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1moremilgram-enjoyer · 6 months

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I've been looking at all the MVs and decided to compile every explicit reference to the Milgram prison I could find in them, see if there's any pattern. Don't really know how meaningful it is but I find it interesting. Also, keep in mind it's very possible I'll miss some stuff, and I'll only point out visual references, not lyrics. (And also not the credits in all the videos, they all say Milgram obviously)

Undercover - Just the entire video, I don't think I need to add any examples. I'm not really going to take it into account for this, but it has all the references you could think of.

Weakness - Milgram logo on a perfume (?) bottle, at the beginning. Funnily enough, this is the only instance I could find of the logo itself beyond Undercover and the Es cameo in Backdraft. EDIT: Wrong, it’s also in Bring it On.

Umbilical - Song name + cover song (Sticky Bug) thumbnail in the background. The song name shows up in other scenes as well, but I won't put anything redundant here.

Bring it On - Song name, Milgram name drop, prisoner number. EDIT: And the logo on the upper left corner of the phone.

After Pain - N/A

Throw Down - N/A

Ai Nan Desu Yo - Song + Milgram name drop on the magazine pages (in the image Milgram is name dropped to the right of Mahiru's picture)

half - N/A

Magic - "Produced by Milgram" in the credits (in Hiragana). This is the only time Milgram is written in Japanese.

MeMe - "Milgram [...] card" is written in Milgram runes in the tarot cards. I don't know what the middle word is, but it's not tarot. This is the only time apart from Undercover where 'Milgram' is written in runes.

Harrow - N/A

AKAA - N/A

Tear Drop - Song name drop + cover (Vampire) thumbnail in the background. Also Umbilical name drop because of the 'umbilical' skirt, making it the only video to visually reference the previous song title. Yuno is the only character to have a reference to her cover songs in the main MVs, and she has it in both.

Backdraft - Prisoner + Es cameos, the latter implying the Milgram logo and runes also show up. The QR code in all the spray paint cans leads to the Judge website. There's also Milgram runes in the spray paint cans translating to "Pressure."

(Also noticing now the only prisoner whose entire prisoner tag can be seen in the graffiti, and therefore their prisoner number, is Amane. 0308 nation we stay winning)

It's Not my Fault - N/A

Triage - QR codes that I assume lead to the Judge website, but I can't easily check because there's no clear shot of them. Also Milgram runes in the graves.

I Love You - N/A

Cat - Milgram + song name drop + prisoner number in several spots.

The Purge March - N/A, sort of, since at one point March Leader Amane's shadow is framed to sorta look like Es, but nothing else.

If you want me to come to any conclusions, I'd say anything branded "Milgram" shows a degree of separation with reality, implying Milgram is more involved in bringing it to light than more direct memories. Fuuta's videogame, Mahiru's magazine, Magic and Cat as a whole, Mikoto's highly abstract and symbolic tarot cards. This is what separates, for example, Bring it On's title screen from Tear Drop's; Yuno's perception of reality is a bit more grounded than Fuuta's was in the first Trial. Meanwhile, the name "Milgram" doesn't show up in Backdraft (apart from possibly in Amane's tag), because Fuuta is a bit more realistic there, for example representing Killcheroy more like childishly than in Bring it On.

As for the other stuff, it's quite interesting Yuno is the only one to reference her covers, which can be interpreted in a few different ways. She's shown to be quite intelligent when it comes to some of the more supernatural elements of Milgram (see: "Am I really alive?"), so maybe that's hinting at some sort of higher awareness? Kind of? Sort of? Who knows.

Backdraft is the only video to show the other prisoners (more explicitly than Triage's "extract that fang" line), as well as Es. This fits Fuuta being highly concerned with others' perceptions of him, making him quite prone to peer pressure.

Muu is the only prisoner to have no reference to Milgram in either of her MVs so far, though Kotoko might join her when Deep Cover releases. Take that as you will, I don't know enough about Muu to come to a definitive conclusion.

Don't really know what to do about the QR codes. I guess Fuuta and Shidou both have asked for specific verdicts, but they're not the only ones, so.

Also don't know what else to do with most of this, this was more to put the observation out there. Take care!

#milgram #amane momose #fuuta kajiyama #kotoko yuzuhira #mikoto kayano #kazui mukuhara #shidou kirisaki #haruka sakurai #yuno kashiki #muu kusunoki #milgram es #000 #mahiru shiina

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sssammich · 5 months

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day 24: enchanted

listen sctober is a state of mind ok?

crepe AU: part 1 | part 2 | part 3 day 19: hazy, day 22: art, day 24: enchanted, day 30: magic

if you'd rather read this oneshot on ao3

---

“If you attend this party, we won’t bother you for a month.” Sam, one of Lena’s best friends and roommates, announces as she perches herself on the coffee table in front of Lena who is sitting on her favorite corner of the couch.

“Leave me out of this,” Andrea, Lena’s other best friend and roommate, says from the other end of the couch.

Sam only shakes her head before focusing her attention back to Lena. “This will be good for you.”

She arches a brow. “You don’t know what’s good for me.”

“Mmm, babe. Be for real. As your best and most trusted friend, I only want what’s best for you.”

They both turn when they hear a scoff from the other side of the room.

“Sam,” Lena starts. “Let’s not pretend that you’re not a liar and a scammer and, most likely, a thief.”

Affronted, Sam’s jaw drops and stares at Lena before swinging her sights on Andrea who’s sitting at the corner of the sofa not bothering to glance away from the magazine she’s reading. “Don’t look at me, this is between you two.”

“Come on. You’re literally always at work.”

“Because it’s literally my job.”

Sam tries again. “It’s a housewarming party that’s open to everyone, you don’t even have to bring anything.”

“Who invites strangers to a housewarming party?”

Sam rolls her eyes. “First of all, I’m your one regular friend who didn’t go to the rich sad girl boarding school with princessa over there so I know a thing or two about making friends with people. Secondly, since I’m friends with them, they said I could bring my friends. Third, and most important of all, I’m doing this for your own good.”

“And what good is that?”

Sam smiles, her face stretching wide and Lena realizes all too late that she’s fallen trap from something so simple and elementary. She knows Lillian is just rolling in her grave wondering if Lena learned anything at all from her.

“Well, I’m so glad you asked.”

From the corner of her eyes, she catches Andrea shaking her head.

“You’ve inherited the worst hand imaginable having a mass murdering egomaniac for a brother who forced this company on you. Which, by the way, you have slaved over for the better part of the last year. It’s time that you just take a breather, and this is it. Stay thirty minutes just to say you’ve talked to someone not directly employed by you or someone you tip when they hand you your takeout.”

It never stops the sting from Sam’s words when she lays out the truth of Lena’s life. So she purses her lips and stays quiet for a while, a fool’s charade, until she eventually groans her acquiescence.

Triumphantly, Sam smiles, and places a soft chaste kiss on the top of her head. “Lena Luthor, the woman that you are.”

“Shut up.”

Sam scurries out of the room and Lena takes a deep breath.

“You should’ve just said yes the first time, then you could’ve saved yourself the trouble of the last two minutes.”

It’s her turn to roll her eyes. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Andrea lazily turns the page of her magazine. “Masochist.”

—

Lena’s not a sucker. And definitely doesn’t think she’s one, but how she got swindled into forking over a crisp $20 bill to the woman across from her makes her rethink that, perhaps, she might not be as sharp as she believes she is.

“Now, I want you to know I’m not a psychic,” Kelly, the woman, tells her.

“But you are more than happy to pocket my money for this party trick.”

Kelly shrugs, her toothy grin appearing far too amused. “Girl’s gotta make a living, you know.”

Lena arches her brow, expectant. “Go ahead, then.”

The other woman tilts her head and smiles, then she waves her hand in front of a crystal ball. Lena has half a mind to snort at this half-hearted performance. “You’ve been dealt a bad hand, Lena Luthor, but all I’m seeing is a very bright future for you.”

This time, she does snort, unable to hide her reaction. “Inheriting the family business because your brother turned murderous lunatic isn’t exactly what I’d call bright.”

Kelly continues moving her hand over the crystal ball before she lets her fingernails carefully tap the top of it, a pleasant tink sound as she does so. “You’ll come across some interesting situations that will make you rethink your old ways.”

She narrows her eyes, observing the other woman from across from her. She doesn’t believe in psychics or witchcraft or magic or any of the sort because anything can be explained with science. But the way that Kelly doesn’t shy away from meeting her gaze makes a flicker of doubt enter Lena’s mind that maybe Kelly knows something she doesn’t.

The other woman pulls back and folds her hands on top of each other as they rest on her lap.

“Finally, you’ll be enchanted by someone you least expect.”

Silence sits between them, Kelly’s eyes anticipating Lena’s next move. Which turns out to be Lena simply opening her mouth and hurling the first words that come to mind.

“Bullshit. That's it? That’s what I paid you twenty bucks for?”

Yet Kelly only shrugs again, a laugh on her face as she makes a show of pocketing the twenty dollar bill from the table between them and shoving it in her bra. “Have a little faith.”

She huffs. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

—

Lena moves on to a different area of the house, providing other guests the opportunity to fall trap into Kelly’s overpriced psychic readings. Who even holds a psychic reading at a housewarming party?

Regardless of her own thoughts and feelings on the matter, Lena can’t help but respect the woman’s hustle, a kind of softness and gentleness in the way she presents herself, enough to lure unsuspecting guests to fork over their money to be told things they already know.

She passes the throng of other houseguests and arrives in the kitchen, making a beeline for the kitchen island-turned-bar and uncorks one of the red wines before pouring herself a healthy glass. She takes a few sips here and there and wonders what’s a reasonable time to leave this party. Andrea and Sam managed to wrench her away from her desk for a night, so she’s willing to consider this night a loss for her and a win for them. But she doesn’t need to suffer needlessly in the torment of a house party.

She grabs her phone and sends her friends a message letting them know that she’s leaving in ten minutes regardless of their impending protests before silencing her phone and shoving it in her back pocket. She takes another sip and peruses the cheese spreads on the other counter when she hears a car pull up right outside of the kitchen windows. She doesn’t quite see who’s out there, but she continues to hear movement, car doors slamming, and then faint footsteps approaching the back door.

Lena hears the thud against the back door then the ineffectual wriggling of the old door knob. Another thud comes through and Lena decides to help preserve this person’s dignity by opening the door for them.

Now, Lena expects to help some poor soul relegated to grunt duty to come through that door, seeing as they were the one who was sent out to buy god knows what. What she doesn’t expect, however, is the finest piece of ass Lena has ever seen holding a crate full of liquor in one arm and a stack of six pizzas in the other. How this woman’s blonde hair is pulled in a ponytail, her glasses slightly skewed on her face, yet the blue of her eyes are still so readily apparent even in the evening light.

“Um, can I get through?”

It takes Lena another couple of seconds to jump into action, pulling herself and the door back to make way for the woman who breezily dumps all the things she’s carrying on an empty spot of the already filled counters of the kitchen.

Lena watches with curious eyes as the woman sighs out in relief when she puts all the stuff down on the counter, brushing her forehead with her forearm before resting her hands on her hips, surveying the goods that she’s just brought. When this woman does this, Lena can see how the tight faded red shirt she’s wearing stretches underneath her back muscles. She doesn’t want to say that her eyes widened in surprise, but she also doesn’t want to say that they didn’t.

Instead, Lena elects to stay quiet and shut the door closed in what she hopes is a quiet click, but is more of a medium volume thud that catches the woman’s attention, turning her around and showcasing her broad shoulders.

