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seths-rogens · 9 months

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cardboard houses, cardboard hearts | M | 1.9k | ao3

should’ve been finishing my infidelity au, but instead the cardboard joe cutout i was given inspired me to crank this out in one sitting,, anyway, please enjoy :)

—————

Eddie often thanks God that he took the leap and moved to Indianapolis after he finally graduated high school. Not that he really believes in God. Just… figure of speech and all. Though, maybe he’d believe in God if they were a metalhead with tatties and an eyebrow piercing, but he thinks that might ruin their image honestly.

He’s getting off topic.

Eddie often thanks God for Indy in moments like these. Moments where he has a fucking beautiful man pinned to his own front door, strong, thick fingers tangling in his hair as Eddie desperately tries to fit his key into the lock. He shoves his thigh between Pretty Man’s legs - he didn’t catch his name - and presses upwards. Pretty Man whines, grinding down and making it all that more difficult to unlock the goddamn door.

“Hold on, Sweetheart. I just gotta-“ Eddie bites back a groan as Pretty Man kisses down his neck, sucking a bruise over his pulse as the key finally slips into the lock. Chrissy’s never gonna let him live the marks down.

He’s surprised he picked anyone up tonight at all. He’d gone to a concert alone for once, as Chrissy was staying at her new girlfriend’s place, and Gareth and Jeff weren’t the biggest fans of his guilty pleasure artist ‘King S’.

And honestly? In any other world. Eddie wouldn’t be either.

King S isn’t his usual style. Where Eddie usually loves a hard drumline, thrashing guitars and lyrics you can only scream, King S is all soft melodies and crooning vocals set to slow drum beats.

He’d stumbled upon him completely by accident, honestly. It’d been a slow day at the record store Eddie manages. He’d been there for nearly five hours and so far he’d only served maybe three customers - and two of those customers were an old couple shopping for their granddaughter. So he’d picked the first magazine he could reach off the stand by the counter, and flipped it open to a random page.

It’d been an interview with King S, who’d just released his first album at the time. He was talking about his inspiration for making music - his best friend and little brother who, he’s quoted as saying, ‘always ragged on him when he played his pop shit in the car’ - and the meaning behind his stage name - reclaiming an old high school nickname he’d been given after his brief stint as a bit of a mean girl, though now he promises he’s using it for good.

He’d flipped the page to find a double page spread of King S curled up in a bathtub. His eyes were squeezed shut through the lacy masquerade mask that was supposedly his staple (no one knew his real identity after all). His hair was messy and flying all over the place. He was…

He was naked. Or at least that’s how it seemed.

His arms and legs were bare, the black and white photo only emphasising the toned curves of the muscles in his arms and back and the dark hair covering those lush thighs.

Call him obvious but Eddie had been intrigued. He knew they’d received a new shipment of records that morning that weren’t supposed to be hitting the shelves until the next day, so he figured what the hell!

Ten minutes later, elbow deep in a shoddily painted green wooden crate, Eddie emerged victorious with King S’s debut album ‘Robins and Tadpoles’ in his hands.

The album cover was two people’s hands clasped together, matching ice cream cone tattoos on both wrists. There was a little dedication on the back. To R & D.

He took it out to the turntable on the shop floor and dropped the needle. When the soft music started, he was hesitant, but as the album moved on he quickly realised he was hooked.

He’d gone into the shop bright and early the next day - on his day off no less - and bought the album. Only slightly laughing at the look on Mike’s - part time Lit student, part time cashier, full time grump - face.

That had been two years ago, and Eddie had been solidly on the King S train since.

Sure, Gareth and Jeff - and Grant too when he was in town - would tease him about abandoning his people, about betraying the freaks and the weirdos, but really they supported his love for the artist, even if they didn’t quite get it.

So when King S announced a stop in Indy on his second album tour, the guys (and Chrissy) had banded together to get him tickets as an early 26th birthday present. Except when the day came, they were all busy, so he went by himself.

He didn’t mind really, was just happy to be there to appreciate the music. (And the man himself, Eddie has eyes, come on now.)

Elated and feeling just a little self fulfilled after the concert, Eddie had gone to his favourite queer/metal bar, Crash. He’s picked people up there before, sure, but they’ve all been metalheads, just like him, and as many of his friends have said in the past, he’s cursed to have the hots for the preppy jock types.

Usually, that’s not the type of guy he’d find in Crash. Tonight was different.

Eddie had been sat at the bar, thinking about King S’s arms beneath the crimson sweater he wore on stage, when a gorgeous man had stepped up beside him to buy a beer. The man was wearing a dark, charcoal coloured t-shirt under a light grey Members Only jacket, paired with light blue levi’s.

Eddie kinda felt his jaw hit the floor. Could this be the perfect end to the perfect night?

This brings us back to now. Eddie finally pushes the door open, swings Pretty Man around and pushes him back against it.

He drops his keys somewhere. It doesn’t matter. He’ll find them tomorrow.

They’re grinding fast against one another now, only their harsh, panting breaths filling the silence of Eddie’s apartment. Eddie slides his hand into Pretty Man’s hair, tugs on this side of too hard. Pretty Man moans, loud, almost echoing, and tilts his head to the side, baring his neck for Eddie to defile.

Eddie leans in, presses his lips to those two little moles, and—

“What the fuck?”

Eddie pulls back to look at Pretty Man’s face. He’s still, not looking at Eddie, instead staring with wide eyes into the open plan of Eddie’s living room.

Eddie follows his gaze and… Oh. Yeah. He forgot about that.

See the King S tickets hadn’t been Eddie’s only birthday gift. He knew this would come back to bite him in the ass, but his friends thought it was hilarious. Eddie thinks they’re assholes.

Because Pretty Man is staring at a life size cutout of King S, standing by the wall.

Eddie winces, pulls away. This guy might not look like a metalhead, but he was in a metal bar, there’s no way he listens to King S. He’s gotta come up with an explanation for this, and fast.

“Um, yeah… About that… would you believe me if I said I didn’t buy it?” He asks sheepishly, avoiding Pretty Man’s eyes.

“You’re a fan?” Pretty Man asks, except he sounds dejected, which Eddie thinks is weird. And actually? Fuck this guy. He’s allowed to like whatever he wants.

“Yeah, man. What’s wrong with that? Maybe it’s not for everyone but King S actually makes really good music.” He gets more than a little defensive, takes a step back and crosses his arms over his chest.

“No, no… that’s not what I meant.” Pretty Man raises his hands placatingly.

“Then what did you mean?”

Pretty Man sighs, rubs a hand over his face. “Don’t you recognise me?”

Eddie furrows his brow in confusion. “Do I like, know you or something?”

Pretty Man raises his eyes to the ceiling like this is difficult. “Really? Nothing?”

Eddie shakes his head. “I don’t…” Pretty man nods, sighs, and then walks past Eddie further into the apartment. “Hey, you can’t just—“

“How about now?” Pretty Man asks, stopping right next to the cardboard cut out.

Eddie flits his eyes between the man and the cut out, trying to understand what Pretty Man is getting at until he sighs again, pulls down the sleeve of his jacket to reveal…

A tattoo of an ice cream cone, and suddenly it all clicks.

Oh. Oh no. That’s… oh holy ever loving fuck.

“Holy shit!” Eddie exclaims, pointing frantically between Pretty Man and the cardboard. “You’re King S!”

“Yeah. It’s uh, Steve, actually.” Pretty Man, King S, Steve nods, seeming much more shy than he was ten minutes ago. He’s curled his arms around himself, trying to make himself shrink. Eddie feels bad.

“Did you think I was trying to sleep with you because you’re famous?”

“I mean, weren’t you?” Steve won’t meet his eye. Instead he’s staring around the room, taking in all the little details of Eddie’s life.

Eddie takes a step towards him. “No, man. I just thought you were pretty, that’s all.”

“You really didn’t know who I was?” Though he still looks unsure, Steve finally meets his eye.

Eddie shakes his head, coming to a stop in front of Steve. “I didn’t even buy that thing, dude. My friends thought it would be funny because you’re like, the only non-metal artist I listen to.”

Steve smiles at that. He really is so pretty, Eddie can’t help but think. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, man. Heard your first album right after it came out and I was hooked!” Eddie laughs softly. “I used to be a little bit narrow minded when it came to music, but I heard yours and it’s like the world of music blasted wide open.”

A pretty pink blush spreads its way across Steve’s cheeks. “Oh, uh… That’s really cool. I’m glad you like it.”

“I was at your show tonight, actually.”

“You were?”

“Yeah!” He shrugs. “I used to play in a band in high school, we were never very good but I liked to think I had good stage presence, right?” Steve nods and Eddie grins, leaning in a little. “I was nothing compared to you. It was fucking electric, I felt like my skin was buzzing.”

Steve’s smile seems to grow even wider. He sways forward into Eddie’s space, almost unconsciously. “This might be crazy, but do you wanna start over? Forgo the one night stand and just, I don’t know, get coffee or something? I know this cute little 24 hour place, Victoria Street, it’s only a couple blocks away.”

Eddie narrows his eyes a little. “Stevie… barely anyone knows Victoria Street. Are you, dare I say it… local?”

Steve’s cheeks darken even further. “Maybe.”

Eddie laughs. “Then, I’d love to start over. I wanna get to know you as Steve, not King S.”

Steve slips his hand into Eddie’s, tugs him

back towards the door. “God, how much do you know..?”

“I may have read a couple interviews.”

Steve groans, embarrassed, as the door clicks shut behind them.

Then, a few moments later. “Shit! My keys!”

The date goes well. As does the second, and the third, and so on, and so on. They’re officially exclusive by date 7.

Steve meets Chrissy and the boys on date 20. Eddie meets Dustin and Robin, right before date 45.

On date 94, Steve presents his third album to Eddie. There’s a different dedication on the back cover this time.

To E, my love.

——————

taglist: @judasofsuburbia @gothbat99 @cheatghost @flowercrowngods @fastcardotmp3 @simplebtromance @gonzofromspace

lemme know if u wanna be added to a permanent taglist for anything i do in the future, i’m thinkin’ that might be funky :)

#zee writes #steddie #steve x eddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie fic #the adventures of cardboard joe #<— starting that tag just in case 👀

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thewertsearch · 19 days

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Let's kick things off with a mega-giga ask compilation!

I've spent the last couple of days working through the backlog, and I've been able to answer some quite old asks that were spoilers at the time they were sent.

@kintatsu asked: So, I was rereading your blog, and got to the post where you determine that John's 13th birthday was a Monday, and complain on his behalf that he couldn't really relax due to having the whole schoolweek ahead of him. Well, I checked, and the previous day was the first Sunday after the first full moon after the equinox, i.e. Easter Sunday. So it might have been a holiday week.

John entered the Medium shortly after Easter Sunday, and he did so by biting into an apple. Forget about the god tiers – his most powerful transformation is clearly Catholic Beast Mode.

Anonymous asked: The thing about knowing your Aspect, I think, is that it's the Aspect you most GET. I GET Space and Light, I understand them completely, they are suffused in my bones and my blood, they are writ large upon my brain and every base in my DNA. What aspect do you just GET?

To be honest, I don’t think I know enough about any Aspect to ‘get’ it.

If I had to choose, then I'd probably feel the most natural affinity for Life and/or Doom – and if was forced to pick one, I’d say I'm very slightly more drawn to Life, just based on vibes.

@mhafanlol2000 asked: I think the horrorterror’s plan (or the closest thing we can comprehend) is CHAOS-by which I mean LIFE. Skaia is order. If it can want, then it wants its players to follow the script it has written-the Alpha. It wants propagation, the snake to eat it’s own tail, blah blah blah. That is order. That is perfect servitude. That is NOT life. The gods, meanwhile, want chaos. It wants its servants to live. It does not tell people to do anything. It simply gives them the facts, and says “here is what you should do. You can not, you can do whatever the hell.” It wants romance, conflict, CHAOS. that is life.

And if this theory is accurate to the canon Life aspect, then I feel justified in my affinity for it. It falls fairly closely in line with my own philosophy.

@necrowyrm asked: When searching your blog I always type "thew" before Tumblr autocompletes your URL. That has become who you are to me.. Thew, Glorious Liveblogger, navigating the treacherous seas of Homestuck

Sally ‘Thew’ Ertsearch, reporting in. 🫡

Anonymous asked: there's actually another arthurian joke to do with dave's land/quest. have another look at the disc platform that bro stabbed. how would you describe the shape of that turntable?

Ayy, Dave's a Knight of the Round Turntable! Honestly, that'd be a pretty great name for his theme song.

@caliquill asked: kanaya vs rose would be absolutely hilarious but. kanaya IS the original "I Can Fix Her" girl for a reason.

Anonymous asked: the only real requirement for a name suggestion to be picked was that the firstname was 4 letters. but by really cool coincidence strider and lalonde are 7 letters, and egbert and harley are 6, and if you add those together its 4/13! similarly, both the trolls names were required to be 6 letters (i think hussie mixed and matched them actually, some of the firstnames were suggested as surnames and vice versa) so theres a similar case to be made for 6/12. but just doubling the same number i think holds less water than adding together two different numbers

Number symbolism is just very flexible in general. All Hussie really had to do was introduce a few 'important' numbers, and the fandom could start finding them everywhere!

Anonymous asked: This may be the wrong place to ask, but have you deleted your post of analyzing the Let the Squiddles Sleep song? I can't seem to find it anywhere.

Here it is. Hopefully you're able to see it now!

Anonymous asked: Will the Mega-Ask-Compilation and Liveblog Recap also happen? ~LOSS (19/2/23)

The former is currently taking place. The latter was planned, but after skimming my blog for a bit, I realized I didn't have as much to say about it as I thought I did. Plus, it's been ages, so I'm really excited to look at some new pages. We can leave the old ones for later - I'll probably do some sort of blog retrospective eventually.

Anonymous asked: i figure the trolls' battlefield went through a full set of dnd dice/platonic solids, plus maybe some other notable johnson solids like a truncated icosahedron (aka a soccer ball or buckminsterfullerene), before becoming a sphere. maybe the outer ring went through stages like simple torus, mobius strip, borromean rings or other fun knots, before becoming a mobius net. (not really sure what a mobius net is, mathematically, but that's apparently what the thing around the final form of the kid's battlefield is called.) or maybe something weird happens with that many prototypings, and the battlefield turns into a tesseract or a klein bottle or a menger sponge or a mandelbulb.

If you so much as look at the Battlefield created by the Gigasession, your brain will leak out of your ears.

@manorinthewoods asked: <3Dave, >3>John, >3oJade, <>Rose (by process of elimination) ~LOSS (5/6/23)

I don’t think either of the girls have worn a playing card symbol. The leaf on Jade’s Wardrobifier does kind of look like a spade, but John’s already got that quadrant on lockdown.

Anonymous asked: Reading stuff about skaia on this blog reminded me of madoka, and made me consider that skaia might be like kyube and the other incubators and sburb is skaias way of keeping the unerverse from decaying

Reading this ask makes me realize that Rose is a near-perfect mark for Kyubey.

There’s only one way to save your session, Seer. Form a contract with me, and become a magical girl.

Anonymous asked: man. i dont know what i expected to happen when you found it. but for The Baby Is You to be liveblogged in less than 20 words during a post was not the way i expected it to go

I know it’s not technically part of Homestuck canon, but it really feels like Homestuck canon to me - at least to the same degree as Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff, and I liveblogged that.

Anonymous asked: begging (lightheartedly) for you to add posts like LOLCAT and "this guy's an orb" to one of the liveblog tags. they're pretty funny, and it's nice to see off-the-cuff reactions like that, haha. imo it'd be a shame for new readers to miss those kind of posts

Done! I sometimes forget to tag posts like that, because I usually just fire them off and forget about ‘em.

@captorations asked: “Give me a set of rules, and I'll analyze the hell out them, every time.” hello fellow doom player. hope you like the color green

Based on ~ATH’s association with curses, as well as Sollux’s programming hobby, I think there’s a decent chance that Doom relates to coding in some way.

Coding is all about rules, so perhaps Doom, is, in fact, the aspect of rules and logic. I'm not sure why such an aspect would be named 'doom', but it's been obvious for a while that these aspect names aren't always literal.

Anonymous asked: I’d just like to clarify some terminology because it seems relevant, but Aradia isn’t a red blood, she’s a rust blood

[The blood colors all have canon names: Aradia = rust blood Tavros = bronze blood Sollux = gold blood Nepeta = olive blood Kanaya = jade blood Terezi = teal blood Vriska = blue blood (I like cerulean better tho) Equius = indigo blood Gamzee = purple blood Eridan = violet blood Feferi = fuchsia blood and Karkat has no official blood name, but people usually call him mutant blood or candy-red blood - C ]

Oh, there are official names for each color? That’s going to be helpful to disambiguate each blood caste, especially when we really start digging into troll culture and biology.

Anonymous asked: I do believe the top-left ship on the wall - no, Karkat doesn't have red eyes. […] It's probably Vrisrezi, yes, but it could also be Vriskat.

Yeah, I’m still not sure who this ship is supposed to represent.

They have Terezi’s eyes, but the hair and symbol look like Karkat’s. Plus, Nepeta hates this ship, which would make sense if it’s between her crush and someone other than her.

Honestly, my best guess is that it was meant to be Karkat, and the red eyes were just a mistake on Hussie’s part.

Anonymous asked: something I never thought about… is the blue blood sourced from equius or did he get a stock.

Aradia has real blue indigo blood in her veins, and it almost certainly belongs to Equius himself. He could have got it from a donor, but I personally doubt there was anyone else he could ask. Equius feels like he'd be an outsider, even to other indigo-bloods.

Anonymous asked: vriska would be a good strider

Vriska Serket raised by Bro Strider would be the most terrifying character imaginable. I don't even want to contemplate what that upbringing would do to her.

Anonymous asked: Any piece of lore hussie writes needs to contend with the fact that hussie is resolutely committed to the bit. Hence all the words on how different trolls are being entirely blasted aside by 'and then they're just grey humans anyway lmao'

That's the price of admission into Homestuck, for better or for worse. Hussie quite clearly enjoys screwing with us, and we have to take everything we see in the comic with a huge pinch of salt.

Anonymous asked: I'll disagree a bit on the phrasing that Eridan forces Feferi to <> him because firstly she doesn't even seem convinced that he would commit genocide and secondly she dropped him super easily once the lusus-feeding is no longer necessary. While understandable, that doesn't suggest to me someone who is obliged by Eridan's aggression to pacify him. I think she has much more agency in this relationship (or lack thereof I suppose) than that.

Feferi definitely had her doubts – but she must have believed that Eridan was dangerous to a certain degree, because that’s the basis of a moirallegiance.

Forced might not be the right word, but she certainly felt some amount of obligation to pacify him. She sure wasn’t in that relationship for the good of her health.

Anonymous asked: So, Vriska has a conversation with Karkat, where he says she seems to have blackrom feelings for Tavros, but that he doesn't think Tavros can even feel blackrom properly. Then she has another conversation with Tavros in which she antagonizes him, and he notices, but just kind of ignores it and doesn't respond emotionally. Then we see her make a huge dramatic redrom gesture and kiss him. She vacillated because he wasn't into her… incel behavior.

Yup. I’ve always held that Tavros never wanted anything to do with Vriska. He doesn't want to love or hate her - what he really wants is to live in a world where she doesn't exist.

Vriska’s refusal to accept this basic fact is one of the main reasons she’s decided to make his life a living hell.

Anonymous asked: I headcanon that troll blood is analog, but the empire culls non-digital colors because they make the troll race seem like a joke or something. Lol

If there were minor variations in blood color, the Empire probably wouldn’t want to acknowledge it, since the stratification of blood classes forms the basis of their society.

We haven’t seen any trolls besides our twelve (apart from Troll Will Smith) so we can’t compare the blood of two members of the same caste - but we can speculate. Human blood color is known to vary depending on its oxygenation level, and I imagine troll blood would reflect its current chemical composition in the same way.

Anonymous asked: Vriska must be seething while Karkat introduces the concept of quadrants to the reader. Imagine this basic and important facet of troll life, and you're just getting schoolfed it. (This message was sent on 20/10/22.)

This was a fun bit of weirdness from early Hivebent, wasn’t it? In retrospect, it's kind of hilarious that Karkat decided to infodump to Vriska about the obscure, niche topic of… dating.

@sanctferum asked: According to his formspring, Hussie's self-insert's classpect is Waste of Space. He also briefly considers Huss of Lips. This is obviously not meant to be taken seriously but. since you asked @absinthe-and-alabaster asked: i believe hussie said somewhere that FedoraFreak's classpect was "Gent of Piss" Anonymous asked: (not sure if this is technically a spoiler but) hussie has jokingly said that fedorafreak's class is a gent.

If Dad Egbert was a Player, then the Gent class would be forced into canonical existence, as the only class that could possibly define him.

Anonymous asked: If Vriska's control does require the victim to on some level want to do the thing, then Sollux's insistence that you do not under any circumstance eat the mind honey could be something he developed in response to that incident. So that if she ever controls him again, she won't be able to make him eat it.

Wow, I never considered that. That’s a very good (and tragic) take, and I think I'm at least locking it in as a headcanon.

Anonymous asked: the official extended zodiac actually has… 288 signs, if im doing my math right? and also probably hadn't yet been conceptualized when that page was posted (the earliest known evidence comes from 2015). i don't know if any thought was put into the number or if it was just pulled from their ass, but there was a running gag in hussie's q&as where he repeatedly threatened us with a 10,000 page intermission focused on 48 squiddles, each representing a sign from the alternian zodiac Anonymous asked: I believe the troll zodiac is one of the few things in HS lore that was truly retconned, there’s actually 288 signs.

Move over, 48 Squiddles. I want to hear about the 288-player clusterfuck that actually gave rise to Alternia!

@manorinthewoods asked: wheee, you got to the first god tiering! this probably opens up a load of new things to say, so, first off: do you think you need to have a full echeladder to god tier? vriska implied so.

She never outright stated that it was required, but I still think it probably is. You generally need to max out your class levels before you can prestige.

@morganwick asked: Believe it or not, you're still in the "Homestuck could have updated RIGHT NOW" phase of the comic's release schedule. The break after the Equius-Aradia kiss aside, the hiati you've heard horror stories about didn't start becoming a thing until the end of Act 5.

[this was around page 3000. still true at this page though - C]

Hussie’s sheer productivity at this stage continues to astound. Could you imagine having that much creative energy?

Maybe Hussie just drinks twenty coffees a day.

Anonymous asked: as someone who is Normal about aradia it's an absolute delight to see someone dig into her character. she's so fascinating to me. (also, fun fact, a while ago tumblr voted her the coolest character in all of homestuck. so there's that)

Aradia’s awesome, and I still don’t think her death is going to stick.

Her ghost was perfectly capable of existing without a body, so there's no reason she can’t survive her new body's destruction.

Anonymous asked: feferi hasn't just woken up, she won't be stuck asleep until 3 hours and 14 minutes into the future! timestamps, yo

Consider this the first mark on my otherwise impeccable record.

Anonymous asked: does cat have a troll/kidsona? itd be interesting to see a full 4 player session in art

[No kidsona, yes trollsona, but even a picture of her would spoil stuff from Act 6 😆 - C]

What she said. It’ll be a while until we can meet KATYAA SCRENR.

