Still Young

A/N: I suddenly felt inspired to write this so here we go! A Kisa x Yukina tickle fic! Thanks to thexlittlexcrow for the sweet prompt!

Summary: Kisa sulks about his age again, and Yukina gets fed up with this. But once he also discovers how ticklish he is, he decides to show him he can still be young by tickling him until he squeals like a kid.

Kisa and Yukina were casually resting in bed on a cold and chilly Sunday morning. It barely occurred they’d both have the day off to chill a little before starting the day.

The older of the two was lying on his stomach, both his arms under his pillow and resting his head on top of it, and Yukina was in the same position, only he was busy with his smartphone.

“What’re you doing?” Kisa asked, his words slightly muffled by the pillow he was leaning on. Yukina looked at him and smiled.

“Oh just some app, eh, you wouldn’t understand,” he said, and Kisa sighed with a big frown on his face.

“Of course I wouldn’t. An old man like me wouldn’t understand what’s trending-” Yukina lifted himself from his pillow and threw the blankets off them.

“Hey!” he said, sitting up and looking down at his lover who happened to be sulking again.

“What? It’s true. I’m not a student. You said it yourself, I won’t get it.” Yukina sighed at the complaints that left Kisa’s mouth.

“I meant it’s something I share with the art students, why won’t you stop relating everything to your age?” he asked, putting away his phone.

“Mmphph,” was the reply as Kisa buried his face in his pillow.

“Come on Kisa-san, you’re not getting younger if you keep frowning like that. And keep your shirt down, you’ll catch a cold,” he said, reaching out to where Kisa’s shirt had ridden up, and he tugged it down.

“You’re the one who removed the blanke-ehehe!” Kisa tensed up completely and a giggle escaped his lips as Yukina’s fingers brushed his skin slightly when he pulled down his shirt, and an awkward silence followed.

“Kisa-san?” Shit, damn, no way. Kisa pressed his lips together with a blush on his face. If it wasn’t embarrassing enough that someone his age could date this sweet, handsome art student… Don’t ask, please don’t ask…

“Are you ticklish?” Noooo. Kisa shook his head heavily and kept his face buried in the pillow, yelling out a muffled “no!”. His arms that were still under his pillow clenched the pillow tightly, and he kept shaking his head.

“Hehe Kisa-san, that’s quite the reaction for someone who’s.. not ticklish,” Yukina said, and he gently squeezed Kisa’s exposed side. A high pitched yelp was heard this time, and Yukina laughed.

“You are ticklish! That’s so cute, see? You’re not an old man, you can still be tickled like a little kid, come here!” He hovered over Kisa and used both his hands to spider-tickle up his sides, and muffled squeaks escaped Kisa’s lips. He clenched the pillow tighter, refusing to give in, but Yukina only chuckled at this.

“Come on Kisa-san, let me hear those adorable giggles,” he said teasingly, and he wiggled his fingers in his exposed armpits. This was enough to shatter Kisa’s defense, and with a loud squeal he let go of the pillow, turned on his side and covered his torso with his arms.

“N-noooohehehe Y-Yukinahahaha please s-stop!” he giggled, curling up and squirming.

“Ah, there it is! You have such a cute laugh Kisa-san!” A lively Yukina said, and he managed to wriggle his hands under Kisa’s arms to tickle his tummy.

“Ahahaha s-stahahap!” Kisa rolled from side to side, but his taller lover bent over him with ease and tickled him without mercy.

“I’ve got you now!” Yukina sang when he squeezed his hips, and Kisa uncurled his body immediately and arched his back, squealing loudly.

“AAHAHa n-not thehehere i-it tihihickles!” Kisa laughed loudly, and Yukina laughed along with him.

“I can see that,” he said, and he ran his fingers down Kisa’s legs.

“How about here?” he asked, and the blankets that were still covering Kisa’s feet were thrown off the bed completely. A giggling Kisa made an attempt to escape, his arms stretching out to the side of the bed as he tried to crawl away and climb off, but Yukina caught his ankles in an arm lock, and Kisa tumbled halfway off the bed.

“N-nahahaha Yukinaaaa n-not my feeheheet dammit!” he yelled through his laughter, his fist pounding the floor and his other arm flailing around.

“But you’re so ticklish. How can I not tickle these cute tiny feet of yours if you tempt me like that?” Yukina taunted, and he scribbled his fingers up one sole and then down the other, making Kisa shriek hysterically.

