#but neo still craves something from his father that he never gets

[maruyaaya]

OH MY GODDDD IM OBSESSED IM OBSESSED achilles is my fav greek figure ever i love how u drew him sm oh my gosh i love his stupid face sm. i’m so amazed ur art is so gorgeous im dumbfounded im obsessed

some of you may know that i’m about 22k words into an enemies to lovers telemachus/neoptolemus fic rn and for those of you don’t know that, hi, i am in fact writing that.

their dynamic is very special to me (especially the version in my head where they attempt to kill each other on multiple occasions but it only causes them to fall more in love with each other) but genuinely the way i came to the idea of shipping them was literally just bc i was thinking “odysseus and achilles would HATE to be in-laws”

like you cannot tell me that achilles wouldn’t be spinning in his grave at the idea of his son dating the son of odysseus. his ass could NOT handle having to see odysseus at family gatherings. and odysseus would find it all so fucking funny. like on principle he would not approve of his son dating achilles’ son, but he’d also see achilles bursting a blood vessel trying to be diplomatic and he’d decide that it’s all worth it.

and in my head there’s this modern au where like achilles is alive and neo, his estranged son who he doesn’t have a good relationship with, comes to him like “father i want to get your blessing on my relationship” and achilles is thinking “ok let’s not fuck this up this is my chance to rekindle my relationship with my son” but then when neo says “i am gay. i am dating odysseus’ son” achilles has a fucking panic attack and neo assumes it’s bc achilles is homophobic and he’s like “father i cannot change who i am. i am gay” and achilles is frantically like “NO IDC THAT UR GAY BUT CAN YOU PLEASE BE GAY WITH LITERALLY ANYBODY ELSE??????”

it’s romeo and juliet core if you think abt it. the feud is achilles hating odysseus and odysseus thinking it’s the funniest thing ever

ofc i actually do really like neo and telemachus’ potential dynamic and i have a lot a lot of thoughts on it but i just think it’s so funny to look at achilles and odysseus’ perspective on this

[koenki]

So I wrote a lot of this down as a way to ground myself last night, some cute or otherwise just circulating thoughts about the lovely ASMR stories I'm listening to bring comfort when I can't sleep.

Ellis' listener comes in with hot tea from the coffee shop Bug works at so they can have a nice drink while reading/discussing their new book series. Maybe they aren't together yet and Ellis' grandmother comes into the shop and meets their listener, having heard so much about this fiery young person their grandchild goes on about.

Casey and Honey on autumn nature hike, Casey teaches Honey about autumn blooming plants as the crunch of leaves are underfoot. Gourd carving, doesn't have to be pumpkins, for the spooky season. Lauren gave them a list of themes they can all dress up as together to hand candy out for Halloween so they can match.

Dion tryna get out of the house as often as possible now that his family's guard is there, knowing Bunny wouldn't want him to follow since he can't disguise himself. Bunny levels with the bodyguard about going out in public looking like that and feels guilty leaving him but tends to promise they will bring back dinner for him and they can hang out and watch movies later. Dion is clingy now, making sure he has a point of contact with Bunny any time the three of them are together now. Pip and Roman testing out the gadget that plays music based on thoughts and feelings. At some point a love song plays and as they start to talk about it to confront what it meas when the song suddenly changes from sweet and loving to fearful, spooky. This could work for it being connected to either of them, both having something that scares and upsets them that could possibly show up at any time.

Cyril's parents whenever they find out about Cyril and them getting together, tryna set up a get together- Cyril haa been refusing stating both him and rival are busy enough, barely have time to even see each other let alone also schedule time with them for all 4 to get together- rival knows none of this and ends up cornered in their office by two elves and highly esteemed researchers that just want to get to know their sons love interest better- even if one may or may not believe his son should be with another elf? I dunno how his Father will feel on all this Neo and Darling's conversation of "my lease is up in October" as Gage has mentioned and if they are ready for a big step like moving in together already or not. Neo craves to be close not only to Darling, but the need as a shifter to be close to another as well. More Neo thoughts on starting to meet the siblings. His need to feel validated, important, and strong willed to not feel "compared" especially to the older siblings becoming apparent. He might apologize for what a handful his family could be and Darling has to assure him that they love him and the rowdy bunch of foxes. They also may make sure he knows just how much they love him when they get back to the privacy of their own space. Gage and Bug having the apartment for themselves now, roomie's old room is now where Gage will have his ceramics now. Darling drags Neo back out for game night once a month, they've been showing him how to play video games so next mario kart, fall guys, mario party whatever, stands a better chance (maybe even beat Gage in one, maybe they had a bet and now Gage has to own up?)

Small steps with Desmond, sneaking small kisses when they can at work, hand holding when out together, warm cuddles on the couch, taking Eclair to the dog park to play Des seems to adore the attention, but I feel like he'd be just as appreciative if Newbie got lil treats or toys for his dog, it's in connection to him still, and means they are thinking of him or of spending time with each other when apart.

Angsty thoughts for Desmond include Newbie getting hurt; pretty bad. Des has never been the type that would rely and just expect Law to help, use his magic because he never wants his best friend to feel like he abuses their friendship, so when he calls for help there's a lot of unspoken feelings between these two that Law will be there asap. Des never left their side, he held them as they recovered, maybe even being a little more aggressive in his care because of how stubborn Newbie is, having to force them to stay in bed or take time off work. That "holding" may have been at times laying basically on them to hold them down so they would just. Stop. Moving. Also a conversation between Des and Newbie about how Des keeps paying for things when they are together. He's financially stable and willing to spend it on Newbie but they end up feeling uncomfortable. They worry that they don't want Des to think they are using him as a sugar daddy, they want an equal partnership, and work out something together so it will feel more balanced.

Similar to Desmond, Sweets getting little things for Nat, even when she's away at mom's or the grandparents, seeing stuff and thinking of his daughter means the world to Law. The two people that mean the most to him that he loves wholeheartedly having a connection is important to him. Having someone to help wrangle the ball or energy and as she gets older to help teach her about some of the mysticalities he and her mother don't even know help to open her eyes to more than he alone could offer. He also knows after the little one falls to sleep he gets their undivided attention and its something to look forward to whenever they are together be it exhausted cuddling on the couch with a movie on, to a feeding session of their choice. No matter the end results, they are happy and comfortable together.

Nat gets her own section as she so deserves. At 3 years old Sweets can throw her the BEST tea parties, the high faerie court of stuffies around the table as they talk about the crayons and colors they like to draw with the most, sipping their tea and munching some sugar free cookies and wafers. She knows all of Dad's coworkers. Uncle DesDes gives some of the best airplane rides she's ever had, only next to Dad's of course! He looks big and scary but he gives her ice cream and trinkets! Newbie and Gage are always fun, Gage having wanted a little sibling since he was small can play big brother, and Newbie can always find the shiniest and prettiest rocks no matter where they go, babygirl has to add this to her rock collection. Be mindful things don't get quiet though, a child being quiet is a scary enough thought for what troubles they can get into, but if these two are also missing chaos may be about to strike. Neo, having grown up with so many siblings, is used to handling smaller children, but tries to build her up and make her feel important. He doesn't seem the type to like messy things but he will make sure she is safe and kept busy. Dad's coworkers are practically family, and with how much Law watches over everyone from getting between crossfires of arguments, making sure everyone is safe and aren't injured (probably uses some magic for some stuff since everyone is attuned or aware) they all have his respect and love, and want to repay that kindness when and where they can. They'll make sure Nat is taken care of.

[aspoonofsugar]

Worthy, Not Worth It

The current episode has shown us how Cinder has developed this season and the final result is interesting because it is basically a parody of the protagonists’ team spirit:

Cinder: I suppose I have only you to thank for one last lesson... Sometimes, if you want to win...you simply can’t do it alone.

It is a development, but this development is very ambiguous.

Cinder is probably applying what Salem taught her back in volume 5:

Salem: Never underestimate the usefulness of others.

Moreover, this is her response to everything that has happened to her this season.

In particular, it is Cinder’s answer to her failure and to both Emerald and Mercury leaving her. It is also an answer born by her current colleagues’ calls out:

Watts: You think you're entitled to everything just because you've suffered, but suffering isn't enough! You can't just be strong, you have to be smart! You can't just be deserving, you have to be worthy! But all you have ever been, is a BLOODY MIGRAINE!

She has been mistreating others the whole time and finally Watts’s speech and Neo’s actions get through her and make her realize she must change approach.

The result is that we see her trying to be kinder to others, even if it is clear this kindness is not really genuine, as for now.

Still, what are the differences with how she treated Emerald and Mercury back at Beacon? What has changed and what has not?

The thing which has changed is that Neo and Watts are not really Cinder’s “disciples”. Watts answers directly to Salem like her and Neo is following her just because they made a pact between equals. Both Neo and Watts are able and willing to call Cinder out in a way neither Emerald nor Mercury could because their relationship with Cinder was one of dependence.

At the same time, Cinder’s new “trio” is ironically very similar to her old one.

Neo is specialized in illusions, just like Emerald. Moreover, she is motivated mostly by her loyalty for a single person.

Watts lacks a semblance just like Mercury, but has other useful abilities because of his background.

Finally, Watts and Neo, just like Emerald and Mercury, symbolize different parts of Cinder.

Watts is her entitlement to power, while Neo is her desire of revenge against the kids and Ruby in particular.

The fact that Cinder is currently working with them can be seen as a mirror of her indulging in superficial coping mechanisms to avoid facing her trauma. The problem is not that she was abused and is currently stuck in a cycle (like Mercury) or that she deep down craves love (like Emerald). The problem is that she has not enough power and that a bunch of kids keeps getting in her way.

Emerald and Mercury are linked to Cinder’s child self... they are who she truly is deep down.

This is also why she shows complex emotions (some of which not yet unpacked) to losing them both:

Watts and Neo are instead two superficial symptoms of her deep issues. They are two ways her trauma manifests in the present and symbolize Cinder’s adolescent strong facade. Still, that projection of strength is nothing, but a shallow mask.

In conclusion, Cinder’s development is important and will probably lead to her win this season. Still, it is not pivotal nor definitive as for now.

It might lead to her developing more genuine relationships in the long run (even if I doubt it, as for now). Still, it is also her going back to the same coping mechanism she had at the beginning of the series.

All in all, Cinder’s coping mechanism is to become like Salem wants her aka a carbon copy of Salem herself:

Salem: And I’ve realized, it’s all my fault. You’ve fought your whole life unwaveringly for what you want and here I am holding you back instead of lifting you up.

Cinder: No, she is right to be angry. I know I haven’t upheld my hand of the bargain. I’m sorry.

After all, it is not by chance that Cinder’s “recovery” starts with Salem throwing her a bone:

And once she cools off she immediately applies to others the same manipulation techniques Salem uses on her.

Still, what is happening to Cinder’s child parts is indicative that Cinder’s struggle is far from over.

Mercury is lashing out at her and is currently with a stand-in of his abusive father. He is still trapped, just like Cinder is trapped by Salem.

Emerald has left Cinder. Not only that, but she has left her just after Salem has shown her “comprehension” and “kindness”.

This is not something that happens by chance. After Salem throws Cinder a bone, Cinder is shown to copy Salem’s behaviour to make full use of her colleagues.

Still, the one person who was truly loyal to Cinder leaves her after seeing that same mechanism play out and (probably) she recognizes it as something Cinder does to her. The one person who wanted a genuine relationship with Cinder leaves her the moment Cinder claims she has learnt team spirit.

In short, Cinder has done nothing, but hanging there as for now, but she is just postponing the moment she will have to face her child parts (Emerald and Mercury) again and with them herself.

After all, Cinder is not really becoming herself, but she is becoming just like Salem... she is becoming worthy, but she should aim to be whole.

[neo-culture-mafia]

III.

(TW // MENTIONS OF DEATH)

Girl, I know you love me

Even though your parents

They don't fucking trust me

Typical story of good girl meets bad boy. You were working at an ice cream parlor when he walked in. You didn't know he would change your life forever.

He held so much command and power in his walk. His presence demanded respect. Yet, the rowdy group of boys he was with made him seem just a little more approachable.

"Hello, welcome to ___ ____ ice cream shoppe. What can we get started for you today?" Your coworker smiled, his gaze still stuck on you. Your body was situated behind your coworker and to the side where you were refilling some toppings. You tried to turn away and keep to yourself, but you felt his line of vision blow holes into your back.

"Can I please have 6 chocolate sundaes and 1 peach shaved ice?" His voice was like liquor. It was warm yet made you a little tipsy in the head.

"Of course, ₩19,500 please." His hand reached out. A black card being dangled in his fingertips. "We will get those out to you as quick as we can." She smiled as she returned his card.

The group sat down at a large table. The shoppe was still bare for a hot summer night. The quietness made it that more enjoyable.

You pretended to wipe down the corner as you couldn't help googly eyes toward the boy who sat at the head of the group's table. He seemed like a natural leader. He had taken his jean jacket off to reveal a cuffed T-shirt with tattoo ink spilling out of the sleeves.

A red and black dragon laid on his arm, snaking up his bicep as if it was trying to introduce and make itself known. A sinister smirk laid on the face of the Beast you were taught to fear.

You left the counter and went over to your working coworker. You hit her arms and she groaned looked over to you. "They're apart of Neo Culture." You babbled and she looked at you as if you had grown 15 heads. "No way-" "Look at his tattoo." You whined quietly and you watched the fear grow into her eyes slowly.

"Oh my God." Her figure became stiff and you just stood there, afraid of moving wrongly.

"If I have to tell you guys to shut up one more time, I'm putting you all in the car and driving all the way back home." The boy's voice boomed through the small space and made your coworker drop her metal scoop and grabbed you to shield her.