“Oh! Shoot, I didn’t even realize…that…you…” the woman tapers off, her mouth slanting into confusion then awed wonder until she stops talking altogether.

“Me…?” Lena says, urging the woman.

“...yeah. I didn’t—um, I didn’t realize you were still behind me.”

“Well. Here I am.”

The woman nudges her glasses up. “Yes, right. And who am I speaking with?”

“Lena. And you are?”

The woman smiles. “Kara.”

She accepts the offered hand between them, more than happy to feel the weight of the woman’s hand in hers: sturdy, warm. She smiles, tilting her head slightly and is endeared by the matching one on Kara’s face.

“So how do you know the homeowner?” she asks, by way of making conversation, their clasped hands slowly, unfortunately, pulling apart from each other.

Kara chuckles. “You’re looking right at her.”

“So this is your house?”

“That’s right!

“Who invites strangers to their housewarming party?”

“Who attends a stranger’s housewarming party?”

She opens her mouth but no smart retort comes out. She’s thankful that neither of her best friends are around to witness this fish-out-of-water flailing that she’s currently doing. “I guess you have a point.”

“Well, you’re here now, so might as well have fun, huh?”

“I was just leaving, actually,” she blurts out.

“Oh, that’s a bummer. Can I entice you with a couple slices of pizza and maybe a little bit of small talk before you go?”

“Sor—sure,” she says, course-correcting from an apology to an acceptance, surprising herself. It seems to surprise Kara a little, too. “Yeah, why not. One slice.”

“Yeah?” Kara’s eyes are patient, as if expecting Lena to turn her down. But Lena wants to prove this woman wrong, so she nods. Delighted by her reassurance, Kara quickly opens the top box and quickly pulls a large slice, the melted cheese stretching, before placing it on a paper plate before handing it to her. Wordlessly, she accepts even as her eyes continue to watch as Kara piles on three slices on her own plate.

In the middle of the kitchen, surrounded by bottles of alcohol and the delicious waft of pizza just nearby, Lena thinks maybe she’ll stay an extra ten minutes past the time she texted her friends.

It would be rude to leave so soon, now that she’s met the homeowner, right?

—

Surprising herself, instead of going home like Lena had planned, she ends up holing herself in a corner of the house talking with Kara. They’re in the den just off to the side of the kitchen overlooking the backyard. They take either ends of the sofa right underneath the window, the moonlight shining through the windows even as Kara flips the switch of the lamp just by where she’s sitting. They’re surrounded by boxes piled up on top of each other, a small little retreat of their own. Laughter and commotion can be heard from other parts of the house, the music softly playing somewhere. But they’re secluded in this room, muffling out the rest of the world.

“Sorry for the mess. It’s taking a little longer to unpack this spot. Hope here is cool?”

“Is this some kind of second living room?” she asks as she scans the room despite the boxes in the way.

“Nah. This is my office. Or will be once I clean up a bit more.”

“What do you do?”

“I dabble in a little bit of everything. Mostly oil-based paintings, and I write sometimes.”

“An artist, then?” she asks aloud after taking a bite of her slice of pizza. Her eyes scan the room again, this time making note of the words on the boxes. She even finds a folded easel in the far corner. It takes her a second to get a response with Kara taking a healthy bite out of three stacked pizza slices.

“Some might say.”

“Are you any good?” She prods, though she makes sure that her voice is teasing, light.

“Some might say that, too,” Kara responds easily, flashing her an easy smile just as she takes a sip of her beer. “I can show you sometime or something. If you want, that is. No pressure.”

Maybe it’s the pizza or the alcohol or maybe it’s neither of those things and it’s just Kara sitting in front of her looking beautiful and handsome and easygoing and lovely but Lena finds herself smiling and nodding before she’s even aware she’s doing it.

“Yeah, that’d be nice.”

—

Lena’s not sure how long she’s sat on the sofa talking about things other than work and laughing at silly jokes and puns and stories and simply spending time with Kara, but she knows that the ten minutes she promised herself has long passed. The pizza is all gone, and the two bottles of wine that Kara swiped from the kitchen is all but gone, too.

But one minute they’re laughing and tipsily enjoying their time together, and the next, she’s lazily opening her eyes as she registers how she’s being held inside a cocoon of warmth. She takes quick stock of herself, feeling warmth behind her. Then, she finds a strong arm is protectively crossed over her chest while her own arms wrap around it, as if nuzzling into it.

Instead of panic at being constricted and finding herself in the arms of a stranger, Lena discovers that she is not opposed to this hold, to the heat she feels behind her, around her. She takes a deep breath, and dares to snuggle back, the protective arm around her tightening its hold on her somewhat. She feels a warm breath tickle her nape, but the thought only thrills her knowing that it’s Kara with her.

This is not a thing she has ever done in all of her life, but her thoughts sleepily flit through familiar words:

interesting situations…rethink…old ways…

Lena shuts her eyes and lets sleep overtake her once more.

—

The morning light rudely wakes her; the brightness of the light disturbing her peace as it washes over her face. She shuts her eyes further despite not once opening them, and she instantly turns her head to nuzzle into whatever source of darkness is closest to her.

Groaning, she turns in place until she finds what she’s looking for. She tucks her arms further into her chest and lets the reprieve of darkness above her protect her from the bright light.

She feels the vibrating rumble in front of her, laughter belatedly traveling into her ears. With a huff, she realizes it’s Kara laughing at her, even as she maintains the engulfing hold she has of Lena in her arms.

“Stop laughing,” she demands sternly even as the words come out mumbled and she finds her head completely pressed against the crook of Kara’s neck. She resists the urge to breathe in deep and alight her senses with Kara’s scent of faint body soap and sweat and laundry detergent.

“Okay, I’ll stop.”

But Kara doesn’t, and Lena snakes her hand away from her chest to blindly pinch at Kara’s side.

“Hey!” Kara is laughing harder now, even as she maintains her protective hold of Lena. “Violence is not the answer!”

“It’s self-defense,” Lena grumbles, continuing to pinch Kara on the sides until Kara’s hand grabs hold of her wrist to stop her. She attempts to wrestle out of Kara’s grasp, her eyes now open even as she still squints from the brightness in the room, joy spreading inside of her when she sees Kara’s look so beautiful and disheveled first thing in the morning.

“I call a truce,” Kara offers finally, bringing Lena’s hand back down between them. Lena doesn’t miss the way Kara’s other hand, the one that’s safely guarded her from falling off the edge of the couch, is spread open against her back and gently caressing her.

“I suppose I’ll allow it.”

“Thank you, your honor.”

She scoffs and rolls her eyes, but when she looks back at Kara, she can only see bright open skies and promise in them, and Lena thinks she’d like to maybe go outside for a walk or to the beach or to the fields where she can have a picnic maybe.

Shaking her head of her wandering thoughts, she matches Kara’s easy smile.

“Good morning,” Kara says, voice gentle and soft, reverent.

“Good morning.”

“How’re you feeling?”

How is Lena feeling? She doesn’t know, truthfully. She has no idea how to navigate a time where she chats up a stranger and spends the night without having sex. Or to feel so familiar with someone she’d just met. Or want the urge to spend all her waking moments with someone whose only crime is an easygoing smile directed at her.

“Good.”

Kara smiles at her.

“How’d you sleep?”

Never better. She’ll be sore later. The safest she’s ever felt. Her shoulder tingles from where she’s laid on it too long.

“Good.”

Kara’s smile widens.

“I…don’t—this normally doesn’t happen.”

She quirks a brow. “You don’t normally spend the night spooning a stranger on your couch?”

“No, I don’t.”

She can’t help the smirk that appears on her face. “So you’re saying I’m your first?”

Kara shakes her head, a small laugh escaping her lips. “Oh, you sound like you’re gonna be trouble.”

Her? Trouble? She’s the one who’s being held lovingly in the arms of someone who could probably bench press her and not think twice about it. Who has been nothing but kind and wonderful and goofy and funny and sweet to Lena Luthor, sister of the deranged arsonist who has tarnished their family legacy and forced Lena to raise it back up from the ashes.

“I think if there’s anybody who’s gonna be trouble, it’s you.”

Lena watches as Kara’s attention alternates between her eyes and her lips. Not wanting to second guess herself or wonder what ifs, Lena surges forward and closes the distance between them.

The kiss is soft, though their lips are a little chapped from all their drinking last night. She grabs a fistful of Kara’s shirt in her hand as Kara tightens her hold of Lena. Her other hand travels to the back of Kara’s neck, pulling her down and closer because Lena can’t get enough. Now that she knows how this feels, how Kara tastes—even first thing in the morning, she doesn’t want to let go, not even to breathe.

Soon, they separate because she’s still only human. Their breaths are a little ragged, but there’s a bright smile on Kara’s lips and she just knows there’s one on hers mirroring it.

“I didn’t expect you,” Lena admits, vulnerable and excited and cautious and relieved.

“Nobody ever does.”

Kara brings her head back down and the two continue languidly kissing one another, savoring the feel of lips slotting perfectly against lips.

—

One month later

“You set me up.” Lena sits down on the same spot in the living room of Alex and Kara’s house that she sat in at the housewarming party, sitting directly in front of Kelly.

It’s been a whirlwind of a month for Lena, most surprising of all is Kara’s presence in her life. For one, she’s now dating Kara, far too surprised at the speed in which things moved along between them. For another, she’s had to endure (and continues to endure) the incessant and merciless teasing from both Sam and Andrea, especially when she came home the next day with rumpled clothes and a hickey on her neck. Lastly, even though it’s been a month, Lena’s circle of friends somehow doubled, with Alex and Kelly’s frequent appearance because of Kara.

So here she is, wanting to lay blame at the woman who so conned her into the life she now leads.

“Set you up?”

“All the psychic crystal ball bullshit.”

Understanding washes over the other woman and she smiles, the softness and gentleness of it irking Lena. “Ah.”

“You’re not really a psychic.”

“Well, I never claimed I was. You believed what you wanted to believe, I just nudged you into some…suggestions.”

“One of which was to get with your girlfriend’s sister.”

Kelly laughs. “You’re too generous to give me credit. I’ll tell you what you wanna know, all you need to do is ask.”

“Did you put Kara up to this?”

At the mention of Lena’s now girlfriend, the one who she’s been seeing for the last month they both turn to the line that is Alex and Kara as they hold their large Chinese takeout order for the group, with Sam and Andrea in tow holding up their drinks and the chocolate pie they bought on a whim.

Yet Before Kara fully goes to the kitchen, she turns her head and flashes a smile towards Lena.

“Come on you two, dinner’s ready,” she says.

Kelly gets up and waits for Lena who slowly rises to her feet. She then allows for the other woman to wrap her arm around Lena’s shoulder as the two walk side by side towards the kitchen where they can hear the sisters bickering about Kara taking a bite of a potsticker before even laying everything else out.

“Why bother when she took one look at you and fell in love?”

“You owe me a twenty,” she says gruffly, not meaning every word. Kelly quickly releases her shoulder when Kara detours from her task of getting their plates and walks over and kisses Lena because she can and wants to and Lena thinks she’s happy to give Kara anything she ever desires on this Earth.

“God, you two are disgusting,” Sam quips.

Alex pipes up. “Keep it PG, please.”

Sam and Alex give each other high fives, Andrea rolling her eyes and shaking her head. Kara only waves them off behind her and gives Lena a peck on the nose before hurrying back to her task.

Kelly leans over. “You really think I had anything to do with that?”

Her cheeks redden, yet her sights remain on Kara. “Fine. You can keep the twenty.”

Kelly only laughs.

