daughter.
As he got closer, he saw that Clara was in tears.
“What’s wrong cupcake?”
“Daddy kiss lady,” she pointed at the screen.
It took a minute for Dieter to remember back to who was in the film with him, mainly his on-screen romantic partner. “Yes, I did kiss that lady.”
“Not mummy,” more tears ran down her cheeks and it took less than a minute for Dieter to decipher the toddler code.
“Oh, cupcake,” he pulled her close. “That was mummy I was kissing. She swapped out with that lady.”
You had just walked into the room, so Dieter turned to you.
“That was you I was kissing, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” you nodded. “They always swap me out if there’s kissing.”
Clara wiped her face, “You love mummy?”
“Yes, I love mummy so much and she’s the only lady I kiss. But you get kisses too because you’re my sweet baby girl.”
He kissed her cheek, his beard tickling her turning her sobs into giggles.
Later on, she went to bed happy knowing that her parents still loved each other, sometimes a bit too much.
“Nice save.”
“I learned from the best,” he kissed your cheek.
“So when is she going to learn the truth about it?”
“Oh, when she’s older. Like, fifty.”
“We’ll definitely be dead by then.”
“Well then, she’ll never know.”
Lovingly tagging @boliv-jenta @simpingcowboy @ellenmunn @o-sacra-virgo-laudes-tibi @chaithetics @myloveistoolittle @cevans-is-classic @glshmbl @cupcakehp @wannab-urs
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bradassholemajors · 4 months
Text
Wtf Is Shock Treatment’s Deal? (Or, Local Critic Discovers Escapism and Having Fun In The Midst of Late Stage Capitalistic Dread)
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Watched Shock Treatment for the first time this week, and I am a changed man lol. Here are some disorganized thoughts:
I think something that makes Rocky Horror so special is that it can be as deep or not-deep as you want it to be. Like, if you want to think about the cultural implications of the themes portrayed (hedonism, gay & trans liberation, gender roles, the Invasion-of-the-Body-snatchers style infiltration of outside queer forces, the downfall of the safety contained within a collective identity), you can absolutely do that! There’s so much to be interpreted there!! But if you are just here to see Tim Curry looking incredibly sexy and violently thrust along to the Time Warp at a midnight showing with a bunch of cool strangers, that is absolutely awesome, too. Slay!! Take what you want.
BUT SHOCK TREATMENT MANNNN??? Shock Treatment is a whole different ballgame lol. Like, it is also a thematically rich goldmine, if you’re willing to squint a little— in terms of content included, not necessarily how it’s portrayed within the narrative. In the words of Barry Bostwick here, “it was a statement about the future that we weren't quite ready to explore. We didn't really even have the mental emotional vocabulary to understand what Richard [O’Brien, the creator] was trying to say.” I think this is spot-fucking-on!!! It’s absolutely frighteningly prescient, especially today in terms of the commodification of mental health. Like, woah. Janet being crowned “Miss Mental Health” felt like such a Gwyneth Paltrow moment. Cultural prophet Richard O’Brien saw the dark cloud of Betterhelp and wellness culture galloping over in the horizon in the distance of the American landscape, and he set out to warn us.
I still don’t quite understand what happened in the movie. I still don’t know what my takeaway was supposed to be. And I guess if you’re a little insane and love having fun doing thematic analysis with weird media (like me), taking Shock Treatment seriously may be right for you, lol. But thematically overall I think it’s safe to say: it’s a lot less coherent than its predecessor. It’s messy. It’s not interested in being flawless. It’s not interested in appealing to an audience. It’s barely interested in being a sequel. Shock Treatment is lowkey pointing and laughing in the face of those who showed up expecting a masterpiece— which admittedly was me, because I take Rocky Horror pretty seriously. (I put off watching Shock Treatment for a while bc I wasn’t sure about how it would affect the Rocky Horror Universe I had in my head.) If not for the internet reviews prepping me, I would have walked in completely expecting another nuanced perfect symphony of a movie to measure up to Rocky Horror’s magic.
