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sassy-ahsoka-tano · 1 year

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DADDY ISSUES - Part Eight: Attention

Character/Fandom: Elvis - Elvis (2022)

Prompt: You finally gather enough courage to speak your mind to Elvis and, oh boy, does he have the perfect solution for you. [ Fem!Reader ]

TW: overstim, i don't wanna ruin it but a vibrator...of sorts, elvis being kind of a dick again (oops)

Rating: M, so very M || Word Count: 4995

A/N: we all know how i feel about the PSA scene so this was very easy to write and i'm now depressed i haven't experienced this personally

Song Rec: attention - charlie puth

This is Part 8 of Daddy Issues. Find the rest of the series here!

[ masterlist | taglist ]

🦋 mila

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Over the next few weeks, you start to settle into a rhythm. You get unpacked and fully settled into your new room, which includes scouting out places that are going to quickly become your favorite restaurants and stores as well as finding ways to potentially make new friends in the area. You find out pretty quickly that you actually really enjoy living in Vegas. The constant nightlife and social buzz give a sense of energy and life to the city which you didn’t always feel back home in the LA neighborhood where you lived.

As for your arrangement with Elvis, things are moving, albeit slowly. After almost two months of more or less the same routine, you’re starting to get pretty bored with your role. It’s always the same. He sends a letter, which now consist of a only few lines where he tells you what time to meet him and any other instructions, like what to wear. There’s hardly anything additional that he ever asks you to do.

You go down each week at your scheduled time and the security guard, whose name is Stanley, lets you in without question. At first, all you had to do was flash the TCB ring. Now, you don't even need to do that. Stanely just knows you.

You make your way to Elvis’ dressing room, knock on the door, and when he opens it, you give him a blowjob. The next day, you receive a package outside of your room with new clothes or jewelry or other little random gifts. You’ve caught on quickly enough to realize that whenever you passingly mention something you want, it inevitably shows up outside of your door.

As long as it’s an object, that is. You’ve tried your best to be assertive, to ask for what you want, but you must not be asking correctly. Any comments or suggestions you’ve made about changing up your arrangement or going out to an adventure in public have been ignored or missed. While Elvis hasn’t said anything explicitly, he’s made it extremely clear that he doesn’t want your relationship to be public knowledge.

It's not that you aren’t grateful. Of course you are. You could never afford any of these lovely things without his financial support and you certainly don’t mind not working for KNBC. But with only meeting Elvis once a week, you found yourself with a lot of free time during the first month. That time was difficult to fill since you had no friends or connections in the area. You did a lot of reading, mostly magazines and books, to try and learn how to be a better sugar baby for him.

But, honestly, you’re bored to tears and you wonder how he could not be. Not to mention that he never pleases you or even asks you if you’re interested in it. You’re getting a bit irritated, to be honest.

Despite all those hardships and the boredom that permeates pretty much every moment of your existence here in Vegas, you have started to break out of your small, lonely circle. Thanks to Max, the stagehand you ran into several weeks ago, you’ve actually begun to do things outside in the city. Things other than Elvis. Not only is Max incredibly handsome, tall, and muscular, but he's also very sweet and respectful. By now, you figure that he must know why you’re here and what you’re actually doing in Elvis’ dressing room. But sweet, sweet Max never mentions it, so you don’t say anything in return.

You usually try to catch Max before or after your meetings with Elvis. Recently, you’ve even started going down a little earlier to see him before he has to get going on setting up all the instruments and props. Not only has Max helped keep you company, but he’s also introduced you to so many of his amazing friends, some of whom work at the International. Thanks to him, you’ve built a decent friend group out here in Vegas.

You’re currently reading a book on the couch in the living room and finishing up your home-cooked dinner when a familiar knock sounds on the door. You trudge over and open it to find a note taped to the outside, just under the peephole. Prying it off, you don’t even bother looking at the script on the outside. You know who it’s from and have a decent idea of what it’s going to say inside.

Princess, 7 p.m. in the blue dress I sent you last week. D

You scoff and crumple the note in your fingers, squeezing it with white knuckles before tossing it into the trash can. The clock reads six p.m. now, which means you barely even have enough time to get ready. Nevertheless, you still manage to get yourself prepped and into the blue dress just as Elvis asked, all before 6:45. Just as you’re about to leave, the telephone in your room rings.

“Hello?” you lift the phone to your ear.

“Y/N? It’s Trixie! I wanted to see how things are going?”

“Oh, Trix! This is actually not the best time. I’m sorry! In fact, I’m about to be late to meet him. Can I call you back later?”

“Oh…” you can’t miss the clear disappointment in Trixie’s voice.

It’s been several weeks since you last talked. You spent almost every night on the phone together after she left but, unfortunately, life has gotten in the way of your long-distance friendship as of late. You didn’t realize how much you were going to miss her when she left. But your new friend group has required a lot of attention and you just don’t have as much time to talk as before. One of Max’s friends in particular reminds you a lot of Trixie and although you’re more than happy to settle into your new friend group, you can feel yourself growing distant. Every time you talk on the phone, it almost hurts too much.

“Yeah, sure! No problem,” Trixie replies. “Have fun and be safe! I’ll talk to you later! Bye Foxie!”

“Bye!”

You click the phone down and rush out of the apartment. Stanley the security guard offers you his usual warm smile when you approach the side stage doors. You pause to chat with him for a few minutes, like you normally do, before he opens the door for you. You pad down the familiar hallway behind the stage, pausing outside of Elvis’ door. You check your wristwatch one more time before wrapping your knuckles, three times as always, on the door with a sigh. Per usual, Elvis opens it, half-dressed and seemingly ready for your meeting to move forward.

On the elevator ride down, you’d decided to bring up your displeasure with him. You’ve grown exceedingly tired of this relationship being so transactional, of pleasing him only to be left unattended to like a slave to his desires.

Elvis opens the door and you enter in silence. As soon as you hear the door click behind you, you speak up.

“Mr. Presley, could we…discuss something?” you ask, nervously and absentmindedly twirling the TCB ring around your knuckle.

You felt so much more confident when you were rehearsing your lines in your head on the elevator. But now, as you stand in front of Elvis and stare up into his sparkling blue eyes and that handsome, almost intimidatingly so, face, you feel your palms starting to grow sweaty and clammy.

“Course, princess. What’s up?”

He plops down into the same red velvet armchair that he usually sits in during your meetings. You step forward to stand in front of him and clear your throat before speaking. You hope that the following few moments of silence will somehow help you to gather more courage to share your true feelings.

“I was just wondering if we could…try something different? I know that you like our arrangements the way they are, but I have some ideas that I think would make our time together more interesting.”

A few moments of silence pass as his eyebrows furrow and you wait tensely for his response.

“You’re unhappy with the arrangement?”

“No. No, I-"

“Because if so, I’ll have no problem finding someone else to fill your place.”

“Excuse me,” you scoff, shaking your head. “That’s not what I said-”

“As I mentioned when I first suggested it to you, there are plenty of willing candi-”

“Stop!” you finally shout, holding your hands up toward him. Not only are you offended by his words, but you’re also frustrated that he insists on interrupting you as you try to speak.

“I’m just tired of this,” you gesture to the space between you. “It’s transactional. Boring. We do the same damn thing every week and it’s only one time a week. That’s all. It’s monotonous and pointless. You can’t possibly be happy with this arrangement. I’m literally standing here offering to try something different, to do anything you ask, and you’re mocking me. Of course I’m grateful for what you’ve done. I’ve been grateful from the beginning and I’ve repeatedly told you so. But this isn’t what I signed up for.”

You momentarily can’t believe that the words have just slipped out of your mouth. Your heart slams in your chest and your pulse aches in your temples. You curl your arms over your chest as if that will slow it down. You can’t let him see how nervous you really are. You stand strong. His eyebrows raise and he nods slowly, his eyes holding onto yours firmly without budging. You stare back at him with every ounce of strength that you have.

“Alright, princess,” he says coldly. “What do you want?”

You take a deep breath. Ask and it’s yours. With a renewed sense of confidence, you put a voice to your feelings.

“I deserve to feel good, too. I always pleasure you, without fail, but you never pay any attention to me. You don’t even bother asking if I’m interested in it. I just want to be paid attention to. If you won’t do that, then this not a relationship at all. It’s a business transaction. I thought it was intended to be mutual. I’m just asking for some attention, that’s all.”

“I understand,” he says.

You shiver as a mischievous smirk spreads across his handsome face. He stands slowly, his eyes never wavering from yours until he turns around and walks toward a closet in the back left corner of the cluttered room. You watch him in silence, still clutching your fingers onto your crossed arms. He rummages in a drawer for a few moments before pulling something out.

He turns, holding a black velvet box that’s tied with a red ribbon. Your eyebrows furrow as he comes closer. You freeze when he lowers his head to whisper in your ear. Your eyelashes flutter as his cologne wafts into your nose, sweet and intoxicating.

“You wanna be pleasured?” he asks in a voice that’s almost angry, tinged with some venomous undertone that you can’t quite place. It scares you. “Sure thing, princess. Here.”

He gently thrusts the box against your stomach. You hesitate for a moment as you wonder what could be inside. Your fingers flutter with a desire to snatch the gift but your pounding heart tells you to wait.

“Take the box,” he hisses.

At his command, and out of fear, you reach up and close your fingers around the velvet, pulling it into your hands. Elvis leans back, still towering over you but giving you just enough room to breathe. Unraveling the ribbon and popping the box open, you reach into it with confusion. Your shaking fingers hook around the side of something lacy and you lift it from the box. Your eyebrows immediately furrow as you stare down at the exact same pair of deep red panties that you’d thrown across the stage at him during the 1956 concert at Russwood Park. You glance up at him and his expectant expression infuriates you.

“What is this?” you spit. “Are you expecting me to wear these? They’re almost twenty years old…”

“Y’ain’t very bright are ya darlin,” he starts.

“Excuse m-” you huff angrily but he interrupts you.

“These ain’t your panties. They’re the same kind, yeah, but I bought em just last weekend. And I had them specially made for ya. Go ahead. Put em on.”

You shake your head and examine them again. They do look almost brand new, colorful and bright and clean.

“Whatcha waitin for, doll?” he asks, plopping back down into his chair. “Put. Them. On.”

“What? Here? Now?” you ask incredulously.

“You the one complaining bout how we ain’t interestin enough,” he points to the spot in between his spread legs and with a clenched jaw says, “Put the damn panties on. Slowly. Right here.”

With a sigh, you step forward into the space. This isn’t what you meant, but you decide to play along in case he’s taking you somewhere eventually. You throw the box onto the floor and place the panties on Elvis’ lap while you reach for the bottom of your dress. You slowly curl the fabric up with your fingers, gently tickling it against your skin. You keep your eyes locked onto Elvis. As you pull the dress up, you drag your fingernail up the front of your thigh.

Once the dress reaches the very top of your leg, you lift your foot and place it elegantly on Elvis’ knee. Carefully, you stick your fingers underneath the dress and curl your pointer finger around the band to your panties. You hold the dress up just far enough so he can watch what you’re doing as you start to slowly slide the panties from your thigh. You drag the fabric down and bend over as you pull at the band.

You bend your knee and hold it steady, hovering in the air, while you slip the panties off your toe. After you remove the fabric from your bent leg, it drops with ease down your straight one, pooling by your heel on the ground. You step backward as a smirking Elvis hooks his long, slender finger under the red panties and hands them over to you. You snatch them from his grasp and lean down, making sure that he has a perfect view of your breasts as you slide the fabric over one leg and then the other.

As you pull the fabric up over your ass, you turn your back to Elvis and glance at him over your shoulder. You lift the dress up ever so slightly and pull the fabric up and over your bum, securing it onto your hips. You freeze when you feel something hard contact your folds.

You had noticed that the panties felt a little heavier than normal ones but you didn’t think twice about it. You just figured you were imagining it. But now as you stand half bent over and frozen as a statue before Elvis, you realize that there is definitely something hard stuffed into the pocket of the panties right below your pussy. You turn around and place your hands on your hips. His face twists into an almost sinister smirk. You scoff.

“What-”

“Don’t you worry your lil head bout it, princess,” he says, hopping up and zipping his jumpsuit all the way up to his chest.

He runs a few fingers through his hair as you try to process what the hell is going on. Before you can formulate a question, the familiar knock comes on the door to tell Elvis that it’s time to go onstage. He really likes to cut your interactions extremely close to his show times, another thing that’s begun to irritate the hell out of you.

“This isn’t what I meant!” you shout as he makes for the door.

You can’t help but shake your head and fold your arms over your chest. He turns back toward you.

“You doin a lot of complainin for somebody who relies on me.”

“I just spent our entire time tonight telling you how frustrated I am that I’m not getting any attention and all you do is have me put on a show for you in panties that I don’t even own and now you’re just gonna leave me again, unsatisfied and alone, like you always do!”

In two quick steps, he’s standing above you, his face so close to yours.

“Oh, am I?”

You feel yourself waver but steel your body the best you can. His fingers wrap firmly around your jaw, digging into your skin. You blink in shock at the discomfort but your heart skips a beat with the excitement of possibilities. He tilts your jaw so that he can whisper into your ear, his lips brushing against the skin. Your breath wavers shakily

“I wouldn’t worry bout that, princess,” he hisses. “You gonna get what y’asked for. If you’re patient. Now, I expect to see ya out there in the audience. That’s a command not a request. Am I understood?”

You clench your jaw, refusing to play his game. He squeezes your jaw harder.

“Am. I. Understood?”

“Yes, Mr. Presley,” you respond begrudgingly, although your whole body is vibrating.

And with that, he releases your face and flies out the door, slamming it behind him.

You curl your fingers into fists by your sides and release a few heated breaths from your nostrils as you stare at the door. Your heart is beating quickly and you close your eyes as you release a final slow breath to get ahold of your emotions. Then you grasp onto the door handle and fling it open. You huff and readjust your hair and dress before you catch Jerry’s gaze. He smiles and approaches you. You immediately feel your anger dissolve.

“So, how are things going?” he asks with raised eyebrows.

“Fine, I guess,” you reply bluntly.

“Is…something wrong?”

You shake your head.

“No, nothing. We just had a little bit of a misunderstanding about our arrangement, that’s all. We’re resolving it.”

“Hey, Y/N, listen,” he says, gently wrapping his hand around your bicep. “I know Elvis can be a difficult person to work with. If anyone understands that, it’s me. Like I’ve told you before, if you need any help just ask me. I’m here as a resource to you.”

“Why are you saying this?” you ask, letting your distrust get the best of you. “You don’t work for me and we’re not friends.”

“Just because I work for Elvis doesn’t mean I always have to be on his side,” Jerry replies without missing a beat. He throws you a crooked smirk. “And I have to admit that I’m sad to hear you don’t consider us friends.”

“I’m sorry,” you shake your head. ��I’m just…frustrated. I shouldn’t be taking it out on you.”

“It’s okay. A word of advice, though? From a friend,” he says quietly and you smile. “Just be patient with him and be direct. Take the lead. If you want something, make it happen. He likes a woman who takes charge.”

You nod, your eyebrows furrowing as you consider his sage advice. When you lift your gaze, a soft smile spreads across your face as you catch a glimpse of Max. He meets your gaze and grins widely, lifting a hand to wave.

“Thank you, Jerry. Excuse me, I’m just gonna go say hello to a friend. Thank you, again, for your advice. I’ll keep it in mind.”

You slip out from behind Jerry and make your way over to Max, doing a little spin as you approach him.

“Hey, Y/N! You look…” he shakes his head in awe.

“Well, thank you. What are you up to today?”

“Just the usual,” he replies, gesturing toward the cluttered set behind the stage where the stagehands work. “Oh hey, are you busy tomorrow night? I was thinking maybe we could grab a drink after the show. Just you and me? What do you say, princess?"

Your head jolts upright and you stare at him incredulously. What? What did he just call you????

“What did you just call me?”

He straightens, his face falling into panic.

“Princess…I can never call you that again if it bothers you or something.”

“No…uh, no,” you shake yourself back to reality. “Sorry, just someone else always used to call me princess.”

“Oh, sorry. I’ll cut it out then.”

“No, please don’t,” you say, a mischievous smile curling into your cheeks. “I like it better when you say it.”

A smile takes over his face. His eyes quickly flick down to your mouth and he bites onto his lower lip, flashing his beautiful straight white teeth. You can’t help but feel your heart flutter at his handsome, charming smile.

Although Elvis will never find out about Max calling you princess, you’re still reveling in the feeling that you’re somehow getting him back, punishing him. You recenter your attention on Max who tilts his head sweetly, the ghost of a smile tracing his beautifully shaped pink lips. His deep brown eyes are like bowls of honey, beautiful and charming, as he stares up at you with such a gentle smile resting on his face. Max always has the slightest blush on his cheeks, for no particular reason, but it gives him a youthful energy that makes you want to be around him even more.

“Well that’s good. Cause I plan on saying it a lot tomorrow night,” he replies, adjusting so that he’s leaning ever so slightly toward you.

“Oh yeah?” you lean in toward him.

Your gut starts to spin in circles, the desire that Elvis cultivated left unsatisfied. You feel your body gravitating closer and closer to Max. It would feel so good just to kiss him one time…

You suddenly jerk back, upright, your mouth popping open as you feel a foreign sensation in your lower stomach. You gulp nervously and clamp your legs together, wondering what the hell it could possibly be. Max’s eyebrows raise in confusion and you try to tell him that you’re fine, but another jolt of vibration makes you clamp your legs together again and stops you mid-sentence. You laugh nervously and wave him off, backing away in fear that you’ll have another episode.

“Tomorrow! I’ll meet you down here, s-s-sound good?” you ask as you rapidly back toward the exit to the showroom.

Although Max’s face is still wracked with confusion, he nods and waves. You keep face until you swing around the corner into the shadow of the hallway leading to the stage doors.

As soon as you’re safe and out of view of the rest of the backstage crew, you fall against the wall, clutching your stomach. You pant through waves of pleasure that are starting to build within your gut. You gently reach down underneath your dress to touch the bottom of your panties. Yep, as you suspected, something is vibrating, literally vibrating. You didn’t even know a device like this existed but it’s currently wreaking havoc on your body. You breathe a sigh of relief when the pleasure stops for a quick moment.

You take that opportunity to rush out of the backstage area and into the audience. Your eyes land immediately on the exit up the walkway but suddenly the panties begin to vibrate again. You grasp with white knuckles on the handrails to keep yourself from falling over. You spot an open seat smack in the middle of the room and carefully migrate towards it, knowing that you can’t make it to the door. You can barely walk while this thing is tingling in your panties, rubbing directly against your core in the most frustratingly perfect way possible.

You plop into the seat at the abandoned table and try to get ahold of your shaky breathing as you watch Elvis on stage. The spotlight happens to be shining directly over your seat onto the stage and you wonder if he can just maybe see you out there. The stage lights are also half on, not all turned off like they’d normally be. He’s singing a song that you’ve never heard before about some plant called polk salad?

Just when you catch your breath, Elvis shifts his gaze and seemingly stares directly at you. You feel your heart flutter with a mix of excitement and fear as he smirks and dances around onstage. Your eyes remain glued to him as he sings and when he riffs during the song, you arch your back as you feel pleasure spiking in your heat. The vibration continues, moving rhythmically against you. You can feel yourself swelling at the pleasure and bite your lip to refrain from making any noises.