@mhafanlol2000 asked: Hey! You can just call me Fan. In all honesty I’m just some guy who likes your liveblog. He/him. I’m gonna list some fan aspects, and I want to see what you think they’d represent, and what abilities they’d give Law Dreams Might Shape Flow

Ooh, more fan aspects! These were a lot of fun to puzzle out the last time.

Law would be the aspect of command, instruction and agreement. An example power would be giving someone a simple rule they're compelled to follow, such as 'don't turn around'.

Dreams would be the aspect of ideas, motivation and symbolism. An example power would be the ability to detect people's idle thoughts - the things they're not even aware they're thinking about.

Might would be the aspect of growth, conflict and evolution. An example power would be the ability to temporarily enhance someone's Aspect abilities, at the cost of making those abilities harder to control.

Shape would be the aspect of form, encapsulation and topology. Shapeshifting is the most obvious application of this aspect, but it's appropriate.

Flow would be the aspect of persistence, momentum and continuity. An example power would be the ability to 'continue' something that has recently stopped. For example, if your PC ran out of power, they'd be able to keep it running for a while. The longer it had been previously running, the longer they could keep it running.

@martinkhall asked: I think Bro might have been raised entirely by shonen anime and My Little Pony Friendship is Magical (the version that existed only in the heads of the worst examples of Bronys). And puppets. Puppets were definitely involved in raising Bro. Anonymous asked: "He has no known relationship with any of the other parents, but was definitely getting foreknowledge of Sburb from somewhere. I’m not even sure I want to know what sort of childhood produces Bro Strider." well. i mean. he grew up with Lil Cal didn't he? the clearly haunted puppet from the sburban dreamscape of derse? it was what he dropped to earth with. i feel like that might explain at least a small part of, like, whatever he had going on.

That’s true. I don’t trust that puppet one bit, and we don’t know what it was up to before the start of the session.

I still suspect that the thing’s still just as alive as it was on Derse, and is just choosing to play dead.

Anonymous asked: I imagine you might've already been told this, but when checking out your FAQ I noticed you described PS/PQ/FS as "not exactly canon" and that you're less interested in liveblogging them because one of your favorite parts is watching all the story come together -- without spoiling anything, I find it pertinent to mention that Pesterquest & Friendsim definitely contribute to the wider "canon" even though dubiously canon themselves. Definitely "part of the story" so to speak.

Yeah, we’ll have to see what comes of this. The problem is that I’m still fuzzy on what ‘dubiously canon’ actually means.

Hopefully that will become more clear as I’m actually liveblogging these tie-in materials – which I am planning on doing. Only time will tell how in-depth the liveblog will actually be, though.

@manorinthewoods asked: In my Sundered opinion, Bec Noir is the best character design in Homestuck. I can't think of any other interesting designs at the moment, other than some which don't beat him and are spoilers anyway (like LE's). Which design do you find most interesting, out of the ones you have? ~LOSS (22/9/23)

I definitely agree that BecJack has one of the best designs in the comic. Plus, Scratch is so weirdly intimidating for a cueball-head.

Anonymous asked: My favorite part of PKWU is just how pointy Gamzee's chin is. It's so… Defined.

iT’s ToO lAtE, ErIdAn! I’vE AlReAdY DePicTeD MySeLf As ThE ChAd, AnD yOu As ThE SoYjAk >:o)

Anonymous asked: i need you to know ag canonically ripped off the sleeves on all of her shirts just to show off the robot arm

I believe it. I don't even need a source; this is just so true to Vriska's character that it's obviously correct.

@bladekindeyewear asked: If you and your ask screener decide that literary/external-media hero title examples without any details or explanation are alright to pass on unless they're too obviously revealing -- and those in and of themselves are usually in heavy dispute by classpect theorists -- I've long been of the opinion that Monkey D. Luffy and Peter Pan are the best possible literary examples of a Page of Breath.

All Pages of Breath must be associated with pirates. No exceptions.

Anonymous asked: unfun fact: the reason rose and jade dont have a lot of pesterlogs with eachother is just because their text colours were kinda eyestrainy together. thats it thats literally the whole reason!! god damn

Hussie: "I don't write Rose/Jade conversations because they’re hard to read."

Also Hussie:

Anonymous asked: you have officially passed my second favourite flash in literally all of homestuck. it's all so well hinted at beforehand but it still comes to punch you in the gut nonetheless Anonymous asked: My favourite thing in this flash is how the name of the flash isn't John: Rise Up, it's JOHN. RISE UP. it's WV sending a plead to John to not die. My second favourite thing is the way the music remixes Doctor (The theme for LoWaS). Anonymous asked: [S] JOHN. RISE UP. is one of my favorite flashes in all of Homestuck. Savior of the Waking World is some of Toby's best work What are your thoughts on our first taste of god tier? @violetsquare111 asked: So glad you liked Savior of the Waking World! One of my favorites in the comic for sure. It takes a lot of ideas from another of Toby's songs, Penumbra Phantasm, a song that… never actually got finished or officially released. There's still various renditions of it though, and the HS collection links a couple of em. (Some people have speculated that Penumbra Phantasm itself was never supposed to be a Homestuck song, and might end up being used in Deltarune, which would be cool as hell) Anonymous asked: It's crazy to think that just about 12 hours ago John was wearing silly disguises to fool his dad and now he's dying to become a god.

God time!

I do think it was the most emotional flash we’ve had, on the strength of the music alone. Savior of the Waking World goes hard as all hell.

Honestly, when WV started calling John a hero, and telling him to rise, it did start to give me some mild chills. Like, yeah – we know John’s a hero, but it feels extra special when it’s coming from someone who’s normally so irreverent.

@elkian asked: Welcome back, hope you're feeling better! I am losing it a bit over you IMMEDIATELY understanding how this coin flip sitch works, something about the narrative and reasoning doesn't match my brain so I've reread it multiple times with total understanding out of grasp and watching you dissect it halfway into the page is truly wild (delighted). Also feel like I understand it a lil better with your analysis.

Thank you! This message was actually sent the last time I returned from a pause, so apologies that I’m one hiatus late in answering it.

@royalvorpal asked: I just reread your entire blog in anticipation. Anonymous asked: This is such a good liveblog, I'm rereading it again and you are really letting me relive the pleasant parts of my middle school years. Reading this blog makes me feel like I'm back on the school bus talking to my friend about the newest update. Thank you for doing this 💛 Anonymous asked: That return page didn't have any sound, so misleading! (I jest, nice to see you're back.) ~DJ @manorinthewoods asked: Hahahah, we are BACK! Lovely, I've missed this liveblog. Most in-depth Homestuck liveblog I'm aware of, looking forward to the restart! ~LOSS (29/3/24) @popcornsalty asked: So excited to see you back!!! :D @chaosorchestrator asked: welcome back! It's good to hear that you're planning on getting back into it! I hope things have been going ok for you in the meantime! @necrowyrm asked: HAPPY 4/13 (OR AS THE ENLIGHTENED KNOW IT: 13/4) AND WELCOME BACK!!!!!!!!!!!

Thank you for your votes of confidence, and happy 13/4 to you all!

@rippledphysique asked: Just found this blog and devoured it in a few days. I am selfishly wishing you the best in health and life so that it may return one day… @elkian asked: Hey Sally! Just wanted to wish you well on the recovery, the plague is no joke and I hope you've been able to enjoy some kind improvement. And that 2024 will be kinder, as well. Anonymous asked: wishing you the best in your interim, hopefully you can get a better position where you're not prone to burning out! Anonymous asked: Hope you're doing ok!! I miss seeing your cool liveblog on my dash @kittycatttmattt asked: Poor girl… Got killed by the schedule

Thanks for all the well-wishes, as well. Really, it wasn’t the schedule that was the issue – I just had a lot going on in the background last year. That’s all over now, though!

Anonymous asked: yeah, Homestuck's back babeyyyyy - the site was crashing because of traffic and everything @calamitascalliope asked: You coming back from your break resurrected Homestuck's corpse hggfffdd Anonymous asked: i think this actually is the first time homestuck has updated since you started liveblogging lol - homestuck 2 has been inactive assumed abandoned since december 25th 2020. also happy slightly belated blogiversary btw - you've been delighting us with your journey for two years now! @heliotropopause asked: New Homestuck upd8 just dropped. Apparently. Anonymous asked: what are the odds that you start liveblogging again the same exact day that postcanon comes back from the dead? Anonymous asked: crazy news. so literally just today, october 8th 2023, hussie has officially given complete free license to the newly formed "homestuck independent creative union" (HICU) to create content and monetize it with the homestuck brand however they see fit, with zero creative or financial control from any corporations or even hussie themself, though hussie has said they're available for consultation whenever the HICU wants their input. the HICU seems to be made up of people the community largely has respect for, and the person heading all of this up is James Roach, who is one of the most widely respected individual who has been inolved in homestuck "post canon" (ie. after homestuck itself ended). nobody was expecting any of this, it's completely bonkers. hopes are looking pretty high for homestuck compared to where they were merely a day ago.

Throwback to the day I personally resurrected Homestuck.

Has anything come of this since, actually? I haven’t heard anything about this new comic – although I do scroll in the opposite direction any time I see a reference to Homestuck, so I guess it makes sense that I wouldn’t.

@corporalotherbear asked: What’s your favorite Pokémon?

Contrarian, that I am, I’ll instinctively gravitate to Missingno., if only for the nostalgia factor. Gen 1 glitches were my first real experience with pulling back the curtain of a game’s code, and taking a look at what lies beneath.

My favourite official Pokémon are Porygon-Z, Shedinja, Reuniclus and Metagross!

@heliotropopause asked: Breath/Light is an interesting one, because the ‘Mixolydian’ implies a musical theme, and I thought Time was the musical Aspect. Maybe it’s not that simple. They've all got a musical reference in the name- they are called fraymotifs, after all. Anonymous asked: The Fraymotifs are all musical references actually. E.g. Breath/Time is "Ivories in the Fire", the ivories in question being John's piano keys. A fraymotif is a battle theme. Anonymous asked: ivories in the fire is a musical theme, especifically a Rap term used by Snoop Dogg. So yeah it's connected to Dave Anonymous asked: re: fraymotifs: you pointed out "mixolydian", but that's not the only musical term there. feather "cadence", pneumatic "progression", even fray "motif" itself! hell, the building where you buy these things has an emblem with a crossed sword and music note! so i think this might be less a situation of "need to rethink time aspects association with music" and more "fraymotifs have a musical association also" Anonymous asked: if you look a bit closer at those names, (including the one "fraymotif",) you may realize that "mixolydian" isn't the only musical term referenced…. @galaxa-13 asked: You say the breath/Light Fraymotif implies a musical theme, but they all do! Fraymotif is a portmanteau of "fray" (to fight) and "leitmotif" (repeated musical phrase). Each Fraymotif name implies a musical theme.

Dang it. Yup, they’re all pretty obvious references to music.

I wrote that post the day I was trying to wrangle our family PC into running the Homestuck Collection without lag, so I was a little distracted at the time. Please direct all complaints to Windows XP.

#asks #full liveblog #act 5.2 #this is just the first part of the comp. I have enough asks for another one. maybe another two. we'll see

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crookedkryptonitebeliever · 4 months

Text

Yandere Brother Pt 3

Tw: suffocating unbearable love, violence, general yandere, female reader shenanigans, infantilization, and of course incest. also christmas

minors and ageless blogs dni please <3

click here for part 1 and part 2

Click here for my new oc Yves (PLEASE READ IT I LOVE YVES)

plotholes and emglish errors everywhere and i could not be bothered :100emoji: please dont point it out thanks xoxo

Caught the Covid fuk now i cant leave my bed im so damn sick and pukey all the time, i dont fuckin know where my roommate is but at least they're not here to get infected, feeling like a busted up rustbucket rn

So this was originally written last year, couldnt find what else to write but this christmas time is perfect, so like dont mind the shoehorning of Christmas somewhere in this fic

You're having your summer break and you plan to pick up on a new hobby. Crocheting, perhaps.

Fuck, your brother picked up your search history from his spyware. Now you're left to deal with $1000 worth of wonderful quality crocheting materials and your big brother being your personal crocheting mentor.

This is where it gets frustrating. Yes, if you have the resources, you would enjoy your hobbies more. But, just like... What if you didn't like crocheting in the end? You're stuck with all these.

It happens to every single potential hobby. Stamp collecting? Your big brother will bid to the death for an extremely rare stamp from the 1900. You're not even fucking collecting the stamps, the stamp book already comes arranged with all the stamps ever produced. A collection that would only give a hardcore stamp collector an instant orgasm upon sniffing it.

Nail art? Where the hell should you keep all the acrylic powders, fake nails, drills and drill bits? Not to mention the dizzying numbers of nail polishes, nail brushes, nail stickers and cuticle sticks. Of course, your big brother is going to hire a professional nail artist to make sure you're practicing your hobby safely while he's learning how to do it himself, so he could replace your mentor too. He would become so skilled that he could qualify to open up a 5 star nail salon. But he's not interested unless you are.

Painting? you absolutely do NOT need all of those tubes of paint. The difference in shades for some of them are so small that you mistook it for the same colour. You would have a headache choosing the right type of paper, right type of primer and right type of fixative to use.

Are you having troubles on painting? Let big brother teach you. You would sit on his lap as he guide your hands across the canvas. Don't you think his warm hand enveloping yours feel nice? Doesn't his free hand feels nice sensually rubbing your thigh? Don't you just feel protected in his hold?

Makeup? Same situation with your nail hobby. You're essentially being babied by him and experienced celebrity makeup artists, you would drown in a mountain of eyeshadow palettes, primers, setting sprays, skin care products, anything and everything related to makeup.

Every instrument ever? Big brother would insist lovingly providing all the music lessons you need. He is a musical prodigy after all. If it's something ridiculously obscure like a Glass Armonica or the Theremin, big brother would master it in a couple of weeks, earn a fucking pHD in it and THEN teach you. No instrument is too expensive or hard for him. Your big brother is crossing his fingers HARD for you to have this hobby.

Chess? Oh, he is also a prodigy in it. He could teach you. Your chess pieces would be custom made to your liking, by the way. It would be the perfect density, perfect size, perfect texture for you. He knows what you like and you hate that.

Sports? Take a look at his "achievement room". It's filled to the brim with golden medals and trophies of every sport competition ever. He's not leaving you alone for this one.

Pottery? Welcome to your very own personal pottery studio, furnished with all types of drying racks, ovens, kilns, turntables and equipments you have never heard of. Big brother is always there to supervise you, making sure there won't be any accidents.

Cooking and baking? You get to have an industrial sized kitchen all for yourself. Everything is decorated such that it looks like you would be on television, starring in a cooking show. You don't need to clean anything, or prep anything, or actually do anything, really. There's a team of professional chefs and assistants to do everything for you. They're paid to cheer and clap and celebrate when you pour cake batter into a pan.

Gardening? Well, there's a massive plot of fertile land for you to garden to your heart's content at the house he bought as your 18th birthday gift. If you want a big project, it will be done overnight. You wouldn't hear the gigantic machineries and vehicles tumbling about due to the soundproof walls he installed. No one would be able to hear you both either, doing god-knows-what inside.

Video games? Your big brother personally do not encourage you to pursue this. But... Nonetheless, he would spoil you rotten with all the latest gaming consoles, limited edition merchandises, pre release copies of your favorite game franchises and whatever your gamer heart desires. All at a hefty price of... Daily cuddles and kisses. And you also have to move in with him. And he gets to decide what game you're playing, if he deems it a "bad influence"? It is not staying in his house.

You rather not.

Nothing is fun because the fun parts are already done for you. You don't get to experience the highs and lows of picking up a hobby, you don't get to explore and experiment. You're literally cursed with luxury.

So imagine your boredom, stress and paranoia during summer break. All your friends are spies for your brother, your hobbies aren't even "yours", leaving your house would inevitably lead you to your brother and all digital footprints are heavily scrutinized by him too. No privacy, no autonomy, all monotony.

You juggled three smartphones at once. Throwing one up in the air, catching the other one with your dominant hand, throwing the last to your other hand. Who gives a damn if one, or all of them breaks? It's riddled with spyware and your big brother would buy you every time a new model is released anyways. Which is... A new phone, a month?

You stopped caring where he gets the money. Obviously he has an assload and can afford to wipe his ass with thousand dollar bills regularly.

It's summer break. One last resort to try and spend your time like a regular ol teenager is taking up a part time summer job. There is a wide variety of jobs to choose from with your qualification. Granted, it's minimum wage and mostly customer service.

If you work as a barista, the cafe or juice bar you'll be working at will LOVE the crap out of you.

Your older brother will visit daily and increase their sales tenfold. Of course, he would pick the drinks that you like doing. It's okay if you fucked up, its only your beloved big brother's order, you can add as much sugar, salt, pepper, cyanide as you want. He will never yell at you, never tell you that you made anything wrong or never even die.

The management will suddenly see a surge in daily customer count. Thanks to big brother's networking. And like him, they also will accept anything you make with no complaint... As per his instructions. You could go full on ridiculous and give them a cup of ice drizzled with strawberry scented dish soap and call it Tutti Frutti, they would still pay for it and take it with them. Though, you're not sure if they ever consumed anything from you.

Without fail, your brother would visit you during every break and hand you your meal along with a kiss on the forehead or the cheek. He would bring you out to eat but you would refuse everytime. You also didn't want his company, which made him pout and whine without fail. But it's nice that he would actually back off after the sixth "no".

However, you know that fucker is watching you from a hidden camera somewhere in the nooks and crannies of whatever breakroom you're resting in.

He would engulf you in a big hug when you get off work, telling you how proud he is of you for getting through another workday like a champ. Praising you for all the hard work and excellent performance, making sure to soothe and comfort you if you happen to come across a rude customer earlier in the day.

You try not to think too much about their fate.

You will be fed, bathed and loved after every shift.

Hell, he would even build up a company from scratch just to hire you. Any position you want, barista, manager, cashier, back office work, janitor- you name it, you get the "job" and get paid a pretty penny. All your other coworkers and customers are probably paid actors and actresses to simulate a "real life working experience" safely. He controls it all, making sure you have just the right amount of drama, the right amount of diplomacy and the right amount of gossiping. You're rarely pushed out of your comfort zone, though. Big brother always has your safety and best interests at heart.

Of course, he will never tell you all of this, to keep the immersion going. You're going to feel sad that you're not exactly experiencing reality. But a bastardization of it. Might as well star in a trashy reality TV show instead, at least, it's much more authentic than whatever your big brother has going on for you.

He doesn't need to even tell you though. You would pick it up easily and quickly especially if you already watched the Truman Show. Don't tell him you did, god help you if he ever gets an inkling that you knew about the existence of the Truman Show. He deemed that movie as demonic propaganda and he needs to lecture some sense into you. If you want out, just say that you're 'bored' and want to do something else. Your big brother will gladly drop everything and do anything in his power to help you "achieve" what you want.

But for the sake of "plot" in this latest installment, you agreed to work in a quaint little bubble tea stall. Where you're the only employee, making drinks for whoever is ordering in front of the shop's decorated window.

Of course, your big brother miraculously happens to work in a nearby skyscraper as one does. It's not that you didn't do your research, you were a hundred percent certain he didn't work in that building, because that fucker never goes to work... At least, physically. Perhaps he does his job, whatever that may be, through online means.

You were planning to use your bicycle to get there that you got yourself with "your" money. He never bought you a car or a bike or anything that would get you around, he saw it as something unnecessary. Why would you need it when big brother is available 24/7 to bring you anywhere?

Actually, you could have gotten yourself a car with the allowance he gives you every day for being cute and adorable, and being patient with his incessant kisses and hugs and cuddles and love and touches and his fucking insanity in general.

But you know that he's going to kick up a massive fuss about driving alone. It was hell to even get your license with him actively trying to sabotage you at every exam- which includes him stooping so low to bribe the examiner to fail you. However, you persevered, and you got that stupid license. All the while, he was lamenting about how you're going to leave him all alone, how you don't need big brother anymore, how society pressured you to grow up too fast and recklessly drive off wherever.

You knew better than to fall for that. Or even entertain it either. Eventually, he gave up trying to guilt trip you into crying, apologizing to him and sobbing in his arms, promising that you won't leave him.

It's not like he DIDN'T kick up a fuss when you said you're using a bicycle either. He began freaking out about your safety, fearing that you might get run over.

Well. You admitted defeat. He's driving you to fucking work and back. It's not worth it to fight this battle.

So you began working in the stall. You had someone train you for your first 2 weeks. Then you were on your own.

The owner, who is also the person who showed you the ropes around there, said business isn't good, but it isn't bad either. So you didn't need to worry about rush hour where hoards of thirsty, sleep deprived office workers trample over each other to get their daily boba fix. It's pretty peaceful working there.

But what you do need to worry about, is your fucking big brother.

He would come and buy a drink, whichever you like to make. It can be the most expensive one, or the cheapest one, the most elaborate one or the simplest one. It's up to you, he will pay for it and happily drink what you made.

You could make him pay for the most expensive drink there is but serve him a cup of lukewarm water, and he would still drink it with glee and fork over his money, telling you to keep the change (which is usually a hundred bucks extra).

Let's say you want to be decent and make him drink that you know he would actually like. Which is anything that tastes generally fruity. And insist that you like making it even though it actually sucks.

He knows. He can tell that you're specially making his favourite drink. And that makes him happy and more obsessed with you if that's even possible at this point.

He would leave a massive tip and a kiss on your forehead.

Although your brother is fucking gross and weird like that, you still love him. Probably a bad idea but you're working so hard, trying your best to earn money honestly just to get him a Christmas gift.

Despite the restraining order between your parents and him, your brother is still invited back home each year to be jolly together. Preparations start a few days before Christmas, where you would see an unusual sight.

All of your immediate family members in the same room, or at least in the same house together without fighting to the death. Your dad's bones are intact, your mom didn't have her insecurities jabbed on for once. They're not exactly on speaking terms, per se.

You woke up one morning to see an... appropriate sized tree for your parent's house, erected in the middle of the living room. Adorned with beautiful ornaments and... are those pictures of you on the ornaments?

Wrapped presents were patiently sitting under the tree. There was a small box with your father's name on its tag, another small one with your mother's name on it. A decent sized box was addressed to your brother, must be a combined present from your parents.

Your shoulders sagged in defeat when you saw your presents took up the perimeter of the tree and even conquered the couch, the back of the couch and under the coffee table. You lost count after gift box #27.

Since everyone is in the kitchen, you quickly place the presents you got for your parents... and your brother.

You panned to the fireplace. Your Christmas stocking is filled so much to the brim that your brother must have added 5 more next to your original one. Your parents' and your brother's stockings are relatively empty. You stuffed them with candies and nuts to make them look less embarrassing.

You straightened your back, that should do it. Your ears perked up when you heard some clamoring in the kitchen. It must be your brother.

You let out a surprised yelp when you're yanked back by a pair of arms that snuck around your waist. "Merry Christmas, my little wittle precious baby!" You squeezed your eyes shut and scrunched your face as he attacked you with a barrage of kisses.