#supercorp #supercorptober 2023 #supercorptober2023 #supercorp fanfiction #what is this?#a mess #excessive exposition #samfic #dedicated to #chaotic-super #for the prompt

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ohnoitstbskyen · 1 year

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(kindly leave the person in the screenshot alone. I have blocked them, I don't want to interact with them, and neither should you, especially not to "defend" me)

I'm getting quite tired of seeing this nonsense, so let's do a quick summary post in case I need it later.

STEP 1: Platinum Games screws the absolute pooch on Bayonetta 3, pissing off their fan-base and gravely disappointing a lot of queer fans by swerving Bayonetta into a fairly out of nowhere romantic relationship with previously-mostly-comic-relief charming idiot character Luka. It's pretty universally panned as a dumb move at best, and downright hostile to the game's most passionate fanbase at worst.

STEP 2: A subset of fans use this bad game decision as a reason to start denying that the Bayonetta franchise has queer text or subtext at all. They argue, explicitly, that because Bayonetta ended up in a male/female relationship then she cannot be queer, and that her queerness can only exist or be considered a valid interpretation of her character if she ends up in a same-sex relationship. This is, by the extremely literal definition of the term, bi-erasure and a form of biphobia.

This is not all or most of the criticism of Bayonetta 3, but it is some of it. I see it happening live on social media, I have to block a few people because of it, and it boils my piss, to be quite frank.

STEP 3: Ty Galiz-Rowe, a nonbinary bisexual transmasc games writer, notices this tendency too, and pens a piece for Gayming Magazine called "Bayonetta 3 is bringing out people’s biphobia in a big way" which you can read here. In the piece, he voices a criticism of this tendency, and cites the work of a few other writers, including some who are bisexual themselves.

Those writers don't much appreciate the criticism, and Galiz-Rowe has a fairly civil discussion with them on Twitter about it that, as far as I can tell, ends amicably, with Galiz-Rowe admitting they wrote some of the piece with too much anger and directed some unfair criticisms. I do not believe the piece itself has been edited or amended, but Galiz-Rowe discussed some reflections about it on their personal twitter.

STEP 4: I retweet the article, because yeah, I have seen this biphobia going around and it annoys me too, and I think Galiz-Rowe did a good job putting words to the upset. I write a short thread getting rather heated about people denying the queer subtext (actually screw "subtext" it is text) of Bayonetta 2 because she didn't end up with Jeanne in 3. I direct this thread very specifically at people making the argument that "if Bayonetta had a straight relationship then she can't be queer" because that is, by the extremely literal and obvious definition of the term, biphobia.

STEP 5: People who can't separate disagreement from abuse, and who absolutely refuse to learn enough reading comprehension to understand when a thread is or isn't about them, decide to reach the head-ass conclusion above and have been tagging me with their imaginary grievances since October.

It is quite annoying, and I've had enough of ignoring the casual insults, so here's a post I can link to if someone asks about it in the future.

#the bayonetta thing post

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shipsarebeautiful · 8 months

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Quick disclaimer, I’m going to talk about an NSFW topic, so if you’re not into that please scroll away now!

But, with that out of the way, here’s my Thoughts on a Thing. So, call me crazy, but I’ve been thinking about this topic for a while and after recent events I’ve come to a logical conclusion.

SHMK should, and I cannot stress enough how genuinely I mean this, have gay sex for plot reasons. Here me out!

Shu has IMMENSE issues with repression, and he always has done because of the environment he was raised in, and while he’s worked through a fair amount of those issues by now one glaring thing that still remains is how averse he is to anything sexual. There’s an entire story dedicated to exploring this aspect of his character (Astrae’s Atelier)! One part of that story is that someone from his school in Paris who is distinctly not averse to sexual stuff at all becomes very interested in Shu, to the point where they leave drawings of nude models and even porn magazines in his room to try and convince him that sexual things are normal (surprise surprise, it doesn’t really work). Kuro even finds out about this and brings it’s up again later on in the timeline, to which Shu is still clearly uncomfortable with it.

Mika on the other hand isn’t sexually repressed at all, much like the fan from Paris, and we know how openly horny he is all the time. But above his honrniess is his absolute loyalty. He would never do anything to harm Shu and would do everything to protect him and make him happy, recently including even digging up a grave to confirm or deny the reality of a story that Mika knew Shu wouldn’t like the ending of. He also still really struggles with comprehending how important he is to Shu, being willing to sacrifice himself in every way possible for the sake of Shu’s happiness without realising how that self-sacrificial nature is exactly what’s hurting Shu, and is incredibly insecure about himself and his abilities.

Them having sex is, I believe, genuinely going to be SO helpful for both of them. Because with the way Shu is Mika would be forced to realise how important he is to Shu since there’s no way he would do such an act with just anyone, and Shu would have to realise that sex isn’t the shameful act he’s always thought it to be and can be just another way to show someone how much you love them. On top of that, the act itself is inherently supposed to be one of mutual pleasure, it puts them on completely equal playing fields no matter how much they may want to value the other more than themselves.

Both of these characters are adults at this point in the timeline so it wouldn’t exactly be taboo to talk about such a thing, especially since sexual themes have come up in Enstars before though they’ve never truly been explored. And on top of that, since it’s now implied that they’re canonically together, it’s the type of topic that would be completely natural to explore with these two since sex is a normal thing in most romantic relationships.

And I’m saying all this as an asexual btw, so it’s not as if I’m just looking for excuses to sexualise the two because that’s not what this is about at all. I just whole-heartedly believe that it would actually be beneficial both to their relationship and to their personal development, and that this is something that can and frankly, in my opinion, should be explored in their future stories.

I SWEAR I’M NOT DELUSIONAL HERE, IT ALL MAKES SENSE!

#enstars #shumika #itsuki shu #kagehira mika #sab actually posts #fun fact btw: aside the last two paragraphs this is almost word for word copy/pasted from a rant to my girlfriend in discord DM’s #but anyway! yeah #that’s my rant for today #I know that we as a collective group of Enstarries often joke about how maintenance is just sex #and while it’s not really canon (as far as I’m aware at least) I don’t doubt that serveral cast members in-universe genuinely believe that #(see my tier list in that exact topic that I posted yesterday)#but for as many jokes that get made we know at the end of the day that’s not what actually happens #but I unironically think it should happen #let me know your thoughts on this! I’m really interested to see how other people react to this #am I gonna start a shmk gay sex revolution or will I just look insane? we will find out

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x-heesy · 1 month

Text

𝚆𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝙸 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚌𝚛𝚢 😭 🇫🇷

It scares you, my thing suffocates you like couscous

It's the big shock in the bush, as long as they are gentle

And sincere, never fake like MEDEF

And it's born to lose like those in charge of AZF

It's Mururoa, toxic like rat poison

You whispered, it makes you soft like a koala

You're ze-na, my thing attacks you like shingles

Think back to all those days when you were zoning out in your room

Stay calm, stop worrying about it

Stup is drugs, go write it in your magazine

It's like Materazzi and Zinédine

And I shoot you in the head, send your skull to the Philippines

Crou, the Crou

It's just another way of thinking

I don't know if you realize

The Crou, the Crou

It's just another way of thinking

I don't know if you realize

What hullabaloo, things are seriously rocking in Paris

894 members, sometimes it varies

Don't pump me the way I scream or it's court

The biker gang will remain original

What a waste, it's getting stuck at the CIDJ

Black is my magic but it never calmed down

Low profile, I'm not very peace nor ambalaba

This chocolate mystery will remain intact

Submit, date at 4 a.m. on the roof

Bring your arguments, I'll bring my nunchaka

My anger is brewing, I'll cook you in the microwave

I'll go piss on your grave, it will be filthy, like the end of the worl

The Crou

It's just another way of thinking

I don't know if you realize

The Crou, the Crou

It's just another way of thinking

I don't know if you realize

(Yeah) Knick-knack paddy whack, it's Rascar Capac

My technique slacks you, my best friend is my pimp, man

I love my hammock but my technique screws you

I'm too aesthetic when I've drunk two gin and tonics

A knock-off era, let the big jack bite me

Blah, blah, blah, fuck rock and baroque

In a short time, I will be the darling

There are too many idiots who lick, just to shake my hand

My Stup-zic has bruises

And there's no harm, given the state of the ZIC in France

It goes thump thump, my thing relieves the stress on your neck man

Hold on to the curtains when Ju comes crashing down, it scares the hell out of you (yeah)

The Crou, the Crou

It's just another way of thinking

I don't know if you realize

The Crou

It's just another way of thinking

I don't know if you realize

The Crou

𝙰𝚙𝚘𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚢𝚙𝚜𝚎 894 𝚋𝚢 𝚂𝚝𝚞𝚙𝚎𝚏𝚕𝚒𝚙 💃🏽🪩🕺🏼

@decemberthenemesis @only-susie @bixlasagna @imperfectfries @invincible-selfxmade-punk @frenchpsychiatrymuderedmycnut @bigbonzo @inbetweenneeds

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remembertheplunge · 6 months

Text

You'll get a feel for what life is like for at least one person now.

12/28/1986

I spent 4:30 to 8:30 with Daryl and there, low energy and all, I feel lovely and alive. He is so special to me. He is innocence and beauty, and grace. I am so fortunate to be with him. He brings out such beauty in me and in the others who enter his domain. He is brave. So courageous.

I said that I wish we could spend just one day together in the New York you lived in (before contracting Aids). He replied “we’d need more than one day. Besides, we must go forward no matter what the future holds. I was silent and finally said “yes”.

He is so beautifully in tune with his death. He said “I can take morphine. In my condition, there is no worry about becoming addicted. " I am silent.

I read to him, from time magazine 12/29/1986. It was a letter to 2086. Read it dear diary reader. Of course, as far as I know you are reading this in the year 2086. Who knows? In any event, if you can come by it, read it. It is thought provoking. In combination with reading my diary, you’ll get a feeling for what life is like for at least one person now.

End of this part of the entry

Note Daryl Speicher was my first Aids match. I matched with him through Hand to Hand in Sacramento. The organization trained volunteers to work with people with Aids through their illness and death.

I was matched with Daryl in late December 1986. He died February 3, 1987. He was 36 years old . He was bed ridden the entire time that I know him. Although his body was being ravaged in multiple ways by the virus, his mind remained sharp and clear to the end. In December 1986, I was 31 years old.

I still visit Daryl’s grave from time to time in Fair Oaks cemetery, Fair Oaks, California.

