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sabraeal · 2 years

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If the Mind Is Willing, Chapter 1

[Read on AO3]

Written for @bubblesthemonsterartist, my partner in crime, for her birthday. Joanna likes to ask me for only the most niche concepts with which to delight herself and she certainly topped herself with this one, conceptually. I hope you enjoy the thing only you could ask for and the thing only I could write

With two minutes left on the gymnasium clock, Chizuru stumbles out from behind her desk and hands over her most important accomplishment of the past three months: her last exam. Of fall semester, at least.

It’s Sakai who’s sitting in the proctor’s seat when she approaches; of Matsumoto’s two TAs this semester, he was certainly the favorite, and Chizuru doubts it’s for his rather extensive collection of cozy-looking sweaters. Touchable, she’s heard some of the other girls giggle behind her in lecture, and today he looks it, the sweep of his bangs falling gently over his forehead and his cable knit almost certainly made from the world’s softest sheep. It’s just slightly too big for him, a size that would be down to her knees if she wore it, cuffs pushed all the way up to her elbows just to see her hand.

On Sakai, it sits just an inch past his wrist. She notices it when he reaches out, his smile warm as he says, “Congratulations. You’ve passed Biology 100.”

“Oh!” Her fingers pluck at her messenger strap hard enough to make music. “I don’t know if we can say that! There were quite a few questions I really had to think about.”

Sakai is too earnest to be wry, but he comes close with the way his mouth curves. “If you say so.” Her exam settles onto the top of the stack, pleasantly square with the papers beneath it. “You certainly took more care with your answers than most of these-- I mean, your classmates.”

Chizuru blinks. “What do you--?”

Her gaze sweeps out over her shoulder, spanning the gym-- the suddenly very empty gym-- and all she can manage is, “Oh.”

It’s late, she realizes, the night sitting soft against the widows. It’s faded in places, diffused by the ambient light, like crushed velvet in an old jewelry box, worn away where silver once sat. Snow tumbles past in big, chunky flakes, the kind that melt against the pavement up until they don’t, and--

“Oh no,” she murmurs, every hair on end. “The bus.”

“Still running,” Sakai confirms, chair scraping out from underneath him. “It’s just for show right now, but it’s supposed to get heavy later tonight. We’re in for a White Christmas, I guess.”

There’s a proper way to leave the gym, one that leads out to one of the campus’s many quads and also a ten minute dead sprint to the nearest bus stop. But someone’s propped open the emergency exit, its alarm off-- that has to be a violation of some kind, the sort the school would get itself fined for if a fire marshal saw-- and that’s the opening Chizuru takes, if only because there’s a stop right there, at the bottom of the stairs.

Chizuru’s for the rules just as much as anyone, but still-- she has a limit. It’s already a long bus ride to the house, and if she doesn’t catch the next one she’ll have an even longer walk back, not only in the dark but in the snow. Her father may have prepared her for a world of dangers, but no self-defense class could fend off hypothermia.

The air has a bite when she steps out onto the concrete stairs; it hadn’t crossed her mind to check the weather before she rushed out this afternoon, but if she had, she would have at least brought a jacket. As it is, she shrugs her sweater up around her ears, cowl neck covering what her hair doesn’t. It doesn’t do anything for her hands, and oh, they’re already cracked enough from an endless parade of labs and latex gloves. That last thing they need is to get chapped as well, but here she is, exposing them to the elements as her breath mists in the cold.

There’s a car idling on the street; black and boxy in the way that says expensive rather than vintage. That would be as far as her opinions go on the matter, except that it’s idling right where the 9 should be pulling up in the next two minutes. It’s cold, her hands are freezing, and although Chizuru believes in peaceful solutions, she’s just about ready to march up to that beast of a sedan and cite as much of the moving violations section from her Driver’s Ed manual as she can remember. She got in at least a few months of good study before she flunked her test, she could probably remember the choicest bits if she got her back up enough.

It’s an effort to overcome the inertia of politeness to be rude, but even as the voice in the back of her head tells her that this would make her a bad girl, that father would be so disappointed, there’s another that’s telling her: they started it! If they didn’t want to be told about the penalty for idling in a loading zone, then perhaps they shouldn’t have parked there!

And there is yet a third voice, one that may be quieter, a murmur beneath the others, and it says: maybe they’ll have gloves in there. She’d forgive any crime if it meant her hands could be warm; if someone handed her even the thinnest pair, she would probably kiss--

“Here.” Leather slaps against her arm, the sound dampened by the thick knit of her sweater. “It wouldn’t do for my wife’s hands to get cold.”

--Ah. Never mind.

Kazama stares down at her, impassively impatient as always, as if she is eternally one step behind his demands and he’s too polite to mention it. Chizuru stifles a sigh, offering him her most perfunctory smile instead.

“That’s very kind of you, Chikage.” She holds out her hand, gently pushing his out of her orbit. “But I couldn’t possibly accept! Not when you’d only get cold instead.”

“Tch. As if these would fit my hands.” He gives them an emphatic shake, and she can see now-- they’re small. Much smaller than his giant hands, both of them already covered with supple, skin-hugging leather. No, these are ladies’ gloves, a matching pair to his own, just a shade or two lighter. “These were made for you.”

Well, it would be rude not to take them now, wouldn’t it? “Ah...thank you.”

It’s not until she slides them on that she feels the silk inside them, skimming over her skin as tight as a stocking. When her fingers bend, there’s not even a hesitation; each one articulates as if there was nothing more than air around them. These must have cost a fortune, she doesn’t say, if only to cut off one of his avenues to ruin this, but still--

“They are made to fit your exact dimensions,” Kazama tells her, too satisfied with himself. “I had Amagiri measure your hands the last time you fell asleep at the library.”

Ah, there is it. The explanation that could turn silk scummy against her skin. “I’m sorry?”

Kazama takes one swaggering step down the stairs, and oh, it’s far too late to protest. “Get in the car, wife, the jet is waiting for us on the runway.”

Chizuru blinks. She knows all those words, she does, but the order he’s put them in-- “E-excuse me?”

“You’re coming home with me.” It’s not a question. “For the holidays, of course. My parents are eager to meet their new daughter-in-law.”

We’re not married sits at the tip of her tongue, but there’s no point, not with Kazama. Accepting a gift was the entry fee to this fantasy, and it’s clear by the way he holds his hand out to her, snow falling around him, that he means to take it as far as she’ll let him.

“Chikage, I really don’t think--”

“Give me a break.” A shadow drops down right between them, slapping his arm away. “You really don’t know when to quit, do you kid?”

All of Kazama’s self-satisfaction curdles, turning his smile to a sneer. “How many times have I told you, old man? I am not a child, you cannot simply refer to me as a kid--”

“If you’re still young enough to live off your parents’ money,” Hijikata grouses, straightening the rumpled lines of his jacket. “Then you’re still a kid.”

His chin tilts, imperious. “I have my own money. It’s simply held in trust, which I will receive when I ma--”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” One hand flaps, waving him off; a distraction for the way the other tucks itself around her elbow, steering her toward the stairs. “The point stands. Now if you don’t mind, I’ll be taking Miss Yukimura home.”

“I do mind--”

“It was rhetorical,” Hijikata informs him, his grip urging her to stumble after him. “I don’t actually care.”

“Professor--” her feet tangle beneath her, tripping over little more than a crease between concrete slabs-- “wait, just let me--”

“Keep walking,” he mutters, picking up his pace. It had already been punishing before, her own legs too short to keep up with his, but not his step is worth every two of hers, and she practically has to jog to keep from being dragged across the sidewalk. “Look like you have a purpose. We don’t want to be anywhere near here when that idiot finally--”

“This is kidnapping,” Kazama decides, his words echoing over the empty street. “You are kidnapping my wife. I could call the police if I wanted!”

A curse hisses between the professor’s teeth, too soft for her to catch more than a syllable over their steps. It’s the only warning she has before he stops dead on the sidewalk, and it’s not nearly enough to draw up short, not before she stumbles over him, right into his back.

It’s impossible to miss the way his breath huffs out of him, hearing through his ribs that it’s not in humor but in resignation. “The sad thing is, they’d probably listen to him too, the rich bastard.”

Her head lifts from his coat, staring up at the knife’s edge of his shoulders. “Professor?”

“Listen, Yukimura--” she’s not silly enough to ask him where the Miss has gone, not when he turns, fixing all of his searing attention squarely on her-- “do you consent to me taking you away from this son of a bitch?”

His voice is pitched to be heard, the same way he does in lecture, trying to provoke a response, and oh, does Kazama give him one. His growl splits the night, voice rising to shout, “What did you say, you department store has-been?”

She balks. “I r-really don’t think we need to resort to name-calling, Professor--”

“Chizuru.” The sound of her name stops her as thoroughly as his glare. “Do you want to get out of here or not?”

“Ah...” She glances back to where Kazama stands, stomping in the snow. “N-no. I mean, yes. I’d like to go home.”

“Hear that?” Hijikata calls over his shoulder. “She says ‘go fuck yourself.’“

Her jaw drops. “But I didn’t--”

“This is why you can’t break a B in my class,” he grumbles, hauling her toward the faculty lot. “You don’t have any sense of imagination.”

“Don’t think this is over--”

Hijikata spares him the bird, flipped right over his shoulder. “Happy holidays, you miserable piece of shit.”

“Professor, please, we don’t have to-- oh.”

Amagiri does not so much stand up as appear, his suit camouflaged against the sedan’s black sheen. There’s not much that could slow Hijikata when he’s got a purpose, but this stutters him nearly to a halt, his gaze scraping over the pavement, and up, up until he meets the dispassionate gaze of the Kazama family bodyguard.

His breath mists into the air, roiling like smoke from a dragon’s snout. “Professor.”

Hijikata doesn’t shrink beneath that shadow, but his grip does tighten on her wrist. “Mr Amagiri.”

This mountain of flesh and bone shifts, his weight settling evenly on his feet, and there is not a day where Chizuru is not aware of how fast this man could be, should he be moved to action, not a moment where she doesn’t remember how quickly he’s able to insinuate himself between his charge and danger. But today, he moves at a geologic scale, his chin tilting down by inches until it rests against his chest, back bowed with respect. “Merry Christmas.”

It’s some consolation that Hijikata looks just as surprised as she is; his eyes wide and wary beneath his furrowed brow.

“Sure, yeah.” His head dips in a quick nod, not rushed or rude but simply...confused. “Happy Holidays to you too.”

Amagiri’s mouth pulls, one side a little higher than the other, and he steps aside. “Have a nice holiday, Miss Yukimura.”

“Thank you,” she murmurs. “I hope you also--”

“Alright,” Hijikata sighs, and with a firm yank, pulls her away. “That’s enough playing nice for one night.”

Chizuru is hardly an expert on automotive vehicles; Father only ever had the one, though he’d traded it in for the newest model every few years in a process as arcane as any medical textbook, and so long as it worked, that was as far as her concern ever extended. But even so, she does know this: Hijikata’s car cannot be worth the money he paid for it. Unless he actually bought it in the year it was made, which, she suspects, is not too distant from the one where she was born.

“You have a gift, Yukimura,” he mumbles, cranking the heat up to its highest setting. “And it’s attracting assholes.”

Frigid air blasts out of the vents, colder than even the outside, and she bites back a flinch. “I don’t think that’s quite fair, Professor.”

He huffs, the sound preserved in steam. “Really.”

“Really. After all, I found you--” ah, there’s no point in turning on the radiator if her cheeks are going to heat the whole cabin themselves-- “a-and if that hadn’t happened, w-well...”

She wouldn’t have anywhere to live, for one. No work study either, to cover what her scholarships couldn’t. And a dozen other things she can think of right off the top of her head, each more heartfelt and mortifying than the last, and now seems like an absolutely terrible time to have a heart-to-heart about how much he means to her. Even if there are only two more sleeps until Christmas.

His laughs saws into her silence, filling the space she can never quite close. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m including myself in the count.”

You shouldn’t. That’s what she wants to say-- what she should say-- but even thinking it makes her hands tremble, an inch too close to earnest. It’s fine to be thankful, but it would take a girl with more backbone than her to to tell a teacher that he-- that she--

“Speaking of--” Hijikata twists on the driver’s side to look at her, seat belt pulling tight across his chest-- “how is the house? You’re settling in fine? No one’s giving you shit, are they?”

It’s a little late to be inquiring about settling in-- it’s been months since her ill-advised attempt at deception, and his generous decision to allow her to stay. And yet her cheeks tingle so acutely she wonders if it’s possible to get a burn from blushing. Or at least some sort of permanent damage, maybe to the capillaries. Vessels that small are delicate, and she--

Ah, and she isn’t answering the question. “N-no, not at all! I mean, just fine. No wait! I’m settling in just fine, and no one’s, er...”

“Alright, alright, Yukimura,” he groans, flapping a hand at her. “Don’t hurt yourself. I’m sure the place is home sweet home by now. But living with that bunch of slobs isn’t bothering you?”