He giggled and squealed as he held you in his arms and twirled you around in glee. You let out a scream of horror as your feet dangle off the ground. He does this every Christmas morning when you were a child to wake you up further and get you excited for the holiday. But you're not a kid anymore, and this is horrifying.

Finally, he stopped and put you down. Your hair is frazzled and the world around you is gyrating. He squeezed you in another hug and gently rocked you side to side.

He immediately unlatched when you said you're hungry. Your big brother gleefully lead you to the dining table, where he fixes up a napkin around your neck like a bib. You asked him why is he tying a ribbon on your hair, he said that you are his Christmas present and he is spoiling himself this year.

Before you could respond, he gave you a brief peck on the head before frolicking away into the kitchen.

Your parents came out of the kitchen, greeting you. They're holding a tray full of steaming hot breakfast foods, no doubt your brother forced them to make it for you. Every Christmas generated a metric ton of leftovers. It's because your brother wanted you to try all of the foods from all over the world. But don't worry though, the leftovers could be so intact that it was given out to neighbors and friends and extended families. Some didn't even need to cook after that, the sheer amount of leftovers was enough to fuel ten more Christmas gatherings.

Croissants, quiches, various types of bread, eggs, ham, bacon even panettone made from scratch. Looking at the spread in front of you is dizzying, your big brother sets down the last plate right between your hands. It's a breakfast plate your brother customized to fit your usual preference, everything is shaped into a heart. He patted your head as he took a seat next to you.

Everyone ate in silence. Everyone was focusing on their own meal except... your brother. Who else would rather stare at you adoringly instead?

He asked if you wanted to go make snowmen outside. Not without proper winter protection, that is. You shrugged, it's not like you could escape your family anyway. Your friends are all busy with their own families, and you don't even have friends. Everything is closed and if you lock yourself in your room, your brother will just pick the fucking lock and force his way in.

Your parents tried making small talk, this earned a feral glare from your brother because it interrupted the connection between the both of you. They paid him no mind and began asking about your life. You tiredly replied to their questions and asked some back yourself, to try to find any sense of normalcy. Your brother would be disengaged with the words coming out of your parents mouth, but highly interested in what you had to say.

The rest of the morning went by uneventfully. You offered to help clear the table and do the dishes. Your brother just 'aww'd at you and gave you an appreciative kiss on your forehead. That wasn't an explicit yes, he appreciated the gesture, but he wouldn't allow you to dirty your hands doing chores.

He told you to wait for him to clean up. In the mean time, he gave you permission to open some of the gifts he got you. Frankly, you don't even want to deal with it at all, it's just too much crap. You decided to go through the stockings instead and grab some snacks for yourself.

As expected, he filled it with the most expensive treats and the freshest oranges. These types of foods are usually served in a formal setting, like eating gold crusted caviar at a 10 star restaurant, all dressed up in fancy clothes. But he just... shoved it in a Christmas stocking as if they're mundane chocolates.

Whatever, you shoved some into your pockets.

You turned around to see your brother smiling lovingly at you. He wrapped a puffer jacket around you, his scarf with his cologne on it, a pair of thick mittens on your hands , a winter hat snuggly fitted to your head, and a pair of thick pants he made you wear in front of him.

He picked one of your numerous christmas presents and handed it to you. He clasped his hands together expectedly as he watches you.

Your brother urged you to open it, go wild. Rip the wrapping to shreds. You felt so bad seeing how well wrapped it is and the quality of the wrapping paper is... indescribably good. It doesn't even feel like paper, it feels like silk.

So your carefully dismantled it, trying not to tear anything. You look up to see that your brother is pointing his camera at you, capturing this very precious moment. He encouraged you to go on.

You managed to remove the packaging and revealed a box of expensive winter boots. These are high quality and you would have been the source of envy even though most of your "friends" are also from wealthy families. Not everyone gets to have these.

You appreciate it but... You already had a pair of winter boots, the ones from last year, and the year before that. And the year before that, and a week ago where your brother is freaking out about you potentially having frostbite on your toes.

"It's the latest model! It was released as a part of a Christmas special, it will keep you warm and protect your feet too. It was selling out fast, I'm so glad I managed to get a pair for you, I can't have my sweetiepie sad on Christmas day!" Gushed your brother. You slipped them on.

You can't tell the difference between the one you had last year and the one on your feet now. Maybe some minor difference in it's stylistic design but... they're equally as comfortable.

You thanked your brother and finally gave him what he actually wanted from all this: a hug. He put away his phone and returned the embrace, sinking so deep into your jacket that neither of you can move without stumbling. You know he expected you to show gratitude for all his gifts through his main love language; touch.

It is exhausting.

After that, he brought you out to his private plot of land which he made into a park, complete with swingsets, monkey bars and slides. But these aren't for the public, it's for you. All the equipment are well maintained and look brand new even though you know it's been there for years.

He's not fond of throwing snowballs because it could hurt you. But he allows you to throw as much as you want at him. Even after the stunt you pulled last year.

You packed snow around a rock and hurled at him with all your might, it went straight to his head and his right eye was busted for months. Your brother didn't see that as something wrong, though. Even if you tried to apologize, he said that it was an accident and it was alright, he still loves you dearly and you did 'nothing wrong'. The first thing he did after recovering from his injuries at the hospital is to take you out for hot chocolate and then give you a backrub back home because winter could make your muscles stiff; and hence you must feel strained and sore.

He was still mildly bleeding from his gauze at the time, it was covering at least 70% of his upper head. Your brother was clueless when you asked if he needs any painkiller for his recent injury. He claimed to not feel the pain, but his wincing tells you otherwise. He rewarded you for your concern nonetheless with hugs and kisses and another massage.

You laid yourself on the snowy ground and started making snow angels. Your brother had his camera out and began capturing every moment he has with you.

You felt uncomfortable. And the cold is nipping at your bones even though you're thoroughly insulated by the sophisticated winter gear your brother made you wear. You're ready to go home now.

It shocked your brother and made him a bit desperate. He stammered and stumbled over his words, asking you if you wanted to play on the swing, build a snow man, play on the slides, the merry go around and... throw snowballs at him. Are you cold? He was in the middle of removing his own jacket to layer it onto you, but you stopped him.

You said you're tired. You don't find this fun and you're too old for this.

Maybe you're thirsty? He packed a flask filed with steaming hot chocolate for you- no? You're not thirsty or hungry? Maybe you wanted to use the bathroom-- no? You don't have to go?

He tried listing out all the possible reasons you wanted to go home and all its' solutions. Desperately wanting you to stop growing up so fast.

You got sick and tired of this, you yelled at him at the top of your lungs that you wanted to go home. You then stormed away towards the car, leaving your brother to stand there in silence, his camera capturing your explosive outburst.

Your brother saw you slamming the door angrily as you got in.

He sighed, gulping and hovering his finger over the delete button. But he ultimately decided against erasing the footage, it's still a video of you after all. Your brother assured that he's coming to the car, he wipes a stray tear away as he heads to his vehicle.

The both of you stayed silent as he drove you home.

Once you arrived, you bolted out of the car and ran back in. Locking yourself in the bedroom and barricading the door with random furniture. Hugging your knees close to your chest as you pray that your brother does not go after you by climbing into your windows.

And... he didn't. He left you alone for once. For a few hours too. It gave you the much needed relief, you felt like you could breathe now.

You're starting to feel a bit hungry. And you're hungry enough to be willing to face your older brother. So you began unbarricading, placing your dressers to it's original place.

You carefully unlocked the door, fully expecting him to be waiting outside for you. To your surprise, no one was in the hallway. You could hear some noises downstairs, in the kitchen.

You cautiously went down, the tree is still intact. Nothing is broken and there doesn't seem to be signs of a fight. You released a breath that you didn't know that you were holding, happy to know that you don't need to spend another Christmas at the hospital visiting your badly battered parents.

You whipped your head to the sound of your brother calling your name softly. He's holding a baking tray and a bowl, you can't tell what is in there because he's too tall. He smiled at you as he set it down on the dining table. The tray contained freshly baked parts of a gingerbread house and the bowl contained vanilla frosting.

You scanned the rest of the table. There are numerous small glass bowls containing different types of candy and snacks; from pretzel sticks to colourful chocolate rocks, to real gold leaves. Piping bags with metal tips are present too next to a box of plastic gloves.

Your brother pulled your chair out and invited you to sit there. You did, and he called you a good girl. His good girl. As you put on a pair of plastic gloves, he kissed you on the temple.

You asked where your parents are. He said that they're preparing the food for dinner, which includes ham and a roast turkey. And 15 other dishes.

You quizzed on, asking if there will be more people coming in. He shook his head: no. It's only the four of you. In the meantime, you should enjoy yourself building this gingerbread house. He puts on his own pair of plastic gloves too and began filling the piping bag with icing.

The two of you worked in peace, you opting to decorate the house while he pipes the details on the gingerbread men.

There is only two, a large one and a smaller one. You can guess which represents who.

You noticed the odd choice of attaching the small one to the large one's torso. With strategic use of the candies and frosting, he made it look like the larger gingerbread man is carrying the smaller one on its hip. He piped your defining features onto the baby gingerbread, and piped his features on the larger one.

He noticed you staring, your brother asked if you had a hard time connecting the pieces with frosting and if you needed his help. You said no, you just need a spatula from the kitchen. He tried to get up from his seat, but you pushed him back down, saying that you can get it yourself. He pouted, telling you to be careful and not touch the knives or stoves. Your brother went back to obsessing over the details on his gingerbread men.

You went inside the kitchen and greeted your parents who are busy cooking. You go through the drawers to find a silicone spatula and decided to help pick up some stray food scraps on the floor, throwing them into the bin. But as soon as you step on the pedal and have the lid swing open, you saw two crushed, but perfectly edible, gingerbread men in the garbage bin.

You returned to the dining table to see that your big brother is proudly presenting his work. He said this represents you and him... as if you already haven't figured it out. He said he dreams of having you live with him in a perfect fantasy house, fantasy world where you never have to grow up. And he will always be there by your side, taking care of you till the end of time. You will be pampered and spoiled rotten, you don't have to do anything, you don't have to lift a finger. Your big brother will do everything for you. He would even breathe for you if he could.

You nodded in acknowledgement, too tired to engage with him. You sat back down, continued with the gingerbread house. You failed to notice the flicker of sadness in his eyes, your brother felt so neglected and unwanted these few years. He wished that you were a kid again so the both of you could play together and be happy. The more he tries to win your favour, the more distant you get from him. He is endlessly chasing and you are running non-stop.

The rest of the afternoon went by uneventfully, other than the fact that your big brother rests his head on your shoulder the whole time.

Now, it's time for dinner. You tried helping them bring out the dishes, your brother praised you for being a darling as usual. He lets you have the first bite of the turkey, tearing a small inconspicuous piece of flesh from the bird and hand feeding it to you. It's still warm, juicy and delicious. Maybe it's the feeling of being special that makes it even tastier.

You chew as you brought out the casserole, setting it down on the table.

You looked at the spread. It looks like a buffet at a high end hotel. So many varieties and extremely nutritious.

Your brother fixed your napkin bib for you again and took food for you. Slumping in your seat, you were thinking of protesting but you knew it's easier to just wait for him to carve the best parts of the turkey for you and let the food pile up neatly on your plate first. He returned it to you, all your favourite dishes are on it within sensible portions. But these are still a lot of food for a person.

He didn't care about praying. Your brother wanted you to eat as soon as possible because you must be hungry. And it is absolute sacrilege to let you go hungry.

You insisted that you join your parents in saying grace and you're not that hungry. Your brother looks uncomfortable, still believing in his sick mind that you're starving to the point of emaciation. But since you are adamant in doing such 'pointless' things In his mind, he agrees, only if he leads it.

Everyone bowed their head down and held each others' hands.

Your brother said the shortest, most insincere, laziest grace ever. Once he fulfilled your requirement, he urged you to eat.

You're upset, you felt really angry and you thought he was mocking you instead. So you opted to eat alone in your room, you made it clear that you didn't want anyone in. Especially not your big brother.

He cried out a desperate plea to get you to stay with him. You ignored him and took a couple more of your favourite finger foods. Predicting a fight between your brother and your parents.

You wrenched your arm away from his powerful grip and fled the scene, hurrying up the flight of stairs. Only slowing down when you're out of sight.

As you thought, sounds of verbal fighting started resonating throughout the house. You heard your brother screaming his head off at your parents for being bad influences and poisoning you to hate him. Your parents defended themselves and this only fuelled the fire. You didn't want to be around when your brother started hurling chairs, so you slammed the door as hard as you could. The sudden loud noise did stop the commotion downstairs briefly. But it continued soon after.

You ate alone, in your barricaded room. Wishing that you're born into a 'normal' family, with 'normal' trauma. To a lot of people, you are complaining about a blessing. But you are always feeling alone, the only person facing a problem which everyone sees as a solution.

You scraped the last bits of food with your spoon. Waiting for the sounds of the ambulance or at least for the fighting to quiet down.

You looked at the clock. It's 1 AM. It's been relatively quiet for a while now, they should be finishing up their fight or cleaning up. Time for you to return your plate.

You grunted as you pushed the furniture away from your door which felt like the umpteenth time. You left your room and head downstairs.

Hearing soft sobs from one person, your brother. He's sitting in front of the tree, hugging the present you left for him earlier. The presents addressed to your parents are both missing, presumably being taken back to their room. A blanket is loosely draped around his shoulders.

You took slow steps, unsure if you should comfort him or not. But before you can even decide to chicken out, he spotted you. However, to your surprise, he didn't approach you or tell you to come forward. He gave you a soft assuring smile, before returning his attention to the tree.

You set your plate aside and went by his side. Your brother watched you with puffy eyes full of love, yet it tells you that he has been irreparably hurt by something... or an accumulation of things.

"Thank you..." He whispered, refering to the gift you gave him. It isn't something particularly valuable to you. It's a picture of the entire family in a photo frame. Your brother is going to cherish it, because it is a gift from the person he loves most in the world. But deep down, he secretly wishes that it was a photo of you and him alone.

He still looks extremely upset and distraught. Almost like he is at the brink of a breakdown. Your brother usually verbalizes what he wanted, but he couldn't this time.

You wonder what your parents got for him. You peeked over his shoulder to see that an unopened box containing a plain T-shirt and a pair of socks is carelessly discarded to the corner of the room.

Then, it clicked. Just like you, he felt alone. Maybe you will never understand why he holds you so dear in his heart. Just like how no one will understand him either, his struggles are unique to him with no one to relate.

He destroyed the relationship between himself and your parents. His friends are all superficial. You're grown up and constantly rejecting his love.

Not a single one of you paid attention to him. Yes, it is hard to think of a present for someone who has everything. But they could have put in a bit more effort, the colour of the shirt and socks aren't even in his favourite colour or in the correct size. You could have removed your parents from the photo, your brother will never remove it himself. Because that would mean defacing your gift for him.

And growing up, your parents never saw him as... a person. As someone with feelings and a personality. They only saw his value as a trophy piece to show off to their friends and family. Same goes to his friends now, if it wasn't for his skills and possessions, he would be nothing to anyone.

He had to beg to be loved. Even that isn't reliable, he could give it his all and everyone around him will expect more. Your brother could never dream of being the receiving end of his own affection. It seems like an impossibility to him.

Perhaps he is doing all of these despite getting nothing but disgust and disdain from you is all to protect your innocence, to not put you through what he had to face. It's just that he went about it the wrong way. Or maybe he is just... wrong in the head. Or maybe he was hoping by loving you so much, you would give him the intense type of love he was yearning for his entire life.

Either way, he is alone.

The both of you are now seated in front of the fireplace. You didn't want to open presents, your brother is okay with that. He did not nag you to do it for once. Snuggling closer, the both of you shared a blanket. He still looks unhappy and crestfallen.

You remember you still had the ribbon bow on your head.

He hovered his arms around you as you squirm in his grip. You managed to crawl into his lap and rest your head on his chest. He lets out a chuckle and some sniffles, clamping his arms back down around you.

You reminded him of one last gift. Your brother is confused until he saw your ribbon.

From that moment on, he burst into tears of joy. He found you so unbearably adorable, so unbearably cute that his heart couldn't take it. An excited squeak escaped his lips as he held you even tighter. Peppering kisses all over your face, neck and head.

He started blabbering in baby talk, calling you every pet name and listing out everything he loved about his 'gift'. Repeating that this is the best gift he ever received and this is all he ever wanted. You are all he ever wanted. Praising that you remembered what he loves.

You hope that he could feel a little less lonely tonight. You can't peer into his head and know exactly what is going on inside. But you knew, he was happy.

Your breathing calmed him down and he closed his eyes, nuzzling against your neck. The collar of your shirt wet from his tears and your arms are secure around him. Your brother mumbled "I love you." as he adjusted you on his lap. Pressing your form against his, enjoying the heat that the both of you shared. Wishing that this moment will never end and you will never part from him.

You realized another thing too as he strokes your hair.

Your older brother is the only person in the world who harbors true, undying, unconditional love for you.

Even though he has his flaws, there will be no one else like him. Ever.

So you closed your eyes and melt into him. Just like before, you felt safe.

The both of you fell alseep in front of the hearth, surrounded by gifts, mostly unopened ones. Snowflakes floating down from the skies and landing delicately at the edge of the roof. Feeling unburdened and content in the living room.

Merry Christmas.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere oc #yandere male #tw infantilization #yandere oc x reader #yandere x you #tw yandere #yandere concept #male yandere oc x reader #yandere brother #tw incest

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insightfulllama · 11 months

Text

ANYWAY HERE’S A MASSIVE LIST OF OBSERVATIONS AND THOUGHTS FROM REWATCHING THE CABIN VOD AHAHAHAHA

(Spoilers)

The first thing Ranboo clearly says is, “It wasn’t supposed to…be like this…” They are very disoriented and confused, verging on distress.

When the mask turns on, they panic and yell “no” several times, before standing and going, “Where am I?” and “This place sure looks weird!” in the NPC voice. I believe he knew something was wrong and was able to scream, but not anything more before they took full control.

The NPC behavior isn't as obvious as it is in "Warehouse", but I definitely see it now that I'm looking for it. Pretty unsettling.

Ranboo checks locations they had already looked at before the mask turned on. (The door, the bookshelf, the ashes, etc)

Ranboo can see us, but with the masks influence we appear as a “weird painting”.

When he is flipping through the magazines and waiting for chat to decide where they go, he says, “These are just old pajamas.” I think that’s what they say, I have no idea what it means.

When Ranboo first goes to look at the window, he bends out of frame and messes with something (I think the VHS’s) and says, “Those don’t seem too important.” Pretty interesting considering he later uses a VHS to communicate with the one trying to get him out. (Showfalls influence?)

He’s complained about his head hurting twice now, I think this may become a pattern

They find a set of teeth in the drawer

The red key is IN the red bat- mirroring how the key is in Slimecicle later? Did he have to dig into a dead animal to get it here as well and we just didn’t see it because of the mask?

Ranboo’s spacial awareness seems impaired. He doesn’t know where Slime went because he can’t directly see him. This happens again later with Sneeg, Ranboo looking the entirely wrong way when Sneeg calls out. Both Slime and Sneeg call attention to this- “It’s a house, there’s door frames! How did you get inside if you do not know what a door is?” and “How do you not hear me?...How did you look over there, man?”

JUST realized the key colors match the “characters” we’ve been introduced to. (The Savior, The Taken, The Villain) I don’t know if there’s further symbolism connected to where the keys are found and stuff but it’s pretty neat.

When Slime does the pinkie swear promising that Ranboo can leave after he does the cooking challenge, they have their fingers crossed behind their back.

Slimy Guts is one of the available ingredients, bit sus considering our new knowledge. Also chinese leftovers got 0% of the votes LOL

The random cutaways are kinda strange. Don’t know what to make of them.

Ranboo uses a pretty big knife to open a little package of slime, is instructed to “beat up” the food and call it names, and later he offers to cut Slime off the floor when he gets stuck. I think there’s a good chance ranboo stabbed someone and made a meal with their guts. Or something in that vein. (Several times Ranboo points out that these aren’t REAL ingredients and he doesn’t know how someone could eat it. What’s happening is probably so horrifying that he can’t imagine it as something normal like chicken, so his brain is substituting with stuff that’s weird but TECHNICALLY not morally reprehensible.)

Fridge says “BEHIND YOU” on it

Gummy worm was in the freezer, body parts can be kept in freezers, idk

Someone really likes mayo, cause they stopped it when it was on the turntable and gave the camera a thumbs up

Slime tries the meal but he’s really reluctant and needs specific circumstances to do it. If the theory of the meal being human guts it true, the hesitation probably didn’t have anything to do with airplane noises…

What is in the backgrounds of these cutaways? It’s so blurry idk, I can’t tell. It’s sort of purply.

The dish in the end turns to slime with all the possible ingredients mixed in, even the ones we didn’t pick. In universe it reinforces that our choices don’t really matter, from a meta perspective it’s probably so they only had to make one slime prop.

The timing of the marshmallow string stretching as slime tries to feed ranboo is HYSTERICAL, golden comedic timing

The mask starts blinking when ranboo gets the tape message.

The person on tape instructs Ranboo “not to resist”. I believe this is said in the second message as well. Perhaps they don’t want Ranboo drawing attention to themself

Like in the room they woke up in, Ranboo checks areas multiple times, seemingly with no memory of the first time he checks. He does the exact same “flashlight in the eyes” gag each time he picks it up. It really enforces that in this moment he is a puppet, not making his own choices.

“What’s over here?” NPC!Ranboo back in full swing with this dialogue.

Ranboo did the cooking game, Sneeg didn’t. Sneeg refused to kill? Maybe cause he didn’t have a mask? Hmmm idk

The baby skull on a background shelf has a MASSIVE forehead

Light starts flickering when slime appears

What does the fight between evil sneeg and ranboo mean? Maybe they were both trapped and had a fight?? What does it mean without the obscuring mask?

Ranboo is able to get sneeg out of slimes influence, and sneeg says a few times afterward that he’s immune now. Ranboo can help people get out of Showfalls influence? (The gooey hat does bring Sneeg out of the influence later, extension of that Ranboo effect?)

When Sneeg looks to see if Slime is in the box, there is a “shhhh” sound effect

Sneeg says Frank is his eyes and ears- was Frank a whistleblower, feeding information about Showfall to the outside? Unsure

Goo chest- possibly full of human bits? Corpse in a trunk is a pretty common trope

Jello on the shelves of Slime’s room

Same picture that was on the fridge is in a frame on the table

Ranboo looks at the mirror the same way twice, reinforcing the NPC vibes

Another false choice- the story only progresses if you go to sleep. Talking to Sneeg only gets some more NPC dialogue. Most of sneeg’s other dialogue sounds genuine, so this is strange.

Sneeg seems unable to move or act while ranboo is asleep

Could the eight hours that passed be literal? If things are obstructed by the mask it very well could be

“You would have known had you been awake!” Before the reveal of the mask making things look different I thought the streams were going to be revealed to be a dream. Clearly it’s not entirely a dream, but this dialogue is still fun.

SHARK PICKLE LOBSTER TIME!! What would this be in real life? An actual human experiment? Security dogs? Full on hallucination?