But the thing was? Watching Shock Treatment, it ended up I did not really care!!!!! I was having the time of my life!!!!!
(more under the cut whoops)
Wtf was going on!!!!!!!!!!! Who knows!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I still don’t quite know!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! And I loved it!!!
This reaction of such joy, just letting myself vibe out made me think because when did I start getting surprised when watching a movie is more pleasurable than not??? Isn’t that the entire point of media??
I think with the modern commodification of media analysis and examining pop culture up close, I’d argue that Fun Media without a message is actually pretty hard to come by— at least in mainstream culture. Even stuff as sanitized as Disney movies are now digging into like generational trauma, appealing to what seems to be a collective search for depth (or at least the appearance of depth.) Modern neo-nazi brands of fascism wields power like never before, horrific images of violence follow everyone left and right. Sometimes it seems like this open secret, that everyone knows there’s this looming darkness at the forefront of our minds at all times.
So this transition from Rocky Horror to Shock Treatment felt actually sort of powerful to me. Rocky Horror’s generation-long reverberations of shamelessly depicting sensual revelry are so powerful; it’s bold even for today! (Of course, we all know transvestite isn’t a term commonly used today, but looking at it through the lens of its time, it becomes clear what a miracle the movie is. Knowing what it must have meant to queer people at the time it became a phenomenon— giving them a real space to be themselves in a hostile world criminalizing who they were, in a time of oppressive pressure to stay silent — that is the type of brave blatant acceptance hard to come by in any era.) Rocky Horror is something I don’t know if will ever happen again, and its sequel seems to concur.
Shock Treatment has been called a cash grab but I beg to differ. If you’ve seen it, no offense: but does this seem marketable to you??? It seems like it’s a Richard O’Brien project (already wacky) that went through several levels of development hell and heavy modifications through the creative process. Said with the utmost respect… it may have got away from them a bit. Put lovingly, Shock Treatment lowkey kinda sucks a little at times. It’s silly, it’s got a huge cast and musical fun galore. It’s serving B-movie realness. I don’t say this to bash on it, I say this with a bemused respect— I think the existence of Shock Treatment is as much a miracle as Rocky Horror (aren’t all creations???)
So in the first iteration, we have advocacy and fighting for freedom for those long silenced… but also, Shock Treatment seems to allow the creators to just let themselves have fun. Aren’t they both revolutions in their own right? Does everything have to be lasting cultural milestones or does our enjoyment matter in the moment? I’d argue we need both as human beings to thrive. It comes back to that Rocky-Horror-experience philosophy I covered where you’re taking what you feel you need most from the media you consume: a message or a celebration of just being here.
In conclusion, sometimes shit doesn’t have to be that deep. More movies should just say “fuck it, we ball” and give you the most absolutely incoherent fun time of your life. I love not taking things seriously, and I love creators willing to not take their work seriously. Perhaps Richard O’Brien also had a premonition with Shock Treatment in the sense of how he just had fun with it! Maybe we need less attempts at masterpieces and more attempts at just creation for the joy of it— or both, because joyful creation makes masterpieces!!! I’d love to see more creators of every skill level and every background, known and not known, say fuck you to capitalism and expectation and marketability and just say, we’re gonna do it anyhow, anyhow!!!
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fancoloredglasses · 11 months
Text
M-M-M-Max Head-Head-Head-Headroom
youtube
(Thanks to Keltik Danger)
[All images are owned by Lorimar-Telepictures. Please don’t sue or cancel me]
First, a bit of history...
In the early 80s, a sub-genre of science fiction known as “cyberpunk” was created. The overall theme of the genre was a dystopian future where corporations have more authority than the government (why does that sound eerily familiar?). Most of the more popular source material includes a world where all computers are connected via a nebulous network known as “cyberspace” (OK, this is getting a bit too close to home...) where artificially intelligent entities evolve and potentially begin to take over (Now hang on a minute!). Most stories revolve around a street-level “hero” struggling against the status quo to try to give some power back to the little guys.
Over the next few years, it started becoming more mainstream, including the films Blade Runner and The Terminator.
Which brings us to this review...after a bit of backstory.
