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tin-wufborf · 2 months

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Tin's Favorite Sterek Fics (Part 11)

Hello again, and welcome to part 11! I cannot believe I'm up to 11 parts on this thing with more to come (though not too many more, I think). That means I've recommended 200 fics/series so far as I've been doing 20 recs per post. Tbh I'm actually pretty proud of myself over this because it means I've been showing incredible restraint throughout this process in only recommending my favoritiest-favorites as opposed to every single fic I can remember liking even a little bit (don't worry, that will be the next series lol). For reference, I currently have 2,610 Sterek bookmarks in total on AO3 and have so far reviewed 1,749 of them to get to those select 200. That is wild to me lol.

BUT ANYHOOZLE.

As always, thank you all again for the support you've shown this series. I hope you're all having as good a day as you can, if not a great day. Smoochies and squeezies from me to you!

List and links to previous/next part(s) below the cut.

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DISCLAIMER: This is me warning you all that some of the fics I've included in this list may cover explicit, dark, and/or "taboo" subject matters. I cannot express enough how little I care what anyone thinks about any of that; all I want is for you to use caution when reading anything I've listed here and to please review and heed whatever tags the authors have provided in order to keep yourselves safe. Your experience from this point on is your own responsibility, not mine and not the authors'.

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not enough by Jana_C (G | 1/1 | 1,569)

Sometimes love is just not enough.

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A Quiet Night (Not in the Cards) by Delightful_I_Am (T | 1/1 | 4,369)

"Derek fucking Hale!"

The shout rang through the bar and for a long moment nobody moved. It was like something out of a movie. Everything just stopped; the music cut off; one of the servers had frozen mid-pour. Grady would have laughed if he weren't holding his breath. The kid straightened his shirt, a glimpse of stomach showing the curling edges of a tattoo on his hip, and strode toward where Hale was sitting in the dark corner. As one, every supe in the place turned to see Hale's reaction; the last person to try to confront Hale in here had left with a broken hand and a whispered threat that the next time Hale would rip their throat out. With his teeth. Unsurprisingly, Hale's face was set in its usual glower, although it seemed a bit softer around the eyes. It took Grady a second to realise Hale knew the kid.

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Painted Wooden Letters by DiscontentedWinter (T | 5/5 | 10,013)

All he ever wanted to be was Stiles Stilinski.

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Babcia Knows Best by thepsychicclam (T | 1/1 | 11,887)

Stiles takes his grandmother to bingo every Thursday. Now there's a new guy calling out the numbers, and his grandmother has decided to set them up.

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god knows I am dissonance by scepticallyopenminded (E | 1/1 | 24,239)

Stiles has zero regrets – zero, absolutely none – about leaving Beacon Hills after he graduates from Stanford. He knows his dad is good, has friends, has the force, has Melissa, and knows that even if he and Mel weren’t dating, that Scott has the sheriff’s back, will take care of him, keep him safe.

He knows Lydia has no regrets, either, and the two of them hop a plane less than a week after the graduation ceremony, two full weeks before their lease in Menlo Park is even up. They pack up a U-Haul, go back to Beacon Hills for two nights, and then they’re off to LAX, three suitcases and two carry-ons between the both of them.

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There's joy not far from here by Talis89 (M | 9/9 | 28,354)

“I’m coming,” Derek calls, shrugging on a sweater. The first few days of March had been warm, but the weather has turned in the last week - winter's last ‘fuck you’ - and Derek is expecting the icy blast as the warm air rushes out the front door. “What—” His breath freezes in his throat.

“Hey there, Sourwolf.”

Stiles is standing on the front porch— Derek’s front porch— his right hand waved in a half wave.

“Stiles?” Derek almost takes a step back. “What are you— how?”

Two years after Derek runs from Beacon Hills, Stiles turns up at his front door looking for his own escape. What follows is a story of adventure, healing and finding a place to call home.

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The Heart Remains The Same by heartsdesire459 (T | 1/1 | 28,797)

When Stiles left for college, he already knew the truth... Stiles wasn't a 'he' at all. Dropped into a new, exciting, liberating level of freedom that came with going to college somewhere without anyone who knew her, Stiles began to explore her true self and began her quest to become the girl she knew she had always been. Her fears of everyone's reactions back home led to skipping the first holiday... and then a second. And then the next.

Two and a half years after leaving Beacon Hills - two and a half years spent living an entire new life as a trans!woman - a call in the night forces Stiles to go back to Beacon Hills to face the people she had left and the friends she had abandoned.

“Stiles… it’s your dad.”

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The Second Coming (of Werewolf Jesus) by lupinus, uraneia (E | 3/3 | 40,104)

Stiles was enjoying his senior year until his crazy English teacher decided he made the best candidate to gestate Derek's kid. Now Stiles is a seventeen-year-old pregnant dude and he and Derek have to figure their shit out, because in nine months they are going to be tied together for the rest of their lives.

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Burning House by 1jet2unknown, nottoolateforthegame (E | 15/15 | 41,007)

“Why am I here? What was the point of showing me all that? It’s not like it’s going to change anything!”

You can change it.

“How?!”

You can change it if you go back.

“Then take me back!”

Stiles’s stomach lurched as the world tilted and stretched sideways.

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Now as Ever (All That Is and Has Been) by venis_envy (E | 16/16 | 52,270)

Stiles can't remember what happened to rearrange the time-space continuum, or how he ended up being pulled into the past. All he knows is that he's there now, in 2003 Beacon Hills, with a teenage werewolf and a possibly-crazy veterinarian as his only allies.

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Words Cannot Espresso How Much You Bean to Me by isthatbloodonhisshirt (wasterella) (T | 1/1 | 68,368)

“You’re late,” Derek informed him coldly, jaw clenched. He barely even moved his mouth to speak. This guy was seriously scary.

And because Stiles was suicidal, he said, “No, I’m Stiles.”

The look he got could’ve curdled milk. Stiles even noticed that Derek’s muscles were tensing, arms bulging even more and wow this guy was scary and hot but mostly scary holy shit.

“You’re not funny,” Derek informed him coldly.

Stiles shrugged. “I think that’s a matter of opinion.”

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Daybreak by TheObsidianQuill (M | 10/10 | 70,382)

"There . . ." Stiles swallowed and looked down at the bottle in his grasp as he slowly swirled the amber liquid inside. "There's really nothing left. For me. Everyone is . . . gone, and it feels like I haven't thought of tomorrow in years." His words rang in the air like a gunshot, he took another heavy drink. "I would trade every last breath I take to just have another shot—not even a guarantee, just a chance to make things right and bring back even one of them." -----

The pack was gone. He had nothing left. He had no one. With nothing to lose, Stiles puts everything on the line to go back in time to try to prevent the future from becoming his past. Broken, guarded, and haunted by his past, only one overgrown-pup of a wolf seems able to get past his defenses. Changing the future? Easy. Finding a place for himself in the Hale Pack? Impossible.

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What Goes Around by KouriArashi (M | 16/16 | 71,451)

“Well,” Stiles says, “if they’re going to hunt werewolves, I’m going to hunt them.”

It’s a ridiculous statement from a ten-year-old, but he’s obviously one hundred percent sincere. For the first time since the fire, Peter feels life stir inside him, feels purpose. It’s kismet, clearly. He’ll never meet the child he would have had with Olivia. Instead he’s met this boy, this brilliant, determined, cynical child with a world of potential.

Peter kneels down in front of him so they’re at eye level. “How do you feel about doing that together?”

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The Law of the Jungle by Nutellargh (E | 1/1 | 75,854)

After the Kanima fiasco is over, Derek takes his three betas and leaves Beacon Hills. Stiles knows he could contact him if needed, but they barely keep in touch, and only about mundane things. 4 years later, after a steady stream of supernatural issues they somehow manage to deal with, Lydia is the one to contact Derek when Stiles starts looking worse and worse everyday, with no idea as to how or why. The Slavic monster draining Stiles' energy points them to a much bigger issue Beacon Hills has been troubled with for years.

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Windows by dr_girlfriend (E | 28/28 | 83,266)

Derek has a new neighbor who won't stop looking.

Excerpt:

“You’re blind,” Derek said flatly, the anger draining from him so suddenly he felt almost woozy. His vision cleared, his claws sliding back into blunt fingernails.

“Thanks for the memo, genius,” the kid said acidly. “I can still fucking defend myself, so don’t take another damn step.”

