#...because again it's just a trend that i' making a broad statement about and i don't direct it at them | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ihatemynewbangs · 2 years

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like a dog with a bird at your door; sakuatsu

vampire!atsumu, hunter!kiyoomi, angst, hopeful/happy ending, enemies(?) to lovers, relationship analysis

motoya is kidnapped by a vampire coven. as kiyoomi leaves his apartment to save him he is confronted by atsumu

word count: 1340

warnings: unaliving word mentioned, potentially graphic imagery, swearing

a/n: this was in my drafts for two years y'all, i finally had to get it out. pls yell your thoughts!

“Omi-kun.”

His name, breathed into the stale living room air, floats like a golden ribbon and wraps itself around him. Strangling.

“Don’t do this.”

A scoff, “This doesn’t concern you, Miya.”

Kiyoomi is tense, muscles held taut and stiff. He knows this because of the sheer effort it takes to crouch and pull the packed duffle bag out from below his bed.

He knows this like he knows many things; he knows that this is a suicide mission. He knows that there’s actually a pretty high chance of him not returning. But Motoya is waiting for him, sitting in a basement fifteen kilometres west of Osaka, and Kiyoomi cannot waste any more time.

Duffle in his grasp, he tries to push past the blonde but is stopped by an outstretched hand.

(Don’t stare at it. Ignore the broad palm, the long fingers—)

“Of course it does, Omi,” Atsumu huffs. Clearly, he does not share this feeling of urgency. Then again, Atsumu is consistent in following his trend of being selectively bothersome, slipping through Kiyoomi’s unlocked bedroom window at the most inconvenient of times.

“Doubtful, Miya. I need to leave–”

“Kiyoomi think this through. Komori-kun’s put up the same ward that I’ve seen you use, right? He’s been gone for only three hours so you have nine more to get there. What good are you doing running over without proper backup?”

“You’ve seen the video, have you not? He’s surrounded and we both know that the coven is only gaining support the longer I wait.” An abrupt laugh makes him pause.

Kiyoomi stares.

“I can’t let you do this. You won’t come–”

“Fuck off Miya, don’t concern yourself with me.”

“Kiyoomi, please,” he begins to raise his voice. “This is a suicide mission! As your–”

“Miya, fuck off. Would you please shut up about your stupid soulmate crap, I don’t want to hear it.” Kiyoomi interrupts brazenly, thoughtlessly, and oh...

(Fuck. That’s not true.)

Now it’s Atsumu’s turn to stare. His face goes blank and he exhales deeply, unflinching.

The statement holds greater weight than either of them want to admit; has an intricately woven, three-year-long story of desire and denial.

Of course, Kiyoomi had to say it now of all times; he had to let the cruel words spill through his lips like poisonous venom leaving a predator's fangs as it bites into an unassuming victim. That’s really what Atsumu is in this situation; a mere victim of fate.

And shit, that’s really not what he meant to say.

(Kiyoomi knows he’s cold, but he never means to be callous.)

This delicate line that they walk, this balancing act of feigned ignorance and a purposefully undefined relationship is now jeopardized by Kiyoomi’s tactless words.

Prior to their fated meeting seven months ago, Kiyoomi had heard plenty of the blonde he now stares at; had picked up whispers of his sadistic tendencies, the way he chased and toyed with his desperate prey before they collapsed from either fear or exhaustion—to remind them of the existence of true predators.

(Atsumu has been nothing but gentle.)

Kiyoomi entered this unyielding game that day they met. But maybe this time it isn’t the prey that suffers. Or maybe it is, and the roles are just reversed. He doesn’t know. What he does know is that this chase is exhausting both parties involved.

(So why do you play, Kiyoomi?)

Atsumu pivots and exits the room, leaving Kiyoomi nothing to do but follow him through the small, dark apartment. He sees Atsumu leaning against the front door, seemingly lost in thought.

It’s always been like this between them. Push and pull and push and pull and push and pull and push until Kiyoomi pulled twice.

First when he left his window unlocked, as usual, knowing that he was practically welcoming Atsumu with open arms. And then the second time when he ended this stalemate by reminding them both that he will not acknowledge whatever corrupt soulmate bond has been manufactured between them by the gods.

Kiyoomi ponders how to further approach the situation, if, at all, when Atsumu smiles.

“You know, you’re right, Omi-kun. ”

And oh my god Atsumu is willing to overlook this fatal error Kiyoomi made; is willing to grab his hand and bring him back to the line on which they’d tread and pretend that Kiyoomi hadn’t just tossed them both into the abyss with nothing to grab to slow their descent.

This is a complete act of mercy. One that Kiyoomi is almost willing to accept—he does have to leave and save Motoya, after all—but the pained expression, bottom lip turned white from the press of teeth, makes him pause and reassess.

(He’s not callous. He really doesn’t mean to be cruel.)

Why does his chest suddenly feel so tight, as though a tiny hole inside of it expanded, threatening to collapse him from the inside out?

For all their pushing and pulling and maintenance of balance, it has never been a truly equal game between them. It was always Atsumu who suffered just a bit more.

Because humans cannot feel the soulmate connection; do not have the acute sensitivity required to feel the warmth of specific touches, the allure of particular smells, or even the special awareness that comes in the form of an invisible pulling—yearning manifested—that connects the supernatural species to their other half.

They are not meant to have soulmates and thus do not share the absolute reverence that the vampire kind has for it. This respect—so deep—allows a small, painful love to form in the cracks between two individuals, enemies by nature, binding Kiyoomi to Atsumu and Atsumu to Kiyoomi, with Atsumu feeling the connection just a little bit more.

This leaves Kiyoomi suffering the guilt of sentencing rejection and yet permitting a distant closeness that tempts him with a love he refuses to accept cannot have.

(Isn’t he lonely?)

And Atsumu, the willing recipient, is always content to accept whatever Kiyoomi gives him, never asking for more. With this, he shows his love is constant.

Kiyoomi considers this. Inhales. Exhales. Thinks. Reexamines his previous stance on ignoring the small and soft burning he feels inside himself around Atsumu, as though he swallowed a match that stayed lit inside of him.

(Butterflies, maybe?)

Nothing in life is certain save for death and taxes and the bond that ties estranged souls like theirs together until the first certainty separates them again.

How unfortunate Atsumu is, to have a soulmate like Kiyoomi. He deserves an act of mercy.

Kiyoomi looks up to speak, but Atsumu doesn’t face him anymore. He has never wanted to see the vampire’s wicked grin so badly, sharp canines digging into a full lower lip—threatening, tantalizing. He’d even settle for the infuriating smirk that never fails to make him want to absolutely punch Atsumu in the mouth. With his own mouth, preferably. Softly, perhaps.

(Reach out. Say something, Kiyoomi.)

A soulmate bond between a vampire and a human is unheard of. Maybe this means something, that they have such a connection.

Kiyoomi sighs, placing his duffle gently on the floor. Motoya can wait an extra few minutes.

—

“Say it, Omi-kun. I want to hear you say it.”

“I love you, Atsumu.”

And Atsumu does know this. He knows it in the way Kiyoomi sits on rooftops, placing himself always right of centre so that Atsumu can complete their souls’ symmetry and mirror him on the left. He knows it in the way Kiyoomi has never once made a move against his life regardless of his reputation for being merciless to vampires, never meeting one he didn’t kill. He knows it in the way Kiyoomi leaves his bedroom window unlocked.

He feels it in the way Kiyoomi is now letting him come close, he himself leaning in. He feels it in Kiyoomi’s breath against his lips. In the soulmate warmth that only he can feel but would do anything to share.

Atsumu won’t complain though. Because Kiyoomi allowing him to feel that warmth is far beyond enough.

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shivasdarknight · 4 months

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guess who's not feeling as tired as yesterday (:

blanket "this is based in observations and not a broad declaration of fact" statement here, because this is the site of media literacy

but i just. really want to know what it is with trans mascs* and wlw. because between people ive met who had already transitioned to people ive been around who transitioned actively while i knew them, theres just been this predominant trend of just. trashing wlw. and if not that, then just outright ignoring it.

some have had all these excuses for why they get to be exempt from engaging with it (even if it's just...idk supporting a friend who does wlw?), others dont have good excuses or even try to give one, while many just play lipservice and then go back head over heels into mlm (esp fkn. sor/ikus, im beyond sick of those fans in general but the sapphobic ones are a special kind of annoying). and ive known a lot of people who do the lipservice stuff, and theyre also the people who get weird about bi sapphics - almost like their support of wlw was just to get the women out of the way and not as competition for the men they want to predominantly ship with?

but there really is just. a lot of trans mascs who refuse to touch wlw, yet expect sapphics to support their mlm ventures. and god forbid its t4t wlw; i rarely see cis4cis wlw from trans mascs, but never see t4t wlw. but just. why. reiterating a point that gets brought up wrt transmisogyny, but that point of "having grown up with misogyny" sure gets brought up a lot so one would think - esp if this is one of the many "used-to-be-bi-but-now-are-gay-trans men-who-end-up really biphobic"**, why have i known so many why is this a trend - that they would understand the issues surrounding the low visibility and support of wlw, or even just be sympathetic, but theyre just so quick to pull all support?? and again: especially when it concerns anything to do with trans fems.

idk. it's frustrating. it's hard enough to get most people - regardless of identity - to get on board with supporting wlw (esp the wlw folks who don't do sensual handholding, like myself), so it's really maddening to see this happening while they want us to put in the energy for them but they make excuses for why they won't with anyone else - plenty enough w general sapphics, but god forbid its t4t sapphics.

*im using trans mascs here as a general catch all because Yes I Do Understand That There Are Plenty Of Trans Masculine People Who Still Fall Under Sapphic. im saying this because "trans men" is too narrow and doesnt include the trans masc identities that aren't sapphic

**no seriously ive met a lot of them. it's usually formerly-bi gay trans men who suddenly get really vile about bisexuality. and these are the ones who do lipservice because they support wlw usually as cis4cis les4les while ignoring everything else (eSP T4T AND/OR BI4BI). they're also really weird about m/f (even if it's t4t, or even just t4cis, or even if theyre both queer) but thats not the point of this and im p sure that its just misogyny at that point.

#original #bleh #people who are quick to jump on the trend of attacking bi women but are loath to acknowledge anything relating to biphobia #its annoying #but thats more because so many of them have been formerly bisexuals and i dont Get It.#the rest is just #w h y #why the hostility towards wlw its so fkn ridiculous

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erodasfishtacos · 3 years

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#HendallReunited

prompt: request was to write broad but to write something angsty

Word count: 5.2k

Warnings: language, sexual content, angst

Harry always had issues with saying ‘no’ to people. He never quite grew out of his manners even when he should have.

He said ‘yes’ to way too many things- signing autographs for rude fans and paparazzi, and agreed to way too many things Jeff suggested.

Saying yes to everything didn’t make his life any easier is the thing. Especially when it came to his wife. She was usually left with the aftermath of him being too nice.

The media painted Y/N in a negative light occasionally and so did the fans because she would stand up for Harry and not let him say ‘yes’ to every single request.

She would tell disrespectful fans he’s not signing autographs because of the way they were screaming and interrupting his work.

Harry wished he could do it himself - admired that his wife didn’t give a fuck what people thought about her. He cared entirely too much what the world would think.

The couple didn’t fight about much - no, not really. Normal couple stuff for the most part. But this was the exception, this is where Y/N found most of their turmoil.

Every few months it would rear it’s ugly head and they’d find themselves in the same position over and over again.

This time - it was really fucking bad.

The couple had been staying in their Los Angeles home for the last few months whilst the singer finalized his album and began promotion.

It was boring meeting among boring lunch outings to get all their ducks in a row. Jeff - his manager the main orchestrator.

He was a great manager and a good friend, but it was also business too which Harry didn’t always comprehend.

At the end of the day, Harry was making Jeff millions upon millions of dollars. But Harry didn’t think that way.

Harry was in a stuffy conference room at the The Late Late Show to work on the script and ideas for the show. Promo had been nonstop.

He was a bit tired as it was nearly just hitting eight in the morning and he had been up late with you - having some late night loving in the hot tub.

“As for guest - Kendall Jenner,” James Corden’s producer states. All the men agree but Harry is taken aback.

“Why...why would we have my ex-girlfriend as one of my guests?” Harry interrupts, confusion knitting his brows.

Kendall and him didn’t end on a bad note - not at all. They hooked up a few times after their ‘break-up’ but once he’d met Y/N she was understanding when he cut it off.

Y/N wasn’t necessarily jealous of the model, but didn’t love when they’d run into each other at events. She was still overtly flirty with Harry without much shame.

Harry also didn’t have an desire to see her or host her as a guest on the show. She was nice but he wasn’t interested in being friends with her. They didn’t have much in common and he was head over heels for his wife.

“The media will eat it up, dude. Harry Styles and Kendall Jenner reunited on a show after four years?” Jeff smiles, the others nodding in amicable agreement.

This is one of this times where Harry needs to say “no,” that it’s disrespectful to his significant other to use an old flame for promo for his album.

He already knows ‘hendall’ will be trending within minutes and he can’t imagine how that would make his parter feel.

“I just...this doesn’t seem like a good idea?” Harry begins hesitantly, making it sound more like a question than a statement.

“Why not?” Eric, one of the writers asks.

“Y’know, I’m married. I don’t think m’missus would appreciate if I did somethin’ like that just for promotion,” he states, scratching at his jaw uncomfortably.

“Look Styles, we’re not asking you to fuck the girl. It just a interview, c’mon,” The executive producer gruffs - wanting those guaranteed views.

Harry swallows - looking at his manager and then at everyone else at the table looking at him for an affirmative answer.

“Uh-sure,” Harry fumbles, feeling anxiety rise into his throat. Fuck, he’s such a god damn pushover.

He’s trying to find his voice to go back on his agreement but the meeting wrapping up and people are leaving with final handshakes.

Harry doesn’t know how to tell Y/N what is going on. He’d been keeping in stored in the back of his mind, not ready to have a blowout.

He never found the perfect time to bring it up and now it was too late. It was the morning of the show and he was due to be at the rehearsals this afternoon.

Harry had finally decided he was going to tell her this morning over coffee but forgot that she had a girl’s day planned with a few friends.

She was already out to breakfast with them when he woke up. His phone had one text from you.

Hi baby. I’m out with the girls. See you at the show tonight. I’ll meet you there around six! Love you!

He was fucked royally and he had no one to blame but himself. Maybe it’d be okay, maybe she’d roll her eyes and tell him he’s an idiot.

Realistically he knew that was just a sweet dream at this point.

—

Harry was fidgety and kept mucking up his lines during rehearsal as it got closer to the showtime and his missus arriving.

Kendall had arrived for hair and makeup without seeing her ex-boyfriend yet. He dreaded seeing the model.

Kendall and Y/N had met a few times at different events. It was always cordial. Kendall was always casual - their relationship was never more than a couple fun dates and sex.

They were kind to each other when they met but he couldn’t deny how much harder his partner kissed him on the mouth afterwards.

Before he know it, his wife is hugging him from behind as he talks to a producer about which cameras to look at.

Y/N noticed the way he tensed up at first and thought about how unusual that was for him. Normally, he’d lean back into her with his full weight causing them both to stumble and laugh.

He slowly, cautiously turns around and his face relaxes a little bit but not completely. “Hi baby,” he hums, leaning in for a kiss.

“You look so handsome,” she replies, admiring his brown pinstriped suit and her pearl necklace that he’d snagged awhile back. She thought it looked better on him anyways.

“You look even better, s’fuckin’ pretty, love,” he gushes, coming back in for another kiss - a little too sensual for the setting.

She was donned in a cropped white shirt, showing of the smooth expanse of her tummy. An oversized blazer of Harry’s, ripped jeans, and heels.

Harry thought fleetingly he couldn’t wait to fuck her after the show. Then remembered that mostly wouldn’t happen.

Reggie, the musical lead, slides up to you two. He smiles wide at you, saying, “Can’t believe you agreed to the guest this evening.”

Her eyebrows furrow in confusion, Harry’s raise nearly to his forehead, but when she opens her mouth to ask him to explain they’re interrupted.

“Harry!” The leggy model trots over to the little group. Dressed in an interesting one-piece suit that has sewn in heels. She looked beautiful as ever, of course she was a model.

Both of them turn towards the oblivious girl, “Kendall,” Harry replies with a twinge of anxiety - eyes repeatedly looking at his significant other’s profile as multiple emotions flash.

“Hiya, you’re Y/N right?” Kendall smiles kindly, offering her manicured hand.

She accepts, “Yeah, uh-good to see you again.”

Harry knew she had connected the dots quickly in her head. The hurt, confusion, had hit her eyes before narrowing into full-blown rage at her partner.

“I promise I’ll go easy on him,” Kendall jokes before pinching at Harry’s cheek teasingly. The model was a natural flirt with everyone she got along with.

“Oh, sure,” she replies lamely, attempting to not let her feelings burst out in that moment with her husband . She knew it wasn’t Kendall’s fault.

“I’m going to go grab a bite to eat. I’m probably gonna puke when we do ‘spill or fill’. See you guys soon,” the model waves before trailing off with her assistant.