The British network Channel Four wanted to create a music video show starring the first-ever “computer-generated host” known as Max Headroom (played by Matt Frewer, who would later play Moloch in Watchmen), but first they had to explain where this entity came from. So they produced a TV movie called Max Headroom, 20 Minuted Into the Future, where Frewer played Edison Carter, a reporter who was comatose after running his motorcycle into a sign labelled “max. headoom 2.3 meters” (in the UK, the use “maximum headroom” as opposed to “maximum height” in the US) The network uploaded his brainwave patterns in an attempt to gain whatever information Edison nearly died to obtain, and those brainwaves created...
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Max Headroom (whose program glitches frequently, making his seem like he has a stutter and, despite being the intellectual property of whatever network created him, is very anti-establishment, often insulting the very sponsors who pay for his continued existence. Ironically, his image was heavily merchandised and he was the spokes-being for “New Coke” (nowadays known as “Coke II”)
After The Max Headroom Show was cancelled in the UK, US producers were eager to bring the concept to an American audience. However, instead of Max being a DJ, the producers decided to create a series around the concept of 20 Minutes Into the Future.
Max Headroom is set, naturally...
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It is a world where there are a huge number of television stations, all vying for as big a slice of the rating pie as possible, keeping the masses as entertained so they stay docile (Now hang on!) while buying things their sponsors pay big money to advertise.
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Frewer returns as Edison Carter, an investigative reporter for “Network 23″. Edison exposes social injustice on a daily basis on the Network 23 news, as well as his own show. His reports uncover a great deal and make many powerful entities nervous...yes Network 23 refuses to silence him (No, Network 23 isn’t morally better than the others; Edison’s broadcasts bring huge ratings (and huge ad dollars) so they give him a lot of leeway) Edison is constantly going out into the field to get his reports only armed with his video camera (and not even a cameraman for backup) In the pilot episode, Edison pissed off the wrong people and ran into a certain sign while escaping, which led to the chain of events that created Max.
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Edison’s handler is Theora Jones (played by Amanda Pays, who would later play Tina McGee in the 90s version on The Flash.
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Edison’s producer is Murray (not sure if that’s his first or last name), played by Jeffrey Tambor, who played the Director of the BPRD in Hellboy. Murray is constantly pushing Edison to get to the bottom of whatever story he’s chasing while trying to keep the Network execs off of Edison.
Speaking of Network execs...
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The Chairman of the Network is Ben Cheviot. Unlike the rest of the Board, Cheviot tries to do the right thing, but ratings (and profits) are still a priority for him.
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Bryce Lynch is a prodigy who is the head of R&D for Network 23 and the person responsible for creating Max after Edison’s accident.
The show tackles subject matter that is a cross between pure science fiction (advertisements that could make viewers explode) and totally plausible (terrorist organizations selling exclusive broadcast contracts to TV networks) to relevant even today (TV editing content to fit their narrative...
youtube
(Thanks to BRND MYR)
As always, if you would like to see an episode reviewed, please let me know!
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twig-the-edgelord · 13 days
Text
The animal experiments
Warning mentions of waste
The animal experiments were conducted to see how Dr. J. Clementine would fare in a non-human host. Given the nature of 963 and the previous experiments it was completely unknown. A few hypotheses have been suggested.
•That he would start changing the appearance of the animal.
•That the hosts would grow certain parts to be able to do human tasks.
•That he would bond completely other than certain anatomy. Specifically cat ears and a cat tail.
[22/05/■■■■]
A stray tabby cat was gathered from a rescue shelter. It was a chubby grey tabby.
After one death a quick reminder to junior researchers that SCP 963 isn’t to be touched without gloves, SCP 963 was fastened onto a collar.
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[image taken 22/05/■■■■] 1145
Around 1232 tufts of fur had been spotted around the parts of the facility that Dr. Clementine had been allowed to access. Dr. Clementine had been napping in front of a window, taking in the noon sun. The tufts of fur was shedding from the scar forming.