“Fuck, I...I’m sorry,” Derek stuttered.

“What?!” The kid’s brow crinkled. “I mean — what?! You’re fucking sorry!?” His lips thinned into a harsh line. “What, is this some kinda Hallmark movie where you’re discovering the error of your ways because you don’t want to rob a blind person?! That’s fucking condescending, man. I’ll have you know that —”

“Just, wait.” Derek interrupted what was apparently the start of a convincing argument as to why he should rob the kid after all, feeling his head start to spin. “This is — it’s a misunderstanding. I’m — I’m not robbing you. You’re — you’re safe, okay? I’m taking three steps back. Just — just let me explain.”

“Explain why you came busting into my apartment? Yeah, go right ahead, man, I can’t wait to hear this epic tale.”

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where thou art, that is home series by ShanaStoryteller (8 works | NR-E | 94,108)

Hi, Tin here. Once again, Tumblr is deciding not to allow me to post any of the individual stories and summaries here, so here's a very brief summary without me waxing poetic about the series:

This is a canon-divergent AU series that acts as a sort of "fix it" for the universe without sacrificing the things we know and love from canon (imo). It begins with Stiles (and Scott as his co-pilot) managing to prevent the Hale fire from taking out the whole of the Hale pack and then moves forward from there. Lots of BAMF!Everyone abound and interesting takes on existing tropes and canon elements. I urge you all to check it out.

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The Taming of the Wolf by Amethystina (T | 15/15 | 105,352)

When Stiles seeks shelter from the rain in a rundown house in the middle of the woods, the last thing he expects is to find that someone is actually living there. Even less that the person in question isn't quite human. Derek is something else entirely.

Before he knows it, Stiles is thrown into a world he knows very little about and while he enjoys the unlikely and complex relationship that sparks between them, it's obvious that something darker is lurking in the shadows. Something from Derek's past that is just waiting to tear them apart.

Chapters 13, 14 and 15 are bonus chapters, featuring the same story but from Derek's POV (a total of 40 700 words). This is basically two fics in one.

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Anthracite by LupusScintilla (inkandblade) (E | 16/16 | 106,673)

It's been a quiet few years, and the McCall Pack has grown and settled. But, when the Hale Pack return to Beacon Hills they find Scott isn't as welcoming as they had hoped.

Soon they, Stiles, and Lydia, find out that not everything about the McCall Pack is as it has always seemed.

♠

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All Bark and No Bite series by MoonlitMemories (3 works | NR-M | 157,246)

1. Protect and Serve (M | 17/17 | 150,789) Stiles discovers the Nemeton starting to grow again in the preserve on Hale land. What does that mean for the pack? More importantly: why does the Nemeton seem so attached to Stiles? 2. Baby makes Three (G | 1/1 | 3,202) Erica finds out she's pregnant. 3. One of Us (NR | 1/1 | 3,255) Malia doesn't know what to do with the Hale pack.

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Get You The Moon by A ClosedFicIsNeverRead (E | 30/30 | 180,785)

Derek looked up in surprise to note that they were taking a private jet. Dread settled into his gut like a stone. “It has a cage, doesn’t it?” he asked quietly, and noted the subtle changes in his family members’ posture. “Is it for me?” Cora gave him a pleading look and nodded. “Is it because of what you’re going to tell me?” he asked, voice like gravel. Another nod confirmed it. Stiles. Oh, GOD. It had to be Stiles. Derek would not lose control over anyone else in Beacon Hills and they damned well knew it.

- OR -

The one where Derek has been gone for 6 months building a new life, finds out that Stiles is being assaulted by Theo, so he comes back to Beacon Hills to kick some serious ass and rescue the loudmouthed human who stole his heart.

(You will need ALL the tissues, but it will have a happy ending by the time all is said and done!)

Title inspired by song: ‘Get You The Moon’ by Kina ft. Snow

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#teen wolf #sterek #derek hale #stiles stilinski #sterek fic rec list #sterek fic rec #fic rec list #rec list #fic rec #tin's rec lists

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thoughtfulchaos773 · 11 months

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Refire the Sets

I'll try my best to break down what I love about this scene.

The whip pan from Sydney to Carmy- telling us something is coming. The transition gives us this disoriented feeling.

Oh, and the symbolism of the dish that triggers Carmy- they could have used any of the dishes to start a response, but they chose the one from Carmy's past.

The acting: Carmy stutters, and that frustrates him even more that he can't get the words out, Sydney's reaction to each fuck is Sydney trying to make sense of his anger.

The camera moves to Sydney and the clock behind her heightens the intensity.

When Carmy pleads, please just refire, just refire, please, the climbing music lowers a bit- signaling that this may not repeat the 1x07 review moment since Carmy tries to calm himself down.

And it won't be a repeat because Sydney speaks up for herself this time; she's not frozen in the wake of his anger; instead, she's ready to point out the reasons behind the error.

Writing: The quick dialogue happening at once- when Sydney and Carmy argue, their words collide, but they can catch everything the other is saying and react to it. There's no stone left unturned between Sydney and Carmy because they're listening to every word that comes out of their mouth.

While Sydney tells him what he was doing that caused the dead fish. Carmy hears it and reacts, and this time, it has nothing to do with the guy by the window. It has everything to do with Sydney. The rollercoaster from pleading just refire to the sudden explosion of Syd.Syd. I love how that's written and Jeremy's power behind calling her name.

The camera zooms in on Carmy when he says each word- Refire the sets. They've been sitting here for fucking ever. Refire. The camera gives us the feeling of heightened anxiety that's still there. But there's another whip pan when Sydney warns Carmy Watch it dude.

With Sydney's warning, the music returns to normal and at a normal volume. The camera focuses on Carmy again- but this time it's not as close- his panic attack is over.

The greatest part about this- this whole scene was only about 45 seconds, and it put us in a different world. That's what it always seems like with Sydney and Carmy- whether an argument or coming closer- it's a scene that slows down or speeds up the story's pace.

Kudos to the cinematography, writing, directing, and acting in this short amount of time.

#hopefully this makes sense?#sydcarmy #carmy x sydney #the bear 2x10 the bear #sydney adamu #thoughtful chaos scene analysis

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foolishlovers · 7 months

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hi bestie💖🫂

can you rec me some longer enemies to lovers AU? bonus if they are complete idiots.

thank you love!💕

of course, always 💜

here are some of my favourite longer good omens enemies to lovers AUs (ranging from 46k-201k):

[you can request more fic recs here.]

Fire, Bridges, and other Sensible Idioms by KiaraMGrey (E, 46k) To: The person who stopped the washer in the middle of my wash cycle and took my clothes out just to wash your own… You are an arsehole! Unfortunately for you, so am I. You can find your wet clothes frozen outside in the snow. If you have any problems with this, come see me in 301. or Aziraphale has a new neighbor, and they certainly don't start off on the right foot.

Intermezzo by FeralTuxedo (E, 47k) Music critic Aziraphale Fell is trying to break into the world of television, when he is signed to make a documentary about former-rockstar-turned-composer Anthony Crowley. It’s been eleven years since Aziraphale’s disastrous review of Crowley’s debut opera nipped his classical music career in the bud. He can only hope that Crowley will get over his admittedly justified grudge to make the TV show a success. A classical music sex comedy. Yes, really.

through the silent wood by summerofspock (M, 57k) When Aziraphale Eastgate first moves to Tadfield, he struggles to understand the strange culture of the village. They're not friendly or kind or anything he expected from a village in the north. So when he rescues a snake from a snow storm, he's glad for a little company even if it comes in the form of an animal. Unfortunately, in Tadfield, animals are often not what they seem.

Fifty-Two Blue by bendycello (M, 84k) It would be a gross understatement to say that Crowley simply didn't like Aziraphale. He was posh and stuffy and arrogant, and Crowley couldn't figure out why everyone else in the program liked him so much. It hardly mattered; they were competitors, and Crowley didn't need to make friends to become a surgeon. It takes several unleasant encounters, the excessive use of house plants as a coping mechanism, and getting stuck in an elevator for Crowley to start reconsidering his priorities. Or… Crowley and Aziraphale are surgical interns with competitive streaks a mile wide each, and they really do not like each other at all. Until they do.