#journaling #writing #gay history #Aids #Aids support volunteer #12/28/1986 #Time Magazine #Letter to 2086 #journal reveals life now

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dearweirdme · 6 months

Note

when i sent the ask i knew the first thing you would bring up is their relationship with women. so, to answer your question, yes, i actively criticize ALL people who hyperanalyze their sexuality, whether they’re straight or queer is literally not our concern? but also, the taekook shippers are quite literally the most pervasive and most invasive in this entire fandom. but we’re not fans of their sexuality. we’re fans of them as artists. i’m not homophobic. i’m a literal queer, bisexual woman telling you as a queer person that this is super disrespectful. for ANY person. this goes beyond being “interested” in their personal lives. it’s so dehumanizing to have literal strangers deciding FOR you what your sexuality is. deciding FOR you if your friends are actually your friends. deciding FOR YOU that you can’t come out bc of a company when it’s possible that if any of them ARE QUEER they simply may not WANT to come out. why do you all feel entitled to pushing them to? why do y’all feel entitled to deciding what their sexuality is and deciding why their sexuality is and deciding what would be the result that makes THEM happy when y’all are not them?do you guys seriously not think it’s disrespectful? when did i EVER say them being straight was the default? in fact i never mentioned me thinking they were straight at all and simply said that analyzing their sexuality when they didn’t give ANY OF US consent to do so is unethical and dehumanizing no matter what way you look at it. you can try to say i’m homophobic. i truly don’t care bc i know that i personally really like woman and men equally. this isn’t at ALL about my sexuality or my outlook on people being queer. at what point did i ever state or insinuate that *I* think they’re straight or that *i* think something would be wrong if they were straight or queer? i’m literally saying that information is not only irrelevant but not for us to know or to force our way into knowing. i’m saying it’s inappropriate to speculate on their sexuality as a whole. straight. gay. bi. pan. or otherwise. it’s literally not our business and has NOTHING to do with being their fan. you’re talking about love yes but you’re also making grave assumptions about their relationships with other people and across the board these narratives impact real life people? like y’all are treating like they’re people only in the fantasy of the ship. i think this of all shippers who genuinely believe their ships to be reality and go around actively spreading information as if it were true when none of us know. and the answer to the apparent mystery about their sexuality has literally fuck all to do with liking bts. if you only like them bc of their sexuality then you don’t like them and this is a fetish. if your entire narrative around being their fan is convincing other people that they’re queer or straight or ANYTHING that they themselves didn’t disclose, you are not a fan. this is fetishizing.

Hi again anon!

I do apologize for thinking of you as homophobic, it’s just that usually asks like yours come from that side of fandom. I guess you just don’t like people talking about celebrities private lives in general, which I understand. It is however a huge part of being a fan for many many people, it is something that magazines rely on and make money of, it is something that companies and artists themselves lean into at times. For me, being a fan means that I care about their private lives as well.. I cannot really help it, it’s something that happens automatically. I think it happens for many people automatically in general. If that’s not your way of being a fan, that maybe you should refrain from looking at blogs like mine. I will not have you make me feel bad about caring about the members like that.

What I have seen is that even amongst queer persons there’s many opinions on how to talk about these things. I know I have many queer followers who do want to talk about this, I think their opinion is just as valuable as yours.

Again, I agree that many shippers take it too far.. I don’t personally think I am though.

#i also don’t only like them because of the ship #i was a bts fan before being a tkkr #fandom shenanigans #taekook

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passivenovember · 2 years

Text

A day late! (Again...) -- Barbecue & Heatwave for Mini Week Day One.

"You going to the cookout on Saturday?"

Billy rolls over. Imagines himself as a black bean patty sizzling on the pool chair in Harrington's backyard. Cooked through on one side and raw on the other. Bloody. He's summer personified. A yellow splotch on the corner of this town, wearing sunglasses to hide the inferno underneath.

"Why would I?" Billy wonders. He adjusts the straps of his spaghetti top, letting them droop around his biceps so the tan lines won't take root.

"It's for the family," Steve says, light and easy. In the way that says it doesn't really make a difference to him if Billy goes, either way, it's just another fact of life.

"Max'll be there," Steve reiterates. Like that'll make a difference.

And Billy's got a lump in his throat so he hums something non-committal. Reaches for the bottle of tanning oil Steve keeps in the mud room for him and doesn't say it.

That's just the point. It's for family, and Billy's the asshole stepbrother. Satanic. Satan himself. He's the freeloader who lines the floor in the room he shares with Jonathan and he's the asshole who gave Steve a scar on the angel kiss of his hairline, and that's it.

Just another fact of life.

Billy pops the cap to the oil. Doesn't even open his eyes to slather it on his legs, the movement's so practiced.

And he can feel Steve's eyes on him. Caught in the thin net of 'kini around his arms. Traveling past his cotton shorts, down the stretch of muscle at his thigh.

"So hot," Steve says under his breath.

Billy snaps a look at the boy, then, a trough of melted ice cream in his stomach sloshing high on walls of hope.

Harrington stutters. "You've gotta be hot, right? It's boiling."

Billy stares at him. Puts the oil back where it came from and says, "Cali's hotter." Because it is. If Harrington's ever gonna get out of the Midwest and find what’s good for him, he's gotta know what he's in for.

And Steve says, "Do you ever miss it?" With this wistfulness coloring his tone.

Because he cares.

Because he’s Steve.

"Only every day," Billy answers, leaning back on the sun chair because this is a nowhere conversation. They have these a lot. Big ideas that ultimately lead to a sign in the road because they're stunted. Stood in each other's way. Cut from a different cloth.

Harrington leafs through the magazine he's been holding all afternoon. It's silent for three seconds and then he's swinging his legs over the edge of the lounger to get close. To get a better look.

Billy rolls his neck to stare at him, stomach clenching at the pale, serious expression on Steve's face.

"Look," Harrington starts gravely, and Billy moves his sunglasses to the top of his head, working to keep his face calm. "It doesn't make a difference to me if you're there or not--"

Billy puts his glasses back on. "Great, glad we cleared that up."

Fuck this. Fuck Steve. Fuck him for always finding the crack in Billy's armor and digging his well-intentioned fingers into the sore spots.

Steve blinks at him, probably. Stutters out, "Wait, no--"

But Billy's pissed, now. He's hot. Burning incendiary and he could take down this whole patch of trees when he says to the cloudless blue sky, "It's fine. You don't want me there, I get it."

"Man--"

"I was looking for a reason to bail anyway. Something concrete." Billy snorts, crossing his arms over his chest. "Joyce and everyone have been riding my dick about making this a priority, you know? But you said it yourself. It's for family."

The silence is loud. Like a punch landing on a pane of sugar glass. It splinters and carries outward, into the trees, and Billy's huffing and puffing.

Big bad wolf.

He can't bring himself to stop. To get a hold on it.

“It’s fine,” Billy says again. He needed to hear it, because everyone was blowing smoke up his ass. Putting on one hell of a show, with pancakes from Joyce and dubies from the Freak and late night talks with Will, and El, letting Billy borrow her summer clothes. Hopper showing him how to use a drain snake, and.

It’s okay.

Steve was just the first to admit it.

But Steve’s voice is small. Fragile. "Billy, we want you there.” He says.

And all at once, that’s it.

Billy can’t take it, anymore. He sits up. Starts gathering his shit, or. What he’d thought was his. But everything in his life, everything that’s him, belongs to someone else. The beach towel is Joyce’s. The sunglasses are Jon’s. His heart.

His heart is right here. On this sun lounger. Three feet away.

Steve says, “Where are you going?”

And Billy wants to say home. But then he says, “Byers.” Because that’s all he can choke out.

And Steve’s tripping over himself. Realizes he’s let the cat out of the bag. Says, “I was gonna ask you, anyway. Or tell you anyway, even if you didn’t go, but I wanted the timing to be right–”

“But you told me now,” Billy snaps at him, and. His arms deflate at the look Steve gives him, and all at once, Billy feels ridiculous. His spaghetti straps are still hanging low, almost showing his tits, and.

He yanks them up, embarrassed. “I’m glad you told me,” Billy mutters. “I mean. Imagine if I had gone. And made my mom’s potato salad that Joyce keeps asking for, only to find that–”

“I’m in love with you,” Steve says.

Billy blinks at him. He’s still wearing his sunglasses, so everything is rose gold. But Steve always is. Just another fact of life.

Steve says, “That’s what I meant. I wanted to wait for the cookout to tell you because there will be fireflies. And lemonade,” He looks at Billy, then. Frowning so deep his eyes practically disappear into his head. “Billy, I know it gets loud in your brain, sometimes. But we want you here. I know I do. I can’t imagine my life without–”

The pavement burns his feet when he walks away. Cooked through.

–

"You're coming to the party on Saturday," Joyce says to the potatoes she's sawing open with that shitty little white-handled pairing knife. "I know it's been hard for you, sweetheart. Adjusting." The knife gives up halfway through each potato so she uses her fingers to tear them the rest of the way.

Billy doesn't blame anyone. They grow 'em big out here. Potatoes, boys. Wasps--

"I think it could be good for you, though. Reintegration to society, or at least to the family--"

"Knife's a piece of shit," Billy says, twisting the cap off his soda.

Joyce peers over her shoulder at him. The flyaways from her long, sleek braid frame sharp, motherly annoyance on her face. The heat of it could probably cut Billy in half if she knew where to aim.

"It was my grandmother's," Joyce says. Like they're on the same page about the whole thing. Like she was saddled with it. A responsibility Joyce never wanted for herself but decided being sentimental was better than choking bitter.

Keep reading

A dull old paring knife is the best they can scrap together when it comes to family heirlooms, probably, and when Joyce says, "Close the fridge door, I've got jello cooling," Billy lets it rattle when it shuts. The coke bottles rouse in an argument over who will get the knife when Hop kicks the bucket in twenty years and Joyce outlives them all.

Their money's on him. What use would the others have for a knife?

Joyce, as if reading his mind, puts the thing down. Pinturns on her hip so she's looking at him, the full force of those eyes raking him clean. There's a ring of sweat on the collar of her blouse. She rubs at it, says, "It's fuckin' hot."

"Heatwave," Billy says. "We get them all the time in California."

Joyce looks at Billy like he just admitted something, eyes molten and soft. "You really don't want to come to the cookout?" She wonders.

But the truth is, Billy’s coke bottle is already turning lukewarm against his palm. And whatever Steve was feeling for him has probably gone cold in the middle, so Billy shakes the sweat out of his eyes and says, "No point."

"Is this because of Steve?"

Billy shrugs. Admitting something.

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

Billy knows this woman. She’s not his mother, not really, but Billy knows that like his mother, Joyce would like him, still. She’d keep him around. Billy sniffs instead. Points to the potatoes and says, “Thought that was my job,”

And Joyce starts a little, looking at the jagged little pieces with a soft smile on her face. “You seem tired,” She says. “A mother knows these things. Thought I’d take care of it for you.”

That feels right. Like an admission.

Not his mother but A mother. A good one.

Billy puts his coke on the counter and washes under his nails. With the Byer’s family heirloom pressed right on his heartline, a stretch of country road that will always lead to Steve Harrington, Billy tells her everything.

And Joyce holds him through what comes after.

#harringrove #harringrove week #angst with a hopeful ending #barbecue #heat wave #soft boys being soft

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rainy-bangbeom · 2 years

Text

Running Up That Hill | Yang Jeongin

pairing(s): Yang Jeongin x Fem!Reader, Stray Kids x Fem!Reader

genre: Stranger Things!AU, heavy Angst

warnings: Some mature language, slight blood and gore, near-death-experience, mentions of death, hallucinations, mentions of grief and depression

word count: 2,9k

synopsis: With death literally breathing down your neck, you spend what could be your final hours tying up loose ends—until you realize that you’re not at all ready to die.

Sometimes you wonder what your life would look like if your parents never decided to move to Hawkins. Maybe you’d be back in the sunshine of your hometown, riding your bike over the familiar sidewalk bumps and trying not to crash into that one crooked tree that always snuck up on you. Maybe you’d be with your old friends, obsessing over some new Tom Cruise movie in your childhood bedroom. Maybe your father would still be alive—far from a victim of the mind flayer’s control—and then maybe your mother and sister wouldn’t have left—not having abandoned you in a small town that’s so obviously cursed—and so you’d probably be happy, or at the very least, not mere hours away from walking to your own grave.

The scratching of your pen against the paper breaks the tense silence, which permeates through the basement like an unwanted parasite. You can feel the various pairs of eyes boring into the back of your head as you seal the final envelope, adding it to the thick stack balanced across the edge of the desk. When you peer over your shoulder, they have already dispersed, focusing on a suddenly interesting crack in the ceiling or an open magazine that’s gone untouched for the last hour. You sigh, mentally preparing for the backlash that’s going to ensue, before making your way to the silent trio, eight letters tucked securely between your fingers.