After calling to him by name he reacted immediately. He was able to recognize his name, as well as Dr. ■■■■■, who he is close to. After a few tests it was determined that Dr. Clementine was able to recognize certain people, places, and a toy slug. Even though the intelligence is heightened, it is still that of a cat.
[23/05/■■■■]
After Dr. Clementine was released from the kennel he was sleeping in, Clementine immediately had back away and hissed at the personal that had released him.
After a ton of scratching he allowed someone to pick him up. Though he was growling the whole trip.
Only placing kibble on the table kept him still long enough to take an x-ray and examination. Both revealed nothing out of the ordinary. No changes in bone, skin or fur. The cat was perfectly healthy.
[25/05/■■■■]
Bonding continued to not occur. The only change that happened was his tooth going missing after he bit Dr. ■■■■ because he didn’t hold him correctly. Which would be like an infant.
He was brought to SCP 529, to see how he would react with another feline. The two greeted each by sniffing. Though Dr. Clementine was weary of Joises lack of a bottom half, the two grew close with an exchange of slow blinks.
When all human entities had left the cell, it had been monitored that the two cats were ‘loafing’ beside each other, with SCP 529 occasionally rubbing her head along Jacks side.
[01/06/■■■■]
SCP 963 was removed from the cat and the body was quickly discarded.
[01/06/■■■■]
The chain of SCP 963 was looped around rope, and tied around the neck of an American Landrace Pig.
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[image taken 01/06/■■■■] 1526
[02/06/■■■■]
At 0245 it was discovered where Dr. Clementine had found reasonable to defecate, unfortunately it was in front of the break room with the vending machine with the good snacks. He absolutely refuses to use the bathroom anywhere but that doorway.
It was decided to give Dr. Clementine entertainment to stop him from bothering the researchers. He was given a football and straw tubes.
[03/06/■■■■]
Dr. Clementine was permitted to wander around more of the facility, so D-class could remove the smell from the break room.
He found himself in front of the cell of SCP 321. He plopped himself down in front of the door for 2 hours, every few minutes he would push his ball up to the door as if the anomaly was able to come outside and play with him.
An agent tried to move him away, but Dr. Clementine nudged him with his head. When it didn’t move the agent he bit onto his pants and refused to release them.
Eventually he made his way back to the break room.
[06/06/■■■■]
Multiple puzzles were set in front of Dr. Clementine, which he was able to pass for treats. Including, a maze, opening crates, and matching shapes and colours. However he wasn’t able to do more difficult puzzles, even for snacks and toys.
[09/06/■■■■]
A female African grey parrot was gifted to the foundation and to be Dr. Clementines next host. It was hoped that he would be able to mimic human speech, but it was unsure if he would be able to actually understand it.
[image removed]
Dr. Clementine was permitted to be in most social areas to encourage speech. He is allowed to be in the cafeteria, break rooms, and certain researchers office.
Dr. Clementine struggled to fly for the first few hours but soon was found playing in the rafters.
[10/06/■■■■]
Dr. Clementine went into Dr. Clefs office at 1033, and at 1254 he had learned the words, “piss-fuck” “𝄡” “cocaine” “I’m a silly goose”. It is most likely that Clef is purposely teaching him these things. It should be noted that it was said in Dr. Clementines voice rather than Dr. Clefs.
[12/06/■■■■]
Dr. Clementine had a much better grasp on the English language. He was able to label things in his surroundings, flying to them and saying what they are. Examples would be
•if someone knocked on a desk, he would knock on it with his beak and say “wood”
Or
•going to the rafters and saying “metal”
He is much faster at learning speech and better at pronouncing words than what was expected.
[15/06/■■■■]
When Dr. Clementines handler passed his office, Dr. Clementine flew over and hovered around the door repeatedly saying “Haold” and “cikly”or other variants.
[15/06/■■■■]
The corn snake that had nearly finished shedding its skin was brought in.
Attaching SCP 963 on to such a tiny animal was over looked until now. SCP 963 being attached to a harness with the amulet on a wagon. The Dr. Clementine gain consciousness he began to freak out. This included wrapping around Dr.■■■■ wrist and biting him. Thrashing violently, he calmed down when a camera was brought out. He began flicking his tongue at it.