Married at First Sight by Aracloptia (T, 146k) “Well, that was a thing,” Crowley said once they were out of earshot. Without talking about it, they were both heading down the field, towards the lake where the photographer (and likely a few more people from the TV crew) was waiting. “That was a wedding,” Aziraphale replied, surprised at his own annoyance that somebody called a wedding a ‘thing’. “Yeah, obviously, didn’t miss that part,” Crowley said with a shrug, and waved abruptly in Aziraphale’s general direction. “Neither did you, from the looks of it, since you’re dressed like a wedding bride and everything.” “Excuse me, I am a—“ Aziraphale stopped himself, and started over. In which Aziraphale ends up marrying a rude stranger who wears sunglasses.

Or Be Nice by charlottemadison (E, 151k) Crowley and Aziraphale are neighbours. And…it does not go at all well, until it does. A human AU in which Aziraphale is a bookseller, Crowley is a drummer, and they are both petty disasters in the worst/best way. +++ “So what’s your deal?” “My-my-my deal?” Aziraphale stammered. “I’m a bookseller, is my deal.” “Oh,” Crowley replied, sounding as uninterested as it was possible to sound. “It’s just, I couldn’t help overhearing, and --” Aziraphale swallowed hard. “You really are an accomplished musician. But I thought -- for after 11PM -- perhaps we could reach some arrangement?” “Arrangement?” Aziraphale felt his his smile turning forced. “Such as, perhaps, playing the drums before eleven? Instead of after?” Crowley stared blankly at him. In fact he stared for so long that Aziraphale briefly wondered if he'd lapsed into ancient Greek again, which he was known to do in bad dreams or during panic attacks.

The Curve of Old Bones by Jenanigans1207 (E, 201k) Aziraphale watches as Crowley’s smile grows, sharpens and turns distinctively dastardly. And even though Aziraphale knows what he’s in store for, he’s entirely unprepared for the words that slip out of Crowley’s mouth next. “Name’s Anthony Crowley, Aziraphale’s husband.” Aziraphale is eternally grateful that he wasn’t taking a sip of his tea at that exact moment for he would’ve surely choked on it. When Crowley claims to be Aziraphale's husband to ruin what he assumes is a date, he doesn't think anything of it. But a day later it comes back to bite him in the ass when Crowley finds out that the date in question is, in fact, his new boss, who is looking to hire Aziraphale and hoping that Crowley, his husband, will put in a good word for them. Now Crowley is caught in a tight spot: either admit to his new boss that he was lying, or convince Aziraphale, his sort-of enemy, to pretend to be his husband to save face.

stil on my tbr:

Miracles on Ice by HenriettaRHippo (E, 52k, WIP) Two rival figure skaters - Aziraphale and Crowley - must team up as the world's first male-male figure skating pair. There's just one problem…they can't stand each other. Can these two put aside their hatred to bring back the gold? Or was that hatred just a cover for deeper feelings bubbling under the surface? It's enemies to lovers, on ice! Crowley And The Chocolate Factory by entanglednow (E, 54k) Crowley has to step up for his nephew Adam when he wins a ticket to tour the famous chocolate factories, run by the reclusive and deeply strange Zira Zonka. It doesn't take Crowley long to decide that he wants nothing to do with the man, who's clearly hiding dark and mysterious secrets.

To Conquer A Grand Estate by MrsCaulfield, angelsnuffbox (M, 84k) 'He fought against another thing as well. He fought against hope, the warmth and pleasing sensation of it, wanting to bloom in his chest. He took it and kept it within confinement, aware that it would no longer do him any service. A foolish thing it was, to realise how greatly and ardently he could have loved Crowley now, when all love was vain.' Good Omens x Pride and Prejudice fusion that no one asked for

[you can find more fic rec masterposts here]

#thanks for asking me mari 💜#i kinda thought there would be more??#mayhaps i need no write another enemies to lovers fic mhmmm #good omens #good omens human au #good omens fic rec #good omens fanfic #aziracrow #crowley x aziraphale #aziracrow fic #ineffable husbands #foolish recs #go fic masterpost

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nova-amor · 1 year

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𓈒∘☁︎ ◜ 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲 ◞

𝐜𝐰 — 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐥 𝐩𝐥𝐨𝐭, 𝐦𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐧 𝐚𝐮 [𝐧𝐨 𝐬𝐨𝐫𝐜𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐬𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠], 𝐬𝐞𝐦𝐢-𝐩𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐜 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲 [𝐛𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐦], 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲, 𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨, 𝐮𝐧𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐝, 𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐰𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥, 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐜𝐮𝐦 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲, 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐭 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐠𝐞, 𝐩𝐞𝐭 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 [𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲, 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥, 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐲 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥, 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥]

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 — 𝟐.𝟓𝐤

house parties had never really been your thing. all throughout high school and college, you had preferred to stay tucked away in your room, binge-watching a movie series or reviewing lesson sheets while your friends spent their friday and saturday evenings at the nearest party. there had been no strong appeal to spending your nights out drunk, sandwiched between sweaty bodies while the worst techno music overwhelmed your eardrums.

and, it wasn't like your friends made fun of you or tried to pressure you to tag along to such parties either— they had quickly learned to respect your recluse behavior and would often just send you videos or photos throughout the night to keep you in the loop, which you always found enjoyment out of.

so, it definitely came as a shock to everyone when you had willingly volunteered to join them for a night out one random evening. you had elected yourself as the designated driver for the evening, which they had very much appreciated with the rising price increases in third-party riding apps. upon arrival at the party, you had slipped away into the backyard, attempting to escape from the nauseating aroma of cheap booze, sweat, and other foul body odors.

the music was also a bit quieter outside, fewer people to interact with, and a soft golden glow from the porch lights that was just enough to illuminate the texts from the book you were reading. having found peace amongst the chaos of the house party, you were thoroughly enjoying the moment up until it was rudely interrupted by the host.

a ice cold liquid spilled atop your head, a high-pitched screech of surprise eliciting from the depths of your throat as the sickly sweet scent of booze-filled your nostrils. your vision was blurred, your head sweeping left and right before your sight finally landed on the culprit behind you.

“oh, shit, i'm so sorry,” satoru gojo gasped, his artic blue eyes forming into the size of saucers. it was as if he was frozen into place, muscle tensed and pale cheeks heated up with a scarlet tint. “shit, i didn't mean to spill— someone bumped into me and— fuck, i'm so sorry—”

his rambling pissed you off, the back of your hands now stained with the sticky substance of beer and makeup as you wiped your eyes. your hair was soaked in beer, along with your shirt and bra. you glared up at him, streaks of black mascara and eyeliner smudged around your eyes and down your cheeks.

“where's the bathroom?” your voice was icy, laced with venom as you abruptly stood up from the bench. satoru was barely able to slip a word out, his pink lips agape and towering frame dwarfed beneath the intensity of your gaze. he pointed in a random direction upstairs, earning a roll of your eyes and a shove to his shoulder as you brushed past him.

you tore open the sliding door, the gross aroma of alcohol and sweat making your lips curl in disgust as you squeezed through the large crowd. you pushed and shoved past people, earning a few glares and under-the-breath snarls as you made your way upstairs.

finally, finding the bathroom, the golden overhead light illuminated the yellowish splotches that decorated your white t-shirt and smears of your makeup, effectively ruining your evening. as you stripped yourself of your top, there was a sharp knock to the bathroom door before a familiar white-haired man poked his head through the door.

“fuck, i'm so sorry,” satoru apologized as he stepped into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. you peeked at the black hoodie held in his fist while you rubbed a damp washcloth around your cheeks, the act smearing more makeup around than actually removing it. “i'll send you money for the shirt, just tell me how much it was. and, i grabbed you a hoodie, it might be a bit big on you but at least it's better than nothing, right?”

you glanced between the hoodie satoru was clinging to and his eyes. you had never seen satoru look so afraid before, most likely because you rarely got angry at anyone. and, whenever you did, you allowed actions to dictate rather than your words.

“i don't want your money,” you sneered at him, your face finally rid of all your makeup. you tilted your head forward, rinsing your hair beneath the rushing cold water spewing from the faucet. “you can just leave the hoodie on the toilet, thanks.”

satoru gnawed at his bottom lip, fixated on the curve of your back as you bent over the bathroom counter. his gaze was shameless, heat pooling into his pelvis as he inhaled a sharp breath of cold air through his nose. he sat the hoodie down on the basin of the toilet, taking a step closer to you.