This is a pretty funny way to promote the merch honestly lol (referring to ranboo using his merch to trick the thing into cage)

Ranboo seems baffled by his idle fighting animation for a second. He says, “Why am I just standing here? What’s going…” and when the camera pulls back the mask is flickering.

When Slime sends his ghouls to grab Ranboo I believe he tries to move out of the way. They kind of jerk a bit, like they're trying to move their feet, before saying, “Why can’t I just- get out of here? I just need to get out of here-” The mask is once again flickering during this

After the fight the mask starts flickering a LOT, plus the other lights in the cabin. Tv comes back on.

The TV man is named Hetch? He says, “My name is-” I think he says Hetch? Unsure

Mans gets drugged up at the end, rip

#I was thrown off and not really vibing with genloss cause i went in expecting horror from the start #but now the reveal has happened and my brain is INFECTED with OBSESSION WORMS #generation loss #genlosscabin #generation loss cabin #generation loss warehouse #genlosswarehouse #genloss spoilers #generation loss spoilers #crying and shaking over sneeg actually #ranboo says the ending has the option of being sort of happy please i am BEGGING ya'll to choose good options #might do another of these tomorrow for now i must sleep #I've stayed up way too late already

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miasmaghoul · 6 months

Note

*ahem* edelweisss, edelweisss . . .

Swiss leans in the doorway to the common room, arms crossed over his chest, tail idly swishing behind him. He's been here for a few minutes now, left his book dog-eared on his bed with the intent of grabbing a snack. He'd found the kitchen occupied, though, and the smile he wears is exclusively thanks to the sight before him.

The kitchen is a mess; the small island is occupied by an ancient stand mixer and a few dirty bowls, while the counter lies covered in open containers, half-empty ingredient bags and not-small pile of used measuring spoons. The scent of sugar, citrus and something floral hangs heavy in the air, and Swiss can feel the heat of the oven from across the room.

At the center of the mess, though, lies what holds Swiss' attention.

Mountain's humming, swaying in front of the stove along with the album playing on the common room turntable. Something jazzy Swiss recognizes but can't name off the top of his head. Whatever it is, Mountain is clearly lost in it while he rather vigorously stirs something Swiss can't see. What he can see is the smattering of floury handprints covering Mountain's jeans, and the streak of something pale yellow that's somehow ended up in his hair. Swiss can only imagine how much worse Mountain's front must be, but there's one more detail that keeps him from wondering too hard.

The few delicate white flowers that have made their home at the base of Mountian's antlers have Swiss' eyes crinkling. He'd know those pale petals anywhere.

Swiss pushes off the doorframe and drags his feet just loud enough to announce himself. Sneaking up on Mountain in the kitchen doesn't usually end well. He sees the other ghoul's ear flick, sees him pause in stirring, and Swiss feels safe to speak.

"Thinkin' about me, grasshopper?"

Mountain peers at his over his shoulder, raises an eyebrow. Swiss gestures at his head as he strolls into he room, and Mountain rolls his eyes as though he can see his own antlers. He makes a chuffing sound and resumes his mixing, but Swiss doesn't miss his little smirk.

"Might be," he replies with a half shrug. "It's happened once or twice, against my better judgement."

Swiss laughs as he hops up onto one of the bar stools at the island, one leg tucked up under himself. He rests his elbow on one of the few clean spots by the mixer - the remnants of whatever Mountain has in his hair sits in the bowl closest to him, so Swiss picks it up and gives it a sniff.

"What's on the menu today, peaches?" Swiss swipes a fingers through a blob on the side of the bowl. Gives it a cursory sniff.

"A lemon and lavender cake," Mountain supplies, just in time for Swiss to pop his finger into his mouth and find out for himself.

The batter is delicious, sweet and tart and wonderfully smooth. Delightful on all counts. Swiss isn't surprised; Mountain is as good a cook as he is a messy one, and judging by the splotch of egg yolk Swiss can see on the ceiling this has been particularly inspired session.

"Fancy," he says, gathering another bit of batter. "If you need someone to taste when it's baked, my mouth ain't busy."

Mountain snorts, and together they say,

"For now."

Swiss playfully tosses a dirty tea towel at his back, and Mountain catches it without even looking. Tucks one corner into his pocket while his tail meanders towards the fridge.

"Already baked," he says, nodding towards the appliance while his tail tugs it open. The middle shelf holds three identical rounds of cake, the loveliest shade of yellow speckled with what must be flecks of lavender. "You'll have to wait for the finished product, I already trimmed them down. For quality control. You know how it is."

Swiss nods sagely. He slides from his stool and wanders over to the stove, humming when Mountain's tail sways up to greet him, the tufted end caressing his jaw. Swiss leans against the counter, and now he can see what Mountain is working on.

"What's, uh," he waves at the odd arrangement on the stove - a pan beneath what appears to be the stand mixer's bowl, which must contain whatever Mountain is tirelessly stirring. "What's this all for, then?"

"Frosting," Mountain tells him, lifting what turns out to be a whisk. "Eventually."

Something thick and gooey drips from the whisk and immediately gives Swiss several indecent thoughts.

"Don't say it looks like cum," Mountain says before Swiss can so much as open his mouth.

"Wasn't gonna," Swiss lies, tongue poking out between his fangs. Mountain gives him a look. "I wasn't!" Swiss insists, pushing away from the counter. He slips behind Mountain instead, wraps his arms around the taller ghoul's waist. Swiss kisses the back of his shoulder. "But I was gonna ask if that was why you were thinkin' about me."

Mountain barks out a laugh.

"Gross," he complains, but his tail wraps around Swiss' calf all the same. "But you're actually half right." Swiss makes a questioning sound, and Mountain points a thumb behind them. "Look at the recipe."

Swiss will, eventually. He indulges in holding Mountain first, just for a moment. Presses his nose to his sweat-damp shirt and breathes in the the homey scent of warm earth and something herbal. It blends beautifully with the lemon and sugar surrounding them, makes him feel a little fuzzy around the edges. He gives Mountain a squeeze, and stands on his toes to kiss the back of his neck before he lets go; another soft, white blossom pops up behind Mountain's ear.

Mountain picks up humming again while Swiss hunts for the recipe he mentioned. He piles dishes as he searches, stacks bowls and gathers measuring spoons. He finds it after a minute, an index card stained with vanilla and sticky with egg.

"A-ha," he holds up the card triumphantly, a light dusting of flour raining down from it. "Let's see what got you growing me."

Swiss wipes the card on his pants, and recognizes its looping, cursive script as Cumulus' handwriting. Lemon lavender layer cake with -

"No fuckin' way," Swiss says through a laugh. He looks up to find Mountain watching him with a glimmer in his eye. "That's all it took?"

"Yep," Mountain sighs, turning back to the task at hand. "That's all."

Swiss stares at the back of his head for a beat, and then the goofiest smile cracks his face. He tosses the card to the counter and returns to his place at Mountain's back, wrapping him up just a little tighter this time.

"Lucifer, you're a sap," he teases, but they both know it's true. Swiss reaches up and plucks one of the flowers decorating Mountain's antlers, spins it between two fingers. "Not that I'm complaining about bein' on your mind."

"Neither am I, edelweiss," Mountain rumbles. He briefly abandons his dutiful whisking to turn and knock their horns together. "Neither am I."

Mountain ducks down just enough for Swiss to catch him is a leisurely kiss, one that tastes like summery sunshine, and then he's gone again. Leaves Swiss grinning dumbly at the back of his head while warmth trickles into his belly. He settles against the taller ghoul's back, and in no time at all the pair of them start to sway to the music as one.

"So," Swiss murmurs into his shirt after a long moment, "what's a Swiss meringue buttercream, anyway?"

#miasma's work #the band ghost ficlets #swiss ghoul #mountain ghoul #swiss/mountain #swiss x mountain #SURPRISE BITCH HAVE THE CAKE IDEA >:)#jk ilu crow <3

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justkending · 7 months

Text

Bullshit! How about a bet? (One-shot)

Summary: Who knew that being short would lead to such great benefits?

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader (shorter)

Word Count: 3900+

A/N: Once again, I dipped my toes into smuttier waters, but still am building up the courage to jump in fully... I have some announcements (life-wise) that I'm going to make soon, but I needed to write something after the week I had just to bring some happiness to my life, so here you are! I hope you enjoy :)

___________

I was adamant about finding some way to sue Tony Stark for placing the microwave at such an unnecessary height.

I also planned to sue him for the emotional distress it had caused me this far with the teasing and mocking jokes the team landed on me when they watched me attempt to put food in it.

Nat and I weren’t far from each other’s height, but either she didn’t use the microwave, or she was better at hiding when she did because I seemed to be the only one who got the quips thrown at me when I stood on the tips of my toes just to push something onto the turntable.

To make the task harder, the door opened top to bottom like an oven instead of side to side like any normal version of the kitchen amenity did, making my arms stretch out as far as I could just to get whatever it was I needed to be heated up to actually go into the damn thing.

Damn the rich for trying to be fancy where it was unnecessary!

Recently, I tried to adopt Nat’s efforts of never being seen doing the mundane daily act, and the last few times, I had been successful. My luck seemed to run out today...

Trying to make my task as quick as possible, I pulled the door down and stood on my tiptoes to push my now lukewarm coffee mug into the middle of the turntable.

“You’re so close, Pixie,” I heard behind me, and I cringed, finding I was far from being in the clear.

“Fuck off,” I grumbled, knowing the voice of the person the nickname had originated from. I accepted that the mug was in the microwave even if it wasn’t centered.

“Those aren’t nice words,” Bucky retorted, and I could hear the smug grin on his face even if I didn’t bother to look over at him.

“You’re an angry Pixie today,” Sam added, walking to the counter and grabbing a banana off the stand in the middle, and then going to the fridge for a drink.

“I thought you guys were on a tactical mission,” I groaned, pushing the buttons that were also too high quickly to start the radioactive machine.

When I turned around, Bucky was closer now but had propped himself on the side of the bartop of the counter that faced the seating area ahead. Sam was still head deep into the fridge, trying to decide on his drink of choice.

“We were. Finished it early,” Sam hummed as he ducked his head to see all the varieties of sodas, waters, and juices Tony kept stocked. “Weren’t you supposed to be in a meeting?”

“Canceled,” I answered shortly, glaring at Bucky, who seemed to still find my height funny as he grinned at me. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” he asked, playing coy.

Instead of a response, I just sent him another hate-filled look.

“Find a way to sue Tony yet?” Sam broke the stare-off we were having, and I didn’t process what he meant.

“About what?” I looked at him.

“About the microwave being placed perfectly so that you look like a toddler trying to reach for the cookies on the top of the fridge,” Bucky answered for him.

I turned my head slowly and murderously to the brunette.

“Out in the field isn’t the only place you can get killed,” I smiled, but there was no hint of joy or joking behind it—instead, a sadistic pull of my lips.

“No threats,” he pointed at me with a warning Tony had started since forever ago, and I could see his shoulders tense even if he tried to hide the hint of discomfort.

“Promises are different than threats,” I tilted my head with the smile still on my lips.

“Stop that.” His body had ever so slightly leaned back.

The microwave dinged before I could torment Bucky further, and I turned my head to look at it and then back at Sam.

“I won’t replace your shampoo with nair if you get that for me,” I smiled, almost instantly turning the psychotic one into an innocent one.

“Why would you do that, to begin with?” He asked, concerned, slowly moving to get my mug out of sheer fear.

“I think you can take a decent guess,” I replied, watching him as he carefully brought the mug out and walked calculatingly to hand it to me.

“Y/N,” he warned.

“Hope you two have the day you deserve,” I skipped away, mimicking a child about to go prance through a field of flowers.

“She scares me,” Sam whispered once I was out of the room.

“Are we sure she’s not an evil serial killer on the side and just does this job to lessen her karma?” Bucky asked, their eyes still on the doorway I had left out of.

—————————————-

“Bullshit!”

“I see they’ve started early,” Steve sighed, taking a tired sip of his coffee as he sat in the den where Bucky, Nat, Sam, and I were already up, causing chaos for the day.

“They got a bet going,” Sam explained while Steve sat beside him.

“What is it this time?” Steve questioned, looking between us three and keeping the lip of the mug close to his mouth.

“Bullshit!”

“Exactly that,” Sam smirked, grabbing his own cup of caffeine.

“Bucky claimed that Y/N couldn’t, and still hadn’t, beat him in Bullshit since our last Christmas party,” Nat said, joining on the other side of Steve with her own playing cards in hand, leaving him in the middle of the two.

“I have beat him,” I mumbled, looking over my cards in hand as I debated on the next set to put down. “He just got the honorary win because we were called on a mission before I could put my cards down and go out.”

“If you didn’t get to play the winning hand, how did you win?” Bucky snarked, watching me carefully as I put two aces down. “Bullshit.”

“Ha ha!” I pointed at him. “Pick 'em up, Buckaroo.”

He rolled his eyes and looked down at the decent-sized pile of cards stacking up, seeing that I did, in fact, tell the truth and added them to his own hand.

“Careful what you claim, Buck,” Steve retorted about more than one thing, only getting a middle finger in return from his friend, who stared at his new options.

“There’s a larger bet hanging over this one,” Nat hummed, putting her two cards in before pulling her legs into a crossed position.

“Yeah?”

“If I win, he has to be my man-servant for the microwave,” I celebrated, putting down one three of clubs that I was lucky enough to have. My deck in hand was growing thinner and thinner.

“And if not?” Steve asked.

“If not, she can’t call me Buckaroo for five months,” Bucky mockingly sneered at me.

“Actually, two weeks,” I shook my head, putting a card down.

“If you’re so sure you’re going to win, why does it matter?” he said teasingly. I stuck my tongue out at him as a response. “Real mature.”

“Just play your hand, Jackass.”

He did, and on my turn, I went out.

“Hell, yes!” I jumped up and down, hands in the air, before doing a small victory dance.

“How the hell?” Bucky looked absolutely flabbergasted by my win. “You had like ten cards left.”

“Did I?” I cheered, showing my empty hands for effect.

He turned to Nat, who had a grin on her face, and shrugged when she noticed his glare turned on her.

“Don’t look at me. I played clean,” she laid her deck of cards neatly on the table and put her hands up in defense.

“Fair win, Buck,” Steve laughed.

“You’re my man-servant now,” I gleamed, dipping down to grab my mug of coffee and handing it to him. “Would you mind heating this up by chance? I forgot about it while I was busy kicking your ass.”

“Yeah, because of how long it took you to do it,” he grumbled, not putting up a fight as he took it from my hand and stomped to the microwave passively.

________________

Bucky’s POV

For the next week, Y/N multiplied her microwave use by a thousand. Things that didn’t even need microwaving were thrown in for two seconds sometimes, just to annoy me.

She’d say stuff like, “Oh, perfect. It was just half a degree too cold,” or, “Careful, I burned my tongue last time 'cause you were too busy glaring at me to watch it. We don’t want to make that mistake again.”

She even had me heat up Nat’s and Wanda’s food at one point, even though that wasn’t part of the bargain. Her reasoning should have had me leaving the room, but instead, Nat and Wanda had a nice glass of steaming apple cider in hand by the time I did leave.

I was close to being done with it all and the constant nagging that accompanied it, so when I walked in and saw her in the kitchen today, I instantly turned on my heel and tried to run before she saw me… Luck wasn’t on my side...

“Oh, Buckaroo!” That name had multiplied its use as well... “I need to pop the popcorn for movie night, and I could use the help!”

I could have kept walking and brushed it off as if not hearing her, but no one was dumb enough to believe that. Damn my super hearing… And as annoyed as I was, I was a man of my word. I made a bet, and I lost. I only had six more days, eight hours, and 28 more minutes to go.

“Ten seconds at a time,” I muttered under my breath as I turned my direction back to the kitchen and stomped slowly to the microwave.

I had been coming in here for my own hidden snacks for movie night and forgot that most of the team would be here for this night’s movie marathon. It had been a while since we all had some free time together, and even if the new chore had become irritating, Y/N was using it for good tonight by making sure everyone had their favorite popcorn in hand for the trilogy we were watching.

“Why do you put all the work on yourself when they can come in here and make a bag themselves?” I asked, leaning on the counter where she was organizing the multiple varieties of popcorn we had stocked. She was measuring to make sure that everyone’s favorite was accounted for.

“Why not? It’s not hurting me,” she shrugged as if it was common sense and I was asking a dumb question. “Why do you pick the same two types of candy every time we have a movie night?” she shot back, looking at me and slightly nodding to the microwave.

I took the message as I saw the timer count down from three and moved to grab the finished bag inside.

“It’s a comfort food,” I argued my answer.

“Exactly, and this is their comfort food. Plus, I don’t know, it’s one less step they have to map out. It’s already an exhausting part of our job having to think of the next step constantly, and it doesn’t bother me to do, so why not take an extra few actions so they don’t have to,” she simplified.

She handed me a prepped bag, ready for the microwave next.

I took it and went back and forth for a while as I thought of her answer.

I had learned over the years that Y/N’s love language had been acts of service, whether that was making sure that our favorite cereals were on the shopping list so we wouldn’t run out, or offering a blanket or pillow when she came into the same room as you before she got comfortable herself.

We were almost always constantly tired from our jobs and just the general weight of the world on our shoulders some days. Having someone make popcorn for you on an off day was just one less action to do, and Y/N did more things to help us in that area than I had even tried to notice.

I had seen her acts of service being done, but mainly out of spite of not being one of the people who received them. Not because I wanted her to do things for me, more so the thought behind it.

We bickered and got on each other’s nerves a lot, more so just to poke at her and see that fire in the pixie’s eyes on my end, but I didn’t get this kind of treatment as often. I had accepted it at this point, but the few times she had extended that kind of care to me, it felt like burning a candle on a fall day after deep cleaning for eight hours. Something about it put you at peace and made you feel even more at home.

Maybe this deserved a conversation with her, even if I was terrified to wander into those grounds.

We had quietly shuffled around the kitchen, and I had taken on the job as her co-chef as I grabbed multi-colored popcorn bowls to empty the bags into and organize them according to type.

“Peter likes the bowl that looks like the Death Star cut in half,” she pointed at one of the bowls I had pulled down. “Tony got it for him for Christmas last year, and he uses it every movie night.” She smiled as she turned back to grab one of the last bags from the microwave.

She was saying something about adding the extra-extra movie butter popcorn bags to that bowl, but I was already moving to her side to grab the bag that was just out of reach from her fingertips in the microwave.

Her back molded into my chest as I reached over her, pulled the brown paper bag out, and handed it down to her. I wasn’t massively bigger than her, but the nickname Pixie held its title well.

“I had it,” she looked up at me from behind, and damn it, if that didn’t stir something in me.

The intimate position had me feeling a new kind of warmth, different from the subtle glow of a candle in a pristine room. Instead, a weird and fuzzy feeling of realization made goosebumps form up my arms, but I didn’t quite understand what it was.

Was this a form of anxiety I hadn’t felt yet? I snapped out of it when I noticed I had stayed there a beat too long, and Y/N looked worried.

“We made a deal,” I said, grabbing the last bag to pop out of her hand and placing it in the microwave. “I’m a man of my word,” I added, clearing my throat and reminding myself out loud that that was the only reason I was not moving from my spot with her back in my chest and our bodies practically molding into the others.

“You really hold up your end of the bargain,” she smiled and ducked under my arm, immediately leaving me in the cold.

I snapped out of the headspace I was thrown into without a choice and shook my head as I helped her finish the last few tasks before accompanying her to the movie den.

My days were almost up with being Y/N’s personal microwave-er, but for whatever reason, there was this new realization I had that made the excuse of being near her in this way not as frustrating.

I made it an excuse to try and get closer to her again and again, and not just for kitchen amenity requirements, but anytime she couldn’t reach something, which I was learning was a lot.

Any form of aid, like trying to get a box from the top of the pantry, trying to reach a book or file on the top of a shelf, or trying to put a mug back when she was emptying the dishwasher.

Currently, I had walked by her room, door open, and saw her struggling to hang a new picture frame on her wall, being just a few inches too short as normal.

“Fucking hell.” I heard her mumble as she looked around for a chair.

Before she could move from her spot, I was already behind her, hanging it to the spot she was replacing.

“Oh, thanks,” she said, but the tone in her voice wasn’t a grateful one. “What is going on with you?” She turned and crossed her arms, looking up at me while I centered the gold frame before pulling away.

“What do you mean?” I cleared my throat, not sure if I even knew what I was doing.

“Don’t play coy,” she leaned back on her heel, anchoring her stance at me.

“We made a deal,” I answered, even though it was a half-assed one, but it was better than admitting what I was feeling. Or at least I thought it was…

“For the microwave. Mind you, that ends tomorrow,” she pointed out. “What’s with all the extra help suddenly?”

I hesitated, not sure what route I wanted to take.

“I realized you have more things you struggle with than just in the kitchen. I figured you’d be happy to be getting a bang for your buck.”

“Bang for my Buck?” she said back with a raised eyebrow, and I heard it even if I didn’t mean it that way. Or did I?

“Yeah, getting what you bargained for,” I swallowed thickly, seeing a new fire in her eye I didn’t understand.

“Bang for my buck, or are you trying to get a bang for your buck?” she said softly, taking a step forward.

I froze as our chests were inches from touching, and she looked up at me in a way that would make any man melt.

“It was the bet,” I cleared my throat, and the sound of something in the hall broke our attention from each other. “I should go check on that,” I stepped back, stabbing my thumb behind me but failing to pull my eyes from hers.

“Should you?” she shrugged, with a sly smirk on her lips.

I couldn’t help but stare when her tongue slowly came out to wet her lips. When I looked back at her eyes, all traces of annoyance were gone, and elements of lust took over.

“You hate me,” I stated, knowing- or at least thinking I knew- that this feeling of chemistry would ruin us if we gave into it.

“I don’t recall ever saying that,” she tilted her head to the side, never breaking eye contact with me.

“Actions speak louder than words,” I swallowed when the two-inch gap between us became one.

“Why so nervous?” she ignored me.

I hesitated because there were a million things going through my brain to answer why I was stiffening at the change in energy between us.

“We shouldn’t-”

“Actions speak louder than words, though. And hate to break it to ya, but your actions have been showing otherwise.” Her fingers brushed my chest, and I held back a shiver that threatened to escape. “I’ll stop if you want,” she offered, halting her hand in the middle of my sternum and looking up at me before smiling mischievously again. “But you have to say something.”

My jaw tensed, and I saw her trying to read the emotions on my face. Unlucky for her, she had just flipped a switch I don’t think she meant to touch.

I immediately turned and, with determination, walked to the door. I heard a subtle “pft” behind me like she was disappointed in my choice, but she was sorely wrong if she thought I was leaving now. She didn’t get to look at me with those eyes, bite those damn lips, and make threats she didn’t plan on following through with.

With a quick slam, I bolted the door handle and turned to look at her from my spot.

Now I had the upper hand, and her eyebrows were raising.

“It’s not nice to make threats,” I said lowly and took slow and careful steps closer. I could see her go rigid now. “Unless, of course, this is actually one of your promises. Either way, don’t say something you’ll regret following through with.”

“Should I regret it?” she hummed, and even if she looked more relaxed, I could tell she was still trying to read me and couldn’t quite follow if I was serious or teasing her back.