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[15/06/■■■■] 0924
After being placed in a glass enclosure it was evident that Dr. Clementine wasn’t able to climb anything due to the weight of SCP 963.
[19/06/■■■■]
Dr. Clementines eyes had finally turned green after the eye caps came off, and his scales had much more of an orange tint.
[20/06/■■■■]
Dr. Clementine had started attacking SCP 963 in annoyance and flinching away in pain.
[23/06/■■■■]
A doe was found a couple hundred yards away from site 19. It was brought in.
SCP 963 was put back on its original chain and hung around the deers neck.
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Dr. Clementine struggled to walk, and his front legs kept repeatedly buckling over. He was followed as he explored to ensure that he wouldn’t injure himself.
[25/06/■■■■]
Dr. Clef was permitted to bring Dr. Clementine to SCP 166s temporary contaminant cell. SCP 166 and Dr. Clementine allegedly were timid of each other at first, but did warm up after a few minutes. Once Dr. Clementine recognized who SCP 166 was he began to lick the top of her head.
SCP 166 had made a flower crown made from the yellow roses that were loose in her antlers. Dr. Clementine responded with a behaviour that wasn’t common with deer, by wagging his tail and stomping the floor repeatedly. A very human reaction to excitement.
[27/06/■■■■]
A few staff members have brung Dr. Clementine apples, and other fruits/veggies. Though most chased him away from them still angry about the break room.
At 1644 Dr. Clementine had been found halfway out of a window. He would try to kick any presences he could feel behind him.
The second his limbs hit the floor he bolted around randomly, trying to get away from staff.
He wound up at a dead end, crashing against the wall and was unable to get back up. He kicked at nothing with his back hoof repeatedly in a pattern. It was matched with flinching and uneasy breathing.
An apple was offered to Dr. Clementine. He instantly shoved his nose against it as if it would rot at any second. He attempted to get the apple back to his safety wall, but couldn’t because of his leg.
The now wilting rose crown was slid over to him. He placed the apple inside of the flower ring. He kneeled in front of it and watched staff intently.
By this time most who gathered around had left due to lack of interest.
[29/06/■■■■]
■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■. A stray greyhound with a cut in his ear. ■■■■■■■■■■■■ ■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■. ■■■■■■■■.
Image removed
[01/07/■■■■]
Dr. Clementine was very friendly with staff. A bit too friendly. If not actively being held back he would run up to them and happily yap, while wagging his tail. He’d tries to sit his entire body on people’s feet.
[02/07/■■■■]
At 1752 Dr. Clementine was found trying to bite the wall, growling viciously. His mouth unable to wrap the smooth surface.
Dr. Clementine was snatched up by the back of the collar, and yanked away from the wall. Dr. Clementine lashed out, YAP YAP YAP! He just wanted to get back to his tasty wall.
[05/07/■■■■]
Dr. Clementine was sat in front of a window, barking at everything that moved, taking in the sun rays. Upon hearing a whistle, Dr. Clementine swerved his head around, tongue sticking out. He walked up to the source of the noise. Little feet paddling and tail wagging.
The researcher brought him to his next host.
[06/07/■■■■]
A wild Guinea pig sat on the metal table. Given the size of the critter, it was decided to just tie it around their back.
[07/07/■■■■]
The moment Dr. Clementine saw SCP 590s cell he began weeking. Loud peeps emanated from the small carrying cage.
Once staff entered they were greeted by SCP 590, who was excited to see the rodent. “That is Dr. Clementine.” Was said as the cage was placed onto the desk near his bed.
SCP 590 leapt over to the cage. SCP 590 tried to pick up Dr. Clementine with his bare hand. Which made Dr. Clementine jolt to the other side of the cage. When SCP 590 picked up Dr. Clementine with his prosthetic hand, Dr. Clementine allowed him. He tucked his hands and feet under his body and laid flat.
[08/07/■■■■]
Dr. Clementine was removed when SCP 590 was still sleeping.
Throughout the day Dr.Clementine seemed to be depressed.