All eyes were on her and you. "You guys okay?" One of the shorter boys asked and you nodded quickly. "More than okay. Perfect, actually. Absolutely wonderful." You nodded and they chuckled to themselves.

"Pull yourself together woman!" You scolded as you hit her arms again.

"Get them their desserts. Just...be calm." You said and she got back to a steady pace of work.

It was like an instant and she had all of them done and ready to go out. "I'm not doing it. The one who goes closest is the one who gets killed first." She said shoving you toward the tray.

You just rolled your eyes and picked it up quickly.

You walked around the corner and all of their chattering abruptly stopped once you approached silently.

"wow you were quiet." The tattoo'ed boy said with a chuckle. "I get that alot actually." Your laugh came out a little rushed. "Who had the shaved ice?" You asked and the boy with a pink tinged head of hair raised his hand. You handed it to him and passed out all the ice cream.

You were walking back when you thought you were home free. "Miss. You dropped this." You turned around and were met face to face with Mr. Liquor himself.

His hand held a piece of paper and you took it kindly. "Thank you so much." You smiled and you both turned and separated.

You watched as he walked back and put his coat back on. "y/l/n is gonna come any second." Your last name falling off his lips so suddenly and smoothly.

Some of the boys groaned as they all got up. As if on que, your dad walks through the front door of the shoppe.

"I said don't come back here, Mark." His smile fell once he saw the tattoo'ed boy. "I was just treating my boys to a sweet surprise. Nothing more, y/l/n." He raised his hands in defense.

"Why did you serve them?!" Your dad's anger was now being pointed towards you.

"Hey. Leave her out of it. She didn't know who we were." Mark's voice became more elevated and commanding as your dad's face grew more red. The heavy feeling of doing something wrong growing in your chest.

"Don't tell me how to speak to my daughter." Your dad's finger pointing in Mark's face. "Daughter?" He asked as if it was surprise. "This makes it even better." A cocky smirk replacing his stone cold glare.

"I told you to stay out, you and your flea-ridden gang." You've never heard your father use such harsh words towards another human. Your dad stepping close to Mark and the rest of his group. Yet, Mark didn't back down as he handed his ice cream to his friend.

"I didn't bring trouble this time. We've been paying our dues for a while now-" "That doesn't mean shit. I told you and your leader that I didn't want anyone of you coming in and messing with me or my business...or family." Your dad said coming around the counter to the register.

"We get it. We'll leave." They were headed out the door, Mark trailing his group when your dad had another slick comment. "You and your Neo Culture rats need to know your place. Might as well sell his land to another group." He said and you thought you could hear the rubber of Mark's shoes screech on the concrete.

He turned around, his friends continuing without him. Your dad knew he fucked up as the door slammed and Mark locked it.

"Excuse me?" He asked, sauntering over to the counter. "Wanna run that by me again?" He asked, his fingers motioning your frozen father to repeat his last words.

Mark had the coldest glare that could make the devil run in fear. "Say it with your chest...or not at all." He growled and gave one last look to you; a softness becoming apparent in his stare.

He unlocked the door and walked across the street to an all black SUV. Getting in, he sped away with a look of hatred to the shoppe.

Your father gulped loudly, still frozen in fear and shock.

"Don't get wound up in mafia drama, girls. It'll only make you lose sleep and safety." He grabbed a pint of ice cream and retreated to the back room.

Your hands unfolded the piece of paper in your hands and was met with neat handwriting.

'hope to see you here more often ;) -mark'

You know you shouldn't love me

Sneaking around with Mark was hard. From having him spend the night at your house without your parents knowledge to you sneaking back in right before your mom called for breakfast.

Mark taught you how to feel new emotions. Like guilt...and lust...and love.

"You need to find someone else." His words were hesitant as your fingers traced over his dragon tattoo for what felt like the millionth time.

You sat up, his arm coming from around you to behind his head. You looked down at him, his figure laid on your bedding so nicely.

"What?" Your voice was laced with confusion. "You know you shouldn't love me, y/n." His hand came up to put a piece of hair behind your ear.

"But I do." Your voice was soft and silky. "That's not just going to change because you say so, Mark." you reasoned as you turned to sit facing him.

It was your turn to now play and move his black hair out of his face. "It needs to though." He sat up along with you.

"no." Firmness was your only option at this point. "What?" His dumbfounded expression had you rethinking your approach.

"why do you want me to find someone else?" The question was met with a surprisingly clear answer. "I don't deserve you. You can do way better than me." His words were soft yet held a powerful blow.

"I'm only going to get you hurt-" you broke off his rambling with a kiss. He didn't hesitate...telling you all you needed to know.

"I'm in this with you. Not just because I'm bored." You said, barely backing away. He nodded, his eyes still trained on your lips.

"And really? You really thought I would listen to you? Find someone better? You're ridiculous."

Looking for God,

Put you Down on your knees,

I'm all what you want...but not what you need

"For God's sake just kill me already!" You screamed at the men who had taken you away from your happiness. It had been 4 days of agonizing torture of your freedom being stripped away like it was nothing.

The tears had been never ending as they teased you with death. At this point, it looked like the freedom you were craving.

"Please." You begged but the small group could only laugh.

The concrete corner of the room had become home to your broken and tired body. "We're not going to be killing anyone." One of them spoke from the small table. "Well, not you atleast." He waved you off.

"Then who?! You fucking-" "your little boy toy." The tears had dried up to your core. "no." Disbelief had washed over your body.

"now we found what gets to her." the three of them congratulated themselves with another shot of liquor.

"he should be coming any minute now, actually." "and he's gonna beat all of your asses." And as if on que, mark along with a couple of his fellow associates walked into the big concrete room.

"Mark!" You screamed even though he could see you as soon as he walked through the old door. He could only smile very small. "Okay you can release her now. Tie him up." The 3 words sent you reeling back into the corner so they couldn't touch your restraints.

They pulled at your body but you kicked and bit, screaming bloody murder to have them not take the zip ties off.

Then it was all over. All the kicking and the grabbing. Mark.

His soothing presence had calmed you down so quickly. "Come on, you need to get out of here." He pulled at you carefully. "And then me and you can go be together." You stated but he never met you with the confirmation you were craving.

"You need to leave, y/n." He hugged you once the zip ties were off. Your arms held onto him as if he was a god himself.

"you're coming with me." you stated but you felt the shaking in his chest.

"leave. y/n." he ordered, grabbing your shoulders and shaking you into reality. His puffy and red eyes told you that you would be leaving alone.

"I am not leave-leaving. I'm not leaving without you, Mark." You grabbed him equally as hard.

"This is reality, y/n. Only one of us can leave alive. That was the deal." He grabbed your face. "All. Or none." You countered.

"They don't care about you-" "tick tock." They spoke. You saw the two other associates sitting on their knees. They were muttering to themselves. Absorbed in self-reflection and asking any higher being to forgive them before their confirmed fate.

"but I do. And I am making sure you are leaving here alive." He started pulling you up. "it's meaningless without you-" "not time to be poetic and shit, y/n." He started pushing and pulling at you but you wouldn't budge and started fighting against him.

"30 seconds and nobody is leaving alive." The man barked. Tears started to fall from Mark's eyes. "Please. My dying wish. Please. Leave." He begged, grabbing your hands and trying to pull.

"no. Mark." You started slapping his hands.

"15."

He just stopped and stared at you. "I told you, Mark." You said calmly, grabbing his face. "I'm here with you." You smiled very weakly.

"5."

"and I'll be with you forever." the next moments were as if you were looking at you both from an aerial view. you were ripped away from eachother and kicked down to your knees.

"face eachother." you both moved quickly to see eachother's tear streaked faces.

"any last words?" you heard the click and felt the cool metal on your head.

this was it.

you weren't going to get your paycheck this week.

you were never going to see the new action movie with mark like you had planned.

no more lasted night snacks turning into early morning breakfasts.

you wouldn't exist in the next 5 minutes.

but you were okay. you were getting your wish.

your last waking moments were looking into the beautiful eyes of your soulmate. you were already in heaven.

"I'm sorry...and I love you." He choked and the eyes were rolling from the captors.

"You?" You felt a nudge from the metal and you could only open and close your mouth like a fish out of water. "I love you too. Please wait for me on the other side."

He sighed, nodding lowly and grabbing the man's barrel. He repositioned it from the side of his head to his crown. "Please make it quick." Mark swallowed his pride, seeing you tremble in fear from your death wish being granted. You were fucking insane...but he was happy he wasn't dying alone.

"please let her go to a happy place." was his last wish.

"for all the brothers we lost along the way, and for the ones that will be lost because of these deaths. we pay respect to you."

You took a deep breath and clenched your teeth for impact...it was all cold.

~~

You woke up in a huff, grabbing the sheets next to you. It was bare...yet warm.

"Mark?" You called out roughly. The warm sun streamed through your window in long rays.

"Mark?!" You called louder, getting out of the warm sheets and running out of the familiar feeling bedroom.

There he was. In the kitchen, making breakfast. "Oh look at sleeping beauty." His crisp white tee shirt and unscathed face had you reeling in disbelief. "It felt so real." You choked quietly.

"huh?" He looked at you with a face that would usually send you laughing.

"it was a dream?" The question had him suddenly putting down the cooking utensil. He only stood infront of you and looked at your confused face in adoration.

"we're okay." his voice sounded strained. He grabbed your hand, swallowing the lump in his throat, he had the guts to look in your eyes.

"we turned out okay in the end."

[sugoi-writes]

BNHA boys with a boyfriend. Like dabi, deku, todoroki, fat gum and any other of your choice

BNHA Boys x Boyfriend (Dabi, Deku, Todo, Fat Gum)

I really had fun coming up with some hc/perceptions! Some may be a bit long winded, but I just couldn’t hold back! I may do another post like this where I feature more of the boys (Bakugou, Mirio, Hawks, etc.) Some of these are angsty as a warning though!

Dabi

He’s definitely a manipulative, playboy type. He relishes you falling hopelessly, clinging to the rollercoaster of manic emotions as your hopes rise high before plummeting. He is also a domineering type, and takes great, sadistic glee to find yet another man trapped under the heel of his boots. But buckle up, because he tends to lift you right back up, sweep you off your toes, and make your head spin.

While many would argue you’d never have time for each other, he has a way of sneaking up on you. Literally. Wherever you are, whenever he feels like it, he will come to you. He is very selective with how much you know of him, and will not let you get too close. Whether that’s in fear of you discovering parts of himself he wants to keep hidden, or him trying to 10 steps ahead of you, you’ll never know.

He’s not particularly passionate, and if you’re being honest, the times that he is… They either leave you feeling underwhelmed or completely on the edge of your seat. Dabi definitely doesn’t draw any sort of line in the sand when it comes to identities and genders… he tends to go for people who are either very gullible and naive, or people who have a tenacious resolve, and unwavering loyalty.

This is really all your relationship is. It’s much more casual, with a friends-with-benefits vibe. While you constantly crave more from him, he’ll always leave you dangling helplessly until you’re frustrated. With time, and maybe your commitment to watching the world burn… who knows? Maybe you can get your way just yet.

Izuku

If him and Dabi share one thing in common, it’s how dodgy and busy they are. But, like the villain, Deku makes sure to make time for you and come to you. However, your relationship is much deeper, and public. He wouldn’t be secretive in the slightest about you two, and will openly ramble about you should someone present him the chance. He is the type to remember every passing detail. Every birthday, every dinner date, every milestone… he’s already planning for 90% of what you celebrate or do together. And in that respect, you find things easier, as Deku can purposely manipulate his schedule to be with you.

Passion? Clear signals? Not a worry in your book. Even though Izuku can tend to shy away from confrontation between friends or peers, he does his damndest to be one hundred percent upfront with you. And he will also expect the same from you in return. He works his ass off not only to save his home, but also to keep you happy in your relationship, and have a stable future with you. It’s a future in which his mother hopes you become a part of. She loves you to pieces, and isn’t concerned with neo-typical things (becoming a grandmother, planning a wedding for her DIL, etc).

That being said, you can expect Midoriya to be the type that wants to eventually settle down with you, grow old, and just linger, with you by his side. Despite his big dreams, he’s also a simple man. And he thanks his lucky stars that you chose him to be with you.

Todoroki

A boyfriend? With the way that Endeavour had raised him, Todoroki would have never expected to want to be beside another man/male presenting person his entire life. Against his will, he always thought that his role was to carry a lineage he was never proud of, to produce kids for a man that would never appreciate them in a genuine way. He thought he would end up giving his father grandchildren for the sake of a Genetic Lottery.

However, as his and his father’s relationship improved, so did his views. He began to think more freely, experiment with his sexuality and relationships, and then… there was you. He had thrown out the window his prior mindset entirely, discovering a relationship with you that thrilled him. It was something unplanned, and a future that was different than the one he dreaded. And he makes sure that you know that.

Expect him to be overly doting, and enamored with you, as if you have him under your thumb. He is more than lovestruck, and finds a zest in living that he would have otherwise dismissed. Your days together are spent being together, trying new things, dabbling in domestic life… but ultimately, he wants freedom for the both of you. Freedom to chart your own destiny, without having to be weighed down by lineage, descendants, or even commitment. And should you ever drift apart, or you want for something else in life? He will be sad, sure, but will ultimately be happy for you. Because of you, he discovered a part of life that was missing, a part inside him that always existed, but was suppressed. But, if he’s being honest… while he’s soaring in the Hero Rankings, and saving countless lives… he hopes that he can always come back to you, and experience the newer, spontaneous parts of life with you. In your relationship, the same Todoroki that you started to fall for will still be there, but some of the harder, stoic layers begin to peel away, showing you so much more.