You start with Jisung, holding out the envelope with his name neatly scrawled across the front. “For you.”

He eyes you strangely, but still takes your offering nonetheless. One by one, you pass the present members their designated letters before holding out the remaining ones to a very confused Minho. “And these are for the others whenever you see them next.” You notice Jisung beginning to peel back the seal of his envelope, immediately leaping forward to stop him. “No, wait! That’s not—don’t open it now!”

“I’m sorry”—Minho holds up his letter with raised eyebrows—“and what exactly is this?”

“It’s a failsafe. F-For after, just in case. If, uh,” you cough. “If things don’t work out.”

“Woah! Hang on a second!” You’re not surprised to hear Jeongin’s protests. “Things are gonna work out, (Y/N). Chan and Seungmin are gonna find something at Pennhurst, and we’re gonna figure out how to get this bastard off of your tail.”

“We don’t know that for sure. We don’t know anything—for all we know, I could be dead by tomorrow morning—”

“No!” Both you and Jisung flinch as Jeongin rises from his seat with a sudden shout. “You are not going to die! You’re going to be fine!”

“Innie…” You try to grab Jeongin, but he’s already halfway up the stairs before you even realize. You move to run up after him, but Jisung’s hand around your wrist halts your motives.

“Give him some space, yeah?” he says. “He’ll come around. He just needs time to process all of this.”

“I don’t exactly have much time, Sung.” Jisung’s face instantly falls, but you can’t bring yourself to feel bad about your bluntness, instead turning to a stone-faced and oddly silent Minho. “If I asked you to drive me to East Hawkins, would you do that for me? I want to visit my dad before…”

“I really don’t think that’s the best idea right now, (Y/N).”

“Yeah, well, I really don’t want to spend what is likely the last day of my life sulking around in Changbin’s basement, so please—consider it my dying wish.”

Jisung shakes his head. “Don’t say that, (Y/N), for godsake—”

“Fine, but we’re not hanging around.” Minho stands with a huff. “I’ll grab Jeongin. Meet us by the car, and Jisung, make sure—”

“He won’t take his eyes off of me, Min,” you finish for your oldest friend. You pretend not to notice the rare shine welling at Minho’s eyes, nor how Jisung’s bottom lip trembles like chinaware during an earthquake. But most of all, you pretend not to hear the haunting chimes of a distant clock as you head upstairs, slowly counting down the seconds until you inhale your very last breath.

Much of the ride was spent in complete silence, save for the music playing from your Walkman, though you can’t blame your friends—you wouldn’t know what to say in a situation like this either. Jeongin tried to meet your gaze multiple times, having taken up the backseat with you, but you couldn’t bring yourself to look at him—couldn’t bring yourself to see the pain lingering behind his brown eyes.

You almost sigh in relief when Minho finally pulls into the cemetery. The car has barely stopped when you practically leap out the door, making a mad dash for your dad’s plot. But alas, the universe seems to enjoy tormenting you, and Jeongin is just as quick to exit the vehicle and block your path.

“Jeongin, please just wait in the car—”

“Just listen to me, please! Just one second…”

You sigh, but relent to his pleas with a nod.

“I just—I’m sorry for losing it back there. I didn’t mean to shout at you. I-I know you’re right, and that we don’t know what’s gonna happen but the truth is—I really, really care about you, and the thought of what happened to those other victims happening to you just”—Jeongin shudders, leaning forward to grab your hand with both of his own—“but that doesn’t matter right now. I just need you to know that you can talk to me, okay? I don’t want a letter because I’m right here, okay? I’m here, (Y/N)...”

Tears sting at your eyes at Jeongin’s ramble. You want nothing more than to collapse into his arms and confess every dark thought that’s been plaguing your mind for the past year—to shed the burden of your dad’s passing, your mother and sister’s disappearance, and every shitty moment in between. But something inside of you just can’t—despite the warm and welcoming nature of Jeongin’s gaze—because you know once you crack, you’ll completely shatter.

“Wait in the car. I’ll only be a few minutes.”

You feel Jeongin’s heart break as you walk away, but you don’t look back—you can’t or you’ll definitely cave. Instead, you hold your head high and tread through the sea of headstones and wilting flowers to your desired destination. Your dad’s tombstone is just how you remember it—cold, and gray, and depressing as all hell. You lower to the grass before fishing out the very first letter you wrote. A shaky breath passes through your lungs, providing you the last bit of courage you need to begin reciting the words scrawled messily across the page:

“Dear Dad—things have been pretty shitty since you left. Mom was a total mess after everything went down. I don’t think she could stand living in a house with you no longer in it. So she and your other daughter left. She never said it, but I think she blamed me for what happened to you. They both did. Sometimes I blame myself too.

“And the worst part about it all is that I could have maybe done something—anything to save you. I should have told you about everything two years ago after Felix closed the portal to the Upside Down. Maybe if I said something then you’d still be here—and everything would be okay again.

“But that’s not what happened. I just stood there, and I watched. For a while, I tried to be happy. Normal. But I… I think that maybe a part of me died that day too. And I haven’t told anyone this. But I had to tell you before it’s too late. If you can even hear this—I really hope that you can—I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry, Dad—love your daughter, (Y/N).”

You wipe your tears as you fold up the letter, holding back sobs and preparing to return to the car. However, a cool, eerie breeze spreads goosebumps across your skin, which transition into violent shudders as the world becomes dark. Purple fog snakes through the now pitch black cemetery, and you can’t help but feel as though someone is watching you.

Your fear increases tenfold as a familiar voice, though ghastly and faded, echoes through the cemetery like a shrill warning.

“(Y/N)...”

Minho taps at the steering wheel before peering at his watch for what seems to be the millionth time in the last half hour. Noticing the passage of five more minutes, he shakes his head before shoving the car door open.

“Alright, it’s been much longer than a few minutes.”

“C’mon man, just give her some time.”

“I have, and I’m calling it. If she has a problem with it, then she can take it up with me.” Minho ignores both Jisung and Jeongin’s protests and proceeds to jog up the hill. He breathes out a sigh, preparing for the argument that’s likely about to ensue before pausing only inches from your kneeling form.

“(Y/N), time to hit the road.” He cringes at the uneasy silence. “Look, I’m sorry but we gotta go, okay? (Y/N)?”

Minho paws at your shoulder once, then twice. His concern grows at your continued unresponsiveness as you’d usually be spitting out an entire essay on the importance of personal space by now. He lowers to a crouch to get a better look at your face—and the sight of your blank eyes, rolled to the back of your head, sends warning bells off through his entire body.

“(Y/N)!? (Y/N)!” Minho shakes your body. His movements become more frantic with each second of silence that stretches on, and he can’t seem to think past the catastrophic thoughts plaguing his mind. “(Y/N), wake up! Wake up! (Y/N)—shit!” He turns in the direction of the car. “Guys! Get the hell over here!”

Jisung and Jeongin come dashing over the hill only seconds later. They both drop beside Minho, sharing the same panicked expression at your current state.

“(Y/N), can you hear me!?” Jeongin cries. “What’s wrong with her?”

“I don’t know!” Minho snaps over Jisung’s shouts of your name. “It’s like she’s in some kind of trance, but she won’t snap out of it…”

“Oh no no no no no!” Jisung furiously shakes his head while tugging at his hair. “It has to be Vecna! The same thing happened with the others before—”

Minho suddenly shoves Jisung back toward the car. “Call Chan and Seungmin right now! Go now! Go!”

Jisung takes off faster than a marathon runner, leaving behind a stunned Minho and a terrified Jeongin. He grabs your cheeks with both hands, almost hard enough to bruise, staring into the whites of your eyes with enough terror to fill a ten-story building.

“(Y/N)! Please wake up! Please, baby—please! I can’t lose you like this, please!” He presses his forehead against your own as tears begin to spill down his burning cheeks. “C’mon, (Y/N)—come back to me, please! You gotta get out of there! (Y/N)—please wake up!”

“Guys!” Jeongin is ripped from his anxious babbling when Jisung returns, dumping your Walkman and a plethora of cassette tapes across the grass.

“Wh-What the hell is this!?”

“Her favorite song—what’s her favorite song!?” Jisung heaves between gasps.

Jeongin shakes his head. “What!? Why!?”

“It’s too much to explain now! What’s her favorite song!?”

Jeongin sends Jisung one final glare before pilfering through the mess of cassettes. He remembers you played the song for him about a year ago while you two were hanging out in your bedroom—long before the shit went down with The Mind Flayer at Starcourt Mall. You were wearing brown, baggy overalls and your worn, faded sneakers that were white once upon a time. A grin the size of Jupiter was spread across your face—Jeongin can’t recall the last time you looked so happy—sitting on his bed while singing along to the lyrics.

“Which one is it, Jeongin!?”

“It’s right here! This one!”

“Hurry! Give it to me!” Jeongin hurriedly shoves the tape into Minho’s awaiting hands, watching in earnest as his oldest friend pops it into the Walkman. “Headphones, Jisung! Go, go, go!”

“Okay, okay!” Jisung practically shoves the headphones around your ears. “Now! Play it now!”

Minho hits play, turning the volume so high that Jeongin can hear the music through his own pants and heavy breathing. He chomps at his thumb while keeping his gaze trained to your face, awaiting the return of your bright irises. But that’s not what happens, and Jeongin can do nothing but stare in stunned fear as your body suddenly floats toward the sky, hanging suspended in the air like a lifeless doll. More tears expel from his eyes as he screams your name over and over, praying to some otherworldly force that you can hear him—wherever you are—calling for you to come back.

Gasps spill from your lips as you struggle against the rough, slimy tentacles wrapped bruisingly around your neck, ankles, and wrists. Vecna, in all his deformed and revolting glory, stands only a few feet away, watching your pathetic attempts to escape his grasp with cold eyes. Something tells you that he won’t let you get away so easily again, especially after evading him for as long as you did in the graveyard.

After encountering the hallucination of your deceased father, who you discovered to be Vecna himself, you found yourself literally running for your life, screaming and crying out Jeongin, Jisung, and Minho’s names like bloody murder. You managed to buy yourself a sliver of time upon entering the scarlet fog, and thus, entering some transcendent realm that Vecna calls his lair. But fate must have it out for you, considering you’re seconds away from your timely death.

As if taunting you, the tentacles tighten around your windpipe, making it even more difficult to breathe. Vecna leers closer and closer, and you can do nothing but stand there and pray for any sort of miracle to come your way. Almost like clock work, the lilt of your favorite songs suddenly echoes through the strange, crimson dimension. You watch in awe as a rift clears through the fog, revealing your friends all crowded closely around your body back in the graveyard. Jeongin is cupping your cheeks with tears decorating his cheeks, you notice first, and screaming words that tear into your heart like piercing darts:

“Wake up, (Y/N)! We need you—I need you! Come back to me!”

“They can’t help you, (Y/N),” Vecna murmurs. “You belong here. With me.”

“Go. To. Hell.” You punctuate between chokes, pulling and yanking even more desperately at your restraints.

“There’s no need to run anymore. Your suffering has come to an end. Goodbye, (Y/N).”

You watch in terror as his clawed fingers loom closer and closer. Between the gaps of the wrinkled appendages, you seek out your friends once more. They’ve all come to stand now, calling up to your body which has risen almost ten feet in the air. Something about how Jisung jumps to try to grab your feet, or how Minho repeats your name so desperately, or how Jeongin is crying harder than you have ever seen before this moment.