“How good is your judgment?” I asked, doubling my stride until my hands were on her hips, and she was pinned to me. A sharp intake was the instant response I got from her.

“I’m starting to wonder if it’s losing its edge right about now…” Her chest heaved in quick motions, but she tried to act as if unphased by the proximity.

“I’ll stop right now,” I mimicked her words from earlier, but not without lowering my face to hers and stopping mere centimeters from her lips. “But you have to speak up.”

Her breath was on my lips as her own parted, waiting for clarity to come back to her, but she stayed looking over my features, debating all her choices.

“Answer me this,” her hands slowly and delicately took my forearms as she held me in place, our hips brushing each other in close proximity. My hands couldn’t help but squeeze in a possessive manner. “When did you realize it?”

“Realize what?” Our nearness made the tips of our noses brush, and the heat between us grew with each passing second.

“That you wanted this?” Her hands traveled up to my elbows, and she needily pulled me closer, causing our lower halves to slam in friction.

I stifled a low moan, even if it took all the willpower in my body to do so.

“Darling.” One of my hands on her waist moved to her lower back, and I pulled her in enough for our chest to connect next. The other hand released to come up and cup her jaw. “I’d be lying to you and myself if I said it hasn’t been a daydream of mine for a while.”

She tried to hide her smile by biting the inside of her cheek, and my thumb brushed over the movement.

“It’s taken you fucking forever to do something about it,” she replied breathily.

“Made it damn hard to know the feelings were mutual, doll,” I said back, looking down at her lips and keeping my attention there for a second longer to prove my point.

“Where’s the fun in easy?” she said, pulling me into her, and our lips crashed without hesitation.

I was hungry for something I’d been starved of for far too long, and the feeling seemed to be reciprocated on her end because the next thing I knew, we were pulling and tearing at each other’s clothes like they were on fire, and we had seconds to live before they consumed us.

“We should make more bets,�� she said breathlessly as she moved feverishly to undo the buttons on her jeans.

“I agree, Pixie,” I huffed, throwing her shirt off before moving to take mine off next.

“I bet you can’t make me-”

“Oh, there are going to be a lot of things I’m gonna make you do after waiting this long. No bet’s necessary…”

I pushed her back on the bed, and she fell back on her elbows, looking up at me with wide eyes and a blushed complexion.

“I like the way you talk, Barnes. Now show me instead of telling me.”

Marvel Tags:

@thejourneyneverendsx @death-unbecomes-you @mythos-writes @srrymydood @xa-dia @redhairedfeistynerd @morganclaire4 @connie326 @captain-asguard @mollygetssherlockcoffee @teenagedreams-bucky @shower-me-with-roses @livstilinski @basicallylool @starryeyeseunbyul

My Lovelies forever:

@natura1phenomenon @lauravicente @kakakatey @traceyaudette @notyourtypicalrose @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce @sandlee44 @thorne93 @thefaithfulwriter1 @essie1876 @greyeyedsmile14 @capsiclehan @xostephanie @averyrogers83 @awesomenursingstudent @gh0stgurl @cs-please @jjlevin @rainbowkisses31 @deannotmoose @their-bibliophile @kitkatd7 @willowbleedsonpaper @mariaenchanted @snffbeebee @couldabeenamermaid @rebekahdawkins @alyispunk @billyseye @hallecarey1

Bucky Barnes Tags:

@chloe-skywalker @charmedbysarge @jbarness @bellamy-barnes @katiaw2 @aikeia @stopjustlovethemcu @enchantedbarnes

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x reader one shot #justkending #marvel one shot #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes x shorter reader #justkending bucky barnes #marvel #marvel oneshot #bucky barnes x reader insert #smutty but not full smut #slow burn one shot

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hyunfilms · 6 months

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blue side of the sky (lmh) | 12.5 [cloudy days] chan

♡ spotify playlist | series masterlist

—12.5 [CLOUDY DAYS] chan's thoughts

—WORD COUNT: 0.9k

—ON ROTATION: w.a.y.s - jhené aiko

Chan remembers the first time he met you. He was playing around with some beats on his mini turntable, while Seungmin was organizing his side of the room. There was a bathroom that connected their room to Minho and Jisung's room, and they always left those doors open when it wasn't in use— just to help both rooms get acquainted over time. He could hear your voice echoing through the bathroom, loud laughters erupting from you, Jisung and Minho. Chan doesn't like to be in people's business, so he continued to play around with his beats. It wasn't until you popped into the room a few minutes later, ripping Chan's attention away from his laptop.

And he remembers that twinkle in your eyes just like yesterday.

☁︎ FLASHBACK

"Y/N! Come back and stop bothering them!" Jisung harshly says from their room.

"Chill out, I'm just gonna say hi to your suitemates and come back." You bite back.

"Babe. They might be busy." Minho adds, making you sigh and roll your eyes as you continue your walk through the bathroom and into Chan and Seungmin's room. Chan's eyes immediately land on you, while Seungmin adjusts his shirt after reorganizing his shelves.

"Hi! I'm Y/N. Jisung's bestfriend, Minho's girlfriend." You smile brightly, eyes holding the galaxy as you look at them with warmth. "I thought I'd introduce myself. Hope I'm not a bother."

"No, not at all." You giggle and turn back to Jisung and Minho with a quick 'see.' "Chan." Chan reaches out to shake your hand.

"Seungmin!" Seungmin waves. "Heard lots about you already."

"Good things, I hope."

"Do you live on this floor, too?" Chan asks.

"No." You chuckle. "Two floors up."

"Nice."

"Well, I'll probably be in their room a lot. Hope you don't mind me popping in from time to time." Chan laughs and shakes his head.

"No, not at all."

"I heard you working on some beats though, maybe you can show me some next time?"

"R-really?" Chan stutters a bit, surprised at your interest in what he does.

"Yeah, of course! I always thought it was pretty cool."

"I can show you a bit of what I'm working on now, if you aren't busy."

"Not at all! I'd love to hear it." You smile and lean onto Chan's bed, listening to him explain what his thought process has been.

☁︎ END

Ever since then, you've always graced him and Seungmin with your presence— bringing them food to eat, or simply greeting them with enthusiasm and positivity. It's one of the things he really liked about you. It was easy to click with you and get along with you. Whenever he was hanging out with you and Minho, he never felt like a third-wheel; which, surprisingly, is something that bothers Chan because he just wants to be able to hang out with his friends without feeling like he needs to excuse himself. You were always down to do anything and everything, always accompanying him on random fast food runs, grocery runs, always sending him good vibes before important milestones.

You always had that huge, beautiful twinkle in your eyes.

He does believe in people making mistakes. After all, everyone is human and deserves a chance to do learn and do better. But, he would be lying if he said he wasn't disappointed in Minho. Of course he was. He was disappointed in Minho for letting Kat get in the way. He doesn't know every single detail about your relationship, but he was sure there were other ways to fix things instead of giving up and running to another person for.. what, exactly? Consoling? Validation? Especially while you were in the hospital— Chan will never understand it, but who was he to dictate how Minho lived his life? He could hate his friend for it, but he could also continue to hope and push for him to do better.

He is sad for the way things turned out.

Everything is sad, unfair; sadly unfair.

Even then, you never really lost the twinkle in your eyes. Even when Minho hurt you, even when you've questioned your worth and where you've gone wrong. You never lost the twinkle in your eyes, and Chan is thankful for having you; a constant that has adapted in ever-changing conditions.

Chan is still sad for the way things are turning out.

He wishes he could do more to be there for you, to help you, to bring back that twinkle in your eyes. The twinkle in your eyes isn't necessarily gone, no— moreso just a little lost, a little misguided. And there isn't anything wrong with that. He just hopes it'll fully come back. He hopes you'll still have the same twinkle in your eyes when the boys finally tell you what has happened, he hopes you'll still have the same twinkle in your eyes when you find out the hurt you've been through, the mistakes that have led to everything now.

He doesn't really know where to place himself. Every day, he feels lost. Torn. Not sure which way to turn when it comes to you, to Jisung and to Minho. He keeps quiet and tries to distance himself enough because he feels lost. Though, he understands Jisung's need to keep this tucked away until you're ready. He understands the feelings that are resurfacing for Minho. He understands why he, himself, is going along with this. He is doing this because he hopes you find that twinkle in your eyes again.

He hopes you will find it in yourself to pull through and find the strength to continue on when the truth comes out. He hopes you will find it in yourself to forgive everyone for trying to help you— help you find that same twinkle in your eyes before the accident, before all the pain, before all the hurt.

Everything is just.. unfair. Sadly unfair.

But, he hopes you find the twinkle in your eyes again.

♡ taglist: @ppiri-bahng @jihanlovic @meloncremesoda @sweetlikecherry @asjkdk @hoes4lino @skzddicted @skzho @edgaralienpoe @harui-zen @bestleeknowstan @havenwithleeknow @septicrebel @heesdazed @borahae-reads @yoontaethings @pearbunny @bintific @lukeys-giggle @ajxreads @everglowdaisies @allaboutsan @endzii23 @leeknowsramen @heres-your-ramen2000 @morningstardada @mal-lunar-28 @downbadreading @lilysophie @feelikecinderella @urmomma0324 @ddazed-lhs @djeniryuu @melanctton @i8rsie @maru-matt @sleepyleeji @taerifin @nattisbored @jisunglyricist @m111nho @drhsthl @nixtape-foryou @arminseas @guiltycoco @syuuji @sulkygyu @cadihyo @reianagarcia @leeknowyah @smndjdufuehr @dprkbyn @xxibreinaxx @mxnsxngie @reiheis

#lee know series #lee know fanfic #lee know fanfiction #kpop fanfiction #stray kids x reader #stray kids fanfiction #stray kids series #hyunfilms: blue side of the sky

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ursuburbanmother · 1 day

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I’m On Fire, But I’m Trying Not to Show It || Chapter Four

Pairings: Angus Tully x fem!reader

a/n: did you guys know fifty dollars back in ‘66 was like five hundred dollars??? I didn’t and now I wish I never did. Anyway I kinda just wanted to explore more of Angus and Y/n relationship before the event of the holdovers. So a little backstory on this one. I maybe got carried away. Also this is a long ish chapter cause I have MAJOR exams to take so yeah :0 it might be while till I update again.

Word Count: ~7.5k

Enjoy!

Four Years Before - June 12th, 1966

Your parents had fled to Barbados for a destination wedding which they would follow with a cruise they claimed to deserve. Although it was one of those rare occasions where they had extended an invitation, you had declined. The prospect of being able to stretch your legs on the couch without worrying if you would be crushing some unknown guest, or to be able to walk into rooms without crashing into a waiter passing out shrimp puffs, was much more appealing. You had been left behind with fifty dollars for your fun fund, as your mother called it, and a kiss on the forehead. The nanny your parents kept on retainer would check up on you occasionally only to find you were much better at cleaning up after your messes and doing ordinary tasks than your parents. She’d leave after a few hours and then over the course of the first week she stopped coming.

You had prepared yourself for a month of solitude after Angus had announced he’d be spending his vacation at a tennis camp in Montauk. You must have been reorganizing your bookshelf for the third time that day (once by alphabet, then by color, and finally by size) when you heard a knock at the door. The sun had just begun to set, the sky colored a purple-blue, and you cautiously decided to take your fathers golf club. You dropped the club shortly after opening the front door to find not the face of Norman Bates but of your best friend. You scanned his tear-stained face. His eyes were glossy and his cheeks rosy, like when one stands in the snow and is attacked by the harsh winds that nip at your skin.

He collapsed into your arms, and you are quick to hold him steady. He was crouched over, having had a growth spurt a few months earlier, making it hard for you to look at him eye to eye.

“What’s wrong?” You asked.

It was the summer of ‘66, where paranoid parents were starting to believe rock music would possess you. Ironically, it was the year Pet Sounds came out and you couldn’t stop rewinding the songs on your turntable. And most significantly it was the summer you spent with Angus.

He broke the news through jumbled words and choked down tears. How his father had been placed in a Mental Health hospital and how taking him to camp was just an excuse to make sure he wouldn’t be there when the people from the hospital came to pick his father up. They had apparently come early, mixing the dates up.

“Does your mom know you’re here?” You asked, hugging his torso.

“No. I'm sure she’ll be coming to check soon though,” he sniffled, “She’ll probably try to drag me to Montauk anyway and say that ‘it’ll be good for me’.”

You kiss his curls, “What if you stay here?”

He lifts his head up, “I’m not sure she’ll let me.”

“I think she will,” you reassured, “I am a very good guilt-tripper.”

“You can try if you want. How much did your parent’s leave you anyway?”

“Enough for both of us, don't worry. Even if we run out, we could whip something up to eat.”

His eyes widened, “Let's stick to take-out.”

Your house was the first place Angus’s mother looked in, just like he had predicted. He hid at the top of the stairs, staying away from his mom's line of sight as she pressed you for his whereabouts. You had been truthful about how he wanted to spend the next few nights here.

“Are you serious? I’m not going to leave two fourteen-year-olds alone, unattended, unsupervised! God knows what you’ll get up to.”

“We’re not going to do anything!” you argued, “We’re smart enough to not light the house on fire and to dial 911, in case we happen to. Angus just wants to be away for a little while. You should understand why,” you glared.

She looked down, shuffling her heeled feet.

“Besides, you take him away now he’s just to keep coming back here,” you sighed, stating the obvious.

She cleared her throat, coughing as she nodded, “Fine. Alright. Uhm- just make sure he calls me. Okay?”

“Okay,” you do your best to stop yourself from slamming the door in her face. "Bye.”

“The coast is clear,” you shout to Angus who came barreling down the stairs, skipping the last few steps.

“Did she look mad?”

You shrug, “A little. But she'll move on.”

He hums, agreeing as his eyes flicker around the room. He’s looking at the house he must have been at least a thousand times, whether because you invited him or because your parents did. And for the first time in either of your lives… it was completely silent. …

That first night Angus slept on your bedroom floor on a mattress you had dragged from the guest room. You had only your lamp on, and your window was open just wide enough to bring in the refreshing summer air. You were reading a few pages of your book to Angus, and when you glanced down you saw his eyes beginning to close.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No. You have a nice voice is all.”

“Thank you. You do want to go to sleep though,” you observe.

“Should I turn off the lamp?” He says almost immediately. He lifts himself up slightly so he can reach your bedside table and waits for your permission to turn it off.

“Yes please.” You settle deep into your duvet. You turn to the side that faces Angus and wish him goodnight.

A few minutes later he speaks up again in a whisper. “Thank you again. For letting me stay here. I'll be out of here by next week, swear.”

“If you could, I would want you to stay here your whole life.” He scoffs at your words as you lean up with the support of your elbows to stare him down. “I’m serious. I only wish I could live in a house with you. Except somewhere far away from here.”

“By the beach,” he adds.

“Yeah. On a beach so obscure they can’t even send us mail because no one will know our address.”

“Oh no. How would your parents ever send you the invitation for your debutante ball?”

“I guess they’ll just have to throw it without me.”

“Shame,” Angus sighs. “I would love to see you in a white dress.”

You pause and then crash down back into your bed. You admire the garland that hangs above you. It’s made of postcards your parents sent you during their many endeavors. In that moment you're reminded of them and turn to Angus. “Oh. About that. My mom told me to tell you to prepare to be my escort in a few years.”

“Already?!” …

You and Angus had fallen into a routine. He’d sleep way later than you, sometimes until noon, and you’d wake him when you got too impatient and hungry for breakfast. He’d stir and groan to the point that it was obvious he was faking before finally getting up.

You would carry what you could from your kitchen pantry onto the backyard patio and eat under the summer sun. It was like an all-you-can-eat buffet of fig jam, English muffins and sometimes pears from the tree that stretched over your neighbor's fence. Afterward you and Angus continued your day in the green grass. He would sprawl himself out on a picnic blanket and read a comic book, wearing shades that were on the verge of tipping off his nose. Meanwhile you would tend to your mother's garden. You’d put on her straw hat too, just to make it feel like you were with her.

When you were little, you’d pull the weeds out of flower beds as your mom pruned her lavender. It was her dearest plant, and she treated them so, regularly nursing it to keep it alive. She’d motion for you to come with her and pick up the shears from the gardening shed. Eagerly obedient, you did as she said, and you would work together until called for lunch. Your mother was always a vivaciously elegant woman, always knowing the right things to say and charming anyone she met. You often wondered why you hadn’t inherited her brilliance, the one that made her seem as if she was glowing in any room she inhabited. It was odd that she’d often claim her ability to converse was her greatest ability when the two got along best when moving in silence.

You did your best to care for the plant too. Before you mom left, she asked to handle their upkeep. You took your duty seriously, checking in on them every day until you saw one sign of disarray.

That summer was like playing house. And although you never admit, for the fear that he’d read too much into and freak, it was exactly as you had often dreamed it to be. June and July passed quickly, and you hadn’t even noticed it. You imagined a life where it could just be you two forever, away from your parents and outside of stifling Massachusetts.

You imagined a life in an apartment described as ‘quaint,’ by the realtor to disguise the incredible small square footage. You wondered if he would like to be in a city like New York or Chicago. Somewhere that was always busy, and the chirping of morning birds was replaced by honking cars.

By the time August had rolled around, you could practically hear the unmistakable sound of the school bell ringing in your ear, warning you of its proximity. Thoughts about the future had you asking Angus one bleary Sunday afternoon, “Are you nervous about starting high school?”

Angus was pushing you on the tire swing, trying to give you motion sickness by twisting the ropes of the swing and letting them untangle a second later.

“Not really. It’ll be like eighth grade just with more tests.”

“I guess. But aren’t you nervous about making new friends and stuff? What if we tangled ourselves into a web so deep that we can’t talk to other people normally.”

“Then I have done my job of keeping you to myself.”

“Haha,” you deadpan, “Seriously though. Won’t you miss having me to talk to?”

“Of course I will. But you’ll write to me and crap… right?”

“Of course,” you echo his words back to him, “You’ll visit me when you get the chance too, correct?”

“Eh. If I’m not busy.”

“Angus!”

“Yes! Obviously, I will.” He pushes you a little harder.

“I do want you to be more out there though. Don’t go sulking in corners like you always do. People would really like you if you let them talk to you for more than one minute.”

“You’re starting to sound like my mother Y/n.”

“Seriously though. Did you notice we’re always addressed as ‘Y/n and Angus’ by teachers. Never just Y/n and never just Angus.”

“Yeah. But I like it. It’s like Bonnie and Clyde. You can’t separate them because then it sounds plain wrong.”

“Okay Clyde,” you roll your eyes. You stop swinging, scraping your shoes through the dirt until you are still.

“I’m giving us two weeks before we break down to each other over the phone.” You lose the hold you have on the tire swings and let them drop onto your lap. You simmer under the sun and enjoy the breeze that flows through your hair.

“Don’t go replacing me when you get to your school.”

“Don’t worry, you got a head start seven years ago. No one else will be able to catch up,” you smile teasingly. “Maybe I’ll find myself a boyfriend though. About time for the both of us, don’t you think?”

He frowns, “You don’t need a boyfriend.”

“Yes, I do. Everyone else does.”

“Since when do you do what other people do? I think you should stop talking to people who peer pressure you,” he flicks your forehead.

“Why?” You rub your forehead, “Do you want to be my boyfriend?” You smirk.

“Gross! No! I was just kidding. Get a boyfriend, I don’t care.”

“You wouldn’t care if I got a boyfriend?” You look at him skeptically.

“As long as he treats you nice and shit,” he rubs the back of his neck.

“It’s just that we do everything together Angus. There are some things I would like to get over with that I can’t do with you.”

“Like what?” Angus wrinkled his nose in confusion.

“Like hold hands and go to bowling alleys or whatever.”

“We’ve done that.”

“I like…kiss,” you whisper, fidgeting with your hands.

“Oh,” he chuckles awkwardly. “So would you want to do that … now?”

“What!” You shout, leaping off the swing and walking a few steps away from him. “I’m not asking you to,” you clarify, shaking your head.

“No, but I would like to be over and done with it too… so maybe we should just…” He motions his finger between you two.

“Uhm,” you laugh, tilting your head, “Wouldn’t that be weird?”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t mean anything. It’ll be just to check it off the list,” he shrugs nonchalantly.

“Um, yeah, okay,” you move closer to him in small timid strides. “You lean in though. I read that the guy is supposed to do that in my mother's Cosmopolitan.”

“Right, right,” he nods eagerly, interlocking your fingers together. With hesitancy he leans his head down and pulls you even closer to the point where you are bumping your noses. You close your eyes, and it's like your brain begins to spin like those show wheels with choices on them. Your brain tries to land on a feeling but loops on endlessly. His lips are softened by the humidity, and you don’t even notice it is over until a couple seconds after he pulls away.

When you think back on it, it really was the most 'first kiss moment’ to ever exist. It was more of a peck, both of you were bright red and shortly after you were as stiff as statues. Not knowing what else to do, Angus clears his throat and removes his hands from yours to wipe them on his shirt. “So, uh, what does your mothers Cosmo say to do afterward?”

You let out a breathy laugh, “I don’t know. I didn’t read that far.”

…

Christmas Eve - December 24th, 1970

After that summer, when you shared a weepy goodbye and headed off to your own high schools, it was undeniable that something had shifted between you both. Even if it often went unspoken. Neither you nor Angus had brought it up, but on occasion you would acknowledge it. Like last night after leaving the auditorium to return to the common room and pick up the dishes, your eyes drifted to the TV where a cheesy kiss scene was happening on screen. The two of you shared a knowing look that said, “That’s not how ours went down,” before shutting the television off and helping Mary into a more comfortable sleeping position.

You tried not to dwell on the past, but it was hard not to when the only thing in your childhood that had always been good, always been constant, was Angus. Every time you looked into his eyes it was like the decade you had spent together flashed by in a sequence of blurs. All he had to do was breathe a specific way in his sleep to remind you of some obscure memory that had died but he had brought back to life.

This morning you felt like you were ten again and Angus was trying to steal your bread rolls at Thanksgiving dinner. Except today he tried swiping your bacon as you shoved him off playfully.

“Get your own Angus,” you say playfully.

“I’ll trade you for my toast,” he offers.

Rolling your eyes you accept, grabbing the bacon and shoving it in his mouth, “Fine.”

“Thank you,” he says, muffled.

You munch on your toast and catch Mr. Hunhams stare.

“I see you two finally made up,” he comments with a sly smile on his face.

“Mm-hmm,” you cover your mouth with your hand as you chew and turn away embarrassed.

Mary joins you all a second later, emerging as usual with her coffee and a cigarette. She switches between eyeing the two men infront of her, “Why’d you two miss supper last night?”

Mr. Hunham and Angus freeze. “We went into town on, uh, some school-related business.”

“And you couldn’t call? You left me and Y/n out in the cold.”

“Yeah Angus,” you pout at him as he nudges your ankle under the table.

“Sorry,” Hunham turned to you, “And to Ms. L/n.”

“No worries. Really. I had fun,” you smile up at Mary who pats your shoulders gently.

Danny, a man you had been introduced to a few days ago, enters with a mop and bucket. You wave to him which he acknowledges with a slight bow of his head.

“Good morning, everybody.”

“Hi, Danny,” Mr. Hunham greets.