Fat Gum

He is a huge, HUGE child in a grown man’s body. In context of his hero work, he is usually the type to be laser focused, and always goal oriented. When he comes back to you, after an excruciating day… he sheds off all of the stress and let loose. He is a prankster, a riot, a great lover, and your wingman all wrapped up in one package. His jolly and RIPPED forms are both happily welcome in your life, and FG will take you as you are, with no restraints. FG is not a draw-the-line-in-the-sand kind of guy: he’s only looking for a handful of things in a partner… and you scratched all of them off. You being a man/male presenting didn’t affect his choice or desire to be with you.

He may have a bit of free time on his hands compared to some pros, but he is headstrong and prefers to keep himself busy. At times, he can get a bit stir crazy, and likes feeling productive. Despite his light hearted side, this will transfer into your relationship, too. If there’s something he can work on? He’s actively doing so, and will often ask you about what you think, or what he still needs to address. He also works in tandem with you frequently, mapping out what you might want and expect from each other. This is another guy that has all the cards out on the table. If you two have what the other wants, great! If not, he’ll work on it, and you two can reach a middle ground or figure something out.

Expect a lot of crazy shenanigans, last minute work and activities, but most of all: a guy that can be really dedicated to you, and ensuring that the both of you are thriving and happy with life.

[edenamador]

100 Things about My Father

I forgot I was a poet. Skip down for the poem that came to me as clear as a crystal last night. Trigger warning - Suicide. 

I mean I have an inclination toward having dreams at night, 

thinking they have deeper meaning, and waking up with music in my head at 1:15am in the morning. 

There is something about 1:15 in the morning which has a razor sharp precision to it. Even though I’m more of a disconnected abstraction. Some constellation of stars nobody has given meaning to. Dreaming about that straight crush in college twice in one night. All this after in real life, oh and he was a poet too, now in grad school, who knows if he is the happy academic he craved to be. Who knows if he is still writing poetry or writing technical sentences with so much jargon nobody can understand. . . 

Its all rambly. I know it is annoying but that is how it comes to me. He asked me if I had followed the spirit and I told him I wrote the poem I was suppose to write. He was proud of me, like a dead ghost now, I loved him then but he is a stranger in a distant land now.

Yes, I was at Target, a place I worked so long ago and a previous co-worker said to me, “You look poetic, like you could be a poet.”

I didn’t know what to say but now I am dreaming of my poetic college muse and he is telling me to follow the spirit just as Beauvoir so now I’m on tumblr again because of that Target co-worker who said I should have a blog and get a following. An idea I laugh at because my poetry is well, I am poetic, I am not exactly a poet if I’m not writing poetry. So I guess I will share what came to me last night. At least a draft. 

My mother always says, “You have choices to make.”

So when my boyfriend says, “You never talk about your father,” and then asks, “Why is that?” 

I pause and my mother’s voice repeats, “You have choices to make.”

I could say a hundred things about the same thing. Like a simple fact about the color of a chair, “My father is dead.”

It sounds like, “The chair is red.”

1. My father died. 

My boyfriend might ask how he passed away which means I have to say more. This leaves me with more choices but I haven’t even jumped the first hurdle. I don’t even run track but the baton has been given to me, “How did he die?” I could have anticipated the next question and already answered it more bluntly. 

2. My father blew his brains out.

If I want to keep my boyfriend I should frame things particular to his way of life. That would be too precise and come off as indifferent like my father never mattered to me. He didn’t.

3. He died when I was four. 

Again, if I put it this way he might ask, “How?” and I would get to say

4. He loaded a pistol. I think it was a .45 pistol or a glock, and took the weapon to rat lake where he blew his brains out. 

If I present it with “when I was four” the cold way in which I say, “He blew his responsibilities away,” pops like a childhood bubble.

5. He’s pushing up daisies. 

6. He’s seven feet under. 

7. He croaked. 

Before the gun fire went off out in the country where only the frogs and flora of the boreal northern forests would hear it the American toads reed. When the gunfire went off silence consumed the forest for a few minutes before returning to normal a few minutes later. A few hours later, with the loons calling, a friend of my father’s came across his body and reported it to the authorities. 

8. My father was a mail carrier.

I could have said this as it would have delayed revealing the information about the death of my father, and how he died, the conversation about the long term effect it had on my psychology and the psychological impact on the rest of my family. Though, according to my mother everything turned out fine. Which is why as I approach 30 years old I am waking up in the middle of the night because I’m having dreams about people in graduate school programs saying, “He doesn’t even talk about his father! He talks about Black Lives Matter, Marxism, Gender Theory and all this crap, but he hasn’t even mentioned his father.”

9. My father is out of the picture. 

10. I would rather not talk about my father. 

11. I didn’t know much about my father. 

12. I don’t remember much about my father. 

13. My father left me with dry skin and a proclivity toward depression. 

14. My mother was a single mother. 

15. I guess I don’t talk about my father. Hugh, I wonder why that is. 

I like this because I can act like I’m just as dumbfounded by it as my boyfriend is. Creative writer circles often told me I am not concrete enough. So I guess we were sitting at a park in Hutchinson Minnesota when my boyfriend at the time asked this question. A few years later when the relationship had faded and I asked to be dating again he told me, “Some gay men have issues.” While I cried about it and refused to speak to him ever again he was right. I was a gay man with issues, daddy issues to be exact. 

16. My father had a beard. 

17. My father was an alcoholic and when my mother said she had enough he couldn’t handle it and blew his brains out. 

This one is the worst of them. It sounds like my mother caused my father to commit suicide. Nobody but my father took a gun to his head and blew his brains out. 

18. My mother never remarried after my father was out of the picture. 

Again, I could say this but it remains vague enough to lead to other questions any intimate partner would have the right to know. Or perhaps nobody has the right to know about my father and that I have the right not to talk about him to anyone. “Did they get a divorce?”

19. Do we have to talk about this. I’d rather not talk about this because I am not ready to reveal that story and its long term effects on me. Look, it’s a nice day and I’m happy talking about a million other things. 

This might indicate I lack the trust necessary to share that story. He may take it personally and think that our relationship should be more open. Or he might respect that answer and remain curious. Most people would talk about both their parents openly and in positive ways.

20. All the options in my life have been formed by my father’s decision to kill himself.

21. He killed himself. 

22. He offed himself. 

23. He decided he no longer wished to live. 

24. When given the option between suicide and coffee he chose suicide. 

25. I need counseling to answer that question. 

My mother was right. The choices were really endless. I could even use the same word presented in a different way. There were a lot of strategies for answering this question. Even after the question was asked I kept gathering new academic methodologies to answer the question, “Why don’t you talk about your father?”

26. If I open up about him I’m afraid I will scare you away because if I talk about my father I am admitting that I am a flawed human being with an abnormal childhood upbringing. 

Again, more options appear even if I avoid the subject of my father all together. It seems that certain events have greater effect on the long term psychology of the individual than others. But was my childhood “abnormal” or was my mother “doing the best she could” in situations which were out of her control? But it couldn’t of been out of her control. . . “Everybody has choices to make. . .”

27. “My father died when I was four.”

28. “I was four when my father died.”

I cannot remember which of these I used but it was one of the two. So I said what I thought in the moment. I paused. I know I paused and my boyfriend said, “Only if you are comfortable talking about it.”

29. I might cry if I talk about my father. But I don’t think I will. I usually don’t but its sad. Don’t be sorry, you didn’t do anything. Why do people say sorry when I say this? What personal responsibility did they have for it? Why do I have to answer this question? Why will this question always come up when in relationships? 

30. His death effect me because I was too young. 

That’s a lie because I know it impacted the whole trajectory of my life. There were material consequences. For example his life was attached to the union. This left my mother with a small financial cushion to fall back on when she was left to raise three children. While it may have been small it was enough for her to go to college for ten years and get a bachelor’s degree in education. 

31. I never talk about my father because then I have to talk about my mother. My mother looks like an American hero for the choices she didn’t make but talking about my mother also reveals the hidden demons I am not suppose to talk about as it might make her look bad. 

32. I never talk about my father because it usually becomes a really long essay about masculinity, the effects of neo-liberal feminism, and requires a master’s degree in sociology and a Ph.D. in philosophy to get to the bottom of it. It requires skill, tact, intelligence, emotional strength, and persistence to answer with any certainty. It’s a philosophical question at heart and I am not a philosopher, I am merely a subject exposed to systems of power which shape my experience in a world I did not create. 

“Why don’t you talk about your father?”

33. Why did he commit suicide? Why did my brother point a gun to my head? Why did my mother trust a teenager to get me to and from school going ninety miles an hour down icy unplowed country roads at seven in the morning? Why did the chicken cross the road? Why is the sky blue?

34. He’s sinking in the swamps. 

35. The worms are feeding on his body. 

36. He’s dead. 

37. He’s gone. 

38. He’s no longer with us. 

If at this point the possibilities seem pointless, redundant, or obnoxious, imagine being at work when a co-worker flippantly says, “I’m ready to blow my brains out.”

39. My father hurt his back and wouldn’t go to see the doctor. It was severe pain and he couldn’t really talk about it. He drank his physical and mental pains away. Sometimes he would come home drunk and punch walls in. I do remember waking up to the sound of shattering glass. The stove glass broke because my father kicked it in during one of his masculine temper tantrums. 

40. I didn’t know it when it was first asked but I now think my father died because of hyper-masculinity. I don’t think he was allowed to express any of the emotional or physical hardships he had. He likely had depression and was obviously having thoughts of suicide. Other’s in the family had committed suicide and had mental issues. When I go to the psychologist they show me genetic connections but as a sociology major I am thinking more about the limits on men expressing emotions. My father couldn’t express his emotions, that’s for sure, so he likely imploded, quite literally. 

41. I don’t mean to come off as cold hearted or disconnected, it’s just that the death of my father strikes me more as an abstraction than a concrete reality. When it does come up I am reminded of my differences, my class upbringing, the social values that played out in my childhood. 

42. For my brother my father was a something which became a nothing. For me my father is a nothing who, when asked about his existence, becomes a something that should have been, but wasn’t. 

43. By opening up about my father I cannot really say who he is without explaining who he was not and for me he was more of a not than a was. 

44. “Your father loved you,” my aunt says. 

45. My father bought two stuffed monkeys. The monkey was Abu from the Disney show Aladdin. He did this a few months before he killed myself. In addition to that he also bought me a small baseball glove. My uncle on my mother’s side went with my dad to the store to pick these up. My uncle says he was likely planning his suicide during this time and asked my mother that we hide these items when my uncle was around so he wouldn’t be reminded of my father’s suicide.

How could my father have loved me if he blew his brains out? It hardly seems like an act of love to abandon your child at the age of four. 

46. “God has a plan for everyone and even though it may not make sense to us down here there is a plan and there is nothing we can do about it.” Likely something my pastor said or something my grandmother said or something someone said along the way. When on a date with an attractive suitable man one doesn’t want to delve into religious theology and questions about the existence of God, determinism versus free will, the meaning of life, and deeper levels of spiritual enlightenment, or lack there of. One wants to eat ice cream, giggle about some superfluous thing, and see if one can see some concrete shape in the clouds: its a duck, a bird, a dinosaur, a giraffe. What do you see when you look at the sky? Is there something more out there? 

When asked about my father I am asked about a whole series of causal effects. When asked about my father I am asked to see myself as an object in the world formed by what the existentialists refer to as facticity. At this moment I free myself from the container which shaped me and am allowed to reconstruct the object that I am as I choose. 

I also begin to ask myself, “what if things had played out differently,” as I am prone to ask the questions I was told weren’t worth asking. I was told there were no answers to them but the questions which don’t have answers are the questions I like the most. So being asked about my father is really asking me who I am and how I became who I am. I am inclined to answer if one has the time for it. Most people don’t have the time, the intellect, the patience, the attention span, or the emotional capacity for such things. So I prefer to say, 

47. “Shh, daddy is sleeping. We must not wake him. He’s a terrible ghost. Let’s play hide and seek with death! Can you count to one hundred?”

48. “In any case, that little boy didn’t want to grow up for fear of becoming serious.” pg. 327 Jean Paul Sartre War Diaries

49. “But as soon as man grasps himself as free, and wishes to use his freedom, all his activity is a game: he’s its first principle; he escapes the world by his nature; he himself ordains the value and rules of his acts, and agrees to pay up only according the the rules he has himself ordained and defined.” 326 Jean Paul Sartre 

50. “And man is serious when he forgets himself; when he makes the subject into an object; when he takes himself for a radiation derived from the world: engineers, doctors, physicists, biologists are serious.” 326 Jean Paul Sartre The War Diaries

51. When my father died my mother was left to raise three boys. He was a step father to one of my brothers so one of my brothers still had a father. So my father is really three people: a dad who was then wasn’t, a dad who wasn’t then was, and a step dad.

I could have never explained all this that day I was asked. There in a rural town in the middle of a corn-field playing out the waves of one of my first gay relationships I simply said, “My dad is dead.” Reality is bleak like that. It restricts possibilities. Reality is only here in the field of “you have choices to make”. Reality are the options available. I am free to make choices in relation to concrete possibilities. For example I used covid stimulus money to pay for my rent so I could I have time to write this. I could have used it to buy copious amounts of liquor to subdue my existential angst. I could have used it to put it to my loans. I quit my job to give myself the time necessary to heal the wounds of the past. I refuse to conform to the pressure to buy a vehicle and get a license because I would have to buy car insurance which would mean I need a job to pay for the cars insurance. I would need gas to go back and forth to work where I would only continue to suppress my authenticity. Authenticity can never be achieved. It can only be something which is consistently reproduced. I reproduce myself as a writer only in the act of writing. Even the short pause between characters I realize other possibilities. Writing must be a consistent act I partake in everyday as a way of pursuing my own projects with the material conditions given to me.