“NOOHAhahha p-plehehease! Yuhu-Yukinahaha!” Kisa squirmed, twisted and thrashed, but his lover was quite merciless, and enjoying himself immensely.

“Well then, Kisa-san. Promise you’ll stop complaining about your age?” he asked, and he playfully pinched Kisa’s toes.

“YEHEhes!” was the loud reply, and Yukina giggled.

“Promise?” he asked again, and he tickled him under his toes with one finger.

“YES N-NOW STAahahap!” Yukina nodded with a satisfied grin, and he released Kisa’s feet. Kisa’s legs slid off the bed as well and joined their owner on the cold floor. The manga editor was panting and wheezing, and Yukina bent down to pick him up from the floor and gathered the blankets.

“You’ll really catch a cold like that, come on!” he playfully dragged him back in bed and pulled the blankets over them.

“W-whose fault is that?!” Kisa barked, squirming in Yukina’s embrace, but Yukina was snuggling like a little puppy.

“I’m just so happy we found the kid-side of yours, Kisa-san. I’ll promise to tickle you a lot lot looot,” he said, and he teasingly poked Kisa’s side.

“Ahhh! I don’t need promises like that!” Kisa barked, but he still blushed and leaned his head against Yukina’s chest.

Even if it was embarrassing to be tickled like that by his junior, he couldn’t deny he thought Yukina was right. They could be playful like this, and maybe he wasn’t such an old man after all.

Besides… Yukina playfully tickled his side again and he squirmed with a smile on his face. Maybe he could stand being tickled by Yukina, since it made him feel all warm and fuzzy inside.


Bazaar celebrates women who live by their own rules and are brave enough to take flight. See all of the Daring Women featured in our November 2015 issue here.

October 19, 2015

By Charlotte Cowles and Photographs by Ben Hassett

Pictured: Alexander McQueen jacket, shirt and pants. FASHION EDITOR: Anna Trevelyan

When I reach Annie Clark, the 33-year-old musician who plays under the name St. Vincent, she’s in a hotel room in Toronto, nestled in bed even though it’s 4 P.M. “I'm…visiting Cara for her birthday,” she explains in the halting manner of someone who isn’t quite sure what she wants to reveal. “We went to a male strip club last night and got lots of lap dances,” she offers. “And now I’m in …” Her voice trails as she searches for the right words. “A bed. Just answering e-mails. It’s seriously sexy.”

“Cara,” of course, is Cara Delevingne, the mega-model turned actress with whom Clark has been romantically linked for months now. Since early spring, the pair have attended red-carpet events together, been paparazzi’d during bleary morning coffee runs, and appeared all over each other’s social media. And while Clark is no novice when it comes to attention—a star in the indie-rock world, she has played with everyone from the Dallas Symphony Orchestra to Taylor Swift and was handpicked to perform with the surviving members of Nirvana at last year’s Rock and Roll Hall of Fame induction ceremony—the fuss over her relationship with Delevingne is of a different breed. Clark has always preferred to let her raw, emotional songs speak for themselves, avoiding questions about her sexuality and personal life in favor of discussing, say, the writing of Hilton Als or the odd names of lingerie brands. On the wings she wore for her Bazaar photo shoot, she remarks that she was going for “more Tony Kushner’s Angels in America than Victoria’s Secret. I mean, what is Victoria’s Secret anyway? What could it possibly be?”

Dating Delevingne has made it harder for Clark to preserve that level of mystique—to put it mildly. “There’s been a little bit of enigma peeled back as of late,” Clark admits. “But I have a rich life that has nothing to do with the flimflam. I know there’s a through-the-looking-glass version of myself, and I don’t feel particularly attached to that version, especially as it pertains to the public eye—it’s kind of removed from my actual life. The long and the short of it is that what people think of me is none of my business.” She then maneuvers the conversation back to her music with a polite dexterity that’s clearly old hat. “Ultimately what I make is what I want to be—it’s my offering to the world.”

Clark began performing as St. Vincent in 2006, after several years of working with acts like the Polyphonic Spree and Sufjan Stevens, and quickly won critical acclaim and a cult following for her complex arrangements. With formal training from Boston’s prestigious Berklee School of Music (she attended for three years before dropping out), the Texas native can play a wide variety of instruments, often layering them on top of one another to produce a vibrant blend of sounds. She also has a reputation for her guitar-throttling, full-body performances. “Part of what happens onstage is a physical exorcism,” says Clark. “I find that I need to be—whether or not I’m onstage performing—really physically engaged with the world. I have a lot of energy, and I have to move.” Being on the road agrees with her, in that sense. “Touring does not suit everybody, but it really suits me. I haven’t been in one city for more than five days in … well, I guess I took one vacation,” she says. “Basically, it’s very rare that I’m in a city for more than three nights.”