“Good morning. You can go on in and make yourself a plate,” Mary points to the kitchen.

“I just saw something funny,” Danny focuses onto your friend. “I walked into the gym, and somebody had vomited in there.”

Mary and you raise your eyebrows in sync.

“You don’t say. I don’t know anything about that,” Mr. Hunham feigns surprise.

“Yeah, me neither,” Angus wipes his mouth as he speaks.

“I’ll look into that right away. Thank you,” he dismisses the conversation.

“Mm-hmm. I see how it is. Trying to leave us out of your boy's club,” Mary tsks. Danny places the custodian supplies beside Angus' chair and walks away.

“Gross Angus,” you say, like it's his full name. You shake your head in disappointment. He nudges your ankle harder, shaking the silverware above. You fight back, beginning to use your hands as a defense. You two are soon in a game of tug of war.

“Knock it off you two! You are acting like fractious children!” Mr. Hunham scolds and stands up from his seat. Across the table, he tries to part your hands. “This is not how young scholarly men and women behave!”

You and Angus are too drunk on laughter to care. …

You and Angus are in a search for Mr. Hunham who stomped away upon realizing stopping you two was a fruitless cause. You intend to apologize; Angus intends to nod along as you speak. You follow the chatter you hear coming from the kitchen to find Mary replacing you as you as her sous chef.

“Hey that's my job,” you point at the potatoes Mr. Hunham is peeling.

“That’s the culinary industry for you. It’s cut-throat. You still want to be a part of it?” Mary peers over her glasses.

You run a hand through your hair, shrugging. “Um. Mr. Hunham?”

He stops his task, “Yes Miss L/n?”

“I want to apologize for my-,” Angus clears his throat, “Our behavior. You were right. It was very inappropriate. Emily Post would turn in her grave.”

“She certainly would. I accept your apology, however unnecessary. I understand it was that childlike spirit in you that is still intact that came out.”

You shoot him a quizzical look. “Uh yeah…”

Angus gasps behind you as he notices the tray of brownies on a table beside him.

“Brownies? God, yes. I want all of these.”

“Each of you just take one. The rest are for the Christmas party tonight.”

Angus snags you a brownie before practically chomping his down.

“What Christmas party? There’s a Christmas party?” He perks up like a dog being told he’s going out for a walk.

“Yeah, at Miss Crane’s house. I’m only gonna go for a little bit, show my face and say I was there. You know Miss Crane said she invited you too.”

“Who’s Miss Crane?” You ask, inspecting the brownie and wondering what Mary does so differently to get it to taste so good.

“School secretary,” said Angus with a full mouth. “Just one of the loveliest faculty members at Barton,” said Mr. Hunham at the same time.

A beat passed as you all noted the flustered expression that passed through Mr. Hunham face.

“Ah- anyways, she didn’t mean it. We were just making small talk.”

“If you don’t want to go, don’t go. I’ll take them.”

“Mary can take us,” problem solved, Angus thinks.

“Oh! Okay… so we are going! I packed a dress that’s been collecting dust in my luggage.”

“No, that’s not how it works. You’re under my supervision,” Mr. Hunham reminds.

“Okay, maybe it’s fine for you to sit around reading books all day, but I am losing my goddamn mind! Jesus!” Angus' suddenness makes you flinch. You avoid the flying brownie as he storms past you.

“Hey! Watch your mouth, young man. Not on Christmas Eve!” Mary yells after him.

“You, see?” Mr. Hunham points at his retreating figure. “I can’t trust him in a social situation.”

“Mr. Hunham, if you’re too chickenshit to go to that party, then just say so. But don’t fuck it up for the little asshole or his sweet little angel of a friend! What’s wrong with you? It’s just a party. What are you afraid of?”

“I don’t know,” Mr. Hunham said so quietly you could hardly hear him.

“Shit. Now you’ve got me nervous,” Mary wipes her hands on her apron.

You’re still standing there until they hear you go retreat the brownie and throw it in a nearby waste bin. “I could replace those?” You laugh uncomfortably.

“That’s alright sweetie. I want to come out of this party with my reputation intact,” Mary winks.

“Ouch,” you clutch your heart jokingly. “So can I go get dolled up?” …

Someway, somehow, Mary had gotten Hunham to take you to the party. You got ready in the room Ye-Joon and Alex had occupied before. You hadn’t anticipated wearing anything fancy, so the dress you had was a relatively simple one. It was red which fit the Christmas theme well enough and ended just above your knees. You hoped Mr. Hunham wouldn’t make a big deal out of it like Ms. Orchard probably would. You wore flats and did your hair the best you could without products. Although you had managed to give it some more volume by using some leftover soda cans that had yet to be thrown out. It was a common hack all Janie Patrick School girls learned in their freshman year. It was practically a seminar, as the senior girls taught you how to roll them into your hair just right.

You waltz out of your room, feeling as fresh as a daisy and catch Angus shaving. You sneak up behind him, putting your hands on his shoulder and looking at him through the mirror. “What is there to shave Augie? You’re as clean shaven as a newborn baby,” you tease.

You try to check your makeup and feel Angus stiffen under your touch. You remove your hands and see him staring at you open-mouthed.

“What?” You panic. Had you screwed up your hair? Was your mascara too clumpy on your lashes?

“Nothing,” he gives you a once over as he gulps. “You just, you look, you… you look pretty.”

“Oh,” you tuck your hair behind your ear, “Thank you. It’s just the makeup.”

“No, it’s not that. You always look pretty; I just never have a reason to tell you. But I can… today.”

“You look handsome everyday too…” you fidget with your hands.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you smile up at him bashfully. Quickly you take the razor from his hands, “even more handsome once you change. We’re going to be late."

You run back to your room and try to regulate your breathing. In the reflection of the fogged-up window, you admire yourself momentarily. You suppose you do look pretty tonight. …

You four travel in Mr. Hunhams rickety car. You awe at the town Christmas lights before arriving in front of what you assumed to be Miss Cranes house. One by one you all enter, lingering by the front door like wallflowers. You inch closer to Angus, self-conscious suddenly. You loop your arms together when Miss Crane enters to greet you.

“Oh, hi. Oh, you made it! Welcome,” she pauses to address you and Angus, “Aw hi!”

“I'm so glad you're here,” she tells Mary.

She laughs at the flattery and refers to the brownies, “Where should I put these?”

“Um, oh,” Miss Crane lifts the cloth draped over the tray and gasps, “Those, I’ll be putting on my bedside table.”

“Oh! You're a wicked woman.”

“Oh, you have no idea,” she takes the tray off Mary's hands.

“Certainly a lot of people here,” Hunham comments, surveying the room. It is lively with Christmas classics blasting on the radio and kids running around playing tag. The entire house is decked out, almost looking like the spirit of Christmas had barfed out the decorations. Some adults take a swing of their liquor, others smoke, others do both as they chat.

“Yeah, yeah. Some family, friends from town. Only you guys from work.”

“That’s my mom on the couch,” She points to an older lady sitting by the silver and blue Christmas tree. Next to the woman dancing with her toddler who wears no pants. “Uh, that’s my sister Kathy and her son Marvin.”

As she continues to point out each invitee you wander with Angus further into the living room. He seems captivated by a snow globe on a mantel. He shakes it and watches as the snow falls around Santa. You too are enchanted by the sweet melody that plays from it.

“Angus!” Miss Crane snaps you both from your trance. Miss Crane stands next to a girl who appears to be around your age.

“This is Angus Tully. He’s one of our students at Barton. Angus, this is my niece, Elise,” she introduces.

“Niece Elise. Nice,” he glances at you, hoping you got the joke as Elise rolls her eyes at his word play. You give him a tight-lipped smile. “And is his friend Y/n L/n. She goes to the school across the lake from Barton. Janie Patrick’s.”

“Nice to meet you,” you stretch out your hand for her to shake. She does so awkwardly.

“And this is Mr. Hunham. He’s one of our finest teachers. History, right?

“Ancient Civilizations, yes”.

“And this is Mary Lamb. She’s the manager of the cafeteria.”

You don’t know why, but you start chewing your nails. A habit you had thought you had broken in the seventh grade. You bite down particularly hard every time Angus glances at Elise.

“Hey, why don’t you take Angus down to the basement and introduce him to our family tradition?” Miss Crane has a hint of something you can’t identify in her voice.

“Come on,” Elise tilts her head and hesitantly he seems to follow.

“Um. What about Y/n? Can’t she come?”

“Don't worry about that! I have someone I think she would like to meet,” Miss Crane nudges you forward.

“Oh?” you say worriedly.

Elise takes Angus away by the hand and distantly you hear him call out, “Wait what?”

“His name is Joseph Leery. He’s a freshman at Yale!” she gushes.

“Oh? Great? Go bulldogs? That’s the mascot, right?”

“Honey, save your charm for him!”

…

Angus descends downstairs. He repeatedly glances behind him, desperately searching for the remaining bits of your voice. “Um. Maybe I should go back upstairs? My friend Y/n doesn’t do so well with crowds so.”

“Nonsense! She’ll be fine. If I know Auntie Lydia, she’s probably introducing her to the Leery's son, Joe.”

“Joe?” Angus scowls at the name.

“Yeah. Family friend of ours.”

Elise leads him to an arts and craft table, full of scattered red, green, silver and white pipe cleaners. Glitter is spilled everywhere, and the kids take their time decorating their popsicle sticks.

“This is what you wanted to show me?”

“I grew up playing down here during my aunt’s parties. I think it’s kind of cool. There’s a purity to it. I mean, every child is an artist. The problem is remaining an artist when we grow up. Picasso said that.”

“Picasso’s cool,” Angus digs his hand further into his front pockets, “I saw Guérnica once. You know, the big mural, with the horse,” He tries to mimic it as best he can.

“Yeah, I know Guérnica. You really saw it?”

“Yeah. At the Museum of Modern Art in New York. It’s huge. My dad took me.” And Y/n too, he wants to say. Although if what Elise said was true, that Miss Crane fancied herself a modern-day cupid, then he figures he should try not to scare her off by bringing up another girl.

Although it's hard not to think of you when he thinks of his dad. His dad liked puzzles which you happened to have a plethora of that your parents had bought you to keep you entertained during long plane rides. This was before they trusted you enough to leave home alone.

In the winter you’d sit by the fireplace and lay out the puzzles of Monet’s Water Lilies. Then when the spring would offer you limited warmth, you’d all be found in the backyard of Angus’s house trying to piece together Van Gogh's Starry Night.

So many art inspired puzzles eventually had Angus’s father turn to you both and asking, “How would you guys like to see these in real life?”

That easter break had you three crammed into a yellow taxicab and enjoying New York pizza slices.

“Hey Guérnica,” she breaks through his nostalgia plagued mind, “You just gave me an idea,” she smiles.

…

Mr. Hunham stands by the funky-looking Christmas tree when he feels someone’s lips crash onto his cheek.

“Oh!” He says shocked. He feels as if he had just been dumped into a cold bucket of water.

“Mistletoe!” Miss Crane laughs, pointing at the little green and red plant that hangs on the ceiling. She hands him the Jim Beam he asked for earlier as she wipes the side of his face clean to get rid of any lipstick that might have been transferred.

“Yes, of course,” he laughs along, unsure of what else to do but to let her caress his face. “I didn’t you know you were quite the mastermind.”

Miss Crane tilts her head and motions him to elaborate

“Playing matchmaker for Mr. Tully and Ms. L/n.”

“Oh! Well, when Angus said they weren’t an item I figured they’d were itching for a chance to mingle outside of their little circle. I hope I didn’t overstep anything. After all I imagine they don’t get many opportunities to openly chat with people of the opposite sex! Dating is crucial in shaping character.”

“Yes, I imagine it is,” Mr. Hunham agrees, unsure if that is fact or fiction. He is awful at letting silence just be silence, so he does what he does best. Spew nonsensical facts.

“You know, it’s interesting. Aeneas carried mistletoe with him when he descended into Hades in search of his father.”

“Oh. Huh…” Now it is Miss Crane who is unsure of what to do with that.

“Um. Anyways. I like your tree. It’s really space age,” he comments and is hit slightly in the shoulder by her enthusiastic hand.

“I brought it to commemorate the moon landing!”

“Really? Wow.”

Miss Crane takes a sip of her punch, “So where is your family this Christmas.”

“Nowhere. I’m an only child. My mother died when I was young.”

“And your father?”

“Let's just say I left home when I was fifteen.” If Mr. Hunham had known this was what small talk topics had evolved into, then he must have been right in avoiding social functions all this time.

“You ran away?” She guesses.

“Worse. I got a scholarship to Barton. And from there, I went to college and never looked back.”

“But you did a little,” she points out.

“Hmm?”

“I mean you came back here.”

“Ah.” He really did not feel like being questioned so heavily tonight. Not to pat himself in the back, but he believes he's credible enough to label himself as a decent writer, able to handle the equal weight of a pen and his words with ease. But as a conversationalist, he figures even one of the dimwits in his Ancient Civilization classes have him beat.

“It feels kind of like home I guess,” he muses, “and I guess I thought I could make a difference. I mean, I used to think I could prepare them for the world even a little. Provide standard and grounding that Dr. Greene always drilled into us.”

Mr. Hunham can feel himself run out of breath, “But, uh the world doesn’t make sense anymore. I mean it's on fire. The rich don’t give a shit. Poor kids are cannon fodder. Integrity is a punchline. Trust is just the name of a bank.”

“Well…” Miss Crane tries to soothe him by running her hand back and forth on his arm, “look, if that's all true then now is when they most need someone like you.”

Mr. Hunham knows when he is being humored and told what people he wants to hear. He looks at Miss. Crane and for the first time in a while he is looked back at with genuineness.

…

Elise and Angus finger paint on a wide piece of blank paper. He’s mixing the colors, and they all tend to come out looking a sickly brown. Elise covers her side with an untainted red. She seems to be more into it than him as she incorporates real swirls and shapes onto their canvas.

“Am I doing this right?”

“There is no right or wrong,” she reassures. He feels her stare linger on him for a second. He is scared to look up. “Are you okay? You seem… gloomy.”

“Yeah. I’m fine. But, uh, tell me about this Joe guy.”

She looks at him suspiciously, “Why?”

“Just curious. Don’t think I’ve ever heard of him around my school is all.”

“Well probably because he graduated over a year ago.”

“So, he’s in college.”

“Yes. A freshman at Yale.”

“Yale!” He shouts loud enough for even the kids to glare at him for disturbing their fun. “Sorry,” he apologies to them.

“Would you say he’s cool,” he asks a millisecond later.

Elise tries not to laugh at his blatant desperation, “Yeah I would say so.”

“Funny?”

“He's basically Gene Wilder.”

“The dude from The Producers?!”

“Yes, and he was also a football quarterback.”

“What.”

“And valedictorian, and the heir to the Campbell Soup Company.”

“What the hell? Is this guy superman or,” Angus takes a minute to recognize the smug face on Elise. Finally, she breaks out in a loud giggle.

“Oh,” Angus sighs in relief, “You’re messing with me.”

“A little,” she says through fits of laughter. “Anyways if you’re so worried why don’t you go back up there?”

“I was just worried that he would try something. But technically he sounds alright.”

“Ah. So, you’re jealous?”

Angus rolls his eyes, “No. I’m a concerned friend.”

“I’m not sure about that. Concerned friends don’t start interrogating the girl they are on a hypothetical date with.”

She leans down to point at a glob of paint in the corner of the paper, “I think you even doodled her name.”

“Shit,” he curses under his breath, going over it and trying to cover it up along with his embarrassment.

“Don’t worry. It’s not like this was going to go be framed at the MET.”

“What are you implying anyway,” he narrows his eyes.

“You’re going crazy being gone from her for two minutes. What do you think I’m implying?”

Angus slumps his shoulders and admits what had been ignoring. It's like a message in a bottle he threw into the sea, desperately trying to avoid the shore. Even when it does reach land, the cap is tightly sealed, clinging on to the bottle and doing it best to remain unread. When it does pop open and the paper is unfolded, although it might be difficult to read, the message still exists. It still exists even though time fought so hard to destroy it.

“I do think about her that way. Sometimes. Then the rational side comes out and tells me that it's human nature for a girl and guy friend to think about each other that way.”

“Well, does she know you think about her that way?”

“No. Sometimes I imagine she feels the same, but you’d have to know her to understand why I’m so confused. She’s the most thoughtful, kind, and perfect person in the world. It's hard to tell if she’s showing that side to everyone or if I’m special enough for her to give me that treatment.”

“You know Picasso also said that ‘Everything you can imagine is real’.”

“Are you Picasso's biographer?”

Without missing a beat, Elise smirks and says, “Yes.”

Angus is up the stairs without having thanking her, too fueled by adrenaline to practice basic manners. He’ll have to tell Miss Crane to pass on the memo. He’s on the hunt for you but is yanked into the house's kitchen by a mysterious hand.

“Hey?” He asks, disoriented.

Danny is staring straight at him, with both hands on either side of his shoulder.

“I need you to find Mr. Hunham,” he orders. Angus looks past the man to see Mary weeping heavily into the sink. Understanding, he nods firmly and is back out the door.

…

Joseph Leery is not half bad. He’s kind of funny, clever and not a bad person to pass the time with. You sit in the back of Miss Crane's living room on a couch all to yourselves. He tells you how he’s majoring in English in hopes of becoming a journalist.

“What kind of journalist?”

“Investigative. I would love to be the next Upton Sinclair. Or Seymour Hersch.”

“Ew! The Jungle made me so sick for a week after. It was so gross.”

“I know but that's what made it so great. Exposing the meat packing industry probably put him on a few hit lists too.”

“Oh yeah definitely. So, then who are you planning to expose?”

He laughs, “I don’t know yet. Is there any chance you’re planning on becoming some corrupt politician?”

“Not in the foreseeable future. I’ll let you know if I ever do,” you giggle.

“What are you planning to do then?”

“Then? Um... Like as president? I don’t know. Fund schools-.”

“No,” he laughs harder, “I mean like with college and life. Do you have anything planned out?”

“Erm, not really. My parents probably want me to go to the Ivy Leagues and crap. I should have a plan, I know, but I guess I’ve been putting it on the back burner.”

“Why?”

You shift in your seat. “I have this friend. He’s sort of had this rocky life, not I haven’t, and I know it's stupid to mold your entire life to fit around one person’s but for him I would.”

Joseph sniffs and straightens his posture. “Sorry. Lydia didn’t mention you having a boyfriend.”

“No, I don’t,” you stress, “I just really care for him, you know. We’ve known each other for so long. He’s important to me.”

“Y/n have you ever read Persuasion?” he asked suddenly.

“Um, not yet. I know the gist of it.”

“Well, it's ultimately about regret, right? Anne spends eight years longing for Wentworth when she could have been with him instead, had she not given into pressures. The point of the novel is not to wait to love the person you’re sure is it for you.”

“Love?” You hear someone say above you. You look up to see Angus, his arms stiff by his side. He glowers at Joseph. You jump off the seat and on operating on some strange reflex you go to fix his shirt collar that has stood up.

“What's wrong?”

“What were you guys talking about?” he interrogates.

“Books. Why?”

Angus doesn’t buy it but ignores the gnawing feeling in his gut, “Mary needs us in the kitchen. Go ahead, I still need to get Hunham.”

“Oh…Alright,” you turn and wave to your brief companion. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”

“Yeah maybe,” Joseph lifts his canned soda as if to say cheers.

You walk on ahead as Angus loiters behind, silently scrutinizing him.

Joseph takes a sip from his coke and points towards the direction you disappeared to. “Your girl went that way man.”

Angus rolls his eyes but leaves, nonetheless.

…

Miss Crane and Paul are sitting next to each other, their drink half-finished. They can feel the red tinge on their cheeks and themselves becoming looser.

“Are you planning anything special for tomorrow?” Lydia inquires.

“No. Why? Are you having a…”

“No, I just thought maybe you’d be doing something special for Angus and Y/n.”

Mr. Hunham shakes his head and Miss Crane lets out a small gasp, “You should! Help preserve some of the magic. Angus may be a little difficult, but he’s still just a kid. So is Y/n. And life catches up to them so fast. Them,” she stares at her lap, contemplating. “Ha. Us!”

“You’re a very sweet person, Miss Crane,” he compliments.

Miss Crane melts, “So are you, when you want to be,” she quips, “and it’s Lydia.”

He enjoys the feeling of camaraderie between them. He feels a cool breeze at the back of his neck and the sound of the door opening.

“Excuse me for a minute,” Miss Crane gets up and moves past him.

Mr. Hunham turns in time to see a man take off his coat, a gift under his arm. A moment later Miss Crane is there to receive him with a kiss. Together they walk away, and Mr. Hunham is left alone. Once again.

“Mr. Hunham, could you come with me, please?” Angus nearly trips as he stumbles over to the teacher.

“Yeah, what is it?” He sighs as he gets up with a groan.

“Come on, it's serious,” Angus leaps away. Peeking at him at the corner to see is Hunham is following, “Come on.”

Mr. Hunham is dragged into the kitchen, where he spots Mary, crying quietly to herself. Danny is next to her. You’re across the room biting your nails and hinting at Mr. Hunham to do something.

“Mary? You alright?” he questions, even though he knows it's in vain.

“Just leave me alone,” She mumbles.

“Want me to take you home?” Danny offers, placing what he thinks is a consoling hand on her back.

“Back off! Back off!” Mary whisper-shouts, her hands shaking down in anger. Mr. Hunham shuts the door, giving her privacy if nothing else.

“He’s gone,” she erupts into full on sobs. The mask comes off and she’s no longer Mary, the woman who appears to deal with grief like it was nothing but a bump on the road. Instead, it's Mary, who lost a son and whose grief has entirely consumed her until she can no longer breathe.

…

Angus and Mr. Hunham support Mary on both sides, as they make their way to the car. “I was right. This is why I hate parties. That was a disaster. Total disaster!”

“Speak for yourself. I was having a pretty profound conversation. I was about to make some serious life altering moves,” he blurts, angry and unable to believe his window opportunity was slammed shut. He had an internal plan. That'd he’d whisk you away from stupid Joseph and ask you to dance, maybe lead you to a mistletoe and see where it goes.

“With whom? The niece? Are you kidding me? This poor woman is bereft, and all you can think about is some silly girl.”

“I don’t need you feeling sorry for me.”

“I’m not talking about Elise; I'm just saying this is the first good thing that came from being in this prison with you.”

“Need I remind you it’s not my fault you’re stuck here? Do you think I want to babysit you? I was praying to the God I don’t believe in that your mother would pick up the phone, or your father would arrive in a helicopter or a submarine or a flying fucking saucer to take you-.”

“My father’s dead,”

“Angus-,” he hears you say but he holds up his hand for you to stop speaking.

Mr. Hunham stops dead in his rant, “But I thought your father-.”

“That’s just some rich guy my mom married. Give me your keys,” he sticks out his hand.

“It’s unlocked.”

Furiously, Angus stomps away. You excuse yourself from the two adults before doing your damnedest to not slip on the ice. Flats at this time of the year were not your best idea.

“Angus,” you reach him, tugging at the back of his jacket so that he’ll slow down. “Why did you say that?”

“Say what?”

“The thing about your dad,” you mumble.