“let me help you,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave as his fingers engulfed yours, aiding you in your attempt to rinse all of the beer from your hair. his pelvis was pressed softly to your behind, his warmth radiating through the layers of fabric between the two of you. “i'm really sorry again, just wanna make it up to you. i'll do whatever it takes, just don't want you t' be mad at me.”

a shiver runs down your spine— either from the weight of satoru's words, the cold water cascading down the sides of your face, or both.

“gojo, stop apologizing,” you said as you peeled your head out from under the water. satoru took a step back to grab a decorated towel, allowing you some space between the two of you. “you don't need to make anything up to me; it was an accident, you didn't mean to do it. it's over, let's be done with it.”

as you wrapped the towel around your head, satoru's hands grabbed at your waist— pressing your back up against the bathroom counter while his legs found their place between yours. one of his hands trailed up the curve of your body, ghosting over the swell of your bra-clad breast before cupping your neck, and gently tilting your head backward. his light blue eyes peered down at you, pupils wavering and enlarged. “are you sure there's nothing i can do to make it up to you?”

you gulped, heart pounding a frantic rhythm as the temperature of the bathroom seemed to rise from his close proximity. "gojo," your voice was breathy, the lingering remnants of anger melting into a puddle within your chest as the pad of his thumb caressed the hinge of your jaw.

“stop calling me gojo, angel,” satoru’s head dipped down, mere centimeters away from your face. it felt like you couldn’t breathe anymore.

“and let me make it up to you the best way i know how,” half-lidded eyes glancing between your lips and your eyes. the tip of his nose brushes against yours, your head growing light from the intensity of the moment. “would you allow that?”

with a soft nod of your head, satoru's lips press against yours— capturing your lips in a heated kiss, his tongue pushing past the seam of your lips, stealing the very air from your lungs. his hand squeezes at your waist, the lingering sweetness of alcohol flooding your mouth. satoru guides you over to the toilet, his long legs spread out as you sit upon his lap.

the wet sounds of your lips fill the bathroom's void, the booming noise of dance music fading away as you surrender pieces of yourself to satoru. his hand trails up from your neck to cup the back of your head, smushing your faces together while his other hand kneads at the fat of your ass cheek through your jeans.

“fuck,” his voice is deep and raspy, dripping with lust as your lips devour the sides of his neck with scorching hot kisses and licks. you suckle at the space beneath his ear, ripping a long groan from his throat as you nip at the sensitive spot. “fuck— lemme— can i take your pants off, please?”

“no,” you breathe into satoru's ear, your bruised lips brushing against the soft earlobe. your fingers hook onto the waistband of satoru's pants, barely able to tug them down from your position on his lap. “but you can take yours off.”

you snake down to the bathroom, watching with hungry eyes as satoru peels his pants and boxer briefs off, the fabric pooled at his ankles as you kneel in front of him. his cock is long, thick, and veiny— cockhead flushed a rosy shade of pink, oozing pearls of white pre-cum.

a hushed fuck is breathed out through gritted teeth as your soft hands wrap around the base of his cock, pumping his throbbing length with twists and flicks of your wrists. your lips wrap around the head of his cock, tongue lapping up the white globs of pre-cum seeping from the slit. satoru's hips buck up to chase the warm sensation of your mouth engulfing him, his head dipping back to lean against the bathroom wall, whispers of praise and moans bubbling up from the depths of his throat.

“fuck yes,” his voice is soft, his fingers stretched across the back of your head, guiding your mouth up and down whatever inches you allowed your throat to gobble down. “so wet— mouth feels so good— such a good girl f'me— f-fuck, just like that, god you look like a dream—”

his cock pokes at the gummy wall at the back of your throat, tears streaming down your hollowed cheeks as satoru guides your head up and down his cock in languid movements. he twitches against your tongue, your mind spiraling, completely forgetting how vulnerable you two were to getting caught. at any given someone could open the door and catch you in the act, satoru's pitiful hiccups were drowned out by the thumping of the music downstairs.

“stop stop stop,” satoru peels your mouth off his cock, his muscles tensed from his approaching orgasm. he practically melts at the sight of your teary eyes and flushed lips, drool pooling down the edges of your mouth as you look up at him. “don't wanna cum yet... c'mere here, pretty girl.”

satoru helps you from off the floor, heat rushing between your thighs as he pulls down the fabric of your jeans. you don't fight satoru as he twists your body around, guiding your hips back down onto his lap. your legs are stretched over his bare thighs, the sticky girth of his cock flushed against your sex. his dick slips between your soaked lips, cunt drooling all over his length as he teases the pulse of your clit.

the mushroom tip then pushes through your entrance, the delicious stretch of his cock easing its way through your tight ring earning a quivering groan from the man. “god, you feel good around my dick, such a perfect pussy—”

a pleasant buzz settles over your mind, your head tilting back to nestle against his shoulder. “gonna fuck me good, ‘toru?” you tease as satoru guides your hips, lifting your body up and down his length as if you were his personal sex doll. his biceps and thighs flex against you, your pussy desperate to be stuffed full of his cock as he thrusts into your tight heat.

“you fuckin’ know it— g’na give ya the best dick ya ever had, g’na make sure ya remember this forever,” satoru rambles into your ear, affectionate kisses peppered across your neck as a muscled arm snakes around your waist. “squeezin' me so tight, angel; best pussy i've ever had,” he grinds his hips into you, barely able to muster up the strength to pound you properly.

“ya feel even better, ‘toru, fuckin’ love yer cock,” you groan out, his cock nudging against the gummy walls of your cunt, stroking the fire within you just enough to pull pathetic whimpers and moans from you. “yer cock was made f’me, f-fucckk—”

“g'na cum deep inside you, okay? so close, so fuckin' close, pretty girl— need ya t' cum with me, baby, okay?” satoru whimpers, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck. you felt like you were on cloud nine, like your soul had drifted out of your body and into the very heavens above.

with your eyes pinched closed, all you can do is nod and gargle out a pathetic series of “yesyesyes”s. satoru's free hand latches to one of your breasts, peeling back the thick layer of your bra to pinch at your nipple. he twirls the sensitive bud between his slender fingers, tugging and pinching at them until their nice and puffy.

the sensitivity of your breasts being fondled and his cock head rubbing at the mind-numbing spot buried deep into your gummy walls tears a scream from your throat as your release submerges you into its depths. satoru tenses up against you, his cock pressed impossibly close against your cervix as a series of curse words ramble from his lips. his cum stains your insides— the thick load spilling out from your sopping cunt and dripping down his balls.

satoru holds you close for a few moments, his labored breaths heating your skin as he presses his sweaty forehead into the back of your shoulder. “holy fuck,” he manages a chuckle, pressing a chaste kiss to your shoulder blade. “let me just stay like this for a little bit more, not ready to pull out just yet, pretty pussy's just too warm.”

you lean against satoru for what feels like an eternity, your tiny sniffles and whimpers filling the air as satoru adjusts your weight atop him. “satoru, we should clean up before someone walks in, we forgot to lock the door,” you manage to say, earning an annoyed huff from the man.

satoru reluctantly pulls out of you, your legs too weak to support your own weight as you lean against the opposing wall. he guides you to take his place on the toilet seat's lid, the plastic warm against your skin as he shuffles around to grab you something to clean yourself with. he settles on the damp cloth you used to wipe your makeup with, his touch attentive and gentle as he kneels before you— making sure to clean every drop of cum and arousal from every crevice and fold of your cunt.

“fuck, look at that,” he murmurs, peeling back at your puffy lips as a white glob of cum seeps out from your entrance. it drools down your slit before pooling on the seat. “what a pretty sight, my cum drippin' out of your cute little pussy.”

you roll your eyes, cheeks puffed out in embarrassment as satoru scoops up the spilled cum. his finger prods at the tight ring of your entrance, your breath catching in your throat as his fingers hook into the walls of your cunt— fucking the wasted seed back into you.

“can't let it all go to waste, right?” satoru gazes up at you, a smug smirk painted across his lips.

“s-satoru, the door—” your hips buck to meet his shallow ministrations, another chuckle bubbling from his lips. he litters kisses along the soft skin of your inner thighs before resting his cheek against the warm skin.

he peers up at you from below, another finger slipping deep inside of you. “i'll make sure to lock the door this time, baby— don't want someone catching a glimpse of what's mine, right?”

maybe parties weren't so bad after all.

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missredherring · 1 year

Text

Develop

Joel Miller x Female Reader

Rating: R

Word Count: 1.4k

Warnings: one-sided feelings. unspecified age gap. stalker behavior. a dash of voyeurism? female masturbation.