Memories suddenly flash before your eyes—watching The Breakfast Club with Chan every Wednesday night. Feeding the local strays with Minho. Attending one of Changbin’s football games and watching him score the winning point. Hyunjin teaching you how to paint. Laughing so hard at one of Jisung’s jokes that milk came shooting out of your nose. Baking brownies and all kinds of sweets with Felix. Finally beating Seungmin at chess after months and months of perpetual losses. Kissing Jeongin for the first time at the Homecoming dance. Countless nights spent at the arcade, the movie theater, even Changbin’s basement.

Each image containing their faces strengthens your desire to fight—to live. Jeongin’s voice once again plays through your mind—“I’m right here, okay? I’m here, (Y/N)...”—and it gives you the strength to open your eyes and reach forward, ripping a chunk of flesh from Vecna’s neck with no mercy. The tentacles immediately slide from your limbs at the distraction, providing you with the perfect moment to make a mad dash for the rift back to reality. You don’t look back, can’t look back really, barely paying any mind to the thick, mysterious liquid that stains your sneakers and the legs of your jeans, or the floating blockades of debris that surge into your path. All you know is you have to get back to your friends, to Jeongin most of all.

You’re not going to die today, you decide as the entire world fades to black.

The sky is a muted blue the next time you open your eyes. You feel yourself falling, a sensation that lasts only seconds, and then warm, familiar arms wrapped tight around your body, anchoring you to the ground as if you’ll start levitating again. You lean back into Jeongin’s embrace, barely able to hear Minho’s relieved sobs through your own hyperventilation. But with Jisung’s hand clutching your own and Jeongin’s slowing heartbeat in your ears, you’re able to ground yourself.

“It’s okay—I got you, (Y/N),” Jeongin whispers. “I… I thought I lost you…”

“I-I’m still here,” you answer, clutching his arms for dear life. “I’m still here. Just don’t let me go.”

“I won’t. Never again.” He pulls you further into his body and leans down to press his lips against your temple. “Never again, (Y/N).”

And for the first time in months, you remember what hope feels like.

#stray kids #stray kids x reader #stray kids imagines #stray kids au #stray kids angst #skz x reader #skz imagines #skz fanfic #skz angst #yang jeongin imagines #yang jeongin x reader #yang jeongin angst #yang jeongin au #kpop angst #kpop imagines #kpop au

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blifuys · 1 year

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in the slim chance i forget you are mine

pairing; reikao | 1.8k words | G

read this on ao3!

[tags: light angst, fluff, established relationship, christmas]

placing ribbons on each of the scenes my eyes picked out

i continue on my way home, collecting them like souvenirs

the seasons greeted me, i even picked up a few tears,

how should i begin to describe this way home you’ve given me?

—

“I think I might not be able to make it home before Christmas,” Kaoru’s voice crackles through the cold air of Rei’s dorm — filling the silence that his dorm mates have left him in. It is evident that Kaoru’s not alone. The bustling background hints to Rei that he’s probably between filming sessions, and that Rei shares his lover’s presence with a team of stylists and makeup artists fussing over flawless, tanned skin and soft golden strands of hair, “It depends, though? The snow is quite bad here, we might even need to delay my return until New Year’s.”

An imaginary weight tugs Rei’s lips even further down, and he silently sends his thanks to whatever cosmic ears are listening, that Shiratori-kun and Tenshouin-kun are not around to witness the growing pout spreading across his face. It's enough that this minor inconvenience has such a sway over him, but he cannot guarantee that anyone would leave the room alive, should they bear witness to the secret toddler that Rei's been housing in his body all along.

“But you promised,” He finds himself saying, almost akin to a petulant child being denied their favorite toy, “Kaoru-kun, you promised.”

“I did, I’m sorry, Rei-kun.” Kaoru's voice dips into an apologetic murmur over the line, a beautiful sound that never fails to crush Rei's immortal heart into ashes.

But Rei couldn’t place fault in Kaoru, nor did he want to. How could he hope to ever pass unfair judgment upon Kaoru like that? Kaoru, who toiled day and night for this little family they called a unit. Kaoru, who chose to accept this job halfway across the world, knowing it would bring great benefit to UNDEAD in a myriad of ways.

Kaoru, who actively and willingly made the choice to stay by Rei's side, both figuratively and literally; in heart, mind, and soul.

"It's okay, Kaoru-kun," Rei pulls the blanket around his supine form, letting the heavy fabric cocoon his slim body to safety. "Perhaps we could do something fun when you return, hm?"

What a shame, Rei thinks, as he eyes the mini Christmas tree gleefully glimmering in the corner. He remembers the very day it went up — Shiratori-kun, explaining the tradition his family cycles through every year without fail, every word being dragged out of his mouth like a single stare could accidentally send Tenshouin to his early grave.

"Tenshouin-senpai, are you sure you want to hear about me?" Shiratori-kun asked then, white-knuckled grip creasing the magazine in his hands. He's very certain that Shiratori was not paying attention then, and Rei is already amused at the way he's sure to react once he sees his precious idols crumpled beyond acceptable recognition, "I don't come from a rich family, so our traditions might be a little…"

"Nonsense," Tenshouin waved him off with an air of impatience, as if urging their shared roommate to carry on with his story, rather than stop to show respect befitting of a top idol, "What was that about the tree? You decorate them with lights?"

"Ah, yes, we do," Shiratori nodded slowly, eyes trained on Tenshouin, "We're not religious, but we've always liked Christmas. We would hang up trees in the living room and buy ornaments to go with."

"Do you decorate it together?"

"Yes, I think that's the best part about Christmas — getting together with your loved ones to enjoy the Christmas spirit together!"

The tree twinkles in the corner, the little star on top rotating slowly as it catches the warm glow of the room's ceiling lights.

"Rei-kun, are you okay?" Kaoru's voice breaks him out of his thoughts, and it makes the memory of him ache in his chest a little more, "Talk to me."

"Oh, Kaoru-kun, of course I am alright," Rei tightens the fabric cocoon around him, neatly tucking the folds under him as he stares up at the ceiling, only his arm free of his safe haven to hold up the phone pressed against his face, "This old man is happy to simply hear a voice as youthful as yours."

"Oh really? Then I suppose you're fine then," Where once laid concern was now replaced with mirth, knowing exactly what would push Rei's buttons. "And since you're fine, I can hang up now!"

Though Rei has a degree of pride—he does , thank you very much—nothing short of Herculean willpower could stop the whine that leaves him, the way his lips curl into a pout, while he wiggles his displeasure for no one's eyes to see.

"Kaoru- kun ," He begins, only to hear Kaoru laughing at him, the audacity! " Kaoru-kun. "

"Yes, Rei-kun? Use your words."

"You are such a meanie, I won't talk to you any more. Stupid, stupid, stuuuuupid !"

Kaoru's gentle laugh fills Rei's ears, soothing the ache from his heart like a mother's sweet song, as his tense frame relaxes. Though he was disappointed, Rei knows that Kaoru knows, and in their skirting around each other, he still knew how to assuage the longing, the pining—in the mastery that only Kaoru held over Rei.

Perhaps one day, they could say it directly, without the intricacies of offense and defense in play. One day they would look each other in the eye, and speak of the fatigue that weighs heavily in their souls. But for the time being, this is enough, and it is more than enough for Rei—who once swore no one would lay a finger on a monster such as he—to be held so tenderly like a jewel; to understand and be understood without the flourish of false promises.

"I love you," Rei suddenly says before he can catch himself, because there is no time better than now to show his hand, "I love you, Kaoru-kun."

"And I love you, Rei-kun,” Without hesitation, without a single pause, Kaoru bares his heart in a one-for-one exchange, just like they’ve always done, “More than I can ever say."

—

It is three minutes to midnight on a particularly cold Christmas eve that Rei’s phone rings; as the unit leader is three lines of lyrics away from a tantrum. Without looking at the caller, he shoves the device between his ear and his shoulder, as he silently pleads with his verse to just rhyme already—

“Rei-kun?”

Rei places his pen down and swivels his chair away from the desk, turning his focus to something actually worth his time.

“Kaoru-kun!” He says, as he notes the silence in the background, save for the other man’s faint footsteps, “Your schedule is finished for the day?”

“Something like that,” Kaoru hums in glee, in the way that tells Rei that the other man knows something that Rei doesn’t—that he has the upper hand, “I’m just heading back at the moment.”

“I see, to what do I owe the pleasure of the great Hakaze Kaoru’s phone call tonight?” Rei leans his chin on his knuckles, while shooting a quick glance at the clock hanging on the wall. 11:58pm , Rei would need to retire to bed soon if he wanted to wake up at a respectable, human-like time in the morning.

“Why, can I not call my partner?” Kaoru teases, “I thought you loved me, Rei-kun!”

“Love, what a youthful feeling. Would you permit an old geezer like me to indulge?” “Shut up.”

A laugh bursts forth from his chest, and Rei leans back in his seat, heart so full to the brim that he feels like he could implode. Though his partner could not physically be here with him, it meant the world for Kaoru to offer even the slightest bit of companionship, where his voice would act as a tether to keep Rei from spiraling too far down into abyssal loneliness in the dreadfully cold winter. Kaoru was summer, and the only sunlight that Rei could ever hope to reach; much less hold between his palms.

“What a romantic you are, Kaoru- kun ,” Rei playfully babbles, though the sound of a knock on his door echoes through his room—snapping him out of his momentary lapse in composure, “Oh, hang on a moment, there’s someone at the door.”

He pushes himself up from his chair, and he crosses the room to the door in one, two, three strides. With his phone held firmly in one hand, Rei pulls the door open, quickly addressing whoever was behind the door; impatience already urging him to pay his fullest attention to Kaoru.

“Yes, who is i—”

Standing before him is a tall man, with golden wheat for hair. His warm, light brown eyes are filled with mirth, as his tanned complexion tinges red—possibly from exposure to the cold, cold snow outside.

“Hello,” Kaoru says, “I’m here to deliver a gift to one Sakuma Rei-san?”

“K-Kaoru?”

“Santa-san has sent me, his little helper, to hand your Christmas gift to you,” His eyes twinkle as his hand reaches into his coat pocket, fumbling about, “And just in time too! I’m glad I made it.”

A quick twist of the arm and Kaoru’s holding a sprig of green above them both, verdant foliage bundled with a pretty red ribbon. In an instant, Rei recognises it for what it is, and he feels the rush of warm liquid pooling in his eyes, shocked and taken aback in the overwhelming giddiness of it all. Kaoru is home, a distant voice echoes in the rational part of his mind, a direct command cutting through the dazed fog of it all.

“Now, close your eyes, and—” Kaoru hums, leaning in cheekily, before he’s suddenly cut off with cold lips against his own, and thin arms circling his waist. He laughs, a simple warm huff, before he returns Rei’s embrace with a tight one of his own, tilting his head to let Rei’s lips slot better against his.

A push, a pull—Rei chases Kaoru’s lips, unwilling to let his partner escape into the cold winter breeze once more. He does not know how long they perform their dance, only when the heat starts to stick uncomfortably to their layers do they part for air.

“You cheeky brat,” Rei grins, leaning his forehead against Kaoru’s while his hands find their place on Kaoru’s hips, “You didn’t tell me that the snow let up?”

“Perhaps I am capable of some surprises too, Rei-kun,” His blonde lover grins, lopsided and cheeky, “After all, how could I catch up to the great Sakuma Rei if I don’t play some underhanded tactics of my own?”