Though Clark built a respectable fan base over the course of her first three records, it was her fourth, 2014’s St. Vincent, that vaulted her into the big leagues, earning her a Grammy for Best Alternative Album this past February. Leading up to its release, Clark dyed her curly brown hair a dusty gray, giving her pale, fairy-like features a slightly alien edge that complemented her music’s otherworldly quality. With her long, angular, Tim Burton–esque silhouette and moon-size eyes, she’s an ideal vehicle for fashion’s more abstract creations. “I like fashion. I like structure and form and color, and all those things coalesce into wearable art,” she says. “But I’m not, like, worshipful with the cult of wealth aspirations.” Clark defines herself as more of an equal opportunist when it comes to inventive outfits. “I’ve worked with stylists and worn designer clothes and had custom pieces made, which is a lot of fun. But lately I’ve been wearing this catsuit that I found when I was walking down the street in Louisville, Kentucky. There was a store that had big, bold Tupac T-shirts in the window, and I was like, ‘Oh, cool, I wonder what’s going on in there.’ I went in and found this catsuit for $34.99, and I bought it on a lark, and it’s the best thing I ever got. It’s perfect for stage.” She laughs. “You know, my tastes are pretty catholic.”

For last night’s strip club outing, Clark wore an Issey Miyake outfit with Robert Clergerie shoes, “like somebody’s weird art teacher,” she says. “I was looking through pictures, and I look like a creepy serial killer lurking in the background. Everyone else is fun, young, and flirty, and I look like Yoko Ono, which I’m not mad about.” She occasionally borrows from Delevingne’s street-punk wardrobe, but only out of necessity. “We have wildly different styles. So if I’m going to get a coffee in the morning, I’ll throw on drop-crotch sweatpants. But then I’ll go back to my all-black Japanese designers.”

Clothing may be the least of Clark’s and Delevingne’s differences. “Cara is an experientialist—more feet in the fire,” says Clark. “I’m less so. If there’s a dark room of the subconscious, I want to find it and walk around in it. Sometimes I feel very much in my head and slightly removed from the physical world,” she continues. “For example, I dance onstage, but I don’t dance for pleasure offstage. I’ll be privy to a dance club or something and just be essentially sober and watch things happen. More as a social observer, like an anthropologist. I’m not in the middle of the dance floor, you know?” She pauses. “That probably doesn’t sound like a lot of fun. But I’m having a great time.”

Having recently finished a 20-month tour, Clark will soon head to Los Angeles to work on her next album, which is still in its earliest phases. It’ll be her first long-term break from the road in about five years. “I’m looking forward to having time to build and rip it up and start again,” she says. It will also provide a respite from the spotlight, “although I don’t consider myself very famous,” she adds, bemused. “If I’m by myself, I don’t ever get paparazzi. Nobody takes pictures of me. Or if they do, it’s only as an asterisk to an asterisk—like a tangent to a tangent of pop culture. I don’t get too freaked out by it. But it’s such a bizarre experience. I don’t know where to put it yet.” A topic for her next record, perhaps.

Spread your wings. Jacket, shirt, and pants. Alexander McQueen. Boots, Valentino Garavani. See Where to Buy for shopping details. Hair: David Von Cannon; makeup: Marla Belt for M.A.C. Cosmetics; manicure: Naomi Yasuda for Dior Vernis; prop styling: Nicholas Des Jardins for Mary Howard Studio.

This article originally appeared in the November 2015 issue of Harper’s BAZAAR.


An Extended Dear Young Photographer

Here’s what I know.

You grew up, like most, where you got trophies for participation, medals for winning bullshit things and undying support from your doting parents who just wanted to see you succeed – or be happy – whichever came first. Because even if you weren’t the best, they still wanted you to feel like you were. Gold star for being you, honey.