“Oh, no!” Her fingers curl around the center console, too timid to curl into his sleeve. “Everyone’s been very kind.”

His forehead crumples up in confusion. “Really? Those guys?”

“Y-yes! Of course.” Most of them, at least. Some have taken some...getting used to on her part. But Hijikata doesn’t need to hear that. “And I would just like to say that I’m so grateful you let me stay, even if I wasn’t, er--” a boy-- “what you were looking for.”

It’s an experience being on the receiving side of one of Hijikata’s stares. The intensity of it is a solid weight upon her neck, but she doesn’t bow, not an inch; instead she lifts her chin, meeting him halfway.

He must see something in her, some grain of truth, since he simply shakes his head, eyes narrowing before they slide to the windshield. “Well, I’m glad to hear it. But if any of them give you any trouble, make sure to let me know. I’ll take care of it.”

“Oh!” There must be something in her eye, a piece of sand or dust, or-- or something, since there’s no reason for them to tear, no reason for her tights to blur where she’s fixed her gaze to them. “I-I’m sure that won’t be a problem, Professor.”

“Really, don’t hesitate.” When she dares to look up, his mouth is hooked into a smirk, angled somewhere out the window. “You’d be doing me a favor. I’m dying for a reason to kick Souji out.”

The house is dark when Hijikata pulls his car, coughing, up to the curb. It’s strange; she’s not used to seeing it so quiet, so still. There’s never been a night since she walked through its doors that there hasn’t been some window lit up, some music blaring despite who else might be trying to make an early morning lab.

And yet tonight it’s as if the house itself is asleep, its energy emptied as thoroughly as its occupants.

Hijikata squints out her window, leaning over the center console until the space between them could be measured in atoms. Chizuru plasters herself to the passenger seat, but she’s still too close, the astringent tang of his shampoo both refreshing and overpowering at once.

“Hm,” he grunts, sitting back with a frown. “You sure you’ll be alright? I can always hang around if--”

“I-I’ll be fine.” Certainly better than she would be if she had to sit on the couch Shinpachi so proudly informed her came from a curb, making small talk with her professor like they were peers. “Most of the boys have gone home for the holidays, but Souji and Harada are still here. I’m sure they’re just--” sleeping is at the tip of her tongue, but it’s an unlikely option at best-- “out?”

His mouth pulls tight, a grim line for such a handsome face. Still, she’d be lying if she said he didn’t wear it well. “You have my number, don’t you?”

“I do.” For emergencies, though it’s more likely that she’d die in the event of one rather than use it. Every time she even considers calling him to fix the stove or get a plumber, she thinks about him possibly being in-- in pajamas. Being tucked into bed with his favorite book, reading glasses perched on his nose, and then hearing her call. To think Hijikata might unfurl himself from his mattress and come over-- Chizuru would never survive it.

“You’ll call me, right?” Her heart leaps at the gravel in his voice, in the concern he fixes her with when she dares to meet his eyes. “If anything happens, anything at all...?”

Chizuru hates to admit it, but smiling the way she does, so wide and bright people tell her it could power cities...it’s an effort. She can spend as long as she likes in front of the mirror, practicing her positive affirmations, and try to keep her thoughts bent to the brighter side no matter what misfortune rains on her day, but it’s true: it’s impossible to be all happy, all the time. She’s simply...good at pretending. Her smiles may not all come naturally, but they do come from the heart, and most people, well, they don’t know the difference.

But sitting here, watching Professor Hijikata glower at her with such concern-- it’s no hardship at all for her mouth to part, for her lips to spread wide enough her cheeks hurt in the good way.

“There’s no need to worry, Professor,” she tells him, meaning every word. “I’m sure everything will be just fine.”

Despite all her assurances on the safety of the neighborhood and her ability to use the legally registered can of mace in her bag, Hijikata’s insists on watching her hobble up the walk, his glare goading her on even as her tennis shoes threaten to slip on the snow-slick stone. There’s several points she’s certain she’s about to eat ice-- really, she needs to start checking the weather instead of throwing on any old thing-- but Chizuru keeps her feet, driven by the knowledge that at the first sign of trouble, all his promises will be worth less than the air he used to make them. Chizuru’s a survivor, tried and true, but if she has to suffer through a night of the professor fussing at her until one of the boys got home--

She shudders. It’s not from the cold.

Warm air washes over her when she steps in the hallway, enough that she sighs, long and relieved, before calling out, “Souji? Sanosuke?”

There’s no answer, not beyond her own echo. She toes off her shoes into the tray, bending down to straighten them, then the haphazard collection of boy boots sprawled next to them. There’s a pair of flip-flops mixed in, too big to belong to anyone but Harada. Chizuru shuts her eyes, steeling herself for a solid minute before she stacks them neatly to the side. At least she can take heart that he’s not wearing them now, wherever he is.

She sets her bag to the side, shaking the snow off her sweater before she slings it back over her shoulder again. She takes one step, then another, squinting down the dark hall, and then--

“The light,” she murmurs with a laugh. “I need a light to see.”

There’s a movement out of the corner of her eye when she flicks it, something out the window. Shadowy and large is her first impression, followed by the growl that shudders through the night--

But its lights flick on too, fixed toward the street. Hijikata. It’s Hijikata. Leaving now, because he hadn’t just waited until she was out of sight. Leaving now, because he waited until she was safe.

The window’s cool beneath her fingers, fogging where she touches. It covers the sedan until it disappears from sight, slipping through he fingers like water down a drain.

Father used to wait too, sitting up for hours until she came home from the library, or from a study session that ran late. She’d find him, asleep in his chair, groggily asking her the time as she coaxed him to bed. She...missed it. Not just someone being there, but someone who cared when she came home.

Chizuru pulls away, hand curling against her chest. She’ll have to-- to do something for him. As a thank you. Hopefully cookies aren’t considered a conflict of interest.

The kitchen is the first place she checks after her bag’s safely stowed back in her room. If there is a boy in this house-- a possibility that grows slimmer with each light she turns on and each dark room she passes-- that’s where he’ll be. Even a dark kitchen can’t smother that hope; Chizuru has come upon too many of her housemates in the dead of night, eating out of cans like they’d never seen a stove before.

Today it seems they all located here en mass; pots scatter haphazardly across the cooktop, each one left with less than a serving of each. Boxed mac and cheese in one-- the orange kind, its noodles already falling to pieces-- baked beans in another; there’s a particular sad one with only cloudy water she assumes was used for hot dogs. A veritable bachelor’s feast, made for seven. That’s the perk of being upperclassmen, she supposes: no last slot exams.

She picks up a pan, watching congealed cheese sag down the side. On second thought, maybe Heisuke and Nagakura headed home before dinner. There’s far too much left behind to account for two men who like to lick their plates clean, as well as the serving spoons.

Altogether, the remnants of their meal scrounge up a single serving. Months ago, Chizuru would have balked at adding different dishes to the same tupperware-- Father never liked his food to touch-- but there’s no point when she knows tomorrow they’ll all go in the same bowl, heated up until molten in the microwave. Dean Kondo might call her a civilizing force, but some days she is all too aware that she is winning battles in a war long lost.

She stares down at the culinary abomination that she’s recreated, and to her everlasting horror, her stomach rumbles.

“When was the last time I ate?” she wonders, hoping that out of sight means out of mind as she stuffs the concoction in the back of the fridge. “It must have been...?”

Lunch? No, it couldn’t be. She’d already been on campus by then. Surely she’d had a snack? Something from a vending machine, or maybe a power bar in her backpack--?

A grimace stretches across her teeth. Ah, well, that would explain why even mac and beans is starting to look appetizing. She really should eat something before she collapses into her pillow. Maybe an egg and rice bowl topped with some scallions, so long as they haven’t wilted. Or if there’s any veg in the crisper, she could make some steamed--

Ah, but that would take dishes. Chizuru peers into the sink, wincing as the tower of plates and pans teeters against the side.

Right. Dishes first. Dinner can come when everything else is clean.

Somewhere between the second pan and the sixth dish, dinner gets downgraded from rice bowl to instant ramen. By the time she’s winnowed the stack to something manageable, she’s starting to contemplate if there are any cup-o-noodles in the cabinets, and if not, which roommate she could prevail upon to borrow one. Anything to get off her feet and get something into her belly.

But still, the work isn’t done. Work first, food later. It’ll taste better once the kitchen is--

“You’re back?”

Stoneware slips from her hands, clattering into the sink, but Chizuru’s too busy jumping out of her skin to notice. “Who--?”

The shadow in the hall is too far too small to be Harada, and despite her intention to think the best of him, Souji would never bother to announce himself. He’d just sneak up on her all unawares and blow air down the back of her shirt. No need to piss yourself, he’d say, it’s just me.

No, it’s Yamazaki who shuffles across the threshold, snow still melting on his jacket and a wrinkle rucked up between his eyebrows. “And you’re doing the dishes? Yukimura, you know we have a dishwasher.”

“It’s calming,” she insists, sheepishly pulling the plug from the sink’s drain. “And the dishwasher would take too long. I think every pot got used for dinner tonight.”

He pads across the tiled floor, silent as a whisper, and it’s only then that she realizes he’s just in his socks. Big, thick woolen ones, the kind that only fit into boots one size too big, because of course he checked the weather. He might be an undergrad, just like her, but he’s still more responsible than half the boys in this house, regardless of age. “And they didn’t leave you any?”

“There was only a little left--” and not something she’d willfully choose to experience-- “I put it in the fridge, if you want it.”

His coat sighs as he opens the door, taking only a breath before he mutters, “Oh.”

It closes, just as swift. “I think I’ll pass. Were you planning on cooking for yourself? What were you going to--?”

It’s not until his fingers pluck the packet from the counter that Chizuru remembers her Top Ramen plans, the ones that had seen her rummaging in the cabinets as the sink filled to find out whether they still had shrimp flavor. As Yamazaki’s mouth twists, she’s not sure if it’s better or worse that they only had chicken.

“Yukimura,” he says, so even. “Is this all?”

“Ah...” It would be a mistake to inform him that she’d been considering cup-a-noodles. “I just thought I’d have something quick, There’s no point in making anything fancy when it’s just me.”

He huffs. “You’re worth a good meal. When was the last time you ate today?”

I can’t answer that on the grounds that it may incriminate me would be a clever way to see herself on the other end of one of Yamazaki’s epic scoldings, but Chizuru makes the executive decision to invoke her right to silence instead.

By the twitch of his lips, she hasn’t fooled him, not even a little. But instead of launching into his usual lecture on minimum calorie intake-- the human body can’t run on good will alone, Yukimura-- he simply sighs.

“It just so happens I haven’t had any dinner either.” He casts a look askance, eyes shining dark without the sink lamp on. “If you finish the dishes, then I’ll make sure we both eat something that’s a little more filling than broth and noodles.”

“Oh, no!” Her cheeks prickle again, and worst of all, so do her eyes. “Y-you don’t have to put yourself out, really.”

“I’m not.” Yamazaki doesn’t smile often, but he comes close when he looks at her, a soft rounding at one edge of his mouth. “It’s a lot easier to cook for two than it is for one. And you’re saving me the hassle of doing the dishes.”

“But--”

“Sit.” His hand taps her shoulder, so light, angling her toward the table, and--

And it’s not that she’s unused to touch, not in this house. Harada is always putting his arm over her shoulder, and Nagakura’s never met a personal bubble he couldn’t pop, let alone Heisuke treating the couch as a personal invitation to pile up like the puppies he shows her from TikTok. Even Souji likes to stand close, as if he stays just within sight, he can’t be forgotten.

It’s just that Yamazaki doesn’t do it. Not casually, as if he’s confident his touch is wanted. No, he prefers to stand a respectful distance away, pitching his volume to fill the space. With anyone else there might be accidents, points where hands brushed or shoulders bumped, but Yamazaki is a master of his own body. He doesn’t even make a noise if he doesn’t mean to, so for him to touch her so softly, so purposefully--

Her knees buckle. Just a little. And yet, still enough for him to notice.

“See?” Yamazaki doesn’t laugh, but there’s a hint of one in his voice, goading her across the floor. “You’re dead on your feet. Just give me a minute and we’ll get something in you.”

“I suppose,” she admits, begrudgingly. “But I still have to--”

“Dishes can come after.” The look he gives her is downright sly coming from him. “It would be a waste to run all these dishes and still have a sink full afterwards.”

It’s terrible how much he’s right. Even worse is how much better she feels now that she’s sitting.

“Alright,” she sighs, curling her toes. “Just for a minute.”

His mouth twitches. “Just for a minute.”

It’s not until the room smells utterly mouth-watering that Yamazaki finally says, “I’m surprised you made it home before me.”

“Hm?” She blinks up, just in time to see him roll up his sleeves, the cuff of his button-up holding up the bulk of his sweater. It’s odd, seeing skin; it’s darker than she expects, not a proper tan like Nagakura, but something more golden than ivory.