“Did you kn- of course you knew she was your guest,” Y/N seethes, turning to fully face the guilt-stricken-singer.

He rubs the back of his neck, avoiding eye contact, “I did.”

“How long have you known for?” She demands to know, keeping her voice at an angry whisper to not draw attention.

Harry wasn’t going to lie to his love, “About two weeks.”

Y/N replies with a laugh, “let me guess, you let Jeffrey talk you into this bullshit, again.”

His silence is all she needs to know it’s true.

“For Christ’s sake, of course,” She huffs bitterly, “what’s even worse is you didn’t fucking tell me. What the fuck?”

Harry bites his lip, not able to rasp out anything but a pathetic, “m’sorry, love.”

He wasn’t usually good at taking responsibility during a fight. He was stubborn at best but he couldn’t deny his way out of this.

“You will be, you-“

They were cut off by the staff, the audience was trailing in and Harry needed to get mic’d up now.

“This conversation isn’t over,” she points her finger at his chest before storming off to the side of the stage where she’d watch from.

Fucking shit.

Harry was a performer. It’s easy for him to push things to the back of his mind so he can entertain a enamored audience.

But tonight, he was struggling. Eyes flicking over to the teleprompter more than usual, his demeanor not as vivid and carefree.

Not when his wife was glaring daggers at him from stage right. Her hand constantly at her mouth, biting at her nails - a nervous tick of hers.

“Next up, the one, the only, the beautiful model and one of my good friends, Kendall Jenner!” Harry introduces when she walks out and waves at the crowd.

They hug and when they pull apart they step over to where they were playing the game. Either answer the question or eat a nasty food picked out by the other.

They weren’t allowed to see each other’s questions before the game started- both going on blind which put Harry more on edge.

“Okay, Kendall. Rank the members of One Direction on most to least attractive or you will be eating...” Harry spins the table, “Cow tongue.”

She flinched at the disgusting plate, smirking up at Harry before considering her course of action, “I think I can answer this one.”

He wasn’t looking forward to her answer. Neither was Y/N by the way she nearly shaking her foot off her leg.

“Okay, I got this. You - the most attractive, then uh- Zayn....Louis...Niall...Liam,” she laughs, “but all of you are hot!”

Harry fake laughs and acts like he’s impressed by her answer as the crowd roars and cheers.

When Kendall picks up her notecard - she laughs in surprise at the question before looking at him with bright eyes.

“Okay, um, bull penis!” She giggles before starting the question, “I’m dying to know this answer. So...your first album HS1 was released four years ago, correct?”

He nods, apprehensive.

“Which songs were about me? Especially was only angel?” She laughs at Harry’s pale expression before without another thought he shovels the rancid food into his mouth.

Harry looks off to the side to see that his missus is no longer sitting there. Just Jeff - who gives him a thumbs up.

The first thing he did when the show ended and the lights dimmed was bolt off to Jeff - ignoring Kendall who was about to say something to him.

“Where’d Y/N go?”

He thought she might have went out to get a breathe of fresh air but for the next hour and a half he hasn’t seen her once.

“She said she wasn’t feeling very good. She told me to tell you she’d meet you at home,” Jeff shrugs unbothered.

“Damnit!” Harry curses loudly, ripping out of the microphone and the little pack in his back waistband.

“Harry,” Jeff scolds at his unprofessionalism that was abnormal for him.

“No! Don’t fucking ever ask me to do shit like this again. You fucking knew what questions were on those notecards and you said it wasn’t anything about our previous relationship.”

“Harry-“

“Don’t fucking talk to me. You’re a real shit manager sometimes, you know that? Do not contact me tonight or tomorrow for that matter, you douchebag,” Harry barks before storming off towards the dressing rooms.

All the employees were standing around in shock, staring at the popstar as he ignored everyone around him.

Harry was famously known for being a kind, amicable guy. So it took everyone by surprise to hear him speak like that. Even Jeff was shaken up a little.

—

The house was pitch-black as Harry pulled up. The house’s first floor was lined with large, bay windows and not a single light was on.

He could find one room illuminated which was your bedroom. A dim side lamp must have been flicked on. He imagined her purposely turning off all the lights on the trek up the staircase.

Harry didn’t want to admit how much he was trembling with awful nerves and anticipation as he slowly turns the knob of the shared bedroom.

Y/N wasn’t laying in bed as he expected but found the bathroom door shut tightly. He noticed a little yellow bag with tissue paper off to the side by a dresser.

He knocks on the oak door, not daring to enter without permission.

“What do you want?” Y/N answers, tone flat and emotionless.

“Can I come in, baby? Please...” He wasn’t ashamed to beg for forgiveness at this point. Hearing the emptiness in her tone scared him shitless.

“I really could care less,” She replies coldly from her spot in the scalding water decorated with bubbles.

Harry had never felt more unsure in his life as he enters the bathroom. Y/N had gotten proper pissed at him or vice versa before - right before a concert, an award ceremony but she’d never left without him.

Her head was laying against the foam headrest and her body was covered by the soap water. She looked tired and her eyes were puffy from crying.

Harry kneels next to the tub, “look at me, please pet.”

Y/N takes a moment before turning her head and opening her eyes. They were distant, disappointed in the man in front of her.

“I should have told you about Kendall. I should have put up more of a fight to get someone else on instead,” Harry admits, his hands desperately wanting to reach out for her.

She shakes her head with a heart-wrenching sniffle, “it’s not just tonight, Harry. We’ve had this conversation continuously for three and a half fucking years. You try to please everyone, despite them giving no fucks about you.”

“Are you that much of a pushover? You let your ex-girlfriend flirt with you in front of millions. Do you know how embarrassing and unfair that it to me?” She wipes at her eyes to stop the tears spilling over.

Harry hadn’t thought of it like that - to be honest. But he agrees, it wasn’t fair and downright cruel to do that to her.

What? All because he couldn’t say ‘no’ because he didn’t want people to be mad at him? It was pathetic and ridiculous.

“I-I won’t let it happen again, lovie. I mean it, I truly do,” Harry whimpers reaching over to cup her cheek and wants to cry when she pushes him away.

“You’re a broken record. You’ve said that a million times before but don’t change,” Y/N points out, eyes boring furiously into his wife’s.

“I’m goi-“

She cuts him off with a sharp edge in her tone, “Just leave me alone, get out.”

The man’s face crumbles and for a second, she wants to just end the fight and makeup but then nothing would change.

“Baby-“

“Get out!” She finally bellows, tears streaming down her face steadily.

He obliges, head hung in defeat as he closes the door behind him. He stands there’s blankly for a second before going to the walk-in closet.

He’s pulling out a fresh pair of cotton underwear and a large sleepshirt for his partner, laying them neatly on the bed.

Harry doesn’t know what to do with himself while he waits so he pulls out his phone to mindlessly scroll.

He throws it against the wall when he sees #hendallreunited is trending number one on Twitter at the moment.

The singer strips down to his briefs and sits with his back against the tufted headboard, staring blankly at the wall.

His eyes catch a neon pink pair of his swimshorts tossed carelessly on the decorative vase in the corner of the room from the night before .

“Fuck, baby - no need to rush,” Harry groans into Y/N ‘s mouth as she pushes him until he’s sat on the edge of their California king.

She reaches impatiently for the tie on his neon pink swimshorts and yanks them off his slim, peach-fuzz thighs before throwing them onto the vase without a care that it was worth over twenty-thousand pounds.

After edging her in the hot tub with his fingers and mouth, she wasn’t waiting any longer before clambering onto his lap, pulling her swim bottoms to the side, and sinking onto him.

He felt guilty when his cock twitched at the thought of it. But when reality set back in, the arousal with the memory evaporated.

It isn’t much longer until the door is pulled open and Y/N’s padding into the room with a towel secured around her.

She looks at the clothes Harry set out for her and pointedly walks past them to pick out her own nightwear.

That really shouldn’t make his eyes tear up as he watches her slide on a similar pair of panties and an oversized shirt. Spotting a purpling bruise on her upper in thigh from his mouth.

Y/N silently walks past the bed and to the bedroom door, looking back before bleakly stating, “I’m going to sleep in the guest room.”

He frowns, wrinkles appearing on his forehead, “You can sleep in here, love. I’ll take the guest room.”

Harry doesn’t get a reply as she just shakes her head and closes the door loudly behind her.

It’s just - he’s never seen her this upset. She was usually fantastic at communicating her feelings and hashing things out.

She wasn’t one for the silent treatment or ignoring the topic. It had his chest rising faster than usual with anxiety. The serious of it overwhelming him.

He states at the wall for a very long time without wiping the fat tears brimming over his trembling lips.

He couldn’t sleep - it was half past three and he hadn’t even laid down or clicked off the lamp.

Harry accepted sleep wasn’t coming so he begins to tidy the already clean room. He picks up the shorts and tossing them in the hamper.

He refolds some joggers he’d carelessly shoved in a drawer and when he went to move the little yellow bag - curiosity got the best of him.

There was no card and he wasn’t sure who it was for or if it had been a gift already give to Y/N that she had returned home with.

Harry really shouldn’t - but he does. Gently tugging out the paper and reaching in to feel fabric.

Pulling it out, it takes him a minute to identify what it is - two baby onesie. Who was having a baby?

He lays them in front of him, eyes widening in surprise as he reads what is printed across the black cotton.

The first one was the colors and font of his upcoming tour merch with the photo he used on his tour announcement with the heeled boot and white pants.

Love on Tour - Due Date: September 2025

With Special Guest Appearance from Baby Styles

The second one was simple and read across the chest:

I’m having your baby (and it is your business) with embroidered kiwis all of over it.

He frantically reached back into the bag to pull out a bundle of pregnancy tests tied with a silk bow.

They weren’t necessarily trying for a baby but they’re weren’t not trying either. Harry wanted a baby as soon as his missus was willing to give him one.

“No, no, don’t one,” she’d whined into his mouth when he’d reached over to grab a condom off the nightstand.

“Oh sweet thing, you want me bare? Fill you up?” He croons happily, coming back to grip at his thick base and tease at her entrance.

“Ye-yeah, H. Please,” (Y/N) whimpers, bucking her hips in the hope he’d slip inside her.

Harry hums, “Might give you a baby though, y’want me to knock you up?”

“Want it, wan-“

He cuts her off with a hard, blissful kiss as he thrusts all the way inside before pulling out to do it again.

“Gonna give it to you, whatever you want, lovie,” he promises.

The two had never used protection afterwards. It had start about seven months ago and from his knowledge she’d still been getting her periods regularly.

Occasionally, he would palm at her flat tummy and pout, “Haven’t put a baby in you yet, ‘ave I?”

He was so ecstatic but disappointed in himself for ruining everything and pleasing everyone other than who he should be.

Harry needed to fix this. He didn’t want Y/N to lose the excitement of having their baby over a dumb choice of his.

The man’s out of the room and not knocking before entering their guest room. His now pregnant love is laying on-top of the covers.

One hand subconsciously on her belly - which she removes and places next to her when her wife walks in.

The television was on but the volume was low and Y/N wasn’t watching it in the first place anyways.

Harry sits on the edge of the bed, “I opened the yellow bag.”

She looks at him with wide eyes, a little taken aback. she was going to surprise him tonight and forgot to store it away for another time after the fight.

Harry has happy tears dribbling down his cheeks, “you’re having my baby?”

Y/N nods, running a slight hand through his curls. She still had a nasty knot of anger and uncertainty in the pit of her stomach.

It pains her, wanting to share this moment of excitement with Harry but she just couldn’t. The uncertainty of whether Harry would put everybody’s needs before his own baby.

“Come back to bed, want t’talk and celebrate. M’so bloody excited,” Harry murmurs, a large smile decorating his face as he smooths a palm over the expanse of her tummy.

His wife shakes her head and places a hand over his, feeling the cold metal of all of them. “I want to be left alone.”

The twinkle in Harry’s eye diminishes to devastation as he realizes that he’s fucked up so badly that she doesn’t even want to celebrate.

“Pet, can...we just forget about it tonight and be happy ‘bout the baby?” Harry asks selfishly, knowing it was unlikely she’d agree.

She didn’t, a firm expression on her face, “no, I have a lot to think about.”

“Like wha’?” He asks anxiously, unknowing of quite the reason she was so furious.

“Like how you say yes to everything and everyone. We talk and talk about how you need to say ‘no’ and do what’s best for you - for us. You agree to and never follow through”

She takes a shaky breath and continues, “it’s affected our relationship before when you’ve had to cancel our vacation away from all this for a charity concert you’d agree to perform at last minute, dinner reservations because you told your friend we’d be at their art showing they wanted you at.”

Harry knew she was right. He did those things. He wanted everyone to be happy with him - to a fault.

“Tonight was just icing on the cake, you allowed your manager to talk you into hosting your ex on that show. Out of all the people in the world - her. With flirty questions and jabs from her. You let that happen. You care about making everyone happy but in return you don’t care how it affects me. That’s pretty shitty.”

“I’m...I’m really fucking scared you’ll do that even when we have the baby. I need you to put them first and right now...I’m not sure if you’re going to. You can’t put the person you want to spend the rest of your life with first now, how do I know you’ll do it with the baby?”

Harry chokes out a sob as he presses his forehead against the bed, his broad shoulders shaking. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried this hard - years ago maybe. He felt like his wife didn’t have any faith in him and he was to blame.

He looks up at her with swollen eyes - at a loss for what to do or say. He loved her so much and was over the moon that they were going to have a baby.

“How do I fix this, darling? You’re right, I really fucked up. M’sorry,” Harry cries, grabbing at her hands and she allows it.

“Just saying you’re sorry won’t fix it,” Y/N replies flatly, letting Harry squeeze and kiss at the backs of her hands.

“Then what do I bloody do to fix this?” Harry raises his voice in frustration, staring in bewilderment at his wife.

Y/N narrows her eyes at him, “Do not raise your voice at me, Harry. Actions speak louder than words.”

Harry swallows harshly, pressing one finally kiss to her hand. “Okay.”

“Okay?” She repeats.

“I love you, I’ll fix this,” he promises with conviction. He knew what he needed to do and do it tomorrow. So he and his wife could enjoy her new pregnancy.

“I need space tonight, I just...please”Y/N says quietly, rubbing at his shoulder.

It wasn’t the first time they’ve slept in separate rooms because they weren’t getting along but they normally found their way back to each other before sunrise.

Harry nods, lip still tremble with the residual anxiety of the conversation. She allows him to press a soft kiss to her mouth before leaving the room.

—-

Cafe Habana was busy - but no one was paying much attention to Harry and Jeff. It was the morning after and Harry had demanded a meeting over breakfast with his manager.

“Y/N pregnant,” Harry states bluntly after their drinks arrive.

“Oh? Congratulations, dude. That’s exciting!” Jeff leans over to pat him on the shoulder, a big smile.

“The baby is due in September. My next tour starts in next July. The baby will be about nine months. I want to be at home with them for the first year.”

Jeff doesn’t look pleased, “what are you getting at Harry?”

“Reschedule the July and August tour dates. Tack them on to the end of the tour,” Harry lays out flat.

He hadn’t talk to his wife about this but he knew this was how he could prove that he could say ‘no’ and not be a pushover.

“No Harry. Look I get you’re excited about the baby - but that will be such a fucking hassle,” Jeff frowns, sipping his mimosa.

“I’m not asking, Jeff. I’m telling you that’s what needs to happen,” Harry replies firmly, tone strong and unwavering.

Jeff is definitely taken aback by his client’s conviction.

“While we’re on the topic, do not ever put me in a situation like you did yesterday. It affected my wife and I. And I will choose her over this career any day.”

The manager nods in surprise, “Harry, I’m sorry.”

“I’m not asking for an apology but if you ever pull something like then I’ll be looking for a new management team. Are we clear?”

Jeff once again nods, unsure of where this is coming from but at the thought of losing his biggest client would be disastrous so he’d do whatever to accommodate him.

“Consider it done,” he tells Harry before clearing his throat in a slight panic.

—

Y/N woke up to an empty house. She was restless, she asked Harry to prove to her that he could be what she needed. However, it was a bit unfair because she didn’t know how he could do it.

It’s just…she had a baby to think about. They both needed to be put first and if it took a gnarly fight for Harry to realize it...so be it.

“Baby? Love, where are you?” She hears Harry echo through the whole house. She was sat in the kitchen, on a stool by the island, idly sorting through mail.

“In here!”

Harry jogs in, panting like he sprinted from the garage up to the kitchen. He comes to stand in front of the love of his life.

“I might have not completely fixed everything but...I tried,” Harry tells her, cradling her face in his large palms. “ I just got back from lunch with Jeff. I told him about the baby.”

He takes a deep breath before continuing, “I rescheduled tour dates so I can be with you guys at home in London for the first year. Then...maybe you guys can join me after?”

“Harry…” she’s at a loss for words.

“And I told Jeff that if he ever puts me in a situation like that again, I’m firing him.”

Y/N stares at him, in awe and admiration of the man she chose to marry and keep forever. His face was so sincere and vulnerable.

Harry didn’t know whether it would be enough. If it wasn’t he’d keep trying but all he could do was hope. He waited with bated breath as she processed his words.