You graduate college full of promise and hope. Maybe you even have some stuff on your resume to back that up. It’s possible you won some awards and got some recognition as an “emerging,” talented, young photographer under-a-certain-age, like 25 or 30… or maybe some contest gave you an award of excellence or a gold medal or a nice pat on the back. It’s possible an editor recognized your potential and passion and gave you an internship at some big-named paper of your dreams or some awesome little paper in the middle of nowhere known for their picture pages. You may have even been selected as one of the lucky ones for an exclusive workshop in a barn or hand-picked to document some small Kentucky town or even been one of the chosen few to have your portfolio reviewed by some fancy pants NY editors.

Everything is new and fresh and you’re having these amazing experiences, making pictures you’ve never made before, replacing old pictures in your portfolio every other week. And to make it even better, the gold stars from your folks have been replaced with “likes” and “favorites.” Little pings of electronic love that have been shown to have the same effect on your brain that some drugs do, where that reward center in your brain lights up. and gives you a wonderful buzz.

Your rise is meteoric and your growth exponential. 

Then what?

Then you graduate. The steam starts to wear off. Your support network has spread out around the country. Your little pond has gotten bigger and you’ve seemed to shrink. And you do the inevitable. It’s only natural.

You hit a plateau.

We all do.

Sadly that first plateau is often ill-timed and masquerades as a quarter-life crisis. You’ve got a lot of pressure you’re putting on yourself. Society has a funny way of reminding people that there’s this order for things, and at this point your Facebook wall is exploding with friends puppies/houses/engagements/marriages/babies. And you start asking yourself… what have you done with your life?!

Queue the existential crisis.

It usually happens right around the time when you graduate, and you get a first job or your start working for yourself – and you realize you feel static. Your work is stagnant. Your strides aren’t as great. Maybe you’re making pictures for your editors and clients and not for yourself anymore. You fall into this groove of doing what works, and settling for good enough. If you’re freelance, you realize that you’re getting hired to make the same pictures you’ve been making because you’ve been typecast. Or you’re going to the same festivals and parades and the athletes of the day/month/year all look identical and you’re making the same pictures every month, because that’s the subtle monotony of the routine newspapers and newspaper photographers fall into.

There’s no magic pill for getting over it and getting off that plateau, except hard work.

Creativity, perseverance and changing your routine are the best ways I know to get out of that rut. But so is something that seems counterintuitive, like embracing the plateau. If you look at a plateau as a positive, you’ll see it’s nothing more than a chance to refresh your batteries, reset your brain and breathe. If you’re going at 100mph all the time, you’re going to burn out. But I suppose that’s physics, or just common sense.

All those platitudes about this profession being a marathon and not a sprint have some truth to them.

And when you start to realize that settling down doesn’t mean settling, you can relax.

When you understand that you have to feed the beast, but you also have to feed your soul, you’ll start to figure out where that balance is.

And when you finally let go of the fact that a contest win, a gold star and a “like” aren’t going to make or break you, you can (hopefully) exhale. 

After all, it’s just photography.

Realize how cool it is to actually be paid to make pictures for a living. Have fun with it. If it stops being fun and you start dreading it, start asking yourself why you’re doing it.

Early on, you make pictures for your portfolio and for other people (like professors, editors & contest judges). Eventually you’ll hopefully take some solace that you’re making pictures with a much bigger purpose. The images made for yourself and the people in them will resonate most long term. Keeping in mind that at the end of your career, your photos will be looked at collectively as a body of work instead of singles, stories and individual contest wins should help.

If I’ve learned anything so far, it’s this: Success has a lot more to do with character than it does with talent. So does life.

obpatrick  asked:

Two Questions. Does Cracked have a limit on how many O'Brien's can work for them at any given time? I was really inspired by John Cheese's article about writing for cracked but I was worried that Jack O'Brien's Editor in Pants jeans might explode if he had to read an article written by another O'Brien. Are you my father? Your Son, Patrick J. O'Brien. (I would be willing to rock the "P JOB" nickname if that helps)

I wanted to make a funny joke, but when this question was brought up several years ago, David Wong already made my favorite joke. (He made it somewhere in the forums, and I’m not going to track it down so I’ll just paraphrase it, poorly.)

O'Brien isn’t actually my last name, and it’s not Jack’s last name either. At Cracked, “O'Brien” is a title that you earn by working here for a very long time and consistently delivering Cracked-appropriate work. David was up for his Pro'brienmotion, but ended up just a few clicks shy of his dick-jokes-per-second quota. He has the right to apply again in six more years, though we will likely have seven or eight more O'Briens at that point (Cody’s chances look really good this year).

My real last name is Hugecockasaurus.