You glare up at Elvis when the pleasure subsides, your chest rising and falling heavily with your breaths as you try not to show everyone in the audience what’s going on. He glances down at you and winks before doing some hip thrusts. Suddenly, the sensation is back and you have to grasp at the tablecloth in your fingers to keep from thrusting your hips against the wonderful sensation. You can’t help but close your eyes and pop your lips open in pleasure. You want to give in so badly but your brain stops you. It feels like every single muscle in your body is strained at the exact same time, waiting for you to release the tension.

Your back arches as the pleasure grows, and you noticeably fall back against your chair when it subsides again. Panting, you glance up at Elvis with wide eyes and an open mouth. Although you’re angry at him for embarrassing you like this and putting you through this, you desperately want to finish. You’re incredibly swollen and dripping wet, you can feel the cold liquid on your panties as you sit in the chair. You don’t want him to know how badly you need to cum, but you know that there’s nothing you can do about it and that your facial expression is telling him everything he needs to know, pleading with him, begging him to let you finish.

As he stares across the audience at you, he holds your gaze and his eyes fade to black. He smirks and sings into the microphone. Your eyes can’t help but drop down to his hips which are gyrating rhythmically in time with the music. You bite your lip and grip the tablecloth as your entire body craves climax and everything in you desperately begs to be released.

As the vibrator turns on again, you find that you can’t resist squirming against it. It’s doing wonderful work on you but not quite enough. And with the constant pausing, you’ll never get there without putting in a little bit of work yourself. Your fingers grip hard onto the edge of the table, tangling into the tablecloth and threatening to pull it off as your hips move on the vibrator in time to the music. Your eyes flick down to the ring on your finger as the metal digs into your skin. The juices you’ve already leaked have dried cold on the fabric of your panties and you can feel it against your skin as you move. You clench your jaw and close your eyes tightly as the waves of pleasure build on each other, up and up and up until you finally start to crash down.

As the familiar feeling washes over you, your lips part and you feel your body shuddering. The vibrator continues to stimulate your sensitive bundle of nerves. You can’t help but release a quiet, soft, moan as you come down from your high. Thank god for the music. Your eyes flash open and you glance to the table on your right, where a woman is watching you with her eyebrows raised. You can’t stop the climax now but tear your eyes away from her and squeeze them shut in embarrassment. You will your body to stop enjoying your orgasm so much but the vibrator continues to overstimulate you. In perfecting timing with the song, you come down from your high just a moment after the last note.

You look up at Elvis, who is already glaring back down at you. The sweat glistens on his face and bare chest as he holds your eyes with a lazy crooked smirk pasted on his lips. He licks his top lip with the tip of his tongue and nods toward you. You breathe frustratedly, the euphoric expression on your face fading immediately into one of contempt. You hesitatingly glance at the table to your right to see the woman whispering to the man next to her, both of them giggling.

Of course, you don’t know for sure what they’re discussing. It could be anything, really, but in your heart, you’ve already convinced yourself that they’re gossiping about you. You glance around the audience, wondering just how many people noticed what was going on. Embarrassment floods through you and you feel like crying as you think about the things people could utter about you behind your back. And Max…you can’t have Max finding out about this. What would he think of you?

You gather yourself up and stand, feigning confidence and purposefully avoiding looking at anyone directly. You position your purse so that it rests against your back, hopefully covering up the stain from your fluids if there is one. You hold the bag steady as you try to walk as inconspicuously as possible out of the showroom. You can’t help but wince every time you step, the hard cover of the vibrator brushing against your sensitive folds. The overstimulation and constant vibrations have apparently destroyed you pretty well. With every step you take, your heat is overtaken by soreness. But you manage to make it out of the room and back upstairs, where you crawl into bed.

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richardsphere · 1 year

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Rwby character-writing analasis thing.

Its really interesting to me how much RWBY as a series has changed in the post-beacon era. And while there are many differences i could write page-long essays about, I think most of those are a story for another day. Today i want to talk about how the post S3 change in genre has negatively affected the strength of its characterwriting. (other topics might come up tangentially but wont be the focus.)

Beacon era RWBY was a verry slow, airy slice-of-life heavy show with only a bit of action sprinkled on top, like Fondant on a cake. It gave the characters plenty of time to breathe, interact and just share a chemistry together. I’d even go so far as to say the early show was, 80 percent slice of life (at minimum), and maybe 20% action at most. Even “fight for our life” were permeated with moments of dialogue and lighthearted character-beats. (Ruby and Weiss talking out their squables mid-beowolf fight, Weiss VS Boarbatusk cutting to ruby’s little flags for example) But it should also be noted that, With exception to Pyrrha, who the show knew had only 3 seasons to be fleshed out. Most characters were left deliberately sort-of vauge so they can be deepened out when we get to their arcs later. (certainly they were given “goals” like “find Raven” or “redeem the Fang”, but anything more specific was left out for future writers to resolve). But in a post-beacon world, the showrunners put them into a constant no-time-for-breaks pacing has prevented much of that filling in, as the show repeatedly denied them any moment for them to just “exist” (as well as the infamous stories about how any scenes that do allow characters to do so, having all chemistry surgically removed by production to “prevent romantic spoilers”.) They cut out so much of its slice-of-life moments, that all levity happens either off-screen (Yang+Blake at the disco) or in the background of “actually important” plot-beats. (Meeting Jaune’s sister taking second-seat to a critical debrief re:Ozpin-being-full-of-shit) Not to say there’s been no progress at all on filling out the blanks left behind in their early characterisation but: Ruby’s 6 seasons of constant trauma, ended on a resounding concluding note that “she was fine as-is in S1E1″, meaning nine collective seasons of character development, amounts to a great “Status quo, but now with Laser-eyes”. Yang’s raven-issues “resolved” at the fall of haven, and did so in a rather unsatisfying in the way. Because her and Raven never really explored the abandonment issues beyond a vague “i know you dont care about me, I’ve decided the feelings mutual now Portal me to my sister/Hand me the damn relic”. (which doesnt feel like a resolution, but the show tries to frame it as a “going no-contact” resolution) Blake and Weiss have both actually had their core struggles in the world removed and tranposed onto adjacent characters instead of actually resolving their established “goals” in the world at large. (Weiss no longer wants to redeem the family business, thats Willow and Whitley’s job now, Blake no longer wants to redeem the Fang, thats Ghira and Ilia’s job). and although we now know how Ren and Nora came to be together, their atlas arc only emphasises that even they still dont know who they are themselves. Same for Ozpin, pf whom we now know how he came to be cursed, he spent so much time dormant “regaining his oldest memories” that we only know we dont know him either. Six additional seasons of writing for these characters, and they are all (with possible exception to yang) either back at square one, or in BW’s case have somehow stumbled themselves back to square zero. The only character that’s gotten “more” fleshed out in a way that satisfies on a narrative level is Jaune. (to the point that i cant even fault elements of the fandom criticising the show for being “The Jaune Show”) And even that is only because of how well-realised Pyrrha was at time-of-death, It really says something about the drop quality in the shows post-beacon characterisation that Pyrrha is more well-written in absentia then the entirety of the shows namesake team combined. and that is just plain tragic.

#rwby #rwby analasis #Rwby critical #rwby critique #rwby criticism #Some people probably think i should tag this as Salt Hate or Anti RWBY but im not angry just dissapointed #But yeah this show has me brainbugged #Like if a slow-motion traincrash took your family hostage

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sweetsmellosuccess · 1 year

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Black Panther Live: Philadelphia Orchestra

Five thoughts on a fabulous Sunday afternoon with the orchestra at the Kimmel Center in downtown Philadelphia

The Kimmel Center is a wonderful place to hear the orchestra, but needs a larger movie screen. So much was wonderful about the experience of seeing Ryan Coogler’s 2018 film, which remains one of the high-water marks of the entire MCU, accompanied by the Philadelphia Orchestra, one of the world’s finest ensembles, along with world-renowned tama “living drum” master, Massamba Diop, that the one glaring downside — the Kimmel’s movie screen feels more than a tad small for the space its filling — stood out. The acoustics are grand, the seats comfortable, the space itself inviting and spectacular, so the lone weak link in the production was the screen, dwarfed, as it was, by everything else around it. It certainly wasn’t a deal-breaker by any means, but one could easily see how much more impact a larger image might have on the whole enterprise. I understand it’s not something the Kimmel does on a very regular basis, but still well worth looking into.

The film has aged powerfully, if not steeped in the tragic. There is much to love about Coogler’s film — so many scenes one could look forward to with anticipatory glee — but every scene, even the goofy camaraderie between T’Challa (Chadwick Boseman) and his kid sister, Shuri (Letitia Wright) — becomes shaded in somber tones due to Boseman’s tragic death back in 2020. It’s difficult to watch the film, even as joyful an expression of multiculturalism as it is, and not feel the weight of that loss (very much well-covered in the film’s sequel, Wakanda Forever, in which the loss of Boseman permeates every moment). All leading roles are designed to be central to a film’s focus, but Boseman’s generous warmth and decency powers the entire operation in such a way that you can’t imagine anyone else in the role (as evidenced in the sequel’s difficulty in trying to fill the Panther’s be-clawed boots). As good as Coogler’s film is — and, in the writing and storytelling, specifically, it’s among the very best of the MCU — it doesn’t work half as well without Boseman’s presence. I spent much of the film’s first act with tears welling in my eyes. He remains a tremendous loss.

Andy Serkis’ Ulysses Klaue is a fabulous villain, but Killmonger remains king. If the MCU indeed has a #villainproblem, Panther managed to offer not one great baddie, but two, and for totally different reasons. It’s easy to hate Klaue — a gregarious mercenary, filled with evil bonhomie and ruthless skullduggery (helpful that Serkis himself appears to be having such a blast in the role), who makes his nefarious living stealing precious items and selling them to the highest bidder, the world be damned — but Michael B. Jordan’s Killmonger is a whole other story. Ruthless, brutal, and terrifyingly focused, he is, as Martin Freeman’s character Agent Ross informs us, doing things exactly as he’s been trained to by the U.S. military black ops division. Killmonger’s point, that after centuries of suffering, it’s time for the racial hierarchy to be upended with black people on top, actually makes perfect sense, in any sort of just world, even if his methodology is aggressively savage. He’s such a compelling character, in fact, with pride, menace, and swag veritably dripping off of Jordan’s skin, it’s pretty clear Coogler, along with co-writer Joe Robert Cole, had to tip the morality scales a wee bit with Killmonger (having him threaten an innocent gardener, burn the sacred flowers to the ground so there can’t be any more panthers, and gut Forest Whitaker’s Zuri in cold blood, all while sneering contempt for the ancient ways of the Wakandans), in order to make the audience actually want him to lose at the end. To balance that balance, the screenwriters see fit to give him a hero’s sort of death, defiant, significant, and on his own terms. A lot of other actors would have withered against the powerhouse charisma of Jordan, but Boseman is well up to the task, which creates a spectacular dynamic between the two dedicated actors.

Having the live orchestra, along with Massamba Diop, adds an element to the excellent soundtrack. Honestly, I’m not normally one who terribly much notices a film’s score — at least, at first listen — unless it’s dramatically amazing or frustratingly distracting, even one as solid as Ludwig Göransson’s work for Panther, but having it performed as a separate entity, in harmony with the film, but not directly of it, sets it off from the screen just enough to allow iit hit with that much more force, enhancing the entire experience. On top of that, with the master showman Diop front and center of the orchestra, set off in his own booth, facing the audience, and leaping to his feet at key orchestral moments, it sort of bridges the gap between film and theater. It’s a spectacle that crackles with energy.

Seeing the film with a packed house of rabid devotees was a singular experience. The crowd was amped for this event, and I mean, they were loud, hype, and effusive. They cheered when the orchestra sat down, they cheered when the first violinist took the stage, they cheered when conductor Damon Gupton swung out, and they cheered wildly when Gupton introduced Diop, who came out in a shimmering orange robe/pants ensemble. They kept cheering throughout the film — when Okoye (Danai Gurira) answers as to whether she would cut down even her beloved (Daniel Kaluuya) in defense of her country by hissing “Without question!” the audience erupted in thunderous approval — and they kept a deep, respectful silence during Killmonger’s death scene. You didn’t hear any chattering. You didn’t see people checking their texts, or basketball scores. Everyone was there in respectful reverence to the film, which made for a glorious communal experience. This is why having an 85” flatscreen still can’t compare to watching a huge film in an enormous setting, amongst a throng of equally devoted true believers. There’s simply nothing else like it.

#sweet smell of success #ssos #piers marchant #films #movies #black panther #philadelphia orchestra #massamba diop #ryan coogler #chadwick boseman #michael b. Jordan #danai gurira #daniel kaluuya #letitia wright #damon gupton #Ludwig Göransson

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lunatic-fandom-space · 1 year

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Guess who just wrote a really long and detailed post in my notes app that I accidentally managed to delete. meeeeeeeee <3

So yeah, for better or for worse, heres a more condensed version of a very long post where I complain about 2000!Judas again that Ive written in like, two hours probably (I know that sounds like a lot but trust me, it isnt for me)

Basically, when I watched this version for the first time I thought the reason I didnt like this portrayal of Judas and thought he was really unsympathetic was because of the actor and some of the directorial choices made for his scenes. But then I rewatched it, paid closer attention and even made pretty detailed notes as I was watching like the nerd I am, and I realized that no, the direction is consistantly really good and does a great job at putting you in the characters head, which is a good way to get an audience to sympathize with a character, even for Judas' scenes. Heaven On Their Minds is a great example of this, here are the notes I took during the scene bc it took me days to write that original post that I deleted and I dont feel like rewriting stuff:

• At the start of Heaven On Their Minds: Judas singing directly at Jesus while theyre engulfed in blue but glowing orange before the apostles show up and the lighting changes to something more orange-y golden (signaling Judas snapping out of his thoughts about Jesus and back into reality) • At the end of Heaven On Their Minds: Judas stepping out of the warm golden light with Jesus and his apostles back into a cooler, blue-ish light to signify his disconnect with the others, wavering trust in Jesus

So, if its not the direction thats the issue, what is it? The actor? Well yeah, I think the actor is definitely the bigger issue for me here. idk if thats a hot take, I certainly dont think it should be. However, there are two big directorial choices that I have issues with, one thats very obvious and mostly concentrated in one scene and one thats a bit more 'spread out' so to speak and that I initially had some trouble pinpointing

The first and more obvious one is the Superstar scene. This song already has some tonal issues by virtue of being a funky disco song sandwiched between The Scene Where They Brutally Beat Jesus and The Scene Where They Brutally Crucify Jesus and having Judas be all smiley during it like hes happy about Jesus dying a slow and painful death only to get all sad at the very end when they actually start crucifying him does not help. Like at all. Its like they didnt get that Judas was meant to be like, frustrated during this song because it acts as an extension of his character throughout the musical, who was very frustrated with Jesus because he didnt understand him or why he did the things he did. Its also meant to be an expression of the audience's presumed feelings, since we, like Judas, just spent a long time with this guy and thought we kinda understood what his deal was only to then realize that no, we did not, actually.

Thats pretty much it, there is a similar weird kind of smugness and almost schadenfreude permeating the rest of this guy's performance as well, its just the most noticeable in that song

Now, Im gonna change the topic here for just a second because I think its necessary to talk about the costuming, specifically the colors of the clothes, to properly explain myself. Unlike the 2012 version, which did its own thing when it came to assigning colors to these characters, the 2000s version takes pretty much all the notable character colors from the 1973 movie. That means Jesus wears white, Herod also wears white which could be a way to visually connect them since Herod is referred to as king and seems to have some kind of special authority over jewish people even though he apparently doesnt have a lot of actual state power, kind of how Jesus is also hailed as king of sorts even though he obviously doesnt have any kind of stately power either ? idk, Im not analysing this further bc thats not what the post is about, Caiaphas, Annas and their three guys all wear black, Pilate wears purple (albeit a cooler tone than the 70s version thats closer to the purple the roman guards wore), Judas wears red and Mary wears red... in the 2000s version. She wears orange in the 70s movie

So, why would they change that when they otherwise changed very little about the costumes' colors? Im not gonna beat around the bush here, they were trying to emphasize the idea of Judas and Mary as foils and romantic rivals with Judas being the dark 'incorrect' "option" and Mary being totally morally good as a contrast. Think about it, Judas wears mostly black in this version with the red being closer to an accent color while Mary wears mostly red with black as an accent color, theyre wearing the same color scheme but inverted and Judas ended up with the darker and more menacing version of it (although I would argue its kinda hard to style the red-black combo as anything but edgy, vaguely threatening, vaguely sexy and seductive or a combination of any of those), Judas is a lot more physically aggressive towards Mary in this film which wasnt the case in the 1973 version (I havent rewatched the 2012 one yet and I dont remember a lot of the details but Im pretty sure he wasnt as physical in that version either), theres that weird bit right after I Dont Know How To Love Him where he inecplicably shows up to, idk, intimidate Mary? which then leads directly into Damned For All Time/Blood Money and the way its framed makes it seem like his betrayal was motivated by jealousy and some weird yandere-esque "If I cant have him, no one can" line of logic which is just weird. Like, I dont dislike this concept on the face of it, but they had no idea how to pull it off well

Actually, now that I think about it I feel like they work well enough as foils without any attempts to emphasize them as romantic rivals. Like, obviously Judas sings that little reprise of I Dont Know How To Love Him before his death but also his whole thing at the start of the musical was that he was turning away from Jesus while Mary's thing was that she was very close and loyal to him from beginning to end, like thats one of the things that Peter's Denial demonstrates right

Whatever, thats kind of it. I feel like thats a pretty abrupt ending to this but I dont care that much lol. In conclusion, although I love this movie for the direction and lighting I have a lot of shit to complain about, mostly relating to Judas and also this post ended up being a lot longer than expected, hope you enjoyed

#jesus christ superstar

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randomvarious · 1 year

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Today’s compilation:

Pebbles, Vol. 3: The Acid Gallery 1992 Psychedelic Rock / Garage Rock / Acid Rock / Proto-Punk / Garage Punk

OK, so, first there was the Nuggets series, which consists of the most heralded V/A comps when it comes to the vast expanse of 60s garage rock, and then, following in its footsteps, came Pebbles, which specialized in digging up far more obscure beauties than were ever contained on Nuggets. See, while Nuggets' forte was presenting hits and semi-hits from the 60s garage rock era, Pebbles understood that the true essence of garage rock was actually local; the music and its noisy ethos had managed to permeate just about every suburban crack and crevice across the United States, but the scenes were pretty insular. If you lived in Tacoma, for instance, the odds of you ever coming into contact with a piece of garage rock from a seemingly random place like Peoria, Illinois were probably close to nil.

But Pebbles, it seems, were at the ready to help ameliorate that issue. They dug deep into all sorts of places—even Europe—to uncover and eventually showcase gobs of disused and virtually unheard songs to a broad, national audience. That person in Tacoma was finally going to hear something groovy and/or crazy that was made *far* outside of their own suburbs that had never achieved much of any commercial success. And amateur bands who'd only made one or two records that had only received a few hundred pressings or so were finally going to get some long-deserved recognition! 🙌

Now, this third volume in the Pebbles series supposedly presents a slate of the most bizarre songs that the underground garage/psych/proto-punk 60s had to offer, but to be honest, I didn't find it *that* strange. Don't get me wrong, some of it's definitely way out there and far too deranged for my own liking (Adjeef the Poet's "Squafrech Lemon Comes Back," for example), but I'd say that, while a majority of them definitely wouldn't have fared well on a mainstream commercial radio station, they're also not as strung-out and clinically weird as you might be led to believe.