[11/07/■■■■]
Dr. Clementine was found tearing at his scar. Not to the point where he was causing damage but he seemed to be trying to rip it off of his body.
Dr. Clementine would squeal angrily, only to calm whenever SCP 590 spoke, even if he didn’t understand what he was saying.
[13/07/■■■■]
A yellow moray eel squirmed as it was hung above the tank. A tempered glass collar was slid around her neck, with SCP 963 inside of it.
The eel was dropped back into the cage. Though it took a couple of moments for Dr. Clementine to figure out how to swim. He eventually noodled around, snapping his jaw.
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[14/07/■■■■]
FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK HE GOT OUT HOLY FUCK HOW JUESUS FUCK ME UNTIL I DIE THEN KEEP GOING HOLY SHIT FUCK FUCKING HOW!?!?!?!?!!?
[03/08/■■■■]
Dr. Clementine somehow was in the Gulf of Mexico. He was drifting happily through a small crevasse in a ledge. He got several new scars swirling his body. In order to safely get him out pets and treats were offered.
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Ending notes:
•Dr. Clementine has no memories being in a non-human host
•being in non-human hosts changed his psyche, he sometimes acts like an animal (ex:loafing, whistling, playing in the rafters, barking, crawling on all fours, ect.)
•Dr. Clementine has no idea he acts like an animal
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merelygifted · 2 years
Photo
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1st image - Calcite can form in 17 different ways, more than almost any other mineral. This calcite, which formed in a cave, got its distinctive shape from changing water levels. Rob Lavinsky/ARKENSTONE
2nd image - Diamonds have the same carbon structure, but they can form in different ways. This particular gem originated deep within the Earth.  Rob Lavinsky/ARKENSTONE
3rd image -  Some minerals would not form in certain ways without the influence of life. Photosynthesizing bacteria helped bring about the oxygen-rich conditions needed for this azurite (left), while the opalized ammonite (right) was created by the mineral opal filling the space where an ammonite shell used to be. Rob Lavinsky/ARKENSTONE
A new look at the 'mineral kingdom' may transform the search for life | Science News
If every mineral tells a story, then geologists now have their equivalent of The Arabian Nights.
For the first time, scientists have cataloged every different way that every known mineral can form and put all of that information in one place. This collection of mineral origin stories hints that Earth could have harbored life earlier than previously thought, quantifies the importance of water as the most transformative ingredient in geology, and may change how researchers look for signs of life and water on other planets.
“This is just going to be an explosion,” says Robert Hazen, a mineralogist and astrobiologist at the Carnegie Institution for Science in Washington, D.C. “You can ask a thousand questions now that we couldn’t have answered before.”
For over 100 years, scientists have defined minerals in terms of “what,” focusing on their structure and chemical makeup. But that can make for an incomplete picture. For example, though all diamonds are a kind of crystalline carbon, three different diamonds might tell three different stories, Hazen says. One could have formed 5 billion years ago in a distant star, another may have been born in a meteorite impact, and a third could have been baked deep below the Earth’s crust.
So Hazen and his colleagues set out to define a different approach to mineral classification. This new angle focuses on the “how” by thinking about minerals as things that evolve out of the history of life, Earth and the solar system, he and his team report July 1 in a pair of studies in American Mineralogist. The researchers defined 57 main ways that the “mineral kingdom” forms, with options ranging from condensation out of the space between stars to formation in the excrement of bats.
The information in the catalog isn’t new, but it was previously scattered throughout thousands of scientific papers. The “audacity” of their work, Hazen says, was to go through and compile it all together for the more than 5,600 known types of minerals. That makes the catalog a one-stop shop for those who want to use minerals to understand the past.
The compilation also allowed the team to take a step back and think about mineral evolution from a broader perspective. Patterns immediately popped out. One of the new studies shows that over half of all known mineral kinds form in ways that ought to have been possible on the newborn Earth. The implication: Of all the geologic environments that scientists have considered as potential crucibles for the beginning of life on Earth, most could have existed as early as 4.3 billion years ago (SN: 9/24/20). Life, therefore, may have formed almost as soon as Earth did, or at the very least, had more time to arise than scientists have thought. Rocks with traces of life date to only 3.4 billion years ago (SN: 7/26/21).