“I figured I might catch up to you on the bus, if, ah...” He coughs, head turns into his shoulder. It doesn’t hide the pink at the tips of his ears. “Sorry, that’s just-- you would have finished the test earlier. I don’t know why I thought...ugh.”

“Oh, no, please-- I only finished two minutes before time. Sakai was proctoring my room, I didn’t even think--” to remember that he must be proctoring the other; Matsumoto’s much less beloved undergrad TA. And after all the extra hours he put in, helping her study. Ungrateful, Father would call her, and she’s ashamed to think he might be right. “I was going to take the bus, but, er...”

There are many conversations she’d like to have with Yamazaki, but none of them involve Chikage Kazama. “...Hijikata offered me a ride home.”

His spine straightens. “The professor? That was kind of him.”

If anyone in this house could be said to play their cards close to their chest-- well, it would be Hajime. But Yamazaki comes in a close second. Even still, there’s a twinge in that even tone of his, the slightest hint of something like-- like--

Ah, right, envy. He might have snagged the coveted spot of one of Matsumoto’s TAs, but had he not been restricted by major...

“Oh! I’m so sorry.” Her hands clap to her cheeks, doing nothing to hide the way they burn. “I should have told him to wait. Then you could have--”

“Ah, no!” he chokes out, waving her off. “There was no way for you to have known that I was only a few minutes behind you. I’m just glad you didn’t have to sit out there. It was cold.”

“But I knew you had to be proctoring--”

“Yukimura.” His voice pulls her up short, not cruel or dismissive, but merely...firm. The same way Hijikata speaks when he wants the class to be quiet. “It’s fine, really. You don’t need to worry about it.”

It would be a mistake to say, just try and stop me. Harada or Nagakura might take that as a joke, but Yamazaki-- he would see it as a challenge.

“Here.” There’s no flourish; one moment there’s only the table in front of her, and in the next there’s a steaming bowl of rice, topped with a pile of stir fry that makes her drool. “Dinner’s served.”

It’s not often she gets to eat alone with one of the boys. The kitchen is the heart of the house, the room that’s never empty, and even if it’s just a dinner made for two, there’s a peanut gallery to accompany the meal. Or at least Souji, slinking around the counters as if the only way to eat is to steal off someone else’s plate. And to get a spare moment with Yamazaki, one that doesn’t involve studying, it feels...decadent, like sneaking a chocolate from the box. Between his upper level course load, his responsibilities as a TA, and the MCAT around the corner-- not to mention his elective thesis--

Well, he’s not often available, not totally. Not for these small moments, where it’s just him and her and the light above the kitchen table. When he sits it’s with impeccable posture: scapula pressed against the chair’s back, head straight on his neck above it. His elbows don’t even rest on the table.

“Is something wrong?”

Oh, she’d been staring. “No, I was just, um...” Appreciating you seems like it might not be...appreciated. “Spacing out.”

His mouth softens, curving somewhere near a smile. “Of course, this was your last exam, right? You have to be tired. How do you think you did?”

“Great! I mean, I think.” She must be tired; it’s not like her to boast. “If I do well, it’ll be all thanks to you. I wouldn’t have remembered anything if you didn’t walk me through the study guide.”

His cheeks are still rosy when she looks at him, flushed from being bent over the stove. But his mouth has lost its lightness, settling into a line as forbidding as his brow. “I don’t think that’s true at all, Yukimura. I might have refreshed your memory on the first part of the course, but you’re smart all on your own.”

“Ah...I don’t know about that...” It’s kind of him to say, but Chizuru is more than aware of how much hard work she has to put in to keep her grades at the top of the class. “I did have trouble with a few parts, after all.”

“You did?” Yamazaki stiffens in his chair, his attention swiveling from his bowl to her face with startling intensity. “Which part? You nearly aced the practice exam, so I can’t imagine--”

“Oh, just-- just that last part, with the genetics unit. I didn’t expect there to be a question that asked us to also link it with populations.” Now that she’s talking it out, it seems obvious, silly even. But her whole last fifteen minutes had been spent puzzling over human eye color on the macro level. “I know we’d gone over green eyes in class, but I didn’t really know how to handle hazel, so I just treated it sort of like...a recessive? Only heterozygous individuals had their own phenotype, but I’m not really sure--?”

“Ah, that’s fine. Matsumoto likes to throw in a few questions that get you thinking about what he wants to cover next semester.” Yamazaki shrugs, his mouth slyly hitched up at the corner. “Even geneticists argue about how hazel eyes happen. From what it sounds like, he’s going to give you full marks for your thought process.”

Chizuru can’t help it, she stares. “You mean it was a trick question?”

“Of course.” His teeth flash behind his lips, the quickest glimpse before they’re gone again. “But you handled it well, Yukimura. Good job.”

If the skin is but one single organ, the way Dr Matsumoto says, then every inch of it betrays her at once, heating up high enough that she’s sure she could fry an egg to go along with their dinners. Or well, what’s left of their dinners, since she’s polished off her whole bowl.

She stands, so suddenly that her chair screeches across the floor. “A-are you done? I can, um, start doing the dishes if you are.”

He glances up, and-- there, that almost smile. “Sure. I think I’ve done what I set out to achieve.”

Chizuru is putting the last dish in the washer when Yamazaki finally ventures, “Has your hair grown out?”

Her fingers fly up, tangling in the strands that just brush her chin. Quite a bit longer than where she’d last left it, up by her ears. “O-oh, I guess it must have! I hadn’t really noticed.”

“It looks...”

He hesitates. It’s strange how much she wants to turn to him, to try to read on his face what his mouth struggles to say, but there’s no good reason, not when she’s supposed to be keying in the wash cycle. Something she does a little too quickly this time, barely waiting for the confirmation beep before she claps the door shut.

“Thank you for cleaning up,” Yamazaki says instead, hands braced at the edge of the counter. “You always do such a good job.”

It’s silly how flustered the compliment makes her; it’s nothing he hasn’t said before, hardly more than polite, but still--

“I just did the dishes,” she insists, smothering the nervous giggle that threatens to rise past her throat. “Really, it isn’t anything.”

“Yes, but you actually loaded all the dishes on the right rack. And,” he adds with a weariness that concerns her, “you actually used the rinse.”

“But everyone can do that.” His dubious look doesn’t help her growing worries. “Can’t they?”

There’s no hesitation when Yamazaki says, “No.”

“But, everyone--” is an adult, she means to say, but she’d only been here two days when Heisuke reduced their laundry room to suds, and last week Nagakura managed to make mustard gas when he attempted to clean the upstairs bathroom. “It’s really not that impressive. Anyone could do it, if they--”

“You don’t have to do that,” Yamazaki says suddenly, his eyebrows drawn tight above his nose. “Make yourself small. I like that you’re-- I mean, it’s good that you’re competent. It certainly takes a load off my plate around here.”

There’s not a single reply in Chizuru’s exhaustive mental database of polite protocol that covers this. At least, not in a way that is humble enough to make her comfortable. So instead she merely blurts out, “Aren’t you going home for the holidays?”

She winces. No better way to show her gratitude than making it sound like she can’t wait for him to be gone.

“I am.” He hardly looks happy about it, not the way she would be if Father decided to fly back from his sabbatical and spend the day with her. “Just for Christmas, though. My family’s close by, and I don’t really need to stay there any longer than I have to. Plus I have-- er, plans. For after New Year’s.”

“Plans?”

“Ah...” His mouth pulls into a grimace. “I just have a, er, thing. Saito’s coming too.”

“Oh, is that why he left this morning?” She tilts her head, curious. “When are you leaving, then? Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve, so--”

“Tonight.” He shrugs his shoulders. “I’m coming back the day after Christmas, and my mom will complain if I don’t stay more than two--”

“Tonight?” She whips around, looking at the clock on the stove. “It’s almost ten! And there’s two inches of snow on the ground.”

“It’s not that far,” he promises. “Really. I’m used to driving in the snow.”

“The roads have to be terrible by now.” She’s afraid to pull back the curtain; it’s been an hour since she got home, and the snow’s been steady past the kitchen window. “And you stayed here to cook me dinner? Ah, you really shouldn’t have bothered, I would have been--”

“Yukimura.” Long fingers wrap around her wrist, arrestingly warm. “Don’t worry about it. It’s no big deal. I had to make my own dinner too. I’ll survive two inches of snow.”

“But...” Her mouth works, but instead of words, it’s just her pulse, banging loud between her ears. “What if there’s...ice?”

“I’ll drive slow.” His grip eases, her skin slipping from beneath it. “I promise. I think you know you can trust me to be careful.”

“I...suppose.”

It’s strange to just stand here; she’s supposed to be-- be doing something, anything really, besides standing here like two is two hands too many. Like she has two extra feet, trying to shuffle at the same time as her other ones. Yamazaki has spent precious time helping her, and she-- she--

“Tea!” she gasps, rushing to the cabinets. “I should-- I can make you tea. There’s a thermos right here, just give me a minute--”

“That’s not--” Yamazaki chokes, hands waving-- “you don’t need to do anything. I’m fine, really.”

“It’s no trouble at all,” she assures him, putting the water on. “Have you already packed? It’ll stay warm in the thermos, but fresh tea is best tea, I always say.”

Or at least Father had, when he’d dumped her hours-old, untouched mugs into the sink. Ah, perhaps he had been trying to make a different point.

“Y-yes.” He stares at her, wide-eyed, as she putters through the kitchen, pulling out the carton she’s seen him pick through in the morning. “I did it before I left for the exam. But what does that--?”

She shoos him toward the hall. “Go get it! I’ll be done before you get your shoes on.”

It’s a generous estimate; he’s got both boots and coat on when she gets to him, brow furrowed in a knot she can’t quite untangle. He takes the tea though, even if he frowns through the scarf she puts around his neck, no matter how dashingly she knots it.

“There,” she huffs, triumphant. “All ready.”

“I guess.” His mouth rucks up, not in a smile. “I didn’t really think you’d be-- hm.”

There’s something about his tone that doesn’t quite sting, but it...niggles. As if she’s forgotten something best left remembered. “What?”

He reaches a gloved hand back to rub his neck, shaking his head. “Never mind. Thanks for the tea.”

“It’s not a problem.” Yamazaki’s not much bigger than her, but with his boots on it adds another inch, one that makes him feels tall. Not like Harada, but just...more. “Then I guess I should say...Merry Christmas? Since we won’t see each other?”

The hall is dark; only the porch light shines in to light it, and it’s an imperfect source, one that makes his eyes glisten black instead of the dusky violet she’s used to. It makes him...different. Both more real and yet more shadow as he turns to open the door.

“Ah...right.” His mouth flattens into a smile, but it’s like when a crumpled paper is pressed flat-- the ghosts of its wrinkles always remain. “Merry Christmas.”

His eyes meet hers, and it’s-- it’s a lot. Too much, somehow, since the only thing she can think to do is squeak out, “Drive safe!” before she slams the door.

“Well,” she murmurs, spinning toward the stairs with hands on her hips. “I think that went well.”

She gets up to the first landing before she thinks to look back, to actually make sure Yamazaki got to his car, and--

And he hasn’t moved, not an inch from where she left him. His shoulders rise to his ears, holding there until his breath huffs out on a sigh, spending in the night air. His first step is hesitant-- no, reluctant, and oh--

Oh, she kind of pushed him right out the door. The door she didn’t even really want him to leave.

Her hand flexes on the banister. It would be easy to go back down, to tell him he should maybe stay the night, just one more before heading home, but--

But she misses her moment, and then the next, and before she knows it, he’s off the porch and out of sight.