A lot of these, I think, while certainly mega-dosed on various combinations of acid, noise, fuzz, and buzz, would fit nicely within a regular 60s garage and psychedelic rock playlist. They'd probably represent some of the wilder fare on that playlist, but they wouldn't be far outliers on the gnarliest fringes of the garage rock spectrum; a little abnormal, sure, but not straitjacket material, at least for the most part.

There's definitely a Frank Zappa throughline with a bunch of these though. Teddy & His Patches take Zappa's own "Suzy Creamcheese" and as the liner notes say, "adds some Louie Louie." Then there's songs like the William Penn Fyve's "Swami," which pokes fun at the psychedelic crowd's glaring exoticist obsession with all things Eastern, and there's also Jefferson Handkerchief's (clearly some kind of play on Jefferson Airplane) "I'm Allergic to Flowers," which is a psych-pop tale about a guy who can't be a flower child because he's actually allergic to flowers. And it includes audible sneezes 🤧.

But I'm telling you, a good deal of these are just marginally strange and cacophonously fantastic romps. Crystal Chandlier's "Suicidal Flowers" sounds like an awesome Doors record, The Third Bardo's "I'm Five Years Ahead of My Time" brings this vocally braggadocio Jagger swagger, and Sweden's Lea Riders Group casts this coat of blues upon the plight of a Stockholm junkie, with a lead vocal that captivates with its tongue-tying rapid-fire delivery; all of it maybe a smidge offbeat, but none of it exceedingly wacky.

So, this was my first foray into Pebbles and I thoroughly enjoyed it. Looking forward to getting into more of this series someday, as it looks like there's 28 whole volumes of it! 😄 There's so much 60s garage rock out there and while I don’t have a huge collection of it, I also don't think I'll ever be able to have nearly enough of it either.

Highlights:

Teddy & Patches - "Suzy Creamcheese" Crystal Chandlier - "Suicidal Flowers" William Penn V - "Swami" Jefferson Handkerchief - "I'm Allergic to Flowers" Third Bardo - "Five Years Ahead of My Time" Lea Riders Group - "Dom Kellar os Mods" Beautiful Daze - "City Jungle, Pt 1" Catfish Knight - "Deathwise"

#psychedelic rock #garage rock #acid rock #proto punk #protopunk #garage punk #rock #classic rock #music #60s #60s music #60's #60's music

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mypoisonedvine · 3 years

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Seeing Red | bodyguard!Bucky Barnes x actress!reader (part 4)

(part 1) (part 2) (part 3)

series summary: bucky used to brag that he didn’t have a celebrity crush, or really care about famous people at all, which is what made him the perfect person to start working for a celebrity like yourself. except, of course, it’s just his luck that he’d fall for you.

word count: 5.3k

warnings: smut!!, overstimulation, oral f receiving, lots of dirty talk and begging, very very subtle d/s dynamics if you squint, slight angst??, awkwardness, pining

Bucky’s heart was racing as he tried to prepare himself for what was coming. It was never easy to watch that scene of you being fucked by somebody else— even if it wasn’t real, and even if it was technically your character that was getting fucked— but it was going to be an entirely new struggle with you a foot away, laying next to him on your bed.

“We only did two takes of this,” you remembered, talking over the conversation on-screen. The smash cut to you being shoved against a wall, lips fighting for dominance in a searing kiss, made you chuckle. “This we had to do, like, a million takes.”

Bucky’s hand tightened into a fist at the idea of you kissing this guy over and over. “I’m sure he was real broken up about that,” he grumbled sardonically.

“No, I promise he actually was,” you defended, “I was terrible. I kept laughing and ruining it, and it meant we had to keep starting over.”

That relieved some of his jealousy, hopeful that laughing meant you weren’t attracted to your co-star or turned on by filming a love scene. He still felt his heart clench as he watched your shirt get pushed up and two hands (both flesh, like he was showing off or something) grab at your breasts. Sooner than he was prepared for it, you were being thrown down onto the bed and moaning loudly, nails digging into his back as he stared down at you.

“I can’t even imagine how many guys have gotten off to this scene,” you shuddered.

I can’t believe I’m one of them, Bucky thought as he swallowed dryly. “What about the guys on set?” he wondered aloud. “Do they ever, you know, get…” he whistled and pointed his finger up straight, hoping it was enough to get the idea across.

You laughed, playfully shoving him on the shoulder. “They have tape for that, to keep everything down in case they get a little too into it.”

Glancing to the screen, he wondered how this guy didn’t pop the tape right off.

“Have you ever…?” Bucky pressed, heart rate picking up as he pushed the boundaries a little bit.

“Have I ever… been turned on, while filming?” you finished his question. “No,” you scoffed, sounding bemused and taking another swig of your drink.

“Why not?”

“I guess they’re just not my type,” you shrugged.

“Movie stars aren’t your type?” Bucky joked, but your answer was completely serious.

“Nope.”

He nodded slowly as he contemplated that, taking a moment to build up the courage to ask his next question. “What is your type?”

You smirked a little, and he wasn’t sure at all what it meant aside from the fact that he was done for. Whatever you were gonna say was sure to break his heart. “Tall, dark, not famous…”

He could so picture you picking up fans at bars; you must have no trouble at all finding guys to mess around with. Yep, totally heartbreaking.

“Good driver…” you continued, voice a little quieter and a little deeper.

Bucky cleared his throat anxiously. “I guess that rules me out.”

“What? You’re great; haven’t even blown any red lights or made illegal U-turns.”

“I mean, good drivers don’t eavesdrop on their passengers,” he explained, “especially when they’re with tall, dark, not-famous friends of theirs in the back.”

You laughed a little, half-lidded eyes looking him up and down. He felt very exposed under your gaze. “I didn’t mind,” you shrugged.

Oh god, oh fuck, Bucky’s mind raced, we’re talking about it. All this time and we’re finally talking about it. What the fuck do I say? “I still shouldn’t have—” he began.

“I wanted you to,” you interrupted firmly.

“You… wanted me to look?”

“Wanted you to do a lot more than that,” you admitted.

He looked back at you with wide eyes, entirely devoid of thoughts or words or ideas on what to do in the moment. Sure, it was pretty heavy flirting, but it wasn’t necessarily an invitation. You said wanted, past tense, it didn’t mean you wanted him now. Maybe you were just letting him know he missed his chance. If he did the wrong thing and upset you, he’d never forgive himself.

“Seemed like you were pretty satisfied with what he was doing,” he remembered, hearing the waver in his voice and cringing.

“Only cause I was thinking about you,” you grinned. “I do that a lot, actually. I’m just usually alone when I do it…”

He shivered as you shifted onto your side and leaned towards him, reaching across his body to set your beer down on the bedside table next to him; with you so close, he feared his heart would beat out of his chest. With the beer set aside, all you had to do was let your hand pull back to rest on his chest, and lift your leg up to rest on his, and you were straddling his side like it was the most simple, casual thing in the world.

But it wasn’t. It was the most insane thing that had ever happened to him. He looked down at you and blinked a few times, confident the hallucation would end but nope, he could feel the warmth of you radiating through his clothes, threatening to burn him alive.

“I’m usually in this bed, right here,” you continued slowly, and he had trouble keeping track of what you were saying with your finger trailing along his chest through his shirt, “warm under the covers, wearing a lot less than this, knowing you’re just a few rooms away and wishing you would come in here and touch me…”

"I’m here now,” he replied, just louder than a whisper. “Can I touch you?"

“Take off the gloves,” you requested softly. He was quick with the right one, but hesitated before removing the left— the moment of truth. Your breath hitched as the light caught the golden and black metal, and he winced.

“That bad?”

“No, no,” you denied, “it’s… sort of beautiful, actually.”

With you wrapped around his left side, it was natural for his right hand to move up your thigh. His left hand brushing against your face seemed to surprise you, though.

"I'm sorry, is it cold?" he asked gently.

"A little," you giggled, "but I don't mind."

Demonstrating how little you minded, in fact, you slowly kissed the tips of his bionic fingers, getting more and more adventurous until you were suddenly slipping two of them into your mouth and down past your throat.

"Fuck," he shivered, silently thanking whatever gods were out there that technology made him capable of feeling the wet warmth of your mouth on his fingers.

"Just skin everywhere else, right?" you smirked. "It's not a Swiss army knife down there?"

"Nope," he laughed, "flesh an' blood."

The blood aspect was especially salient as his cock filled so fast he thought he might pass out. Your hand slipped down and started to ghost over the front of his jeans, and he fought every instinct to keep from bucking up into your hand. You started to go for his belt but he sat up a bit.

“Wait,” he requested, clutching your shoulders a little; as soon as you looked back at him, he pulled you into a kiss, probably a little too aggressively but he was too pent up to care. After all this waiting, he actually had to hold himself back a bit compared to how he really wanted to kiss you. He moved his lips against yours slowly but with determination— and it was you, in the end, that started to slide your tongue along his lips until he opened them, giving him a chance to taste your mouth like he’d dreamed of for so long. Past the beer was the unmistakable flavor of you, and he was instantly addicted to it. His arms wrapped around you and held you close, one hand tangling in your hair a bit as you started to lean into his palm. Your hands clutched at his shirt, the warmth of your touch managing to permeate through to his skin, and he heard the softest moan from you right against his lips. It was perfection, and he would’ve been happy to stay like that forever if it weren’t for you sitting up to straddle him. He couldn’t decide if it was the sight of you on top of him, or the weight of your body on his, or the feeling of your thighs clenching a bit just above his throbbing cock— it was probably all three, but he suddenly became so needy for you that his head was spinning.

Still absorbed in the kiss, he reached down and gently pulled at the knot holding your robe shut, letting it fall open before pushing it off your shoulders slowly. You smiled against his lips and sat up, taking it off the rest of the way to reveal your entire nudity underneath. You’d think that he would’ve wished to be naked with you, and that certainly would’ve made a few of his ideas a lot easier to act upon, but something about your bare body compared to his covered one— something about your mound grinding on his jeans like that— drove him fucking wild.

“God, baby,” he praised with a purr, running his hands all over whatever he could reach. A movie could never do a body like this justice. It deserved to be appreciated and worshipped in person, which was exactly what he planned to do.

“Your turn,” you giggled as you leaned down, unbuttoning his shirt hastily. He was proud of the way you bit down on your lip as his skin was exposed, though he was also a bit embarrassed to reveal he was wearing his dog tags underneath. “A little more metal under here than I was expecting,” you smirked, trailing an errant finger over the silver chain. “There’s always more to you than meets the eye… what other secrets are you hiding, hm?”

Right now, he wanted you to have all his secrets. He wanted to give you everything. “I’ve wanted this for so long,” he admitted first.

“I don’t think that’s that much of a secret,” you smirked as you finished the last button.

He sat up to help you discard the shirt, shivering as your touch trailed over his chest, his abs; then his scars, and the rest of the arm. He used it to pull you down by your neck for another kiss, testing the waters by getting a touch rougher and letting more of his desperation seep through. You responded very well, your moans gliding from your tongue onto his as your hips started to rock on top of his. “Needy little thing, aren’t ya?” he gently mocked, smiling as he started to kiss down your neck and onto your shoulder. “Ridin’ me through my jeans, like a damn teenager dry-humping after prom.”

“Hnng, Bucky,” you choked, slowing down.

He grabbed your hips with both hands. “Hey, I didn’t say to stop.”

With a moan and renewed vigor, you moved faster on top of him, the rough denim clearly a bit too much for your sensitive clit as your thighs began to quiver where they were clamped down around his. The stimulation on his cock, alternatively, was rather dulled through such thick clothing— it was just enough to keep him desperate, but not enough to get him too near coming, which was the way he wanted it at the moment. If anything, it was the sight of you rubbing yourself on him desperately that put his restraint at risk.

“Can you feel how hard I am, baby?” he growled a little. “Can you feel how hard you make me?”

You nodded with a little gasp. "God, Bucky, I want it in me now."

"Not yet, pretty girl,” he soothed with a smirk. “I need to taste you first."

He flipped you onto your back and settled on top of you between your legs; he kissed you one more time, resisting the urge to rub his hips on yours again before heading down south to suck your nipple between his lips. You were so sensitive, moaning loudly each time his tongue circled the bud, and he moaned at the feeling of the skin hardening against his tongue. He made sure to give some attention to the other one before making a show of kissing down your chest and stomach, looking back up at you with a stare that he could only hope carried all the weight that he was feeling.

"I get it," you grinned down at him, "this is how you reclaim your territory. You're gonna do what he did to me, but so much better until I can't even remember his name, right?"

"Sweetheart, you didn't even remember his name thirty seconds after it happened,” he reminded you between kisses, moving lower and lower on the bed.

"So you're not trying to assert dominance over sexual competition?" you pressed with a gleam of challenge in your eyes.

"You need to stop reading those evolutionary biology books," he laughed, but then got a bit more stern. "Think of it this way: I don't see any of those stupid boys as competition. They're nothing. It's you who needs to know that nobody can make you feel as good as I can."

That seemed to shut you up for the moment, and he smirked before getting back to work kissing along your spread thighs and shaking hips. He could already smell your need in the air, intoxicating to the point that he struggled to stay focused on mercilessly teasing you. He wanted to taste you so bad, but he needed to hear you beg him for it. He started with one finger gently exploring your folds, slow and light, until he felt your hips trying to push up into him for more stimulation. Then all he had to do was kiss that spot right on the inside of your thigh that wasn’t quite where you wanted him, and you arched your back with a desperate whine. “Bucky, please,” you whimpered.

He laughed a little, amused by your little sobs and the way your hands clutched at the comforter beneath you. “Tell me what you need, sweetheart.”

“Your mouth,” you gasped.

“Where do you want it?” he asked innocently.

You snarled with irritation but answered anyway. “My pussy.”

“I don’t think I understand,” he encouraged, voice getting deeper on accident as his own arousal became too intense to ignore.

You growled frustratedly but got what he was getting at. “I need your mouth on my pussy, Bucky, please…”

“Well, why didn’t you say so, darlin’? All you had to do was ask,” he grinned as he roughly grabbed your thighs and buried his face in between them, sloppily exploring you with his tongue until your taste coated his mouth and overwhelmed all his senses.

“Fuck!” you yelped, shivering against him. “Oh god, yes, Bucky, oh my god…”

“Is this what you wanted, pretty girl?” he asked, pulling back just as much as he needed to to speak.

“Yes, Bucky, just like that,” you nodded wildly, “feels so good, don’t fucking stop, please—”

He dove in again, finding a pattern that allowed him to suck on your clit and push his tongue inside you simultaneously. That was the combination that seemed to rile you up most, your hands searching for something to hold on to until they suddenly found purchase gripping his hair, guiding him as your hips bucked against his face. That was fine with him— more than that, in fact, cause he thought it was so sexy when you demanded control like that— until you switched from pulling him in to pushing him away. That wouldn’t do at all; with a growl, he grabbed your wrists and forced them down beside you, holding them firm as he licked at you rougher and faster.

“Fuck, Bucky,” you sobbed, back arching so much that he had to fight to keep you in his mouth, “right there, right there— oh fuck, I’m gonna come.”

He nodded, but it wasn’t permission; it was ‘of course you are.’

Your walls clenched so hard that your entire sex was pulsing in his mouth, your taste getting stronger in the same way your moans got louder. He wanted to hold you there as long as you could, and that turned out to be quite a while; he stopped when your screams of pleasure started to push too far into pain, finally letting you rest… for a moment, that is.

He watched your panting breaths catch as he slowly pushed a finger into your hole; it was still pulsing a little bit from the orgasm, and was unbearably hot and wet.

"Fuck, this pretty little pussy is tryin' to suck me in, you see that? Wants me so bad…"

"M-more, Bucky, please," you whispered. He obeyed and slipped in a second finger, slowly twisting and trying to open you up for him.

"You like that, pretty girl?" he asked with a smile as he watched your back arch, returning to suck on your clit without waiting for an answer. He relished the weight of your thighs on his shoulders, taking mental note of where he had to touch you to make them clench around his head. You kept repeating 'yes' but he didn't think it was intended as an answer to his question because he was pretty sure you hadn't even heard the question. Still, it was answer enough nonetheless.

He could tell it wouldn't take that long to get you there again, with your g-spot all swollen from the last one. He didn't push too hard on it yet, just letting his fingers curl ever so slightly to apply a teasing amount of pressure.

"Don't you wanna fuck me?" you moaned between sobs.

His cock seemed to process that question before his brain did. "Yes," he answered quickly, even though he thought it was rude to talk with his mouth full.

"Then get on with it," you suggested desperately. "Come on up here and fuck me."

"I'm not done with this yet," he insisted.

Your head fell back as you hissed frustratedly through your teeth. "Damn you and your… thoroughness."

"No point in doing anything if you're not gonna do it right," he laughed. "Besides, I couldn't stop now when you're about to come."

You looked back at him for a second like you didn't agree with that assessment, until he curled his fingers again and your walls rippled erratically around him. "Fuck," you shuddered. “Please fuck me, please fuck me, please,” you sobbed, “I need it so bad, I need you inside me— Bucky, pleasepleaseplease—”

He growled against your skin, struggling to resist that but desperate to make you come just one more time before he gave in. His cock really hated that he wasn’t giving you what you wanted, throbbing and weeping another drop of precum just to remind him of his own desperation. But he stayed strong, focusing on his task as he felt your walls tighten around him with another orgasm.

You nearly screamed with this one, your voice breaking as your nails dug into the bed beneath you. You looked fucking perfect with your head thrown back in pleasure like that— and you tasted even better as a gush of your arousal coated his tongue.

He kept circling your bud with his tongue until you started to sob a little and try to push him off of you, “can’t take anymore, please—”

And he took pity on you, for once— or maybe it was moreso pity on himself as he sat up and palmed himself through his jeans. He was so hard it hurt, and you looked like you could tell by the way you looked up at him: a glimmer of mischief in your eyes, still, even with the way they’d glazed over a bit from coming so hard. “Get over here,” you purred as you sat up and pulled him down on top of you, kissing him again as your hands slipped down to clutch at his chest.

Of everything he’d imagined, he had never even thought to consider what it would be like to be undressed by you. Those nimble fingers fiddling with his belt, working open his fly and zipper with such unabashed desperation, like you needed him more than you’d ever needed anything… truly, it was intoxicating.

Then again, it was nothing compared to your hand slipping into his boxers and wrapping around his cock. He was sure he’d never gotten so much out of just one touch before, and he had to fight off the moan bubbling in his throat. Your hands were so soft as they started to gently stroke him; his hips moved of their own accord as they started to thrust into your grasp.

“God, I need you to fuck me,” you groaned, “please, Bucky, need it so bad.”

Entirely speechless as this point, all he could do was nod as he pushed your hands off of him, pushing his jeans off quickly so as to be away from you as briefly as he could manage— and then he was on you again, kissing you everywhere he could reach, moaning when he finally let his cock brush between your legs for a moment. Even just that and he was already coated in your slick: the rewards of demanding to be thorough, clearly.

“Please,” you sobbed, “put it in me, can’t wait any more, I’ve waited so long…”

It almost made him stop to think, because it was ambiguous if you just meant tonight or more. But you were begging him for his cock so he wasn’t really in any position to think.

So many times he had wondered if your real moans sounded anything like your fake ones from the movie. He fantasized for months about a chance to make the comparison. But with you in front of him, under him, biting down on your lip as he pushed into your perfect warmth, he couldn’t even remember that you’d ever been in a movie. He couldn’t think about anything else but this moment, right now, and he didn’t want to.

“God, Bucky,” you sighed, as if the two were being regarded at the same level in your mind— and he wasn't even halfway in yet.