“Baby, you-for me?” She murmurs as she stands up and crowds into his space. He instantly wraps her up into a tight hug, missing her touch.

“Of course, pet. I’d do anything for you, I mean it. I’d quit this whole career if you wanted tha’,” he tells her truthfully - lips brushing her forehead.

“I love you, so so much,” Y/N murmurs, pressing a kiss to his lips.

“We’re havin’ a baby,'' Harry sighs dreamily into her mouth, tongue sliding against hers. A large hand came to palm at her belly.

“Yeah, m‘having your baby,” She giggles as he begins to trail the kisses down her jaw and neck - pressing her into the marble countertop.

“Should we name it Kiwi?” Harry rasps as he slides the tank top strap off her shoulder so his lips can meet the cap of her warm shoulder.

“We are not going to be that celebrity couple who names their baby something weird,” Y/N groans as he grounds his hips into hers with intent.

THE END

#harry styles #harry styles fic rec #fic rec #harry styles masterlist #harry styles writing #harrystylesfanfic #harry styles imagine #fanpic harry #harry styles prompt #harry styles x you #harry styles x y/n #harry styles x reader #harry styles smut #harry styles drabble #harry styles blurb

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saipng · 3 years

Text

the long awaited... the breath-baited... the most wanted.... (and maybe a little haunted? no, it definitely isnt, im very sleep deprived, sorry)

anyway, the last part of the jalim fic mini series. here it is. please enjoy.

(links to parts 1 and 2 + AO3 link in the replies)

There is not a single damn reason why there should be that many chandeliers on at the same time during broad daylight.

A stupid waste of energy for the sake of empty aesthetics – a trend that’s been ravishing this country like a plague. Really, you’d assume someone would think of the rainforests instead of the stuffy businessmen in their stuffy suits getting a micron less lighting than usual. With all the glass that’s wasted on the stupidly tall windows, that shouldn’t be a problem anyway.

Jason’s beginning to get extremely concerned about the hotel’s electricity bill, and it’s definitely not because the stupid light burns away his retinas and makes the hangover that much more present. It’s definitely not because he’s been standing by the sad-looking plastic plants for much longer than perfectly necessary.

(He’s been at it for twenty minutes now.)

(He arrived thirty minutes early.)

(The first ten were spent in his car, wondering why he bothered arriving thirty minutes early.)

Jason Kolchek is just a known environmentalist, and that is precisely the reason he’s hating on the crystal-bound lights of the ornamental chandeliers with unbridled passion.

He pauses in his laments the moment his ears catch a distinct ding of the elevator, and he spots a bright red hoodie atop a pair of washed up blue jeans.

The young man wearing them is lanky, paying far more attention to toying with his iPod rather than to actually not walking into one of the fake plants. His face isn’t one Jason’s ever seen before and, if he weren’t looking, it would’ve been all too easy to glance past him. But there is something intoxicatingly familiar about his manner – something in the shape of his hands as he’s desperately trying to steady the plant from toppling over; something in the mild panic in his eyes as he looks behind him and then goes straight back to his iPod.

He perches against a tall column, his shoes squeaking on the polished surface of the floors. The guy seems perfectly out of place in the grandness of the lobby – and he’d be damned if he’d let it get to him.

He and Salim are definitely related.

A shaky gulp of much needed oxygen, and Jason tries his best to feign casualness and remember the motions of simply walking over. He’s extending a hand in a greeting before he can think better of it, aims his smile for casual even when it comes off as strained.

“Zain? Hi, Jason Kolchek.”

It takes a moment for the young man to react, and when he does, he stares at him dumbfounded. His eyes are wide as they run between his hand and his face.

He pops out a single earbud.

“What?”

“Sorry, hi!” Jason winces. He doesn’t know why he’s apologizing. Tries again. “You’re Zain, right?”

“Oh, yeah-“ Zain grabs his hand, shakes it almost dismissively – before he blinks. And gapes.

“Wait, you’re Jason Kolchek!?”

The emphasis is all wrong in that statement, the stress is on the wrong parts, and Jason retrieves his hand uncertainly, trying to place where he’s heard that tone before. “Yeah? Your dad’s friend? Uh, we’re having breakfast in this nice little diner, and-”

“Like- For real?”

Something about the young man’s struck expression turns the gears, echoes of something that he should’ve already known about. Something about a book, and something about the writings in the margins, something about myths and legends, and something about a signature.

It’s only then that Jason remembers he’s a famous author. Not just Salim’s friend.

“You’re a fan, right?” He almost yells, but this is familiar territory now. He can handle fans. He’s done it before, he thinks. “I signed that book for you and everything.”

And Zain blinks at him, frozen on the spot.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

“No, no, I remember, your dad brought it in, and-“

“You mean you- you really know my dad?” He stutters, and Jason smiles. For whatever reason, there is an intense amount of pride in that smile.

“I do.”

“You’re the friend we’re meeting?”

“Yeah.”

The younger man simply blinks, running a hand through his hair. There is something that is secretly making Jason smile that much wider. He was never much to care for fans – he wasn’t exactly writing for the people or anything. But this guy… Well, he was that much different.

Signing that book was definitely a score in Jason’s favor – not that anyone was keeping scores.

“Okay, tell me the truth.” Zain leans in, beckons him to lean in closer too. “Is my dad paying you to be here?”

Jason thinks he already likes the guy.

“I can guarantee that no money in the world could make me trudge here at eight in the morning. I’m here because I want to be.”

He doesn’t mean for it to sound as candid as it does.

Zain doesn’t look like he really believes him. Still, he nods.

“Damn, well- Um. Thanks for that. And thank you for the autograph. And, uh. Sorry for being so weird. I just-” He pauses, taking a quick moment to glance over his shoulder. “When my dad said you were coming, I just thought he was bullshitting me, like usual. But… Well, damn. You’re really you.”

“I’m really me.” Jason smiles, and doesn’t really believe it, either. “So where is Salim anyway?”

Zain rolls his eyes, not without a trace of affection. “Ugh, I think he’s still getting dressed. He’s been up for hours already, just changing outfits. Driving me insane.”

“Really? Hours?”

“Um-“

The younger man balks, looking over his shoulder once again. Jason knows that expression – the fear of saying way too much. That alone makes something far too peppy flutter in his chest, and he thinks that it’s way too damn early for any of it

As though sensing the tension in the air, the elevator chimes once more to interrupt their conversation. And when Salim walks out of the sliding doors, he’s wearing a smart gray coat and a black turtleneck sweater – and Jason really tries not to let it show how impressed he is with the ensemble. And the fact that it apparently took him hours to assemble.

He really, really tries not to let it show.

“Good morning, Jason!” He chimes from halfway across the lobby. Jason can swear his cologne is already assaulting his every sense, the hug from yesterday filling up his veins with ice and lightning. He smiles and waves, or thinks he smiles and waves. He has no idea what he does in actuality. He’s way too goddamn lost in the fit of that black turtleneck.

“Sorry I’m late, I couldn’t find the spare room key.” He passes a plastic card along to Zain, who shoots Jason a very pointed glance. Jason misses it entirely. He’s lost. He’s hopeless.

Salim smiles at him.

God, he’s goddamn hopeless.

“It’s- Alright. It’s alright.” The fact that words come out at all is a miracle, and he’s never been more glad for the hangover, which he could happily blame in case things get too weird. “We’re just- We were getting to know each other.”

He motions between himself and Zain, finally managing to tear his eyes away from Salim. Zain gives him an awkward smile, but it’s not unfriendly.

“Ah, that’s good! What were you talking about?” Salim clasps a gentle hand on Zain’s shoulder, who replies way too eagerly.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Jason decides that he definitely likes this guy.

“Keeping secrets from me already, hm? Well, I can live with that.” Salim gapes at them, but he is smiling ear to ear, and suddenly, the stupid chandeliers seem that much duller. The whole world, in fact, has faded.

They really, really need to leave this hotel lobby already.

“You know what I can’t live without?” Jason claps his hands, reminds himself to be a person. “Some good goddamn food. Let’s go team, breakfast’s waiting!”

As they are walking to the quaint yet charming diner Jason’s chosen for their all-American experience, he hears a faint whisper of Zain’s voice behind them.

“Dad,” He asks, the word distinctly Arabic, “Just who is this guy to you?”

Jason doesn’t turn around, but he feels Salim’s smile in his voice. “A very special friend.”

“Huh? What is that supposed to mean?”

An answer doesn’t follow.

The wind blows, and spring allows for one last gust of winter’s chilly air to bring about its final gasp of snow.

He’s staring at the dancing snowflakes, fingers restless on the plastic menu cover.

“The hangover’s that bad, hm?” Salim’s hand is opposite his own. He definitely isn’t remembering what it was like to hold it.

“Yeah, something like that.” Jason lies – or maybe doesn’t. He has no idea who to blame for his current disposition – the booze, the cigarettes, the universe, or the man sitting across the table.

The man, who is now reaching out – touching his skin, a trace that’s barely there, solid enough for Jason to feel it with his entire shuddering body.

“Hang in there,” He mouths, retrieves his hand back as the waitress comes in with their food.

Jason’s sitting with his heart on the table and his knees shaking.

Zain stares between the two of them.

“You were in the army together, right?”

He tries not to wince at the words, and tries not to hate the implications. He really doesn’t want to say I could’ve killed your father and I would’ve thought I made the world a better place – and so he doesn’t. Instead, he gives Salim a look, and he passes it right back.

Zain tries again.

“I mean, I know you were on different sides- What I meant to ask was – you’re that American that saved my dad’s life, right?”

Jason grits his teeth. “Not nearly as much as he saved mine.”

The response is automatic, and it is definitely not a lie or an exaggeration. Still, Salim shakes his head.

“The circumstances were… Extraordinary. We had to do what we could to survive.” He’s keeping it vague, tone leaving no room for discussion. Jason’s never heard him like this before, but he gets it. Zain, on the other hand, looks like he’s heard it a million times before.

Salim looks up.

“But… I consider it lucky that out of all the people in the world, I had Jason at my side.”

And Jason desperately wants to touch his hand again.

He doesn’t.

Salim insists he pays. More like orders it, really, with how offended he gets that Jason would even imply he got the bill covered.

Zain’s tapping a Morse code with his fingers, something along the lines of This is way too awkward if Jason has to guess, and his eyes are cast downwards. He doesn’t speak – Jason doesn’t know if he should be the one speaking – but there is something in his posture that reminds him of their age difference.

The guy’s still in university. Jason’s been through three mid-life crises just this week.

“So-” He begins, wondering whether to settle on Are you done with school any time soon? and I’m so fucking sorry I could’ve shot your dad.

“Thankyou.” Zain suddenly mutters, the words a single sound as he continues to stare holes into the table. “I mean that.”

And Jason’s pretty damn grateful too, because he’s pretty certain his own sentence would’ve turned into an Are you fucking sorry, and he shuts his mouth before he can let that happen.

And when no other words come to mind, Zain finally looks up from underneath his eyelashes.

“For saving my dad’s life, that is. It’s… Like, I still remember it, you know? It was my birthday, I got home pretty late. But he wasn’t there, so my first thought is that he found the shit I stole, and he got so angry he stormed out. I don’t even know why I thought that – it’s not like he’s ever done that before. But then a couple of hours later he actually gets home, and he’s all, like- Fuck, he’s all weird and dirty and like, carrying this huge piece of metal. He’s just a mess. And he just throws his arms around me, and he starts crying. And he cries and cries and cries for… Hours.”

His eyes are far away now, staring out the window at the relentless snow. Jason can imagine it all too vividly. Suddenly, he, too, is back at that little shack where they took their final stand, covered in blood and grime, sitting between Nick, Eric, and Rachel, waiting for the rescue he wasn’t sure would ever come. His heart is in his throat, and he leans further in, trying to just listen.

It’s all he can do not to remember what came next.

“Man, I didn’t- I don’t even know how to describe it. I’ve never seen him like that. And he didn’t even tell me what happened, just that Americans saved his life. And he kept – he kept thanking Allah, and his luck, and me, and- And you. He kept going on and on about you. And I remember, in that moment thinking, that if I ever got to meet you, I should thank you. For keeping him safe. So- Thanks.”

Jason stares at the bright red hoodie sleeves that are being torn apart by anxious fingers. At the empty ice cream platters in spite of the cold outside. He looks at this boy, who could’ve been somewhere extremely far away right now on the account of having lost his father.

And for once, he doesn’t think of all the other boys and girls who did lose their parents in the war. For once, he doesn’t think of all the mistakes he’s ever made, and all the regrets he’s accumulated in his life.

He’s thought of them more than enough in the past decade of his life. He will think of them more in the future.

But for now, he thinks of gratitude, and he thinks that he did something right.

For now, Jason almost finds it in himself to smile.

“And I’d go back and do it all over again if I could, Zain. Salim- Your dad. He’s an incredible man.”

Zain smiles at him then, meekly.

“Yeah. Thanks, Jason. You’re alright.” He nods, sighing heavily, and it looks as though his back is a little straighter now. His eyes just that much brighter.

Jason thinks the two of them really are becoming fast friends, if only-

“Wish we could hang out more. Too bad we’re leaving tomorrow already, huh?”

“Wait, what?!”

Jason keeps his promise of being a proper tour guide, and shows everything there is to see around the city – which is more than was expected, and less than was satisfactory.

Still, their sightseeing takes them far into the evening.

He doesn’t show that his soul is being crushed by his own ribs.

He doesn’t get that beer during dinner either, although he reallywants to.

The wind picks up again, if only briefly. It scatters the softly falling flakes across the rays of sleepy nightlights, not nearly strong enough to disturb their peace.

Zain must be meeting with his friends already, in a cozy little bar in the basement of someone’s apartment block, away from the sky, the winds, and the quiet snow. He managed to win a few more hours of freedom from Salim, the two of them exchanging silent whispers away from prying ears before they parted ways.

Jason could imagine what the conversation was just as well.

“Remember, we are leaving tomorrow. Do not stay long.”

“I won’t, dad.”

He’d leave, and Jason would gesture at the sad empty park behind the hotel. Salim would only nod his head.

And so they walked, their footsteps crunching in the freshly fallen snow. There is a cold little bench in a cozy corner, and Jason strolls right past it. His mind is buzzing, soft and tired and still burning with hangover. His only wish is to fall asleep and his only wish is to never leave this solemn little park.

He strolls over to the playground, yanking the chain of one of the swings.

“Jason.” Salim chides, and there is as much exasperation and there is softness in his voice. His voice, which became ridiculously dear in the last two days. Jason snaps himself out of it.

“They won’t hold the weight of a grown man.”

He only smirks, easily plopping down on top of all the snow. It’s cold.

“Okay.” Salim concedes, shaking his head as he fails to hide his own smile. “It won’t hold the weight of two grown men.”

“Are you doubting the structural integrity of the great American engineering, Salim?”

“I am doubting the structural integrity of these ancient-looking chains.”

He gives them a solid yank, and the construction, miraculously, doesn’t fall apart.

Jason beams.

With one last stolen look at the comfortable bench, Salim sighs. He brushes away the snow, and he makes sure to fold his coat underneath his knees.

The swings, yet again, miraculously hold - even if the chains do creak a little.

The snowflakes make their way toward the earth, lazy, brittle, as though knowing this snowfall would be their last.

Jason breathes out, gently swinging back and forth with his heels on the ground. The air comes out of his lungs in a big puff of round smoke. He doesn’t think of cigarettes.

He does, however, think that the cold is beginning to seep into his very bones.

“Today was…” Salim begins, slicing through the frozen air. “I wanted to thank you, Jason. For everything.”

And that sounds like a goodbye if he’s ever heard one before.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving.”

He doesn’t ask it. Doesn’t even look Salim’s way. The words pour out of him as easily as his next breath, and it was the one and only thing he could’ve asked.

His headache is throbbing, and he thinks his eyes are stinging from the cold.

He can see Salim’s breath trail from his open mouth like steam.

“I’m… Sorry. I was planning to.”

Jason only hums.

“Zain told you?”

“Earlier today. Mentioned it during breakfast.”

“Right.”

Another breath, another puff of smoke. Jason’s eyes are bleary and he’s looking into the streetlights. He thinks about crawling into his bed, and the thought makes him that much colder still.

“I really was going to tell you. Right now, as a matter of fact.”

“Why? Why haven’t you before?” And it’s only a little pathetic that Jason can’t help the crack in his voice and the sting in his cheeks.

Salim exhales slowly. Jason turns to look at him, and wishes he didn’t. There’s something tremendously painful there. He hates it. He wishes he could will it away.

He stays quiet.

“Because I didn’t want to.” Salim finally replies, too truthful, and that makes it hurt just a little less. “Because I was having too much fun.”

“So why the hell are you even leaving-“

“Jason, please-“

“No, seriously!” He’s yelling now, but he doesn’t care. The snow and the streetlights are his only witness, and if there is some poor sap that happens to stumble upon them - well, that’s their problem. Jason’s past the point of caring. “Two days, Salim! Barely!”