“The way my mom and Stanley talk about him, he might as well be don’t you think?”

“You don’t mean that,” you scold. “What happened? Are you really this mad about Elise?”

“No. Damn it. I don’t even like Elise.”

“Oh,” despite the circumstance, you can’t help but feel giddy. “Then what is it?”

“You seemed to be having a pretty good time yourself with Joe on that couch.”

“Joe?” You cross your arms. “You mean Joseph?”

“Oh great. You have a nickname for him.”

“Angus, Joseph is his legal name, that's the opposite of a nickname.”

“I don’t want to talk about Joe,” he says. You both reach the end of the block where Hunhams car is parked. In the distance you see them come closer, their feet crushing the white snow.

“You brought him up,” you massage your temple. You think back of the endless list of books you have read, or the many movies you’ve watched. You scour through the genres. You think of how Joseph managed to connect to life. You think of the rewatch of Cactus Flower with Mary. How envious Ingrid Bergman character was every time she saw Julian talk to Toni.

“Angus, were you jealous of Joseph?”

He stops his ongoing struggle with the car handle, finally prying it open.

“Were you jealous of Elise?” he asks you.

You frown and fixate on the pavement; your nails dig into your palm as your hands turn into fists. Deafening silence engulfs you before Angus exhales heavily. Before you can speak, Mr. Hunham arrives and motions for you to scooch over so he can open the passenger side for Mary.

“Sorry,” you apologize and get in the backseat.

“Straight to bed you hear me,” Mr. Hunham warns once you are all buckled in. “Enough theatrics for one day.”

“Mmhmm,” Angus responds, but all he is doing is looking at you.

#angus tully #the holdovers #angus tully x reader

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theold-ultraviolence · 1 year

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The Power of Metal, Baby • Eddie Munson x reader

Summary: Eddie comforts you by making you pay attention to the lyrics of one of the songs that helped him get over Hawkins. Words: 900. CW: hurt and comfort, the reader is going through difficult times (but it is never described what, so it can apply to anything), gender neutral reader. Metalhead!reader because Eddie with a metalhead reader reigns supreme. A/N: I literally wrote this in one go because I'm going through an extremely difficult time and I needed to let some things out through my favorite silly man.

“...How do you do it?”

The pale dawn highlights the layer of scars that are now mostly hidden on Eddie’s body. It’s been over five years after Hawkins. Eddie and you had already moved out, far and away from the place where the underworld crept through the ground like a blazing wound.

By now, Eddie had covered most of his body with tattoos, so his demobat scars were now but a hidden map of Eddie’s resilience.

A map you trace, every now and then, when you have the need to find your own way out of the deep tunnels you sometimes dig for yourself – or the unseen bottomless pits that you blindly fall into, when you’re too distracted by clouds that you forget to watch out for ground you step on.

“What’s that, baby?” he murmurs deeply, tender voice laced with the heaviness of sleep.

He takes your wandering fingers into his callused hand, bringing them for a kiss instead. It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy your touch, but he knows you too well. His lips serve as a distraction to those pesky thoughts that drag you down, keep your body still and tense as they race in your head, forsaking your good rest.

“How do you endure? How do you keep on going, Eddie? You’re the strongest person I know. You make it look so easy.” He detects the wobble in your speech, notes the way your chin bows further into your chest, and how you shrink your shoulders as if you want to disappear into the sheets.

But he’s got you.

He wraps his arms around you, bringing your head to his chest as he nuzzles the top of your head, giving your shoulders a squeeze.

“I’ve got the power of metal on my side, baby,” he replies with sunshine in each word, as Eddie always seems to do, and you can’t help but chuckle. Yes, you’re absolutely convinced Eddie holds the summer sun in his heart, and the spring breeze in his breath. He’s got everything you need when you feel like you’re stuck in an endless winter.

“You do remember I like metal as much as you do, right?”

“Yeah, but you’re not listening, sweetheart. Sometimes it’s like someone’s muffling your ears and you forget to listen.”

You’re about to complain but he jumps out of your shared nest towards the record player proudly sitting in the corner of the room. He shuffles through his record collection for a moment until he tsks happily, lowering the vinyl onto the turntable.

Instantly you recognize the mystical, maritime sound effects that rise in crescendo, until a heroic guitar marches through the fictional road towards the dooming pit from which a Holy Diver must jump right into, despite his fears.

“Listen to the master, baby…” He grins as he holds up the Dio record, turning it over as he sits on the edge of the bed. You sit up and rest your chin on his naked shoulder, peeking at him as he pulls out the booklet of the record that contains the lyrics of the song.

“Dio knows his shit, babe. Always. This must have been the first record I listened to right after Hawkins. Listen…”

Something is coming for you, look out

Race for the morning

You can hide in the sun 'til you see the light

Oh, we will pray it's alright

You know this song by heart. Dio sings like a prophet – through his growling melodies, speaking the tale of a divine hero, who must dive into an unknown depth, and pass the gates of hell for the trek will lead him towards salvation. Your heart constricts, knowing that it is nearly the exact same thing Eddie went through when going into the Upside-down. He had all the odds against him, and yet, he pulled through.

“Listen! this is it…” he turns over to face you, right as Dio sings,

Life's a never-ending wheel, say

Holy diver

You're the star of the masquerade

No need to look so afraid.

And Eddie mouths the last part, smiling brightly before putting the booklet over on the nightstand, and turning to envelop you in his embrace.

“Life is a never-ending wheel, baby. You may feel like you’re at the bottom of it, but there’s no other way but up. And up you’ll go. No need to look so afraid.” He whispers, with his lips brushing your forehead before you lean back to look at those big doe eyes of his that you can count on when you seek nothing but sincerity.

You frame his face in your hands, as your lips tremble once more, “It just hurts, so much, all the time. I don’t know for how long this will last. I don't know if I’ll be able to get through this.”

“Hey…” his thumbs brush away the tears before they even make it out of your forlorn eyes. “You’re the holy diver, babe, you’ve got the power in you. And you’re not alone. I’m holding your hand through the whole thing, sweetheart."

“You promise?”

“Absolutely. And if I’m ever not here, like, if I’m taking too long in taking a dump, or if I’m sleeping until noon or, I don’t know, I locked myself out of the house…” he chuckles, all dimpled cheeked and starry-eyed when he sees you laughing. “You know you’re never alone as long as there’s metal playing from that corner over there. But one condition though, for it to work its magic…”

“What’s that?” you smile back, feeling a little bit of the weight in your heart easing with the galloping guitars and the grandiose cries of Ronnie James Dio.

“You’ve got to play it loud.”

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x gn!reader #gender neutral reader #reader insert #fanfiction #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson oneshot #stranger things #joseph quinn #my writing

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militantinremission · 9 months

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HipHop's 50th Anniversary: What 'Culture' are We talking about?

I was in Elementary School back on Aug. 11th 1973. My family left the West Bronx, but I spent a lot of time w/ my 'big cousins' in the Harlem River Houses. My cousin Mona babysat my brother & I, taking Us everywhere w/ her; including dates. I remember Mona taking Us to 'The Summer Of Soul Concert' in Harlem, & I remember going to a few of those Park Jams in Bronxdale & in Soundview. I think We saw more of King Mario than Kool Herc & Coke La Rock. My oldest brother formally introduced me to HipHop in the Spring of 1977. I remember coming home from School to find his Crew set up in Our Dining Room.

I got my 1st look from the 'Other Side of The Rope', & I was hooked! I wasn't a Rapper (yet), or a Break Dancer, but I had an ear for music. Like a lot of Old School Deejays (& under My brother's tutelage) I cut My teeth on Component Sets & BSR Turntables; rocking Line In switches b4 getting a [real] Mixer... I bought My own DJ Set in 1984 (B2s), & mastered my Craft as a Street DJ, & later in a few NYC Clubs. Most DJs are disciples of [Grand Master] Flash or [Grand Wizard] Theodore; I was more of a disciple of Jazzy Jay & Cut Master DC. We All have Our Unique Features, but EVERYONE went back to School when Jazzy Jeff introduced the 'Transformer Cut', back in 1986. Like a lot of DJs disenchanted w/ 'Gangsta Rap', I split time w/ HipHop's Twin Sister- House Music.

I say all of this, to qualify myself as a 'bonafide Shorty' of 1st Generation HipHop, & a full fledged Member of The New School Era. My point, is to say that 'In The Beginning', there was just The Culture. It didn't have a formal name- but it was being done ALL OVER NYC. I associate the '1520 Sedgwick Avenue' Story of HipHop w/ Afrika Bambaataa; he's The First Person that I remember telling this Story. Disco King Mario predated Kool Herc by years. Herc copied Mario's Style- down to his equipment! King Mario wasn't alone, Pete 'DJ' Jones & Frankie Crocker were dueling On The Radio (WWRL vs WBLS), while DJ Flowers, DJ Spotlight, DJ Smokey, DJ Hollywood, & a number of Club DJs were also mixing it up.

A major argument is whether Disco is connected to HipHop. The Cats up in The Bronx say HELL NO, while the rest of NYC says HELL YES! People need to understand that when We talk about 'Disco', we don't mean 'The Sound' or Studio 54; We mean 'The Disco Fever', 'Harlem World', 'Sugar Hill', & 'The Factory'. The DJs that spun @ these Clubs molded the format that HipHop DJs still follow Today. Kool Herc is credited w/ The 'Merry Go Round'- his mix of Break Beats, but he wasn't the only DJ mixing Breaks or James Brown songs. The Black Spades that were interviewed, speak on King Mario spinning 'Soul Power' & how they chanted 'Spade Power'- as early as 1971. This creates a schism between Bronxdale & Soundview.

Black Americans say HipHop started in Bronxdale, as late as 1971. West Indians- Jamaican- Americans in particular, say it started on Aug. 11th, 1973. Puerto Ricans [Nuyoricans/ Puerto Rocks] say it started between 1975 & 1977, when Afrika Bambaataa incorporated Latino Breakers into 'his' HipHop scene. While there is debate over When & Where in The Bronx it started, EVERYONE AGREES that HipHop was created to Stop Gang Violence. The Culture involves individual expression through Graffiti, B- Boy Style of Dress, & Dance, Spoken Word, & the ability to keep The Party going non-stop. The Original Gangs splintered into Crews that now 'battled' each other w/ Turntables & Mics, on the Dance floor, & w/ Spray Paint Cans (Bombing).

The vernacular of HipHop is based in The Nation Of Islam & The Nation of Gods & Earths, so it's big on Black Power, Black Excellence, & The Traditional Black Family. Both Organizations are Pan Afrikan in their Philosophy, so The Black Diaspora is represented. The same is true w/ The Zulu Nation. Before the rise of The Nation of Latin Kings & Queens, you would find Latino Zulu Kings & Queens- it was All Love! Afrika Bambaataa coined HipHop's 'Mission Statement' of: "Peace, Unity, Love, & Having Fun!", in a song w/ James Brown by the same Name. He also defined the existing '5 Elements' as the fundamentals of HipHop Culture. The Zulu Nation were the unofficial Ambassadors of HipHop; first taking it Downtown, & later taking it Globally... No One questioned Bambaataa's actions.

As We celebrate 50Yrs of HipHop, Afrika Bambaataa's Legacy is tarnished @ best. He has been Radio Silent, since allegations of Child Molestation rose against him 7Yrs ago. Every Move that Bambaataa made is being questioned- Was it a good move for HipHop to go Downtown to SoHo? Did it open the door to the current 'isms' that plague The Culture? It was a Black Specific art form, but it opened itself up to integration w/ Sexual Deviants, Drug Abusers, & White Record Executives. In retrospect, We can see what lured Bam Downtown. I'm curious- is the current manifestation of 'The Culture' Bambaataa's intended goal? It goes against his language, but it's in line w/ his actions.

In the wake of Afrika Bambaataa's 'Fall from Grace', people began questioning his narrative of HipHop. Original B- Boys are still walking The Streets, so it wasn't hard to fact check. DJ Phase has spoke on many Youtube videos under 'The Culture', where he breaks down the Foundation of what became HipHop. According to DJ Phase, HipHop was born on June 7th, 1971- in the Bronxdale Houses. He said that it wasn't organized; Mario simply set up on the grass & spun records. Later that Summer, in July- DJ Phase said that they were more organized w/ more sound & records, so THAT was when Brothers got serious about what they were doing. Disco King Mario did a series of Jams that culminated in the legendary 'Rosedale Park' Jam, that lit up The Bronx & inspired future pioneers.

There is a lot of controversy today concerning the Origins of HipHop. Jason Black, of 'The Black Authority' had the best comment on the subject: "Success has many Fathers, but Failure is an Orphan". As We question the running narrative of HipHop's birth, We also have to question WHO gets Credit for WHAT. No One questions the contributions of Jamaicans, Puerto Ricans, Cubans, Haitians, & Panamanians to The Culture, but the claims being made by Busta Rhymes, Pete Rock, Fat Joe, & John Leguizamo are disrespectful. Busta & Pete Rock assert that Jamaican Culture DIRECTLY INFLUENCED HipHop; Busta says 90%. He goes on to say that Kool Herc brought Jamaican 'Toasting' or 'Ranking' to the Bronx Youth. Fat Joe & John Leguizamo say Puerto Rico contributed 50% to The Culture... They ALL sound ridiculous.

In an effort to get ahead of King Mario predating Kool Herc, people have gone as far as saying that Disco King Mario is [half] Puerto Rican. When it was proven that Mario came from North Carolina, a Story came out that his family migrated to (Jim Crow) North Carolina back in 1912. Mario's Sister says they aren't Puerto Rican- They're North Carolinian & 'Country'... His Mother just liked the name Mario. This effort to remove Black Americans from a Black American genre is confusing. Making a contribution 'to', or an innovation 'of' something, doesn't make one 'The Originator' of it. DJ Phase made a point to elaborate on The Energy behind HipHop, & what inspired it. Our Family from The Diaspora mostly arrived after The Civil Rights Movement; They really don't know what AmeriKKKa was like before 1970.

Contrary to what Busta Rhymes, Pete Rock, or Fat Joe may say, HipHop begins w/ The Black Spades. As a boy in Harlem, I remember how revered The Black Spades were. They were respected, but I didn't understand why... Before The Black Spades, Blackfolk in The Bronx were being victimized by Whitefolk; 'Authur Avenue' Italians, in particular. According to The Black Spades, they couldn't go ANYWHERE w/o being attacked, so they organized & struck back. The Black Spades- essentially Black Teens, didn't just beat those Racists back; they opened up The Bronx for EVERY Black Person, giving them The Right of Autonomy. That Energy or Spirit of Revolution was celebrated in Song & Dance, & King Mario was The Conductor.

Kool Herc got to see King Mario & The Black Spades @ 'The Tunnel'. He heard the Breaks & saw how the Black Spades reacted... He heard 'Spade Power!'. Herc himself said that he analyzed what 'they were doing' & came up w/ The Merry Go Round. That, is an innovation. Herc never said that he introduced Toasting to those Baby Spades; in fact, Herc admitted trying to play Jamaican Music, but The Crowd didn't take to it. If Busta & Pete Rock were right, We should have some Reggae among familiar Beat Beats. All of these Cats talk about 'Culture', but they just sound ignorant. A 'Culture' is defined as: 'The sum total of Social Life'. If West Indian (i.e. Jamaican) and/or Latinx (i.e. Puerto Rican) Culture plays such a major role in HipHop, why did ALL of them adopt Black American Social Mores? Kool Herc admitted that he was clowned when he arrived in The Bronx; he thought Cowboy Boots were cool.

If we're going to run w/ the: 'Kool Herc is The Father of HipHop' Story, Coke La Rock should @ least be mentioned. He is credited w/ being The First Emcee. He was Herc's Partner. Busta & a literal Legion of Yardies want to coronate Herc as 'King of HipHop', but it was Coke La Rock that transformed 'Clive' into 'Kool Herc'. Clive DIDN'T KNOW THE CULTURE. Coke La Rock took him down to 125th Street, showed him what to buy, & how to sport it. Somehow, Coke La Rock was written out of the narrative. Again, Bambaataa started this. Another issue w/ Herc being hailed as 'The Father' of HipHop, is how easily he Bowed Down to U- Roy. Herc referred to him as 'his King'. Big Respect to U- Roy, I- Roy & ALL the Pioneers of Ska, Reggae, Lover's Rock, Dub Poetry, & Dancehall! That said, Black Americans BOW TO NO ONE! This is a Problem.

When We talk about Culture, HipHop embodies The Spirit of Revolution. Lay it out on the Black American Timeline, & it's a natural transition; from Work Songs, to Ragtime, to Jazz, to Rhythm & Blues, to Soul & Funk, to HipHop. It's the tireless spirit of Black Liberation in AmeriKKKa. Where does Jamaican or Puerto Rican 'Culture' fit in? They were 'Lovers, not Fighters'. We were Angry! What were they angry about? They were in America- Everything was 'Irie'! When DJ Phase was asked about this [Kool Herc] narrative, he cut to The Chase & said that this narrative gives Whitefolk a 'lane of claim' to Our Culture. It was Too Black, Too Strong, but it's been watered down. When We raise Our Heads, We will see that the people claiming ownership of Our Culture, are the same people representing Us in Government. They are the ones allowing Benign Neglect to continue. They also represent Us 'On Screen', but they rarely depict Us in a dignified manner; We're either Ghetto, or Cowards.

While We're on the subject of 'Culture', let's point out how the level of deviance & violence has risen w/ the number of Jamaican & Puerto Rican Rappers. Boogie Down Productions gets Full Credit for setting off the 9mm talk. Just- Ice's 'The Original Gangster of Hip Hop' was just plain Raw... Also, B- Girls didn't dress like or behave like Dancehall Girls; compare Shante, Lyte, & Latifah to Lil Kim, Nikki Minaj, & Cardi B. White Record Executives, like Lyor Cohen, have rerouted HipHop's 'messaging' to target Suburban Whitefolk eager to hear about 'Ghetto Life'. Today's Artists have been set up lovely by those who came before them, but I wonder if the New Jacks know The History? Do they know what it took for Us to maintain this? Cats had to show restraint, because Authorities were just waiting for Us to mess up. U can literally count the # of times U heard the N- Word b4 NWA... Do they know Themfolks tried to shut Us down in 1882; leading to the 'New School/ Hardcore Era' that started in 1983 w/ T- La Rock & Jazzy Jay, Run-DMC, & LL Cool J?

Truth be told, The Park Jams faded out by 1986- 1987. The Crack Wars began to make large gatherings dangerous. The 1st Crack Dealers (in My Hood) were The Dreads, who sold out of Weed Spots. The 'Rude Boys' weren't concerned w/ 'protocol', so things got Hot pretty quickly.... I understand that there is an effort to make HipHop EVERYONE'S genre, but it isn't; not anymore than Motown or Bebop. The World is welcome to enjoy HipHop, but make No Mistake- it's a Black American genre that just happens to be globally appreciated & adopted by many. That said, notions of people like Kool Herc, or Eminem being the 'Father' or 'King' diminish the effect that those 'Baby Spades' had on The Original Concept. We can appreciate their contributions, but HipHop Culture is bigger than them. It has a purpose, & it's NOT making Non Indigenous Blackfolk wealthy.

It was a youthful expression of Black Power & Creativity, but outside forces have turned it into a Golden Goose that only benefits White Record Execs & their Proxies. We treated Her like a Debutant, but She has been reduced to a Crack Whore that EVERYONE can get a piece of. Young Family has to go back to The Root. A Race War is looming, & i'm not sure that their music is up to task. Most of today's Artists are more concerned w/ their 30 pieces of silver, than The Culture it represents. Cats like Busta & Fat Joe aren't concerned, they're taking the money & running. Fat Joe wasn't even a Rapper back in The Day, he was a Stick up Kid; so he's always been about the 'Vic'. Big Pun on the other hand, was The Real Deal... HipHop has become symbolic of Black American Courtesy- We say: "have some", & Our 'guest' proceeds to help themselves to Everything. NO ONE is allowed to be more than a guest in the genres of Jamaican & Latinx Music, so why do they expect ownership in Black American Music?

When We talk about HipHop Culture, We need to remove All the noise in The Room. ANYONE making a claim to Our Culture should be Checked quickly. This 'Back to School Party' Story doesn't make sense! It's supposed to be inspirational, but it's narrated like just another Party. What's so special about it? What exactly motivated Herc's Sister to have this Party, several weeks before School started? How does this 'Party' spark a Movement? Compare it w/ HipHop being a Celebration of Black Youth in The Bronx [dramatically] winning their fight against White Supremacy & their Right of Autonomy- An UNAPOLOGETIC DISPLAY of Black Power. There was a REASON why NYPD left Mario & the Black Spades Deejays alone. When they were 'Jamming', The Black Spades weren't beating down White Racists... No disrespect, but Immigrant Family weren't Here, so they don't know what sparked this Movement.

The Original Concept of HipHop is rooted in stopping Gang Violence. It was a creative alternative to the death & destruction that We brought on each other. The current version of it is so far removed, it's almost unrecognizable. Today's manifestation is literally a Death Cult that offers little to no benefit to The Artist. White Executives seem convinced that it's only about Beats & Rhymes, but the Crap being presented is vulgar & cookie cutter; which defies HipHop's demand for Originality. After 50+Yrs, it's apparent that HipHop is best represented when it's Culturally connected to the Experience of Black American Life. EVERYONE ELSE is a House Guest & should behave accordingly.

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chuckwon · 1 year

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Here's Why I Want A Chuck Won Plot For The Sequel

Not to go the off about this on a random Saturday night or anything, but I have not stopped internally vibrating since the SPNWIN finale because the potential for a Chuck Won sequel plot line feels so implied and therefore so close I can taste it. I know that there are several people who don't like it as an explanation for the ending of season 15, and/or several people who don't like the idea of it being used as a sequel plot in the future. So I would just like to talk about why I, personally, am passionate about wanting them to use this particular avenue to move forward.

I'll likely unavoidably repeat some of the things I've said before elsewhere but... fuck it, I'm in my feelings, I want to get this out. Rambling on or whatever.

For the sake of clarity, here's a reminder of the POV I'm writing from: A) that Chuck's victory is canonically what was deliberately written as the plot of season 15, B) that it's meant to be noticeable and pointed out as tragic, and C) that even if you argue about the semantics of the literal order of events in the plot that add up to that result, Chuck's victory in some fashion is still the byproduct of the story's final execution.

The thing that I feel can and does get lost in a lot of fandom discussions about this concept is... D) the fact that Chuck winning is an allegory for and commentary on censorship.

I will go back to that. Follow me here.

With SPNWIN as a whole and especially the season one finale, we have already gotten step one of something incredibly subversive: it culminated very loudly in making it clearly canonical that Dean is some semblance of trapped. He is not happy, he is not at peace, he is not done. These are things that many of us in fandom who have brains all already kind of knew and took for granted, because we understand this story and this character and so we understand that 15x20 was not a good ending. But when you step back, what SPNWIN just established is actually a Big Deal in comparison to the fake veneer of happiness that 15x20 was (supposedly) trying to sell to us–and that it did indeed effectively sell to a large number of casual viewers.