Equal parts of him wanted to ease you into it and to tear you in half. You'd always ignited this paradox in him, this instinct to protect and to destroy, this desire to cherish you and dominate you, but it was most apparent now. It made him worry that he could never really give you what you deserved, but naturally, he was at his most selfish in this moment. He had only just begun to push himself into you and he was ready to justify anything to get the rest of the way and bury himself to the hilt.

Your body opened up to him slightly, enough that he felt mostly right about going a little deeper; you gasped and clutched at his forearm, and that was only just barely enough to stop him as a sick pressure of arousal made his gut twist. Oddly enough, your nails biting into his skin did more to egg him on than it did to slow him down.

He kept his eyes trained on where your bodies were joined, watching in awe at the way you looked stretched out around him; he could feel your struggle to take him in the way your walls quivered and quaked, but he could hear how much you enjoyed it as you moaned and gasped beneath him.

"I want it all, Bucky, please," you begged. Just because he needed to, he was rough with the last inch— not enough for it to be really brutal, but plenty to elicit a precious little sob from you.

It felt so good to be all the way in you that it nearly made him dizzy.

"Baby," you whispered, and it sounded just like the way you'd said it in the back of the car, just like the way he'd committed to memory and stowed away in his mind to visit whenever he needed to feed his addiction.

How could his chest not burn with jealousy when he remembered that night? How could he cope with that jealousy with anything but pinning you down and fucking you hard and fast like it was the end of the goddamn world?

You all but screamed as he did it, your whole body shaking as he pounded into you. He feared it would be more than you could handle but you went from wet to dripping in an instant, your moans loud and hoarse but undeniably a sound of pleasure. It turned him on even more to know that you liked getting fucked this hard; maybe he didn't need to worry so much about holding back, if this was gonna make you bite your lip and look up at him like that.

"Bucky, oh my god," you sighed, a hint of disbelief in your tone, "it's so good, fuck, you feel so good…"

He wanted to hear more, but he couldn't resist capturing your lips in a kiss first, sloppy and aggressive and needy but overall perfect. It was almost like he could taste your moans as they vibrated over his tongue, until he could barely tell his apart from yours anymore. Pulling back, his dog tags were dangling over your face, and you looked so damn good with his name tickling your skin.

When he lifted your legs and pushed them back up into your chest, you snarled and clutched at the sheets beneath you. "Too deep?" he asked, not sure himself if it was concern or taunting or somewhere in the middle.

"So fucking deep," you answered, "but not too deep."

"Then maybe I'm not deep enough," he smirked, and you laughed.

"You're trying to ruin me, is that it?" you pressed.

He was afraid to be entirely honest, but your tone wasn't one of fear. "Something like that," he admitted after a moment.

"It's working," you sighed as you pulled him down by the chain of his tags, kissing him again as your arms slipped around his neck and held him close.

His hands squeezed your thighs, before taking a detour to run up and down your legs. It made you shiver, and he felt it from inside you which was overwhelmingly erotic. The time he’d spent making you come so many times was paying off: for one, you were so wet it made him feel a little-lightheaded, but also it meant that he felt familiar with your body now. He knew what it meant when your walls tightened just so, when you bit your lip that way, when your moans sounded all breathy and strained. That being, of course, that you were about to come— and he couldn’t wait for you to come just from being fucked, make a mess all over his cock.

And yet, there was still so much more to discover: like how it felt when your legs wrapped around his hips to keep him inside, or when your fingers dug into his shoulders as you looked up at him.

“Gonna come,” you warned him with half-lidded eyes and your mouth fallen slack, “oh my god, Bucky, you’re gonna make me come.”

He growled and tightened his grip on your thigh— something to stabilize him as he fought so hard to stave off his own orgasm. You felt so good and he could probably come just from the sight of you like this anyways, let alone being inside you right now. Think about baseball think about baseball think about baseball—

“Yes!” you screamed. “Right there, oh fuck, Buckyyyyy!”

“Fuck,” he hissed, completely unable to think about anything but you, lost in the way you cried out his name as your walls fluttered and pulsed around him so perfectly.

Maybe he was disturbed for thinking you looked pretty with your eyes filling with tears. He was definitely disturbed for taking some pride in making you cry. Of course, only because he was making you cry from this. If he had it his way, Bucky would make you cry in only this way, every day, forever— and make sure nobody made you cry in any other way, while he was at it. You hiccuped your sob as he continued to pound into you, refusing to let up even as he leaned down to kiss away your tears. “S-so good,” you mumbled weakly, “Bucky… please…”

"Fuck, gonna come— I'm gonna come," he stammered his warning.

"Inside me, please," you whimpered, "I want it inside me."

"Jesus Christ," he hissed, shaking his head in some form of exhausted shock. You grinned, wrapping your hands around his neck and pulling him closer to you until your lips brushed against his ear.

"Bucky, I want you to come inside me," you repeated in a slow whisper. "I want every drop of your come in my pussy, I wanna be so full of you, I wanna feel it leaking out all night, I want you to make me yours."

How was he supposed to hold back anymore, with you talking like that? With you weaving your fingers into his hair and tightening your legs around his hips, with you kissing him deeply and suddenly? A weak moan was lost to your lips as he filled you, warmth washing over every part of him until he thought he might just melt. You smiled against him, and he summoned just enough strength to not collapse on top of you and surely crush you with his weight. Instead, he gave you one last kiss before burying his face in your neck, laughing exhaustedly.

"Mine, huh?” he remembered. “You really mean it?"

You hummed quietly, holding him tightly. "I probably shouldn't answer that question just after you made me come a dozen times."

"No no, you should,” he pressed as he pushed up to hover over you.

You smiled and looked back up at him. "I'm yours, Bucky."

He growled, leaning down to give your neck light teasing kisses. "Fuck, keep talkin' like that and I'll double that dozen."

"My body couldn't take it," you asserted.

"I'd make you take it," he promised.

You bit down on your lip, and he couldn't help but chuckle a little. You weren't as good at feigning innocence as you seemed to think.

"Oh, you like that," he posited. "Maybe someday I'll tie you down and make you come until all you know how to do is say my name, hm?"

"Bet it wouldn't even take you that long," you admitted. "I already feel pretty braindead."

Testing that theory, he reached down and drew light circles over your swollen clit with his thumb, even just that subtle touch making your legs and inner walls quiver as your back arched.

"Bucky," you whimpered as you tried to push his hand away, "s'too much, please…"

"Nuh uh, pretty girl, I wanna see you fall apart again. You know how many times I dreamed of making you come?"

You shook your head.

"Me either, but I wanna keep doing it until I feel like I've reached a number that at least comes close. I've finally got you in my arms and I won't let you go until I've made up for all the time I wasted."

Notably, his cock which had begun to soften inside you was now getting hard again, from some combination of watching you and feeling you in this moment.

“How do you feel about a second round?” he suggested with a smirk, even as his muscles ached already. Your eyes went wide but your walls clenched, too. That was answer enough for him. “I might break you,” he warned.

“Promise?” you smirked.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x you

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hualianff · 3 years

Text

Smol XL

Modern AU where HX comes home around one in the morning after his night shift at a restaurant known for its exquisite fish dishes. Even after taking a dinner break during his shift, HX is starving.

It takes HX several tries to jam his key into the lock before successfully stepping into his apartment. His numb feet carry him through the foyer, heading straight to the fridge.

On his way to the kitchen, the open space to the living room grants HX a view of his roommate HC’s head turned to the television. Some sort of rom-com mixed with martial arts plays on the screen—not what HC typically watches, but HX doesn’t care enough to think too much of it.

With a large yawn, HX opens the fridge in hopes there is something moderately tasty to snack on. The sweet and tangy smell of pork hits HX’s nose, surprising him. HC must have cooked tonight because there was no pork in the fridge this afternoon when HX left for work.

HX reaches for the container sitting on the shelf at chest level, inspecting the overflowing contents of pork, veggies, and rice. He is momentarily skeptical. It’s strange for HC to leave so many leftovers after cooking. It seems HC has left enough that HX can snag a portion. When it comes to his roommate, HX certainly takes what he can get.

After glancing at the lid, HX spots a small sticky note with elegant hand-writing: He Xuan ♡

(HX: 🤨)

HX turns to the counter.

There’s another container with semi-burnt cookies in the middle of the island.

(HX: 😲 )

Begrudgingly, HX scoops the leftover food and some cookies into a bowl to take to his room. On his way, HX is forced to pass by the living room. This time he is afforded a side view of the couch.

Sure enough, HC’s boyfriend is tightly wedged between his legs, leaning back against HC’s chest. A purple velvet blanket covers them both, combining their forms into one huge blob.

The couple doesn’t notice HX. Or at least, HC side-eyes HX for a split second before leaning his chin on his boyfriend’s shoulder, eyes glued back to the television.

HX shakes his head, then scurries into his room.

Even if HC is going to have XL over for dates and permeate the air with romance when HX is home, at least they always save food for him.

***

When HX gets up at a quarter till seven to brew his morning coffee, he’s met with the sight of XL cheerfully mixing pancake batter in just boxers and a t-shirt that is clearly HC’s because of the way it slips off one shoulder.

HX rapidly blinks as his eyes immediately locate all the love bites littered on XL’s collarbone.

“He Xuan, hi! Good morning!” XL exclaims, turning to face the taller man.

“Morning,” HX greets with a nod of his head. To distract himself from the physical evidence that HC is a goddamn leech, he rounds the counter until he stands beside XL. Out of politeness, HX asks, “What are you making?”

“Pancakes! I’m trying this new recipe that my mother sent me. They’re supposed to be extra fluffy and savory, and I’m going to add blackberries since those are San Lang’s favorite,” XL explains distractedly. HX assesses the bowl of blackberries, bottle of syrup, and whipped cream on the island behind them. “And don’t worry, I’ve made enough servings for the three of us and possibly extra. But that depends how hungry you and San Lang are.”

HX stares wordlessly at XL’s side profile as XL turns the stove on with a brief click! The shorter man holds his palm over the pan, waiting for it to heat up.

It’s safe to say HX is thoroughly touched, though he would rather not admit it. Despite his snarky comments, HC cares for HX with little things like doing his laundry or buying HX’s favorite snacks on a spontaneous grocery run. Then there’s XL who goes out of his way to strike conversations with HX to ask about his days and of course, cook for HX.

The two of them make quite a pair.

So here HX is, helping XL flip the pancakes while XL himself decorates the stack designated for HC. Once enough pancakes for the three of them have been cooked–half the bowl of batter left–HX picks his plate up, standing behind XL to wait for the toppings.

HX is in the middle of telling XL about this one customer who eats at the restaurant every week just to request that the head chef, which is HX, surprise them for their dinner order. It baffles HX to no end. What was the point of going to a restaurant and relying on the chef to decide what you’re going to eat?

“How can a person be so bold?” HX asks in disbelief. He tugs at the collar of his black t-shirt, itching at an area on his shoulder where his uniform slightly chafed the skin. XL laughs lightly, followed by the sound of whipped cream splattering out.

“Well, they certainly have your attention, don’t they?” he teases, flashing HX a smile over his shoulder.

HX jerks back at that.

“What? No, they don’t. Not like what you’re thinking. No. Nope, not like that-” HX rambles, narrowing his eyes at the shorter man.

“What’s their name?”

“...”

XL merely raises his eyebrows. HX exhales sharply, breaking eye contact with the devil’s counterpart.

“How could I not know? Their name is always on the receipt. It’s not my fault I’ve memorized it from seeing it so many times.”

“I never said anything was your fault. But…” XL trails off. He turns back to sprinkle some chocolate shavings onto HC’s pancakes. “Are they hot?”

HX outwardly scoffs. Seriously, HC is a terrible influence on his boyfriend!

(Little does HX know, it goes both ways.)

“What- what kind of question is that? Completely irrelevant. I’m a chef who does their job. I don’t care about a customer’s looks; I care about their tastes and whether they are sufficed by the food we serve. Nothing more,” HX insists.

He is unknowingly babbling at this point. He doesn’t know why his big mouth makes its appearance whenever he’s with XL. It just happens. Which HX will regret within a few hours. But it’s okay because no matter what HX has to say, XL is the type of person who will always listen.

Having at the very least one person like this in his life is not something HX will take for granted.

“-and it seems to work because they always leave generous tips, which I’m not complaining about-”

A raspy dominant voice asserts itself in the middle of HX’s monologue.

“Why the fuck are you talking to yourself?”

HX pauses his rambling, eyes rolling to the ceiling. This dickhead-

But before HX can turn around to respond with a defensive “fuck off,” XL’s entire body straightens up. With the plate of neatly stacked pancakes piled with berries, whipped cream, and chocolate, XL peeks his head out to the side of HX’s figure.

“San Lang! I made pancakes-!”

A startled choking sound snags in HC’s throat.

“Gege!?”

HX, in the middle of such a comical scene, can barely contain his amused smirk.

***

Bonus:

HC internally screams as XL settles into his arms for their movie night. He loves squeezing XL against his body. Hugging him from behind. Tickling him. Really, anything to get his boyfriend’s attention. (As if he doesn’t already hog most of it.)

XL alike loves being in HC’s arms. He loves listening to HC’s heartbeat while leaning back against him; loves feeling HC’s laughs reverberate against his chest.

Towards the end of the first movie, HC playfully pokes XL on the cheek. When XL turns his head around with an indignant expression, HC grabs his chin and places loving pecks all over those soft cheeks. XL instantly smiles, eyes curving into crescents from the affection.

HC quickly gravitates towards XL’s lips, pressing his mouth firmly against XL’s. Within seconds, HC’s grip on XL’s jaw tightens as he kisses his boyfriend with urgency, swiping a tongue against his bottom lip.

XL, gasping out a breathless: “Hmmph-! San Lngg-!”

Twenty minutes into their makeout session, the smoke alarm goes off. The couple breaks apart from the blaring beeping.

XL: “MY COOKIES-“ *leaps off of HC*

HC, winded as XL uses him as a springboard to jump off the couch: “OOF-“ *wheezes*

Raws:

XL IS SHORT ENOUGH TO NOT BE SEEN FROM THE BACK OF THE COUCH. HC’S FRAME COMPLETELY SHIELDS HIM.

XL IS SMOL COMPARED TO HIS TOL BF

HX saw the food and was like “yep, Xie Lian is definitely over, even if I can’t currently see him”

(Special thanks to @no-one-says-hi for contributing/listening)

#tgcf #heavenly official's blessing #hualian #hualian au #modern au #he xuan #xie lian #hua cheng #cerdrabbles #smol XL hours: OPEN #fluff #slice of life #implied beefleaf

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proseandpeonies · 3 years

Text

quieter than home, stevetony 1.6k oneshot

summary: steve and tony escape to a little no-name town down south and just breathe.

complete fluff piece that I wrote solely for myself as i was missing summer nights down south. i hope you enjoy. the book steve reads from is Less by Andrew Sean Greer

The air around them is cool and damp, but still tinged with the day’s warmth, ruffling through the curtains and carrying in the scent of magnolias and hot earth. The pages of his book flutter, once, twice, as a particularly strong breeze is carried through the open window, and on his stomach, Tony exhales deeply, his tanned face pressed against Steve’s bare torso.

Outside, the night is doing that peculiar phenomenon that Steve has only seen in the South, where the sky turns a million different colors, in a way that seems to break every rule of color theory, but always ends up in the same shade of purple when the sun finally falls behind the horizon.

The world is so much quieter here. That is an ostensible fact, as they are a thousand miles from their Tower in New York City, where even ninety stories up, the sounds of honking and news helicopters and thrashing noise permeate the air. But, to Steve it is so much quieter in so many ways.

Firstly, the town they’re in is small, made up of antique stores and little restaurants with waitresses that call you honey, and mean it. The house they’re renting is small, too, a two bedroom with so much natural lighting and white wooden floors that get warm from all the sun. There’s even a little tin-roof garage in the back, where Tony has a Triumph Spitfire tucked away, that was almost too small to put their bags in.

The town is small and quiet, with people who either don’t recognize them or are too polite to make a scene. The only person who actively sought them out was the chief of police, who asked with deep concern if there was something going on.

“I’m sure there’s nothing going on, Captain,” the older man had drawled, voice rich and slow, his eyes a brown deeper than Tony’s, “But I’m just wanting to know if we needa be on the lookout for something.”

“I hope not,” Steve had smiled, “We’re just taking a breather from the city, no Avengers business, I swear.”

The chief, in his deep blue patrol uniform, raised an eyebrow, “Long way for a breather, huh?”

Steve had just waggled his head and shouldered his bag of produce a little higher, “We needed a big breather.”

He and Tony had been trying to keep a low profile still, even though they were sure the whole town knew who and where they were.

He and Tony sleep in, now, something that had never happened before. Of course, ‘sleep in’ is relative, because Steve’s body is biologically incapable of sleeping more than nine hours, and Tony’s brain is incapable of shutting off for more than eight. But they sleep in, and Steve still goes for a run in the morning, but it’s later and slower. And Tony wakes up around when Steve gets back to their little white-brick rented home, and meets him at the door with a kiss almost every time. If Steve’s extra lucky, there’s even a cup of coffee that has been spared.

Tony will kiss him, then wrinkle his nose and tug pointedly at the hem of his sweat-soaked shirt, because even in the morning time it’s hot here, and if Steve’s been a really good super soldier, Tony joins him in the shower that’s probably too small for two grown men.

Now though, Tony is wearing a pair of what look like linen lounge pants, his bare feet propped up on the dresser at the side of the bed. Steve tears his eyes away from his book and smiles at the little red dots covering Tony’s feet.

“I told you to wear shoes out here, Tony,” Steve said, applying little dots of hydrocortisone cream to the red and puffy bites.

Tony huffed, his arms crossed across his bare chest in a way that would normally distract Steve if it weren’t for the damaged feet in his lap. The sun bakes their backs as they sit on the little steps that lead into the back yard, the oak trees whispering with the breeze.

“How the hell was I supposed to know that the ants would bite?” Tony exclaimed, one hand reaching down to scratch at a higher bite on his ankle.

Steve tsked and batted Tony’s hand away, “Don’t scratch, that makes them scar over.”

Tony groaned, wiggling his toes, “What kind of benevolent God puts biting ants on the earth? That alone has to be an argument against religion.”

Steve bit the corner of his cheek in an attempt not to laugh, dabbing more cream across Tony’s feet.

“What kind of super genius steps in a fire ant hill?”

Tony kicked him.

“How’s the book, darling?” Now-Tony asks, his words softened, as though he didn’t want to break the little bubble the silence of the evening had formed around them.

The only sounds are the creaky ceiling fan and the cicadas in the trees outside, who seem to scream in five minute intervals.

Steve takes the book in his right hand and curls his left over Tony’s waist, thumb brushing the soft, warm skin there. Tony sighs a little at the touch, a hint of a smile making the little crinkles around his eyes more prominent, and Steve aches with the need to kiss him, but he waits.

“Oh, it’s good,” he returns, just as soft, “a little sadder than I anticipated, I guess.”

Tony doesn’t open his eyes, which had drifted shut an hour ago, when Steve had begun to play with the soft curls of Tony’s hair, but he does make an inquisitive sort of sound.

“Read me a little of it,” Tony asks, eyes still shut, “Tell me why it’s sad.”

Steve feels his throat constrict for a reason unknown and gives into the need to kiss Tony, brushing the faintest kiss to Tony’s lips and tastes sweet tea.

Lazily, like a house cat, Tony opens his eyes and cocks a brow, “Is that a no?”