#yamachi #hakuouki #my fic #modern au #college AU #If the Mind Is Willing #LARP AU #that last tag is a spoiler but only for the next chapter or so #i wanted to get to the nerdiness sooner rather than later #but I gotta you know. BUILD #gotta let Chizuru have her hopeless crush on Hijikata #and have feelings she is absolutely refusing to look at closely for the boys she lives with

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miseriathome · 1 year

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re: last reblog

CW suicide and mental health and mental breakdown and all of that

idk about all the nature stuff but that it, that's exactly it, that's the precise sentiment I've been grappling with for months now, trying to figure out how to explain to my therapist. That my ability to cope with adversity has become so mechanized and so automated that I've lost a core rudiment of my humanity. I feel it in the way I say "I am physically incapable of killing myself" in the sense of being incapacitated, in the sense of being viscerally unable to perform a critical action, and I get told "good! :)" as if being stuck in an endless internal scream with no outlet is somehow better than being a person with agency and free will and rational decision-making functions. Not even because I want to be dead or because I believe I should kill myself, because there are things I love and enjoy about the experience of being alive, but the fact that I don't have the choice, I don't have the option to exercise my suicidality anymore because that extension of my autonomy has been tortured out of me. The suicidality exists internally, screaming for a release that I can't give it. My shift lead marveled about how cool and calm my poker face is, and how she never would have known how deeply upset I was unless I had said something. It was like she was praising my control and discipline when really I'm trapped in a goddamn cage and there are no options, there is literally nothing I can do to let off the pressure that builds and builds and builds. It hurts, it physically hurts and conceptually I know there are remedies for that but I can and I do persevere and I shouldn't have to. I should be debilitated, I should be screaming in agony, but it's been beaten out of me. Those aren't skills I have anymore. My body is a cage, my body is a fucking mech suit that continues to move no matter how fucking much I want it to stop. I can put names to my emotions and my experiences, I can say I'm irritated or overwhelmed, I can say I am experiencing physical pain, but naming it doesn't do anything except make other people clap for how "well" I'm doing. It's like other people's understanding of suffering stops and ends with feel-good pop psych that's used by the worried well but I'm not worried and I am unwell, those are the problems. I can name that I am experiencing distress but I can't feel it, I'm not allowed to feel it, the entire structure of the world around me discourages me from feeling it and praises its repression, but the scream needs release. It's un-fucking-sustainable to be an unperson. It's fucked up that this is rewarded, it's fucked up that people are happy that I am missing such a vital part of the human experience. "I am incapable of killing myself" isn't fucking praise-worthy, it's a horror story. It's a goddamn cry for help, I am trying to articulate that I have been so deeply violated by psychiatric institutionalization that I am no longer a person, I no longer have the choice to live, I am required to. It's not even that I intend to act on suicidality, it's that there is no other option that my body can perform. I was robbed of the option to get to choose to live. I need someone to understand Everything around me and inside of me is screaming and that's supposed to be a good thing. I'm supposed to be thankful. It's supposed to be a mark of my value that I "did this to myself." I went through something so deeply traumatic and dehumanizing that a core piece of my humanity has been severed from my Self and no one gives a crap. And it's supposed to be a good thing. No matter what I do, I keep moving forward and maybe I don't want to. Conceptually I know I'm having a fucking "panic attack" but it won't fucking escape my goddamn flesh cage. I can't make my pain leak into places where it can be seen. I can't relieve the pressure of all the things that are festering inside my bones because there's no hole, there's no outlet. I'm rotting and my physical body is eating itself and there is no emotional space that I'm allowed (capable) of having where that can be expressed in a way that's meaningful, that acknowledges my agency.

#wall of text #personal #institutionalization mention #suicide #suicidal ideation #pain mention

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natrashafierce · 2 years

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I finally watched Love Actually and I did not expect to dislike it as strongly as I did!

I could have handled the corniness (which I expected) if it wasn’t also so weird and skeezy. If that captures people’s idea of romance circa 20 years ago then I get why people have given up on sex and dating nowadays and say weird stuff like they “don’t know what love is.” Love is not committing adultery (needlessly hurting others and destroying their capacity for trust so you can orgasm is the opposite of loving behavior), or wanting to have sex with people you don’t know especially well (that’s lust), or being insane at the airport (that’s the human condition), or being grimly bummed out because the chick you wanted to fuck has a mentally ill brother who sometimes needs her attention (why was getting cock-blocked once a dealbreaker if they’re allegedly in love?). It’s also certainly fine to move on after the death of a spouse, but it was pretty weird how he was intent on doing it within the span of a few weeks, and with someone with whom he had no meaningful connection. I’m clearly supposed to feel happy for him, though, which is what gets me.

I truly don’t mind seeing the full spectrum of human confusion and frailty depicted so long as I’m not supposed to experience it as something it isn’t, but the movie pushed the idea that most of this stuff was sincerely romantic. I’m supposed to be moved by people making terrible decisions and chasing things that aren’t good for them psychologically, and I’m supposed to recognize that as “love." My heart is supposed to do stuff in response.

That famous cue cards scene… maaan, that was uncomfortable. People watch that and their hearts melt at two people who don’t know each other betraying their spouse/best friend for NOTHING? It’s so romantic? What? How narcissistic does someone have to be to feel vicarious excitement at the thought of being in her place? Also, the audience shouldn’t bat an eye that the groom in that relationship had prostitutes at his bachelor party, and his back-stabbing best friend arranged for that? It's just a little joke-sy about characters we're supposed to instantly like! The movie is just a clusterfuck of mostly selfish people who are terminally horny. None of it had anything to do with love.

Also, why was that particular “romance” depicted as romantic, but Alan Rickman’s affair with his secretary was rightfully depicted as skeezy? Would you rather have your spouse fuck a coworker/subordinate, or your best friend make an intense declaration to your spouse? They’re both quite bad, right? The second one is arguably worse?

I feel like an alien when I watch this stuff because I’m not digging for things to nitpick. I have an immediate visceral reaction to the scenes that I think is pretty normal and rational, yet the narrative does not seem to have such a reaction on its radar. That’s a surreal feeling. It’s like watching a good-guy protagonist get shot but everyone acts like it’s wonderful. Like, I've never even been cheated on but I'm feeling pain for this guy? Which I'm pretty sure I ought to, no matter what this movie apparently thinks?

Creative types like to do this thing where they take an attainable ideal like love, but then fuck it all up and say ohhh that’s “real,” that's “the reality,” that's what things “actually” are. And people internalize that when it doesn’t reflect on anything except that artist's worldview and self-fulfilling low expectations. It’s edgelord stuff to say such a story is about “love” instead of lust or obsession or other assorted personal failings; it's a transparent attempt to make something seem deeper than it is. It's not even objective on a semantic level, much less a conceptual level. I remember my copy of Lolita said it was "the only real love story of its time" and, well, are you fucking kidding me? Yet people sincerely allow themselves to take their cues from people who have no idea what words mean, or have to willfully pretend not to in order to function.

I wish people would let “love” have its own meaningful definition where people get intense fulfillment by connecting with and doing right by one another. Instead it's fashionable for people to insist on redefining love so their disappointing ideas about unhealthy and destructive attractions fit in the goalposts. It's become this misguided way to look sophisticated and intellectual to espouse that love is dark and shitty, actually, when really it just means someone has a psyche and vocabulary too limited to talk honestly about whatever dark thing they're obsessed with. We don't actually need to redefine love for any particular era or whatever. It fucks with people's potential for happiness to define ideals out of existence.

But if we didn't let confused and disordered people redefine love, then people would have to face themselves. They would have to acknowledge that love is this whole other real experience they have not begun to facilitate in themselves -- often because they were too distracted by pettier, easier ideas that let them off the hook for how they view themselves in relation to other people. Or they want an excuse to avoid looking for anything better because painful things happened in their past. But just because most people need to let go of a lot of false ideas is not a good reason for everyone else to pretend things mean things they don't, or things are fulfilling that aren't fulfilling. If a person is settling for something destructive, or shitty, or nothing at all, does it really change anything for the better by allowing them to believe that's what is meant by the term "love?" Their situation has the same limits and disappointments it always had, the only difference is they can't get stuck in it due to confusion about what's available.

It has genuinely fucked people up to absorb ideas like this for decades. I feel like I didn’t truly get how impoverished people’s understanding of love was until I was in my 30s. I realized people mean the empty things they say and are genuinely influenced by the distorted ways love is depicted in the art they consume. There’s very little attention to ethics or how people choose to fashion their character. People don't realize that often they struggle to find love not because of how they look or petty social issues they may have, but because their strength of character and kindness isn't wowing anyone to tears. They're not making anyone feel so intensely relieved and moved about life itself that it's an obviously great idea to pair off forever. Rather, most people have such self-absorbed, petty personalities that pairing off with them is a dumb gamble; no one could be moved to do so except under pressure of anxiety or loneliness, which it bears repeating: is not love. They're frequently arguing, or frequently complaining, and they don't derive enjoyment from what they have to offer others. But "love" stories are just like oh, maybe if I’m hot enough, someone who’s also hot and inexplicably obsessed with me will do intense things to make my heart flutter, and I won't have to mature or self-actualize or be nice most of the time!

Anyway. It was also too corny a movie to be genuinely funny, but when that kid jumped through airport security I just about lost it yelling, “HE’S GONNA 9/11!” so that sustained me through the final minutes.

#kali yuga

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squirrelno2 · 1 year

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Apropos of nothing but

The thing people mean (or should mean) when they say "product of their time" is shit like this Agatha Christie I'm reading rn, where she is clearly trying to call out antisemitism in the text but also turns around and regurgitates some pretty awful antisemitism as though it's fact, like - I don't know where overall her beliefs fell, just what I read, and there's real sympathy and an attempt to dissect the English Christian attitude towards the Jewish characters presented unless I'm really misreading, but it's also deeply upsetting to see some of the shit that gets said in basically the same paragraph

(edit: actually more of this feels straight up antisemitic as I dig deeper into it, she did write from povs of characters that she clearly didn't agree with at times but I wanna make clear that I'm probably going to be retracting my opinions on her good intentions here. The rest of what I say still stands)

And I think this is important to recognise not just so we don't put ppl whose work has cultural contributions on a pedestal where we can never critique them, but also because like. She was probably saying all the polite, progressive things. We can all say the polite, progressive things. That is what makes us products of our time

The thing that helps us transcend that in our fights against bigotry is to really look at each impulse we have when discussing/describing/characterizing marginalized people, and to say "why did I choose this? Is there something else I could do that would achieve the same goal? Why is it so important to me to tell this story, and does it convey a truth or does it convey a theory I have built about the world that I always assumed is truth?" I started writing characters of colour as a teen because I knew I should, because I knew the world wasn't as white as my backyard is. I didn't know why it would matter to a reader beyond that. I just did it because that is what A Good Author does, and A Bad Author ignores poc. It's not the worst place to start, if you ask me - deeply invested in your own status as a good person or writer and therefore dangerously self centered, but a jumping off point if you're willing to learn.

The thing that took me farther was the moment I realised I didn't know why I had disdain for certain things (in my case specifically hip hop dance was the catalyst but that's a longer story). I sat down and looked at those things I ignored and claimed not to like and found that I had no tangible reason for any of that. I simply had never looked for something to love. I have found, in my time in fandom, that many people refuse to look for things to love in characters they do not associate with themselves. They might pay lip service to a character being great, say they deserve the world, but in the end these are not the characters who get endless fics and meta and art. (This is most obvious with fandom racism but it manifests with other facets of marginalisation as well) It requires an active effort, and a willingness to step beyond "I have said the right thing, the appropriate thing, the polite thing, and that means I have done it all right" into a space where you know you may get it wrong, but always in pursuit of doing something not just right but good

Anyway "products of their time" still fucked up, whether they were trying to do the Right Thing or not, and we all will fuck up, but you have to be willing to step further than politeness, and really start to conceptualize other people as being just as wholly human as you. Nobody is the guest star in an after school special about acceptance. We are, in fact, all the main characters of our own stories, constantly crossing over and spinning off, and the sooner you realize that your kindness to somebody else isn't about you being the protagonist who needs to be loved but about them being their own protagonist who deserves your respect, the better. Don't say things because you're supposed to. Say them because you thought about what they imply, and because you stand by those implications - or don't say them at all

#pity and sympathy isnt enough you have to know they are people on the other end #writing #this gets so rambly but reading agatha christie does this to me theres so much awful shit even though she does The Right Things overall

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luuurien · 2 years

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Prince Daddy & The Hyena - Prince Daddy & The Hyena

(Emo Pop, Pop Punk, Power Pop)

With a conceptual bent for mortality and death, Albany, New York's Prince Daddy & The Hyena use their self-titled album to make for the most eclectic and grand collection of tracks to date, stepping away from the scruffy emo-pop of their first two records for songs that are more considerate and musically rewarding without letting go of the band's signature sound.