52. My father is four people or five people because he was a co-worker to my middle school friend’s father, also a wife, a brother, an uncle. Six or seven people. He was never a grandfather though and could never be a grandfather. He could never have the possibility of being a grandfather so when my nephew says he doesn’t have a grandfather, his great uncle says he would be happy to fill the role. So my uncle, married to my mother’s blood sister, is my nephew’s grandfather. 

The more I think about choices the more I start to confirm that choices are in relation to particular material conditions given to a situation which show the constricting impact of choices. 

53. My mother, because of my father’s death, often found jimmy-rigged options for babysitters when family members were not available. When she realized my brother and I weren’t mature enough to handle being at home alone by ourselves, she looked into other options such as having me stay at the library until it closed. Later I learned that urban libraries have a phrase for this condition called, “Library latchkey kids,” which are children who’s parents are busy because of social economic conditions they end up going to the library after school for free baby-sitting. 

https://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=16451347

I would stay in the library until it closed. My mother would slip the librarian a twenty dollar bill. I asked about it once and I learned in one way or another not to ask about such things. 

When I took the Myers Briggs test in high school I scored nearly a hundred percent INFP which to me meant I was destined to be a genius like Shakespeare, taught in English classes all around the world for centuries to come. It meant I was introverted, intuitive, feeling, and perceptive. It meant that my room was messy but that my bookshelves were ordered perfectly with the Dewey decimal system. In high school I read Waiting for Godot with no idea it belonged to existential literature. On the question of why I don’t talk about my father, I am still Waiting for Godot. 

54. My father’s suicide, in the long-term, meant I got to be alone with books. I often tired of reading and would chat with the librarian. She would ask me if I had a girlfriend and show me the things she wanted on craigslist. Sometimes she had to rapidly click her computer screen to hide some areas of the internet that should not be looked at while a minor sat reading Dr. Seuss, books about nature, or how volcanoes worked. I loved reading. I could never get enough. One of the librarians never believed I read as many books as I did and often discredited some of the books she believed were above my level. I was smart and there’s nothing worse to rural people than a smart, effeminate, boy with a love of reading.

I was always told that my mother was good and was always asked if she was still in college. For ten years I said yes she is in college. For twenty years I never told anyone my brother pointed a gun to my head because she left us unattended with the gun case unlocked. When I brought it up to her in my late twenties she said it wasn’t possible because my twenty year old cousin was there in the camper. When I asked I thought I was testing whether or not she could have subdued her ego enough to admit to the possibility that it may have not been the best choice to leave minors unattended with an unlocked gun case at home. That’s the way things were with her growing up so why would it be any different with us? All of a sudden she gets away with making the right choices because, “She pulled herself up by the bootstraps and got a degree in education.”

Anytime I try to explain my experiences of these circumstances I am caught in a social trap by which the liberal value of women choosing careers over a life of drunkenness and whoreish behavior to capture the love of a man my mother’s story overrides. My experience of having a gun pointed at my head by my own brother is over-ridden by another set of values. 

55. I had a shot gun pointed to my head by my own brother because I was singing too loudly and he was hungover because he was drinking alcohol. 

56. I didn’t know if the shot gun was loaded. 

57. I stopped singing, fell backwards, and made a snow angel.

“Well, you’re mother could have brought over a bunch of rotten men. You could have been sexually abused.”

58. My brother used to chase me around the house naked and dry hump me. These are the effects of leaving minors unattended after school out in the country. And you know it which is why you started getting babysitters for us. It was after too many nights coming house to a destroyed house that my mother decided to have some family members watch over us and make sure we did our homework.  

59. “Stop being a victim you liberal snowflake.”

60. But I’m actually criticizing the effects of applied feminism in the 21st century. 

61. “You’re mother is a good person.”

63. “It could have been worse.”

64. “Everything turned out fine.”

65. “Everyone has trauma to deal with. Everyone has baggage.”

My boyfriend told me of growing up. His father was a chemist at Kellogg’s and his mother was an instructor at a community college. He was a potter, a knitter, and a banjo player. He became an English teacher. He told me that one time his dad brought home bags of Lucky Charm marshmallows for him and his sister to eat. His father recorded their responses to the marshmallows and adjusted the ratios of sugar based on those tests. That doesn’t sound like trauma to me. That sounds like a healthy childhood which leads one to have self confidence, self esteem, and the emotional stability necessary to face the mixed messages of life. In the meantime I seek out people who tell me I’m dumb, ugly, stupid, and will never amount to anything because I think that’s a normal relationship. If I am not doing that I am hiding in my room wondering what the point of being alive is wondering if there is any hope for me to heal and get better.

66. My father’s suicide is a traumatic past which shapes my entire experience. It’s a past that I have the right to represent by writing it. It’s a past which is not, “Everything turned out fine,�� and no my mother did not, “Pull herself up by her bootstraps,” she had choices to make and one of those choices was to leave minors home alone with a gun case full of weapons and to trust that nothing bad could have happened in that circumstance. I will not limit myself to the blindness feminist discourse encouraged when I told my story to an existential philosophy professor at a liberal university. Yes, she could have chosen worse, but it could have turned out much better. I will not sit here silently submitting to my brother’s words, “Don’t tell anyone or I will kill you!”

“Why don’t you talk about your father?”

67. Well kill me. I’d be better off anyway. I am willing to die for the truth in the same way an American soldier is willing to die for his country. I am willing to stand for something even if I am alone. Pull the trigger. If it makes you feel like a man to point a gun at your brother you might as well pull the trigger. 

“It wasn’t loaded. Do you think I would actually put a shot gun shell in it. I love you, I’m your brother. Do you think I’m an idiot? I wouldn’t actually do that. . .”

“Why don’t you talk about your father?”

68. It’s exhausting. It’s a threat to my existence. It reminds me that blowing my brains out is a real possibility whereas for most people its a thing you say when life sucks. The following is an example of that. 

When I was working as an English as a Second Language instructor I thought I had made it. I thought that teaching immigrants and refugees English meant I had established myself as a concrete being in the world permanently enmeshed as a career oriented man. My degree in Sociology was justified and my graduate certificate was no longer a waste of time, energy, and effort. I quickly learned that my masculinity was always under question and that the few men in that field were perfectly miserable beings. The whole notion that people became teachers because they were heart filled beings with a passion for helping others vanished when my co-worker, a professional teacher who taught abroad in Japan, made the shape of a gun with his finger, lifted it to his head, and pulled the trigger. I had simply asked him how he was doing and it was apparently not well. I was feeling rather dismal and would like to think I responded like this. 

69. It’s a great position to be in. A cock loaded full of cum in my mouth and my cock loaded full of cum in his mouth. The tension was rising. Would we ever get to the desired result of all of our efforts? Would we ever achieve orgasm? Would we ever blow? Rest assured we exploded and were perfectly satisfied. There’s just something about holes and filling them which none of us can resist. Yet, even when the hole is filled to the brim with hot cum we feel so empty that we can no longer go on and so we pause. It’s okay to have long periods of stagnation so long as we can pull out at the right time and forgive ourselves for our responses to the past. The future may not appear to hold much but there is so much time and so many holes to fill. 

70. They covered my father’s hole with makeup. They closeted the cause of his death. At the funeral they closed the bottom half of the casket which made me think that someone cut my father’s legs off with giant scissors. I screamed. I was convinced that his legs were cut off with giant scissors and that someone had caused his death. 

71. How is a four year old suppose to understand this when adults are unable to tell the truth when the child asks questions about his dead father. He isn’t going to understand these things if adults themselves still don’t understand them. Adults go to great lengths to omit the grievances and effects of such events. “Everything turned out fine,” and “You’ve got choices to make.” 

A four year old’s brain is not ready to understand such things because adults don’t understand them. His memories are barely forming and he is still fascinated by blowing bubbles. Adults have lost their imaginations. He smiles at the sound of popcorn popping while adults drench popcorn in so much salt and butter that they die of heart attacks and call it death by natural causes. A child laughs when he sees a frozen lake swarmed by a hundred seagulls as teenage boys stuff frogs down the barrels of shot guns and laugh when American toad guts go spiraling into the sky like fireworks.

The events surrounding my father’s death are my first memories. There are many of them like the pastor holding me trying to give me comfort. I press my stomach for comfort. My first memories are the feeling of anxiety, that weird pang in the stomach which goes unexplained by doctors and still causes ulcers. There’s my cousin saying my father is away for a very long time and that he is in heaven. These memories attach themselves to future interactions when all compiled leave one wishing there were no choices to make at all. It leaves one wishing that there was one defined path meant for everyone which would eliminate all angst and all decisions. In fact it often feels better if there was no free will at all and that God really did have a plan for each individual. 

There is another pastor, who many years later, told me my father was in hell. This leaves me with one of those ridiculous choices and questions, “Is my father in heaven or in hell?” There is my aunt who tells me that my pastor is wrong and the Bible never mentions. There is my uncle who says people who don’t believe in God are not allowed in his home. There is the ice cream I ate after I was taken out of the funeral home to ease the emotional burden a screaming four year old must have placed on my father’s friends and family members. The ice cream was a temporary cure which taught me that negative emotions could be easily drowned with chocolate sauce and colorful sprinkles.

72. My father is in heaven. 

73. My father is in hell. 

74. My father is in purgatory. 

75. I don’t know where the fuck my father is. 

76. Do souls exist?

78. What is the difference between agnostic theism and agnostic atheism?

79. It’s ok to think about dying now and again. I think everyone has thought about it now and again but I’m not sure. I’m only one person with so many heartbeats. 

80. I don’t think I will commit suicide because it doesn’t solve anything. Living doesn’t solve much either but at least I can say I tried to count to one hundred. 

81. I might cry if I talk about my father. 

82. It’s ok to cry. 

83. It’s ok to cry. 

84. It’s ok to cry.

85. It’s ok to cry. 

86. It’s ok to cry. 

87. If you cannot sleep count the sheep or cry. 

88. It’s ok to cry. 

89. Real men cry. 

90. Real men cry. 

91. Real men cry. 

92. Real men cry like big men. 

93. Real men cry like grown men. 

94. Real men cry like real men. 

95. It’s ok to cry. 

96. It’s ok to cry. 

97. Facts may not care about feelings but feelings are always seeking out facts to justify themselves. One must be careful about the facts used to represent their feelings. 

98. Over intellectualization isn’t crying. It’s a defense mechanism. 

99. It’s okay to cry. 

100. Everything turned out fine. 

[letromantorchwicklive]

One Thing Analysis

Kill for kill Eye for eye Blood for blood It’s time to die Retribution tastes so sweet

- We've got her clear, unbridled rage peaking through. Neo's on a mission and it's sole purpose is to kill. Not just that, it's a justified hunt. It's fucking retribution. What happened was unjust and wrong, cruel and shouldn't have happened. She doesn't know what else to do, the only thing that's helping her right now is this.

Gone's the light That he gave Now revenge is all I crave Retaliation soon complete

-A good reference to Roman's namesake and insight to just how much he mattered to her. Remnant is consistently referenced both visually and verbally as a world full of darkness. The darkness is given form through the Grimm and Neo's talking about the only light she's had to survive this darkness. Plus! She's admitting to her desperation for revenge and how it drives her. The tag line of "retaliation soon complete" is also showing, very clearly, that she knows her target or targets (I say target, singular tbh) and is closing in. She can touch the end goal, she's almost there. So close she can taste it.

I was nowhere I had no one I felt nothing Lost without a voice and on my own Then the candle's flame Brought a brand new name But now you've stolen everything and I'm all alone

- Neo has now, canonly, had an incredibly lonely life. Either metaphorically (like, poor family life) or literally (STREET RAT STREET RAT). She's felt all alone, choosing to feel nothing rather than constant pain. Pain and suffering, of course, attracting Grimm. She's also canonly mute! Something I know a lot of people have been on the fence about, but lacking a proper way to communicate would easily have isolated her further throughout her life. Roman was the first person to show her genuine positive attention. "Candle's flame" meaning both light and warmth into her life for the first time in- well, ever. "Brand new name" could also be metaphorical. She could be talking about being named, his name, or him bringing new meaning and life to the one she already possessed. Now, the love they shared for one another (in however you see it- excluding Father&Daughter it’s not canon guys they were both adults) is gone and she's been thrust back into the cold dark world Roman helped her to escape in the first place.

I had one thing And you've taken it from me A single light A single friend But you've made that end

- This is pretty straight forward. Neo had one thing in her whole life that mattered- Roman. He was the single most important thing to her to ever exist and she's livid. Not only did she love him and he love her, they were best friends. Equals. Partners. Neo's also staring down at the single person she blames, Cinder. These words blame one person and one person only. This song is introduced at first sight of Cinder, aimed only at Cinder. The wording calls for attack on one person. When Cinder redirects all blame for Roman's death to Ruby, it doesn't pick back up. It's quiet- Neo's thinking. She's making a new game plan, one taking into account Maiden Powers.

There was one thing To help escape the misery And now it's all disarrayed You took my whole life away You've sent me back to nothing Now you'll pay Pay

- A lot of this is straight forward, like the last verse. Roman meant everything to her, he was all she had and the only thing to make her happy. Not happy again, happy period, because she had been so absolutely fucking miserable by herself. Look at Weiss- who grew up alone and miserable aside from her sister. Look at Ren and Nora- who had only each other. Roman and Neo weren’t necessarily the big bad guys we were shown- they were doing their jobs. So many of these little tidbits in the song are alluding to direct correlations in the main cast of heroes, just if they were in a different place and different time. She’s also screaming (repeatedly, might I add) that her whole life is literally in shambles. Nothing makes sense anymore, there’s no structure, no Roman.  Neo says it herself, “You took my whole life away.” Again, this is directed singularly. She’s reinforcing her singular target- Cinder and she will pay.