“I know-“

“Why the hell didn’t you plan to stay on longer if you are having so much-“

“Because I was afraid, alright!” Salim screams right back, and it’s enough to make Jason near fall backwards off his swing. “I didn’t know how this would go, Jason. Hell, I didn’t even know if you still remembered me!”

“Of course I remember you-��

“I know that now, but how could I before?”

An owl cries, following their voice, rustling the trees. Snow falls heavily from their widespread branches, hitting the soft earth with a hollow thud.

They stay silent for a breath, and it feels as though the earth is exhaling with them.

“You need to realize that this trip was the most spur of the moment thing I’ve ever done, Jason. I came here- I flew over the whole Atlantic-“

The words won’t leave his chest, and Jason looks towards him, pleading. He feels as though if he doesn’t hear what Salim has to say, his heart surely will collapse in on itself. And so he grits his teeth. And so he nods.

Salim throws him a sideway glance. His chest is heavy with the heaving gasp.

“You wrote a book for me, Jason. You made me the protagonist of your story. You were calling me, and – how could I not answer?”

Jason holds his tongue, eyes traveling to the glove-clad shaky hands.

“Those were the only thoughts I had in my head while I was sitting on that plane. But I also knew- I knew that I was being delusional. That I was unreasonable. There were far easier methods to reach out if that was what you were really doing.”

“Were there?” He asks, unable to stop himself, only half-joking. Salim turns to stare, his eyes bright, suddenly reminding Jason of hotel lobbies and early mornings.

“In the end, I had no way of knowing how this would play out. You could’ve been angry at me. Could’ve hated me, for all I knew.”

And Jason doesn’t ask why he’d think those things in the first place.

He knows. He gets it. He’s been there, too. Thought those exact same things, and still wasn’t sure he was done thinking them.

“I couldn’t risk it.”

“So you chose two days to make a quick escape in case it all went to shit?”

“That’s… Exactly right.”

“And in case it all went smoothly-“

“At the very least, I would have these two days to remember.”

Jason nods, turning his head towards the empty park. The streets beyond the gates have begun to blur; the lights in the hotel felt dimmer, distant. It was just the two of them in the blistering white snow. In the dark. On these rusty swings.

The air smelling of gasoline and mud.

“You can extend your stay now?”

Salim smiles, and Jason knows the answer before he gives it.

“I promised Zain. We have a very packed schedule ahead of us. He’s very excited about it. I mean, a road trip across America - I cannot disappoint.”

Jason only nods, and somehow, this feels right. Like it makes sense.

Like there was no other way for any of it to happen.

His hands are pulsating and he’s gripping at the freezing metal of the chains so hard his skin begins to burn. It’s all he can do to keep their dinner in his stomach, all he can do to ground himself and not run away.

“Salim.” He begins before he really knows that he’s beginning, and his throat tightens against itself. “I have something to tell you.”

“Oh? Well, this sounds serious.”

That reply was fast. Too fast.

Jason’s eyes are closed, but he swears he can see that nervous little smile.

He reminds himself he doesn’t have to do this.

He listens to Salim’s breathing, and he reminds himself he does.

“I’ve been meaning to do it for a while, but- Look, this is going to sound weird, so- I don’t know if there will be a better moment, so I’ll just-“

“Jason-“

“I am in love with you, okay?”

The words rip through his chest with a violence, ribs cracking open and his heart spilling crimson onto the perfectly white snow.

“I’m in love with you, and I have been in love with you for the past eight years, and that’s the reason none of my relationships have ever worked out – Because I fell in love with you all those years ago, and I couldn’t stop thinking-“

Jason shuts his mouth and forces his eyes open, turns to stare at the snow beneath his feet to make sure it really isn’t painted with his blood. Everything in his soul is shaking, rattled, beating - and it feels good.

It feels good to get this off his chest. To speak this into existence.

To say it to Salim.

“I’m in love with you. I love you.” He reiterates to himself and the entire universe. “God, I love you.”

He throws his head into his freezing hands, and lets the shock of the cold wash over him like thunder. His eyes begin to sting, and he thinks that it’s okay. That it’s alright.

That it’s just normal.

And the silence is just that - it’s silent. There is nothing more to it except Jason’s heartbeat in his ears.

He can live with that.

“I don’t expect you to respond or anything, you know.” He whispers from somewhere in between his hands and knees, doubled over as he’s valiantly staring at the snow that definitely should be bloody red. “I just needed you to know. Before you leave. I just- I just needed you to know.”

And it’s the truth. The one and only truth.

His shoulders feel lighter. And he needs to sleep.

But Salim’s voice then – well. To call it reassuring would be inaccurate; however, there’s something in its vibrations that make Jason turn his head.

“Well… This is… Embarrassing.”

He’s staring into the night sky, eyes wide. The lights reflect off them, and Jason thinks that all the chandeliers and crystals and stars and constellations of the universe gathered in those two dark pools.

And he is smiling.

“You just can’t help being one step ahead of me, can you?”

Jason blinks. Salim turns to face him – promptly turns away.

But for one second, there is something in his expression that positively glows.

“You reach out to me first, you find out I’m leaving before I tell you, and now this-“ He gestures in Jason’s direction without looking, shakes his head.

And Jason slowly lifts his face away from his hands, begins to straighten out and doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. His full conscious effort is on Salim, and he’s trying not to think so hard he’s definitely about to pull a muscle.

“Well. The truth is, Jason-“ His voice gets caught on the name, and he has to turn his head further. Jason, in turn, leans forward, trying to catch even a glimpse of that expression. “The truth is, there wasanother reason I went with the… Uh, with the two days.”

Salim gestures between them again, and coughs.

“This. This was the, uh- The other reason.”

Jason’s voice breaks through his throat, barely a real sound. “What do you-“

“I mean that I was going to tell you this. Exactly in those words.” Salim doesn’t turn his head, but he smiles wider. The air around him glows. “Before I left.”

And Jason just stares blankly.

“Only you beat me to it. And now, well- I don’t really know how to feel about that.”

And Jason stares some more.

“Okay? No, wait- You mean…”

But Salim does not elaborate this time. Jason runs his frozen fingers over his face, and tries to piece it together. He knows he can - he’s a smart boy, and it’s just on the tip of his tongue, but-

“You mean you…”

Nothing comes out of it, and he huffs out a cloud of frustrated air. He swears he can wrap his head around the concept, he just needs a little-

Salim laughs. Jason’s breath comes out a shudder.

“Yes. I do. I mean- Me too. I- Damn. Me too, Jason.”

The pile of snow at their feet grows taller. The sound of passing cars is white noise in the chilly spring air.

Jason looks at his red hands and he thinks he can almost comprehend.

“Huh.”

“Mhm.”

There is, arguably, quite a large variety of emotion that people have experienced across the span of all human existence. However, Jason is almost positive that whatever he’s been experiencing just then is unique to him and only him.

There is a kindness in his chest, somewhere in his lungs. It’s light, electric, and it almost doesn’t feel like anything at all. His mind is blank, and there are stars, only they aren’t in the sky.

He turns to look at Salim again, who’s simply smiling and staring at the snow.

It’s then that Jason realizes he has been smiling too.

He has been really smiling, and it’s beginning to hurt.

“So… When you said you haven’t thought of marriage, it was because…”

“Yes. I- There was no point.”

Jason begs for him to elaborate with his very being. He shifts the swing closer, feeling his whole body magnetized. He wonders if this is okay. He wonders if feeling like this is okay.

“I tried to go on dates, of course, but- Especially after seeing Zain, I just- I thought well, if he can do it, maybe so can I?”

Jason is as close as he can get without ripping the swing off its hinges, and it’s not nearly close enough. Salim doesn’t even notice, just keeps staring into the ground, his fingers playing with the edges of his coat.

“And have you?”

“Have I-“ His eyes go wide as he turns to Jason, shaking his head before immediately turning back towards the earth. “No. Never, not with- Not with other men.”

Jason nods again, and the swing creaks painfully under his weight as he tries to move in closer. He wants to touch the streaks of pink across Salim’s cheekbones. He wants to know if he can.

“I could- I can, um. Teach you, you know? N-Not right now, but one day- I, uh. Had experiences. I’m a good teacher.” He winces at his wording, but they only make Salim laugh, grin wider. Jason wants to grin too. He wants to shine, actually - and sing, and maybe burst into a little dance.

He’s pretty certain he’s frozen solid to the swing that keeps creaking far too dangerously.

“I think- Sure, yes. I’d take a lesson. Or two.”

He swallows down, and finally turns to face Jason. Jason, who is all but falling off the swing trying to lean in closer.

Salim exhales a breath.

His sudden smirk is treacherous.

“So… Your past relationships-“

“We don’t have to talk about that-“

“Even that one with the kid, whose proposal you rejected-“

“He didn’t technically propose-“

“Even that was… because of me?”

His voice is almost innocent, but there is something self-satisfied at its edges.

Jason’s eyes flutter. He exhales quietly.

Salim twists on his swing. Moves closer.

Jason doesn’t move away.

“He said he knew it was coming. Said there was no helping a heart that belonged to someone else. And that was when I knew for sure.”

Salim nods, his smile never faltering.

“How long ago was this?”

“Four years.” Jason searches his expression. Decides to be daring. “You?”

Salim blinks at him. Shakes his head.

“Three years. Maybe four. I don’t know what triggered it. I think maybe I was reading one of your stories, and then just- Boom. I knew.”

“You knew.”

“I knew.”

The way he’s staring into Salim’s eyes is unapologetic, but Jason doesn’t care. He’s drunk - he’s drunk and he hasn’t had a single drop to drink today and he can’t get enough. He wants to reach out - to hold and cherish and explain just how much he meant every single word he’s said. And he just sits there, half falling off the swing, and he doesn’t care.

He’d stay there forever. He’d be happy to die right there, on those frozen swings.

“We should get going. It’s getting cold.” Salim tells him, and Jason couldn’t agree more.

His knees protest loudly as he tries to stand up, and his hands are icy when he’s brushing off the snow from his jeans. He takes a few uncertain steps, and his whole body is threatening to snap.

“Jason!” Salim calls him, and Jason turns around before he can even stop to think.

And before he can also stop to consider what is happening, he feels himself being pulled back, a gloved hand rise up towards his cheek, brush against it. And before he can take a breath, Salim’s face is near his own, and he’s breathing in the spiced cologne that burns through his mind like the cold around them.

Jason pauses – no, he freezes on the spot, and none of it has anything to do with the weather. He feels the press of icy lips, the touch burning through his entire being the second his brain registers what’s going on.

Salim’s kissing him.

And his heart is finally giving out.

Jason dies. He knows he has to have died because he doesn’t move, and he knows he’s dead because Salim is kissing him and he isn’t kissing back.

It hardly lasts a second. Jason saw his entire life flash before his eyes.

“No, that wasn’t-“ Are somehow the first words out his mouth when Salim pulls back, and he’s holding onto Salim for dear life, arms around his shoulders and hands pressed into his back – as though letting go would be the end of it. As though he could somehow take this back.

“You just- You just did that, and- You didn’t warn me! That wasn’t fair? Shit, no, I mean- That wasn’t my best? I mean, I promised to teach you, and that wasn’t-“

Salim just laughs, and it’s the best damn sound in the fucking world.

“I’m sorry, I just- I couldn’t let you be the first one to do this, too. I had to take initiative at some point!”

“Okay, but that’s not- I didn’t think- I wasn’t- Can we do that again? Please? Now that I’m ready and-“

Salim leans in, and Jason forces all his facets to hard reset. If there is one time in his life he was truly grateful for his marine training, it was now - when he was using all of his willpower to make sure he was kissing a man right. And by god, he was going to do it right.

His hands travel up to Salim’s scalp, and get lost in his jet black hair, palms circling back to his jaw, cupping it, just holding him there. His thumbs graze over the blush he’s wanted to touch, and he thinks his fingers would be shaking if he wasn’t holding on so tight. Jason presses his lips again Salim’s, tender, slow, and the longing of the past eight years fills him with a vengeance.

Without meaning to, he’s pressing his entire pain into that one single kiss, his entire life story, the nights spent mourning utter loneliness and fear, and the days spent smoking, drinking. He opens his mouth to inhale Salim’s breath into his own, feels his tongue as though it were his only lifeline, relishes in the press against his body. Salim’s hands are on his hips, holding him in place, and Jason has to rise on his tiptoes to push in deeper, to show, to talk, to explain.

Kissing Salim is a conversation, and he’s said more with this one fucking kiss than he has to all his partners in the past decade of his life.

The only reason Jason even stops is because he’s certain that if he doesn’t, he would begin to cry. His breath is barely audible as he hangs there, in the space between them, and he can count Salim’s eyelashes against his rosy cheekbone. He allows himself to nuzzle up against it, and he feels alive.

“So, um.” His voice is hoarse when he speaks up, but he has to break the silence that has become unbearable. Salim’s hands are still on his hips. Jason think he’s about to go insane. “There you go! Uh. How… was it?”

Eyes still firmly shut, Salim simply hums in answer.

“Alright.”

And he knows he’s teasing – and he’s hating every second of it.

“Alright?!”

“Well, the stubble is a little weird, but… I suppose it’s nothing I can’t get used to.”

“St- Stubble?!” Jason blinks, pulling back for real this time. His stubble is so far down on the least of things he was worried about, he didn’t even consider it a candidate. “And how do you think I feel when you got a face full of beard?!”

“Oh-“ Salim opens his eyes then, blinks a couple of times in astonishment. “Sorry, should I shave it?”

“No, that’s not what I- Fuck, no, Salim, I like beards, don’t- Fuck.”

“What was that?”

The grin he’s wearing is somewhere between tender and shit-eating. Jason huffs.

“I said- I like beards. I like. Your beard. It’s- Its good.”

Softly, Salim reaches out, swings a strand of hair behind Jason’s ear. The grin only grows, and Jason can’t find it in himself to hate it. In fact, he can’t find it in himself to hate anything about this situation at all.

“I love you too.” Salim whispers, and Jason feels his heart bloom.

He leans up to press a small kiss against the corner of his mouth, and is more than astonished that he can. That this is something he can do. And Salim will just continue to hold him – to embrace him. Jason stuffs his nose against his neck, and takes the deepest breath.

He thinks he knows what he wants now. He thinks he finally has a clue.

“What time are you leaving tomorrow?”

“Um. Early morning. Six o’clock. We still need to rent a car-“

“A car.”

“Yes. Road trip implies cars, no?”

Jason smiles against his neck. This is the worst thought-out road trip he’s ever heard of. He definitely knows what to do.

“There’s a car rental near my place. I’ll come meet you there tomorrow, see you off.”

Salim’s arms close around him, and Jason feels his lips against his temple. He shudders.

“I would love nothing more than that.”

Six AM isn’t the worst time to be awake, really. Especially not after being up the whole night through.

He’s running on three cups of caffeine and incredible bouts of adrenalin, but that’s okay. He’ll rest later. At the next gas station, probably. If that were to come.

“I’m telling you it’s closed, dad.” He hears a familiar voice speaking Arabic and begins making his way towards the sounds. “It looks like it’s been abandoned for ages.”

“Quiet, Zain.” Salim is standing with his back against the skyline, the rising sun encompassing his silhouette in a golden halo. Jason didn’t know his heart could grow any fonder – and yet here he was, ready to fall at this man’s feet at any moment. He loves him.

“There has to be another entrance. Jason wouldn’t lie to us. He is not that kind of a man.”

Fuck, he really loves him.

“I technically didn’t lie!” He shouts back, making both of them jump. “I just said there was a car rental near my place. I didn’t say it was a functioning one.”

He searches Salim’s expression, and finds only shadows and early morning mist. And then he takes a few steps closer, and that’s when he really sees it – pure, unadulterated reverie. Jason grins, and Salim blinks at him in awe.

“You speak Arabic?” Zain gapes, moving closer. He’s carrying a backpack and wheeling a gigantic suitcase behind him. Jason immediately moves to take it from his hands.

“Picked up a few words here and there, sure.” He beams, all the while keeping his eyes on Salim, who simply stares at him. And stares some more.

And then he stares at him even more, and then he’s still staring when he says, “Jason. The car rental. Where are we supposed to get a car?”

Jason simply gestures for the both of them to follow.

He watches the dance of Salim’s expressions as they change like the fickle spring weather, flickering between annoyance and delight, confusion and defeated acceptance, and, finally, complete surprise when his eyes fall upon Eric, Nick, and Rachel, huddled together next to Jason’s car.

“What is the meaning of this.” He mutters, blinking rapidly, an uncertain smile growing on his face, and Jason can’t help grinning. He loves him. He loves him.

He loves him.

“Hey, bud!” Nick nods at him, and Rachel goes in for a hug. “Don’t think you can just escape without saying goodbye.”

Eric clasps his shoulder, giving it a firm shake. “From now on we stay in touch, you hear?”

Salim looks between them, either tears shining in his eyes or the morning dew, throws his arms open, speechless.

Their shadows are long on the pavement, blue on the already melting snow. The tiny street is silent, lacking birds, cars, or tired commuters who might shake up the icy quiet of the air. But the pale sun is shining right above their little circle, and between the five of them, the world feels alive.

“Uh, dad? Who’s this?”

The six of them.