☆☆☆☆

When everyone else is on the revivalism train, what do you do to stand out? There's lots of different options, but for Albany emo outfit Prince Daddy & The Hyena the answer is to not change anything major at all. It's an unusual orthodoxy when it seems like the most successful way to take advantage of pre-established genres and eras has been to push them into the modern day with as much sheen and sparkle as possible, but Prince Daddy commits to their creative, punky brand of alt-rock and emo-pop, their third and self-titled album their most personal and visceral collection of tracks to date. Borrowing characters from their sophomore album Cosmic Thrill Seekers as well as bringing in the impact of the band's 2018 van accident and other events to give a personal touch to Kory Gregory's narratives of God, mortality and being across these thirteen fantastic tracks. The most unexpected part of Prince Daddy & The Hyena is how it stays true to form while branching out into styles the band's seldomly incorporated into their work. The only remnants of their past screamo/pop punk sound are found in the album's early moments, A Random Exercise in Impermanence (The Collector) and Jesus Fucking Christ making for some of the most high-intensity moments with their noisy rhythm guitars and passionate, full-throated singing from Gregory that brings you back to their past two album's sound one more time before trying out new things. Of those new things, almost all of them are great in one way or another, the nine minute Black Mold immediately a highlight with its post-rock crescendos and gutting lyricism ("I can't feel my legs / As you sat beside my bed / And said Don't tell me you're sorry / Not unless you mean it/ And you don't") but with a long line of great moments before then, too: El Dorado's thumping groove that transitions between 90s pop and 90s punk with ease like if Weezer was asked to make a retro throwback a hundred years in the future or the acoustic dream grunge tearjerker Curly Q whose playful imagery makes way for one of the album's most heartbreaking tracks showing that Prince Daddy aren't averse to trying something a little more sensitive for a change. It's all still within this early 90s alt-rock vein whether they're playing off its softer side or harsher side, the Slint-inspired guitar work on the apathetic Hollow, As You Figured and the pulsing noise pop jam Shoelaces all part of the same era of pre-new millennium guitar music without trying to force something new unless the music calls for it. As a result, Prince Daddy & The Hyena feels wholly singular and distinct by not aiming to simply recreate a long-gone music scene and instead finding what made it so loved in the first place. Following those ideals, Gregory as a songwriter and vocalist never overblows any of his lyricism to the point where it's hard to take seriously: his month-long stint in a psychiatric hospital is referenced in A Random Exercise in Impermanence (The Collector) as sending his "...own ass away / To smooth these wrinkles out my brain," that self-deprecating and dark humor writing style balancing the more serious moments of the album with lines that still handle heavy topic matter without rendering the band unapproachable. "Just like I'm supposed to be / A perfectly dumb human being," he sings on the jangly In Just One Piece, a playful bit of self-hatred right before dropping into his most minimal and devastating songwriting with the nervously hopeful ode to trying Discount Assisted Living, a reminder that Prince Daddy & The Hyena are still singing chiefly about their own experiences and the impact of them as the finale Baby Blue takes a sobering look into heartbreak and commitment to those you love ends the album on a perfectly resolute note. It's a much more adventurous album than any of Prince Daddy's previous ones, and that extends to their songwriting with how much more versatile and free it all feels, never sticking to one single concept and jumping to a new one whenever the emotions call for that to happen. If it makes for the most unusual Prince Daddy album so far, that only goes to show how much further they've pushed the gamut of their sound this time around. Though it might not always sound how you expect a Prince Daddy album to, Prince Daddy & The Hyena stays faithful to the band's core spirit while never forcing their hand either. Their music is still powerful, just in different ways here, harnessing the understated power of ballads and mid-tempo rock to bring a greater intimacy and impact to their music than ever before, the most willing Prince Daddy has ever been to drop the curtain on their aggressive power pop and show us their heart bare. It's an incredibly courageous and successful page turn for the band, showing enough sides of themselves to crowd a mirror maze without it ever feeling overwhelming or cluttered. Prince Daddy always aware of the album's centerfold and chasing it with all thirteen songs. Prince Daddy & The Hyena was an album bound to happen for the band at some point, and it's a joy to see that it's turned out this fruitful and edifying for them, too.

#prince daddy & the hyena #pure noise #dream pop #emo #emo pop #indie rock #noise pop #pop #pop punk #power pop #punk #rock #singer/songwriter #2022 #8/10

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ayamturd · 3 years

Text

yourself│awesamdude

summary: love is precious, love is pure; how insecure thoughts and concerns trouble a scared lover, and how to convince one they are deserving of said love

warnings: descriptive insecure + self-deprecating thoughts, slight angst to fluff

pairing: in-game c!awesamdude

a/n: couldn’t stop thinking of this concept, i wouldn’t physically sleep till i wrote it all out lol

pls know you are loved, that you matter and are important. even if it doesn’t feel like, i’ll say now that i do, i love you. i don’t need to know you to know you deserve love, you deserve to know you are amazing for being yourself and for simply trying your best by existing for what it is <3

wc: (2.1k) - m.list

“Why do you love me?”

It was late. Very late.

The sky was pitch black and the forest held nothing but a ringing silence to screen, the brief sounds of woodland creatures along with lurking monsters occasionally breaking through. While the night was alive by the stir of the wind, the world above was obscured beneath the depths of the newly discovered mineshaft.

You were tired, your body aching and sore from the continuous grind along side your lover for the past few hours now. Unbeknownst to you, the early morn had been replaced with the midnight sky, the twists of the cave’s darkness becoming so lost to your sensitive eyes.

While you were resting on a large boulder, Sam’s stamina was relentless as he worked to mine into the next cave tunnel. He was beautiful, to say the least.

The ever so flicker of nearby torches illuminated only the best of his features, his usual mask hanging low around his neck due to the cramped and tight spaces underground. His brows were furrowed, the gentle concentration that pulled onto his face strangely handsome to observe.

His hair, the dark yet notable green shade, was seemingly drenched with sweat. In spite of how dreadful the thought could come across, it only did him wonders when weighing his locks down to frame his face. It curled around his eyes, the sage emerald-color contrasting his light skin tone while emphasizing the dark glisten of his squinted eyes.

Through his intent and determined grunts with every swing of his blade against the course stone, his stance was firm and strong, each strike crumbling beneath him from pure strength and integrity.

Moments like these were random, but reoccurring. Moments where you could stop to stare at him for hours on end, appreciate him for what he was and all that he did, yet question on why he was still here.

Why someone so talented and earnest in his work could even consider you as someone special, someone worth his attention and love to be with.

You spoke before you could stop to process your words and what possible answer he could imagine. Your curiosity got the better of you, and your insecurity blinded your perception. It didn’t seem like he heard you initially, and as you began to take it as a sign to forget the question entirely, his diligent swings stopped and his heavy panting filled the air.

He carelessly rested the large tool on top of his shoulders, twisting only his head in your direction while wiping the salty sting of raining sweat from his eyes.

“Huh?”

“Why do you love me?” you asked again.

Pushing yourself up, you glanced down while fiddling with your pickaxe, the old wrap around its handle fraying ever so lightly despite its lack of consistent use. You’d need to replace it soon.

“I just- it’s hard sometimes, you know? To think why you’ve stayed with me for so long or why you even want to stay with me altogether.”

You suddenly lost all courage, and couldn’t dare look him straight in the eye from your admittance. There was an unfounded trust your relationship, no doubt, but trust can only go far when comparing yourself to others. This was a question of worth, of importance when believing one has nothing special to give to someone who deserves the world.

“Love…”

Shaking your head, you turned away from him to face the arching gem wall, driving your pickaxe into the thick, shimmering stone with a slam before wrapping your arms around yourself. You bit the inner side of your check, loose and anxious thoughts raging wild to come through in the vulnerable space.

Your hands shook in unpredictable expectations, fingers twitching against your pounding chest.

“I know you’re going to dismiss it as some kind of nonsense, ‘insecurity’ thing and honestly, you wouldn’t be wrong. But I can’t help it when you’re you and I’m me.”

The pause that followed was unbearable. Steady breathes pervaded the tense air, and after what felt to be an entirety in harsh, prolonged silence, you heard the shuffles of his feet when cautiously approaching you from behind.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” His tone was serious, yet his voice soft. Like he was cornering a scared and injured animal, he seemed mindful of his volume for your own concern. Another quality to consider: he was too kind than for what you rightfully earned.

There was so much to say, yet so little at the same time. You were at a loss for words on how to explain something so broad and conceptually troubling to see through. How does one explain how little they matter? How meaningless they are in the grand scheme of things to someone that only tries to see the best of them.

Someone that would refuse a truth for the sake of your troubled mentality.

“Well- you know…”

He stood directly behind you now, his radiating warmth encompassing your entire being, leaving you to shudder from the sharp contrast in the freezing underground. Hands hovering your rigid shoulders, he contemplated touching you but decided against it. He dropped his arms to his side with a sigh.

“No, I don’t. What possible reasoning could you have for me not to love you?”

His pleading whisper was left unanswered, your body frozen to the guilt that consumed you from worrying him over your own problematic assumptions. As if he could read you, he began a different approach to break through to you.

“Why do you love me?”

His unexpected question immediately caused you to go in defense. Spinning around, you glared up at him with resistant eyes, the response to trade your unsure gaze with ones that screamed in flipped concern for his own good.

“Don’t do that.”

Sam’s own eyes remained just as hard, the unnatural line from his neutral expression pulling further to create an evident frown. He was just as serious as you.

“I’m serious here. What reasoning do you have to love me? A screw up, that does nothing but hurt others no matter how much I try in opposition to protect.”

Admittedly shaking your head, you unconsciously reached to grab the front of his chest plate, the enchanted armor glowing beneath your bare hands as you forcefully pushed him in disagreement.

You knew what he was referencing to, and how hard the events became for him. No matter if Tommy would never forgive him, he had yet to forgive himself in any reasonable sense.

“You know that’s not true. Mistakes are mistakes that can’t always be avoided or your fault.”

Tilting his head, Sam’s nose scrunched aggressively to your argument with a scowl.

“Can’t it?”

While your face dropped from his jarring snap, he only sighed before bowing his head away, rubbing the back of his head with a tired exhale and dropped shoulders. It was his turn to struggle with his own words as you stared intensely for his explanation.

His voice were soft again, and wavered slightly in the near beginning.

“I’m not perfect, far from it actually. No matter how many times you try and reassure me of the fact, I’ll never truly believe anything there is good to say about me. I only see the worst of myself,” he murmured. Although a majority of his speech could have easily been missed from his airy quiet, your ears were strained and focused solely on him.

As you tried to step closer to comfort him in some way or another, he finished his final thought then, causing you to freeze once more.

“And when that negatively becomes too much, I look to you as my light.”

Sam sheepishly faced you, his bashful grin completely deviating from the conversation at hand. An unexpected heat rushed to your face, causing you fall apart by the mere power behind his words.

He gave an airy chuckle, closing his eyes with a gentle smile and opening to reveal such fragility in all he had to tell, eyes watering from the sight of you.

“You give me more hope than I think I could ever deserve. From your shining smile to the smallest forms of affection, you give me a love irreplaceable by others and unconceivable to consider.”

Biting your lip, your eyes also began to tear from the overly tender conceptions. He knew better than to let your thoughts run wild and interrupt him, so he continued before you could open your mouth in protest.

“I love you, for everything you’ve sacrificed and lost. You are my strength that pulls me through, inspires me to continue even on the hardest of days. You teach me to forgive myself and work through my hardships for a greater objective at play.”

Steadily nearing your emotional state, Sam carefully pulled your hands into his own and caressed your knuckles with his callous thumbs. He squeezed them tightly once, before reaching a singular hand against your cheek, catching the fallen tears that escaped your adoring eyes.

“Even if you unintentionally did, you became that objective to pull me through it all.”

A sob escaped you, and Sam was quick to pull you into his chest. He kissed the top of your head earnestly while resuming to whisper his declaration against your hair.

“I love you and all that you do. Everything that I said now, everything that I know how to express, it does nothing to how much you truly impact by merely existing as yourself.”

“Sam-” you had tried to interject, stop him from tearing you to complete bits as an over sentimental puddle, but he chose to speak over you instead.

“I don’t love you simply because you’ve given so much to me, that you’ve went through notions with my sake as priority. I don’t care for any of that in all honesty. I love you, because you do all that you do as yourself.”

Shudder breathes caused you to shake beneath his firm hold, his only response to pull you inhumanely closer if possible.

“It doesn’t matter why or what pushes you to do what you do, it’s the fact that you exist as yourself, that that beautiful heart of yours goes beyond any and all expectations anyone can conceive of you and never fails to the most of any situation to come.”

“You amaze me, y/n,” he hummed. Pulling you back, he raised a single finger below your chin to lift your face to his. He leaned a near breathes away, with an indescribable admiration that caused more tears to spill.

“Why do I love you?” he re-asked.

His own tears coursed down his dirt stained skin, and you habitually moved to cup both of his cheeks.

“Because you’re able to love me, and not even know the adverse effects you cause to those around you.”

Bringing your forehead to his, he kissed your scrunched nose as he released a small whimper, for he had nothing left to express through words.

“If ever you question yourself again, ask yourself how are you able to love someone like me, and know that that same confounding thought shakes my very core and beats my love-stricken heart for you.”

Bonus:

Pathetic giggles bounced around the gem filled enclosure, the high of work finally wearing you both down into a helpless mess of two exhausted, yet stubborn lovers.

You leaned heavily into Sam’s hold, his own stance faltering from the unexpected weight you gave in as he groaned from the fast movement.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m about ready for some rest, wouldn’t you say?”

Giving out incomprehensible whines smothered into the crook of his arm, you raised a lazy hand to give a subtle thumbs up. Sam laughed loudly, and took your silent gesture as an answer.

“You ready to climb back to the surface then?”

Mellow wails spoke for themselves, and he shook his head in joking disbelief to how drained you easily became.

With you still in his arms, he maneuvered around you to grab both of your pickaxes and gathered resources, them too heavy to physically carry for his next course of action. He pulled out his Enderchest and swiftly packed everything away.