Steve laughs, and feels the breeze pick up again and cool the light sheen of sweat that had gathered at his brow with the night’s warmth, “No, sweetheart, not a no, I’ll read some for you.”

Tony perks up and curls further into Steve, his eyes saying, go on.

“‘Keep the habit, help the habit; lay out the coffee and poetry; keep the silence; smile when he walked sulkily out of his office to the bathroom. Take nothing personally. And did you sometimes leave an art book around with a thought that it would be the key to his mind?’” Steve cleared his throat , eyes glancing down at Tony, whose eyes had slipped back shut, but who was obviously listening. “‘And did you sometimes put on music that might unlock the doubt and fear? Did you love it, the rain dance everyday? Only when it rained.’”

Steve brushes his hand across Tony’s side again, enjoying the warmth of the muscle and the feeling of him at his side.

“I think it’s sad,” he began, but stopped. It wasn’t sad, the book he was reading wasn’t sad, but it was a little tragic at parts. “I think it’s tragic,” Steve amended, after a moment.

Tony nodded once, an invitation for him to continue.

“I think it’s tragic, because the main character, Less, doesn’t see the genius of himself. And I think it’s tragic to love someone so much and not get to keep them, even if you sacrifice yourself to have them.”

Tony opens his eyes and considers this, “That is a tragedy.”

Tony presses the side of his face against Steve and removes his ant-bitten feet from the rattan dresser, curling up. Steve watches the man at his side, the man with startling amounts of genius, like Less’s own Robert. But Steve’s genius, his husband, is different. Tony’s soft and sweet, and sure he can be an ass, but never when it really counts.

“I’m not that far in, though, so maybe it won’t be a tragedy,” Steve says, watching Tony’s big brown eyes as he blinks and yawns.

“Time for bed?” Steve asks, even though he’s not that tired.

Tony ponders this for a moment, and hums, eyes staring up at the high, white ceiling.

“I’m just a little drowsy,” he finally says, eyes having slipped back closed. “I’m never this lazy back in New York.”

Steve finds himself laughing, softly, because that was the whole point of this little breather.

“I like you sleepy and lazy,” Steve says, voice going low. And it’s true, he loves seeing Tony all soft with sleep, freckles coming out in full force from the heat of the sun. The light from the lamp on the bedside table turns him golden, a sculpture cast in bronze, and Steve itches for some paints.

“I like you relaxed.”

Hands made rough by decades of hard work and battles pull Steve down, against Egyptian cotton sheets that Steve thinks Tony brought, against warm skin and soft laughter, and into someone Steve thinks he’s spent his whole life searching for.

The cicadas outside their walls pick up their shrill cry again, thousands of little voices in the night. And it is quieter than it is in New York, with people who talk slower and smile wider and cicadas and fire ants and magnolias.

They’re slow that night, as they take each other apart and then rebuild. Tony’s voice, desperate and gasping at once, teasing and playful the next, can almost certainly be heard outside, in the loamy night.

Steve’s voice is louder.

#stony #stevetony #iron man #steve rogers #tony stark #mcu #capitan america #stony fic #stevetony fic #my writing

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kuroopaisen · 4 years

Text

imitheos. (oikawa tooru)

➵ oikawa barely recognises the god he used to be.

wc: 3.8k

warnings: gn!reader, greek god au, melancholia? angst? is that something to warn people about?

a/n: so this got away from me, and ended up half a character study, but,,, @kacchand (sorry for tagging this one but i couldn’t tag @kacchand-archive aa) thank you so much for the warm, lovely things you’ve said to me ever since stumbling across my blog, and for complimenting my oikawa specifically. it’s those sorts of compliments that makes me feel all soft!

Oikawa Tooru. He’s still not sure of the name. He never chooses them himself; they come to him, quite naturally, each time he assumes a new form. Each time he knits himself a backstory, he wonders what this life will bring. If it will be better than the last.

He hasn’t always been Oikawa Tooru. He’s been many other forms littered throughout history, recycling the same ego. And before each of those, he was Apollo.

Apollo had been a god amongst gods, deity of so much and so many. He could absolve men of guilt, gift mortals with the power of prophecy, balance their lives in his hands as he commanded the fate of their crops. Even the gods feared him, loved him, revered him.

But he is no longer Apollo. He is a whisper of him, a half-forgotten shadow.

His old name is everywhere. Rocket ships, theatres, philosophical concepts. He’s watched countless effigies to his old self shoot themselves into the sky, chasing a distance once thought unreachable. They always seem to take the light with them, blazing into the darkness.

But Apollo is just a name, now. Everything he used to symbolise seems to pass through him like white smoke.

It’s so hard to find the light in this endless winter.

Archery is just a niche hobby, now. Wars are won through other means.

Disease and the means to combat it are far past his sphere of influence now. Both continue to take on new and frightening forms that even he couldn’t conjure.

There is no space in this world for prophecy anymore. Such things are considered untruths, the trade of hackneyed swindlers masquerading as fortune tellers.

But poetry. Poetry refuses to die.

Sunday afternoon. The sky is already dark. Slam poetry night at a dingy little coffee shop. He’s sat in his usual spot, a dark corner that grants him a clear view of the makeshift stage at the back of the shop. It’s the best spot to melt away into, to become a true observer.

He’s not sure why he’s come here. The coffee itself isn’t particularly good, nor is the atmosphere of the place much to his liking. It’s a little dingy, reliant on weak oil lamps for light. He knows that it’s supposed to give off a retro vibe, but he thinks it just makes it miserable. There’s the smell of musk too, permeated through both wood and cushion.

But something is drawing him to this place. Something, beating against the fabric of the universe, is telling him that this is where he’s supposed to be.

He still doesn’t know why.

You smile at him from across the room, giving him a small wave. You usually work Sunday afternoons, right until close. He isn’t sure of your name, and usually, he wouldn’t care.

But every Sunday, you seem to take it upon yourself to fulfil his orders. Once upon a time, he would’ve been sure that it was his charm that induced you to do so; mortals often found it hard to resist the gods, after all. But he’s not so sure he can still claim that allure.

“You’re becoming a bit of a regular,” you smile, setting his drink down in front of him. Something made with honey, but he’s not sure what. He never pays much attention when he orders.

Oikawa raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“You’re always here on Sundays,” you nod, daring to meet his gaze. “But you’ve never performed yourself.”

Oikawa smiles. One person, at the very least, has noticed his existence. That’s as powerful as a prayer these days.

“I take it you’re a fan,” you remark, eyes scanning his face.

Oikawa nods. “You could say that.”

You smile. It’s small, and he wonders if it’s merely a nicety. “Of slam poetry in particular, or…”

Ah. Yes.

He wants to say it’s because he’s tired of typical poetry. Tired of all its embellishments and platitudes. Slam poetry is newer, younger, angrier. There’s a rawness to it, a rage that speaks to something more visceral in him. Pretty words are not enough anymore.

It’s an offering of something else, of a yearning he still struggles to place. It’s a call for something better, for change, for vindication.

But he won’t bore you with that. You’re just a waiter, making small talk to be polite.

“My preferences change often,” he shrugs.

He appraises you for a moment, clad in a button-up shirt and dress trousers, a charmingly small apron wrapped around your waist. He’s not paid you much mind before; maybe because he’s been looking too hard.

He once thought that this café was drawing him towards a modern muse, an echo of Melpomene. Or perhaps Erato? But it hadn’t been that at all. It had been a call to draw him to you.

For what, he can’t say. But this small moment, this little recognition in the back of a dingy coffee shop on a dour Sunday afternoon in the midst of winter, is the closest he’s felt to worship in aeons.

He fears, for a moment, that you might be Daphne. Or maybe Marpessa. He’s already lost another Hyacinth; not to death, but to the rhythm of life. The pull of a world to which Oikawa couldn’t follow. How long had it been since Hajime left?

Oikawa can’t say.

But he’s been so lonely. So faded.

Whoever you are, whoever you were, does not matter.

What matters is that you’re the first person in a very long time who can see him.

☉ ☉ ☉

“Back again,” you smile. Another drink with honey is placed in front of him. It’s the only thing he’s been ordering for the past few weeks.

He nods, looking up at you with a smile. He knows it’s dead behind the eyes, but he’s trying. He hopes, quietly, that the darkness will mask it.

“You must really enjoy the poetry,” you remark, looking over your shoulder.

One girl has just finished, face flushed with both nervousness and pride. She is young, perhaps barely seventeen, but with the fury of someone who knows too much about the horrors of the world. She’d done quite well by Oikawa’s account. He hadn’t derived much joy from it, but she certainly has potential.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, taking a sip of his drink.

“Do you prefer more…” You pause, brow furrowed as you search for the words. “Traditional poetry?”

Oikawa shakes his head.

Perhaps his tastes would err more to the modern, if he knew more about it. But the fact of the matter is that he simply doesn’t have a clue. Too much time spent with volleyball preoccupying most of his thoughts, and very little time keeping up with the artistic scene of the last decade and a half.

He can’t speak as an expert. But he can speak as the god who invented poetry, who gave mortals the means with which to express their magnitudes. A gift, he’d said. To turn the human experience into something beautiful. But was it for them, or for him?

“The anger is sincere,” he muses, “And they all seem to have poured their soul into their poems.”

You nod, smiling at him. “I wish I was that creative, at their age.”

He looks at you. You look about the same age he should be; twenty-something, maybe? Young, perhaps still in university.

You’ve been spending your breaks with him for a few weeks now.

He doesn’t mind; in fact, he enjoys the company. And, you seem to care about what he has to say, which certainly fluffs his ego.

Why you would care so much about an odd, discreet man sitting in a dark corner of a coffee shop is beyond him.

But he wants to know why. Know more about you. What you love. What you desire.

“What do you want to do with your life?”

The question is sudden, perhaps a bit invasive. It flies from his lips before he has time to reassess it, to craft it into something a bit less intense. He fears, for a moment, that it might scare you – that it might be a bit too much.

But you laugh, tilting your head at him. “That’s a bit of a big question, don’t you think?”

He smiles. “You must have some idea.”

You sigh, shrugging. “I’m not sure, to be honest. I need to survive university before I can start worrying about that sort of stuff.”

He hums.

“What about you?” You ask, polite smile gracing your lips.

He bites the inside of his cheek, his brows creasing. “Not sure.”

He might have dreamed of greatness a while ago. He would’ve chased volleyball, brilliant and vibrant as he was.

Who would have thought that Apollo would find his heart in something so coarse as sport? For a moment, however brief, he’d felt like he might be able to shrug off this immortal shackle. To exist for himself, and not as a mere echo reliant on mortal belief. To maybe, finally, have a chance to live as he wanted to, dictated by his own desires.

That last spark of vibrant humanity had spluttered out the day they lost that one fateful match.

He had wanted to chase his own dreams, the tangible passions he’d discovered as a mortal. He hadn’t wanted to be this, a pathetic half-god that was fading into the grey. But that was the trappings of his dying godhood �� a life half-lived, a dream unfulfilled. Where would he be, if he had been able to take on the world as Oikawa Tooru?

Happier, he supposes. Though, he can’t be sure. Because maybe this early evening, grey and cold and bitter, almost tastes like happiness. Almost. And he knows why.

☉ ☉ ☉

There’s a glow to him. He doesn’t notice it; he’s been brighter in the past, blindingly radiant. He was once considered the most beautiful of the gods for a reason.

But to you, this distant, peculiar man is beautiful. There’s something of a fallen giant to him; is he the sort of person whose glory days has long since passed? Had he been a high school hero maybe?

There’s something else to him, too. Something strange. Something esoteric.

You don’t quite know how to explain it.

It’s like he’s asking – no, begging someone to acknowledge him. To breathe new life into him.

And for all his strange, aggressive indifference, there’s a little flame in him. One that seems like it’s been burning for centuries, too stubborn to flicker out.

You haven’t missed how it’s getting brighter.

He only comes in on Sundays, staying from three until eight. If his prolonged presence bothers your co-workers, they don’t mention it.

Perhaps it’s silly to be so fascinated by a complete stranger, especially one that simply sits in a corner and watches. Perhaps it is even sillier to spend your breaks with him. But it’s as if you can’t help yourself; something pulls you towards him, even if you don’t understand it.

“What about the Greeks?” You ask one evening, sitting next to him in his booth.

His smile is bemused at best. “What about them?”

“Well… they’re classics,” you muse, “Are you a fan, or…?”

“Homer can suck my dick,” Oikawa grumbles. He never quite forgave that man for the unflattering portrait of his godliness.

You laugh. There’s an echo of a lyre in it. He wonders, for a moment, what you might look like with a laurel woven through your hair, smiling on a Pierian coast in the height of a blistering summer.

He doesn’t let his mind wander too far.

“I’m not really one for poetry,” you murmur, looking down at your hands.

“Is that so?” Oikawa smiles, taking a sip of his coffee. It’s lukewarm after sitting on the table for so long, but he doesn’t mind.

You shake your head. “I find it difficult to wrap my head around. It makes me feel kind of stupid.”

He nods. He used to understand poetry so well – in the darkest of nights, it was often the only thing he understood. It used to be laced with his very being, threaded through his body like veins. But now, it just fills him with bitterness.

“I like the classics, though,” you smile softly, playing with your fingers. “There’s something about the simplicity and straightforwardness of the language that appeal to me. And, I don’t know…” You bite your lip. “Some emotions seem to transcend time and culture. And some of the classics are so… raw. So… human.”

‘Human.’ He gazes at you, that word in particular playing over in his mind. There’s some truth in the classics, he supposes. Something in them that echoes across the centuries. But he’s been around far too long to care for patterns and parallels.

“Sorry,” you blush, smoothing your apron. “I must be boring you.”

“Not at all.” Oikawa shakes his head, leaning towards you. He takes another sip of his coffee. It’s cold now. “So, you’re a history buff, then?”

Maybe you are Clio, after all.

You shrug. “Only ancient history, really. But I haven’t read as much about it as I should’ve.”

“Are you a fan of the myths?” He asks, a playful lilt to his voice. He knows you won’t get the joke, but he doesn’t mind.

“Some,” you nod. “Why?”

“Know any about Apollo?”

“Apollo?” You smile. His old name sounds like a melody on your lips. “As in the god?”

“Sure.” Who else could he mean?

You pause for a moment, pressing your lips together. It’s a beautiful silence.

“Have you read Plato’s Symposium, by any chance?” You ask, gaze meeting his.

He nods. He doesn’t mind Plato; the man had been grateful for the gift of music, after all.

“There’s a story in it I really like,” you murmur, eyes turning towards the roof. “Well, it’s more of a myth, but… it’s the one about soulmates.”

“Oh?”

“Do you know it?”

“Vaguely.” Of course he knows it. He just wants to hear it retold in your voice.

“Well, alright,” you clear your throat, sitting up a little straighter. “There were three kinds of humans, descended from the sun, the earth and the moon. All had four arms and four legs, two faces, et cetera. But, the gods felt they were too unruly and powerful. By Zeus’ count, this was unacceptable, and he wanted to humble them.”

Oikawa hopes his expression is neutral enough. How is Zeus? Is he still around?

“Instead of simply destroying them, he split them in two,” you continue. “And that made us miserable.”

Your use of the word ‘us’ intrigues him, but he wants to save his questions for later.

“But, Apollo took pity on us,” you smile. “He decided to patch us up, and shape us into, well… the form we have today. The story goes that our navel is where he sewed our broken skin together. But he turned our heads around to what had once been our back, so we’d have to look at that mark as a reminder of our punishment and how incomplete we are.”

It does not matter to him if there is any truth in this story. Regardless, it certainly sounds like the folly of the gods.

“Once we were split, the two halves were flung to the far ends of the earth. From then on, each of us yearns with both body and soul to be reunited with our other half.” Your voice is so lyrical, so comforting. It is, perhaps, the closest thing to music he’s heard in a while. “Those of us who are lucky enough to find them supposedly know no greater joy. We’ll never feel so understood, so complete. Most of us though, will never know that joy.”

Perhaps the gods didn’t deserve the reverence they got. Perhaps they really had been tyrants, all along. But then again, there was little love between gods and mortals; if anything, worship was simply a reflection of the fears the divine inspired.

A new question itches at the back of his mind.

“Do you believe in life after death?” He asks.

You blink at him, eyes wide and round. “Well, I… I don’t know, really.”

He knows it’s a heavy question. He knows that he didn’t prepare you for it, and that it’s only tenuously connected to the conversation at hand. But, he always found that people were at their most honest when they were caught off guard.

“I don’t like thinking about it,” you admit, looking down at your hands. “It makes me all existential.”

Oikawa nods. Most humans react like this.

The relationship between mortals and death has always fascinated him. Fear, loathing, regret. It’s all bundled together. Sometimes, there is comfort. Sometimes, there is a sense of calm. But it is never easy to face the unknown, after such a brief stint of being alive.

It’s something he cannot understand in this existence of his that stretches itself thin across the millenniums.

What is death to a god? He imagines it must be something like relief.

☉ ☉ ☉

“Do you write yourself?” It’s a little question, one he knows was coming.

He doesn’t know how to answer.

You sit next to him in the lamplight, eyes sparkling as they always do. If he was more human, maybe he would compare them to the stars. Or perhaps the ocean after a storm. But he is not human, much less a poet.

How does he say that he’s never needed to? That his patronage, his presence alone was enough to inspire those classics you so dearly love? That he himself has never put lyrics to the human experience?

He has always been a god. There is no beauty to his experience; only in those small pockets of human intimacy he’s been granted across the centuries. There is no beauty to the life of a god – only fire, and fury, and hubris. Even his body is unlike yours; he has no heart, and he bleeds ichor.

“Not really,” he shrugs. It’s all he can say.

“‘Not really’ implies that you write at least a little,” you smile, leaning towards him.

He shakes his head. “I didn’t really have time to do something like that.” He pauses for a moment. Should he tell you? Should he reveal more of himself than is maybe wise? “I played volleyball in high school.”

“Oh, really?” You ask, tilting your head at him.

“I was good, too,” he sighs, brow furrowing. “But my team never made it to nationals.”

“Oh.” You look genuinely sad. “I’m sorry.”

He shrugs. There’s little else to do.

“I wanted to go further,” he admits. The lamplight casts a long shadow on his face, each feature soft and delicate as marble.

Each form, each reiteration, wants more.

So much of what he’s done this time doesn’t echo the traditional Apollonian figure. There is no art, this time. No song.

There was drama in sport, but it was different. It had filled him with a passion he’d never felt before, beating in his chest just like a heart would. It provided that rush of adrenaline, the brutal awareness of the importance of just one moment. Eternity stretches on forever for a god, but a game must end. Perhaps, in some way, death is very much the same.

He wants that closure. That passion for the now.

Now, more than ever before, he wants to be mortal. To lose himself in the storm that is being human – he wants it all. He wants to let go of the god he no longer is.

Where does Apollo end? Where does Oikawa Tooru begin?

☉ ☉ ☉

Time is passing again. Each day is over before it’s even begun, slipping through his fingers like a lucid dream. A heartbeat that isn’t his own thrums in his ears, quick and loud and frantic.

And yet, he finds himself outside the coffee shop, standing on the curb. You’re next to him, hands dug deep in your pockets. He’s arrived earlier than usual, catching you right at the beginning of your shift.

There’s something he wants – no, needs to say. Something that can’t wait.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, looking up at the sky. It’s pale, a shade found in-between blue and grey. A perfect winter sky, one you might find on a postcard trying to capture the beauty of the season.

Something is pressing on his chest, heavy and immovable. It feels like a goodbye.

“What for?” You laugh. It really is a delightful sound.

