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wilbursoot-updates · 3 months

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Lovejoy, The Twisted New British Boy Band

Wilbur is mentioned in this article!

It was a December night, and as finals’ hush fell across campus, we fled north to the Aragon Ballroom for their Twisted Xmas. Little did we know just how sick and twisted it would be. (Although there was no punk-Christmas music played, thank God). We went for Lovejoy, an up-and-coming band in the pop-punk scene whom we had found by misremembering the name of Grouplove.

Under the Ballroom’s eaves, nestled in a crowd of teenage girls and their mothers, we caught sight of a woman’s lock screen next to me: “I’m nothing without you” scrawled in gothic handwriting. We weren’t sure what we had gotten ourselves into. Were we joining some kind of cult? Something that might continue to fill us with stories and motivation long after the concert, long after the holidays, through this winter and into the coming years? Then, lead singer Wilbur Soot, a teenage girl’s dream, stepped on stage with tousled hair. His toothy smile put me at ease and his mellifluous British accent calmed and enthralled us as the music came on.

While Soot was the center of the show, what’s a boy band without its boys? Bassist Ash Kabosu stood to Soot’s left, rocking shoulder-length hair and dark shades, in front of drummer Mark Boardman. Lead guitarist Joe Goldsmith flanked Soot to his right, performing in front of Alan Osmundson, the band’s touring trumpeter and keyboard player (who’s also an MIT Aerospace Engineering grad).

Lovejoy opened with a rolling drum beat, a groovy bass line, and an upbeat guitar melody. “Concrete” displayed all their charms. Soot counted his friends into the jam session before recalling a perhaps-fictional night out at 3 a.m. Someone, barely described, is making quite a commotion over Soot’s late-night kiss, enough that both our charming British boy and the bar’s bouncer is upset. Is this just a jealous fan? A long-term girlfriend? Someone a little too invested in that lovely accent? Soot recommends they “sleep on the concrete.” This tall, lanky boy, thin enough to be blown over by a small gust of wind, has a naughty streak in him! Soot’s music plays into emo and punk tendencies, writing about the dark sides of relationships and fighting the system, yet nastiness also comes from within him, giving him power and control.

And yet, somehow all the twisting only adds to this British boy’s allure. Soot’s songwriting is unconventional. It does not hold individual lines of lyrics like many other artists but instead rambles like prose, where one line is only understood by the context of the three lines before and after. With every song, the band publishes a short story. These short stories are just as much musical and emotional as they are lyrical. You would be forgiven for not knowing the names of “Concrete” or “It’s Golden Hour Somewhere” while they played. The refrains are so much less punctuated in his style, and it is hard to hear Soot sing those words over the sound of the entire crowd. Those of us at the concert experienced his stories collectively, uniting in these twisted and tousled emotions. Maybe this is a cult. We chose to join it by buying a hoodie, and they rewarded us with a trading card. What a great souvenir for my night with Wilbur the Hero.

#lovejoy #wilbur soot #posting this here so everyone can read this insane article #articles

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jewish-sideblog · 4 months

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During last year’s Chanukkah, I toured Yad Vashem. My tour guide ended with a story that will probably stick with me for the rest of my life.

A Jewish father and his son are held prisoner in Auschwitz— they are lucky, all things considered. Most Jews were gassed upon arrival. The Nazi guards instruct the prisoners that they have to dig mass graves for their fellow Jews every day. The father is appalled by this, of course, but he doesn’t have much choice. A week goes by, and the father and the son are subjected to horrors they could not have imagined before. The first Friday evening in Auschwitz, the father goes to his son and says, “I cannot work on Shabbat. I will not dig graves for Jews on Shabbat. For all my other reservations, I cannot do it, because the Talmud forbids it.” The son is barely fourteen, but he knows that if his father refuses to work, then his father will die. So he goes to meet another prisoner, a former Rabbi. The son pleads with the Rabbi to help his father see sense, and so the Rabbi and the son go together to meet with the father.

“The Talmud forbids us to work on Shabbat,” the Rabbi says, “but pikuach nefesh overrides Talmudic law when a life is in danger. Your life is in danger. Your son’s life is in danger. You are allowed to work on Shabbat.” The father begrudgingly agrees, and he saves his family’s life by digging mass graves on the day of rest.

A few months go by, and the Nazis are running low on food, so they start grinding pig hooves and guts into the slop that gets fed to the prisoners at Auschwitz. The father finds out about this and begins to starve himself. “G-d commands in the Torah us not to eat pork,” he says. The son, out of concern for his father, gets the Rabbi again. “Pikuach nefesh overrides the Torah as well as the Talmud. You must eat, for your life and for your son’s sake. Eat what is given to you. G-d will overlook violating kosher if it means surviving in a place like this.” So the father starts to eat what he is given.

Miraculously, the father and the son survive until winter. There’s never enough food for all the prisoners in Auschwitz to eat, and so there are frequent fights over scraps, but the most valuable thing in the slop is fat. Fat can keep you warmer in the winter, and it can be used to cover up and heal small injuries. If the Nazi guards noticed so much as a scratch on you, they would send you to the gas chambers that same day. Fat was gold in Auschwitz. At some point, the son noticed that the father had been ignoring food and collecting fat. He wasn’t trading it for scraps or favors, he was just keeping it. And he was starving to keep it. So once again, the son and the Rabbi approached the father.