“Not great,” Rei shakes his head, and he knows he’s not making any sense, but fuck it , it’s Christmas, “Yours.”

“Mine,” Kaoru repeats while he gazes into a scarlet stare, entranced with the pools of ruby that he’s made his home in, “My Rei-kun.”

#reikao #enstars #mine #hoo boy. first actual fic? huzzah! merry kaoreismas everyone #HOE HOE HOE!

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shipcestuous-two · 2 years

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Berenice, by Edgar Allan Poe (submission)

I wasn't planning on making thematic horror posts for Halloween month, it was just a coincidence that I picked Poe's Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque to write a review of The Fall of the House of Usher, and then decided to read the rest of the book. And I kept finding incest in it. However, Berenice is very explictily about cousin incest, which is out of the scope of my blog, so I'm going back to my roots and simply be submitting posts to Astrid (hope you don't mind lol).

As mentioned above, Berenice is part of Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque, a collection of short stories published in 1840. However, before that, Berenice had been published at Southern Literary Messenger magazine in 1835 (this version was deemed too 'violent' and Poe revised it for later publications). The original version can be found online for free here, and will be the one I'm using (there's little changes, but I thought it was best to go with the original).

The story is narrated by Egaeus, who comes from a rich and respected family. He and his cousin, Berenice, grew up together in their family house, but while he had a very fragile health, Berinice was always energetic. However, as they get older, Berenice develops epilepsy, which leaves her in long catatonic states (just like Madeline, from Usher). This illness also brings physical changes to Berenice, and she's no longer the beautiful woman she once was (quite like Morella, in Morella; these themes just keep repeating themselves). Despite this, Egaeus still asks her to marry him.

"Now I shuddered in her presence, and grew pale at her approach; yet, bitterly lamenting her fallen and desolate condition, I knew that she had loved me long, and, in an evil moment, I spoke to her of marriage."

One afternoon, as Berenice is visiting Egaeus in the library, he can't stop staring at her perfect teeth. Despite his best efforts, the teeth become all that he can think of. All of sudden, Berenice dies of an epilectip fit (yet another beautiful dead woman… Poe had a fixation on them!). He goes to see her body, and finds that she isn't quite dead yet (just like the narrator in Ligeia, who goes to visit his beloved and finds that she has transformed into his first dead wife, now not so dead anymore). She gives him one last smile, showing those pearly white teeth, before truly dying.

Egaeus, probably shocked by the experience, suffers a blackout and, when he comes to, he's in the library again, with an ebony box near him. A servant comes in and informs him that Berenice's grave has been broken into, and that her disfigured body had been found clinging to life near it. The servant points out that Egaeus' clothes are dirty and muddy, indicating that during his blackout he had been the one to vandalise Berenice's grave (which I guess was a good thing, because she was buried alive, much like Madeline). Egaeus drops the box and it opens, 32 perfect teeth spilling all over the floor (this is a bad thing, because it means he removed Berenice's teeth while she was alive… this is the true horror).

While cousin marriage was quite common at the time (Poe himself married his cousin), in this case, Berenice and Egaeus weren't simply cousins, they had been raised together, in the same house. We don't hear much about their childhood, but we are told that Berenice had this bubbly personality, and I can picture her constantly visiting Egaeus in the library and dragging him away from the books and out to the garden to play together. Her fate of death (and possibly rising from her tomb) is even more interesting when taken into consideration that, only in Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque, we already have other characters who did the same. Madeline comes back from her grave to bring her brother with her; Morella disappears from her tomb; Ligeia returns in the body of the dead Rowena.

Coincidently, all those tales have some incestuous undertones. What do I take from this? Their incestuous love is forbidden, deemed wrong by society (what is represented by death), but they love each other too much to simply let it go and, just like returning from the grave after death, our incestuous lovers in Poe's stories always fidn a way back together. Okay, fine, maybe this is not the point. But let's pretend it is.

#submission #asks #nr #ivesblosson #berenice #edgar allen poe #first cousins #canon #first post #berenice and egaeus #tales of the grotesque and arabesque #THANK YOU FOR THIS!#WONDERFUL!

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wavernot4love · 10 months

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hi hello pinned post time (finally)!!!??

welcome!!!

basic about me stuff: you can call me nat, n, natalie, or any of my online monikers like wavernot4love (i tend to refer to myself using the latter ,,,), they he, 23, upstate ny. big scene guy first. i am generally traveling around the northeast 4 live music, & i draw stuff n take pictures and sometimes i post that stuff!!!

five songs i've been spinning lately (i'll keep this updated):

music i mostly post about:

bands - ls dunes, my chemical romance, fall out boy, ag's projects, thursday, idkhow, twenty one pilots, pierce the veil, midtown, blink-182

albums - past lives, bullets, revenge, danger days, take this to your grave, from under the cork tree, so much (for) stardust, boom. done., blue sky noise, war all the time, razzmatazz, regional at best, vessel, trench, selfish machines, misadventures

genres - post hardcore n pop punk (especially 2000s or related (like dunes!) stuff)

other favorite music i just don't post here as much:

bands - bring me the horizon, coheed and cambria, all time low, turnstile, knuckle puck, movements, hail the sun, neck deep, paramore, origami angel, panic! at the disco, sleeping with sirens, the starting line, knocked loose, the maine, death cab for cutie, the story so far, spitalfield, never shout never, jimmy eat world, incendiary, boston manor, city and colour, spiritbox, motion city soundtrack, drain, blessthefall, pup, andrew mcmahon in the wilderness/soco/jack's mannequin, trophy eyes, green day, senses fail, one step closer, taking back sunday

music (mostly) apart from the "scene:" daryl hall & john oates, the guess who, styx, the doors, queen, matchbox twenty, third eye blind, the killers, joywave, the wombats

genres - hardcore, metalcore, emo, that breed of indie folky emoey stuff you might associate with bright eyes or city and colour and the like, 2010s pop punk

interests (besides specific bands albums etc) i am always down 2 chat about: warped + general pop punk/post hardcore/hardcore/metalcore scene lore, far out/proggy/straight up strange post hardcore (!), music influenced by other subgenres (hardcore influenced pop punk etc), traveling 4 shows, mixed bill shows, scene fests, surfing & moshing!, writing/talking music stuff, physical media like cds n magazines, photography stuff (specifically live music stuff), nature, traveling around the northeast (my home!!), long road trips, silly comedies (special props if they are from the 80s/90s) ((extra special props if they are in fact medieval comedies)), 50s/60s thrillers & horror movies, kirby, spongebob, gurren lagann, cowboy bebop, sword art online alicization, death note, the walking dead, the umbrella academy, supernatural, lost, the twilight zone

random stuff i just find not chill & don't wanna see + stuff you won't see from me on here (idk dawg): going to shows & disregarding scene culture (treating opening bands badly, not picking folks up etc), being mean/cliquey, the whole peak twitter kinda ethos i guess of getting mad at/overanalyzing/taking down folks over everything w/o looking into a full situation or looking @ things rationally, sexualizing + shipping real people like bands beyond their boundaries, overall just being weird about bands like they're ethereal beings instead of Some Guys (gender neutral), basically "celebrity" culture as that only really harms both bands and fans & has no place in the scene, that kinda stuff.

random extra wavernot4love lore: i grew up going 2 shows & fests like warped in the mid 2010s scene, starting when i was 13 (sup, monumentour darien). sws, ptv, mcr, & fob were the first bands i ever really loved. i grew up on a LOT of 2010s pop punk , but over the past year & a half or so have been diving into the 2000s scene, especially in terms of post hardcore, much deeper than i had before!

i travel as much as i can for shows, oftentimes for the past year & a half or so, solo (i've grown a lot more confident in that & would always rec it over missing out as long as you take precautions! feel free 2 ask for tips)!!!

always trying to make the scene an even bigger part of my life, like through art/design + live music photography + music journalism stuff. also really wanna work on learning proper vocal technique!! i wanna yell about my feelings!!!

always here to talk music, or be a friendly face if we're ever at the same show, just consider me a universal friend of the scene (that's certainly my experience at shows). always feel free 2 interact w my posts/become mutuals/hit me up!!

some tags i use: #dunesposting #fobposting #mcr posting #idkhowposting #ptvposting #post hardcore #wavernot4love talks ag tunes #wavernot4lovetalksmusic #wavernot4love gets to the gig #photo stuff #art stuff

upcoming shows:

4.11 - thursday albany?

4.16 - movements rochester

5.11 - the maine syracuse?

6.16 - a day to remember, the story so far buffalo?

6.22 - motion city soundtrack buffalo?

6.25 - the early november, spitalfield buffalo?

7.6 - born and raised (alexisonfire, the used, counterparts)?

7.27 - taking back sunday, better lovers, citizen buffalo?

8.6 - sad summer (the maine, mayday parade, real friends, knuckle puck, we the kings, the wonder years) buffalo

8.9 coheed buffalo?

8.15 - one more time tour (blink-182/pierce the veil) toronto?

8.24 - all your friends fest (fall out boy, jimmy eat world, dashboard confessional, the maine)?

9.17 - clancy tour (twenty one pilots) newark?

9.28 - clancy tour (twenty one pilots) cleveland

shows we might have both been at: monumentour darien, entertainment rochester, night heat rochester, bandito buffalo + university park, razzmatazzmatour buffalo, thought reform syracuse, icy cleveland, swarm toronto1 + nj2, dunes toronto, adjacent fest, dunes toronto23, dunes millvale/pittsburgh, tourdust toronto + darien + camden, thursday syracuse '23, tjol reading, war all the time buffalo, boom done buffalo, 2ourdust albany, gloomtown rochester + buffalo

yippee!!!

#wavernot4lovetalksmusic

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7r0773r · 11 months

Text

Montano’s Malady by Enrique Vila-Matas, translated by Jonathan Dunne

Perhaps this is what literature is, the invention of another life that could well be our own, the invention of a double. Ricardo Piglia says that to recall with a memory that is not our own is a variant of the double, but it is also a perfect metaphor for literary experience.

Having quoted Piglia, I observe that I live surrounded by quotations from books and authors. I am literature-sick. If I carry on like this, literature could end up swallowing me, like a doll in a whirlpool, causing me to lose my bearings in its limitless regions. I find literature more and more stifling, at the age of fifty it frightens me to think that my destiny is to turn into a walking dictionary of quotations. (p. 4)

***

Every day in Barcelona became horrible, very morbid. I would cry in my sleep and then wake up and tell Rosa that it was nothing, really, Rosa, just a dream or something like that, nothing, Rosa. But it was not a dream or even a nightmare, it was a mournful voice, I knew this very well, a voice that even at night prowled about me and told me that I was going to die and that I didn't have long to live. I would wake up in the night and tell Rosa that it was nothing, just a dream, but shortly thereafter I would go to the kitchen to have a drink. Rosa would follow me to the kitchen and, as soon as she caught me with a bottle of something, she would tell me that I was in a very bad way, that it would even be better for me to start writing reviews again and to think about literature, or else to travel, yes, to travel to a faraway country, I needed it. And I would stand there, openmouthed and sad, staring silently at the kitchen calendar. (p. 23)

***

I slept almost all the hours of the outward journey to Chile. The few moments I spent awake between one sleeping pill and the next were criminal. I could only think to flip through the in-flight magazine, where I came across some verses by Pablo Neruda, perfect for reminding me that death and literature existed: "There are lonely cemeteries, / graves full of bones without sound, / the heart passing through a tunnel, / dark, dark, dark, / as in a shipwreck we die from within ...” (p. 25)

***

"You destroy everything you love!" she exclaimed suddenly. I hadn't expected her to get heated up quite so soon. "I love my children and I haven't destroyed them," I answered jokingly, I really had not intended to pick a serious fight. "What children? Don't bring Montano into this, you've done him enough damage already, stuffing literature into the poor boy, he speaks in book—do you know what it means to speak in book?" I stopped and thought for a few seconds and, before I explained that I had planned the fight only for this diary and we would do well to continue the idvllic state in which we had been living since my return from Chile, replied (not wanting her to believe that a literary critic of my stature was incapable of answering her question), "To speak in book means to read the world as if it were the continuation of a never-ending text." (p. 33)

***

The story opens with a quotation from Macedonio Fernández with which my son presumably wishes to comment ironically on the lifting of his writer's block: "‘Everything has been written, everything has been said, everything has been done,’ God heard someone telling him when he had yet to create the world, when there still wasn't anything. ‘Someone already told me that,’ he rejoined perhaps from the old, cleft Void. And he began.” (p. 45)

***

I wonder how I can have been so stupid, believing for so long that I must eradicate my Montano's malady, when it is the only worthwhile and truly comfortable possession I have. I also wonder why I should apologize for being so literary if, in the final outcome, only literature could save the spirit in an age as deplorable as ours. My life should be, once and for all, purely and only literature. (p. 144)

***

DECEMBER 25 OR LE RICORDANZE

The memories of various lay anniversaries dance today.