As introductions are made, Nick, Rachel, and Eric surround Zain like vultures, eager to catch a glimpse of the person that’s become almost like a legend in their midst. They may no longer talk about what happened, but they all remember his name. They remembered how Salim fought to get back to him.

Despite themselves, they all began caring for him eight years ago, and they never stopped.

“Really, you didn’t have to- This is too much.” Salim takes a step back from a very puzzled Zain, huddling up closer to Jason’s side while Eric’s busy questioning him about his studies.

“No, it isn’t. It’s just enough.” Jason smiles at him, and then, when he sees the uncertainty on his face, adds, “They deserve their goodbyes too, you know.”

Salim watches Rachel inspecting one of the pins on Zain’s backpack, looks at Nick excitedly tell him about the landmarks they should visit. He sighs.

“I suppose so.” He relents, dragging a tired hand down his face. His other hand travels down to encircle Jason’s, and Jason feels easy fireworks in his stomach. “Though this still doesn’t answer the question of where we’re supposed to get a car.”

His smile is so wide it hurts.

“Right there.” And he’s pointing at his car with undue enthusiasm.

“Jason.” Salim informs him in a sober voice. “That is your car.”

“I know.”

“Jason. Jason.”

He turned to face him now, the grave delivery somewhat undermined by the fact that they are still holding hands. That he’s grinning.

“I cannot ask you to drive us five hours to the next state over. I simply cannot do that.”

“You’re not.” And Jason is holding his hand tighter, secretely terrified of letting go. “I’m inviting myself over.”

Somewhere in the distance, a radio begins to play an Elvis song.

“What?”

“To your road trip. I…” He leaves the sentence hanging, tracing Salim’s profile, who is now staring out into the horizon with unblinking eyes. ”If- If you’ll have me, that is.”

“And your work? Your home? Your friend?” Salim asks, but the corners of his lips are upturned, and Jason suddenly remembers that he can kiss him. He can kiss him all he damn wants, and that is a reason good enough to leave this world behind.

“I got it all covered. Don’t worry about it.”

His hands are cold. Salim pulls him closer, turning back to face him, his hands encircling Jason completely as he begins to laugh. “You’re insane, you know that, right? You’re absolutely insane.”

Jason find his own breath in the folds of Salim’s coat, begins to laugh just as loud, just as easy. He’s made many bad decisions in his life – thankfully, this isn’t one of them.

“That’s alright, I-“

“Hey, guys?” Zain appears behind them, and he’s almost enough to make Jason leap ten feet into the air. He settles for taking a quick step backwards, tearing himself away from Salim’s side painfully.

He clears his throat.

Zain just gestures towards the luggage.

“Uh… So, what so what do I do with the bags..?”

“Take them to Jason’s car.” Salim nods, giving Jason’s hand a quick squeeze. “He’s coming with us.”

Rachel gives out a squeal of delight. Nick and Eric give them the least coveted thumbs up Jason’s ever seen, and even those make him giggle.

“If that’s cool with you.” Jason adds, almost as an afterthought, defiantly not wondering about what the fuck he would do if it wasn’t.

Zain blinks. Gives the two of them that look that became somehow familiar over their brief encounter – the disproportionately long stare that travels between their faces and their still interlocked hands.

“Damn. Alright.” He finally shakes his head, shrugging. “It’s cool.”

He’s grabbing the giant suitcase, wheeling it off to the car as he’s shouting over his shoulder:

“I’m not gonna start calling you dad, though.”

And Jason’s doubling over in laughter as Salim quietly curses under his breath.

#house of ashes #the dark pictures anthology #jason kolchek #salim othman #jason x salim #jalim #it took me forever to write this im sorry its so fragmented #i didnt wanna bore anyone lol #anyway. hope this is still acceptable #thanks for the insane support btw?? y'all are awesome #sai.fic

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whitehotharlots · 3 years

Text

A movement that cannot be criticized cannot achieve positive goals

The hardest part of talking about malignant trends on the broad left is that, well, you’re not allowed to talk about them. It’s no exaggeration to say that criticism has become fully conflated with violence. If you attempt to engage critically with a left-liberal writer--regardless of how thorough and respectful you may be, and regardless of how powerful, public, or insulated the subject of the criticism--you will be accused of dismissing and erasing the writer, of inciting violence against the writer, and of committing some form of genocide against whichever identity groups the writer belongs to.

Conversely, if you don’t provide specifics, you’ll be accused of making stuff up. The same people who claim it’s an act of aggression to ask for proof when they make claims of victimization turn into immense pedants the moment they encounter a heterodox opinion.

Unsurprisingly, a discourse milieu in which critical analysis is forbidden is a prime breeding ground for unsustainable (and even horrific) behavioral standards. Never mind improving the world that exists outside their sphere of influence... these people are perpetually on the brink of destroying their allies, their institutions, and themselves.

Today I dug into an especially profane case that highlights both of these points. It’s a matter of public record, so I hopefully won’t get accused of “doxing” anyone for discussing it. It’s also the sort of story where if someone cares about it, they’ll have an opinion of it within a second or two of reading a headline describing what happened. This means it’ll only be of interest to the sort of cranks who read this blog. My goal here isn’t to express outrage or advocate for one side or other--although it is outrageous, and you won’t have to try too hard to see which side I favor. Instead, I’m going to try to move beyond that, to use this instance as a broader cautionary tale in regards to the more horrific tendencies of the identitarian left, and to begin formulating some means of resistance.

In other words, this might get boring. Even more so than usual.

The story involves a court case, documented here, in which a young man named Kieran Bhattacharya is suing the University of Virginia Medical School. Mr. Bhattacharya (a white supremacist name if I’ve ever heard one) was subjected to formal censure, repeated psychological evaluations, suspension, and eventual expulsion. This all happened because he raised some concerns after a White Fragility-inspired panel on microaggressions.

This is one of those cases where both sides are going to assume there’s a lot more going on beneath the surface and, like I said, are going to be disinclined toward actually reading the available evidence. Thankfully, the court brief is fairly exhaustive and--importantly--the account provided in the brief has received the approval of both plaintiff and defendant. To stress, everyone involved in this case agrees, legally, that the account provided herein is an accurate picture of what happened. Additionally, we also have audio of the initial microaggression seminar (Mr. Bhattacharya’s comments start at around the 28:30 mark), as well as of the pursuant committee meeting that ended in his expulsion.

Here is the initial exchange, as documented by the brief:

Bhattacharya: Hello. Thank you for your presentation. I had a few questions just to clarify your definition of microaggressions. Is it a requirement, to be a victim of microaggression, that you are a member of a marginalized group?

Adams: Very good question. And no. And no—

Bhattacharya: But in the definition, it just said you have to be a member of a marginalized group—in the definition you just provided in the last slide. So that’s contradictory.

Adams: What I had there is kind of the generalized definition. In fact, I extend it beyond that. As you see, I extend it to any marginalized group, and sometimes it’s not a marginalized group. There are examples that you would think maybe not fit, such as body size, height, [or] weight. And if that is how you would like to see me expand it, yes, indeed, that’s how I do.

Bhattacharya: Yeah, follow-up question. Exactly how do you define marginalized and who is a marginalized group? Where does that go? I mean, it seems extremely nonspecific.

Adams: And—that’s intentional. That’s intentional to make it more nonspecific . . . .

After the initial exchange, Bhattacharya challenged Adams’s definition of microaggression. He argued against the notion that “the person who is receiving the microaggressions somehow knows the intention of the person who made it,” and he expressed concern that “a microaggression is entirely dependent on how the person who’s receiving it is reacting.” Id. He continued his critique of Adams’s work, saying, “The evidence that you provided—and you said you’ve studied this for years—which is just one anecdotal case—I mean do you have, did you study anything else about microaggressions that you know in the last few years?” Id. After Adams responded to Bhattacharya’s third question, he asked an additional series of questions: “So, again, what is the basis for which you’re going to tell someone that they’ve committed a microaggression? . . . Where are you getting this basis from? How are you studying this, and collecting evidence on this, and making presentations on it?”

You can listen to the audio if you like. There’s nothing there, in my opinion, that is not captured accurately in the written description. Bhattacharya does not yell or raise his voice. He sounds skeptical, but in no way violent or threatening. Nor does Adams, the presenter, signal that she is experiencing anything that approaches fear or trauma.

Immediately after the event, a professor who helped organize the discussion filed a “Professionalism Concern Card”--a cute academic euphemism for a disciplinary write up--against Bhattacharya, alleging he had displayed a troubling lack of respect for differences (the irony here probably does not need to be explicated).

Soon after that--literally still the same day of the panel--Bhattacharya received an email from faculty asking him to “share his thoughts” so as to help him “understand and be able to cope with unintended consequences of conversations.” The tone of the email is polite and professional, but the text hints toward an attempt at entrapment. You’ll see this a lot in woke spaces--invitations to come to an understanding with one another that are, in actuality, attempts to get a person to say something cancellable.

Bhattacharya took the bait, and, well…

During Bhattacharya and Peterson’s one-hour meeting, Peterson “barely mentioned” Bhattacharya’s questions and comments at the panel discussion. Dkt. 33 ¶ 73. Instead, Peterson attempted to determine Bhattacharya’s “views on various social and political issues—including sexual assault, affirmative action, and the election of President Trump.”

At this point, the kid was fucked. He soon after had an uneventful-seeming meeting with a dean. Two weeks after that, a separate panel found him guilty of “patterns of unprofessional behavior and egregious violations of professionalism” and strongly encouraged him to seek psychological counseling.

Pre-Trump, Bhattacharya still probably would have been fine if he had just kept his head down, gone to a couple therapy sessions, and maybe issued an empty apology. Since 2016, however, the rules have changed. An accusation is now absolute proof of guilt and no amount of ablution can save someone in a vulnerable position.

Eleven days after receiving the ostensible suggestion that he receive counseling, Bhattacharya was informed that he would not be permitted to return to classes until he had been evaluated. A day after that--before even having the opportunity to seek the mandated counseling--he was given a mere 3 hours notice before having to attend another disciplinary committee meeting.

This meeting found that Bhattacharya’s continuing behaviors were proof that he posed an imminent danger to the campus community, although the committee did not bother to explain what those behaviors entailed. His behavior was simply noted as “unusual” and this was proof that “Any patient that walked into the room with [Bhattacharya] would be scared.” The following day, Bhattacharya was forcibly removed from campus and told he could not return until he had been screened. He was, subsequently, not allowed to receive sanctioned screening, because of his status of having been removed from campus after being deemed a security risk.

Again, none of what I have described is an exaggeration. None of these details are even being contested.

Now for my own conjecture: the problem isn’t that anyone genuinely believes Bhattacharya poses a threat to anyone’s safety. The problem is that he attempted to question the ideological firmaments of contemporary anti-racist training. These firmaments are protected with aggressive viciousness precisely because they cannot withstand scrutiny. Had Bhattacharya merely scoffed at them, or even if he had been outright condescending and dismissive, he probably would not have received such a severe punishment. The problem was that he was right, and his accusers knew it.

Understanding speech in the manner prescribed by the peddlers of microaggression theory cannot possibly be codified in a way that won't result in arbitrary punishment. Bhattacharya’s experience demonstrates that with horrific irony.

The assertion here is that the intention of a speech act should have no bearing on how we adjudicate the morality of that speech act--such a point was made repeatedly in the initial discussion, and stressed once again after Bhattacharya’s concerns have been raised. This standard contradicts how we've processed the morality of speech for centuries, but that's what people are very explicitly demanding.

How is this workable, when literally any statement could, conceivably, be considered offensive by at least one individual? This, I feel, was the point Bhattacharya reaching toward. If you were to say, I dunno, "I love trees" to a group of 1000 people, 999 of them could regard that statement as benign. But what if one person takes offense to it? What if they work in the lumber industry, or they were molested by guy in a Smokey the Bear costume? What if that person then files a report accusing the tree lover of offensive speech? Will the speaker be disciplined? Or will the powers that be take intention and effect into account?

Of course, we're not going to criminalize all speech in this way. Like all extreme and broad-reaching disciplinary standards, this one will only be selectively evoked in order to punish people with heterodox opinions and/or those whose presence threatens the status quo. Someone who says something much more incendiary, like "all men are rapists" or "white people shouldn't get social security" would not receive a reprimand regardless of how much offense their statements caused, because they're saying something that's acceptable in our current milieu. And right now, the least acceptable speech is that which shines a light on the manifest flaws and hypocrisies of corporate anti racism.

Back to my hypothetical example, if the tree-loving speaker was on good terms with everyone, the complaint would most likely be ignored. But if he had said or done other things that for whatever reason displeased the people in charge, the specious accusation could still ruin him. What's worse, the person who filed the allegation of offense might not have even actually taken offense at the statement--they were just looking for a way to get rid of him.

Bhattacharya was attempting to voice legitimate criticisms about a political movement whose suggestions are functionally unworkable and that, even if it were implemented fully and uncritically, does not contain even a hypothetical explanation in regards to how its goals would result in improved racial equality/equity. Because of that, he was cynically labeled dangerous and expelled from a public university.

You'd think a group that obsesses over power differentials and their own marginalization would have some grasp of this. Regardless of which side you fall into with this particular culture war, it should fucking terrify you that a movement that’s been tasked with addressing pressing social problems is designed in such a way that any substantial criticism is met with aggressive punishment.

There’s no way you can win if this is you is how conduct yourself. This is why we’re losing. This is why even if you get all the censorship and deplatforming you can ever dream of, even if every major bank and multinational corporatation professes fealty to your movement, you will still lose. Because there’s no way you can win.

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ladyfl4me · 4 years

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hi i just finished amnesty and im going on AO3 (as one does) and i was like blindsighted by how much indrid/duck there was???? did i miss an episode or something???? why do so many ppl ship it? (btw im just curious / not trying to yuck anyone's yum, etc) thank you so much!

No problem, I’d be happy to answer your question! I can by no means speak for the whole Amnesty/Indruck crowd, so if anyone sees this and wants to chip in their two cents, feel free to reblog/reply to give anon some answers. These are broad statements that by no means apply to everyone/how they interacted with Indruck/Amnesty as a whole. tl;dr at the end

The short answer: people are gonna ship things. Indrid asked for Duck on the payphone, he and Duck had one (1) friendly banter-y conversation about nog, they seemed to be getting along well, and they had a potential angsty through-line about their respective experiences with seeing the future. Arc 3 came out during the 2018 holiday season, so there were many gaps between uploads to account for holidays and live shows. People wanted content to fill the void. Indrid and Duck having an interesting dynamic + people going “what if this was a thing” + gap-between-episode fever = a slew of Indruck fics hitting the AO3 presses.

That was my experience of it. I went on AO3 when I got into Amnesty, September 2018; first fic on there I saw was Cheating the System by @duck-duck-juice, and I read that and thought the dynamic was interesting. Read everything else in the tag. Got interested. Went in the tag on Tumblr. Got sucked in. Here we are.

The long answer for “why is this ship a thing” is way more nebulous, which is where other people can chip in their thoughts. I think a great place to start is with Indrid himself.

Indrid Cold’s introduction to Amnesty was fucking delicious to hear in real time. He had a dramatic phone call entrance at the end of an episode. He had a slightly-unhinged but warm-hearted aesthetic and attitude. He could see the fucking future. He was directly in danger because of arc 3′s plot. He was an interesting minor character who could have used fleshing out, and the inevitable “what if this happened” crowd of speculative fans - myself included - were deeply interested in what could be done with him. He was the former court seer, which could have been an interesting way to flesh out Sylvain’s worldbuilding. His future-sight was an interesting component that could have bearing on future plot arcs (albeit in a possibly game-breaking way, which makes even more of an argument for fleshing him out to test the limits of his power in a story context - but that’s me editorializing).

Good grief, he was cool. And people wanted more. They wanted him to be deeper. Essentially, they wanted a member of the supporting cast on par with Mama or Barclay, not a one-hit wonder who took a fist to the face, fucked off, and wasn’t seen again until after the biggest tragedy of the series (and didn’t even ADDRESS it or add any emotional depth to the story, besides a plot-based hook to hang our hopes on. I’m still bitter about that).

One way to flesh out a character is to look at their existing relationships in canon and expand on those. Indrid talked to Duck a bit. They got along and it was sweet. That’s a relationship to expand on. And people ran that one into the end zone. And as arc 4 dragged on and got angstier, people longed for the good ol’ mysterious/exciting/Not Completely Depressing days of arc 3 and wrote more Indruck fic.

Another place to start is with Duck. Justin’s pretty decent at making relatable characters that people like, with interesting depth and humanity to them. All that being said, one remarkable thing about Duck was that, despite his incredible depth and really interesting motivations, he wasn’t connected much to the Sylvain plot. This is more of a side effect of Indruck than a cause, but still worth mentioning. I see Duck as very connected to Kepler, which is his hometown and a place he had a job to protect. But he wasn’t very connected to Sylvain. He wasn’t in deep like Aubrey was, or even how Ned was with the Flamebright Pendant. He was just a dude with a sword and a destiny someone else gave him. Hell, he was more connected to Earth as a locus than Sylvain; plotwise, he was really just along for the ride because of his Minerva-granted destiny. Shipping him with a character connected to Sylvain brought him into the narrative that the Pine Guard lived in a bit more, and that was fun to explore.