“I’m turning it into a candle,” he said, “for Channukah.” The son and the Rabbi were appalled. The Rabbi said, “Channukah is a cultural holiday. It is not ordained by G-d. Neither the Torah nor the Talmud command you to celebrate it. Why in G-ds name would you sacrifice your food for that?” The father replied,

“You can live three days without water. You can live three weeks without food. But you cannot live three minutes without hope.”

The son and the Rabbi helped the father fashion wicks from rags and clothes, and helped steal small bits metal of metal off corpses and guards to make a spark. They lit Channukah candles in the middle of a Nazi concentration camp. The father and the son survived off of hope for the rest of that year, and they both lived to see the liberation of Auschwitz. The father died soon afterwards, but the son, Hugo Gryn, went on to become a Rabbi himself. In fact, the Rabbi of West London Synangoue, and the leader of the British Reform movement. He was described as the most beloved Rabbi in the country. He never lost sight of hope.

#Channukah #hanukkah #jumblr #shoah mention #Auschwitz mention #tw ed #I think I convered all the relevant triggers but please reach out if I’ve missed one

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fannyrosie · 7 months

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Back in August, my mother, my sister and I did a three day roadtrip to Lake Placid in New York State, where the 1932 and 1980 Winter Olympics were hosted. We hiked and visited Adirondack natural wonders the two first days, but because my health was starting to fail me on the second day, we kept the third one for visiting the Downton Abbey costume exhibition at the Lake Placid Center for the arts.

On our way to the exhibit, we passed by the Pines Inn, formerly known as the St. Moritz Hotel, a hotel built in 1907. I had wanted to stay at that hotel, but my mom refused, saying it was in poor shape and looked haunted on the hotel booking sites (she wasn't wrong, but I love that stuff, as you know). I still insisted for us to at least visit it, and we sure did NOT regret it. We stumbled upon one of the concierges (or new owners, correct me if you see this!), and he loved my outfit so much that he gave us a tour of the hotel, including in areas closed to guests. He told us that Albert Einstein and the Kennedys had been guests at the hotel, that there was n*de sunbathing on the roof in the 1930s and that a lot of the furniture was original. Sadly, after the 80s, the hotel slowly went into decrepitude and abandonment, and many things got stolen and damaged. The new owners are currently working hard to restore the hotel, and it's indeed a lot of work.

Outfit rundown Dress: vintage Ingeborg (Pink House) Velvet michiyuki: vintage Hat: Rudsak with added brooch by Fuwari Gloves: vintage Shoes: old Clarks Bag: second-hand Vivienne Westwood Belt: thrifted Big British stamp brooch: second-hand Jane Marple Small marine cat stamp brooch: Via Carousel Anchor and crest brooches: vintage Earrings: old Dracolite

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b33zlebubz · 2 months

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RIGOR MORTIS | CHAPTER TWO

SIMON RILEY X AFAB READER | MASTERLIST | AO3 PREV CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER TAGS: reader uses she/her pronouns, blood violence & death, suicidal ideology, slow burn, enemies to lovers, forced proximity, toxic workplace environment "Abandoned in a battlefield with the one person you thought you would never see again; you're forced to come to terms with the ghosts of your past."

FRIDAY DECEMBER 3RD 2016 NORWAY, 0700 HOURS

Simon decides he prefers the cold.

Brazil is a pretty place, sure. Of all the places he has been stationed, it's been by far one of the nicest; the closest to vacation that Simon Riley will ever get other than medical leave. Running in over ten kilos of gear and getting shot at while doing it is probably one of the only things that could ruin a free trip to the tropical continent; he swears he nearly waterboarded himself with the amount of sweat he produced. He went through three masks alone just in the two short weeks he was there, two of which had to be replaced.

Norway, though, was a little more tolerable.

He's new to the area, to the camp and to the people. It's a nice day, for winter, but the frigid sun still stings through the eyeholes of his mask and where his gloves don’t quite reach the sleeves of his parka. A familiar feeling; one he didn't exactly miss, but was closer to home and sure as hell beat the sweltering tropical heat of Brazil.

Captain Walker walks just a few strides in front of him, droning on about the base and what Simon would be doing here. He had wasted no time at all giving Simon a tour of the camp fresh off the plane after he met with a few of the other COs he would be working under over the next couple of weeks.

It's busy for a relatively small and temporary base. Soldiers of all ranks dart left and right; training, talking, and commuting. Most of which are British, like him, but others are foreign as well. He takes some amusement in the juxtaposition between him and the shorter man in front of him as he walks, and he's sure the others do, too. Even some higher-ups are curious, pausing in the halls to take in his form a second time in surprise.

Simon's grown complacent over the years, he will admit. He's too used to being around the same bases for too long, too used to people not sparing him a glance as he walks past—or rather—too used to people being used to him. Here, people of all kinds seemed to lose track of what they were doing as he strides past, staring shamelessly. Of course, he stares back, and it's usually enough to snap them out of it and send them on their way.

"Of course, you've likely been given the run-down plenty of times already, so I'll spare you all that rubbish," Walker drones on. He's short. Older, for an infantry man, but still strong, and with enough temper to make up for what he lacks in youth and height. "I expect you know what you're doing with that shiny new rank of yours. Need more men like you around…experienced men."

It isn't often Simon is sent anywhere for instructional purposes. But with a recent lull in the violence and bloodshed in the world, he finds himself on more and more assignments like these—things to keep him busy. Keep him moving. With his new rank, he's attracted more work with leadership than much of anything else.