Where to begin? You couldn’t possibly comprehend it. Nor would you believe him. If he speaks too frankly, you may not remember him fondly.

“For the coffee,” he says.

There’s more he wants to say. Something about how, maybe, in another life, there could have been something more between the two of you. Something quite beautiful.

But he knows it’s wiser not to speak that into being. If you feel even a modicum of these emotions, then silence would be an act of kindness.

“Are you… going somewhere?” You ask, all signs of levity gone from your face. He regrets speaking at all now.

“Something like that,” he murmurs. It’s the closest he can get to the truth.

A long silence ensues. Oikawa doesn’t know if he should try to fill it; perhaps he should just let it sit for a while? To enjoy this little moment with you, standing with you in front of a dingy coffee shop on a dour Sunday night in the midst of winter.

Because this moment cannot last. Because nothing can.

“Well,” you clear your throat, eyes lingering on his face, as if you’re committing each detail to memory.

He smiles at you. He’s not aware of it, but it’s almost blinding. It brings a warmth to his face that you’ve never seen before, a warmth that makes him so striking, so beautiful, that you know you won’t be able to find the words to praise it.

“I hope I’ll see you again,” you murmur. It’s the best you can manage, keeping your feelings in your heart as best you can.

“Me too.”

He means it.

It’s time to go. Where, he’s not sure. But, with all the courage he could muster, he turns his back to you, making his way down the street.

There’s a space in his heart for fear. But it’s empty. Whatever’s coming, whatever’s about to change – he’s ready for it.

He welcomes it.

☉ ☉ ☉

He opens his eyes. He’s tangled in blankets; his own, or someone else’s?

One thought.

My name is Oikawa Tooru.

In the haze of a Sunday morning, he knows nothing else. His eyes flick to the blinds as they flutter with the wind that whispers through his window.

The light floods in.

It’s finally spring.

#oikawa x reader #oikawa tooru x reader #oikawa toru x reader #haikyuu x reader #oikawa tooru #oikawa x you #oikawa imagine #oikawa tooru imagine #haikyuucreations #this was a labour of love #it's different from my usual style but i enjoyed it

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an-xmen-side-blog · 3 years

Text

Way of X #1 review

Spoilers

..............

The issue mostly involves Kurt going about business on Krakoa and pondering things. Things like death, resurrection and crucible. There's a focus on how while Resurrection and Crucible make sense logically, there's still some creepy vibes, it feels a little bit wrong. Kurt can't justify why it's wrong for Pixie to throw her life away so casually, but he feels it is wrong. And he's unsure if he's the problem or if he's the only one noticing them. There's no objective standpoint here either, the reader feels just as uncomfortable as Kurt during the crucible scene, which is far more brutal than the ones we've seen sofar. But the results speak for themselves, Magneto puts it well when he says 'nothing hurts more than a life of submission'. That's an underlying message I know lots of people resonated with during X-men #7 and it's cool to see it printed here. And the mutant is in one way better off having gone through crucible, she is no longer in chronic pain and she can use her mutant gift. But everybody around her vomits now, so I can imagine we may see her again down the line to see if she really does feel better now, or is the pain just emotional rather than physical now?

Nemesis has a great voice in the issue, as he did as a side character in Spurrier's X-Force run. We find out he was behind developing the krakoan medicines and flowers we've been seeing throughout this whole era, and he has founded a science corps where he's in charge of everything except the law/ethics laboratory (which is vacant without him to run it). Even in his data page about crucible and resurrection leading to a new evolutionary mechanism he says things that are a little red-flag-y with such a casual demeanour. Nemesis is a very callous, arrogant and apathetic person who despite those traits most often ends up on the good guys side. He's also sporting a new look, ditching the mask and hat for a beard and psychadelic mushrooms.

All throughout the issue the patchwork man's presence is felt, the children of krakoa tell stories about him and he's seen in the shadows and its unclear what's folklore and what's real. What is certain is he is present and he is up to something. While his true identity was predictable, it certainly wasn't disappointing. I absolutely love when seeing a twist coming doesn't lessen its impact and Spurrier does that so well. I was expecting Legion to be used as he normally is, as more of a plot device than a character. That the patchwork man would turn out to be David out of his mind and as much in need of help as the people he's hurting. I'm very surprised to see David seems to be in control, and doing whatever he's doing of his own free will. Spurrier is one of the few writers to really dig into David's personality and motivation and use him beyond just being a problem for the main characters to solve, so I'm excited to read about what David is actually up to and why in future issues.

Additional notes

-It's interesting to see the orchis data page from S.W.O.R.D #3 come back and permeate multiple books, this makes me more interested in watching it become unredacted

-Doctor Nemesis' Science Corp data page is hilarious. I hope it's going to come back and be linked to stuff we see in the story and it's not just a one off joke

-a lot of the data pages are excerpts from 'the book of [REDACTED]' that tell the story from nightcrawlers pov parallel to what we see on the page. They act as sort of a future narrator and are presumably from some sort of mutant holy text nightcrawler has yet to write.

Overall: 5 star issue. An amazing start to a series with some pleasant art that starts to discuss questions we've all been thinking about throughout this era. It has a good grasp of its characters and a good range of emotionl moments varying from shocking to humorous.

#Way of x #Nightcrawler #Doctor nemesis #Simon spurrier #Si spurrier #Kurt wagner #James Bradley #Legion #David Haller #Nat's review tag

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villainousshakespeare · 3 years

Text

Putting it Back Together Chapter 4

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3

Adam/OFC

Rated M (will probably change to E) - Grief, angst, eventual smut, mention of characters dead before the start of the story, blood, slow burn, touch starved

Summary: Since the death of his beloved Eve, Adam had been barely living, only alive due to a promise he made to her. Then one night he meets his new neighbor, a woman dealing with grief of her own. Will they help each other heal or drive each other crazy?

@yespolkadotkitty @just-the-hiddles @hopelessromanticspoonie @wine-and-whines @arch-venus25 @caffiend-queen @devilish–doll @enchantedbyhiddles @hiddlesholic @i-do-not-fangirl-i-fanwoman @kellatron55 @ladyoftheteaandblood @latent-thoughts @gorgeous1974 @maryxglz @myoxisbroken @nuggsmum @nildespirandum @pedeka @redfoxwritesstuff @sinfully-lustful-darling @vodka-and-some-sass @wrathkitty @kingtwhiddleston @wolfsmom1 @poetic-fiasco @shiningloki @dangertoozmanykids101 @bookworm-christina @thecutestlittlebunbunfairy @amwolowicz @delightfulheartdream @frostbitten-written @what-a-flammable-heart @tom-hlover @nonsensicalobsessions @myraiswack @loki-yoursaviourishere

This had not been part of his plan, Adam thought as he switched on a lamp and cringed at the disaster that was his livingroom. Instruments and musical equipment were strewn all over the place, wires and amps just waiting to trip the unwary or uncoordinated. Which, by everything he had observed so far, definitely included his companion.

"Sorry for the mess," he mumbled, clearing a path to the sofa with his foot.

"Don't be," Lilly smiled, looking around with avid interest. "It's exactly how I envisioned it!"

"Great," Adam rolled his eyes.

"Not that I've been envisioning it," she blurted out, face turning scarlet. "I just meant... well, if I thought about it at all, which I only did because I could hear you so clearly over here... and what with all the clattering around..."

"You expected it to be a wreck," he finished for her as he swept a collection of books off of the ancient sofa and onto the floor.

"It's cozy," she said lamely.

"If you say so. Sorry I don't have anything to offer you except water to drink. I don't entertain. Ever."

"Water would be perfect," she smiled encouragingly at him, as though he were a toddler displaying acceptable manners in company.

Which, he supposed, was about right. Fuck, he wasn't even sure if the water here was potable. He had never drank any of it, of course. He only used the kitchen sink to wash the cordial glasses from which he drank his blood. Fetching a slightly larger cup that he had found in the cupboard when he moved in and giving it a quick clean, Adam let the water run for a few minutes to help clear out the pipes. It didn't look too contaminated; he hoped he was not about to poison her.

"Here," he walked back to the livingroom and thrust the glass into her hand. "No ice, freezer doesn't work."

"I'd say you should call the super, but I guess that doesn't work if you're the owner."

"It doesn't really bother me," he replied with a shrug. "I'll fix it myself eventually."

"After all, you don't have guests," she said impishly.

"Right."

"Perfectly drinkable," she judged after taking a sip from the cup.

"Good. Now, let me see if I can find that tape player."

That was what she was doing here, after all. Why his invitation had popped out he could not fathom, much less how he had ended up bringing her back here that very night. At least this way he could limit the time he spent with her, he supposed. It was already two in the morning; not long until the sun began to approach the horizon and he would be forced to show her the door whether he wanted to or not.

Glancing over to where she lounged on his sofa, he was not so sure what the decision would be on that one. Her legs, stretched out on the cushion, were quite shapely despite her petite stature, and the red top just invited one to run their hands over it to feel the silky material and the lush curves underneath. And then, of course, there was her neck, long and white and begging to be bitten.

Adam swallowed and turned away. He could not help but think of the last time he had had a mortal in his home, though it had not been this one. Ian, his supplier of instruments and all around procurer had been almost a friend, if a zombie could ever be thought so. He was sweet and harmless, and Adam had a genuine affection for him in a distant sort of way. It had been a horrid shock to walk into the room one night after sun set and see the young man sitting lifeless on the couch, blood drained from his body and drying on the face of Ava, Eve's feral sister.

Adam had always hated Ava, and that night had been the last straw. It was also the beginning of the end to life as he knew it. Within hours he had tossed her out on her skinny ass, disposed of poor Ian's body, and was on a flight with Eve to Tangier, where she was destined to drink tainted blood and die. All because Ava had sucked Ian dry. All the more reason to hate his late wife's bitch of a sister.

Still, looking at Lilly stretching herself out, he could understand a little better how Ian had come to die. Ava had whined to them about how cute he had been, how she couldn't resist. At the time he had scorned such a thing as a pathetic lack of self control. He still did to a large extent, but at last he knew the urge. Not just the urge to feed, an impulse they all shared, but an urge to take a human in such an intimate embrace. When Eve was alive it would never have occurred to him, he had had her for such connections, he needed no one else. Now though, alone and untouched for years, he longed to feel Lilly's smooth skin against his mouth, to hear her gasp and sigh as he ran his lips over her neck.

Not that he would ever drain her, of course. He was not such a monster. He would not even drink from her. To do so would expose his true nature, and that would mean relocating again, as well as putting her life in danger.

No, he would do her this one favor, and then he would return to seclusion. He would make sure that he left through the basement when absolutely necessary so that she did not hear him, would otherwise stay inside so that their paths would cease to cross. It would be better for them both.

"Here it is," he mumbled with satisfaction. "Give me a moment to set it up."

"Take your time," she said happily.

Glancing over, Adam saw that she had given up lounging and was now coiling up all of guitar cables into neat rounds. He had to admit that she did a good job - they were neither too tight so as to damage the wires nor too loose so as to unravel as soon as she walked away. With a shrug of his shoulders he allowed her to continue. The cables could use sorting, and he was certainly not inclined to the task.

"Sorry," she said with a blush as she caught him staring. "I warned you, I fidget. I seem to always need something to do with my hands."

He could think of several things she could do to keep her hands busy, he thought. God, what was wrong with him? Was he really so touch starved?

"Where's the tape?" he finally asked

She leapt up from where she had been sitting, breasts bouncing as she did, and almost reverently handed him the box containing her Grandmother's recordings. Adam turned back around, discreetly adjusting himself as he did. He carefully placed the spool in his machine, grateful for something to occupy him until he got himself under control.

After a short series of clicks and static while the tape began to unreel, a scratchy blare of a trumpet began to waft through the air, soon joined by a piano and soft brushes on drums. Adam was taken back to a different era. A time when he had circulated more among the general population of humans. Women wore dresses and hats, men suits and ties, and a sophisticated style permeated the music scene. He had forgotten how much he enjoyed that era, the end of the 40s and beginning of the 50s. Between his excitement at the recent technological advances and his nostalgia for the old days of the height of classical composition, Adam sometimes forgot the joy and sorrow, the feeling that jazz could evoke.

When the voice, low, smooth, and heavy with emotion, slid in like honey, he looked instinctively to Lilly. Her mouth was open, shaped with a hint of smile at the corners. Her eyes blinked quickly, struggling he was sure to hold back tears. This would be the first time, he supposed, that he had heard her Grandmother sing since she had died. Even without the connection to the woman, Adam himself was moved by the song. He was struck by how strong Lilly was being, listening and holding back her tears.

Moving one step towards her, Adam opened his arms. With a catch of indrawn breath Lilly took two steps of her own and for the second time buried her face against his chest. It was so different thought, he thought as his arms came around her. That first night on the roof, she had been some annoying zombie woman, pushing herself in where she was not wanted. Her blubbering all over him had been almost violent in the way she sobbed and clutched at him. Now, she simply melted against him, and he gently stroked her back as he rested his chin on the top of her head.

The song ended and another began, this one he remembered. It had been a huge hit, still was sung every so often, covered by lesser vocalists. Lilly's Grandmother was not one of those. She was a true artist.

"There's a somebody I'm longing to see, I hope that he turns out to be Someone to watch over me..."

As the music continued, Adam found himself swaying to it, bringing Lilly along with him. She was stiff at first in his arms when he began to dance with her, but when she realized what he was doing she relaxed and allowed herself to feel the rhythm. She would never be a natural dancer, and she was clearly still in her head, but there was something sweet about that. She tried so hard at everything. Tried to be strong, tried to keep busy, tried to learn, tried to be happy.

When was the last time he had been happy, Adam wondered. When was the last time he had even tried? Not since Eve, certainly. Before that, he was unsure. There were moments, of course, even at the end with her when he had been so. He loved her with an enduring passion. But he had been going through the motions for decades, shutting himself off from the world around him. Ian had been practically his only connection to it.

Pulling back a bit, he spun Lilly about and half smiled at her. It felt strange to smile even that much. Muscles he had not used in forever only half remembered how to work. He had always had a brooding nature, but of late it had become harsh even for him.

They kept dancing until the tape ended, adjusting to the tempo and style of each song. It felt so good to lose himself in someone else's music for a change. To hold someone, to connect with someone. She was right, what she had said earlier that night. Music required no discussion, no messy dialogue. You could just feel it, let it move through you. And where there was someone else there, someone who even if not a musician herself clearly had an ear and more to the point a soul for it, to share it with it could be a profound experience.

When at last the song ended, Adam and Lilly's eyes met and something deeper than a smile passed between them. It was sad and joyful and required no words. They both collapsed on the sofa, Adam pulling her into the crook of his arm as he sat sprawled and tired. Lilly's legs were curled under her and she rested her head against his chest. He could feel the rise and fall of breathing, fast at first from the exertion of dancing, begin to slow. It was some time later that he realized she had fallen asleep on him.

How strange, he thought, that she should be so comfortable with him that she could so easily drift off. He had perfected the art of scaring people off, and yet this tiny woman had tenaciously refused to be run off. She seemed to trust him, even, had shared something deeply personal with him.

The sun would be up soon. He should wake her, he knew. Yet, looking at how peaceful she looked he could not bring himself to do so. Gently, Adam slid out from beneath her, lowering her head down onto a convenient throw pillow. He foraged about until he found a blanket on an armchair and draped it over her, tucking her in. Lilly sighed and burrowed deeper into the sofa, a light sigh escaping her lips.

Taking one last look, he made sure the curtains were drawn, turned off the light, and headed to his bedroom. Things would go back to normal tomorrow; they had too. But let them both sleep peacefully today.

***

Lilly scrunched her eyes and stretched a bit, trying to wriggle away from a hard lump she could feel under her left side. What had she left on her bed that was poking into her with such insistency. Feeling under her blindly, she pulled out something long and wooden. A drumstick? How on earth had that ended up in her bed? And why did the mattress feel like velvet?

As she emerged from the fog of sleep, Lilly came to the sudden realization that she was not, in fact, in her own bed.

Sitting up, she felt a smile cross her face that was lit from within. Last night had been a good night. She had reconnected with some old friends, and maybe even made a new one. Twenty-four hours ago Lilly would have thought the possibility of a friendship with Adam a fantasy at best, delusion more likely. And yet he had approached her, he had accepted her invitation to the club, and he had issued an invitation of his own that led her back to his apartment.

Oh, not that Lilly was crazy enough to think that he meant anything more by it than friendship. She was not the type of woman that brooding musicians stayed up composing love songs for. She was the type who hounded them with her insistent chirping until they finally relented and occasionally allowed them inside, like the mangy cat you gave milk to once who would forever after haunted your door. She was fine with that, she told herself. He had been a friend when she needed one, lending her an arm to dance with and a shoulder to lean on when she needed it most.

He had also, it seemed from the blanket draped around her, tucked her in. Her grin widened. Despite how hard he tried to cultivate his grumpy persona, Adam had could not hide the sweet kindness in his nature from her any longer. She had felt it as he had held her last night, and later when they danced.

That had been something she would not soon forget. Lilly was too tense as a rule to be graceful, but Adam was such a strong leader that she had stopped worrying about his poor toes and let herself simply enjoy. His body had been a continuation of the music, feeling it to the tips of his fingers and the ends of his hair it seemed. All loose and yet firm where his hand lay on her back, he had guided her flawlessly, swaying to the sound.

All in all, it had been a far better send off for her grandmother than the stuffy funeral planned by her father. The old woman would have enjoyed last night, Lilly knew, and she would have enjoyed Adam. Beyond the shared love of music, his sharp tongue and kind heart would have been just to her liking.

Not wanting to send her mind down fruitless paths, Lilly stood up to get a better look at the room. It really was exactly how she had imagined it, if not more so. Every flat surface from the floor to the mismatched furniture was covered in instruments, sound equipment, mechanisms for which she had no names, and the odd notebook or staff paper. Three of the walls were covered in sound proofing foam, the third in an odd collection of portraits. Looking at them, Lilly found scientists, authors, artists, philosophers, all sorts of creative and intellectual types. She made a game of naming them all, only coming up blank on two (although three more were guesses), and trying to decipher meaning from who was present and who absent. Somewhere in there, she was sure, was the secret to his mind's inner working.

Part way through her perusal, Lilly realized that nature was calling. Assuming the layout to his home was similar to hers, she made her way as quietly as she could up the creaky staircase. Once at the top, she was greeted with a long hallway, three doors on each side.

The first door she tried opened into a room dominated by a large drum kit. Scattered about around it were a music store's worth of other percussive instruments. Some day, she thought, she would like to come back and play in here, to see if she could bang out some of her inner frustration. It must be as good as therapy in some ways!

As she opened the second door an avalanche of what she thought were rugs or tapestries of some sort threatened to come spilling out and bury her. She quickly leaned all of her weight against it to close it shut again, hoping she hadn't disturbed anything expensive and moved on to the third door.

Lilly forgot how to breath as she opened it. There, spread out on a large bed covered in pillows, lay Adam, completely naked.

Lilly knew she needed to quickly exit, closing the door behind her, but she could not seem to make her limbs obey her. If Michelangelo had wanted a model for his David, he could have used him, she thought. Adam lay on his stomach, face buried in a pillow. While this luckily or unfortunately (she could not decide) preserved some of his modesty, there was still quite a bit on display to appreciate.

Broad, well muscled shoulders and back gleamed pale, contrasting against the dark of his hair where it fell. His waist segued gorgeously into a pair of slender hips and - dear lord, there should be a law! - a perfectly firm and round ass that Lilly would have given her right hand to squeeze. Long, lean legs seemed to go on for days, and actually fell off the bed before reaching his gigantic feet. A mischievous part of Lilly felt the urge to reach out and tickle them, and she actively clasped her hands behind her back to keep from acting on this awful impulse.