Life for life Death for death Tit for tat Just one last breath Absolution's nowhere near

- I mentioned it before in my analysis over Cinder and Neo’s brawl, but man is Neo out for fucking blood. This is archaic law, in our world. I mean this literally- Hammurabi’s Code were the first historically proven, written and widely known set of laws. He’s the reason we have the “eye for an eye” saying and Neo is only accepting this kind of justice. As long as Cinder is alive, breathing and even remotely well, Cinder isn’t going to be free of her guilt. The only way that she could ever atone for being the cause of Roman’s death is with her own.

Cue the scene Now it's time Reparation for your crime And judgment day is finally here

- Neo’s become Judge, Jury and Executioner. Will Cinder rise to a good afterlife? That’s none of her business, her business is sending Cinder to wherever she belongs. Neo’s so fucking ready to finish this, to get some closure

I have waited for this meeting For this moment Dreamed about the day I'd make you crawl

- Neo wants more than Cinder’s death. Neo wants begging, pleading, desperation and fear from her. This is probably the only thing that’s kept her going since the Fall of Beacon after finding Roman’s body. This rage is absolutely what fueled her survival through the Grimm infested waste lands that are unoccupied areas of Remnant. Neo wants to make Cinder taste the hell she  put them through and to face the same end that so forced upon Roman after it all.

What a sweet release When you rest in peace Vengeance- Justice- Finally mine And I'll watch you fall

- RIP Cinder, there’s no escaping any of this for you. Neo’s determined, this is the only thing she can focus on, the only thing that brings even the slightest hint of relief in her life without Roman.

I had one thing And you've taken it from me A single light A single friend But you've made that end There was one thing To help escape the misery And now it's all disarrayed You took my whole life away You've sent me back to nothing Now you'll pay

- We’ve returned to the chorus, even angrier this time. Out of everything to receive repetition in this song, this makes the most sense. It’s displaying her grief and rage eloquently while showcasing her determination. Neo’s always been shown as incredibly capable, handling herself well and almost always with a level head. It seems Roman was the key to that- they had a security within each other that kept them both level headed. The thoughts “Roman’s alive” and “Neo’s alive” must have been their calming mantras. Sure, Roman would have instances of frustration, but when it came to battle he was always calm and collected. Even more so when fighting along side Neo, but the moment when his mantra of “Neo is alive” can no longer be taken as fact, or could be in serious jeopardy, his collected demeanor is out the window. This fight against Cinder is has Neo struggling to remain level headed. She’s becoming impatient, itching to finally finish off Cinder, bored that it’s not more fun and still enraged that this woman is so selfish as to not realize why she’s grieving in the first place. Neo’s mantra is gone, and it can never come back.

You destroyed my life After years of suffering Finally had a place to go to But not anymore And now it's war And there won't be peace ’til I get What I came for

- Cinder is responsible, and Neo won’t let her back out of it by throwing the blame onto Ruby like there’s nothing she did wrong. Neo spent untold number of years alone, scared, sad and found solace in Roman. They probably found solace in each other, home was where ever the other was. Someone to trust no matter what, years spent together and full of love and respect. His death ripped that away, so now it’s fucking war. Neo vs Cinder, the fight to the death and she’s not going to fall for some scapegoat in the form of a 15 year old little girl. Neo had been in Ruby’s position before, fighting for your life and the life of the people person who mattered more than anything to you and terrified of not succeeding. No, Neo knows that the grown woman who refuses to accept any form of blame is responsible. That doesn’t mean she wont bide her time until the perfect opportunity strikes. Oh no, Neo is not on Cinder’s side. She’s on Roman’s side and even his death won’t change that.

I had one thing And you've taken it from me A single light A single friend But you've made that end There was one thing To help escape the misery And now it's all disarrayed You took my whole life away You've sent me back to nothing Now you'll pay (Now you'll) Pay

💖💖💖 -Mod Neo

[kessielrg]

[Mega AU] The Lost Memory

Summary: In which we take the view of a young mother as she reflects on her young daughter and late husband.

Rating: K

Word count: 1,302 words

If you like the story, please consider donating through Ko-fi or Patreon!

She never tried to, but she could not remember her life before being with him. An understandable feat considering the traumatizing experience that separated the two eras of her life. A part of her didn't care if she had some semblance to her parents, but that one part (that part that all orphans want to learn at some time or another) wanted to know what it was like to have a normal family. The part of her that craved to know what Mother smelled like after a long day in the kitchen, or remembering what Father said when he came home from a long day of work was far suppressed by other matters that effected her now.

While she may not have tried to remember, there were dark memories hidden in the world that could. These memories festered and had a certain power on their own. They knew were she came from, and there were parts of them that knew what she was destined for. The memories could remember a time before she met him. They could remember it so clear that it was as if they were still existing in that time. They remembered the details that she would never be able to recollect even if she did bother to search for her past. In some ways, you could say that the memories could recall her past so she didn't have to, and no one ever felt the need to question it.

. . .

Sewing was a relaxing hobby for Gardenia, especially when she did it by hand. She loved to weave the needle through the fabric, permanently bonding them together- she took extreme pride in how durable her stitches were too. Many of Gardenia's sown clothes were created for her year old daughter; she made everything from cute little dresses with frills, to elaborate fabric headbands that her daughter used for dress up.

It was when Gardenia was about to sew the arm of a new dress that she heard her daughter cry for her. The young mother gave a small sigh as she quickly tied her knot and went to check on the child.

“What's wrong butterfly?” Gardenia calmly asked as she came into the child's room. Her daughter was standing up in her crib, holding onto the bars as if she were a prisoner in a jail cell. When the child saw her mother, she violently shook the bars to get her point across.

“You want out?” Gardenia mused. “Alright, I'll let you out.”

Her daughter was very excited about this, bouncing up and down as her mother came over and lifted her out of the crib. But the little girl wasn't satisfied with this yet. Instead she went into a distinct babble of urgent request- she was lucky that her mother was able to pick up on it so quickly.

“You want Sagebrush, don't you butterfly?”

Several excitable grunts made Gardenia smile before she placed to fingers in her mouth to give a shrill whistle. It didn't take a second for a confirming bark from the dog before it came bounding into the room a minute later. Gardenia's daughter was far too excited now as the dog bounded against the woman's leg, happy to see the both of them. With a laugh, Gardenia placed her daughter on the ground so the girl and the dog would interact with each other. Sagebrush wasted no time in licking the little girl in greeting- such actions were approved with the girl's happy giggles. Gardenia gave another smile before returning to her work, trusting the dog with the child.

One would have never guessed at first glance, but their terrier was a highly sophisticated android, brought about by the current era's technologies. A Reploid had been the common term for such creatures- derived from the longer term 'Replica Android' in honor of the first android that inspired the rest. Reploids usually looked like humans though or anthropomorphic animals, domestic animals like Sagebrush were more or less a newer idea since the days of Neo Arcadia. There were attempts, to be sure, but the successes were often delayed for research into the more human Reploids. Sagebrush himself was only a second generation domestic Reploid modeled after Manchester Terriers, but it was still a durable generation in all consideration.

With Reploids on the brain now, Gardenia sat back down to her sewing. The laughter of her daughter and Sagebrush could still be heard, assuring her that the two were well taken care of. Reploids. Without Reploids they wouldn't have the world they lived in now, both in a good and bad sense. What had been the name of the first Reploid again? She should have known but at the moment it couldn't cross her mind. Her family had not lived in Neo Arcadia before it fell, they had moved in from New Eden (poor, poor New Eden with its own problems that started nearly a century ago) which refused to allow Reploids to live within its limits. Before coming to Kirjath Arba, Gardenia had never seen a Reploid in the flesh (or would it be synthetic flesh?) before. Most of the Reploids she met were real sweet, happy to be alive from the destruction of Neo Arcadia and its apparent retirement of innocent Reploids, and very few did she meet that hated humankind to a fault. Sal loved Reploids- he loved them so much that she was once afraid that he'd choose a Reploid for a wife instead of her.

Gardenia gave a small frown as she started to stitch a bit slower; her daughter still giggling in the other room.

“Oh Sal… I wish you could have met her...”

Sal -her sweet, dear Sal- never met their daughter. He went missing a month before Gardenia realized she was expecting. Their daughter looked so much like him that Gardenia swore he was the one smiling at her when their daughter beamed like a ray of sunshine. She even had his laugh.

“Legion never said what happened to him...” Gardenia then mumbled under her breath. “I wonder why…?”

It was true- while they had contacted her immediately after he was declared missing, no one had ever told her what happened to him or where he had gone. She had barely even talked to him the morning before he left. He had been in such a rush, she just assumed that he had been late for a meeting. Hadn't he mentioned a meeting with the Sage Trinity that day? Something along the lines of 'there are a lot of things they need to answer for' or whatever? She didn't know what he meant then, and she knew even less about it now.

Gardenia held out the finished dress so she could look it over one last time before finishing the stitch. It was a pretty little thing with plenty of room for her daughter to wear for another year or two. The fabric was light purple with small butterflies scattered about in various shades of pink and pastel blue- it was also soft to the touch. Gardenia smiled knowing that her daughter was going to love it. Thinking of her daughter, Gardenia strained her ears to hear what the child and the dog were doing. Silence greeted her, making the young mother decide to get up to check on them.

The mother went back to her daughter's room and smiled at the scene upon her: the duo had gone to sleep- the child laying on her back with Sagebrush nestling on her chest to keep her warm. Gardenia quietly shut the door as she left the two to sleep, the smile on her face was undeniable.

“She's your daughter Sal.” she chuckled to herself. “Don't worry, I'll raise her for the both of us.”

[nyappyforeverbr]

An Cafe Official Blog 15/08/2017 Tittle:”The HEROI without fame that does not fly through the sky has gained a name o(≧ ∀ ≦)o ” Original Post here

Nyappy o(≧ ∀ ≦)o Miku. Thank you for always following. I apologize for not writing on the blog yesterday after Live. In my memory I think I never stopped writing after a presentation. Am I right?

My body was fine but my head was aching and at the time of writing it seemed that everything was spinning and I ended up doing nothing. If I do not write soon after what happened, my memory ends up cooling, I do not like it As LIVE was extensive I was in the middle of a loud sound for a long time I ended up getting headache and earache, in the middle of LIVE that feeling was horrible, but with a good rest I was able to relieve myself. The most important day for me ended "SUMMER DIVE Replay" and "SUMMER DIVE NEO". I was very happy with both. First was the SUMMER DIVE Resubmission.

"It would be so good if we could travel together in time" LIVE was very enthusiastic and took a lot more time. I wanted to travel nine years ago around the world that we built, without changing practically anything, like giving a "DIVE" in time. I craved it, but things happened differently. For there was all our growth as a band and the cafekkos. And most of all, I like being on a stage more than that time.

The past and present were connected, it was an experience full of emotion. Thanks to this environment around me that makes me like it even more. Thank you for this, thank you very much. Sure there are older people around here, and I ask everyone, which one do you prefer the current or the old An Cafe? At this point, if the people I enjoy succeeded in attracting other people to this world would be good, but it is a difficult thing.

SET LIST SE (the same as 9 years ago) 1. Maple Gunman 2. Touhikairo 3. Takaido 4. Cherry Saku Yuuki !! 5. Snow Scene 6. Ese Uranai 7. Odoru Meruhen Tokei 8. Love In Hankagai 9. Etc. 10. Duck in Magical Adventure 11. NYAPPY in the world 12. SUMMER DIVE 13. Koritsu Hospital 14. Kakusei Heroism EN 15. Meguriaeta Kiseki 16. Tekesuta Kousen 17. 3P 18. BondS ~Kizuna~ 19. Smile Ichiban Ii Onna

In NYAPPY in the world that was played in the past there was a trail of flowers, this time as there was nothing, I asked the caffeko to lift from their accents, and they all accompanied the music. But asking everyone to get out of their seats made my size (softly) catch my eye. I was a bit angry, but still no problem. The impression I had of myself was like "Kakusei Heroism", the best thing that could be. "The HEROI without fame that does not fly through the sky has gained a name" No matter how many times I sing this song, I start to think of several exciting things. It's a dream come true, the band will become something that anyone can be proud of!

Once again thank you for the presence of all, were very joyful moments.

And the second part "SUMMER DIVE NEO" "SUMMER DIVE is a world called SUMMER DIVE NEO more evolved where people can experience" was the feeling they wanted to get through.

Comparing the two parts, the second was more awaited than the first. And the people who participated only in the first part I am not holding grudges (rs). As usual I am my own rival and before I started the first part of the live I thought "Summer this year will be the best time" It would make it come true with all my might. .SE 1. Amazing blue 2. SENNEN DIVE !!!!! 3. SUMMER DIVE 4. Mousou Momou Sorosoro 5. JUMBO 6. Natsu Koi ☆ Natsu Game 7. Jibun Setsumeisho 8. Hot Night Dance Championship 9. Seishun TRAIN 10. RO-MAN 11. NYAPPY in the world 12. JIBUN 13. My heart Leaps for "C" EN 14. Natsuiro (Yuzu cover) 15. YOU 16. Laugh Song 17. Ikenai mousou x Abunai monster

Talking about NEO, the HOT NIGHT DANCE PARTY was made because we wanted to have some time to dance. The mark was the lights (laser) and the image of the limbs on the back. Who recommended this to us was the staff.

Will not I forget the expression they did on SUMMER DIVE when you were looking at their backs (rs) like muscles? The song Jibun Setsumeisho was a song that wanted to sing at any cost. No one can live like a simple feather thrown in the wind. Even if it does make a small slip, for other people it may be nothing, but my vision is a major obstacle. Apart from these things it is difficult to clarify something so simple. But everyone has his way of overcoming, that is living.