Camp Viking, Norway. Assist Marine and Navy Corps with Arctic conditioning and training.

Should be easy enough.

"So, what's the uh…the deal?"

Simon raises an eyebrow at Walker, deciding to humor him despite knowing exactly what he was about to ask. "Hm?"

"The classified-up-the-ass skeleton getup," he clarifies, eyeing Simon up and down. "You think you're some superhero or something?”

The beginnings of an amused smirk twitch onto the lieutenant's face. One thing that would never get old no matter where he was relocated was fucking with people.

"Something like that."

That seems to quell the man's curiosity for the time being. He raises an eyebrow with an amused, or annoyed, huff before he shakes his head and changes the subject.

"For some of these boys…you're the only thing standing between them and a promotion," Walker gestures loosely to the shooting range at his right, where a handful of soldiers have taken to practicing. "Don't go easy on 'em. Not that I expect you to."

"Copy," Simon remarks, eyes sweeping across the field as he follows the captain. The older man gestures to a plethora of concrete buildings and a few important people to remember. He talks a lot, much more than Simon cares to listen to—but he follows anyway, taking in the scenery and acquainting himself with what will be his life for the next few weeks. He eyes the soldiers around the shooting range, committing their faces to memory before Walker calls them to attention.

They're quite the squad. Young, experienced. Ghost notes with a huff that it's silent—the typical general shenaniganry of the Marines nonexistent; the product of strict instructors. The captain goes on with all the formalities, introducing Simon and what he's here to do with the squad.

Simon's eyes sweep the soldiers, who all avert their gaze the moment his eyes meet theirs.

Yours, however, doesn't.

You're rigid-still. So still Simon thinks that if it weren't for the steady rise and fall of your chest, you'd be frozen to the snow you stand on. Spine straight as a pole, boots pressed together, hands clasped at your back; the only thing that moves are your eyes when they flicker up to meet his. Simon lingers, staring at you, eyes squinting down at where your upper face is exposed from your uniform gator.

At first glance, you're harmless. A handful of years younger than him, maybe—you seem like just another soldier who was roped into a station she was less than happy about. He also thinks, maybe, he can tell what you're thinking—because you hold your head just a bit higher to make yourself appear taller.

Your face is banged up. Your nose is slightly crooked and there's a healing bruise across the bridge and under your eyes. A scabbed-over cut crosses your upper cheek and another one cuts into your brow. Your cheeks are sunken and your eyes bagged; and if Simon didn't know any better, he'd say it looked like you've been outside in the cold for weeks.

"Well," Simon huffs. "Aren't you a sight."

There's a glint in your eyes and Simon quickly realizes he's already underestimated your confidence. "Could say the same to you, Lieutenant."

He raises an eyebrow at your boldness. For a second, it's silent. Behind him, Walker's head raises—appalled by your lack of respect.

"Ignore her," he says. "She may look it; but she’s no angel. ‘Got more insubordination on her record than I have fingers on both hands, at this point."

Simon swears he sees your expression twitch, a slight crinkle of your injured nose at Walker's comment. Your eyes flash with a concoction of emotions all hidden behind a barrier of discipline. Regret, anger—fear, maybe—at the edge in your Captain's voice. Nevertheless, you remain stoic.

Hm.

"Seems like you've had quite the week." Simon says to you. "Eh, Angel?"

You seem to short-circuit at the new nickname he dubs onto you, or maybe at the vaguest empathy in his voice—he can't tell. He can see your mouth open with a response before it snaps shut again. Your gaze flickers from Ghost, to Walker, and then back to Ghost again.

"I…" you trail off, and then straighten yourself again. "I will not hinder the team moving forward, sir."

It’s not really the answer he’s looking for. His eyes narrow at you and your stubborn resolve, as if maybe if he looked at you close enough, he could see behind the thick wall of discipline you’ve put up. He has questions, and lots of them.

He holds your gaze for another moment, as if testing you. When your stare doesn't budge, he finally relents with an approving nod.

"Hm," he says. "Good."

Walker calls the squad at rest and Ghost continues on with the tour. He feels your stare linger on the back of his neck as he walks close behind the captain before you return to target practice. Once you’re out of earshot, Ghost turns his attention back to Walker.

“Captain.”

The Captain sighs, already knowing what's about to be asked of him before Simon can say anything, “Lieutenant.”

“I’d like to take a look at her file once we get back to your office.”

“Copy that, Ghost.”

#simon ghost riley x reader #call of duty #call of duty fanfiction #cod #cod x reader #simon ghost riley #call of duty modern warfare #ghost fanfiction #simon riley fanfic #ghost x reader #cod ghost #simon riley

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goingxmissing · 4 months

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2023 camera roll: fandom edition

One photo per month of fandom shenanigans that made me so happy this year. Captions under the cut. Happy new year everyone!

January - Max cushion, spotted at a market and immediately purchased. The stallholder proudly told us she'd made it herself. British Max fans in the wild!

February - Get yourself a girlfriend who unknowingly buys you a matching Valentine's Day card 🤣

March - Get yourself a girlfriend who sees they're displaying an RB car at a nearby shopping outlet and demands you have a day out to visit

April - If you have that girlfriend, you gotta propose to her next to the Ross Fountain, with Edinburgh Castle in the background (@strawberry-daiquiris is my favourite thing I've found in fandom)

May - Miami GP watch party at the hotel at Silverstone. An Experience, to say the least. Not sure if our usual race commentary is appropriate for a public watch party...