Once everything else was settled, he worked on the actual situation in hand; literally, it being you basically asleep on your feet against his balanced arms.

“Here,” he spoke. Lifting from your waist, he placed you on top of an overgrown gem stone and steadied your footing before quickly turning. He gripped your thighs, and even in your tired state, you instinctively jumped onto his back.

He sighed when adjusting you, before making the trek back up the stair incline.

“To think I choose to love you.”

You yawned loudly, and to his surprise, comprehended his words enough to respond.

“Mmmm, that sounds like a ‘you’ problem.” Head propped between his neck, he glanced down at you with a smirk.

“Maybe, but a problem I welcome nonetheless.”

#dream smp x you #dream smp x reader #awesamdude x reader #awesamdude x you #awesamdude x gn!reader #awesamdude imagine #awesamdude x reader fluff #mcyt x reader fluff #mcyt x reader #mcyt x you #dsmp x reader

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davidmann95 · 3 years

Note

Sooo… Superman and the Authority?

magnus-king123 asked: Your thoughts on Superman & the authority Give it to me...lol

Anonymous asked: Seeing Bezos take his little trip into space the same day Morrison puts out a Superman comic that touches on how far we’ve fallen from the days when we dreamed of utopian futures where everyone explored the stars was a big gut punch. Not used to Superman being topical in that way.

Anonymous asked: What'd you think of Superman and the Authority#1?

This is far beyond what I can fit in the normal weekly reviews, so taking this as my notes on the first six pages, with this and this as my major lead-in thoughts:

* Janin's such a perfect fit for Morrison - the scale, the power, the facial expressions selling the character work, the screwing around with the panel formatting as necessary to sell the effect, the numinous sense of things going on larger than you can fully perceive amidst the beauty and chaos. It's a shame he wasn't around 25 years ago to draw JLA, but I'll take him going with Morrison onto other future projects.

* His intro action sequence is such a great demonstration of why Black actually does have something to offer, and also how he's such a dumbass desperately needing Superman to save him from himself.

* While Jordie Bellaire didn't legit go with an entirely monochromatic palate the way early previews suggested, it's still an effect frequently and excellently deployed here. And glad to see Steve Wands carry into this from Blackstars since there's such an obvious carryover from its work with Superman.

* "Gentlemen. Ladies. Others." Great both because of the obvious - hey, Superman's nodding at me! - and because it's a phrasing that reinforces that this take on him (and let's be real Morrison) is old as hell.

* I'm mostly past caring about whether this is an alt-Earth Superman until it becomes indisputable one way or another, this and Action both rule so what does it really matter? But while there are still a couple signs in play suggesting some kind of division (the Action Comics #1036 cover, Midnighter up to time-travel shenanigans) the "lost in time" quote clearly thrown in after the fact to explain how he could have met Kennedy outside of 5G that wouldn't be necessary for an Elseworlds, the assorted gestures towards Superman's current status quo, the Kingdom Come symbol appearing in Action, and that Morrison would have had to completely rewrite the ending if this wasn't supposed to be 'the' version of Clark Kent going forward as was the intent when they first planned it all say to me that no, no fooling around, this is our guy going forward one way or another.

* Janin and Bellaire making the first version of the crystal Fortress ever that actually looks as cool as you want it to.

Anonymous asked: I like that Superman and The Authority is basically the anti-All-Star; instead of the laid back, immortal Superman who is supercharged, we have a stressed, ageing Superman whose tremendous powers are fading. The former will always be there to save us, but the latter is running out of time and needs to pull off a Hail Mary. Also, he mentions in his monologue to Black that he was "lost in time" when he met JFK, so maybe he is the main continuity Clark. Or he's the t-shirt Supes from Sideways.

* You're absolutely right - the power reversal is obvious and the ticking clock in play seemingly isn't for his own survival but everyone around him as he wakes up and realizes all the old icons grew complacent with the gains they'd made and he's not leaving behind the world he meant to. Both, however, are built on the idea of preparing the world to not need them anymore - it'll still have a Superman in his son, but that'll only work because of the others he empowers and inspires. The question is what happens to Clark if he's not going to live in the sun for 83000 years.

* Clark's 'exercise' here does more to sell me on the idea of Old Man Superman as a cool idea than however many decades of Earth 2 stuff.

* Intergang being noted alongside Darkseid and Doomsday speaks to how much Kirby informed Morrison's conception of Superman.

* This isn't exactly the most progressive in its disability politics but at least it makes clear Black's being a piece of shit about it.

* It's startling how much Clark can get away with saying stuff in here you'd never expect to come out of Superman's mouth. "I made an executive decision" "Privacy, really...?" "You have nowhere to go, Black. Nothing to live for." "There are few people in my life who I instinctively and viscerally dislike, and you've always been one of them." It only works because there's zero aggression behind it, he's just past the point of niceties and being totally frank while making clear none of these assessments preclude that he cares and is going to unconditionally do the right thing every time. He is absolutely, per Morrison, humanity's dad picking us up when we're too drunk to drive ourselves home.

* The story doesn't put a big flashing light over it, but it's not even a little bit subtle having the material threat of the issue be a ticking timebomb left by the carelessness and hubris of generations past.

* Manchester keeps trying to poke the bear and prove his hot takes about Superman and it's just not working. The front he put up under Kelley is gone after decades of defeats, and as Morrison understands what actually conceptually works about him as a rival to Superman underneath the aging nerd paranoia he's exposed as what he absolutely would be in 2021: a dude with a horrific terminal case of Twitter brainworms. I was PANICKED when I heard there was an 'offensive term' joke in this, I was braced for Morrison at their well-meaning worst, but it's such a goddamn perfect encapsulation of a very specific breed of Twitter leftist who uses their politics first and foremost as a cudgel and justification to label their abrasive, judgmental shittiness as self-righteousness (plus it's a killer payoff to a joke from way back in his original appearance). Cannot believe they pulled that off when they're so very, very open about basically not knowing how the internet works.

* @charlottefinn: Manchester Black using his telekinetic powers to force someone he hates to fave a problematic tweet so that he can screenshot it and start a dogpile

@intergalactic-zoo: “Once they cancel Bibbo, Superman won’t be *anyone’s* fav’rit anymore!”

* Friend noted this issue had to be fully the conversation because the whole premise stands on the house of cards of these two somehow working together, and with three 'silent' inset panels the creative team pulls off that turning point.

* So much of this feels on the surface like Morrison bringing back the All-Star vibes with Clark, but when he drops a "That's all you got?" in a brawl you realize what's underlining that bluntness and confidence in the face of failure is that deep down this is still the Action guy too. This dude ain't gonna get wrecked in his Fortress while the other guy chuckles about him being A SOFT WEE SCIENTIST'S SON!

* Bringing up Jor-El made me realize that Morrison already spelled out that this is the final threat to Superman, what he faces at the end of the road:

"Now it's your turn, Superman."

* A l'il Superman 2000/All-Star reference with the Phantom Zone map!

* There's so much intertextuality going on here even by Morrison standards - Change or Die with the old hero putting together a team of morally nebulous folks out to 'fix' everything, Flex Mentallo with the muscleman trying to redeem the punk, Doomsday Clock with the fate of the world hinging on whether Superman can get through to a meta stand-in for an idea of 'modern' comics cynicism, DKR and New Frontier and Kingdom Come and Multiversity and Seven Soldiers and What's So Funny and All-Star and Action and the last 5 years of monthly Superman comics and Authority and probably Jupiter's Legacy and Tom Strong - but none of that's needed. You could go in with the baseline pop cultural understanding of the character and not care about any of the inside baseball shit and get that this is a story about a leader of a generation that let down the people they made all their grand promises to as inertia and day-to-day demands and complacency let him be satisfied with the accomplishments they'd made long ago, looking at a new era and seeing the ways its own activists are dropping the ball. The only thing that fundamentally matters in a "you have to accept you're reading a superhero story" sense is that because he's Superman he's willing to own up to it and listen to people who might know better about some things and try to set things right while he and those who'll take his place still have a chance. And yes, the oldster looking back on their legacy with a skeptical eye and hoping for better from the next generation, hoping most of all that their little heir apparent can fulfill the promise inside of him instead of being a provocating little shitkicker, is obviously also autobiographical.

* The overlaying Kennedy reprisal is such a great visual of a sudden intrusive thought.

* The Kryptonite secret is the obvious "This is going to matter!" moment, but "He lied about his son" is a bit that doesn't connect to anything going on right now so maybe that's important here too? More significantly, the Justice League can't actually be the villains here but that Ultra-Humanite's crew are in an Earth-orbiting satellite makes pretty clear what's up.

* I've said before that between Superman, OMAC, and a New Gods-affiliated speedster this was going to use all of Morrison's favorite things. King Arthur playing a role isn't exactly dissuading me.

* Love the idea that all the antiheroes have their own community in the same way as the capes and tights crew. They definitely all privately think the rest are posers though and that they alone are Garth Ennis Punisher in a mob of Garth Ennis Wolverines.

* Manchester's fallen so far he's gone from trying to convince Superman to kill to convince him to dunk on people for their bad takes and Clark just doesn't get it. Official prediction of dialogue for upcoming issues:

"According to these bloody Fortress scans, the only thing that can restore your powers is an unfiltered hit of dopamine. Don't worry, Doctor Black has a few ideas."

"Hmm. Maybe I'll plant a nice tree?"

"...fuck you."

* Ok I already talked about how great the Fortress looks in here but LOVE this library.

* A pair of pages this seems like the right spot to discuss from Black's original appearance that underlines both his and Superman's inadequacies up to this point:

Responding to the problem of "the government and penal system are hopelessly corrupt" neither of them has any actual notion of what to do about it in spite of their respective posturing beyond how to handle individual outside actors - each is in their own way every bit as small-minded and reactionary as the other. Clark's coming around though, and he's holding out hope for the other guy.

* Superman: Have a lovely mineral water :) proper hydration is important :)

Manchester Black: *Is a dude who can get so mad he vomits and passes out. At water.*

* That last page is the one to beat for the year, and does more to put over the idea of this as an Authority book than that Midnighter and Apollo are literally going to show up. It also feels like Morrison tacitly acknowledging all the ways the premise could go or at least be received wrong - from Superman saying 'enough is enough' to who he's bringing into the fold to go about it - in the most beautifully on-the-nose fashion imaginable. Maybe they'll save us all! Or maybe they'll drown us in their vomit.

#Superman and The Authority #Superman #The Authority #Manchester Black #Grant Morrison #Mikel Janin #Jordie Bellaire #Steve Wands #Opinion

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birdmenmanga · 2 years

Note

41 (OTP Masterlist)

HIIII BESTIE <3

You didn't send a ship and therefore I will take this chance to expound upon both Karasuma and Takayama as well as Karasuma and Sagisawa <3

OTP Questions Masterlist

Who’s the most self-aware?

You see, I think being self-aware and being true to oneself are two different things. You can follow your heart's every desire, and still not really understand yourself (Takayama lol). On the flip side, you can be extremely self-aware, but also be a seasoned master in shoving whatever you're aware of in a disused warehouse. Yes, I'm talking about Sagisawa <3

I think I have a fair amount of evidence for Sagisawa being the most self-aware of the three. Even right from the get-go, Sagisawa was the only one who remembered his pact with Takayama, which in the grander scheme of the Metaphor seems to indicate that he's done quite a bit of self-reflection and is aware of his own queerness without any prompting from the others. When he awakened as a Trickster, he was fully aware of the fact he had awakened, and simply chose not to share.

In contrast, Karasuma's certainly less self-aware than Sagisawa. He needed Sagisawa to tell him and Kamoda that they're Birdmen now, and when he awakened as a Bellwether he needed Takayama to tell him that, too. Here, too:

Ch. 10, Seek

Karasuma's super caught up in the consequences of yelling Takayama's name while they were fighting his blackout, but he completely forgot about the fact that. like. he did that. and it's his fault. he completely forgot he was part of the equation at all. Maybe in some way he believes he can't really control his own behavior! Fascinating food for thought. Especially when he's thinking it over by himself:

The airplane is sending me. Is he thinking about his father in this moment? Is he thinking, "No, I might believe my own behaviors to be out of my control, but just as an example, my dad's behavior of being away all the time is definitely something that's within his control. I can change." And then in the text: "I will change. I suppose... It's my mistake..."

I think it comes down to the fact that Karasuma's sharp, for sure, but he struggles to conceptualize and verbalize his thoughts and feelings sometimes. Look at what Takayama tells him when Karasuma confronts him about his Awakening:

Ch. 21, Monster "You're the one who best understands it, right?"