I wanted to convey that feeling. The HOT NIGHT DANCE PARTY Battle made my stomach ache from laughing so much. Kanon is very clever, and as an artist he earned my respect. On the cover of Yuzu, even needing to sing and play at the same time, I had to work hard for it.

I prayed a lot for this and as a reward, I was praised by my father and the staff. How cool! And also for all life I will not forget that you sang to YOU. Everyone's expression next to the music and the atmosphere was a very strong feeling. It was the best gift I could get.

After watching all that excitement on the DVD (recorded by the staff), it gave me the strength to work even harder!

For me this was not a waste, it was the best day.

Thanks for the gifts and letters. The next will be on August 29 "SUMMER DIVE YANEN". Tomorrow we will have a meeting about the content. Make sure it will be a very pleasant time, so I'll be waiting for you.

Well, good night.

[excelgesis-blog]

Free of Any Eden

chapter: 5 / ?

wc: 2,048

pairing: neo

rating: PG-13

tw: brief mentions of suicide

crossposted on: aff // ao3

"...how you remind me of some spring, the waters as cool and clear (late rain clings to your leaves, shaken by light wind), which is where you occur in grassy moonlight..." -Reginald Shepherd, "You, Therefore"

          Hakyeon could feel his heart somewhere near the floor. He blinked back tears for the thousandth time as an emptiness curled in his stomach.

         “Dude, what the hell?” Wonshik jogged down the hallway toward him. “Did he seriously fucking leave?”

         “I don’t understand,” Hakyeon whispered. “I don’t know what’s going on…”

         Wonshik let out a sigh. “That was by far the rudest thing I’ve ever seen him do. And that’s saying something because he’s really not the nicest person around.” He raised a brow. “Do you guys have some bad history together or something?”

         Hakyeon swallowed and shook his head. There was that murky something, teasing the edges of his mind, making him feel like a part of him was missing.

         “Well he seriously owes you an apology.” Wonshik reached out to grab Hakyeon’s elbow. “Come on, we’ll head to the coffee shop together.”

         “I don’t think he wants to see me.” His voice broke halfway through.

         “I’m sure he’s just moody because he had to get out of bed. You can never tell with Taekwoon, honestly. Now come on, you’ll get sick if you stand out here barefoot like this. I’ll take you to our favorite coffee place.”

****

         The coffee shop was cozy and warm, and although Hakyeon wrinkled his nose at the bitter smell, he could understand why people would like to come here. A metal staircase spiraled up toward a loft lined with bookshelves, and the round tables were home to potted plants and mismatched chairs.

         Wonshik ordered a latte – hadn’t he just had coffee at home? – and guided Hakyeon through the sparsely populated room to the back corner.

         Taekwoon sat in an oversized armchair with a laptop computer perched across his knees. His glasses had slid down to the tip of his nose and his hair looked as if he had run his hands through it in frustration. And again Hakyeon felt familiarity warm and comfortable in his chest. He could see Taekwoon in a long crimson jacket, reaching toward him and pressing a folding fan into his hand. He could hear Taekwoon’s soft voice through leaves and branches, composing a melody with the wind –

         “Kim Wonshik.” Taekwoon’s voice carried none of the gentleness Hakyeon had dreamt of. It was all hard edges, like ice creeping across water toward the shore. “What are you doing?”

         Wonshik placed the steaming latte on the table beside Taekwoon’s chair. “Drink this and stop being such an asshole, will you?”

         “I told you I don’t want to see him.” Taekwoon’s eyes narrowed in Hakyeon’s direction. Hakyeon did his best to stand his ground.

         “He didn’t do anything to you, I’m sure. Don’t you think you’re being a little rude?” Wonshik flopped down into the nearest chair, leaving Hakyeon standing alone with his hands clasped in front of him.

         “You don’t know anything about this, Wonshik. Stay out of it.”

         Wonshik rolled his eyes. “Look, he’s a friend of mine now and I don’t want you being such an ass. You’re going to scare him away.”

         “Why is it that everyone wants to be friends with him all of a sudden?” Taekwoon’s tone remained icy, and Hakyeon was sure he could feel it in his veins.

         “Why do you insist on being such a dick to him all of a sudden?” Wonshik countered.

         “I told you to stay out of it.”

         Hakyeon could feel the mounting tension in the air, and he found it frustrating that they spoke of him as if he weren’t there. He cleared his throat loudly. They both turned their gazes to him, and he locked eyes with Taekwoon.

         Taekwoon’s eyes darkened. “What?”

         Hakyeon refused to look away. “Please don’t talk about me like I’m not here.” He swallowed and practiced the next words in his head several times before he said them. “I think I deserve an explanation.”

         Taekwoon scoffed and turned his gaze to his laptop. “If anyone deserves an explanation, it’s me.”

         And all at once the coffee shop dissolved, washed away like silt in water and Hakyeon was in another place, another time, another life. There was dirt under his shoes and low stone walls were sharp against the searing blue of the sky. He felt a hand on his shoulder and his heart leapt into his throat.

         “I think an explanation is necessary.” The voice was stern, but Hakyeon was taken aback by the softness of it. He turned in surprise, his gaze locking with Taekwoon’s. He was dressed in a deep sunset purple broken by a golden pattern.

         Hakyeon lowered his gaze. “An explanation?”

         “You had no right interrupting our practice. It isn’t your place.” His voice grew fuzzy and distant, there was a roaring in Hakyeon’s ears like wind and water—

         And the coffee shop rushed back into focus. Taekwoon was staring at him, his knuckles white where he gripped the arms of the chair. The room tilted at a dizzying angle and Hakyeon stumbled forward, reaching out blindly to steady himself.

         Taekwoon’s hands were on his shoulders, warm and comforting, and Hakyeon could feel his breath ghosting along his ear, followed by a soft “Hakyeon, I missed you so much.” The words were sugar sweet and Hakyeon leaned in, only to feel Taekwoon’s hands shoving him roughly back. He stumbled and fell, landing hard on the wooden floor.

         “What the hell?” Taekwoon gasped.

         “Jesus Christ!” Wonshik scrambled forward to help Hakyeon to his feet. “Taekwoon, what the fuck?”

         “What was that?” Taekwoon’s voice shook. “What the hell are you doing to me?”

         Hakyeon clung to Wonshik’s arm and tried to steady himself. His head spun. “I don’t know,” he whispered. “I don’t know what’s happening--”

         “I told you to stay away from me.” The words trembled and Taekwoon’s eyes were wide behind his glasses. “I shouldn’t be feeling this, this isn’t normal--”

         Hakyeon swallowed. “I feel it, too.”

         Wonshik looked between them frantically. “What?”

         “Is everything okay over here?” A barista in a black apron hovered near Taekwoon’s armchair. His eyes were wide underneath a fringe of light hair.

         “We’re fine, Kyung,” Taekwoon said darkly. “We were just leaving.”

         “Says who?” Wonshik squawked.

         Hakyeon stumbled as Taekwoon grabbed his arm and yanked him toward the front door. All protests died on his lips, and he couldn’t deny the shiver that slid down his spine at his touch. It was as if he had craved it for a hundred years, an addict deprived of his high.

         Taekwoon shouldered the door open and rounded on him, his fingers pressing hard against Hakyeon’s forearm. “Explain yourself.”

         The words hit like acid. “I can’t,” Hakyeon breathed. “I honestly can’t.” Taekwoon was close – so close – and he resisted the sudden urge to bury his fingers in the fabric of his jacket, to pull him closer and closer—

         But how could he feel that for someone he barely knew?

         His mind rebelled, pushing back, insisting that he knew Taekwoon from some other time, some other place. His presence felt so familiar and safe and he wanted to revel in it. He wanted to forget about this new life with all of its complications and intricacies and bask in Taekwoon’s familiarity like it was the summer sun.

         “I know you.” Taekwoon’s grip tightened. “Why do I feel like I know you? How do I know your name?”

         Hakyeon shook his head. “You feel familiar to me, too. I-I can’t explain it.”

         “Is this some kind of sick joke? Did my father put you up to this?” He shook Hakyeon’s arm, but his grip had slackened into something surprisingly gentle. His voice was laced with desperation.

         “I’m as lost as you are.” Hakyeon reached up to pull Taekwoon’s fingers away. Taekwoon’s grip loosened easily. “I can’t explain this any more than you can.” The emptiness that had curled in the pit of his stomach was gone, replaced by a warm comfort. Something felt so right about being with Taekwoon. But how was such a thing possible?

         “I told you that I wanted you to stay away from me.” Taekwoon’s voice was weak, and the anger that had painted his words was a diluted version of itself. “But whenever you’re gone I…”

         Hakyeon waited for him to finish with bated breath.

         “I miss you,” Taekwoon whispered. “How is that possible?”

         “What the hell are you doing out here?” Wonshik stumbled onto the sidewalk and shot Taekwoon a sharp glare. “Are you still being an asshole?”

          Taekwoon took a step back from Hakyeon. His eyes were glassy, as if he were stuck in a trance. He shook his head and glanced at Wonshik, who stood near the coffee shop door with his arms folded across his chest.

         “I-I need to get to work,” Taekwoon stuttered. He turned and headed down the sidewalk, pushing his way through the crowd until his retreating back was swallowed in an undulating sea of dark coats.

         Hakyeon let out a breath. The emptiness had returned, clawing its way into his chest like a trapped animal.

         “What the holy hell is going on between you two?” Wonshik’s voice was an octave higher than usual.

         Hakyeon slumped against the wall, his legs threatening to give out. “I have no idea.”

****

         “So tell me again.” Jaehwan paced back and forth, and Hakyeon thought idly that he would wear a hole through the hardwood floor.

         “I know him,” Hakyeon said softly. He poked at the food Jaehwan had brought, his appetite waning as the seconds ticked by. “He seems so familiar to me.”

         “You must have met before. What’s so special about that?”

         Hakyeon sighed, and the sound seemed to echo in the empty bookstore. Wonshik had dropped him off on his way to work, and Jaehwan had instantly jumped on the chance to interrogate him after Wonshik’s quiet “Kid’s had a rough morning already.”

         “It’s more than that. I feel almost… empty without him.” Hakyeon frowned at how vulnerable the words sounded.

         “Oh no.” Jaehwan shook his head and pointed a finger at him. “No no no, you absolutely cannot fall for Taekwoon. Trust me. It’ll just end badly for you.”

         Hakyeon flushed at the suggestion. “That’s not what I’m implying.”

         “Sure as hell sounds like it to me,” Jaehwan said. “I mean, sure, he’s tall and dark and handsome and everything, but the boy has serious commitment issues, man. He’s too busy with work to focus on a relationship.”

         “I’m not suggesting a relationship!” The words came out loud and harsh, and Jaehwan visibly jumped at the outburst. Hakyeon couldn’t begin to explain why ire roiled in his veins, but his head was spinning and he wanted answers. Real and tangible answers that could set his pounding heart at ease.

         Jaehwan held up both hands, palms facing outward. “Fine, fine. Whatever you say.”

         “I’m just so confused about all this.” Hakyeon tried to keep the frustration from showing in his voice. “Is this normal? Have you ever felt this way?”

         “What, like I miss someone? Of course I have. Everyone has.”

         “But that’s just it.” Hakyeon let out a breath. “How can I miss someone I barely know?”

         “Maybe you just click. Maybe you knew each other in a past life, hell, I don’t know. It could be anything.”

         The door to the bookstore opened, and Hakyeon didn’t bother turning to see who had walked in.

         “Speak of the devil,” Jaehwan said under his breath.

         “Jaehwan, I need to talk--”

         Hakyeon jumped at the sound of Taekwoon’s voice. He turned in his seat and their gazes locked. Something tugged at the corners of his mind, stronger than before, and a rising tide of affection and familiarity bubbled up in his chest.

         Taekwoon sighed. “I should have known you would be here.”

         “I can leave,” Hakyeon whispered.

         “Won’t do any good.” Taekwoon ran a hand through his hair. “You’re everywhere. Even when I’m not around you, you’re still there.”

         Jaehwan’s eyebrows rose. “What?”

         Taekwoon crossed his arms and seemed to weigh his words carefully before speaking. “Come with me.”

         Jaehwan pointed at himself questioningly.

         Taekwoon shook his head. “Not you.” He nodded toward Hakyeon. “You.”

         Hakyeon got to his feet and took a shaky step forward. “W-where are we going?”

         “My place,” Taekwoon muttered. “I think we need to talk.”