June - Red Bull Factory drive by (we didn't go in because we aren't millionaires and their tours are £££)

July - Silverstone. Watched quali from Copse and simped over Oscar's P3 interview

August - Zandvoort. Waiting for Driver Interviews at the Fan Stage (simping again)

September - That episode of Unboxed was too powerful for a phone screen

October - Austin. Williams Fan Zone. More simping; don't we all look at Alex Albon the way the Williams media guy does?

November - Watching our Oscar Christmas jumpers cross Europe and hoping they would arrive before 2024 (they did!)

December - Silverstone Winter Tour, got a bus around the track, went up to the podium, walked the pit lane and the starting grid, 10/10 would recommend

What an incredible 2023 I've been lucky enough to have. Thank you to all creators as you exponentially improve the fandom enjoyment experience ❣ here's to more in 2024!

#just getting emotional about a brilliant year don't mind me #h calls going to a GP 'attending blorbo festival' and we have been SO lucky to get to go to 3 this year #trying to be sensible* and just plan 2 next year #*this is enforced as we have to go to TWO destination weddings in May as if it's not the best time for European races 😭#the only new year's resolution i've made is to wear a different item of team merch for every race day lmao #this was so much more fun than the sanitised insta version will be 🤣 please enjoy the true unhinged-ness!#about me

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medusa8bit · 7 months

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TASTE OF CHAOS 2009

the tour known by many as ‘winter warped’; despite being handpicked by organiser kevin lyman after their breakout run on last summer’s warped, high powered british upstarts bring me the horizon still can’t believe they’re on the bill, let alone as co-headliners. “when i heard who else was on the tour, i was shocked” admits frontman oli sykes. “i thought every other band on taste of chaos were bigger than our band, it still doesn’t make sense to me”. the band are sure of one thing – they know what chaos tastes like. “it tastes like a big, sweaty penis,” remarks sykes before laughing. hear that sound? the internet rumor machine just went into overdrive.

(retrieved from the alternative press web archives)

#bmth #bring me the horizon #oli sykes #oliver sykes #matt kean #lee malia #matt nicholls #curtis ward #metalcore #alternative press #one of the photos of them ever btw ♡

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1920sitgirl · 11 months

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The Vancouver Amazons, a 1920s women’s hockey team.

If you go back to 1900 you’ll find an anual tournament hosted by the city of Rossland and discover that New Westminster also began hosting competitions in 1914, but unfortunately as hockey arenas we’re commandeered for the war effort women’s hockey struggled to survive, thus began their fight for recognition.

In 1918 a strong team made up of high school girls hungry for the win schooled the Vancouver ladies hockey team. They called themselves the Amazons, their play was aggressive and they showed no fear, not only were they slick enough to win against VL but were bold enough name themselves the B.C champions. Their claim was controversial and the team would soon be put to the test.

In 1921 came the Alpine cup, A trophy donated by the Alpine Club of Canada for women’s hockey to the Banff Winter Carnival. Although having competitions to play in is now seen as the bare minimum this cup raised the profile of women’s hockey, in a sense women now had a Stanley Cup to play for. The cup was first won by the Calgary Regents and with the bitter feeling of losing still lingering this marked the start of the Vancouver Amazons revenge tour.

At a West Coast women’s championship that took place the same year, the Amazon’s were up against the Victoria Kewpies and American team the Seattle Vamps. This was the first international competition in women’s ice hockey history, the Amazons won every single game and proved they were a force to be reckoned with by not conceding a single goal. Striving forward with the feeling of victory their tour continued, back with a new momentum they were ready to compete again for the Alpine cup in the 1922 tournament. The roster for this tournament included Elizabeth Hinds, who, while competing became the first woman from British Columbia to score a hat trick in a game, Phebe Senkler who captained the amazons, Senkler’s Sister Norah who played defence, Forward’s Kathleen Carson and Nan Griffith and Amelia Voitkevic as goaltender. In the championship game they were once again face to face with their old rivals the Calgary Regents, the game was tied 1-1 and sent to overtime by Amazons player Kathleen Carson, Celebrated for “having a shot like a man’s” Kathleen went on to score again, winning the championship in overtime and securing her team the most coveted title in women’s ice hockey “Lady Champions of Western Canada”

Top photo = Members of the Vancouver Amazons

Middle Photo = A newspaper clipping highlighting the Amazons victory against the Vancouver Ladies

Bottom photo = The Vancouver Amazons with the Alpine cup

#in my hockey era😎#talking history #women’s hockey #women’s ice hockey #woho #women in history #women’s history #women’s sports #hockey history #ice hockey #ice hockey history #vancouver #Vancouver hockey #nhl #historyblr #histblr

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anjaelle · 1 year

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White Light | Part II

Characters: Ghost!ATJ + Black Female!Reader Rating: T+ (For language. Again...pretty tame so far) Word Count: 2.8K Summary: You've learned three very important things: 1) Ghosts are apparently real. 2) They can touch you if they're determined enough. 3) They will live with you for months and not pay rent, but reap all the benefits. A/N: Thanks for everyone that read part one. It would be super encouraging if people who read my story actually reblogged/commented on it, as it's hard to gauge what I could improve on or add more of without feedback.

[PART I] | [PART III] | [Masterlist]

The year was 2002.