Summary: Your fingers freeze on the mouse when you get to the last pictures of the final roll of film. You scroll through, eyes straining to understand what the thumbnail is showing you.

It looks like Joel had an adult sleepover of his own.

A/N: This came from @psychedelic-ink and the idea that Joel has a collection of dirty pictures. Thank you @johnwatsn to the moon and back for being an amazing beta.

A little thrill zips through you when you see the name on the blue and white striped envelope on the counter. You crane your neck to see if he’s still in the store, but you only see a pair of broad shoulders and curly hair walking out the door.

There, filling out the request form printed on the front of the envelope in neat and legible handwriting, is his name, contact information, and print order.

Joel Miller.

The envelope is slightly larger than a 5x7" print so it can fit the two offered print sizes and negatives easily. It can begrudgingly fit an entire disposable camera, maybe two with seams near bursting, but not the four that Joel had left in a line under the envelope. You smile at his thoughtfulness. Other customers toss them on the counter without a care, but his are lined up neatly with the envelope resting on top. Had he looked around for a rubber band to keep them together? You’re disappointed at the missed opportunity for small talk, but there’s always a chance you’ll be working when he picks his order up.

You get to work, cracking open the plastic case of the disposable cameras like crab shells. Four rolls of film go into the processor, unspooling and revealing their secrets. Usually he brings in one or two every couple of weeks. They’re filled with things like his daughter’s soccer games, family cookouts with who you think is his brother: they have the same eyes and nose. Sometimes they’re pictures from jobs he does. You don’t know anything about construction, but you think he’s good at what he does. The lines are clean and the structures look solid.

The machines run through their functions and your computer screen steadily fills with thumbnails of pictures as each negative is scanned. It looks like his daughter had a sleepover. There’s picture after picture of faces too close to the lens. Red eyes and toothy grins take up the frame. An impromptu concert with music video dance moves frozen in time, and peaceful faces peeking out of sleeping bags. It looks like a nice time, making you remember sleepovers of your own, and the fuzzy feeling you usually get when looking over Joel’s pictures warms you almost as much as the heat coming from the machines.

Your fingers freeze on the mouse when you get to the last pictures of the final roll of film. You scroll through, eyes straining to understand what the thumbnail is showing you.

It looks like Joel had an adult sleepover of his own.

Included in your job description as a photo technician is the duty of reviewing photos that people want prints of and deciding if they were too adult in nature to print. That meant no nudes or anything illegal in nature. Thankfully, it’d never been an issue baring the few rolls of film that showed up after an annual biker rally.

Objectively, these photos aren’t anymore risqué than a boudoir photoshoot. It’s hard to be objective right now.

Some of the lines are blurry from the camera being operated with one hand. A woman in lingerie pushing up her chest with her arm, just the hint of a coy look on what you could see of her face. The last two are different. The angle, the perspective, and the photographer has changed.

The lace of the lingerie teasing the curve of a hip and a hand, big and rough-looking, resting just where the line of fabric gives way to skin. The indent of his fingertips just beginning to show as they press down.

The woman’s face. Her lips are plump and open like she’s waiting for another kiss. Large glassy eyes don’t look back at you from the lens. Instead they’re looking just off to the side, where he must be.

A man’s hand. It has to be Joel’s; you recognize the fading bruise on his thumbnail from when he handed over his disposable cameras last time. His hand is cupping her jaw, tilting her face to the side just so. Like he was directing her to the perfect pose for this picture.

Your mind has turned to static. Before you can form a coherent thought, your finger twitches, increasing the print count for the last photo, and before you can cancel it the order is starting, the printer rumbling to life.

You know you shouldn’t have done it. It’s an invasion of privacy. It’s against the rules. It’s probably illegal. It’s just not right.

The picture, still hot off the rollers, is shoved into your purse like the contraband it is.

***

You’re too old to be sneaking things into the apartment like this, but it feels like there’s a giant sign pointing right to your purse that tells everyone what you did. You shove it under your mattress and try to forget about it. You can’t. It feels like hiding a dead body. A tell-tale heart under your mattress that beats along with throbbing in your pussy.

It’s a slip of paper. Nothing. But as you lay in bed that night you swear you can feel it. It makes you feel silly, like the princess and the pea, but you don’t remove it. You don’t have to.

The tableau is seared into your mind’s eye. Showing the negative image on every blank surface you look at. You can’t stop thinking about it, wanting it.

You want to be the one his hands are on. So you touch yourself to that fantasy, and it’s so strong, the closeup of his hands so detailed, that you’re close to coming in minutes.

You shouldn’t be doing this, but you don’t care about wrong or right; you just want Joel Miller to fuck you. The thought, blunt and delicious, spurs you on and you come, turning your head to your pillow to muffle the whimper that escapes you.

The endorphins rush through your body, and there's some satisfaction from coming, but the ache, the want, is still there as you clench around your own fingers.

Crossing your arm over your chest, you cup your own face with a trembling hand in the same way Joel had in the picture. Tracing the curve of your lip, you press down, as if admiring the darkened hue.

Did he turn her head just for the camera? Was her pulse hammering in her ears so loudly that she couldn’t hear the crank of the film advancing or the click of the shutter? Did she smile at him after? Did he call her his good girl? Did he call her his "Baby," “Sweetheart,” or “Darlin'” in that southern drawl? Yea, you like that one.

“Look at me, Darlin’.”

Wind, wind, wind. Click.

You imagine it’s his weight on the mattress that makes you shift. The way he’d keep himself back, maybe even still wearing his jeans and nothing else. The bulge in those jeans would be evidence enough of his desire, even if you couldn’t see his face, partially covered by the camera.

You widen your thighs and lift your hips to him; to his touch and to his view. Your hand goes back down to your pussy and you start touching yourself again, opening the swollen lips for him. The cum makes everything slippery and you know you must look a mess. Spread open and on display for a phantom photographer. Would the flash catch it and make it shine?

Would he want a picture of this moment too? A keepsake from a night of passion. When memories and sensation fade, would he take the picture out and remember you fondly? Would he touch himself while he looked at it? Remembering how you felt? The softness of your skin, the taste on your tongue, the heat of your pussy. Would he be careful not to cover the glossy paper with his cum so it wouldn’t stain? Or would he like that so much he’d do it again on purpose. Covering your image in his cum just like he had covered your body that night. He wouldn’t have had enough wits about him to take a picture of that.

Your entire body tightens up as you continue to press against your clit, circling and circling, pushing into overstimulation as one orgasm rolls into another. “Joel.” His name echoes in the room and the climax feels better this time.

You go back and forth on whether you want to be the one to hand him his completed order before you fall asleep.

#joel miller x female reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfiction #tlou fanfiction #pedro pascal character fanfiction

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lewovo-poto · 2 months

Text

1988 Phantom of the Opera (Partial) Viewing Experience at The New York Public Library for the Performing Arts, Theatre on Film and Tape Archive. July, 2024

---

After learning that it’s possible to make appointments at the NY Library Archive and that they allow viewing of all closed Broadway official recordings for research purposes, I happily booked an appointment. But because I was rushing after watching Cat the Jellicle Ball in the afternoon (great show btw!) and got lost and took the wrong subway, I arrived after 5 PM, and the archive closes at 6 PM. This meant I couldn’t finish watching, so I knew I'd have to come back next time. The archive staff checked my bag and allowed me to bring in paper, a pen, and my phone.

I realized I didn’t have much time, so I thought I’d focus on the key parts. But then, disaster struck again—the computer was about as old as I am, and even my elementary school computer was more advanced. The interface was really difficult to use, and I didn’t really know how to fast-forward or rewind properly, so after wasting 10 minutes, I gave up and decided to just watch it as it was. 😂

(Sorry for any grammar mistakes, English is not my first language)

---

**1988 Phantom Review**

The opening captured the surrounding audience, since this was a performance with a live audience. The video quality was average, but if AI restoration becomes possible someday, that would be great. It wasn’t bad, just the typical quality you'd expect from the 1980s.

The Overture was particularly intriguing. I had read in other reviews that there was a female voice, so I was curious, and it turned out there really was a soprano singing along with the Overture, with an “ah—” as the chandelier slowly rose. It sounded quite Gothic. (I wonder when this was introduced and when it was discontinued, as I’ve never heard this version before. It must have been used for a very short period.)