Ultimately, though, folks just thought it was neat. Some people were interested in the potential emotional connection. Some people I know crushed on Indrid and projected onto Duck to actualize that, or vice versa. Some people were curious about how this trend could coexist with Amnesty canon, and incorporated the ship as a side-arc of larger narratives. Some people were just here to have a good time. Regardless, Indruck seemed to come out of nowhere and took over the place, to the chagrin and annoyance of many, but to the enjoyment of many more.

tl;dr: their brief interactions in arc 3 + a dearth of canon content at the time + the old fandom trend of “people will really ship anything” + content creators with itchy fingers and spare time = Indruck being everywhere.

I hope this answers some of your questions! If anyone else wants to chip in, please do!

#asks #anon #taz amnesty #indruck #the adventure zone #the adventure zone amnesty #indrid cold #duck newton

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bestsongby · 3 years

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New Thoughts on Old Classics:

Hotel California, by the Eagles. 1976

Is it Essential?

The Eagles (or, more specifically, Henley and Frey) were often viewed as cocaine-fueled El Lay misogynists. I think the cocaine-fueled and El Lay are indisputable, but is the misogynist tag a little unfair? Could be.

I’ve always been fascinated by Hotel California, the Eagles’ bazillion selling magnum opus, and how it plays with that perception in mind.

Hotel California is the Eagles stretching their powers as far as the rubber band will allow before it snaps or loses its shape forever, which probably explains why their only subsequent release as an active band was the lackluster The Long Run, a collection of half-assed disco shuffles and by-the-numbers rockers. (aside from barely an Eagle Timothy B. Schmidt’s heartfelt soft rock gem “I Can’t Tell You Why,” and barely upright Eagle Joe Walsh’s catchy as fuck guitar rocker “In the City.”)

For what it’s worth, the stretched rubber band theory is one I apply to most great rock acts who spend any time working under the Album as Art theory of record making. (acknowledging that there have been many, many Not Great bands operating under this theory) The Beatles wisely realized they’d reached that point with Abbey Road, and packed it in before the slope slipped. The Stones began that climb with Beggar’s Banquet, and went from strength to strength until they reached their apex by plunging back down through the depths with Exile on Main St. The Kinks bucked the trend to some degree by releasing one pretty brilliant and one almost pretty brilliant album after their ultimate statement of intent, The Village Green Preservation Society. The Who…well, the Who never really got there. They fooled the world into believing Tommy was their Everest flag-planting, but the truth is Quadrophenia was a better album. All of which obscures the fact that the Who’s greatest album is Meaty, Beaty, Big and Bouncy, a perfect collection of classic singles, few of which managed to tickle the U.S. charts.

And then there are the Loves (Forever Changes) and Zombies (Odessey & Oracle), who strayed outside their comfort zones long enough to produce single discs that stand up to the greatest of the Greatest, despite neither band ever really being truly among the Greatest. (and, yes, both bands were otherwise very, very good at times)

Whew. I digress.

Let’s start with this: Is Hotel California a great album?

I’d like to say it is, but it might not even be the Eagles’ best album. I think, assuming assessing a “best” of anything Eagles-related doesn’t make your stomach clench, an argument could be made for One of These Nights (the album that immediately preceded this one – which easily wins the battle of cover art, anyway). But Hotel California is the most Eagles of Eagles albums, and stands as the best summation of their moment in the sun. And, it marks that moment when tuneful music produced by strong personalities could dominate the American pop culture landscape like no other medium.

In hindsight, Hotel California, riding shotgun with Fleetwood Mac’s equally mammoth Rumours, stands as a signpost in a pivotal moment in pop culture’s de-evolution from artist-controlled playground to complete corporate takeover. The suits always knew there was money in the music, but, holy shit, this much money?

Hotel California is an arrogant, confident, pretentious, calculated work of fiction, and you can hum along to it. It’s dominated by Don Henley, but it’s the input of the other band members that prevents it from completely collapsing under its own weight.

So, in review, let’s start with the title track, which can almost definitely be tuned in somewhere on your terrestrial radio dial at this very moment.

“Hotel California” started as a killer guitar riff by lead guitarist Don Felder. (Fittingly, Felder, who primarily kept his head down and played the shit out of his guitar throughout the Eagles’ history, eventually became estranged from the band) Once Don Henley grafted his lyrics to the music, the song became the ultimate distillation of the Eagles’ Desert Cocaine Tableau. Most of the group’s biggest hits were pretty direct, lyrically. A woman either pissed them off, or a woman was invited to lay down in the desert with them. Or sometimes the women were left behind while the band wrote their own desperado inspired mythology. But the fragmented imagery in “Hotel California” could only really make sense if the listener has a straw permanently lodged up his nose. The Witchy Woman of the past becomes the hostess of a demonic hostel where pink champagne replaces wine and pretty boys dance endlessly in sweat drenched courtyards. It seems as if the Hotel California is a place to run to and to run from, and we’re pretty sure Henley is only lamenting the “mirrors on ceiling” because all of his coke is now going to wind up on the floor.

With all of that said, the interplay between the guitars is deathless, and even vague descriptions of driving through the desert at night are enough to conjure up personal imagery for anyone confused as to what “colitas” is (are?). (The fact that the Eagles played an acoustic version of this live is either proof that they’re assholes, or that, like Eric Clapton’s tedious acoustic return to “Layla,” they just don’t quite understand the reasons for their own success – Felder trumps Henley here, and that’s that)

With that out of the way, we catch our breath and listen to the gang take it down a notch (with the help of JD Souther – the Eagles were never lacking for talented SoCal co-conspirators, starting at the beginning with Jackson Browne) with “New Kid in Town,” which, damn it, is pretty unassailable, musically. It’s got hooks for days, lush production that never swamps the tune, and a sincere, understated vocal performance from Glenn Frey, backed by great group harmonies. What? The lyrics? Well, okay. The woman is doing him wrong (in the third person, for some reason – maybe it’s not manly to admit you’re the one being cuckolded?), and she’s not living up to her end of the bargain, and…

Okay, you get the point. It’s a Henley/Frey lyric.

“Life in the Fast Lane” (It’s interesting to note the band led the album off with Hotel California’s only three single releases – all smash hits, of course) kicks in next, and we’re reminded overtly of the cocaine. It’s a great radio rocker – guitar licks weaving in and out, featuring maybe the slickest production on the album, and Henley doesn’t spare the dude in the equation this time, letting us know that both parties are feeding each other’s sinful excesses (sex and drugs). It’s a tale as old as Los Angeles, and the spoken “are you with me so far” dropped in by Henley manages to insult the listener almost by accident. (yeah, we’re with you, Don! Sex and drugs go hand-in-hand with rock and roll, brother! Revelation!)

And then we roll into “Wasted Time.” In which Henley (boy, so far, this is really a Don disc more than a Glenn disc) strains to let the poor dumb broad who left him know that she’s done nothing but fuck up her love life by fucking the wrong dudes, and, most importantly, by leaving Henley. It’s definitely this type of sentiment that allows critics to glue the MYSOGYNY label on our heroes. It never occurs to Don that this girl might have made the right choice in leaving a dude who not only plods through an orchestrated piano ballad about the terrible decisions she’s made, but backs it up with an orchestral reprise to hammer the point home. (the reprise actually originally opened side two, just to make sure you couldn’t escape the sentiment by flipping over the album – the fucking Eagles led off side two of their biggest album with an orchestral reprise. Admire their balls)

The sequencing of Hotel California comes across as pretty messy in the era of the compact disc/digital album, with the “Wasted Time(s)” dropped right smack into the middle of things, and “Life in the Fast Lane” book-ending the song(s) with the next track up…

And it’s another Henley rocker (what demons was Frey battling in 1976 that allowed him to take such a backseat to his his white ‘fro-sporting partner?), “Victim of Love.” It’s a catchy rocker about…some poor dumb broad. I hate to harp on the cocaine, but how much of it was Stevie Nicks doing to think Henley was a fun dude to party with? Anyway, this one is another radio staple, despite never being released as a single. Truthfully, all the album really needed was “Life in the Fast Lane” to remind us the boys could rock a little. But here they slowed it down a notch in case you had trouble keeping up with them the first time.

And then, out of nowhere, we’re dropped into Joe Walsh’s melancholy reflection on life, “Pretty Maids All in a Row.” I can’t say exactly what the Eagles were thinking when they pulled Walsh into the band (”Hey – this dude makes us look sober!”), but I’d be hard-pressed to believe they anticipated his first recorded contribution would be such a beautiful, naked sentiment, punctuated not with his trademark guitar rips, but by piano and synthesizer. It’s a jarring shift in tone, helping the album achieve an eclectic vibe it was struggling to achieve with Henley dominating the proceedings, and all the more powerful for it.

Anyway, great track. And it’s followed by another great track.

Backing up “Pretty Maids” is, for my money, the best track on the album, and one of the most overlooked songs in the band’s catalog. No coincidence it’s a Randy Meisner song. “Try and Love Again” is a soaring, hopeful rocker, punctuated by Meisner’s upper register, and some truly uplifting guitar soloing. It’s a mystery why this track wasn’t released as a single, unless Henley and Frey were still annoyed that Meisner’s “Take It to the Limit” was the band’s first number one single. But it’s the one track from the album I find myself revisiting most often, without apology. It’s also worth noting that while Meisner’s lyric is treading on self-pity, he’s not blaming a chick for his problems.

At this point we’ve wound our way through a collection of hit singles, timeless riffs, and a couple of contributions from lesser used band members that stand up to the hits. It’s hard to say there’s a definite theme at play here, although California and Los Angeles are definite players on the scene. So it’s up to Henley, again, to hammer things home with the most pretentious track in the Eagles’ entire catalog.

“The Last Resort” answers the question, “What if Randy Newman didn’t have a sense of humor?” A confused history of California (and over seven minutes long, to punctuate its importance as a statement), complete with references to the “Red Man” and Malibu and all of those bright lights that sullied the landscape, presented by a group that pretty actively moved closer and closer to the neon the further their hitmaking prowess ascended. The song starts as a literal travelogue about a girl from Providence (”The one in Rhode Island”), and then slips into a reminder that California has really succeeded at excess, which is evidently a bad thing.

In the end, it’s all the preacher’s fault, anyway. One suspects that Henley (and Frey?) realized he wasn’t really headed toward any logical conclusions with this one, and the lesson we’re left with is that the missionaries traded the Red Man’s peace of mind and started us on the path toward…well…all of that cocaine and colitas, I guess. (it is a pretty tune, though)

And that’s it. Nine songs (split into ten tracks), three hit singles, and 38 million copies sold.

Is Hotel California essential? In terms of understanding the “evolution” of pop culture, it’s an essential landing point for those curious how Los Angeles went from acoustic canyon-dwelling hippie haven to the paranoid personal driveway for limos filled with coke-addled celebrities wearing sunglasses at midnight because the lights fuck with what’s left of their peripheral vision.

But in the battle of juggernaut Los Angeles pop albums, Rumours creams Hotel California because Fleetwood Mac can be heard shutting out the world and wrestling with their relationships while coincidentally at the peak of their songwriting and performing abilities, whereas the Eagles were trying to make statements without much to state. Rumours is essential. Hotel California sounds good when you’re not paying attention too closely.

youtube

#Hotel California #Eagles #Don Henley #Glenn Frey #Joe Walsh #Randy Meisner #1976 #Rock Music #cocaine #Rumours

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wellmetkinsman · 3 years

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here’s a take: I literally cannot stand serial killer media.

the only exceptions for me were Criminal Minds cause it was character driven with a solid plot (for a while) and Dexter cause it was hilarious and made for a good drinking game

(note how both these were fictional. i’m straight up not watching the nonfictional ones, though I have seen plenty before growing up in the time before netflix and before I dived into youtube)

*AT BEST* you can pretend it’s not real and just enjoy the horror movie thrill of it all?

at worst — and this is the main point — it’s either a demonstration of the ignorance/apathy of, or the *CELEBRATION* of the sociological factors that create a serial killer (in America, btw): the consequences of the inescapable white male hegemonic nature of our culture.

> Hatred of women — mandated both implicitly and often explicitly by parents, other family members, friends, indeed western society as a whole, then worstened by an abusive upbringing and/or undiagnosed, untreated, or simply unnoticed mental health concerns.

> Financial insecurities. Yes this is the norm for most, *excruciatingly* so, but, in my opinion, a white man finding himself financially insecure — especially one brought up in an entitled, conservative household, let alone entire culture — is more prone to lashing outward at perceived aggressors than inward. It is an unequivocal fact that crime, violent or otherwise, is primarily a consequence of financial insecurity, which leads to essentially a forced foregoing of morals and social norms in order to continue to subsist. *However,* as we know from serial killer media, serial killers, insofar as they are not simply a murderer — meaning a person who has caused the death of someone else one or more times with varying levels of intent, ranging from reasonably non-accidental, to planned and intentional murder — are rarely brought about by a single motivating factor. Serial killers — repeated/habitual murderers, often with explicit intent, habitual/ritualistic behavior, compounding crimes such as sexual violence, etc — are propagated via a particularly virulent concoction of overlapping factors that are simply not present in other people that have committed a murder. Factors which, indeed, set them apart and render them prime content for speculation, discussion, and media consumption. All of this is to support my point that financial security affects us all, but that it creates the necessary conditions in white men in America in particular to become violent and antisocial, indeed occasionally to the point of engaging in serial murder. TL;DR: entitlement plus the rest of the factors on this list.

> Religious trauma. I’m tempted to simply say enough said and move on, however, I’ll save myself another bullet point by saying that this is the primary reason that homophobia is a partial motivation for serial killers. If you’ve even a cursory knowledge of American serial killers, you know the primary example(s), and can agree that it’s more than clear that being told — again, implicitly or explicitly, by one or more persons close to the killer or simply by media, and therefore more broadly “society” — that there are essentialist, objective truths, essentialist, objectively “good” and “bad” people (let alone good and bad behaviors themselves), that YOU are but one decision away from engaging in objectively bad behavior and becoming an objectively bad person, and then being told that ANY interest — no matter how potentially inconsequential— in those assigned the same gender as you is objectively evil, and in fact perhaps the most unforgivable evil one can commit, creates a specific form of internalized hatred of oneself that compounds and renders one stunted and incapable of healthy interactions with themselves and others.

> Mental health. This is truly the most nebulous point, yet I’m coming to believe that it is the perhaps the one least worth considering in the *formation* of a serial killer, though perhaps not in the analysis of their behavior. Why? Because it has become increasingly clear, especially in the era in which we live, that we are all more than capable of exhibiting behavior which can be considered a mental illness as it is currently defined. Without dipping into the nature vs. nurture rabbit hole, the best explanation for this that I have settled in is derived from the theory (the name and creators of which escape me) that we all have varying levels of disposition for “mental illness,” and that environmental factors therefore need to push us in varying degrees in order to manifest it. The effect of the pandemic on our behavior and mental health has been the primary factor in coming to this conclusion for me, however, it cannot be overstated that behavior deemed negative by society that has been understood previously as mental illness is often a product of financial insecurity. (It’s Capitalism. it’s the Capitalism. In case that’s not clear). Anyway, while I do understand that our brains are capable of being formed in different conditions and experiencing different conditions, the point is that perhaps nearly ALL of us experience these conditions — albeit in infinitely various ways — but that these conditions **DO NOT LEAD PEOPLE TO BECOME SERIAL KILLERS IN AND OF THEMSELVES.** Mental health concerns, when noticed, diagnosed, and treated with care, empathy, and attention by a network of support, are things that can be dealt with in a healthy way, and can even bring about a deeper appreciation of who we are and how we can interact with the world in better ways. The notion that schizophrenia = murderer, OFTEN PERPETUATED BY SERIAL KILLER MEDIA, has done nigh irreparable harm to our perception of the condition, and indeed our understanding of mental health/mental illness as a whole.

There are obviously infinitely more factors to consider than simply these, however, when looking at the statistics of serial killings in America and perhaps abroad as well, the trends skew towards white men spurned noticeably by the aforementioned conditions. I cannot pretend that it’s not true that I would not know this if not thanks to the Pychology courses I have taken in both high school and college, as well as both fictional and nonfictional serial killer media, however, it is not the serial killer media that brought me to any sort of nuance in my understandings.

**THIS** is where I make my point. Serial killer media almost ALWAYS is not made to raise awareness. It is not made to any of the aforementioned real, ubiquitous, and oft completely unaddressed issues in our society. It is almost always not made to benefit any of the affected communities: see parents and priests interviewed when discussing a serial killer with clear religious trauma and internalized homophobia. And finally, IT IS NOT ALWAYS EVEN PRODUCED IN SUCH A WAY AS TO CONDEMN THE BEHAVIOR OF THE KILLER, TO A HORRIFYING DEGREE.

Serial killer media does not always constitute or lead to an explicit defense, appreciation, fetishization, or lionizing of the serial killers that it discusses, however, it has become evident that it can, and does, and apparently to an increasing extent.