He'd just moved to the city from England, eager to make his mark in the US with his band, Crimson Zombie. It was a shit name, admittedly--they had a plan to work on it. They'd heard from friends of friends that there was a bubbling underground music scene, and a couple of pretty damn good venues with well-known patrons. They were a group of four incredibly over-eager Uni dropouts who jumped first and asked questions later. The housing market wasn't too bad, considering the fact that everyone was trying to get the hell out of the downtown area after 2001. They had to couch surf for a couple of weeks before finding a space they could all live in on a budget. It wasn't much, but it was something.

He wasn't the lead of the band, a fact he was perfectly content with. He preferred standing in the back with his bass guitar, getting lost in the noise of the crowd and the melody without the pressure of looking perfect while he did it. That responsibility was left to his best mate Gavin, who had the looks, charisma, and talent as the frontman to make the band memorable in a sea of guitar playing white guys.

It took six months for them to gain a small following. And as they transitioned into the new year, they began getting a ton of attention they hadn't expected. Maybe it was the novelty of their Britishness. Maybe they were finding their sound. By the winter of 2003, they were well on their way to signing with an indie label and finally releasing a record.

That's when he met Talia.

Aaron was genuinely surprised when she initially approached him at a gig, since Gavin was usually the one women flocked to, the other guys were way more outgoing, and Aaron was more reserved. She was fresh out of college and working at a coffee shop, but making art on the side. The band tapped her to design their EP covers and merch, and then gave her a cut of the profits. Aaron and Talia grew closer after a few late nights of brainstorming and no-strings-attached fucking. He was beginning to catch feelings, and began to notice the growing animosity Gavin had towards their relationship.

"You don't fall for the groupies," he once said over a bottle of Jameson, "You're fucking mad if you think you'll survive touring. She'll cheat on you the minute your back is turned."

Aaron defended her which led to a shouting match. Gavin didn't speak to him for over a week, but he didn't care. He just knew that he loved her.

It was an unseasonably warm night in March when he plucked up the courage to finally ask Talia to be his girlfriend. They'd just finished an opening set at a sold out show, and were celebrating in their apartment with booze and some assorted party favors the other band mates called in. Ordinarily, Aaron would be right alongside them. But that night, he'd been nervously chain smoking out the living room window as he waited for her to come to the party after her shift at the shop.

He remembered Gavin giving him the cold shoulder all night, and snorting every last bag of coke off of their coffee table well into the evening. He remembered their band mates telling him to slow down before he OD'd. Aaron could hear them arguing from the kitchen, but he kept his eyes trained on Talia's silhouette crossing the street to their apartment building. The arguing moved into the living room. Aaron was about to call down to her from the window. There was a shout, a shove, immense pain in his head.

And then he died.

-x-

"JESUS FUCK!" You screamed, jumping out of bed and rushing to the door. With shaking hands, you managed to pull your front door open and scream out into the hallway, "SOMEBODY PLEASE HELP ME!"

Then you ran out, clad only in your pajamas and a pair of fuzzy socks.

He sat frozen on the bed, completely unsure of what to do or say to right the situation. From your perspective, a random man just showed up in your apartment and started touching your hair. Admittedly, he was being creepy. He couldn't blame you for being afraid. But he didn't know how to tell you that you were about to look absolutely insane for your accusation. When he came back to his senses, he found himself cradling the hand that touched you. Like it was sacred. It might as well have been.

In your haste to escape the danger of a dead guy, you left your front door wide open. For a moment he contemplated closing it--if he had the strength to anyway. But then he decided that it'd be better to just leave it alone in case you returned.

And you did! Eventually. It took several minutes for you to come back with your neighbors and the building's security guard in tow. He felt immediate guilt when confusion crossed everyone's face, as they peeked around the corner and saw no one there. But you stared right at him with fear etched onto your features. You parted your lips to speak, but nothing came out but a slow shuddering breath.

"They can't see me," he admitted, holding up his hands in an attempt at reassurance, "They can't hear me. It's just you...for some reason."

"No, no, no this can't be fucking happening." He heard you mutter to yourself, holding your head in your hands and turning your back to him. Your neighbors flurried around you to ask you questions about whether you wanted to file a report, and what the perp looked like. Several minutes of babbling passed, and you disappeared into the hallway again, closing the door tightly behind you without passing another glance his way.

It was odd. For the most part he couldn't really recognize anyone, and he was hit with the realization that everyone he knew from the building probably moved away. The feeling of the world moving on without him was still something he had trouble accepting.

Despite the initial shock of being seen, Aaron decided to play it cool. He felt around for his one loose cig that never seemed to disappear, no matter how many times he smoked it. He couldn't taste or smell a goddamn thing, but the fact that he died with one last cigarette in his pocket gave him an ounce of hollow comfort.

"Okay," he sighed to himself, propping his chin in his hand and tucking his cigarette behind his ear, "So...assuming she doesn't immediately move out, I need to figure out a way to explain this to her."

He snorted. He could barely explain this phenomenon to himself, let alone a living woman he's been mildly enamored with for months. He became hyper aware of the fact that the tingling in his hand disappeared after you left, and he wasn't sure if he missed you because of it. Or maybe he just missed you because he could finally talk to you and had so many questions to ask.

In fact, this was the first time he'd spoken to anyone. He instinctively grabbed the phantom cigarette and lit it with the phantom lighter, choosing to enjoy the illusion of relief it brought him.

Would you smell it? You smoked, too, but only rarely. And never cigs. Could you smell his smoke this whole time?