Sarah danced throughout, but there was a moment where she seemed a bit confused, though she quickly resumed dancing normally. After the first part of Hannibal, Carlotta practiced her voice while the old manager introduced everything with a cheerful and enthusiastic tone, rather than the usual tired one (I couldn’t tell if this was because someone else was taking over this mess of a theater or if it was just his naturally cheerful demeanor lol). The conductor squatted down with the sheet music, communicating with the orchestra while waving his arms. I have to say, the immersive experience of the Bucket Show was quite something.

During the iconic “He’s there, the Phantom of the Opera!” line, a male voice also shouted, “There’s a ghost!” Huh?? I hadn’t noticed that before. It seems that the original cast of the Broadway production used British accents (even though most of them, except MC and Sarah, should have been American).

Carlotta looked so small compared to the manager, haha. After getting angry, she said “Ubaldo, Andiamo” in a very deep voice, which I think was the first time I heard that line delivered in a lower register.

Madame Giry asked, “Will the Viscount be at tonight’s performance?” and the manager replied, “Of course, he’ll be in our box.” I don’t think these lines are in the current production anymore; at least, they weren’t in the 25th-anniversary performance.

TOM:

Sarah was so skinny! She really was the wide-eyed ingénue type, with her large eyes. Her dress seemed more teal than green. She wasn’t the lively, bouncy type, but rather, every movement was slow and gentle, and her voice is with lots of vibrato.

Steve Barton’s loud “BRAVO” during the recollection scene was followed by soft, broken out sentences full of laughter, making it seem like he was lost in a beautiful memory.

After TOM, Sarah kept talking and nodding with the conductor, probably reviewing the performance. When MC’s “Bravi” came out, Sarah fell into deep thought until Meg came over and startled her. Meg was super cute, and Sarah’s Christine maintained a frozen, pensive expression while talking to Meg, not really happy until she sang “Angel of Music, guide and guardian, grant to me your glory!” and finally smiled. When Madame Giry said, “Come and practice,” it sounded like there was a male voice saying “Asshole” (though I didn’t see this in anyone else’s report, so it might have been me lacking sleep and hallucinated, or perhaps a spectator’s accidental comment was recorded).

Steve Barton is truly the best Raoul, bars none! He exudes both gentleness and elegance, while his voice carries the excitement and joy of someone who has just fallen in love. When he sees Christine, his face lights up with a smile, and when he says "SOAKED to the skin" to her, he really emphasizes the word "SOAKED" with a pause. Similarly, when he says "Little Lottie," he pronounces it pointedly, like "Li—ttle Lo—ttie," as if savoring the name with each syllable. Sarah’s Christine is also very happy to see Raoul, but when she mentions the Angel, her expression turns pensive and melancholy again. Christine initially declines the dinner invitation, but when Raoul says, "No no, you must change, 2 mins, MY little Lottie" (“MY"!), Sarah’s Christine ends up smiling and looking amused. Because of this, it doesn’t seem like Raoul is being overbearing; it feels like, for a brief moment, the two of them have mutually agreed to go to dinner. It’s only after Raoul turns away that Christine realizes, "Oh no, I can’t go—everything has changed." (Could be me reading too much into it)

When Sarah's Christine first heard MC’s Phantom, she wasn’t scared—it was just… a normal expression when Sarah's Christine thought of the Phantom, the pensive kind, until the “enter at last, master” line when she smiled. MC’s Phantom in the mirror was really… creepy, especially with the makeup and lighting.

(At this point, my notes became too messy to decipher… I was probably too excited at the time.)

Title Song:

During the boat scene, Christine looked very happy, while the Phantom leaned slightly as if about to touch Christine’s face (probably during the “Where night is blind” line).

MOTN:

MC’s Phantom had noticeable… eye bags, lol. MC’s rendition of MOTN felt like a lullaby, but with a Gothic allure. The body language was similar to Sarah’s TOM, with every movement slow and deliberate, very graceful (maybe due to the original stage direction by Gillian Lynne). Sarah's Christine looked somewhat hypnotized. During “Turn your thoughts away from cold unfeeling light,” MC’s Phantom’s fingers almost touched Sarah’s face, coming close to a kiss before pulling away. MC’s “Soar” & “Be” was super long and well-sung. Another part I liked was when, possibly due to the height difference, MC’s Phantom slightly hunched over during “Floating, falling,” making him look extra creepy. It also felt like, after maintaining such an elegant demeanor for so long, MC’s Phantom was finally losing some composure as he got closer to Christine. During “The music that I write,” MC’s voice was particularly seductive, and his lower register was impressive.

Since this was the Broadway version, when Christine was Christine ightened and fainted, the Phantom didn’t carry her. MC’s Phantom looked more like he was in a composed shock—surprised but not panicked, and he gently covered Christine with the cloak. The monkey music box didn’t work well in this performance, lol, as it didn’t play any music (even in the official recording, lol).

When Sarah's Christine woke up, she wasn’t the playful, cute, and mischievous type (like Sierra in 25th Anniversary, and many others). Sarah's Christine looked curious but also more anxious, as if she was unease waking up in a strange environment, which is honestly a very logical reaction after woke up at a strange place, and quite Leroux. When she sang “who’s the face in the mask,” her face showed more fear (though, speaking of which, while its believable for Sarah’s Christine to act anxious when woke up, it’s a bit unbelievable that Sarah's Christine, who seemed so uneasy and scared, would dare to remove the Phantom’s mask. I think I prefer a more playful Christine but that’s more of a personal preference).

After revealing the mask, Sarah's Christine cried and wailed a lot (she seemed very scared, poor girl). MC’s Phantom… my notes got messy again here (probably because I was too excited), but the dialogue used “vixen” instead of “viper.” MC’s Phantom also cried and groaned in pain, crawling toward Christine. I remember he turned his face toward Christine without covering it (though it was hard to see the disfigurement makeup in the dark), reaching out his arm, pleading, and letting out a super sad, sobbing “Oh Christine…” After getting the mask back, MC’s Phantom reached out as if to caress Christine’s face but switched to using his wrist at the last second.

In the Magical Lasso scene, there was a brief glimpse of the Phantom and C. The original Broadway Madame Giry really had a strong witch-like aura, haha.

Then I fast-forwarded because the library was about to close. I remember Sarah’s Christine as the Page Boy was *super* cute. Honestly, that was probably the cutest and most lively I saw Sarah's Christine. Then I fast-forwarded to the rooftop scene, where Sarah’s Christine had her usual fearful attitude toward the Phantom. When singing “So distorted, deformed,” her face seemed to show… a look of disgust (oh nooooo!). But when she sang “in that night, there was music in my mind,” she smiled again. She’s truly a Christine who’s more in love with the Voice... Then the staff had finished clearing the other tables, so I also got up to leave. Through fast-forwarding, it seems like Christine and Raoul had lots of hugs and such. I really hope I can go to NY on a business trip again soon and have time to visit the library to watch the official recording! Next time, I hope I can take my time and enjoy it slowly from start to finish.

---

**Personal Reflections**:

Steve Barton needs no further discussion—eternally the best! I've always thought of him as the steady, noble, and gentle Prince Charming type of Raoul. After watching (a portion of) the official recording, I realized that Barton’s Raoul also has a very lively and passionate side, full of the excitement of a young man in love. His voice is full of teasing warmth, especially when he first encounters Christine. Unfortunately, I didn't get to see much of the rooftop scene, but he seems to exude gentleness. In summary, he's a perfect Raoul!

As for Sarah's Christine... uh, well, I have mixed feelings. I've heard others praise Sarah, saying she has a very classical Gothic 19th-century vibe, so my expectations were quite high. I was imagining a mysterious woman with her head in the clouds. Of course, there are also criticisms of her acting, saying it's somewhat lacking (I shall never forgot that one critic was like “She can’t act scared in NY subway at 3am” or something, which is quite mean). After watching this segment of the official recording, I feel... there were some elements in both? She is indeed a graceful, intellectual Christine, with many secrets buried deep in her heart. Her facial expressions seem fine to me, mostly seem pensive and wistful, definitely able to act scared and unsettled. Maybe it's because her Christine always seems deeply burdened, so her expressions often appear serious. But when it comes to her interactions with the Phantom... it feels like her Christine doesn't really love him. Christine only seems truly happy when the Phantom is acting as her Angel of Music or when he has her completely under his spell, but once the Angel leaves or when she's not controlled by the music, Christine immediately returns to reality, filled with unease. Also, during the rooftop scene when describing the Phantom's face, Sarah's Christine actually shows disgust, which really shocked me because I usually see this moment as one of fright (at the Phantom's actions and ferocity) rather than revulsion at his face. So, it's hard to judge—paired with Barton's flawless Raoul, it feels like Sarah’s Christine would be very willing to leave the Phantom. She does give off Leroux Christine’s melancholy and pensive energy——a woman with many secrets, and I really like that about her.