Again, to me, it’s the Capitalism. Insofar as coverage of horrible circumstances can be sold and consumed more effectively when sensationalized, constructed around a central figure, and presented with increasingly minimal nuance — that is not to say increasingly minimal detail, look at how much the lives of serial killers are scrutinized down to the absolutely microscopic level — so as to create a narrative, that narrative will do as narratives do. At least in the west, almost the entirety of our media consists of stories that follow the hero’s journey, with all its hegemonic influence (straight, cis, white, male, Christian influence, implicit or explicit). That is to say, it will create a hero out of a narrative.

Finally, wherever or not one enjoys serial killer media and forms what I would deem an unhealthy interest in the serial killers themselves is, to me, ultimately inconsequential. This is my personal taste and opinion speaking, this is not a broad statement about the media, but I do not believe that it is worth consuming. I believe that serial killers and the socioeconomic/political/environmental/etc,etc factors that bring them about are worth *understanding,* as this understanding can bring about awareness both of the forces that influence our lives and the ways in which we can better influence ourselves and those around us, however, I do not believe it is meant to be dwelled upon. Essentially, once the average person such as myself has enough understanding about the topic — as much as I need in order to say I got it, and it won’t benefit me or my job or my relationships or my schooling in any tangible way to continue to dwell on it — I believe it’s time to move on. This is because I believe the things we dwell on tangibly affect our lives. I’d rather spend my limited amount of time dwelling on things that bring about deeper appreciation of life. This means that for me I spend my free time outside, or consuming media that seeks to help us understand or appreciate something, even if it’s not always sunshine and rainbows.

I mean... I just... don’t wanna sit around all day and look at the same disheveled white guys and the same grossly, wildly inappropriately sexualized bloody bodies of primarily young, conventionally attractive women. I don’t find it personally enjoyable, but I also don’t believe it brings about positive results in the understandings and behaviors of many of the people that watch it, especially those without the cursory understanding of sociological and psychological concepts and economic factors that I’m lucky to have with my stupid little bachelors degree. As a Leftist, I truly believe it is responsible for reinforcing the poor societal conditions we find ourselves in, as it seeks not to explain or condemn the factors that perpetuate our situations, but to gloss over or even excuse them at best, or indeed to actively encourage and being about them at worst.

This isn’t to say I want all media to be utilitarian and pleasant, or that serial killer media shouldn’t exist, I simply believe that there is a certain threshold in which either the production of or excessive consumption of it becomes irresponsible and potentially harmful to an individual or to society as a whole, and that, at the very least, American obsession with it has reached a genuinely concerning state.

I’ll leave you with this: my favorite line in the book “My Year of Meats,” which I was assigned to read by my favorite gay, Latino professor, who’s research and works are intentionally influenced by his indentity and experiences, is the line in which the protagonist reflects on America’s intrinsic obsession with violence, especially insofar as it prevents us from forming positive connections with eachother and the world around us and making positive steps toward the future, laments that “ours is a bloody culture.”

#personal #rant #serial killers

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leejihoonownsmyheart · 4 years

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Click, Click

Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4 , 5 , 6 , 7, 8 , 9 , 10 , 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24

Chapter Twenty-Five:

“You guys are the stupidest people I think I’ve ever met in my life.”

You pressed your lips together, letting your hands fall to your side nervously.

Jihoon had been pretty insistent that no one would care if you tagged along to practice and he had been mostly right. Chan had been pretty excited to see you, asking if you wanted to dance to something or other with him. You had politely declined the offer, when Jihoon had started to wander away from you.

You knew that you were being a little clingy, but you were afraid that if you were left away from him too long you might start to think again and after the performance you had just put on, you weren’t really interested in dancing again for at least another few days.

But not everyone had been excited to see you there. Not because of you yourself, but because of other... Fair reasons.

“We aren’t-”

“Careful?” Wonwoo asked, his eyebrows raising. “Yeah, we can all tell that. What were you two thinking?”

You shuffled your feet, but didn’t respond to him, just looked over at Jihoon with a desperate expression. He didn’t look too bothered by the accusations.

“We are careful. We haven’t been caught have we?” He asked.

“Yet, but there are only so many ways that we can trick Pledis into allowing y/n backstage, and in the building,” Seungcheol argued, crossing his arms over his chest. “There’s only so many times that Chan can give management puppy eyes and say that your girlfriend is just a new staff member.”

“If they’ve fallen for it this long,” Jihoon shrugged, and all Seungcheol and Wonwoo could do was look unimpressed.

“Seriously, what if you guys get caught? What are you going to say?” Seungcheol asked. “After that stunt, you, Seungkwan, and Hansol pulled on Instagram there’s no way we’ll be able to deny that y/n is dating someone in Seventeen.”

“Does it help that pretty much everyone just thinks I’m dating Hansol?” You asked, hesitantly raising a finger in the air. Minghao had been watching the three of you guys talking for quite some time, and it was then that he cleared his throat and walked up to you guys.

“Not particularly,” he murmured. “But they were a lot more accepting of it then I thought they would be.”

“Well, a lot is a stretch,” Hansol mumbled.

“I was expecting maybe five people would be happy for you Sol,” Minghao elaborated, throwing his hand on Hansol’s shoulder. “But it’s actually more like ten.”

Hansol snorted, but it was then that Joshua wandered over. He stopped near you, closer than you thought he would get, and offered you a friendly smile when you looked over at him. You were hesitant to smile back, considering the situation.

“I’m more focused on something else,” Joshua murmured, making everyone turn to look at him, wondering what he could be possibly referring to. “Neither of them argued when you called them boyfriend and girlfriend.”

Silence fell over the boys in the dance practice room, and honestly you couldn’t even figure out what you should say. You looked over at Jihoon, surprised to see that he too looked surprised. Like he hadn’t realized that you guys hadn’t argued it either.

“Well...” You trailed off, and the boy’s eyes all fell on you. Your nose wrinkled slightly, and you looked down, suddenly feeling nervous under all the attention. You took a deep breath and looked at your hands, noting quietly that you were shaking.

You tried to hide the action by pushing your hands behind your back.

“We are... I mean... Boyfriend and girlfriend. If we’re going to get caught, we should at least be able to admit that to the writers of Koreaboo right?” You asked. The words left your mouth, and you suddenly felt more alone then you had ever felt in your life.

No one said anything for what felt like... Ages. You sucked in a sharp breath and suddenly reached out taking Jihoon’s hand in yours without warning. You knew he was surprised by it, but he didn’t pull away. Instead he tugged on your hand, making you stumble into his side. You looked over at him to find him smiling at you, a smile that you returned unsurely.

“My girlfriend,” he whispered, his voice quiet so that only the two of you could hear it. You figured if this were a movie, you would be rolling your eyes at the cheesy statement. Begging the other lead not to encourage such behavior.

“My boyfriend,” you whispered back.

The smile that grew on Jihoon’s lips was worth how hard you were shaking at the whole display. You wanted to kiss him. You wanted nothing more than to kiss him.

“They’re cute though,” Seungkwan mumbled looking over at the two of you. You lowered your eyes to the ground, pulling your hand to yourself all over again. You knew that Jihoon was uncomfortable by the attention too you didn’t worry about him being offended by you pulling away from him. “Can’t believe Jihoon got someone before all the rest of us.”

“Did we come here to talk about my relationship status or to practice?” Jihoon asked suddenly. That luckily got everyone back on the track. Seungcheol went to cue up the music they were about to practice while everyone else began to stretch with Soonyoung. Jihoon waited until almost everyone had wandered away before gesturing towards a chair by the wall.

“You can watch from here,” he told you. You nodded and silently sunk to the ground, electing to not take the actual chair. Jihoon didn’t comment on that but he did seem to note your lack of words, and you noticed a bit of concern creeping onto Jihoon’s face. “If you need anything-”

“I’ll be okay,” you assured. “Break legs... Do you say that in Korea?”

Jihoon chuckled, and turned away from you, walking over as Soonyoung instructed the group to get into positions.

You had always liked watching people practice dances. There was something inherently comforting about watching someone learning dances. All stuck in their own little worlds, trying to remember the dance moves in their own little ways.

You had always been particularly entranced by the way that Jihoon danced. It was one of the reasons that you had grown to like him so much when you got into Seventeen. You liked the way he carried himself when he was dancing.

It was like onstage he was this whole other person. His appearance, his height, himself it all disappeared. He became like... Someone else entirely. He had this incredible stage presence that you sometimes felt got missed due to him being in such a large group.

He made every dance move he executed look practically effortless and the way that his facial expression evolved to suit each little move he made... You had spent a lot of time being completely and utterly fascinated by the way he could lose himself like that.

There was a little something off about him today. His focus wasn’t entirely on the dance, and you noticed the way that his gaze would shift over towards you every once in a while.

You couldn’t believe that of all the things that could distract Jihoon- a member that you thought sometimes was so constantly stressed about being nothing short of perfection that he never gave himself time to breath anymore- you had been the one to distract him this time.

You dropped your eyes from the boys as Chan stopped them, suggesting they do a slight choreography change just to make the dance look more concise. As they were discussing it, you slipped your phone out of your pocket, and began to toy around with some of your apps.

You had a few messages waiting for you in your texts, your friends asking you what you had been up to.

You sighed and turned your phone off, turning your attention to the ground.

You couldn’t get everyone’s words out of your head.

You knew they were right after all. You and Jihoon hadn’t ever been the definition of careful, and now all you could think about was the many times you could have been caught. All those times that you two had kissed in public. The walks together at night when it seemed like no one was around. There countless times in Korea in which you two could have been recognized. And all the times in Japan?

You didn’t even want to count the amount of times in which you had kissed Jihoon in broad daylight in Japan for literally anyone to see.

You were so used to your friends calling you lucky recently, and despite all the great things that had happened to you you had never really felt like you were very lucky until just now. Cause you knew that in reality you two should’ve been caught back on day one.

You felt like your body was buzzing and you couldn’t help it, you reached down and pulled out your phone. You checked every trending twitter page, looked at the Jihoon tag on tumblr, tried to see if there were any other kpop dating scandals.

There weren’t, and while you could find some fans talking about how they thought Jihoon might be dating other idols- you ignored the slight twinge of discomfort at that- and a couple of posts about how you might be dating Hansol there wasn’t really anything of substance there that you needed to be worried about.

The posts about you and Hansol however... Those admittedly threw you off. You felt your eyebrows furrowing as you read the- frankly deep analysis of the one Instagram post. People arguing back and forth about whether or not you two really were a thing at all.

Sure it is odd that they would comment under the post, but we all know how Hansol is, he’s just a friendly person

Okay but we know that Hansol isn’t stupid either. And he would never risk his career making it sound like he was dating some random fan for absolutely no reason whatsoever. There has to be something we are missing here

Are you suggesting maybe... It’s a cover up?

A cover up for what? He clearly just has the hots for this fan. I’m mean look at them. They’re cute together, and who wouldn’t want to date their idol?

Can you all just drop it omg? It doesn’t matter if they’re dating or not.

Well, if they are it’s frankly unprofessional. They’re idols, they’re supposed to seem dateable to everyone. It’s a violation of his contract.

A violation of his wha-

You jolted as someone plopped down next to you, exiting the app you were on as quickly as possible. When you looked up, you were half- relieved to see that it was just Jihoon taking a seat right there next to you. You must have been reading through posts about Hansol and your relationship for longer then you realized. A quick scan around the room told you that they boys were all taking a break. He raised an eyebrow at your reaction.

“You okay?” He asked.

Your lips quirked up briefly and you flashed him a smile.

“Just jumpy apparently,” you replied. You set your phone down between the two of you, the screen facing upwards. Jihoon looked down at it, and then after a short moment he reached over, lightly pressing the home button. Your phone flickered to life, and he stared down at the picture of him on your phone.

He didn’t speak really, just looked at it, and you could tell that there was something... Important going through his mind. But what it was exactly you weren’t sure.

The light of your screen once again faded to blackness and Jihoon looked back up at you, the curiosity of his thoughts fading when he did. He got back up to his feet, and reached out his hand to you, smiling softly.

“Let’s dance,” he said.

Your eyebrows raised in surprise.

“What?” You asked him.

“Let’s dance,” he repeated. “Together, let’s learn something. Let’s... Let’s choreograph something. Something for just the two of us.”

“I-I’m not a choreographer, Jihoon,” you stammered. He rolled his eyes and reached down, his fingers wrapping around your wrist. He looked at you, searching your eyes for any sign that you didn’t really want him to be pulling you up.

But you didn’t mind. You quirked up a single eyebrow and at that Jihoon pulled you up.

“I’m a choreographer, and I’m sure you can contribute in some way,” he replied. You scrunched your nose at him, and it just made him laugh. “Or we can just dance to something. 1Million has some couple dance choreographies we could learn.”

He pulled his phone out of his pocket.

“We should do a Yoojung Lee choreography,” he continued, not seeming bothered by the silence from you. “She reminds me of you.”

Your eyebrows drew in, a little confused by the statement. Your confusion didn’t go unnoticed.

“Her dances are very... Emotional,” he explained. “You can see a million emotions running through her when she dances. She has this one choreography to Rewrite the Stars. We should do it.”

You held your silence as he pulled up the video. You had watched a handful of 1Million videos, maybe not as many as you should’ve because you didn’t really recognize the girl who stood center, but... You knew what he meant when he said that her dancing was emotional. You felt your heart racing as the song escaladed, your hands clenching behind your back.

“This dance is barely a duet, it’s mostly just her,” you commented. Jihoon’s eyes weren’t on the screen, they were watching you carefully.

“Well if we did perform this it would make sense, Carats have seen me dance, not you.”

“We aren’t going to perform this,” you replied with a roll of your eyes. He hummed.

“It would be a good way to confirm our relationship if we ever got caught,” he continued with a shrug. “Don’t you want to rewrite the stars with me?” You gave him an unamused look that only made him laugh and sink back to the ground. You joined him there, letting your shoulder brush his.

“At least think about it,” he insisted.

You didn’t say you would but... You also didn’t say you wouldn’t. You couldn’t help but agree that the song was sort of fitting in their situation... And if they were outed it would be a really cute thing for you two to do.

In a way you sort of thought that it suited Jihoon, after all, at heart he was a bit of a romantic, and his life revolved around his work. And he loved to dance, you could see it on his face every time he performed. He loved being onstage, he loved leading the sort of life he was leading no matter how crazy it could be.

And though it was weird to think about, he loved you. So, coming out in such a way... Well, it would be like combining all of his favorite things into one.

“Are you worried?” You asked, your voice soft. Jihoon’s head shifted against yours, a hum leaving his lips.

“Worried about what?”

“What will happen, if people find out about us.”

Jihoon smiled, his hand sliding across the floor until his fingers had brushed against yours.

“I’m a little too excited about you finally referring to us the way you are,” he replied. “Didn’t ever think I would be so fond of something so small but...”

He trailed off, but you didn’t need him to keep talking for you to know what he was trying to say.

“I’m worried. It could ruin.... Everything that you guys have been working so hard for,” you murmured back. Jihoon sighed and hooked his pinky around yours, making you shift just a little bit.

“What happened to that positivity that you are always adopting when you are talking to your club members?” Jihoon asked, an amused expression crossing his face as he spoke. You rolled your eyes but didn’t move away from him. Instead your face just got redder and redder.

“I guess I had just never had something I was afraid to lose before.”

Jihoon was quiet for a long moment, his hand shifting away from yours. You were confused by the action, so you lifted yourself up to support your own weight and looked at him with wide curious eyes.

“What?”

“Just...” He trailed off. “Caught me off-guard again I guess.”

He laughed and gently reached forward, taking your wrist in his hand. He guided your hand slowly over to his chest, placing it deliberately over his heart. You could feel it beating beneath the thin cloth of his shirt. Your eyebrows furrowed, and you scooted closer to Jihoon, placing your hand more firmly over his chest.

His heart...

“It’s beating so fast,” you whispered, raising your eyes back up to his. He wasn’t smiling when you looked up. He instead had you locked in a very certain watchful gaze; his eyes narrowed ever so slightly at you.

“It’s because of you,” he replied pointedly. Your eyes widened a little. You couldn’t help it. It was one thing to know that someone said they loved you, but a whole other thing to actually feel it beneath your hand. Even after all that had happened, all the wrong that you felt you had done... Jihoon was still crazy about you.

Maybe you were being too hard on yourself. Your eyebrows furrowed and you sat back on your feet, letting your hands fall to Jihoon’s lap.

“I know...” You trailed off. “I know that if we get found out there won’t be any denying it anymore. I know that you could get in a lot of trouble. Pledis might even make you-”

Jihoon leaned forward, and for a moment you thought he was going to kiss you. In fact, you knew that was his intention. But instead, he stopped himself, his body close to yours. His eyes flickered down to your lips, he swallowed hard and then without another thought he pulled back.

“Pledis won’t make me stop liking you,” he replied softly. “What is that quote? ‘My philosophy is that-”

“Worrying means suffering twice’, Newt Scamander,” you finished with a roll of your eyes. “Big Harry Potter fan?”

Jihoon shrugged, and finally a little bit of a smile crossed his lips.