If you could, he decided he was a massive dick.

It was approaching dawn when you returned, and his heart leapt into his throat. Like he was an eager dog awaiting his owner.

Disgusting.

He had to remind himself that he knew you, but you knew nothing about him. Instead, he remained silent, choosing to stand close to the living room window far across the room. Your eyes met, and he noticed that you didn't look so afraid anymore. Instead, he noticed the exhaustion. He had to fight the impulse to voice his concern.

"You don't look so good," he plainly said, scratching the back of his head, anxiously.

You licked your lips and squinted at him, shutting the door behind you.

"You and I need to talk."

You explained to him that you spent hours speaking to your grandmother to make sense of things. You weren't a stranger to the supernatural--your family was full of spiritually sensitive people. But you were convinced that it skipped you. That you wouldn't ever have to deal with the craziness that seemed to follow every woman in your family. Yet here you were, sitting at your dining room table across from a guy who died in your apartment. Despite the slightly nervous nature of his demeanor, you were surprised at the level of calm you were both exuding.

He tucked his cigarette between his teeth and you clocked how unnaturally bright it was, and how slow it burned. You could faintly smell it. But it smelled like someone was smoking in a room down the hall, not right across from you.

You took a deep breath and he licked his lips.

"Ok...what do you wanna know?" He asked, resting his chin on the table.

You didn't expect him to seem so real. So human.

"Do you know you're dead?" You asked. It was a dumb ass question, but he smiled patiently at you and shrugged.

"Yeah. I kinda figured that when I couldn't leave out of the front door anymore. For like a few years."

You swallowed hard at the intensity of his eyes on you and looked down at your hands.

"Have you been watching me this whole time?"

There was a pregnant pause and he hummed to himself.

"I didn't...mean to," he admitted, "But, as you can see, there's not much room in here to avoid you."

"Avoid me?"

He shook his head, "I wasn't trying to get in your way. I was just...here. Can't really be helped, you know? What was I supposed to do?"

You considered this for a moment, then thought back on the conversation that you had with your grandmother a few hours before.

"Why are you still here? Why didn't you move on to the other side?"

He shrugged again, choosing to ruffle his curls in thought. "Fuck if I know. I might be dead but I don't know anything about death and spirits and shit. I was just...a guy. I had a band. I hate being stuck here--or, I used to anyway," his eyes flickered to you for a moment before focusing on the table again, "I just thought I was being punished or something."

The entire time you spoke to him, you had your cell phone on the table recording the conversation. You hoped that it was catching his voice as well as yours, but it was an absolute shot in the dark.

"Punished for what?" You gently pushed.

"Beats me. I was pretty boring when I was alive." His eyes glanced up at you again, but he didn't look away. Instead a slow smile pulled at the corner of his mouth and you felt your face warm up.

"What?"

"Nothing," he chuckled, "It's just nice to have someone to talk to."

You didn't even think about that: How lonely the last few decades must have been before you moved in. How much he missed before he even hit 30. How angry he must have been about his situation.

You sighed deeply, "Do you know what year it is?"

"2022." He stated, plainly. You were surprised.

"How do you know?"

He motioned to the window, referencing a billboard propped on the roof of a building across the street. At the moment, it had a fading image of a thin, blonde woman modeling a pair of very expensive pink stilettos, with a bottle of perfume propped on the heel.

"The time and date are at the bottom," he explained, "I think that's the only thing that's been stopping me from going mad. That, and being able to see life happen outside on the street. That's about it."

You sat in that for a moment, allowing you both to indulge in the comfort of new company and much needed silence. You kept noticing him stealing glances at you, like he was studying your face. You briefly wondered how often he did that before you noticed him.

"Why were you touching me? HOW were you touching me?" You suddenly questioned. He blinked rapidly like he was being pulled out of his own deep thoughts, and you could swear that you saw a blush creep along his cheeks. He cleared his throat.

"It--I...didn't, like--I wasn't really TRYING to touch you. Like, I-I thought...I don't know what the fuck I thought, really."

You blinked at him, but couldn't help the chiding grin that formed on your face by how flustered you seemed to make him, "You know I find that hard to believe, right?"

He blushed a deeper red and rubbed the back of his head again, "I've never been able to do that before. Bloody fuckin' hell, I'm sorry. I promise I wasn't...I'm not a creep. I swear I'm not. I just--fuck me."

You quirked a brow at him, but remained silent as his wide blue eyes seemed to exude a mild panic. He deserved it, since he apparently watched you for months without you knowing. Though you understood that some of it couldn't really be helped, you still wanted to make him squirm a bit.

You should've been madder. Maybe. But taking into account how sweet and anxious he was made you a little more lenient.

It took a moment for him to catch on to the fact that you weren't that angry, and he squinted at you, which made you giggle.

"Are you fucking with me?" He asked with a slight sigh of relief.

You scrunched up your nose at him.

"A smidge. But you and I both know that you deserve it."

As the conversation progressed, the sun began to peek through your window, letting you know that you'd been speaking for hours. Of course, you were exhausted. He obviously didn't need sleep. But concern crossed his features as you rubbed your tired eyes.

"You should get some rest," he said, propping his chin in his hand to watch you carefully, "You've had a long day."

Though you shook your head, you yawned, earning a laugh from Aaron.

"I think you're in denial," he said, standing from the dining room table, "C'mon. Get to bed. I'll be here when you wake up, obviously." He crossed his arms over his chest, and you were suddenly aware of how muscular he was. Or maybe your sleep deprived mind was playing tricks on you. Either way, you blinked your tired eyes slowly at him and pursed your lips.