MC’s Phantom—it's a pity I couldn't see the later scenes where the Phantom truly lets loose and explodes. However, from the parts I did see, MC's Phantom is a very classic Gothic "monster." His movements are slow and graceful, yet strangely seductive, and at the same time, quite creepy, especially with the makeup and lighting. His voice is very controlled—except when he's too close to Christine or when his mask is removed, he generally seems like a Phantom who is mostly in strict control of himself. He's very restrained, always keeping his movements and interactions with Christine just on the edge of touching, almost kissing, but then pulls back at the last second (which aligns with the original choreography and the director's intent to express suppressed desire). His anger, perhaps due to the nature of his voice, isn't one of raging madness but more of sadness followed by painful wails, full of pleading. His control over his voice and how he used that to convey emotions is just so captivating and heartbreaking. Oh, how I wish I could see MC's final lair scene, as MC's Phantom is really one who is very composed and elegant most of the time (honestly, it’s more like the Phantom in Kay's novel—one can understand how the old-school Phantoms influenced Susan Kay's inspiration). And I really want to see MC's Phantom with other Christines, like Dale Kristien. I know she’s one of the most supportive of the Erik/Christine relationship and is a fan of MC. I'm very curious how MC and she would perform together.

#poto #phantom of the opera #christine daae #raoul de chagny #erik the phantom #the phantom of the opera #sarah brightman #michael crawford #steve barton #tbh now that I saw 1990 LA bootleg of MC I gotta say his final lair doesn’t disappoint #so much wailing and crying he’s breaking down #the way his voice was void of emotion after being kissed then gradually can’t hold back anymore #amazing #now I really want to see how he acts against Sarah and Steve in final lair

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thetimelordbatgirl · 2 months

Note

Y’know, Rise of Red is nothing more than a rushed cash grab in an attempt to bank off a pretty much a dead franchise. They’ve scored so poorly on rotten tomatoes with both audience and critics hating on it. 44% for the audience score and 50%. It’s way lower than the ALL three movies combined, and it’s definitely a retcon of all three movies. Plus, if I’m being honest, RoR doesn’t even feel like a descendants movie at all, it felt more like a TikTok/K-pop style movie with mediocre versions of the Disney characters. Case in point, Aladdin and Jasmine.

In addition, I’m worried because RoR has created some stans where they’re hating on the og fans and calling them nostalgia fan and such.Descendants subreddit is more cringy with RoR than fans on TikTok.

First off, don't insult tiktok/K-Pop like that: both of those have better music then whatever the fuck you call Rise of Red's music, let alone both understand fashion better then Mattel/the designers for Rise of Red. Second of all, I mean, your just saying what we all been knowing. There's no reason to keep going with Descendants after the third movie UNLESS its just to milk it for money, and trying to do a soft reboot of the prior three movies and what they established while killing off a character whose actor is sadly no longer with us, just makes it clear as day this is to keep a franchise going for money and that's it. I mean, it's been literally said Mattel helped design the characters just for DOLLS, if that isn't clear where the minds were when it came to this movie. (And fun fact: they cost the same price as a MH G3 doll over here in UK, aka £30....I'll leave it up to anyone reading to decide if they worth that much in comparison to MH G3 which manages to make itself worth that much). But also like, I mean....yeah, it doesn't feel like a Descendants movie...even the third movie, also a shit show, is more of a Descendants movie then this...this just feels like Disney WANTED to do their own take on insert-thing-but-they-in-high-school, but couldn't be bothered to risk doing its own franchise and shoved it into Descendants. And the fact that I've only seen I dunno, ONE goodish review on this movie on Youtube but it still had criticism's brought up and even a channel who liked Descendants hated it....yeah that should be saying a-lot.

But honestly....that was expected. Even before the movie came out, hating on it was considered just being too nostalgia obsessed and its for a new generation so leave it alone and such. So it's not surprising it got worser once it came out. Honestly, I'm speaking for myself, I don't care if Rise of Red fans hate me, its fine. They got enjoyment somehow out of a hour and half...meanwhile I (and my friend since we watched it together) felt like I did with Frozen 2: could have spent time watching something else. Like, enjoy Rise of Red? Fine. But don't get mad if other's didn't like it and are expressing that. The block button is right there. Curate your fandom experience.

#disney descendants #descendants #descendants the rise of red #the rise of red

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phoenixyfriend · 1 year

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The Myth of the Rational Actor

Ko-fi prompt from @vincentursus:

the myth of the rational actor please?

The myth as such: people will act in a perfectly rational manner, and the economy will respond in reaction to that.

So... the idea here is that emotions will never influence someone's actions in making economic choices.

Which is, as we can guess, bullshit.

To quote Medium,

Mainstream (neo-classical) economics idealizes human beings as perfectly rational actors when it comes to making decisions. This concept, known as rational choice theory, is based on three assumptions: 1. People have complete and consistent preferences (which can be assigned quantitative values called utilities) among a set of decision outcomes 2. People act independently based on full and relevant information 3. People always select the decision option that maximizes their utility.

So. That's absurd. Let's start from the bottom, utility.

One of the first things you learn in any marketing class is that half the industry is run on an appeal to emotion.

(The other half of it actually is an appeal to logic, like 'you can use this tool to compare your insurance costs,' which is the aforementioned rational action.)

The most obvious example of that utility element being wrong is: Food.

For a completely rational actor, the food purchased would be the most nutrition for the least cost. Taste is irrelevant. Ambience is irrelevant. Occasion is irrelevant. You fill out the food pyramid for whatever you can pay the least amount of cash. Buy a fifty pound bag of rice, wholesale canned tuna, and frozen veggie mixes that you only need five minutes to heat up and consume.

Chocolate? No. Salt or sugar? Only enough to fulfill your need for water absorption. Spices? Waste of money!

This sounds extreme, because a complete lack of emotional impact on your purchasing habits is extreme. You seek things that make you happy or pleased. You search for sweet tastes that cheer you up, for fatty tastes that satisfy you, for spicy flavors that you can eat in a competition with your friends to prove who's the manliest.

That's not rational! But we do it! Food is an inherently irrational thing to purchase, unless you are so strapped for cash that you cannot afford to be anything other than fully dedicated to the highest calorie:dollar ratio that you can find.

The other thing that the utility factor disregards is charity. On the standard 'rational' definition used in economics, charity is completely irrational for anyone who doesn't get a tax cut from it.

But people engage in charitable actions and donations anyway.

Full and relevant information: Uhhhhh no

I think we can all agree that full and relevant information is not actually a reality for most people.

Manufacturers bend the truth. Marketers omit things. Word of mouth is unreliable. Influencers lie. Online reviews are fake.

Some don't! But you don't know who is or isn't lying unless there is a law that controls what information they can put out. Researching takes time, and figuring out which lies are actually lies is difficult.

There are a lot of videos all over YouTube talking about scams, both the obvious, and the more subtle. There's a reason that misinformation is such a huge industry these days, and hey! A lot of misinformation relies on those aforementioned appeals to emotion that are both a marketing device and a rhetorical one.

Complete and consistent preferences: Sometimes?

I mean, some people have complete and consistent preferences. I have a favorite Starbucks drink that I get most times (technically I have four and it depends on the weather). I have stylistic preferences for my clothing. I have musical preferences.

But it still takes me time to make decisions when at a restaurant, you know? My little sister likes a lot of foods, sure, but if you ask her to pick a place to eat it can take literal hours. Hell, there are entire phenomenons named after the fact that people don't have preferences and have trouble making decisions!

And on top of all that, you have people whose 'preference' is spontaneity. They pick whatever they haven't tried before, because it's new, and exciting, and that's cool!

Which really harshes the mellow on that whole "clear and consistent preferences" thing.

Where does that leave us?

Well, the rational actor is clearly a majorly inaccurate standard to hold individual consumers and the market to. That said, I don't think more than a handful of very extreme people would ever claim that the rational actor is an absolutely perfect predictor for the market.