Now, here we have canon openly demonstrating that Dean's ending was not okay, in general or to him. Objectively that wasn’t necessarily the case previously with 15x20 alone, but now it is the case.

That is a how-the-turntables level of redefinition of 15x20 in canon. Those crazy bastards fucking did it. They gave Dean Winchester back his agency and had him tell us for 13 episodes that the finale was inarguably Bad, and then they showed his sad grieving self still pining for his happy ending and his angel. That's fucking wild!!! Oh my God!!!

Whew. Okay, anyway:

So SPNWIN has made it clear that The Finale Was Bad, that Dean still needs and wants his happy ending, and that he knows what that happy ending should look like–as demonstrated in this whole hall of mirrors show, through the healing/romance/hope/future we witness the cast of The Winchesters getting to have.

If they stick with that vibe moving forward (which they may not. Continuity could get tossed), to me it then wouldn't make sense if they tried to move forward with any kind of sequel plot or angle that tries to say "okay, now Dean really will Find Peace And Be Done In Heaven." Because they seem to have made it clear that Dean doesn't want that. He wants out! He is fucking around and finding out!

To me, the next logical question to tackle in the plot as part of getting Dean back in the game would be this:

Why did those bad things happen to Dean in the finale?

Look, they don't have to answer that question with a plot-driven reason, obviously. They can go with the (boring) angle of nihilism that's basically like "Yeah Dean died and it sucked, but shit happens and that’s part of free will. It was an unlucky situation :/ he should get another chance at life though!" Or they can absolutely do something totally wacky and out of left field to explain lmfao. (I mean, hell, the Akrida were out of left field and that was only lessened when they tied them back to Chuck.)

Orrrrr.

They could go with a plot that's SOMETHING along the lines of explaining how Dean’s death and the fracturing of their family feels like an injustice to him because it is, and that shit did not just Happen, and that it wasn’t just arbitrary bad luck but rather he didn’t get his happy ending because Something Else was going on pulling the strings at least a little bit.

In that sense, Chuck- / Jack-related fuckery feels like the next natural through-line to me. I'm aware I'm heavily biased, but I want them to go all in on that angle so badly, and the point of this post (yes, there is a point!) is that I want to tell you why I want that.

The strength in the potential of an explicit Chuck won storyline in a continuation–other than the fact that it would be damn good television–is that, if done correctly, it would explain why the ending of season 15 sucked in the first place. And it would explain it not only in-narrative but also out-of-narrative.

Chuck exists to act as allegory, and that's what has always made this concept so significant, subversive, and compelling. Chuck's function and purpose is to be an allegory for producers and/or network executives, and thus the function and purpose behind a Chuck won storyline is to reveal the controlling forces of those figures. And because Chuck is the personification of the Original Creator's intentions that the characters are trying to supersede and defy, the fact that at the end of season 15 they do not get to grow beyond those intentions–aka the fact that Chuck wins and they don't get their full freedom–is indicative of the fact that the characters were not "free" or allowed to defy the Original Creator's real-world intentions either.

The idea that Chuck won is not simply a fun view on why the finale sucks or a fun plot idea for the future. It's because Supernatural is a censored queer text and higher forces won largely because Destiel was not allowed to be explicitly reciprocal. A pillar of the argument is that there could be no happy ending without Destiel; reciprocal Destiel was not allowed, and so the characters had to lose.

That is still the state of canon right now. Chuck's victory is amongst the many threads season 15 left dangling to potentially pick up and play with moving forward, and they don't HAVE to pick that thread up and make it into a central plot for a continuation. But if they do... Man. If they do, it would open the ending of season 15 to further examination for anyone who cares enough to pay attention to it, and that would also open up commentary on the censorship that caused it in the first place.

Here's what I mean:

SPNWIN has left us in a place consistent with 15x19, seemingly further highlighting that something is wrong with Jack. That's huge. Whether that "something" is Chuck possessing him or–potentially more likely–that the God power Jack absorbed has corrupted him, the point is that Jack needs to be freed because Chuck's influence endures.

Making the Akrida into a Chuck fail safe has already leaned into that idea, in a way. Even if Chuck is "gone," his influence wasn't gone entirely. The characters were not fully and entirely free from Chuck's lasting effects on the universe that they inhabit.

But now with the destruction of the Akrida, those effects are supposedly gone. But what if they actually aren't gone completely? What if something is wrong with Jack? What could that mean for Dean's story specifically and the happy ending he still wants and needs?

Apply that to the allegory: if Chuck's power has possessed or corrupted Jack, then Chuck's enduring influence that the characters still have to wrestle with becomes about the enduring influence of industry censorship.

It's then about the insidiousness of the forces that make it difficult for writers to let their stories and characters grow out of what was originally meant for them, especially when those stories are not meant to be queer narratives and yet are molded to have queerness centralized. It's about saying... you (the writers + characters) thought you'd be able to get free but you couldn't; you thought you could write the happy ending but you still haven't gotten to. How have higher forces twisted and shaped things into something unrecognizable? How do you make it back from that and rid the story of that negative influence once and for all?

Hypothetically, examining what Chuck's enduring influence fucked up in the story would then have to examine what censorship fucked up in real life. If they have to break out and return to reality, what does that look like? What is revealed? Dean and Cas could not reunite because their love was real and threatened Chuck's enforced unreality. Dean died and Sam got an apple pie life because that was always part of the ending Chuck wanted to see. Jack was taken over and/or corrupted by God power as part of Chuck's plan because he was powerful enough to help unite them all as a family, which threatened the classic "brothers only" focus of Chuck's story. Chuck's power was still personified in Jack and influencing the outcomes and that's why all of this tragedy occurred. They have to reunite, break the cycle, heal their family, and save Jack while getting rid of that personified God power once and for all, releasing it back into their universe so that power is now in everyone/everything rather than concentrated in overseeing forces threatening their freedom.

And when Chuck is an allegory for the censoring forces in real life... for anyone who cares to engage their brain cells, this could then make it abundantly clear(er) that the end of season 15 was not simply ~bad writing~ or ~cowardice~. It would retroactively redeem, explain, and redefine Supernatural's original "ending" as a backed-into-a-corner narrative gamble embedded with the ability to shine light on the source of its problems, the hope that in the future the story could be continued, and the keys to give the characters justice especially in regards to the queer narrative.

You can look me in the eyes and tell me you don't think that would absolutely rock, but then I will have to simply agree to disagree with you.

Because I would very much like to fucking see it.

It is literally ALL RIGHT THERE. It's THERE, it's so close, and this story could reach its highest potential and make several lasting, impressive points in the cultural realm for anyone who gets their heads out of their ass and stops ridiculing it or stops layering their interest in it under 1000 levels of irony long enough to look at how special it is!!!

[shakes the table with my hands]

AAAAAAAA

Okay, sorry, I'm devolving. But in conclusion: I want this. And though the prequel seems to be hinting towards it (QUITE LOUDLY), there is of course absolutely zero guarantee that any mysterious future sequel would go in that direction for several reasons, let alone the fact that it's objectively a ballsy as hell approach to take.

I still want to write a very long meta about The Winchesters' overall themes and its Chuck won propaganda (lol), so uhhh I reserve the right to plagiarize myself in the future from this post for that purpose. But I had to get this specific thought out sooner rather than later because, to be honest, I am simply going bananas.

JENSEN ACKLES, GIVE ME ONE PHONE CALL WITH YOU LOCKED UNDER AN NDA. PLEASE. PERCEIVE THE VISION.

#chuck won meta #the winchesters #spnwin meta #chuck won theory #the winchesters meta #I'm insane but it's fine. it's 12:46am and we lose an hour because of the time change tonight. things are fine.#my meta #I shouldn't post this tonight but fuck it I'll self-reblog tomorrow

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mrschwartz · 2 years

Text

Alex Turner for OOR Magazine (October 2022)

Conducted in August 20th 2022 by Willem Bemboom

Alex in the sun on a terrace. Leather jacket, classic shades, a big head of hair in desperate need of a handful of Brylcreem. He almost looks like a time-traveller, someone from another dimension, unmoved by the sounds of the city in the distance and the swelling lunch crowd around us.

He talks slowly and dragging, as if the battery is almost flat. His pauses in thought are numerous and stretched out, sometimes to determine what he DOES want to say, more often to think about what he does NOT want to say. Apparently he is so used to intelligent or difficult questions, that the easy ones throw him off. What are you listening to? What has changed? What do you think yourself is the most beautiful lyric? Endless silences, you can almost hear the brain cracking. But they are by no means painful. The lesson taken from previous interviews - and in fact the essence of Arctic Monkeys: just let Alex Turner meditate, that's where eventually the best things come from.

The sunglasses meanwhile are being taken on and off every minute. With wide eyes full of wonder Turner turns the casual things lying on the table into a journey of discovery. OOR's old trusted dictaphone for example. 'Reliable stuff', he judges. ‘At worst eats your tape one time, but such a device will not betray you. Two buttons, on, off, record, play. You don't need more options. I want to start working with these things a bit more.”

He weighs the device for a moment, as if he is testing a peach or tomato at the local fruit & veg. A mysterious short laugh follows. Who knows what goes on in that head.

The Car as a record makes an analogous impression, either way in terms of technique and instrumentation.

Right? Texture wise for sure. Old instruments, string arrangements. The ideas are kneaded to songs with human hands. Although this time we also have a Moog.

And the subjects as well seem to come from a different time. Classic Hollywood, faded glory, but also Cold War stuff. In various songs there are spying elements sneaking around.

That’s for sure what I’m doing in the new songs. Think of Gene Hackman in The Conversation, you have to search in circle of people as such.Vague surveillance stuff, listening devices [focuses on the recorder again]. A bit like how this conversation is also being recorded, haha.

Social media seems completely absent, you are far from sketching a contemporary time frame. People talk on the phone together.

Good point. I imagine that phone in Big Ideas like that, on the wall, with a turntable. It is indeed an analog world, there is no apping or anything like that. On the first song on our first record I sing about a phone that is being unlocked [The View From The Afternoon]. You had to press the asterisk key to avoid accidentally turning on your cell phone. We still play that song every night, I’ve now sang it so often that I’m not thinking about those lyrics at all. A few days ago I did have a clear mind and suddenly I realised: gosh, this is not how phones are any more! Back in the days I was more up-to-date with my technological references, on AM there are still text messages and such. That's gone now. I have gone back in time, it seems.

Your previous album took place at the moon. Where - and especially when - is The Car set?

Hm. [long silence] You know what, I really don't have any idea whatsoever. Even for Tranquility Base I now wonder if it all took place at the moon. That sort of thing reveals itself only later, sometimes even a lot later. The music triggers something in me, I build on the atmosphere and the sound, and I just let The Idea run wild - though I refine the lyrics endlessly after they get into shape. But the source? Dunno, that can't be guided or be explained. I did try to steer away a bit more from the sci-fi idiom than on the previous one. Whether it succeeded is question number two. For some reason there’s somehow always science fiction seeping through.

You now refer in several numbers to old movies and showbiz, like the musical Anything Goes, 1930s Broadway, with music by Cole Porter. New fascination?

Hmmm, no. By the way, it is indeed lifted from a movie. Indiana Jones And The Temple Of Doom begins with the song Anything Goes, from that musical, sung in Chinese. Nice opening, although I’m certainly not the biggest Indiana Jones fan. I suddenly thought about it, so it ended up in that song. That's how it goes with most things. Who knows where it comes from and what it means. It's suddenly there.

Is Sculptures Of Anything Goes a New York song? Apart from the Broadway link you sing about 'city life 09', the period you lived in Brooklyn, and ‘Village coffee mornings, with not long since retired spies’.

As in: written in New York? No, I haven't been to New York in ages. The Village is in there…. I think this is another of those science fiction things. You've been nervously playing around with that empty cassette box for 15 minutes now, and I’m now imagining that it contains City Life 09. I’m fond of the idea there will be a city life cartridge in the future, a simulation that you can board. I’m imagining a full box of those cartridges, from 1929 to 1959 to 1969 to 1979 to 1989 and so on. That’s because I think there should be intervals of ten years to notice a substantial difference in such a huge city. And the 2009 one is missing from that lyric, it's inside the machine because it's used most often. Whether it's also refers to my time in New York… No idea. It's purely a bit of fantasy.

Let’s swap the fantasy for the facts for a little bit: where and when did you start making this record?

Even before the lockdowns, right away after the Tranquility Base tour in South America. In April and May 2019 I wrote the first attempts of new songs, we already recorded some bits in late 2019, but that attempt led to nothing. Only after the lockdowns we came back together again, last summer, in Butley Priory, an old monastery at the coast of Suffolk. No one knew we were there, it was a remote place. It reminded me of our first record, when we went from the madhouse to the countryside for a while as well. We never did that again ever since, until now. Recording a record in England also was a while ago, same counts for a summer album. So there we were again, at the English countryside, as a rrrrock band! [big eyes and a rolling rrrrr] No distractions, like in the city. Extra focus, no prying eyes. All in the same zone. Good morning, you know.

We will come back at that ‘rock band’ part for a bit later. What did a day in Suffolk look like for the rest?

Oh, every morning we got trumpeted out of our beds with a reveille. And a while after a bell was ringing: go to work, lazy bastards! Thereafter a Powerpoint presentation with schedules and tactics. No, just joking, it was the opposite. Very calm and relaxed, everything in our own tempo. These days I find it essential to take the time. That’s because every project has to search and find its own way. As a maker you also have to let a piece of work go its own way. During the summer of 2019 I read a book about movie editing, In The Blink Of An Eye by Walter Murch. Although movie editing is not my discipline, I did get interesting things out of it anyway, there are parallels with how I put together a record these days. Editing usually involves cutting out bad bits. The question that immediately arises: what is a bad bit? Are there bad bits at all? This Sir Murch calls the process of editing the discovery of a path through all the available material. The more you shot, the more possible paths there are. And because I had quite a lot of ideas, more than ever actually, which all wanted to exist, it was extra important to especially follow the feeling. Sometimes I got a direction in mind, and then the piece itself drags you in the opposite direction anyway. It has other ideas. It lives, it is an entity. Let it go. That’s how it went now as well.

You keep on avoiding the meaning of your lyrics. Is the writing of it not a conscious process then?

Hmmm, that always comes last anyway. I am endlessly adjusting and rewriting. When we were working on the music in Suffolk, I hardly sang on top of it. I do believe that at this moment in time I write down what I am experiencing more directly. I'm a bit more open, more honest, apparently inspired by four guys who are just standing together in a room making music.

What do you consider your favourite find on The Car?

Oh… I forgot to bring my cheat sheet. I’ve got a folder with notes, which I planned on bringing with me. But it also feels a little know-it-all and self-conscious to start giving a lecture from my own notes here. My best line… I wouldn’t know! I simply don’t know all the lyrics by heart yet. [long pause] I think ‘Big Ideas’ as a whole is a very accomplished song.

Ah, with the ‘hysterical scenes’ that are reminiscent of a band just breaking through. ‘We had ‘em out of their seats, waving their arms and stomping their feet’ – that’s where the echo of Monkeymania is audible.

Strange times.

Or just The Beatles. ‘Clap your hands and stomp your feet’, is what Lennon sometimes shouted from the stage…

Hm, yeah. No. Here I imagine sort of more like a movie producer giving someone a call. Or something like that.

Big Ideas is full of melancholy – and that counts for more songs in general.

It’s not just in the words, you know. Yes, so that’s how it works for me: the words arise from the feeling the music evokes. The melody supplies the words and ideally they complement each other. In that way, the things it makes you say are indeed not conscious. It purely revolves around what the music allows you to say.

“Over and out, it’s been a thrill”, you sing on Big Ideas. Hello You, Jet Skis On The Moat and Perfect Sense also contain “goodbyes” and “goodnights”. Are you saying goodbye to something?

Yeah, I think that’s fair. That all has to do with where I arrived in life at the moment. I’m 36, the band exists for about twenty years, including the whole run-up. So I’ve been in the band for more than half of my life. You leave things behind, while the clock keeps ticking. People, places, your younger self. Time. Though that’s not necessarily a bad thing, you get new things in return. But it’s human nature to sometimes look back on what has been, what’s behind you. Though I’m pretty good at leaving things behind.

Like loud guitar music for example.

[big eyes] Ha!

The rrrrrrrrock band you just mentioned is not the same as the one from 2006 anymore.

Haha, not on the record, no! But on stage we just keep on rocking, that all co-exists. But you know what’s the funny thing? We could very well still have made a loud guitar record after all. If the music had asked for it, I think I would have obediently followed. When we finished touring in 2019, everything pointed in that direction. Much louder than Tranquility Hotel, in any case. But that started to shift towards a different direction and that’s why we took a break from it at the time. I was afraid I would start forcing things. And sometimes you just have to accept the fact you can’t go back to the riffs from ten years ago. At the end of the tour I knew what kind of songs I wanted to do, with the lights of the stage still in my eyes and the thundering roars of the audience in my ears. Big, loud guitars should have been part of that. That’s what I’m gonna do! I even put on my motorcycle boots to get a hold of that mood. But that didn’t feel right in the end, as said. You’re not that person anymore, your music wants to go in a different direction. Then I can only follow that.

Put the Arctic Monkeys who were recording at the English countryside in 2006 next to the band working at Suffolk last summer. Not to see what has changed, but what hasn’t changed?

Well, everything has changed. [2 minutes of silence while you can almost hear a movie playing in his head] … except for the countryside and England, haha! I did find it more fun this time though. Maybe because right now we finally know what we’re doing. Yes, that has remained the same. The only reason we now can not make a loud guitar record in all peace and comfort, is because we’re still Arctic Monkeys. Everyone has grown up, the essence of the band has grown with us. The faces are a bit more round, the boys call their children instead of their parents, but the feeling remains the same. Life itself happened – and not in an unpleasant way. It’s all good, everything. Yes, it’s fine.

Why did you have more fun now than back then? Did that 20 year old kid that recorded ‘Whatever People Say I Am…’ not know what he was doing?

Not what happened to him, no. It was a great time, but oh dear, so much stress! Now I’m completely relaxed in everything I do. Looking back at 2006, everything was so… tight! My guitar was hanging just below my chin, the strap was almost pinched around my back. That example alone. I let the guitar nicely hang nowadays. And sometimes I even leave it in its stand. The schedules are looser, the people are looser, the music is looser. Less heavy, not as frenetic and whaaaargh! It’s fitting better in its own skin. Just like ourselves. The jacket is hanging loosely unbuttoned. I’m sitting behind a grand piano in the corner. And still it feels like Arctic Monkeys, because we’re still walking the same path, however strange the path winds. The same timeline and the same principles. The path, following the music, is the constant factor. 15 years ago we followed our instinct as young lads and The Record is what resulted from it. Now we’re still doing that, and this time that record is The Car.

Oh yeah, The Car. What kind of car is it?

Just a car.

Does it stand for anything?

No, it’s standing on a roof. The cover photo was taken by Matthew Helders, our drummer. When I saw that photo a few years ago, I immediately knew it had the potential to be an album cover for the band. There’s not just spies and goodbyes in the lyrics, if you listen closely you can hear a few cars. And after [raises voice] Tranquility Base Hotel + Casino the temptation to call something ‘The Car’ is simply too big. It is what it is.

So just a car.

Yep. And that car on the cover in particular.

Where was the photo taken?

If I’m not mistaken, in Los Angeles.

Ah, Los Angeles. There you’re nothing without a car. What kind do you drive?

I don’t own a car. I’m back in London now and it’s just not practical there. No car…

Where did you used to go on holidays as a kid?

Oh, eh, Eastbourne, on the south shore. With my grandparents on the Dotto Train, one of those tourist carts along the beach. But how did we suddenly end up here?

I wondered about this when I heard The Car, the song. Nicely melancholic, you sing about past holidays, falling asleep at the back seat.

But that doesn’t take place in Eastbourne [rolls his eyes]. But where does it take place, I can hear you think… In a parallel universe full of espionage and science fiction, haha!

Sounds exciting. Have you ever tried writing a script yourself?

No. The kind of stories I tell are mostly… based on the music and the melodical ideas, as I already explained. Those bring forth the story. If I wouldn’t have that, I would struggle. I would like to learn this though, sometime, one day. But I’m not working on it now, it’s a whole different skill to the one I’ve currently got on board. Never say never, we’ll see. But definitely not tomorrow [thinks for a bit, laughs]. Tomorrow’s Pukkelpop. There’s no time for drafting scripts. Although it is a world I would like to roam about, one I’d like to explore. At the Priory I had an old 16mm camera with me, one that fits in the palm of your hand and you have to crank up yourself. Still not even close to Hollywood. But ah well, that’s a hobby.

What music are you listening to yourself at the moment?

[two minutes of silence] I used to be able to always draw a straight line from what I was listening to right to the new record, that’s different now, I think. No more adding this, this, this and this and you’ve got the new Monkeys. It’s not as clear what those things are this time, not even for me.

If you could go to Record Palace at the opposite of Paradiso with 50 euros right now, what would you pick from there?

Oh wow, that place is amazing! I actually should stop by there later. We’ve been so busy fine-tuning the show, this morning I only took a walk in the park for a bit… Lovely morning.

But at the moment you’re listening to…

Oh man… After finishing the record, nothing for a while, for a few months. Now it’s starting up again a bit. Headphones on… listening to things. What do I want to share here right now?

I’ll just write down Nookie by Limp Bizkit.

Oh no. Is that a threat? Alright, in that case do… Nat King Cole! The song ‘Where Did Everybody Go’. Why? That’s why.

At There’d Better Be A Mirrorball you actually sound a bit like Nat King Cole. Coincidence?

Ha, that’s nice! Eh, yes, coincidence. On the other hand: what’s a coincidence?

You sing a lot in falsetto, you croon, sometimes you’re channelling Bowie. Are you still looking for your voice or are you finally coming close?

Always in search of! You look for a manner of singing that guides the music the easiest way. A way that’s in tune with the feeling you wanna convey. That’s the hardest part… no, that’s what you’re aiming for, that connection.

Connection with?

With what you can’t really grasp. And can’t understand. Or can’t express into words. How you as a normal little person can become part of that wonder, the music. There’s a technical component to it, by practicing a lot I can reach a higher pitch or hold a note better. Those are means. The purpose is something bigger though. There’s this great song on Sinatra at the Sands, 'Don’t Worry About Me', that he introduces as one of the best songs ever. In one part of a verse he sings a step-up note, bigger and bigger, that fills all gaps in the notes just to get to the next step. It’s off, but because of that it’s actually perfectly right. It stands out. That’s why I call magic. That’s what it’s about. Getting completely lost in that feeling and getting to a place where everything is right. Even when it’s not right. Even more so when it’s not right. Then you know it’s right.

#arctic monkeys #alex turner #the car #interview #this was veryyy interesting so many good bits here #2 MINUTES of silence?????????????????? 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 no fucking way oh my god #''just a car. and that car on the cover in particular''#''the boys call their children instead of their parents'' 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺 oh...#he interviewer threatening to put that limp biskit song as his choice if he didn't give his own vnjdnfjvnjgnjgb #what a power move more interviewers should do that it actually got an answer from him jnfjgngvjbngjbng #but also like #god like. he really is a true Artist with a capital a huh. he talks about music with such reverence and respect #it's so emotive and inspiring to see

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