The thing about Karasuma is that he understands things quite well on an intuitive level. Overcoming his biases on a cognitive level is a different matter though, and genuinely I think he's the king of being in denial. So sometimes, even when he's self-aware, he's also, you know,

Actually, now that I'm saying it, I think Takayama and Karasuma are both very Aware with regards to the greater workings of the world (Takayama on a more broad, universal and esoteric scale, of course). But between the two of them, Takayama is relatively MORE aware of the world and LESS aware of himself. It took him years of being a Birdmen and huge catalysts for change for him to even recognize that he wasn't self-aware. Same convo:

Ch. 21, Monster

I think it's especially interesting that in this chapter, Karasuma calls him out on his bullshit "I don't get a thing". Karasuma asks him about the specifics, and Takayama is able to answer-- when the question is about Birdmen. I think what he really means when he says he doesn't get a thing is that he doesn't understand the feelings in his heart... which isn't really what Karasuma's trying to ask about in that moment. Of course he's dissatisfied with that answer. He's trying to find out what happened to himself.

If Karasuma is fighting a constant battle to quantify his thoughts, Takayama doesn't even see the fact he's unable to verbalize/process his thoughts/emotions as a problem at all. (Once again Souji and Takayama are on the same wavelength.)

Ch. 19, New World

Takayama's lived his life in a way that he's become incredibly disconnected from the world. If there's nothing he truly cares for, then he doesn't need to respond in an emotional way to it. He doesn't need the skill of being self-aware at all.

There are tons of posts about Takayama's heroism, and the disconnect between being Takayama, the prophet and savior, and Takayama, Some Guy from Class A. In a lot of ways, Takayama not only feels obligated to remove himself from his emotional needs, I don't think he's even fully aware that he's done so. Cue the finale, which I was going to hide under a cut, but I've run up against the 10-image-per-post limit so I'll be detailing it under a reblog tomorrow I fucking guess

#birdmen #birdmen meta #karasuma eishi #takayama sou #sagisawa rei #asks #midnight-revelation #I didn't realize I had so much to say about Karasuma and Takayama. I feel like Rei got shafted #maybe I'll say some more about him later???#anyways I'm realizing that my 'im so normal about birdmen' post strat is actually the best #because reblogs of posts aren't limited to the 10 image limit #like my patho/shinichi essay had 12 images #and tumblr didn't throw a fit about that

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nincompoopydoo · 3 years

Text

PINING, BAGELS, REPEAT.

— WHEN THE DRINKING'S DONE ; PART 6 / ?

( gif from this gifset by @jascontodd )

PAIRING: Bruce Wayne x reader

WORD COUNT: 2.9k

SUMMARY: Sunday night dinner with your mother doesn’t go as planned when Bruce shows up unexpectedly at your door and you both know how your mother really loves him alot.

A/N: Slow and kinda long-winded chapter again haha. I used to be the kind of person who couldn’t write long stuff. Now look at me. Who is she??? Enjoy this one yall. Probably one or two more chapters to go, depends on how much I can write <3

WARNINGS: Swearing, alcohol. I write about what I feel and they are very real. So if you find these things triggering, please do not read this.

MASTERLIST ; MASTERPOST

Sunday night. You’re in an apron, flushed from the heat of the stove. You’ve just poured a glass of wine for your mother, but she doesn’t drink it—too busy walking around your apartment, clearing your stuff as she criticizes your lack of cleanliness and organization. Grading papers during exam season keeps you busy. Needless to say, you don’t have the time to clean your goddamn house.

You still love her anyway.

You’re at the sink, purple-stained fingers from peeling the tunic of the red onions are under running water when there is a knock on your door. It’s deafening, rapid, and agitating. You’ve just spilled boiling water onto your hand and you really don’t need another problem to come charging at your front door. Literally.

Moving out of the kitchen with haste, you call out over your shoulder to your mother to quit rearranging with bits and bobs of stationary and papers because yes, it’s messy but you know exactly where everything is. The knocking doesn’t cease, and your annoyance aggravates further. You’re gonna have to punch someone or something if it doesn’t stop.

You aggressively pushed the barrel of the bolt lock, swinging the door open as the strands of your wild hair flew backward in the sudden blow of air.

All forms of anger and agitation disappear as soon as your gaze meets the flushed face of none other than Bruce fucking Wayne, dressed in a grey dress vest, tie hanging loosely a pristine white shirt, and an ebony tweed overcoat. This feels like deja vu. Your expression goes through a series of mixed emotions, mostly confusion, when it morphed into a guise of embarrassment, cheeks even redder. “Don’t tell me I texted you by accident again?” He blinks, seemingly as bewildered as you are. “What? No, no. No. I—” His sentence is cut short when he takes a moment to catch his breath. Your brows are frowning even deeper than before. “Did you run here or something? And what are you doing here anyway?”

Bruce shifts in his stance, a palm against the door frame, shaking his head. He feels small under your interrogative stare. “No, I came here to see you…” he trails off, eyes shamelessly skirting across your figure. He just now notices that it may be a bad time for him to turn up, and you’re hit with the realization you’re in a ratty apron, very red and very sweaty. You’re right. It is deja vu because why are you always a mess when Bruce shows up at your front door unannounced? You abruptly pull the apron over your head, hurling it behind the door, hands palming the frizz of your hair into a somewhat presentable look.

“Look, I need to talk you—”

“Honey! Who’s at the door?” He’s being cut off mid-sentence again. This time, by your mother’s voice from the living room. Your eyes are wide again—so are his.

Your mother’s fondness for Bruce is an understatement. Obsession is a better word. She had only met him once, and that was six years ago but the conceptualization of being somewhat related to an exceptionally handsome and successful man had gotten to her head all those years ago. Hell, she loves him more than she loves you. Your mother—A woman who wishes to call your best friend ‘son’ with a whole lot of love to give. If she discovers Bruce is here, at your doorstep, she will never let go. Never. And you both know it. There’s a silent understanding that travels between the two of you and the look you’re giving him tells only one thing—Run before it’s too late.

“Bruce Wayne as I live and breathe...”

Well, too late.

A small-statured lady stands on the farther side of the hallway, face lit up with sheer joy and excitement as if she had just won a lottery. She approaches him with arms open wide and soon, her hands are laid on his cheeks, examining the man’s face carefully. Bruce just stands there, stiff as a rock, unsure of how to regain his composure from all the adrenaline of wanting to see you now that he was in such close proximity to the woman who raised you. When it’s you, he tends to struggle with timing and it’s partly the reason he has never managed to act on his feelings for you. For the longest time, he has wanted to be more than friends or whatever the hell this was. He had been hesitant but now, he’s very sure.

Sometimes it feels like it's the right person but the wrong time. He doesn’t want it to be that way. He wants to make things right with you.

And there he was, being squished under the grasp of the lady that loves him very much.

He catches your gaze; you flash him a sympathetic smile as you mouth the word “sorry.” Bruce arches his brows, indicating he has no idea what to do or how to get out of this situation.

“You’ve grown so much since the last time I saw you!” the older woman exclaims, a hand now firmly on his shoulder, the other brushing away his long strands of hair from his face with affection. Bruce would never admit it; he likes the attention your mother gives to him—the touch of a mother. Something he longs for.

“Why don’t you come in and join us for dinner? There's more than enough food.”

Crap, you should have known that question was bound to be mentioned. You’re not convinced that you will be able to suppress your emotional heartburn and the idea of Bruce tasting the dishes you’re cooking, it’s making your palms sweat. But what the hell. You shouldn’t be this nervous around him, you’ve known each other for years. He has seen you at your worst and vice versa.

Still, you’ll like to avoid the predicament of a dinner table set for you, your mother, and the man you secretly love. You’re quick with an answer. “Oh, I’m sure he has other important things to do. Bruce is very busy—”

“I’ll be happy to. I have no plans for tonight after all.”

You stare at Bruce, eyes glimmering with shock and betrayal—he is supposed to be on your side. He simply sends you a swift wink, and you feel the growing and most likely apparent deep red of your already flushed cheeks. You glance away to face your mother, eye crinkling in hopes of concealing the effect he has on you. Well, at least your mother looks fucking overjoyed. Maybe the night won’t end in disappointment.

The scent of chicken and spice whiffs through the air from the dishes of chicken and chorizo paella you’ve managed to whip up in a quick thirty minutes—a recipe you came by in an article titled “Fancy dishes for lazy cooks.” Well, it’s certainly working; everyone looks pleasantly surprised when you emerge from the kitchen with a cast-iron skillet within your kitchen gloved-grasp.

Happiness is the sound of the clinking of cutlery against nearly empty smeared plates, the splash of wine cascading from the bottle you held into the glasses of your guests, and the occasional laughter that erupts from your mother as Bruce tries to make a joke through mouthfuls of paella. A symphony of contentment and comfort, composed and orchestrated by the two most significant individuals in your life. Beauty is made anywhere beautiful people are; in this space, cramped up at the beech wooden table made for one by the casement window that overlooks the apartment across yours.

This side of Bruce—where boyish smiles were manifested and hearty laughs arising from the belly—is the side you miss the most. Years ago, things felt simpler though your past self would deny that notion as human life continues to become more intricate as we grow older and our eyes see more. Innocence to maturity. Happiness to grief. But, the complexity of this warfare between the brain and the heart seems to reside in perpetual darkness, no light at the end of the tunnel. For a long time, you thought deciding to be alone could eventually bring peace to the madness but maybe, you’ve been with the wrong people this whole time. It’s your reflection against the window pane that shows the evident crinkle in your eyes and the constant upward in the curve of your lips even though it contrasts the gloomy hues of blue from the sky at twilight—you’re happy.

It’s the way your mother leans over and wipes off the bits of rice from the corner of your mouth and the exchange of awkward smiles when Bruce accidentally brushes his hand against yours when reaching for the fork. This is what you want. And maybe, just maybe, you deserve to not be alone.

“So, have you decided on who you’re taking to the wedding?”

Your mother’s voice hauls you back from your daydream. She gives you a knowing look, discretely glancing towards Bruce on the other end of the table. She knows you don’t have a date, and you know she wants you to bring Bruce. You feel your anxiety creep back in.

This is weirdly the second time you’re in this situation.

“I don’t know yet...” In times like this, you wonder if your mother wields some sort of magical ability of truth or something because no matter how much you try, you can never lie to her. And now, you wish the ground would collapse and swallow you up. You know she means well, but oh my God, Bruce is staring at you and you don’t know what to do with your hands anymore.

“Wedding?” Bruce chirps with a questioning brow as he glances between you and your mother. Now, you’re forced to explain for the sake of context. “My cousin’s getting married next week and mom here wants me to bring a date.” Your mother’s expression indicates that you’re lying through your teeth. Yet in reality, it’s not technically a lie if you’re leaving parts of reason out of the explanation because it’s true she wants you to bring a date but you don’t mention how you don’t want to go alone because weddings make you sad.

It sounds pathetic.

Bruce just nods, taking a sip of his wine. The fact he’s not saying anything is making you anxious. You thought you didn’t want him to be your date but now, maybe you do. These feelings are messing up your brain. It’s just mush now, and there’s no cure.

These are the times you want to say “Fuck you, Bruce” but in the nicest way possible.

“Why don’t you bring Bruce?”

She was direct as they come but is mostly tired of your lack of initiative and doubt. I mean, it’s not like you’re asking him to marry you, right? And honestly, you’re kind of relieved you didn’t have to be one to do it but you can’t keep depending on her to do all the heavy lifting for you. You’re not a teenager anymore. You’re a goddamn grown adult.

Nevertheless, you peer at his reaction to this from the corner of your eye, fully expecting some sort of a resting jaded expression or eyes wide in horror but he’s just looking at you...with that look—highly bewildered and almost seems to be entertained by your embarrassment. Despite the purse of his lips, you manage to catch sight of the slight impish tuck of his lips.

He thinks it's the wine, but he isn’t exactly sure.

“Yeah, sure. Why not?”

“Are you sure about this?” you cross your arms, as you watch Bruce shrug on his coat from the rack. The two of you are squeezed in the entryway of your apartment, huddling in hushed conversation. “About what?” he asks absentmindedly when in reality, he knows exactly what you’re referring to. As much as he doesn’t want to admit it, it’s an excuse to be around you longer. You purse your lips, shifting in your stance, eyes flickering away from his gaze. “About coming to the wedding,” you say it slowly, carefully, like you’re afraid to and you’re not sure why. He nods with the furrow of his brows, tugging his hands into the pockets of his ebony tweed coat. “I’m sure...Unless you don’t want me to come—”

“No, no. God, of course, I want you to come,” you stop, realizing how your sudden outburst of excitement must have made you seem desperate. You clear your throat, feet shifting once more. “I don’t want to pull you off work just because I don’t want to be alone.”

He raises his brows, nearing a little closer to you. “So that’s the real reason?” A hint of a smile—it’s a teasing one. You simply throw a fist to his arm yet unable to stifle your growing smile. “Don’t be a jerk.”

Bruce winces followed by a laugh that comes out more light a puff of air as he bares his palms in a gesture of surrender. “Hey, I didn’t say anything.”