[future-rp]

neo’s main dance, sub vocal 3 & visual 1 hayan

neo:red’s main dance, lead vocal & visual mobius entertainment; choreography, modeling 08 vocal / 00 rap / 12 dance

i. silence is rare in hayan’s home. it hides in the corners of the study when his father sets down the violin, in the comfort of his covers when his mother turns off the light in the childrens’ bedroom, desperately spreads out in the living room while the clock counts down the minutes until all four of its inhabitants return. they’re a bit mismatched, his father a foreign-born orchestra musician who stayed in south korea after his military service, his mother a formally trained dancer whose plans were thwarted by a teenage pregnancy. his half-sister hanui is six years older, moon-faced and armed with the sweet smile his mother passed on to both of them; a smile to soften hearts and pave the way. “it’s a weapon,” hanui would tell him many years later with a wink. “so use it wisely.”

he is pretty and he knows it. he can’t walk past his mother and her friends having tea in the living room without one of them calling him over, poking his cheeks, fawning over what an adorable child he is. “smile for them, hayanie,” his mother encourages him and so he does, basking in the attention and adoration. his father’s colleagues ruffle his hair fondly whenever he sits in the musicians’ recreation room backstage, feet swinging and humming along to the last piece he heard the orchestra rehearse. the auntie running the corner store down the street from his house lets him pick out candy once in a while, telling his parents what a cute child he is. “he’d make a great idol,” she goes on to joke and while mother laughs, father is quick to vehemently shake his head. “a manufactured puppet singer? i hope not.” at age five, hayan doesn’t quite know what he means yet, but the distaste in his voice is enough to make him remember anyway. for a moment, the silent seems deafening. “but mrs. kim,” his mother then pipes up, beckoning for him to come closer. “did you know he took up dancing last month?” the corner store auntie coos and the chatter goes back to its previous flow. only the little boy remains as if frozen in time, curiously studying his father’s face.

ii. silence is the first reaction he receives when he steps into the studio. it’s always been like this, the girls lined up at the bar by the mirror seemingly not used to seeing a boy in ballet class, much like in the group before and the group before that. hayan takes a moment to stop the overwhelming urge to crawl into himself and hide, inhales deeply and greets them with his signature smile. it’s different with the street dance class he joins. it takes him a solid two weeks of begging to get his parents to agree they do, he feels a bit lost. the school is big and intimidating and prestigious, and he feels scarily far out of his comfort zone. the group he is placed in an all-boys one, a novelty, and clearly, they don’t think that tiny, skinny hayan is anything close to being an asset to them.

it’s okay, though, he thinks to himself when he sees that once he starts finding a proper footing in his dance, they all are very eager to be friends. his mother is proud when he tells her about it. “so you had fun?” she asks. what she means is: so are you getting better than them? hayan nods, smiles, not quite sure how else to reply. his cheeks feel a bit stiff.

iii. silence is what fills the short interval between the end of a performance and the roaring applause that follows. hayan feels his chest heaving with excitement and exhaustion when he lifts his head and blinks into the darkness of the auditorium. this isn’t his first performance, but even after years and years, it never seems to get old. next to him the other dancers of his group start coming back to life, sweat-soaked, bright-eyed, short of breath. they all stand, then bow for the third time this week, sticky palms to sticky palms. so far, so good; nothing out of the ordinary. it is only when they file into the small backstage area again that his dance instructor pulls him over to where his mother and another woman wait. he bows preemptively, is handed a towel, smiles through the mandatory platitudes of a first meeting. they leave with a business card in hand, the mobius ent. logo sparking hope in the pit of the boy’s stomach.

his father’s study is quiet, the violin resting in the open case on the desk. hayan wishes it could play on its own, just to fill the overwhelming emptiness in the room with something. “there was a scout at last week’s recital,” he explains shakily, dreading the harsh dip of nathaniel lee’s eyebrows. “she talked to mother, too. said she liked my dancing, that i should consider auditioning for the idol company she works for.” the silence persists, clinging to the boy’s skin as he feels himself turn smaller and smaller as his father reads. “i’m at the top of my dance class. mother and miss kang think i could make it.” the frown never fades, but his father signs the line for parental consent after what feels like an eternity. “you’re fourteen, that’s still young enough. i hope the failure will teach you,” he grumbles and it hurts worse than hayan thought it would. “they’re not looking for true artists, son. your pretty face is all that matters to them.”

iv. silence is his companion as he stands in the hallway, pulling the door to the practice room shut behind him. his pretty face is, in fact, not the only thing that matters. he should’ve known, of course, he has no one to blame but himself but in the luxury of the calm it’s tempting to cry. he won’t; he’s too proud, too determined to prove his father wrong but the lump in his throat seems like it cares very little about pride. it’s mainly his dancing that keeps him afloat, years of ballet and street dance allowing him to learn fast and keep growing. his vocals, prior to training believed to be good, are average at best and make him feel inappropriate next to other, far more talented peers. year two, he bitterly notes to himself. still nowhere near where they want him to be, where he wants to be. so he trains on, teaching himself how to smile through the pain of an overworked body, how to do more while eating less, how to ignore the gnawing insecurities in the back of his mind to make it through the day without losing track of what really matters: that he’s there and not about to go anywhere.

hayan makes it into the second draft for neo, one year later, looking a bit more like he has grown into his long limbs and finally, finally having something to show for in the vocal department. only remnants of baby fat cling to his cheeks and the mister in charge of evaluations that week looks at him with a pensive expression. he doesn’t quite know what to make of that, only wonders later whether it’s his voice or his face that ultimately landed him his spot.

v. silence is a luxury. neo debuts with success, tiring trainee days blending into even more demanding days as they promote mansae. the role mobius want him to play is an easy one. smile. be charming. flirt a bit, just not too much. it doesn’t require much acting skill and hayan knows it makes him look likeable. it’s also exhausting, but that he doesn’t realize until it’s far too late. it starts eating on him bit by bit; taking the cheerful and sunny parts of his personality and distorting them, making them so much bigger until he fits into the mold of the cute gentleman management wants him to be. hayan on stage and hayan off stage are two very different people. for the cameras, he’s the charmer,  the dance prodigy, silly, funny, hayan with the endearing dimpled smile. sometimes it’s hard to figure out where that version of him ends and his real self begins when all he gets to be is only a caricatured fraction of himself. but he’s nothing if not obedient, dutiful, biting his tongue because this is what he wanted, right? a manufactured puppet idol, his memory reminds him in the few quiet moments he can catch. he didn’t fail, but maybe he wasn’t right after all, either.

( v,v. silence is all lee hayan craves late at night, when the world is quiet and his mind still rejects the peace. )

[matsitle]

ONE MUFFIN LEFT

Those damn CRC white devils again!  😡

But I had to get those muffins. I had to! I knew I had to get them soon as I started considering lesser taxing alternatives for my craving and coffee - like Romany Creams from the service station three minutes away. You see, I’m a serial victim of my laziness, something my mother always warned me about - ‘ga gona kgomo ya boroko’. My father too - 'o tla ja masepa a thaka tsa gago.’ (And ke a jele goed for a year-and-a-half). I always went for the low hanging fruit; and true to form it’s always the tholaborethe ee babang kha teng. Like with lovers - I always lie and say I don’t have a type. But I do: “disciplined intellectual beauty” as Immo Tech outlines. And I have a right to this, since I can also bring that to the table. But for my laziness. Or maybe like Kundera’s Mirek I suffer from a “weakness, that deprivation” of deeming myself “unworthy of anyone better than a Zdena.” A Zdena, in my case, would be anyone who doesn’t meet that Immo Tech rubric. I learnt through heartbreak that gwababa is dangerous. O tla feletsa o sunne masutlha! As such, I dared not give into gwababa once more, I wanted muffins. And muffins I would get! Come hell or high water. Or Bible thumping (never reading) devils.

So I finally convinced my body that we could get to the Engen garage in Brandwag no problem – some three or so kilometres away from my staff quarters. And besides, I stroked its arm gently, if we get tired we can always call a cab. It relented. But the tricky fuck I am, I “forgot” my phone on the charger. 😂 Cab se voet! You think money grows on trees ka bona. And it aint like there are women just waiting to drive a nigger. Haai! 😥 Chivalry is dead. Women these days; dikopa! I mean if a nigger is chilling in his shack, coffee brewing, mesmerised by its aroma, and suddenly he craves muffins – you would think (as any straight-thinking person would) that a girl will just drop by and say ‘hey, lemme take you for those muffins’. Mara kae? Kga!

So on foot we trekked. My body and I. Generally a useless gullible bag of healthy bones and sweet odour, but now and then redeems itself. Being cognisant of our fated-when as blacks, we took all necessary precautions to not fall victim of gratuitous violence, we took the safest path available. That is the roads littered with noble daughters of the streets. Because where there are prostitutes there are cops. Reducing crime. Prostitutes are keeping our streets safe. That is generally my use for them; and I compensate them for it too. When they ask “Rasta mphe two-rand,” I give them – there was one, ‘Lineo’, who was almost my friend, she walked with me once trying to avoid a rapey cop. And owing to my super-hero fantasies I revelled in being the Rape Walker. And ever since then she never missed a chance to shout “Rasturr” whenever she saw me. They’re an important part of the ecology of the city. 

Now enter these arrogant do-gooder fucks! Tjhessis!😠

I knew something was amiss when I turned the corner and did not see my people. I panicked even. In the far corner I saw a group of people. My eyes are not any more useful than the rest of my body but they did manage to discern that the people in that group were bulkier than the tiny frames that usually run these streets at night. They seemed to just be loitering. As I got closer I could draw up a clearer picture, a paler one. More disgusting than the black bodies that are up for sale day (male) and night (female) on these streets. I walked up to them with great pace – I might have even been angry, but they flashed that testicle chewing smile that disabled me. So I only got to ask them a banal, moot question. “Excuse me,” look at me being nice when I’m supposed to be raving mad *smh* “Which church are you from.” They answered. We left. I romanticised that encounter by thinking ‘at least this time I went to them, not the other way around’. See, I might be black but I have some agency. But I knew I had been castrated.

Now, I have no beef with prostitution per se. But I do have a problem with these women left with no option but to be on the streets. In as much as I have a problem with the men forced on the same street during the day. Prostitution is just a service just like any other – no different to a barber. You have your friend who can cut your hair for free, but there is also a professional whose labour and skill you have to pay for. Same with sex – it can be a billable service. But living in a capitalist patriarchal society, I know that (all) women’s bodies have already been codified as sex commodities. They have all been marked as available to the highest bidder. Which makes prostitution (as with all labour) unethical. That being said, I do not believe anyone has any right to deny women their freedom of forced choice to whore out their bodies to the bidder that will have them – be it mofeti-ka-tsela, moreki, mohlonolofatsi or mogatse. Even less so, the beneficiaries and perpetrators of this system that forces such choices down our throats.

This is what I meant to bring to light to these landthieves – with all the rage I could muster. But I only managed to ask them where do they wash their dirty hands off the blood of black people. Nicely le teng. My body was kind enough to carry me away from my shame. I had failed dismally to exercise the greatest power of them all – the power to pose the question. “If you want to save them, instead of disrupting their livelihoods, #BringBackOurLand you fucks!” ~ I didn’t say that. They were so white. So pure. So innocent. Smiling. They even offered to help me. With what I dunno. “Which church are you from,” is all I could mutter in the face of such provocation. 

The woke kids are onto something; black men aint shit! “Make me numb Nelson”, I don’t want to feel this rage that just never boils over to anything. Fuck I am not even a fuckboy. I don’t turn to the bottle. Kgosietsile said this is where all failed revolutionaries end up – ‘tween warm thighs and/or the bottle. Dostoyevsky did say everyone must have somewhere to turn to. Maybe, (I smile – my feet pick up the pace. Away from the corner of castration they take me. Away!), maybe that I have no escape means that I am still a revolutionary. Or maybe (my heart sinks, feet still in pace. Away! Away!), maybe I was never one; hence I suffer no vertigo, no litost. 

But fuck that! Positive thinking. I am a revolutionary. I am not Mdu. I can’t be. Dostoyevsky a re Mdu’s lies prevent him from loving – and I can’t live without loving, giving “way to passions and course pleasures” or sinking to the bestiality of my vices.  “Ndiyakholwa kuyw’ ihambo yam, ndizoy’mela nangamax’ anzima.” My credentials speak for me. This is my third encounter with these unsettlers. And on the other two occasions, I had clarified them. Goed nie bietjie! 

The first time I was with Neo, we were walking at great pace from the theatre. High on intellectual banter octane. So when we saw these people usurping our sisters’ corner, their land, their real estate (location! location! location!), we got angry. The proper patriarchs we are, we took it upon ourselves to protect ‘our women’. We didn’t even care to ask the one lady a few meters away carrying on with her business besides this white inconvenience if she needed any advocacy from us, we assumed it. What do women know about fighting whiteness anyway? After the thirty to forty-five minute lecture, I reasoned away my knight-in-shining-armour fuckery by telling Neo that at least we took away time from these devils that they would’ve otherwise used to disturb the women’s business (probably done on behalf of some man – be it pimp or husband or son). Kanye kana what do the ancient Nigerians say? Every man can defend his fuckyness? 

In the second encounter too I was not as cowardly as with this latest one. I was with my BAF, whom the know-it-all toenails of Satan mistook for a whore and me her John (well…🤔…but a re tlogele ditshele). That time too, although somewhat restrained by vodka and the pressure not to embarrass ‘the missus’ by launching a full-frontal attack on religion (something she subscribed to), I let them have it. So all in all I have a good record against these arrogant ignorant irritants. Tonight was just a bad day in the office. I still have no need for the bottle or warm thighs!😪

Buoyed by this warped reasoning I reached Woolworths in no time. Its doors wide open on the stroke of midnight. Oh god how I love open things at night! I went in and was welcomed by various bouquets of flowers. I have been meaning to get myself one. But I don’t have a vase. And R240 is a lot of money. I can’t justify that spend when I am not willing to spend R40 to give my rapidly numbing feet respite. This line of reasoning also prevents me from buying a tiramisu cake and the Mail & Guardian newspaper – my feet are not any less important than my taste buds or toilet reading. 

There’s only one tray of muffins left. I grab it lest these usurpers of land invading the store barefooted do. My feet could do with the coolness of these tiles actually – but I decide against taking off my shoes. Anyway the aisles are too narrow, I can’t exactly sit on the floor and read the newspaper for free. Why aren’t there any libraries open at night? I really feel like reading up about something I don’t know. Maybe anthropology. 

My feet feel like they’re swelling up inside my shoes; all these unavailable options I’m considering seem to be making my body snobby. The last tray of muffins are chocolate muffins. No lemon poppy-seed. I walked all the way here to not get lemon poppy-seed muffins. I’m glad for the ginger biscuits though. I look around a bit, even in the toiletries, to check what else I will not be getting. My feet send though an order; but a cab is also one of the many things I will not be getting. I have already denied myself so much on its account. If I don’t respect my own decisions who will? Besides if we take a cab how will I exact my revenge on those crackers? I can’t backtrack now.