"Fine, you win, I'll take my ass to bed."

As you dragged your feet across your living room, and collapsed face first into your pillow, a thought occurred to you which had you prop yourself up on your elbows to speak to him.

"I just realized that I asked you 1000 questions, but I never really gave you the chance to ask me anything." You yawned again and rested your head on your folded arms, "You get one question from me before I pass out for good."

At first, you thought he'd reject the offer. He seemed reluctant to ask of anything from you. But then he shoved his hands in his pockets and stared at the ceiling for a moment, thinking of what to say.

"Can you look up something for me on your cell phone?"

He sat beside you on the bed--an eerie experience, considering you couldn't really FEEL him there, though he looked just as real as a normal, living person. As Aaron peeked over your shoulder at your phone screen, his eyes widened in wonder.

"Well shit, that's--wow," he ran his fingers through his hair, "So you just touch the screen part? Like, there's no buttons? At all?"

"Not really."

He whistled, "This is like some Space Odyssey shit."

You were charmed by his enthusiasm and made a note of his nerdiness for a later date.

You typed the name out in google.

As the results showed up, you watched from the corner of your eye as Aaron's jaw worked. A few pictures popped up of the man he knew on stage singing to a massive crowd in Leeds, on a red carpet beside a beautiful, pregnant dark haired woman with sleeve tattoos, and a portrait of him from when he was a teenager.

Gavin Kensington Roth was an English singer-songwriter, producer, and musician who was the lead singer of the band MARCOS.

Born: May 8, 1980 Died: December 31, 2018 Children: Daisy Kensington Roth, Lola Kensington Roth, Brody Kensington Roth Spouse: Natalia "Talia" Jade Kensington Roth (2004-2018)

Before you could finish reading the results, Aaron shot up from the bed, and disappeared into the void.

#jaelle writes #aaron taylor johnson #atj x black!reader #aaron taylor johnson x reader #aaron taylor johnson x black!reader

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brooklynmuseum · 2 years

Photo

Opening November 18… Thierry Mugler: Couturissime

With the electricity of New York Fashion Week in the air, we’re excited to announce the first retrospective to explore the fascinating, edgy universe of French fashion designer, Thierry Mugler.

Mugler established himself as one of the most daring and innovative designers of the late twentieth century, leaving his mark as an artist, couturier, director, photographer and perfumer. Showcasing nearly 130 outfits, most on view for the first time, the exhibition highlights Mugler’s interests in fantasy, glamour, science fiction, eroticism, and the natural world.

Already seen by more than one million visitors in Canada, Germany, the Netherlands, and France since its launch in 2019, the exhibition concludes its tour in Brooklyn. Tickets to #Couturissime are on sale now.

This exhibition was initiated, produced and circulated by @mbamtl, in collaboration with @muglerofficial. Curator: @thierrymaximeloriot. Our presentation is coordinated by @matthew_yokobosky, Senior Curator of Fashion and Material Culture.

🎟 https://bit.ly/ThierryMuglerBkM

📷 Alan Strutt (British, born 1967). Yasmin Le Bon, Palladium, London, 1997. Evening Standard Magazine, October 1997. La Chimère collection, “La Chimère” gown. Haute couture fall/winter 1997–1998. © Alan Strutt

#Brooklyn Museum #ThierryMuglerBkM #brooklyn #museum #art #fashion #photography #Thierry Mugler #Mugler #exhibition

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familyabolisher · 1 year

Note

please for the love of christ elaborate on the rebecca/nona parallels

[cw for discussion of incest]

so this isn’t at all a serious claim to intertextuality between the two or even a suggestion that rebecca is especially unique in what i’m drawing attention to (i think the far more likely answer here is just that nona/tlt in general plays around with particular gothic conventions in which rebecca, as a gothic novel, itself also participates); it’s very much just a self-indulgent brain worm wherein i was midway through talking about one to my friend before i realised i was kind of also talking about the other.

the main thing i’m interested in is that rebecca spends a lot of time with the idea of the husband and the father as interchangeable forces constituting the subjectivity of the woman in question; the narrator at one point observes that ‘a husband is rather like a father,’ of course compounded by the difference in age between the two and the general tone of condescension and control that maxim takes towards her. there’s a strong current of entrapment running throughout the novel, best evinced by the fact that the narrator begins the book touring europe as a companion to mrs. van hopper and ends the book touring europe as a companion to maxim. all of this is of course made sense of under the governance of patriarchy; maxim de winter’s name, ‘maxim,’ figures him as a rule of absolute law to which the narrator is secondary, and the idea being gestured towards by du maurier is that the subjugation of the daughter & that of the wife can be thought of as essentially similar forces converging on the same base idea of patriarchy as a governing structure of [british upper class] society & marriage and reproduction amongst the ruling class as a process of essentially reinvesting in their own class interests. all of which are ideas v effectively encoded in The House (manderley) as a metonym for the normative domestic social unit; rebecca comes to life when you pay attention to what manderley as a haunted/corrupted site can contain and what it seeks to expel (and where, and why).

anyway, this ties together pretty well with the (much more long-winded) argument that i made here [cw for discussion of incest and rape at the link], reading john and kiriona as metaphorically incestuous; how the commonalities between kiriona & alecto (& harrow) work to suggest at a similar functional interchangeability between being a lover/bride/wife, being a daughter, being a cavalier, and being a puppeted corpse, and what this is of course supposed to suggest about the violence baked into the structures in question.