“What do you want to do after practice? I’m hungry... You should just come over.”

“Yeah?” You asked him softly. “Okay... Just one condition.”

Jihoon raised an eyebrow towards you.

“Ask away,” he replied, with a small wave of his hand.

You pressed your lips together and looked away from him, brushing your hair to the side as you did.

“It’s just... Wonwoo and Seungcheol are right. We are reckless. It’s a miracle that we haven’t been caught yet,” you explained. You felt your fingers twiddling with the material on Jihoon’s pockets, unsure of what to say or do. “I just want to be more careful. I don’t want to risk anything anymore.”

You still weren’t looking at Jihoon, so he reached forward, his fingers brushing yours gently.

“We can be careful,” he agreed. “If it will ease your mind.”

You weren’t sure if it really would ease your mind, but you thought that if anything would keep your heart from racing the way it was right now, then it would have to be this.

Chapter Twenty-Six

#Lee Jihoon #Click Click by leejihoonownsmyheart #Woozi #Woozi Seventeen #Seventeen #Seventeen Kpop #Svt Kpop #Woozi Fanfic #Woozi Fanfiction #Lee Jihoon Fanfiction

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arecomicsevengood · 4 years

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A PANEGYRIC TO THE THINGS I DO NOT UNDERSTAND

I generally don’t talk about why I write criticism; I presume no one cares. The core of my contrarianism rests on the fact that many of the things I dislike or have an aversion to I think the market is set up to reward. This holds true both for what I write about and how I choose to write about it. I’m not writing about all these Drawn And Quarterly books that seem like novelty gag gifts for people who don’t actually like comics. I’m not writing about simplistic YA material put out by major publishing houses. I’m not reading superhero trademark maintenance. To me it feels like pre-chewed food I see and know to avoid. I’m also pretty put off by work that’s self-consciously “lowbrow,” but to that stuff’s credit, I don’t think it’s particularly popular. It just seems to fit into larger trends of what’s readily digestible, due to its own willingness to dismiss itself.

When it comes to criticism, I read a fair amount of other people’s writing, and collate a list of ways I don’t want to write that coincide with what I hate to read. I don’t want to read anything that’s “personal” in a way that takes the general premise of the existence of a book as an excuse for a narcissist to talk about themselves. Still, it seems like people love that. It is essentially the lingua franca for a whole type of websites, to have writers leverage their identity or trauma for the sake of hot takes. Even if no one gets paid particularly well, there is a reward in the economy of attention. People also really like writing that praises things that are already popular, because they want to be given permission to like the things they like, but no one needs that. People also like dismissive takes based around incredibly shallow surface-level impressions of something that then becomes this shorthand “common knowledge.” if you say “Chris Ware’s boring” or “Rob Liefeld can’t draw feet” there will be no shortage of people chiming up in the comments to say the same thing. People love to be given permission to not have to think about things, and while I understand that impulse completely, I’m too far gone down the hole of obsessiveness to play along.

I wish I could say all that I dislike falls into one of a fixed number of categories, but in actuality, I am all too often reading writing that makes me ask “why won’t you just shut the fuck up?” or exclaim “jesus, this is so depressing!” and it seems new ways to garner these reactions are continually being manufactured, though in general, the innovations in this area are being done in the more lucrative world of music writing. Still, many of the things I wish to avoid have been done by writers I absolutely admire, partly because they’re more prolific I am, and so can’t allow themselves the luxury of overthinking what they’re doing for the sake of avoiding trends. (I also try to avoid writing stuff that’s just plain stupid and offensive, but lord knows that gets hate-clicks, and hate-clicks are as valued as any.)

I try to engage the work that’s on the page. The best work encourages a multiplicity of readings, I write a lot with the implicit assumption that the framework I’m bringing to bear might be wrong. I believe the work that has the most ideas present inside it will be conflicted enough in depicting multiple ideas simultaneously that it doesn’t encourage a straightforward and easy read. I relate it to the paradox that the most interesting people are those who don’t talk about themselves, but ask questions of others. Presumably, those who are disinterested in others don’t interrogate themselves in their moments alone.

I might be being reductive. So many of my own thoughts might be overly simplistic, a set of half-thought-through opinions designed to arrive at a place of dismissal so I can move on. I spend a lot of time thinking about the sort of creator-owned genre comics Image traffics in these days, because I have zero interest in them, and they don’t seem appealing at all. They don’t come close to my idea of good. I generally object to the way contemporary comics are colored, but I think the issues run deeper than that. The line generally used in reference to them is to call them movie-pitch comics. But is that why they’re bad? I don’t know. Maybe the issue is just the way their writing stands in relationship to economy, where a single issue is not a satisfying story. Maybe superhero comics work better than that stuff because there’s an explicit formula established doing the heavy lifting, and if you are doing something more “high-concept” you need to spend more time with exposition and can’t just defer to the visuals of a fight scene that superhero comics demand. I don’t know! Any answer to the question of why things don’t work is going to end up with some broad statements, because the act of artmaking involves an incalculable amount of choices, any number of which could balance out or redeem any of the others. It’s almost surprising that the history of comics isn’t littered with works that were concerned failures at the time of their release but seem prescient in their storytelling choices now.

I want to write about work that is interesting to think about. What’s interesting to think about is that which I don’t understand. Obviously, writing is an attempt to make sense of something, and much of what I write about then becomes something I understand, or at least, have a take on. But I still want to engage, in some sort of honest way, the work I don’t understand, that short-circuits my brain.

A good example of something I don’t really understand is Stella Murphy’s comic Hometime, which I ordered from Domino Books. It’s a collection of single-panel gag cartoons, kinda? Every page is meant to be taken as its own entity. It’s printed and red and yellow, it feels eye-searingly bright. There’s dialogue balloons, not captions. The visual language sort of seems like it comes from underground comics, of the way underground comics relate to older cartoon styles. I’m saying all of these things like they’re sentences but if I were speaking to you there would be no hint of certainty in my voice. Another paradox: I often feel like I don’t have the language to describe what images in a comic look like unless I have an idea of what the narrative is doing. Maybe these gags feel like they work because they’re incredibly economical in their subversion of the expectation one comes to gag cartoons with. That almost seems too simplistic an explanation to count. I’m sure, if you haven’t read Murphy’s cartoons and grappled with them, that sort of conclusion seems like I’m saying literally nothing.

I’ve been reading Krazy Kat again. It’s interesting that that’s a strip which is notably formulaic, but also is all about subverting that formula or having it play out differently or avoid it altogether. It seems pretty agreed upon that the key to successful comics writing is to have a degree of economy in terms of the words on the page. This allows the images to carry their weight, but images themselves have their own weight of meaning that’s accrued over time. Think about being born on this Earth, and all of the acclimation to one’s surroundings that occurs concurrently with the acquisition of language. Talking with a computer programmer friend, his stance on writing code was, the easier it is for you, the less lines you have to write, the more code has been written by other people before you that you’re relying on. So many of the best comics are consciously written with an awareness of expectations that are then subverted. I don’t know. Generally the argument I make, when talking about “experimental” work, is to contrast it with “formulaic” work. This is my way of asserting the obvious superiority of the former. But maybe this is wrong, and the best and most effective comics, including the ones I’m labeling “experimental,” nonetheless have a formula they’re playing with? Because the truth of the matter is my use of scientific language is a pose premised on my not actually understanding math.

I imagine that a normal person wouldn’t understand why anyone would feel compelled to write comics criticism in the first place. For all the shame I feel about the fact that this is what I’m doing, I’m proud to say I don’t know what my fucking deal is.

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newstfionline · 4 years

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Headlines

Virus numbers show normal life still far away (AP) South Africa was poised on Saturday to join the top five countries most affected by the coronavirus, while breathtaking numbers around the world were a reminder a return to normal life is still far from sight. Confirmed virus cases worldwide have topped 14 million and deaths have surpassed 600,000, according to Johns Hopkins University data, a day after the World Health Organization reported a single-day record of new infections at over 237,000. Death tolls in the United States are reaching new highs, and India’s infections are over 1 million. Iran’s president made the startling announcement that as many as 25 million Iranians could have been infected, the state-run IRNA news agency reported Saturday. Iran has seen the worst outbreak in the Middle East with more than 270,000 confirmed cases. South Africa on Saturday could join the U.S., Brazil, India and Russia as the most badly hit countries as its cases near 350,000. Current case trends show it will surpass Peru.

Millions of kids told full return to school in fall unlikely (AP) Millions more children in the U.S. learned Friday that they’re unlikely to return to classrooms full time in the fall because of the coronavirus pandemic as death tolls reached new highs. It came as many states—particularly in the Sunbelt—struggled to cope with the surge and governments worldwide tried to control fresh outbreaks. In a sign of how the virus is galloping around the globe, the World Health Organization reported nearly a quarter-million new infections in a single day. In the U.S., teams of military medics were deployed in Texas and California to help hospitals deluged by coronavirus patients. The two most populous states each reported roughly 10,000 new cases and some of their highest death counts since the pandemic began. Big numbers in Florida, Arizona and other states also are helping drive the U.S. resurgence that’s forcing states to rethink the school year.

Stress rises for unemployed as extra $600 benefit nears end (AP) A major source of income for roughly 30 million unemployed people is set to end, threatening their ability to meet rent and pay bills and potentially undercutting the fragile economic recovery. In March, Congress approved an extra $600 in weekly unemployment benefits as part of its $2 trillion relief package aimed at offsetting the impact of the coronavirus pandemic. That additional payment expires next week unless it gets renewed. For Henry Montalvo, who was furloughed from his job as a banquet server and bartender in Phoenix in mid-March, the expiration of the $600 will cut his unemployment benefits by two-thirds. He uses the money to help support his three children and pregnant girlfriend. “Now that it’s about to end, that grim and uneasy feeling is coming back and really fast,” Montalvo said. The unemployment insurance program has emerged as a crucial source of support at a time when the jobless rate is at Depression-era levels. In May, unemployment benefits made up 6% of all U.S. income, ahead of even Social Security.

Half of Oklahoma is ‘Indian country.’ What if all native treaties were upheld? (The Intercept) The U.S. Supreme Court issued a decision last week that altered the map of Oklahoma. The eastern half of the state, including much of Tulsa, is now, for legal purposes, Indian country. The Supreme Court decision was uncommon—Indigenous people have seen few victories so sweeping in the high court—but treaty violations like those that occurred in Oklahoma are not. “The rule of thumb is every treaty’s been broken,” said Matthew Fletcher, director of the Indigenous Law and Policy Center at Michigan State University. Going back to the original treaty texts would make broad swaths of the nation Native territory. That means Indigenous people would have a stronger voice on environmental enforcement, more of a say on fossil fuel infrastructure construction, be able to better control the fate of Native children removed from their parents’ home, and less likely to be tried in local courts where district attorneys are elected using racist, tough-on-crime politics. Beyond control over the land itself, the treaties lay the groundwork for obligations requiring the federal government to provide adequate resources to support health care, safety, and education—which have never been fulfilled.

Mexican cartel shows its might as president visits its heartland (Reuters) A video depicting a sprawling military-style convoy of one of Mexico’s most powerful drug cartels circulated on social networks on Friday just as President Andres Manuel Lopez Obrador visited the group’s heartland. In the two-minute clip, members of the fearsome Jalisco New Generation Cartel (CJNG) stand in fatigues alongside a seemingly endless procession of armored vehicles. The video’s release coincided with Lopez Obrador’s visit to the states of Guanajuato, Jalisco and Colima, some of the cartel’s strongholds. “They are sending a clear message... that they basically rule Mexico, not Lopez Obrador,” said Mike Vigil, a former chief of international operations for the U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration.

Panama extends suspension of international flights by a month due to coronavirus (Reuters) Panama’s civil aviation authority said on Friday it will extend a suspension of international flights by another month due to the coronavirus crisis. International flights were first suspended in March as the spread of the virus prompted authorities to impose measures to better contain it.

Richardson meets with Maduro, but fails to secure release of American prisoners (Washington Post) Former New Mexico governor Bill Richardson concluded a four-day special mission to Venezuela on Friday, succeeding in opening a direct channel with President Nicolás Maduro but failing in his immediate objective: the release of eight high-profile prisoners being held in Caracas, including seven Americans. In a telephone interview with The Washington Post—his first since leaving Caracas—Richardson, an elder statesmen of the Democratic Party and former U.S. ambassador to the United Nations, said his initial optimism about securing the rapid release of at least some of the prisoners had turned to disappointment after catching Maduro “on a bad day.” The trip nevertheless amounted to the most significant diplomatic effort in Caracas by an American since Washington severed ties with Maduro and shuttered the U.S. Embassy there early last year. Though officially a private humanitarian mission, the trip was “coordinated” with the U.S. government, Richardson said.

EU tells US: Stop threatening our companies with sanctions (AP) The European Union is warning the Trump administration to hold off threatening trade sanctions against EU companies involved in the completion of new German-Russian and Turkish-Russian natural gas pipelines and instead discuss differences as allies. This week, the Trump administration warned companies involved in the projects they will be subject to U.S. penalties unless they halt their work. The move has further increased tension in already fraught U.S.-European ties. “I am deeply concerned at the growing use of sanctions, or the threat of sanctions, by the United States against European companies and interests,” EU foreign policy chief Josep Borrell said in a statement, adding similar attempts had already been made in cases involving Iran, Cuba and the International Criminal Court. “Where policy differences exist, the European Union is always open to dialogue. But this cannot take place against the threat of sanctions,” Borrell said. “European policies should be determined here in Europe, not by third countries.”

Greece’s great declutter at battle coastline (AP) Greece is commemorating one of the greatest naval battles in ancient history this year at Salamis, the claw-shaped island skirting the mainland near Athens. It’s where the invading Persian navy suffered a heavy defeat 2,500 years ago, their large vessels unable to properly maneuver in the narrow seaways. Salamis, now known as Salamina, has become an extended suburb of the capital, a blue-collar retirement and summer home spot. It still looks out over a fleet of sunken and partially sunken vessels. Heavily rusted cargo ships and tugboats, battered sailboats and fishing trawlers are scattered and abandoned between Salamina and Greece’s largest industrial zone with oil refineries, shipyards and a massive Chinese-owned container port. With the main commemoration events just months away, Greece is in a race to declutter the coastline and has already salvaged dozens of ships, which are dragged to shore, cut up and transported to scrapyards in central Greece.

Mass protests rock Russian Far East city again (AP) Tens of thousands of people in the Russian Far East city of Khabarovsk took to the streets on Saturday, protesting the arrest of the region’s governor on charges of involvement in multiple murders. Local media estimated the rally in the city 6100 kilometres (3800 miles) east of Moscow attracted from 15,000 to 50,000 people. The protests against the arrest of Furgal have taken place every day this week, with hundreds of people rallying in the city center every day, and reflected widespread anger over the arrest of the popular governor and a simmering discontent with the Kremlin’s policies. Furgal, a member of the nationalist Liberal Democratic Party, was elected governor in 2018. His unexpected victory in the gubernatorial election reflected growing public frustration with President Vladimir Putin’s policies and marked a painful setback for the main Kremlin party, United Russia.

China says it’s not trying to replace US, won’t be bullied (AP) China isn’t seeking to confront or replace the United States as the world’s top technological power, but will fight back against “malicious slander” and attacks from Washington, a foreign ministry spokesperson said Friday, responding to a litany of recent accusations from the Trump administration. Hua Chunying said China’s chief concern is improving the livelihoods of its citizens and maintaining global peace and stability, despite what critics say is an increasingly aggressive foreign policy that looks to expand Chinese influence in the military, technology, economic and other spheres. Her comments came in response to a speech Thursday by U.S. Attorney General William Barr in which he cautioned American business leaders against promoting policies favorable to Beijing. He asserted that China at the beginning of the coronavirus pandemic had not only dominated the market for protective gear, exposing American dependence on Beijing, but had also hoarded supplies and blocked producers from exporting them to countries in need. Barr also accused hackers linked to the Chinese government of targeting American universities and businesses to steal research related to coronavirus vaccine development, leveling the allegation against Beijing hours after Western agencies made similar claims against Russia. “The People’s Republic of China is now engaged in an economic blitzkrieg—an aggressive, orchestrated, whole-of-government (indeed, whole-of-society) campaign to seize the commanding heights of the global economy and to surpass the United States as the world’s preeminent technological superpower,” Barr said.

Major Beirut medical centre lays off hundreds as crisis bites (Reuters) Zawqan Abdelkhalek, a nurse at the American University of Beirut’s (AUB) medical centre since 2012, was laid off on Friday along with hundreds of colleagues as even hospitals buckle under the weight of Lebanon’s economic collapse. “I have a baby daughter, I need to get her food and water and pay for her vaccines,” the 29-year-old said. A currency crash means his pension in Lebanese pounds is now worth just around $500, he said. He blamed the ruling elite for daily power cuts, skyrocketing prices and pushing the country to the brink. Local media and employees said the AUB, one of the country’s oldest universities and a regional medical hub, laid off more than 500 workers. At least 220,000 jobs in the private sector were shed between October and February, a survey by research firm InfoPro showed, with the figures only expected to get worse.

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