I must trek back now. Hopefully those Be Good’s will still be there. Then I will surely give them a piece of my mind. Raw black rage. Got the speech all mapped out and shit. So I commission my body to do the work of shame; walk (a man who walks is shameful, carless women don’t tire saying. 👀 Go figure!). It does not have much of say. That is until we get to Westend – it slows down and lets me know that it knew about my little secret all along 😯; leaving the phone behind so that we would have no option for a cab. But here are cabs lined up next to the club, it pleads, surely we can take up one. I am always open to be convinced, so I hear it out. It continues with its passionate plea. I also hear something else. Or rather I eavesdrop on a conversation of a diva and her friend. I know that she’s a diva because that’s what the story I hear is about.

“Yoh friend I just had the most amazing orgasm ever,” that’s what piques my interest, the horny pervert I am. And also how I got to know that the other girl was her friend, see? I don’t just assume relations between people without evidence.

“Tlo ka tsona mati,” the other girl eggs her on. Again proving my suspicion that they are friends.

“So this guy stands next to me at the bar as I was trying to get drinks, and I have been struggling to get the barman’s attention. But he manages to. Men! But anyway after he orders he asks me what would I like. I brush him off and order my own drinks. Then he says “you can have whatever you like.” Sings it actually. Quietly in my ear. I mean boundaries! But he’s got the sweetest singing voice. I dunno what comes over me but I say “you.” We’ve already paid for the drinks that are still being prepared. He just walks away. Then turns back and asks me what am I waiting for. I roll my eyes but he stretches out his hand almost irritated, his eyes smiling. Girl I just lose it and he leads me out of the club. We go to his place. He tells me he saw me perform, actually gives me a raving review as he undresses. His voice is so so calm. He’s completely naked and flaccid. I can’t take my eyes off his thing. You never really get to see flaccid ones as often. He just goes on to describe my performance in great detail. Comes closer and starts undressing me. I’m totally naked. Wet and sad. Sad coz I thought performing was the best feeling ever, but this guy makes me realise that seeing me perform is way better. I’m just standing there perplexed. He sits flat on the floor. Then scoots on under me. Like he’s eye level with my dingese. Then starts kissing it all over. He tilts his head back and starts tonguing me. I grind on his nose. But I figure his neck must be getting tired. I mean you can see the veins popping out and all. So I pull away and kneel to kiss him. I taste so good on him! I get up and he gets up with me. Leads me to the bedroom, all the while continuing his appraisal. He tells me I’d be great with just a talented pianist doing the blues. I push him to the bed, he’s still flaccid. I don’t care. My tongue will resurrect him. I am about to teabag him when he says “sing for me.” I lay my head on his chest, his heart is racing, I listen to it to find a melody. I start singing. He starts humming along. In pauses. A deep throatily baritone. Soon we are in sync. I’m in another world completely. On stage. With a bass player. Just the two of us. No audience. He plays and I sing. Completely independent of each other. But in sync. Then suddenly there’s an audience of one. Me. I see myself perform. I am so happy. I sing my heart out. On stage. And I scream my lungs out. In the audience. I don’t see the bassist anymore. But there’s a subtle baseline that is a canvass to my melodic painting. As I reach the crescendo on stage I cannot hold myself in the audience and just let rip my ecstasy. Suddenly the private performance has filled up the dome. The stage is a full orchestra. But it’s all me. On stage and in the multitudes in audience. On stage I am in all black. Every bit of me. In the audience I am wearing all sorts of things. All the things I own, wish to own and have never imagined. Same as with the hairstyles. The crowd is screaming, tears all over our faces, up on our feet, clapping wildly. On stage we sigh as we bow. My head is down. And heavy. Eyes closed as the screams fade away into the far distance. I slowly open my eyes and a familiar scent hits me. Its sex. I find his face contorted and beads of sweat providing it a disturbing sheen. He is quite ugly. His chest is bruised and on the verge of bleeding, my nails are to blame. My palms are rested on either side of his chest. His still firm upright bass still buzzing inside me. I want it out but I’m too spent to lift myself off. So I just give my shivering hands a break and drop dead on him. At least this way I don’t have to look at his ugly face. He continues to slowly stroke, massage my insides basically, still humming. I dozed off.”

Personally I think she’s lying. Probably disappeared with the group’s drinks budget to go get a fix. Hence her ridiculous tale – ditiro tsa dithetefatsi fela tse! Orchestra orgasm se voet! But this little fib distracted my body enough to walk past the taxis without any more complaints. Naïve little thing😝. Of course now spotting a hard-on. Surely is going to be hard convincing those pseudo-Christian Calvinists of my convictions on prostitution with an erection.

The eye at the back of my head – a prized possession of anyone who’s ever been subjected to the violence that is the township – informs me that there are people behind me. Men. Black men. I know the woke ones with their Olympics of suffering don’t like it when we say we understand that they’re afraid of black men because we too are afraid of black men. Apparently we black men are all the same. Violence on a black cis-het male body by another black cis-het male body goes unaudited. It is not an event worthy of a hashtag. I am a black man. I am on my own. Against the four black men behind me. Whom I inflict violence on their person by casting them as criminals with no evidence whatsoever. There is a safe distance between us – but that’s what I thought the last time black men pulled me down by my hair and brandished their makeshift knives in my blind face (my glasses having long abandoned me in my fall. Sellouts!). So I commission my body to carry me quicker to my prostitutes, or the white bullet-repelling bodies disturbing their trade. I did not change the gears smoothly. My left knee gives in 🤕. I can barely keep the pace I started with before the failed acceleration. 

I have a soccer injury on that knee from high school. I tsamayad a friend with a tennis ball, tripped on his outstretched leg, spun in the air, and landed on the knee on the concrete floor. I didn’t have medical aid so nothing was ever done in its honour. I was not even allowed to cry. I had to live with the “harde dawg.” Black cis-het male tears – boring! It acts up from time to time. The other time I was at the physicist attempting to commit fraud in an effort to endear myself to my BAF (futile, futile exercise!), being a healthy idiot who has regular check-ups I really had no reason for my visit to there, and I couldn’t come out directly as to what exactly is it I wanted, so I told him about the knee. He put it under the scanner and found nothing. That convinced me that it was a phantom injury. A phantom injury that now threatened my escape from the knife. I struggled to keep my pace. 

But it turned out that it was indeed a safe distance between me and the men who unsettled me, sans the balaclavas. I reached the safe bosom of the prostitutes with a block still separating us beastly trashy black men. The white missionaries were gone. Darn! I guess they had clocked enough hours to earn their brownie points to heaven. All that preparation for nothing. My speech gone to waste. All that walking for nothing. I could’ve taken a cab and avoided all this impotent drama. I risked knife and knee for forty-fucken-rands!? For four muffins I can’t even eat. Fuck. Bayadika abelungu shwem!😩

[future-rp]

neo’s main dance, sub vocal 3 leon

neo blue’s main rap, main dance & leader mobius entertainment; choreography, modeling 02 vocal / 08 rap / 10 dance

i. silence is rare in seungyeon’s home. it hides in the corners of the study when his father sets down the violin, in the comfort of his covers when his mother turns off the light in the childrens’ bedroom, desperately spreads out in the living room while the clock counts down the minutes until all four of its inhabitants return. they’re a bit mismatched, his father a foreign-born orchestra musician who stayed in south korea after his military service, his mother a formally trained dancer whose plans were thwarted by a teenage pregnancy. his half-sister seunghee is six years older, moon-faced and armed with the sweet smile his mother passed on to both of them; a smile to soften hearts and pave the way. “it’s a weapon,” seunghee would tell him many years later with a wink. “so use it wisely.”

he is pretty and he knows it. he can’t walk past his mother and her friends having tea in the living room without one of them calling him over, poking his cheeks, fawning over what an adorable child he is. “smile for them, seungyeonie,” his mother encourages him and so he does, basking in the attention and adoration. his father’s colleagues ruffle his hair fondly whenever he sits in the musicians’ recreation room backstage, feet swinging and humming along to the last piece he heard the orchestra rehearse. the auntie running the corner store down the street from his house lets him pick out candy once in a while, telling his parents what a cute child he is. “he’d make a great idol,” she goes on to joke and while mother laughs, father is quick to vehemently shake his head. “a manufactured puppet singer? i hope not.” at age five, seungyeon doesn’t quite know what he means yet, but the distaste in his voice is enough to make him remember anyway. for a moment, the silent seems deafening. “but kim-ssi,” his mother then pipes up, beckoning for him to come closer. “did you know he took up dancing last month?” the corner store auntie coos and the chatter goes back to its previous flow. only the little boy remains as if frozen in time, curiously studying his father’s face.

ii. silence is the first reaction he receives when he steps into the studio. it’s always been like this, the girls lined up at the bar by the mirror seemingly not used to seeing a boy in ballet class, much like in the group before and the group before that. seungyeon takes a moment to stop the overwhelming urge to crawl into himself and hide, inhales deeply and greets them with his signature smile. it’s different with the street dance class he joins. it takes him a solid two weeks of begging to get his parents to agree they do, he feels a bit lost. the school is big and intimidating and prestigious, and he feels scarily far out of his comfort zone. the group he is placed in an all-boys one, a novelty, and clearly, they don’t think that tiny, skinny seungyeon is anything close to being an asset to them.

it’s okay, though, he thinks to himself when he sees that once he starts finding a proper footing in his dance, they all are very eager to be friends. his mother is proud when he tells her about it. “so you had fun?” she asks. what she means is: so are you getting better than them? seungyeon nods, smiles, not quite sure how else to reply. his cheeks feel a bit stiff.

iii. silence is what fills the short interval between the end of a performance and the roaring applause that follows. seungyeon feels his chest heaving with excitement and exhaustion when he lifts his head and blinks into the darkness of the auditorium. this isn’t his first performance, but even after years and years, it never seems to get old. next to him the other dancers of his group start coming back to life, sweat-soaked, bright-eyed, short of breath. they all stand, then bow for the third time this week, sticky palms to sticky palms. so far, so good; nothing out of the ordinary. it is only when they file into the small backstage area again that his dance instructor pulls him over to where his mother and another woman wait. he bows preemptively, is handed a towel, smiles through the mandatory platitudes of a first meeting. they leave with a business card in hand, the mobius ent. logo sparking hope in the pit of the boy’s stomach.

his father’s study is quiet, the violin resting in the open case on the desk. seungyeon wishes it could play on its own, just to fill the overwhelming emptiness in the room with something. “there was a scout at last week’s recital,” he explains shakily, dreading the harsh dip of nathaniel lee’s eyebrows. “she talked to mother, too. said she liked my dancing, that i should consider auditioning for the idol company she works for.” the silence persists, clinging to the boy’s skin as he feels himself turn smaller and smaller as his father reads. “i’m at the top of my dance class. mother and miss kang think i could make it.” the frown never fades, but his father signs the line for parental consent after what feels like an eternity. “you’re fourteen, that’s still young enough. i hope the failure will teach you,” he grumbles and it hurts worse than seungyeon thought it would. “they’re not looking for true artists, son. your pretty face is all that matters to them.”

iv. silence is his companion as he stands in the hallway, pulling the door to the practice room shut behind him. his pretty face is, in fact, not the only thing that matters. he should’ve known, of course, he has no one to blame but himself but in the luxury of the calm it’s tempting to cry. he won’t; he’s too proud, too determined to prove his father wrong but the lump in his throat seems like it cares very little about pride. it’s mainly his dancing that keeps him afloat, years of ballet and street dance allowing him to learn fast and keep growing. his vocals are passable, but he fades next to his more talented, more experienced peers and rapping is fun but still new and so much harder than his father ever claimed it is. year two, he bitterly notes to himself. still nowhere near where they want him to be, where he wants to be. so he trains on, teaching himself how to smile through the pain of an overworked body, how to do more while eating less, how to ignore the gnawing insecurities in the back of his mind to make it through the day without losing track of what really matters: that he’s there and not about to go anywhere.

seungyeon makes it into the second draft for neo, one year later, looking a bit more like he has grown into his long limbs and the rapid-fire raps. the boyish face stays, but that’s okay. “you’re still young, it’s okay for you to look cute,” the man in charge of evaluations that week says before shooing him onto the scale. he smiles as he always does, nods dutifully.

v. silence is a luxury. neo debuts with success, tiring trainee days blending into even more demanding days as they promote mansae. the role mobius want him to play is an easy one. smile. be charming. flirt a bit, just not too much. it doesn’t require much acting skill and seungyeon knows it makes him look likeable. it’s also exhausting, but that he doesn’t realize until it’s far too late. it starts eating on him bit by bit; the pressure to perform well as a rapper and not just a dancer, overdrawing the cheerful and sunny parts of his personality until it fits into the mold of the cute gentleman management wants him to be. leon, that’s what they rename him, after his zodiac sign. leon, the summer child, leon, the dance prodigy, silly leon, funny leon, leon with the charming smile. sometimes it’s hard to figure out where leon ends and seungyeon begins when all he gets to be is only a caricatured fraction of himself. but he’s nothing if not obedient, dutiful, biting his tongue because this is what he wanted, right? a manufactured puppet idol, his memory reminds him in the few quiet moments he can catch. he didn’t fail, but maybe he wasn’t right after all.

when he is announced the leader of neo:blue, something falls into place again. it’s not a miracle cure; rather than that, it means even more rehearsals, more songs to learn and to start learning what it really means to lead, but the responsibility keeps him afloat. he owes it to these ten other boys to give it his all and questioning his place in all of this will lead him to nowhere, he decides. sometimes, the thought that mobius picked him for this new position because of his obedience, rather than anything else crosses his mind, but he never dares to entertain the thought for longer than a few heartbeats.

( v,v. silence is all lee seungyeon craves late at night, when the world is quiet and his mind still rejects the peace. )