Had she really tried to convince herself, just moments before, that she was perfectly happy to just be his friend? If so, she had been deluding herself. Oh, she would take what she could get, but Lilly knew in that moment that she would go to her grave ruined for anyone else.

As she stood staring unabashedly at him, Adam mumbled something incomprehensible into the pillow. Lilly started to make for the door, but his head turned towards her and she realized he was still asleep. Cautiously, she lingered a moment longer, watching as he reached out to the other side of the bed, as though searching for something not there.

"Eve," he said, clearly this time. "Baby, I miss you."

Someone had reached into Lilly's chest and crushed her heart between their fist.

She had no idea why it had never occurred to her that he might have a lover, or even a wife. He was beyond gorgeous, brilliantly talented, and obviously had money. Anyone would want him. Why should she assume that just because there was no woman here at this moment he was single?

And yet, clearly, she had. The raw emotion in his voice, the need as he called the woman's name had been all it took to destroy her heart.

Following the direction he was facing, Lilly realized that in this room of dirty laundry and bedding, one picture stood out like a beacon. Placed on the table next to the bed where it could clearly be seen was a photo of Adam and a woman of ethereal beauty. She was not "pretty" in a conventional way, but had something far beyond that. Almost as tall as he was, and perhaps even paler, she was stunning in a cream colored suite with yellow gold hair. Adam had his arms twined around her center, and looked at her with such love in his eyes that it was unmistakable.

Forgetting her need for the bathroom, Lilly bolted out of the room and down the stairs. She needed to get out of here. Away from the perfect man who she was afraid she had already fallen for and the perfect woman who was clearly everything Lilly was not. Including it now became clear, the one that Adam wanted.

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passionate-reply · 3 years

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This week on Great Albums: a stupendously underrated classic of queer punk meets synth sophistication, and an album without which we wouldn’t have Dare by the Human League: Homosapien, the 1981 solo opus of Buzzcocks frontman Pete Shelley. Find out more by watching the video, or reading the transcript below!

Welcome to Passionate Reply, and welcome to Great Albums! Today, I’ll be talking about one of those albums that isn’t necessarily the most acclaimed or best remembered work of its period, but nonetheless played an important role in history, and remains unrivaled for its uniqueness: Pete Shelley’s Homosapien, first released in 1981.

Shelley has historically been chiefly remembered as the frontman of the punk act, Buzzcocks. But, despite punk’s reputation for simplicity to the point of obnoxiousness, Shelley was one of many musicians to come from the punk scene with a penchant for experimental or otherwise ground-breaking music. His very first solo release, 1980’s Sky Yen, features little more than a brash wall of oscillating electronic noise, not unlike the earliest provocations of industrial artists like Cabaret Voltaire.

Music: “Sky Yen (Part One)”

Subsequent generations of critics have gone great lengths to coin and define terminology, in the hopes of breaking this period down into constituent parts, but the more I study it, the more I’m inclined to view it as just a huge soup. There was, quite simply, a lot going on in Britain’s underground in the late 70s and early 80s, and in practice, the lines between punk, post-punk, industrial, synth, noise, and other avant-garde miscellany are frequently illegible. As an artifact of this era, Homosapien resonates with all of the contradictions this melting pot would imply, fusing emotional rawness and pristine production in a way that never quite settles down and feels comfortable.

Music: “I Don’t Know What It Is”

“I Don’t Know What It Is” served as the opening track of the album’s second side, as well as its lead single. With a bona fide guitar solo as well as a propulsive, and truly soaring, chorus, it somewhat resembles that most 1980s of art forms, the power ballad. It is, ostensibly, a love song, and is revealed to be one quickly enough, but its portrayal of love is far from kind. While a real power ballad might take the concept of love for granted, “I Don’t Know What It Is” seems to portray it as something mysterious, inscrutable, and dangerous. And I can’t forget to mention just how much Pete Shelley stands out as a vocalist--his high-pitched, perhaps even fried or shrill vocals add a great deal to the song’s sense of unease, and really sell the idea of someone who’s being overtaken by an uncontrollable and dominating force.

Of course, perhaps the most noteworthy thing about Homosapien’s sound is its fusion of the hard, driving acoustic guitar of punk with the electronic sensibilities of its producer, Martin Rushent. I wouldn’t say this combination is ever terribly cohesive in its sound, but I think that’s why I find this album so interesting: there’s a tension that permeates each track, a feeling that things don’t fit together. While Homosapien is a pioneering work of electronic-centered production, enough of the pieces are still in place that you can certainly hear the shape of music to come as you listen to it. It’s not just the synthesisers, but also the use of electronic percussion here--it’s difficult to overstate the impact that so-called “drum machines” had around this time. While reviled by many, both then and now, rhythm machines were undeniably “instrumental” in changing what popular music sounded like. Even synthesiser-based electronic acts like Gary Numan, OMD, and Kraftwerk often relied on traditional percussion, so this genuinely was pretty shocking at the time.

Perhaps the most important element of the legacy of Homosapien is the fact that Martin Rushent would go on to use the skills he honed here to produce one of the most influential albums of the 1980s, and perhaps of all time: The Human League’s Dare, which would go on to cast an enormous shadow on nearly all popular music to come, after playing an enormous role in instigating an era of popular dominance of synth-pop. In that sense at least, Homosapien is certainly a very historically important album, and for that reason alone, I think it deserves a fair bit more attention than it gets. Still, for as much as the electronics might be the most forward-looking element of this album, one also can’t deny that it remains full of aggressive and perfectly punk overtones, as on the crass or perhaps dismissive screed of “Guess I Must Have Been In Love With Myself.”

Music: “Guess I Must Have Been In Love With Myself”

While Homosapien has many moments of seemingly being too thorny to get a good grip on, that doesn’t mean that there aren’t also times in which it can feel like a bit more than the sum of its apparent parts, as on its most narrative-driven track, “Pusher Man.”

Music: “Pusher Man”

“Pusher Man” is one of, if not the, most synth-centered compositions to be had on Homosapien, but its insistent pacing and neurotic portrayal of the “low life” theme of buying illicit drugs mean you’ll never confuse it for run of the mill synth-pop. Moreso than anything else the album offers, this track reminds me of the sort of “synth-punk” that American acts like the Units and Crash Course In Science would put forward at around the same time. “Pusher Man” was, at the very least, a sufficiently experimental track to earn the honour of being cut from the US release of the album in order to make room for some non-album A-sides, as happened to many albums at the time. But hey, that’s enough beating around the bush. Let’s talk about the real crown jewel of this album.

Music: “Homosapien”

If you’ve heard anything from this album before, chances are, it was probably the title track, which proved to be quite the commercial success--despite being banned by the BBC on account of its homoerotic content. Given that this very same year, they also came after OMD’s “Enola Gay” for its obviously nonexistent reference to homosexuality, one might be forgiven for thinking that a tune called “Homosapien” was simply misinterpreted. The title track isn’t terribly explicit material, but its clever wordplay nonetheless deals quite deftly with issues of sexuality and personal identity. In the earlier verses, Shelley introduces us to typified roles of gay male sexuality--the “cruiser,” the “shy boy”--only to seemingly doff them with the tune’s defiant refrain, asserting that the only truly important identity a human being has is that of “Homosapien.” Far from being an unfortunate coincidence, the similarity of “Homosapien” to “homosexual” is being employed here completely deliberately, particularly with it being mashed into a single word and thus gaining a greater resemblance to the word “homosexual” in print. It not only allows Shelley to belt out a borderline dirty word, but also creates a sort of unconscious syllogism, suggesting, in a sense, that homosexuals are people too.

With elements of both unapologetic pride in one’s own queerness, as well as the uncompromising assertion that humanity is something much deeper than that, the title track of Homosapien is one of the most fascinating and inspiring queer anthems of its time. Its artsy slipperiness has prevented it from feeling more shallow with time, and its straightforward or raw quality, intensified by that constant acoustic guitar, has kept it sounding equally sharp. It genuinely does surprise me that this album isn’t at least a little bit better remembered than it is. Outside of the title track, most of this album is currently not available on services like Spotify and YouTube Music at the time of this writing, and I actually struggled to present musical examples here. That’s really a pretty high level of neglect in this day and age, and I hope it can be rectified in the relatively near future.

It would be no exaggeration for me to say that Homosapien features some of my very favourite cover art of any album. Homosapien’s sleeve design sees Shelley occupy some sort of sleek, but hollow hyper-modernist office. Geometric forms suggest the world of the artificial or ideal. An Egyptian statue beside Shelley is a reminder of history, and the idea that even the greatest empires must eventually fall. Likewise, the telescope and early computer positioned nearer to Shelley are evocative symbols of science and technology--but in context they seem more sinister, being juxtaposed against a phrenology bust, which evokes the ways in which our attempts at science have caused misunderstanding and great human misery in the past. The central scene is framed in with large areas of black, which make the space feel even more claustrophobic and uninviting, and Shelley appears to be pushed into the background, almost belittled by the inanimate objects. Overall, I think it’s sort of funny that this album’s cover is perhaps more iconally “New Wave” than the music itself ended up being, particularly with Shelley clad in this somewhat foppish white suit and bow tie--certainly a big change of attire for a former punk!

Given the experimental nature of the collaboration between Shelley and Rushent, you might be surprised to learn that Homosapien actually wasn’t a one-off. Just two years later, Shelley would release a follow-up LP, XL-1, which was also produced by Rushent and largely continues the same ideas. While Shelley would never see the success of “Homosapien” again, the XL-1 single “Telephone Operator” would also chart to a lesser degree.

Music: “Telephone Operator”

My favourite track on Homosapien is “Qu’est-ce que c’est que ça,” which closes out the first side of the album. If you’re familiar with my other work, you probably already know that I’m coming at this as someone chiefly interested in the electronic side of things, and I think that of everything on this album, “Qu’est-ce que c’est que ça” is the closest to being convincing as a synth-pop tune. With a bubbly, synth-dominant sound and lyrics that are more contemplative than aggressive, it’s much closer to the mould of what I usually listen to for fun than a lot of the other tracks are. That’s everything for today--thanks for listening!

Music: “Qu’est-ce que c’est que ça”

#music #great albums #album review #album reviews #pete shelley #buzzcocks

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vinayrajoriaofficial · 3 years

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Element of Feminism & Pathos in the novel Bridget Jones's Diary.

by Vinay Rajoria

Cover page of a recently published edition of Bridget Jones's Diary.

First published in the United Kingdom in 1996, Bridget Jones's Diary had its origins in a weekly column that appeared in the London newspaper, The Independent. In this column, Helen Fielding, a freelance journalist who had previously worked for the BBC as a television producer, chronicled the comic adventures of an attractive, thirty-something woman, aka Bridget Jones, working in the publishing world and living in the fashionable neighborhood of Notting Hill. Throughout the novel, Bridget is depicted as a chain-smoking, wine-drinking, calorie-counter who obsesses over her fluctuating physical appearance, her stalled career, and, most importantly, her tumultuous love life. The novel is structured around a year's worth of diary entries, each of which is prefaced by a listing of calories consumed, cigarettes smoked, alcohol units imbibed, phone calls logged to friends and lovers, and moments spent having negative thought.

A scene from the 2001 film of the same name, based on the novel Bridget Jones's Diary.

The novel on the surface has a very lighthearted tone which makes us laugh with Bridget as she goes on to describe a year of her life in first person but as we dig deeper in the plotline, we begin to understand the underlying tone of sentimentality and pathos. We observe that beneath its humorous façade, Bridget's chatty account delivers a stinging attack, in a tone of subtle sadness, on the various ways in which movies, books, and fashion magazines have negatively permeated the daily lives of all women and have made them increasingly self-conscious and self-depreciating in the modern world.

This is reflected, most acutely, in the episode of the novel where Bridget is getting all anxious before her date with her charming boss, Daniel Cleaver, where she, after completing the arduous ritual of preparing herself for a date, muses: "My back hurts; my head aches and my legs are bright red and covered in lumps of wax. Wise people will say Daniel should like me just as I am, but I am a child of Cosmopolitan culture, have been traumatized by supermodels and too many quizzes and know that neither my personality nor my body is up to it if left to its own devices”.

Such a passage is characteristic of Fielding's satirical method in that, though filled with pop culture references and delivered in Bridget's blithe, self-deprecating voice, it nonetheless highlights the physical and emotional difficulties inherent in meeting the demands of an image-conscious society that privileges youth and beauty.

Other element of pathos in Bridget’s life is her constant insecurity in believing that she will never find the true love of her life and in her own words, “she would die without someone and going to be eaten by dogs when her singleness causes her death only to be not discovered promptly.” This fear of being left alone to die in misery, mirrors the sadness which characterize thousands of people who inhabit the modern cities, surrounded by crowds and people but are still so empty and alone inside. And it is this sadness which actually defines the whole year and the personality of Bridget throughout the novel. It is catalyzed by Bridget’s own mother who thinks certainly less of her daughter and hence is constantly on the lookout for a decent husband for her. This in turn leads to Bridget meeting Mark Darcy, for the first time, in the beginning of the novel and which apparently ends on a bitter note between the two characters, where Bridget overhears Mark grumbling about her to his mother to have set him up with “a verbally incontinent spinster who smokes like a chimney, drinks like a fish, and dresses like her mother".

This bitter episode is important when we focus on the subtle sadness which undertones the entire novel as it brings out that no matter what Bridget does to look and appear friendly, things turn out disappointing for her. Also, we understand that even though she shoves these disappointments off by laughing at them but inside she is deeply hurt by them. They make her question her own self and lets her down in her own eyes. They make her gulp the bitter truth that she is a failure who cannot remake herself and control her life.

Bridget's diary reveals the external pressure she feels to be better than she is, pressure that exists with reference to her own qualities and qualifications. One such pressure is her mother, whose expectations for her play a fairly complex role in Bridget's thinking. Bridget is made to feel guilty by these expectations of her mother, and even Una Alconbury; her mother’s best friend, in whom Bridget sees "the mummy I'd never really had"

Another major pang of sorrow springs up for Bridget when at the Darcy’s' Ruby Wedding anniversary party at the end of the novel where, Bridget confesses her feelings for Mark, only to learn that he and Natasha have accepted jobs in New York and are on the verge of an engagement, according to Mark's father. Bridget interrupts the toast with an emotionally moving speech which peters out as she realizes the hopelessness of her position; her words clearly have an effect on Mark, but he still flies to New York.

Also, immensely heart-breaking for not just Bridget but for the readers as well, is the central episode of the novel where the charming and humorous, Daniel Cleaver is found to be cheating on Bridget with an American secretary of his. Bridget finds her naked in Cleaver’s apartment while Cleaver tries to woo Bridget in believing otherwise. This makes her realize that the one man whom she trusted and found in life after so long is actually unfaithful to her; this sort of breaks something inside her and makes us feel piety for her. Thus, it makes her reassure on the stereotypes she had been holding all her life, and which was beginning to cast off, that she isn’t attractive enough or will eventually die bitter alone in her flat in London.

Amongst the remaining elements of pathos, which we can point out, are the Bridget's foolish appearance at a tarts and vicars party, and her disastrous dinner party near the close of the novel, where she feels the misery of being the only single person present there and the utter blankness she will have to face if someone asks her ‘So how’s your love life?’. All these tell us Bridget’s obsessive behavior to expose the undue influence that today's mass media, families, relationships and career contacts and rivalries has had in shaping women's attitudes toward physical beauty, self-fulfillment, and romantic love. Ultimately, we see the way in which Bridget Jones is, in the words of Daphne Merkin, "both Everywoman and an implicitly ironic observer of Everywoman."

Pic Credits:- Pinterest

Text References:- Bridget Jones's Diary (Macmillan Reader).

Research based on JASTOR Essays.

Read my essay on the theme of love and friendship in Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone at

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chelsfic · 4 years

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I Fell into Fantasy - Nandor x Guillermo One-Shot

WWDITS Masterlist

Summary: Guillermo admits to a secret desire. Nandor tries to fulfill it without compromising his aloofness.

A/N: The title of this fic comes from a song called “Days of the Phoenix” by AFI. I was inspired to write this fic by the scene in the movie where Viago talks about how he likes to make things “nice” for his victims during their final moments.

Warnings: Blood drinking, a bit of smut, frottage, pining, angst

---

Guillermo really should know better.

How many nights has he spent digging up the garden to dispose of the mangled corpses left behind after the vampires’ feasting? How many bruised, torn throats has he seen? Cracked collar bones and broken limbs? Lifeless, staring eyes?

He knows the victims are in pain before they die. He knows the vampires sometimes like to play with their food, chasing tearful virgins through the house, giving them a taste of escape before tucking into their meal. He knows it hurts. He knows it isn’t sexy.

Really. He knows.

He’s still jealous. He’s jealous when he shows up to yet another sad familiar mixer to find that nearly every other human in attendance has faded puncture wounds and he has to hide his smooth, pristine throat with a turtleneck sweater. He’s jealous when he’s forced to stand in the corner and listen to his master’s obscene, tantalizing moans as he drinks from some random human who isn’t him. He’s jealous when Nandor remarks on how tasty a victim is, licking his lips before discarding their lifeless forms like so much garbage.

He knows it’s wrong. But he gave up caring about right and wrong a long time ago, around the time he dug his first clandestine grave.

He’s wanted to be bitten ever since he was 13-years-old and he first watched Lestat turn Louis on the 18-inch TV in his bedroom. He’d paused the movie, rewinding and frantically beating off as the blood poured onto Brad Pitt’s lips. He wants to know what his master’s lips would feel like on the tender hollow of his throat. He wants to feel the scratch of his beard as he closes his mouth over Guillermo’s sensitive skin. He wants Nandor to hold him close. He wants to feel those sensual moans rumble through the vampire’s chest as he takes his fill.

He wants so much.

Whenever he feels jealousy, lust, longing... he reminds himself that he should feel grateful, proud even, that Nandor has never fed from him. Nandor sees him as more than a meal. He’s a trusty companion, a person, a...friend? This is what Guillermo tells himself. He knows it’s not a matter of taste. How many times has Nandor scolded him for looking too tempting when he blushes? Or warned him to be careful with his sword collection because he didn’t want him bleeding all over the place and testing his self-control?

Whatever his reasoning--respect, boundaries, taboo--Nandor doesn’t feed on his familiar. But Guillermo often wonders if things would be different if his master knew how badly he wanted it.

---

“Guillermo, you’re very serious tonight. Are you having to take a human shit? I can wait until after for you to do the tucking in…”

Nandor stands by his open coffin with an uncomfortable smile on his face that’s akin to a grimace. Guillermo has already helped him remove his outer layers and brushed out his flowing, dark hair. All that remains is for the familiar to hold his hand while he steps up into his coffin.

“No, master, I--I don’t have to take a shit. I’m fine,” Guillermo murmurs with sadness practically oozing out of his pores.

Nandor bristles, his eyes darting all over the room as he wars with himself over whether to press further or simply to ignore Guillermo’s stupid human moods and hope they go away.

The vampire sighs dramatically, “I think you better tell me what is the matter, Guillermo. I don’t want this affecting your work performance. You do a very poor job dusting the paintings and the window dresses when you’re sad. Now what is it? Laszlo and Nadja? Are they giving the guff to you?”