On such a day, forty-five years ago, in 1956, Robert Walser died. After lunch at the sanatorium, he decided to go for a hike in the snow, to climb to Rosenberg, where there are some ruins. From the top there was a wonderful view over the mountains of Alpstein. The hour was soothing, it was midday, and outside there was snow, pure snow, as far as the eye could see. The solitary hiker set out and began to fill his lungs with the clear winter air. He left Herisau Sanatorium behind. He climbed through beeches and firs up the side of Schochenberg. Two children found him where he dropped down dead in the snow, in perpetual ecstasy over the Swiss winter.

Walser, or the art of disappearing.

In one of his novels, The Tanner Siblings, there are some lines that presage his own death in the snow; in the mouth of one character he places an elegy to Sebastian, the poet found dead in the snow. "With what nobility he has chosen his tomb! He lies among splendid green firs covered in snow. I don't want to inform anyone. Nature bends down to contemplate her deceased, the stars sing softly around his head and the night birds caw: it is the best music for someone who cannot hear or feel."

Walser, or the art of disappearing at Christmas, of knowing how on such a sentimental date to leave the writing room, the room of phantoms.

On such a day, thirty-nine years ago, on December 25, 1962, the Great Snowfall took place over Barcelona. It is one of the most important memories of my early years. That morning the patio of my parents' home appeared covered in snow and I couldn't believe it. To start with, I thought it was part of my mother's Christmas decorations. I remember that December 25th very well. Me with a scarf inside the house, listening to my mother say that for a city like Barcelona, so abandoned by the hand of God, it was a blessing that, even if it was only the once, He should have remembered us and brought us snow on the most appropriate day, Christmas Day, with divine punctuality.

For me, Christmas Day will always be the day of the Great snowfall. Wrapped in two jerseys and a scarf inside the house, I switched on the radio and suddenly we heard a message of peace and Christmas goodwill from Salvador Dalí, a few emotional words from the Ampurdán painter telling us that, from that day on, he planned to orient all his life toward Franco's Spain and the family: "Isabella the Catholic, consecrated hosts, melons, rosaries, truculent indigestion, bullfights, Calanda drums and Ampurdán sardines. To sum up: my life must be oriented toward Spain and the family."

We listened to that message in respectful silence mixed with some astonishment. The snow fell stealthily on the patio outside, as at the beginning of a Christmas tale.

"Dalí's turned into one of us," said my father.

On such a day, forty-five years ago, in 1956, W. G. Sebald's grandfather died, having gone out for a walk in the snow and collapsed on top of it at almost exactly the same time as another walker, Robert Walser, was also struck down on the snow, in a similar landscape.

Two dead for a single Christmas Day.

Eleven days ago, last Friday, December 14th, the writer W. G. Sebald died while out driving. He always seemed to have just emerged from another age: a slightly ancient man who, in sight of solitary landscapes, came across traces of a past in ruins that referred him to the wholeness of the world.

I am seated next to the Christmas tree in my home, and I remember the Great Snowfall of my childhood and that speech by Dalí, and I begin to listen to Vittorio Gassman reciting Leopardi's Le ricordanze, and I let the memories, mine and others', invade me, and I tell myself that without them and without those memories’ ruins, without memory, life would be even more distressing, though it may be even more distressing to realize that the more our memory grows, the more our death grows. Because man is just a machine for remembering and forgetting, heading for death. And I don't say this with sadness because it's also true that memory, disguised as life, turns death into something subtle and tenuous.

The memories dance for me and I adhere to the indispensable fabric of my memory and my identity—in this case, that reached with my double odyssey—and I tell myself that I am somebody only because I remember, which is to say that I am because I remember; I am the one memory has always helped, preventing him from falling into absolute distress, has helped during years with flashes and luminous sparks in which every day, in a ray of sun, charming and tragic, the tragic dust of time has danced for me.

There are two of me. I have a double odyssey's identity. One is lurking in the Chinese wall and the other, more Christmassy and sedentary, listens to Gassman at home: “Viene il vento recando il suon dell'ora / dalla torre del borgo. . ."

The detective's patience to trap a memory can verge on the ridiculous. One is satisfied with a cake dunked in tea; another, with a drop of perfume at the bottom of an empty bottle; another, with il suon dell'ora, a peal of bells swept by the wind from the village tower. Tastes, minimal smells, sounds of the past. I'm ashamed to say so, because it's not very poetic, shall we say, but this is how it is and I can't change it: my dunked cake, my drop of perfume, my music of the wind is a prosaic and vulgar mouthful—as brief as childhood—of a Catalan beverage called Cacaolat, a mixture of milk and cocoa that I used to drink daily during morning break at school.

I only have to taste that beverage for the memories to return. But this word, Cacaolat, could not be more ridiculous and less poetic, which may explain why I have spent half my life hating writers who work with their memories, and instead defending those who without the dead weight of memories are in a position to reach their maturity more quickly. I have spent half my life defending those writers who do not live off the rents of the past, and who can demonstrate an up-to-date imagination, an imagination capable of inventing out of the present, out of nothingness itself.

Half a life boasting of finding hardly anything in my tedious childhood, just a scarf, a patio covered in snow, and not much else. Half a life congratulating myself on never having had to resort to childhood to be able to write, congratulating myself on not becoming emotional when I examined a situation from my early years. And yet all this suddenly collapsed a few months ago in Barcelona's Rovira Square, the approximate geographical center of my childhood; it collapsed when I visited this square recently to witness the filming of a sequence from Shanghai Nights, Juan Marsé's novel that Fernando Trueba was making into a film. The set designers had turned Rovira Square into what it was fifty years before. It was as if I had pressed the time machine's exact switch. Suddenly everything was the same as fifty years ago; even the posters for the double bill showing at the long-since-disappeared Rovira Cinema were the same; even the atmosphere of the air in the square struck me as identical to that of fifty years ago. I immediately understood—as when took LSD in my formative years—that Time does not exist, everything is present.

I cried, I could not hold back the tears. I cried before the unexpected return of the past. Something very similar occurs in a passage from Sebald's Vertigo. The narrator of "All'estero," a chapter in that book, travels with a friend, Clara, who succumbs to the temptation to enter the school she had been to as a child: "In one of the classrooms, the very one where she had been taught in the early 1950s, the selfsame schoolmistress was still teaching, almost thirty years later, her voice quite unchanged—still warning the children to keep at their work, as she had done then [. . .] Alone in the entrance hall, surrounded by closed doors that had seemed at one time like mighty portals, Clara was overcome by tears [. . .]. We returned to her grandmother's flat in Ottakring, and neither on the way there nor that entire evening did she regain her composure following this unexpected encounter with her past."

Here Sebald seems to be telling us that the past, all past, is still happening, surfacing, is there, doing its own thing. Without handing out a calling card or needing us to invoke it, the past, our past, is happening in the present. It's thrilling, it's terrifying. It reminds me of Emily Dickinson begging the Lord not to leave her alone down here. I believe that she sensed that we are completely alone, without anybody, in a world that is only a dark basement, where we may have been put for good. (pp. 209-13)

***

What I do remember is that I spent the whole of the outward journey to Cuenca wondering whether I should go to Matz Peak at the beginning of June to read excerpts from this diary in the open air at midnight and experience the "mountain spirit." It is, no doubt, an extravagant invitation, which has obsessed me for some time now. I can't help it. I see myself there alone, in shorts, the only foreigner surrounded by German-language writers, not understanding a word anybody says, after a journey by airplane, train, bus, and cable car. I'm sure that, if I end up going to Matz Peak, everything will be so odd, so novelesque that, on my return, I shall be able to write a fair few things about what happened to me up there. But I have one doubt. Is it worth undertaking such a long journey just to come back and relate the interminable series of strange experiences I'll have had? What if I stay at home and simply imagine them? Do I not trust in my own imagination? Must I travel so far in pursuit of real events when those I imagine on Matz Peak are bound to be superior? Or do I think that what I'll find on that peak is beyond my powers of imagination? I would love to be surprised by events, but what if I climb the peak and everything there is bland, outrageously normal: a handful of nuts in Tyrolese costume reading their rubbish at midnight in front of a few tents and seeking the mountain spirit inside a circle of torches? What if it turns out that the dull drone of the washing machine I am carefully listening to now is actually much more odd, normal, or stupid? (p. 220)

***

Every year's the same at around this time. The number of illiterates in this country is on the increase, but this seems to be unimportant, there are more and more Book Days and it's up to me to explain why we have to read. Yesterday, on the radio, I was invited to explain to listeners in two seconds why they should be encouraged to read. For them literally to be encouraged, I replied. I was going to add: and at the same time to achieve the spirit’s salvation, Musil’s ideal. I didn’t say this, it struck me as excessive and also I'd have overstepped the two-second limit.

I am no longer so rigidly literature-sick. Or, rather, I begin not to understand why I must advocate reading. Let every illiterate in this country do what he wants, of course. Besides, I hate virtually the whole of humanity and I spend the day planting mental bombs against all those businessmen who publish books, those departmental managers, market directors on the wire, and economics graduates. I plant mental bombs against them and against their disciplined followers and the rest of the world in general. So I wonder why I should lend them a hand and recommend that they read books if I only wish them ill, if I only want their stupidity to grow and for them to crash, once and for all, as they travel on the train of ignorance that we all pay for, but that one day they will pay a high price for, falling into the bottomless pit of failure, taking themselves elsewhere, into a different industry. What's more, I loathe them so much that I'd be delighted if they were obliged to read, if a perfidious decree appeared from somewhere, a drastic order to become acquainted with books, and suddenly this country's cities turned into libraries of forced, chaotic, daft intellectual activity. (pp. 220-21)

***

Preciselv because literature enables us to understand life, it tells us what can be, but also what could have been. There is nothing sometimes farther away from reality than literature, which is constantly reminding us that life is like this and the world has been organized like that, but it could be otherwise. There is nothing more subversive than literature, which aims to return us to true life by exposing what real life and History smother. Magris knows this very well, he is deeply interested in what could have been, had History or human life taken another course. Anyone who's interested in this is interested in reading. This is not advocacy. After all, there are times—like now—when I wouldn't recommend reading even to Pico's moles, even to my worst enemies. (pp. 222-23)

#enrique vila-matas #book quotes

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