the idea also expounds on itself with this recurring suggestion that rebecca, in death, can overtake and supercede the alive narrator. mrs. danvers at one point insists that it ought to be the narrator in the crypt and rebecca alive and married to maxim; sally beauman writes that maxim discursively ‘kills’ the narrator just as much as he kills rebecca; and, of course, the corpse in the boat whom we are misled into believing is rebecca for the first half of the novel is in fact an unnamed, unidentified woman—just like the narrator! there’s this persistent sense that capitulating to the kind of subjectivity that patriarchy imposes will kill you and resisting it (as did rebecca de winter, in typically gothic fashion) will also kill you, but also keep you alive through the possibilities that your transgressions threatened such that you continue to pose a threat to the ‘stable’ bourgeois domestic unit even in death.

basically: to be a wife (alecto, narrator, rebecca) is to be a daughter (kiriona, narrator) is to be a corpse at the bottom of a boat (all of the above, and also U— and T—) as far as patriarchal domination is concerned. again, i don’t think of this as like … a serious intertextual reading, or a phenomenon unique to either text; i am just playing and having fun. OH AND i think whatever rebecca and mrs danvers were doing is a) paradigmatic necromancer/cavalier and b) probably the closest approximation we have to whatever cytherea and loveday had going on. Thanks

#ask #nona the ninth spoilers #was trying 2 thread a needle abt rebecca's cancer baby / kiriona as undead baby but i can't quite land it lol

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more-relics · 4 months

Text

Rick Wright, David Gilmour, Roger Waters & Nick Sedgwick Backgammon backstage at the Usher Hall, Edinburgh, British Winter tour, November 1974. Photos: Storm Thorgerson/Aubrey Powell

#rick wright #david gilmour #roger waters #pink floyd #nick sedgwick #usher hall edinburgh #scotland #1974 #british winter tour #storm thorgerson #aubrey powell

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harryshairclippy · 1 year

Text

Of Mates and Men by @bananaheathen - 630K

In which, Louis and Harry meet as best men for their best friends' wedding... well... sort of.

Or, the one where Harry's just moved back from New York and Louis doesn't believe in romance.

Or, I guess... the one where Zayn and Liam are getting married.

Dicked Down in Europe by @greeneyesfriedrice - 40K

harry has an idea for their honeymoon. louis is down for whatever.

yeah, he's a looker (but i really think it's guts that matter most) by @thedevilinmybrain - 40K

Five times Oli was asked to do something that was outside of his job description, and the one time he didn’t have to be asked.

love is a word, you gave it a name by @larrydoinglaundry - 185K

After two decades in brutal show business, Louis Tomlinson is trying to restore his tranquility of mind in the peace of Northern Europe where the sun barely sets, Maria's bar is always open, and young Harry has an irresistible spark in his eyes.

Tired Tired Sea by @mediawhorefics - 113K

As a B&B owner on the most remote of all the British Isles, Louis Tomlinson is used to spending the coldest half of the year in complete isolation, with his dog and the sea as sole companions. Until, one day, a mysterious stranger on a quest to rebuild himself rents a room for the winter.

Remember Me Before You by @kingsofeverything - 294K

Desperate to find a new place to live after he comes home to find his boyfriend cheating, Harry moves into a loft with three strangers.A New Girl AU.

Bloodsport - @isthatyoularry - 172K, WIP

How come falling in love with the person he hated most was so easy?

Who the hell did this guy think he was? How could he stand there on the pavement, gorgeous and beautiful, and make Harry fall back into a swirl of desire, when fifteen minutes ago he made his skin prickle with hurt? God, he hated him. He wanted to bash his face into bits. The problem was that more than that, he wanted to kiss him. Between the two options, he would instantaneously choose the second.

A mortal enemies with benefits story with a touch of football, lust, and family drama.

The Unbelievers Story from Harry's point of view.

Babydoll Blues by @thedevilinmybrain - 111K

Louis is a high profile, filthy rich label executive who has the world at his feet - a music god.. Harry is the sugar baby trying to make a name for himself singing in shady bars and hanging off the arm of Louis' biggest rival. What Louis wants, Louis gets. But what if the game gets too hot and hits a little too close to the heart?

Through the Chaos and the Calm - by @xogucciblue - 25K

Harry had thought he’d been prepared for his first solo tour, and in some ways it is exactly what Harry expected. But in other ways it’s entirely different. It’s lonelier than he remembered, all the waiting around backstage, the endless hours on tour buses, the days he’s so tired he thinks he could melt into the asphalt of a rest stop in the middle of America and happily stay there forever, and the nights he’s too keyed up to sleep. It’s alienating. He feels unmoored, drowning in all of his too-big emotions. Without the chaos of four other boys to keep him distracted, to keep him grounded, he’s afraid it's only a matter of time until he loses himself in it for good.

But then there’s Louis. Through it all, there’s still Louis. Waiting for Harry at the end of every show, ready with a bottle of water and sweet words of praise, beside him in dressing rooms, challenging him to ping pong tournaments to pass the long, empty, waiting hours, and holding him through the restless nights, soothing him with reassurances that he’s there, that he understands, and promising that he will never, ever, let Harry truly get lost.

#haven't made one of these in years but this is also the first year I've read new things in a loooong time #would recommend

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