Guillermo is quiet for a long moment, looking up into his master’s fathomless brown eyes as he decides how to respond. Nandor’s whole body is tense as if he’s awaiting the guillotine blade. Maybe he should just get it out of his system and finally admit--well, certainly not everything he feels for his beloved master, but at least about his deep desire to be bitten.

He blushes, lowering his gaze as he finally answers, “I guess...I’m just a little jealous. Of...of the people you feed from.”

Nandor’s face drops into blank befuddlement before his dark brows lift upward and his lips curl in a poorly concealed smile.

“You’re jealous of my victims? I kill those people! You want me to murder you? Is this some kind of death wish thing? Because I find that really annoying!” Nandor sputters, half amused and half serious.

Guillermo’s face is burning with humiliation now and he rushes to clarify, “No! No, I don’t want to die, master. It’s just...I’ve always wanted to know what it felt like to be bitten by a vampire...”

His voice fades to nothingness but Nandor clearly understands him and his face grows pensive as he contemplates his words.

“Are you bullshitting me?” Nandor questions and his tone is just close enough to irritation to cause Guillermo to shrink in on himself as he answers.

“No, master.”

“Well…” Nandor sighs and affects a look of disinterest. “It’s alright to say that sort of thing to me, Guillermo, because you’re my familiar. But you want to be careful out there with the other vampires. You could get eaten up! And then where would I be? Having to make another ad on the Greg’s List!”

“...Craigslist…”

“As I said!” Nandor snaps, holding out his hand expectantly as he moves to get into his coffin. “Now, that’s enough of this crazy talking. Alright?”

“Alright, master,” Guillermo murmurs subserviently, reaching up to release the lid and slowly lowering it, sealing his master inside.

“Goodnight, Guillermo!” Nandor’s muffled voice calls as the familiar moves around the room, blowing out candles.

“Night, master!”

Sealed in the claustrophobic darkness of his coffin, Nandor’s mind races as he tries to process this new information about his familiar. Guillermo--his little Guillermo!--would let him bite him and drink his delicious blood? No, he wants him to do it. Yearns for it. He is jealous of the people he kills just because they get to feel the sting of his fangs and the touch of his lips. Nandor palms himself through his trousers. He’s harder than he’s been in a century just thinking of it.

---

He tries, he really does. Guillermo tries to forget about his shameful admission and go back to normal. Nandor certainly seems unmoved, doing nothing to even hint that he remembers having the conversation. So, Guillermo goes through the motions, dutifully completing his chores, searching for fresh sources of virgin blood, and standing by while Nandor sates his bloodlust with perfect strangers. But now that he’s revealed his secret--part of his secret, let’s be honest--and faced his master’s outright rejection, he just can’t seem to let go of the hollow ache in his chest.

He feels inadequate, pathetic, unattractive. And sad. Mostly sad.

Guillermo might think that Nandor has forgotten all about their little chat, but the vampire dwells on it just as much as the human does in the days that follow. And it’s impossible to ignore the scent of “sad human” that’s begun to permeate the household. Nandor spends several days battling with himself over what to do. He considers killing Guillermo and starting over with a new familiar… Guillermo gets his wish, Nandor doesn’t have to confront his shameful attraction to his servant… everybody wins! But the thought of Guillermo’s sweet little face gone still and lifeless sends a foreign stab of emotion into his chest that is really unpleasant.

He could ignore the situation and hope for it to go away on its own. But now that he knows his familiar is secretly lusting after his bite, he can’t get it out of his mind. He’d avoided feeding from Guillermo for years. At first it was a matter of preserving a valuable asset. Guillermo is a good familiar, why risk slipping up and accidentally draining him? After a while, when Nandor started to fixate on his familiar’s adorable smiles, fantasizing about how his soft, little body would feel against his...then it became a matter of self-control and rejecting his disgusting, unnatural feelings for a... servant!

So, that leaves him with one option. He must feed from Guillermo...carefully. So, so carefully so as not to be overcome and either kill or ravish the poor fellow. And if he is going to bite his Guillermo, then he must make it a pleasant experience for his familiar. He can’t stomach the idea of simply ripping into his human and hearing him scream and cry with the pain of it. No, it has to be...special.

---

Guillermo is barely in the door, laden down with shopping bags, when his master’s voice calls to him.

“Guillermo! Is that you?”

“Yes, master! I’m back from the store. I got you some more of those bath bombs you like,” Guillermo answers, wrestling with the bags as he edges towards his room. “Is there something--?”

Nandor appears at his side and interrupts, “The one with the lavender? Very good, Guillermo. Ehm--why don’t you put down those satchels and come with me to my room for a moment. I have a surprise for you.”

Guillermo’s face lights up with a warm smile and he drops the bags on the floor by his closet-room, “A surprise? For me, master?”

“Just for you, Guillermo! Come!” Nandor practically skips at his side as they walk back to his room, his eyes lit with anticipation.

Nandor closes and locks the door behind them, watching his familiar take in the arrangements he’s made. He borrowed Laszlo’s gramophone and set it up in the corner. It’s playing a soft, quiet melody that floats gently on the incense-infused air. A vase of vivid red roses sits on an end table next to his fancy couch, which he’s covered in a layer of bath towels.

“What...what is all this, master?” Guillermo breathes, walking up to the flowers and burying his nose in the fragrant blooms with a smile on his lips.

“Do you like it, Guillermo? I wanted it to be--” he pulls a face but manages to get the word out “--nice for you.”

“But, why?”

Nandor steps up beside his familiar, towering over the smaller man. “I’m going to feed from you. If... if that is still something you are wanting.”

“Oh,” the word comes out on a shaky exhale and Guillermo feels his knees go weak. “I--yes, I still want...that. Thank you, master.”

Nandor smiles, baring his fangs and crinkling his eyes. Guillermo feels his heart do a flip in his chest and wonders, distractedly, if Nandor can hear his heartbeat. They’re standing so close. Guillermo could lean forward just a bit and they’d be touching. He looks up into Nandor’s eyes and finds them melted with warmth. His master has never gone through such an effort for him before. Guillermo feels like his heart could burst.

“You want to take a seat?” Nandor gestures to the towel covered couch and Guillermo snaps out of his daze.

He sinks down onto the cushions, running his hands appreciatively over the terry cloth, “This was clever, master.”

Nandor takes a seat beside him, close enough that their thighs brush together and Guillermo gulps. He’s brushed his master’s hair, helped him dress, helped him bathe for goodness sake, but he’s never felt as close to him as he does now.

“Are you comfort-a-ble, Guillermo?” Nandor asks, staring at his face with a hungry intensity.

Guillermo locks eyes with him and he sees his master’s pupils dilate, his lips part to bare elongated fangs. He gasps out a quivering breath as he fights the waves of exhilaration, lust and fear in order to answer.

“Yes, it’s...very comfy, master. Very nice, thank you.”

“Good,” Nandor responds, his eyes flicking down to Guillermo’s collar. “Why don’t you remove your woolen garment and open your collar. I don’t want to spoil your nice clothes.”

Guillermo feels like he’s in a dream. Nandor is never this...considerate. His mind flashes back to every time he’s watched his master strike out at a victim unannounced, with fierce aggression and even cruelty. It’s pathetic that his standards are so low, but the fact that Nandor isn’t treating him like just another victim to be used and discarded sends a rush of affection and hope flowing through him. He hastily grabs the bottom of his sweater, pulling it up over his head and tossing it aside. Next, he reaches for the collar of his shirt, but Nandor is there first. His long, thick fingers pluck at the buttons, releasing each one until Guillermo’s chest is visible. He pulls the collar aside, revealing the smooth, unblemished curve of Guillermo’s neck and shoulder.

“Are you ready?” Nandor asks with a hiss as he eyes his familiar’s naked skin. He’s never seen so much of the man before and he feels his cock stir with interest inside his trousers.

“Yes,” Guillermo breathes needily, tilting his head to bare his neck even further.

Nandor brings his hand up to cradle Guillermo’s head, letting his fingers sink into his soft curls and cupping his warm cheek in his palm. The pulse point at Guillermo’s throat is practically visible, his heart is beating so fast. Nandor feels his mouth flood with saliva as the rushing flow of Guillermo’s blood reaches his ears.

He wraps his other arm around his familiar, drawing him onto his lap and finally leaning in to bury his face into the warm, inviting crook of his neck. Nandor breathes in the intoxicating aroma that even the human-things-for-smelling and his incense cannot obscure. He moans loudly. He might be embarrassed if he were less overcome with the sensory feast of his familiar’s soft body in his arms and the promise of his warm, thick blood.

Guillermo mewls at the touch of his master’s mouth on his bare throat. His beard is scratchy and rough but his lips are impossibly soft and gentle. It’s like a kiss, he thinks, his heart rushing with affection and joy. Nandor’s arm around him is firm and strong. He knows that he could never hope to escape if Nandor truly wished to restrain him and drink him dry. Putting this level of trust in his master makes him feel like a tiny, frail rabbit in the jaws of a hungry wolf. A delicious shiver runs down his spine at the image. And then Nandor’s lips pull back and he feels the sharp points of his fangs graze over tender skin.

“Oh!” Guillermo cries out.

Nandor growls low in his throat but pulls back just slightly to check, “Is this still alright?”

Guillermo nods quickly, bringing up his hands to run them through Nandor’s soft hair reassuringly, “Yes! Yes! Please, master!”

He feels Nandor’s chest rumble with suppressed laughter and then there’s just the blinding, burning flash of pain that blooms as Nandor finally strikes, burying his fangs into his familiar’s soft, warm throat. Guillermo’s mouth falls open and his hands fist in Nandor’s hair as the first wave takes him.

“Shhh,” Nandor murmurs wetly against his neck, lapping the spilled blood with long strokes of his tongue. “Shhh, you’re safe.”

“Nnghh!” a pleasured groan strangles from the familiar’s throat at the touch of his master’s tongue. Guillermo squirms, his cock filling even as blood drains away from his body.

Nandor tightens his arms around his little Guillermo, pulling him flush against his broad chest and biting down once more as he begins to drink in earnest. He moans wantonly as the sweet blood fills his mouth. He’s as hard as he’s ever been and he rolls his hips against his familiar’s generous backside. He drinks and he drinks.

The pain ebbs enough for Guillermo to lose himself in the delicious feeling of connection with his master. His hands, his lips, his tongue, his teeth are all on him, inside of him, part of him. Nandor’s touch unlocks a secret room inside of Guillermo where he keeps his most tender feelings. For once he allows himself to truly feel the devotion, the affection... the love that he has for his master. It’s wonderful and dizzying. Tears slip from his eyes as he reaches his arms around Nandor’s broad shoulders, hugging him closer for as long as he’ll allow.

Too soon he feels his head start to spin and his grip on Nandor’s shoulders loosens. The vampire senses it immediately and draws back with a feral growl. Guillermo is limp and breathless in his master’s arms. He looks up with heavy-lidded eyes and watches Nandor lick blood from his lurid, stained lips.

“Thank you, master,” Guillermo whispers, snuggling into Nandor’s chest with a contented sigh. His arousal is flagging and he hopes that his master hasn’t noticed. He’d felt Nandor’s rigid erection grinding against him while the vampire drank his blood, but he has no way of knowing if that’s just something that happens every time he feeds. Whatever the case, he’s far too weak and drunk with happiness to do anything but drift along and hope that Nandor keeps holding him.

Nandor’s dead heart squeezes in his chest at the sight of his sleepy familiar burrowing his face into his chest. His plan seems to have failed. He’d wanted to give Guillermo his fantasy while remaining aloof, but instead he’s feeling an annoying rush of warm affection. Worse, he’s shamed himself by...rutting against the human like a street dog. He should push him away, or give him an order to remind him of the boundaries that are still in place. But as he looks down at the sweet smile on his familiar’s lips he can’t find it in him to spoil the moment for him so soon. Tomorrow. Tomorrow night he’d remind Guillermo of how things still stand between them.

“Will you keep holding me, master?” Guillermo mumbles, his eyes drifting shut. The human has read his thoughts!

“Yes,” Nandor replies, leaning down and tracing a barely there kiss onto Guillermo’s forehead. “For a little while.”

#nandermo #nandor x guillermo #guillermo x nandor #nandor the relentless #guillermo de la cruz #wwdits fanfic #wwdits

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leam1983 · 3 years

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Felix the Reaper - Thoughts? Review?

Can't really go into too much detail, it's rather late as it is and the ol' bed is beckoning, but I also want to couch this down somewhere while it's still fresh...

So, Death as a concept - as a character - obviously permeates the whole of human civilization. You've got Anubis and Osiris, Humbaba the Undying, thousands of years of mythology surrounding the concept of life leaving you and your flesh-bits rotting, generation after generation of people processing grief in visual and abstract forms - and now, we're sort of living in a context where Death isn't really all that scary anymore. We understand it, we can push it back in some cases - and when we can't, then we can sort of map out its occurrence. What started as just this inexplicable force swiping at hunter-gatherers and that warranted Danse Macabre paintings across Medieval France is now something we can put an almost-precise date and time on. There's a bunch of "death clocks" online that project a potential DOD based on your age, gender, health status, habits and BMI; sort of turning the concept of memento mori into a shockingly literate manifestation.

You will die, one day. We're so aware of that that a bit of science and Web design wizardry can shit out a half-serious guesstimation of when it'll happen. Pre-Colonial aspects of Death survive in Mexican culture in the forms of both calaveras and the Santa Muerte cult, and the inevitability of death now even counts as a game mechanic in the SoulsBorne genre. You've got Terry Pratchett's extremely Humanist rendition of Death and, well, Hollywood faff à la Meet Joe Black. The short of it is we're far from the robe-wearing zombie we used to plop everywhere as a reminder of our own supposedly sinful urges or on the fleeting nature of youth.

Another item that's of interest is the notion of life and youth being represented as the Maiden - and of Death being in love with her. Sometimes, the affection isn't returned and disgust is shown. That's most of Holbein's death-related works, in this case. In others, the Maiden leans in, lets the skeletal figure push a hand underneath her skirt and against one of her thighs. They share a kiss, press against one another in the way honest lovers might. He's a dried-out corpse with a bloated midsection and she might've stepped out of some sixteenth-century church in the Netherlands, but their liplock is intense and genuine. In one statue, the Maiden looks like she might've just surrendered to the Reaper's arms, but her hands are also touching his scythe....

Eroticism, a commentary on suicide or plain acceptance - there's several ways to look at that duality, and it's even managed to worm its way over to cultures that don't natively have similar associations with human remains. The Japanese, for instance, do have their own Gashadokuro concept, but the locals of Nagasaki needed their initially-exclusive exposure to Portuguese traders to shrink down their massive skeletal eidolons of doom and to design woodblock prints where a Danse Macabre effectively meets the dress codes and habits of the locals under sakoku, or the Emperor-mandated closing-off of Japan to the outside world.

Death as a dancer. Death, especially, as a force that's quite lively, despite its attributes. A force that falls head-over-heels for Life in its own anthropomorphized form.

This is what Danish devs Kong Orange opted to work on in Felix the Reaper. Their Death has a human name, has a thing for the stuffier ends of Business Casual, is maybe eighty pounds overweight - and won't ever, ever, let the music die. He's also in love, obviously - and in love with Betty, the equally portly and nimble personification of Life. The pair look a bit like a Fernando Botero couple waiting to happen, with ample waists and sagging breasts held aloft by spindle-thin legs - but if Ghostbusters taught us not to cross the streams, then you can assume that Life and Death starting a tango in the same workspace could have severe coincidences on the biosphere. Not that Felix cares, he'd want nothing more than for Betty to notice him. His supervisor is voiced off-camera by Sir Patrick Stewart, who's as delightful as always, and who sort of plays the part of the well-meaning supervisor who eventually realizes his new employee's quirks don't diminish his potential.

And what is Felix's job, exactly? Well, he's Death. He's not getting paid to distribute hugs and kisses, obviously. He gets sent to the mortal plane to, well, kill people, and more specifically, to kill people in precise and pre-ordained ways. His "televator" takes him to an instant frozen in time, and he has to alter the surrounding scene so that once time resumes its course, the requisite accident or happenstance occurs. You do that by picking up items, flicking switches, and placing targets in the path of whatever it is that's set to kill them. You also move the sun around the world using a magical sundial doohickey, as Death can only move in shadows. You're basically Death in the same sense as in the Final Destination movies, except you really, really, really want to twerk and sashay your voluminous heinie through the small changes needed to turn a nothing-burger into a drunk huntsman getting his head stuck in the stump of a decapitated deer, so the dejected and near-sighted hunter you've been following mistakes him for a target and shoots his spear through his brain-case.

And yes, Felix does twerk and he certainly sashays. Dude dresses like a stuffy librarian, sure, but seemingly loses all inhibitions once his headphones come up - which allows the player to share in his personal soundtrack. This particular Reaper seems to have a thing for very bass-driven and samply EDM, with occasional forays into Ambient and Jazz. His many, many, many idle animations all sync with whatever it is that's playing, and so does the variety of prances, somersaults, grands jetés and twirls he goes through while moving from place to place. Comparatively, you get the sense that Felix's coworkers are more the dour and solemn type - with a few unsubtle cameos from Skeletor and Manny Calavera in the opening cinematic - and Felix, well...

Let's just say it's a wonder he has those hips and that paunch. If he twirls around for every little thing he does, then you'd assume he only sits down to hoover an Olympic athlete's worth of food once a day. Or maybe I'm overthinking things because, well, death.

And therein lies the problem, honestly. In thinking, I mean. Felix is a puzzle game through-and-through, and also ties into a Challenge system in order to really tickle those completionist nerves. The starting scenarios are braindead-easy, but the later ones left me stumped for fifteen minutes per screen. Add to that the notion that the game doesn't check off some of them as complete if you only do the bare essentials, and you're left with another would-be mobile offering that doesn't reach its endpoint until you exhaust every little bit it has to offer - even if you're effectively done with the main gameplay loop. It's a great game, but there's just not a whole lot to do in those six chapters, beyond repeating bits of drudgery until your noodle clicks or you give up and look up a solution online.

It's a shame, too. The isometric perspective is perfect, and the game could've been pitched as a hybrid between a puzzler and, say, XCOM: Enemy Unknown. You'd take cover to hide from moving targets or to escape daylight and instead of shooting at them, would emerge from cover to move items around or solve puzzle elements. You could've had Death evoke the illusion of a friendly face to inject some more concrete narrative delivery, for instance. Steal a friend's features, magically conceal yourself, and then have your target piece her own weaknesses together, leaving you to retreat and regroup before executing your plan of attack. But no, everything is out in the open and everything is spelled out for you. Kong Orange could've also stolen a page from Hitman Go and set multiple triggers in place to truly sandbox the experience.

What is there is fun - it oozes personality and charm - but there's just not enough of it to justify Steam's full asking price, IMO. Comparatively, the Switch's online store is currently running a sale for it (as of Sunday the 15th, at least) and lists it as being 2,15$. Two bucks for a few hours of harmless fun is a pretty good deal, as far as I'm concerned. It also underlines why the devs and Daedalic Entertainment alike consider it as having "bombed", as the marketing effectively targeted Devolver's usual stable. It's not crunchy enough, however, and not exactly irreverent enough to warrant that comparison. A more hefty Felix could've earned its full 20$ price point on PC - and Kong Orange's very design for Betty makes it obvious that if Felix ever returns, it'll be in a co-op setup with the love of his, well, unlife.

I'd be up for more of this cuddly, swinging skelly - assuming the devs mature a tad and put something together that's just a smidge more compelling.

#felix the reaper #pc #switch #ps4 #review #puzzle #game #indie #felix #the #reaper #fat #skeleton

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