“That would be a very, very profound implication — that the potential for life is baked in at the very beginning of a planet,” says Zachary Adam, a paleobiologist at the University of Wisconsin–Madison who was not involved in the new studies.  ...
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rarepears · 1 year
Note
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So… I can’t send images in Anon!
But here’s a vague outline of what happens before the reset!
There are a few minor background changes that don’t impact the plot.
Himbo finally gets to be a nanny that gets to go on cool missions!
He also gets a few demons trying to bridenap him but he thinks their trying to steal his kids. ( They’re actually his clients kids but he loves them like his own)
Our Himbo tries out cottagecore the first year he ends up in PIDW. He makes a bro out of a carnivorous plant spirit with weak acids but great sucking power. Really good sucking power.
And our Fratbro gives a LOT of nutrients. So Fratbro gets to live safely in the forest now! He lives here after the reset as well.
He doesn’t know it but cultivation with spirits, this spirit in particular help with people who start cultivating late in life.
After our Himbo fully sets up something horrible happens! People are chasing down a cosplaying child!
So our Himbo with the help of his bro! (Who’s gotten gains these past months!) save the kid!
And the people chasing the kid down disappear? He doesn’t know what happened but he forgot about them after plant bro said he wanted to ‘share the bounty’ and ‘celebrate their engagement’ and that ‘he’d be a good consort’
He still doesn’t known this language but those sounded like good things!
Can’t forget that most Isekai nowadays tend to be harems! It’s just that those systems thought he was going to have a harem of girls.
The child is a demon, male, who originally is cannon fodder but under the tutelage of our Himbo’s protagonist Halo gets many enlightenments and breakthroughs leading him to be a commander under LBH who eventually goes and meets the family.
He near immediately marries the Wife Himbo adopted but is stopped by Himbo(who now understands Chinese) who insists they need to get to know each other first.
Himbo believe the word for Father in Chinese means Uncle and by the time he realized it means Father he just goes along with it.
Himbo mentally adopts LBH and has already started planning the wedding.
“Kiddos! What’s a ‘dowry’?”
“It’s what you give the grooms family when they marry your daughter”
“Why? Don’t we like, give the two wedding gifts? Why give stuff to the fam?”
“To ensure they treat the daughter well and to show she has a powerful background so the other wives and family members won’t bully her”
“THeY’lL bULLy mY DAUghTher!?! OthER WIveS?!?”
And Himbo assumes LBH other wives are just family and the kissing is some cultural thing.
Even after the world resets and he knows the culture and like of ancient China he still does his own thing because
“We have to respect each other’s culture man. I dunno about you but I can be respectful.
After the reset our Himbo immediately tries to adopt LBH when he’s born.
Because LBH is part of the world he doesn’t get his memories back until the Abyss while Himbo just isn’t affected and is where he was standing with his full cultivation.
Himbo starts an overpowered family with dozens of children because he has come into peak dadness as a result.
Also. He tries to marry Tianlang Jung. He wants to be his baby’s dad! So they have to get married! He did it once with someone else so he can do it again right!?
A REVEAL! HALLO AUTHOR! 👋
Fratbro treating the kidnapping attempts like they are "capture the flag" games! Or American football; that works too.
And our Fratbro gives a LOT of nutrients. So Fratbro gets to live safely in the forest now!
LMAO what you are saying is that he pisses a lot on the trees. (Diluted) urine is great fertilizer. Golden shower play, anyone? With his first consort too LOL.
I love Fratbro's inane logic here; yes, please do chase down Tianlang Jun, trying to convince the man that they should get married so he can officially be Luo Binghe's dad! With Tianlang Jun continually saying no, Fratbro decides that he's just going to kidnap Tianlang Jun and force a marriage regardless.
Anyways, that's how he participates in another demonic custom without realizing it; yes he went and successfully pulled off a bridenapping.
[More in #a himbo fratboy in svsss au]
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