Maybe, it’s the walls of this hallway, covered with hung framed photographs of family, childhood, and friends because it’s starting to feel warm. You think it’s the way his eyes light up when you laugh, radiating a sort of comforting warmth on this cold night. It feels like home. Bruce feels like home. You notice the prominent stain of your mother’s lipstick on his left cheek. You bring one hand to rest on the curve of his cheekbone, thumb trying to efface the smeared stain away.

You’re not sure if it's the smell of his deodorant or the sudden sense of his breath on your skin that made you comprehend the closing gap between your face and his. In an instant, your hand jerks away and returns to your side, clenching to a fist. Bruce clears his throat, bringing a hand up to scratch the growing stubble at his jaw. The touch of your fingers lingers like a burn.

Recognizing the tension in the air, you decide to avert your thoughts back to the conversation you were having in the first place. “You know, you don’t have to come. Really. You’ve done a lot for me, and you know that.”

“Yes...but I’ll always have your back no matter what.”

He smiles at you. The kind that reaches his eyes. He looks younger like this.

“And I’ll always have yours, Bruce.”

You’re an idiot. He’s an idiot. You’re just two idiots, standing in the hallway with hearts that feel like they’re about to explode. Despite the lingering tension in the air that’s still present, you bring him into an embrace. It feels natural, your arms around his shoulder and his on the small of your back. “Thanks for everything. Especially for making my mom really happy.” you punctuate your sentence with a gentle caress to the back where his shoulders meet. You hear the muffled sound of his laugh, feeling the rumble of his chest against yours as you try not to squirm at the brush of his unshaven chin against the curve of your neck. “No problem,” he mumbles before pulling away.

“And you need a shave.” You’re pointing to his chin and he finds himself scratching it again. He merely hums in response.

Swinging the door open while you wave him goodbye feels like a part of you is leaving. You’re not sure why you’re feeling this newly found emptiness in you when you know you’ll see him next week. You decide to blame the wine. It’s easier that way.

He’s walking away, already out of view when you decide you should really say something at least.

“Bruce,” you suddenly call out; he turns on his heels and backtracks a little too eager to face you at the doorway. “What was it you wanted to talk about?” He frowns in response, head tilting in a questioning manner. “When you came here, you said you needed to talk.”

He recalls the real reason he was here in the first place. Rushing to your door like you’re about to disappear any minute. Yet, you’re here, still at the doorway, three hours later. Fuck, he was about to confess.

Bad timing. Again.

Right person, wrong time.

No. He’ll make it right. Just, not now.

“I was...going to thank you for the bagels; Asiago. Nice choice.” Is what he says instead of reciting the words that had been running through his head in rehearsal since the drive to your apartment. He ignores the way your shoulders sag, perhaps in relief—he doesn’t want to know. He ignores the burning in his chest when you nod, the corners of your mouth tugging into a faint smile as you raise a palm in a somewhat solemn wave of farewell. He ignores the sting in his eyes when the door closes on him, symbolizing finality when he really doesn’t want it to end. Left alone in the dismal light of the hallway; it acts as a poignant reminder of his bereavement and how much of his consolation depends on your presence.

When the drinking's done, does it make it any easier for him to open himself up to you?

Bruce allows himself to cry once he pulls the car door to a close because he feels overwhelmed by the conflicting thoughts that continue to reside in his mind. The regrets, the what-ifs, and the should-haves. He forgets himself sometimes because he gets so lost in his thoughts, he doesn’t recognize himself anymore.

You keep him grounded. You remind him who Bruce Wayne truly is.

He catches a glimpse of his reflection in the rearview mirror.

You’re right. He does need a shave.

TAGLIST:

@raineeace

#bruce wayne #bruce wayne x reader #batman #batman x reader #bruce wayne imagine #batman imagine #bruce wayne x you #batman x you #justice league

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sk1fanfiction · 3 years

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the many faces of tom riddle, part 1

-no hate (this is merely my humble opinion) but i strongly dislike tom hughes as tom riddle, and here’s why-

FULL DISCLAIMER THAT THIS IS JUST MY OPINION OF A CHARACTER WHO DOESN’T HAVE THE STRONGEST CANON CHARACTERIZATION, AND THUS ALL THIS IS BASED ON MY CONCEPTUALIZATION.

Just personally, this fancast induces a lot of cognitive dissonance for me, but this is the first time I’ve been able to sit down and articulate properly why it always throws me for a loop.

Now, does he fit the visual/aesthetic archetype?

Yes. I understand completely why people like this fancast. We know that he is studious, intellectual, and (at the time people generally fancast him for) involved in the criminal underground, and he more-or-less fits the physical description.

And, to be clear, it’s not that I don’t think Tom Hughes could play Tom Riddle, it’s that I don’t think the character he plays in the fancasts is a close enough approximation of Tom Riddle.

For me, herein lies the issue.

Tom Riddle’s character is all about the emotions bubbling under the surface. He’s a disaster waiting to happen -- he’s angry, he’s lonely, he wants revenge, he feels empty and hopeless and desperate, he’s irrational...

Not sure what movie/show the Tom Hughes clips come from, but the character he plays isn’t that at all. the character he plays is very self-possessed, poised, self-aware. Reflective. Remorseful (there are clips of him crying when/after he shoots someone). Introspective.

That, to me, is not Tom Riddle at all.

Yes, he does deal with moral conflict, but it’s never at the forefront of his mind. It’s not something he’s constantly grappling with. He doesn’t really... brood in this Hamlet-esque way.

Tom doesn’t think. Sure, he plans, he ruminates, he rationalizes a posteriori. But he’s very unaware of himself (in fact, it’s one of his fatal flaws). It’s not that he doesn’t have emotions; just that his internal state is a mystery most of the time.

He doesn’t connect with his own emotions; he is completely estranged from them. Tom cannot tell you whether he is happy or sad (not just because of his pride). He keeps his emotions and moral compass (which are highly uncomfortable things), in a locked little box, swallows the key, and disregards them. And yet, this character connects so deeply with his emotions that even the audience can see exactly what he’s going through.

(There’s an openness -- an ease of vulnerability -- that Tom Riddle doesn’t have)

The thing about Tom, is that he hates himself just as much as he hates everyone around him. Creating Horcruxes to save himself from death is not an act of self-love, or even narcissism to the extreme; instead, forcibly ripping your own soul seven times is the most literally and metaphorically self-destructive thing a person could possibly do.

"Of the Horcrux, wickedest of magical inventions, we shall not speak nor give direction —"

If we go all the way back to Book 1, Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone, you’ll remember that the eponymous material (first described in the Epic of Gilgamesh) is capable of producing the Elixir of Life, a magical substance that makes its drinker immortal, as long as you have a steady supply. Not only that, but according to the beliefs of historical alchemists (such as Nicholas Flamel), it was capable of curing any disease. In the alchemical tradition, it symbolized perfection, enlightenment, and heavenly bliss.

If all Tom Riddle was concerned about was prolonging his life, this is the obvious (and better) option.

Here’s the alchemical symbol of the Philosopher’s Stone. Looks kind of like the Deathly Hallows symbol, right? It represents the interplay of the (at the time, believed) four elements of matter -- a sort of periodic table, if you will.

The mature Philosopher’s Stone was believed to be a red stone (for making gold), and the immature one a white stone (for making silver). Rubeus Hagrid and Albus Dumbledore, anyone??

"So he's made himself impossible to kill by murdering other people?" said Harry. "Why couldn't he make a Sorcerer's Stone, or steal one, if he was so interested in immortality?"

And Dumbledore responds:

"But there are several reasons why, I think, a Sorcerer's Stone would appeal less than Horcruxes to Lord Voldemort.”

"While the Elixir of Life does indeed extend life, it must be drunk regularly, for all eternity, if the drinker is to maintain the immortality. Therefore, Voldemort would be entirely dependent on the Elixir, and if it ran out, or was contaminated, or if the Stone was stolen, he would die just like any other man. Voldemort likes to operate alone, remember. I believe that he would have found the thought of being dependent, even on the Elixir, intolerable...”

And while, yes, he did try to steal it rather than make it, I am sure that in the time it took Tom to make all of his Horcruxes, he could have learned enough alchemy to produce it for himself (or wheedled the information out of Nicholas Flamel). While Dumbledore hypothesizes that it’s because Tom hates feeling dependent, this must be irony, because he spends the first book as a literal parasite, the next three as a virtually helpless creature, and the remainder still reliant on his Horcruxes.

"Well, you must understand that the soul is supposed to remain intact and whole. Splitting it is an act of violation, it is against nature."

But, like me, Dumbledore is making guesses at Tom Riddle’s internal state, and in this case, I think, he’s made an oversight. Horcruxes make him equally as dependent as the Philosopher’s Stone would have. It’s been established in canon that you cannot make yourself immortal without help; either you rely on the continued existence of your Horcruxes or your supply of the Elixir.

And while the Elixir represents the positive aspects of eternal life, like renewal, rebirth, and the cyclical nature of the universe (see above the ouroboros of Cleopatra the Alchemist, one of the four women who knew how to make the philosopher's stone), a Horcrux is antithetical to life. It represents disorder, and once the creator of Horcruxes dies, they are unable to move on from Limbo -- shut out of the cycle. Harry describes Tom’s mangled soul as looking like a flayed and mutilated baby -- permanently immature and stagnant.

This theme of destruction is furthered by the Golden Trio’s discussion on how to reverse the process:

Ron: "Isn't there any way of putting yourself back together?"

Hermione: "Yes, but it would be excruciatingly painful."

Harry: "Why? How do you do it?"

Hermione: "Remorse. You've got to really feel what you've done. There’s a footnote. Apparently the pain of it can destroy you. I can’t see Voldemort attempting it somehow, can you?"

With this in mind, we can surmise that Tom is either (a) impatient, which we know he is not (b) there was some deeper reason for favouring Horcruxes -- so, yes, I believe that either metaphorically or literally, this was self-harming behaviour.

He takes on the name of Lord Voldemort because he hates himself, Tom Marvolo Riddle. He hates the Muggle part of himself so much that he’s willing to tear apart his entire being.

"Voldemort, is my past, present, and future, Harry Potter..."

If that isn’t renouncement of himself, I don’t know what is. He was clearly not born Voldemort.

While of course, this does NOT excuse ANY of his actions, I find it vastly implausible that the likes of Malfoy, Mulciber, Carrow, etc... would have been welcoming in any way, shape or form to an assumed ‘Mudblood’ in scruffy secondhand robes from a London orphanage, and as such, indoctrinated him into his fanatic belief in blood-purity via antagonizing him.

(Imagine Hermione, but poor and without parents, in the 1930s/40s. She would not have been treated well in Slytherin, either.)

Children are more vicious than you think. And while Tom probably gave as good as he got at Wool’s Orphanage (and was possibly an active aggressor himself), Hogwarts wouldn’t have been a level playing-field. (I’ll talk a bit about this and the significance of the Gaunt Ring in Part 2).

In other terms, I think Tom was bullied for having dubious origins. That’s often the swiftest way to radicalize someone, and would have left Tom with a crippling sense of self-hatred that I don’t think he would have even picked up from the orphanage.

(And it’s possibly this early experience with relational aggression that results in his constant need to be on the offensive/defensive, distrust of others, and fear of vulnerability. To me, this is an archetypal response of someone who was a past victim of bullying.)

Why else would an extremely powerful half-blood subscribe so strongly to those beliefs? (Rather than discriminating via amount of raw power or something -- because what Tom is immensely proud of when Dumbledore meets him is his ability, not his parentage). But I digress.

Now, Tom Riddle is never, ever quietly menacing like this. The mask is either completely on or completely off. We never see this character angry. Tom Riddle, when the mask slips off, is fury incarnate. Anger is the one emotion he doesn’t find weak; the one emotion he’s completely and utterly honest with.

Besides, that brings me to my next point. Tom’s not quite so austere. In fact, he’s quite witty, and often quite pleased with himself.

Just look at the difference in their body language. Tom has much more fluidity (he’s circling Harry, the head-tilt, the eyebrows move and he smiles a bit) than the other character, who has so much tension. Yes, they’re both menacing, but in completely different ways. Tom is comfortable with his actions, no matter how shitty they are. This other guy doesn’t like doing what he’s doing, but he’s going to do it, anyway.

Contrasted with the above, Tom’s unawareness of himself is such that we end up with a character who has a bizarre mix of extreme self-hatred and high self-esteem -- he always believes he is in the right -- in this case, doing Salazar Slytherin’s noble work -- while going to extreme, self-destructive lengths, such as tearing himself in half at the mere age of sixteen.

So, sorry... I kind of get the appeal, but... I don’t like the fancast.

(More unpopular opinions coming at 5:30 PM EDT tomorrow!)

#tom riddle #the many faces of #tom marvolo riddle #character analysis #character study #tom hughes #unpopular opinion #i am so getting cancelled #look i spent actual time trying to get those two gifs on the same line but it just wasn't happening #they line up if you make your window narrower #tw: mention of self-harm

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