Rather, it's used as a starting point. If the market reacts to forces in a completely rational manner, here is what we would be expecting. Then, upon projecting the actions of the market under the most rational and perfect conditions, we can apply other possible factors. The possible success of a marketing campaign. The risks of weather or politics impacting supply lines. An unexpected trend rising up from a comedic social media moment among teens and young people.

Imagine you have a catapult. Imagine you know what the catapult will do under perfect conditions, with consistent rope length and artillery weight and weather conditions. The numbers you run your basic physics class formulas with are the rational actor.

The market trends that cause that rational prediction to have error margins is the equivalent of "the wind's been varying between 3mph and 9mph, and from NW to SWW."

I'm not sure how safely I can get away with embedding images that I don't personally have the rights to when they're actually relevant to the education portion of this, and not just a silly joke like the TGP inclusion up there, so I'll just tell you to go look at the first graph at this link, and you'll see what I mean about the 'best, most predictable case' line vs the 'actual possibilities' forecast.

Hope that helps!

(If you wanted me to go more into the history of this concept than its actual uses, uh... whoops?)

#economics #economic forecasts #capitalism #phoenix talks #ko fi #ko fi prompts #research #rational actor #myth of the rational actor

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timetoletmyimaginationfly · 5 months

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Our Love Story

Nanami Kento x Reader

Part 7: Don’t Lift A Finger, Love

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6

(Song Inspiration: Love Someone by Jason Mraz)

Nanami decided to go to your place after his shift. He was glad that he was able to leave early. He has been very grateful to Gojo and Geto since they offer to finish missions for him so he can return to you on time.

You and Nanami go back and forth to each other’s places. It started off slow, keeping a toothbrush in each other’s places after you fell asleep at his apartment after studying one night. He even bought you clothes, facial and specific hair products, toiletries, and even make up to keep at his place. And when Nanami finished his shift, he slowly brought his things over to keep at yours.

He did his normal thing when he came back. Shoes were off, blunt sword against the wall, glasses on the table, sleeves rolled up halfway, top buttons undone, and tie hanging loosely around his neck. He found you in your kitchen, studying intensely for your final.

You were busy this past month. In a few days, you will take your final and your ceremony was a couple of weeks later. You’ve been going to reviews for your NCLEX and tutoring for your sessions. Along with that, you still worked your full time hours at the hospital. He made sure he came back home to you. He made sure you ate, either bringing home food or cooking something he planned for you throughout the day. He did more than you needed him to do. But you knew that he would be stubborn to listen to you when you were swamped to take care of yourself. You always tell them you were alright before he starts doing what he was going to do anyway. You were slowly getting used to him doing anything and everything for you.

“Sweetheart?” You didn’t react. And when he walked closer to you, he could hear the music blasting from your head phones. He pulled it them off your head, making you jump. When you turned around, you smiled widely.

“Kento-kun! Did you just get back?” you asked. Nanami nodded. “How was work?”

“Good,” he answered and took a seat next to you. “Gojo-san and Geto-san took over my last mission.”

“They’re too good to you,” you said and kissed his lips.

“Are you working tonight?” he asked. You shook your head.

“I took vacation for two weeks.” Nanami smiled and you can see that he was relieved. He leaned in and kissed your forehead tenderly.

“Good,” he said. “You have been nonstop. As much as I want you to take a break, I love that your hard work is paying off. I’m so proud of you, sweetheart.” You just want to cry happily from his words.

“You really mean it?” you asked. Nanami nodded. “Okay, let me be for a bit. I’m almost done with these practice questions.”

“Okay, my love. I’ll make us dinner.”

He kissed your lips, yet your body felt frozen. You couldn’t help but let his new pet name for you repeat in your head. It was usually sweetheart, darling, or sometimes dear. Never had he said love. As you placed your headphones back on, you couldn’t help but wonder if there was more meaning to the name. It almost made it hard for you to concentrate.

You couldn’t stop smiling as you were studying. Nanami couldn’t help but do the same thing whenever he looked up at you. He feels at peace when you smile. Your smile is his favorite sight.

“Break time!”

“Food is almost done. I made katsudon,” he said. Your mouth watered. You’ve been craving it for a while now. You put your school supplies away in your living room. You entered the kitchen and started to quickly wash the dishes, but when Nanami saw what you were doing, he immediately wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you away. You laughed. “Do not lift a finger, my love. I want you to relax.”

You blushed as he brought you to the chair. You sat down and watched him prepare the dish. You watched his back as he was by the stove finishing dinner. You watched him turn on the electric kettle and setting up two tea cups and two teabags. You watched him set up two bowls and he walked over to you with a smile. The smell of dinner made your stomach rumble.

“Thank you, Kento-kun! You are seriously the best.”

“Anything for my girl,” he said and turned back around to grab the two tea cups. You patiently waited for him. Once he sat down, the two of you grabbed your chopsticks and ate. “Is it good, love?” You nodded.

“It’s amazing,” you said. “You make the best meals.”

“Is it missing anything?” he asked curiously. He takes your criticisms seriously. He wanted to make the meals perfect just for you.

“Not this one,” you said. “Maybe more onions but I also loooove onions with this dish.” Nanami took a mental note of it for next time. You looked at him. “But you don’t have to.”

“I want you to have the best,” he said. Your heart wanted to leap out of your chest.

“I love you,” you said.

You and Nanami froze. You quickly turned back around and took a sip of your tea. Nanami watched you, letting those three words sink in. He couldn’t help but smile. He placed his hand on your thigh which got you to turn around and look at him. Nanami stood up and cupped your face.

“I love you too, sweetheart.” You smiled widely. You grabbed his tie and pulled him in to kiss him. The kiss was long, tongues battling each other, with Nanami gently nibbling and sucking on your bottom lip. Once he heard your soft moan, he pulled away. He gazed at your dazed and soft eyes before kissing your forehead. “I love you so much.”

After dinner was finished, Nanami quickly took the bowls to the sink before you could clean up. He held your hand and lead you to the couch, telling you to relax.

“I’m not disabled,” you said, slightly teasingly. Nanami kissed your forehead.

“I know. I just don’t want you to lift a finger tonight,” he said, face stoic yet voice so soft it makes your heart leap with joy.

“Then in that case, I will shower and get ready for the night.” Nanami let out a small smile and kissed your lips. “You’re very kissy tonight.”

“You’re just very kissable,” he said. “Go shower. I’ll go right after you, love.” You nodded, skipping your way to the bathroom.

He found you in bed, laptop on your lap and your iPad filled with notes in your hand. He awed at the sight while leaning against the doorway after his shower. His towel remained around his waist. You looked up and turned to look at him. Your eyes widened and you blushed as you turned your attention back to your computer.

“Studying hard again?” he asked. You gave him a high-pitched hum in response. Nanami picked out his clothes and walked back to the bathroom to change. Your hand was on your racing heart. You let dirty thoughts consume your mind.

“Love, do you want tea?” he asked.

“I’m good for now,” you answered flustered. Nanami nodded and joined you in bed. He took his book from the nightstand and started reading. “So…what is it that you love about me?” Nanami placed a book mark in his book and closed it, putting it back on the night table.

“You being you,” he answered nonchalantly. He watched you react irritably with his reaction. He quietly chuckled to himself before pulling you closer to him, your laptop slipping off your lap and falling to the side of the bed.

“Now is not the time to be cliche with that short answer,” you said with pouty lips. Nanami kissed the top of your head.

"You're smart and beautiful. You prefer to be independent and I love that you let me in your life and allow me to help you. Unlike me, you like to go with the flow of things. You don't exactly plan things out and usually I hate that, but I love it with you. I never planned to keep you close in my life. I was just going to keep it at that after you bought me coffee and bread.”

“I honestly thought the same thing. Then you called me. Checked up on me. Why’d you do that?” Nanami shrugged.

“I felt like I had to. I knew I didn’t have to. With me being a sorcerer, I couldn’t let you in my life. But since I kept letting you in, I at least had to give you an option, right?” You nodded. “You make me happy. When I see you, I feel the tiredness go away the moment I see you smile. When I see you work hard, it makes me want to become a better sorcerer, that way I can protect you. I love everything about you.” You smiled. You held his hand tightly and rested your head on his shoulder.

“You don’t find me like I’m some kind of child right?”

“Not at all. Why? You think a five year age gap is too much?”

“I-I was just curious.” Nanami chuckled and kissed the top of your head.

“Your turn.”

“You’re a serious and stoic man with the biggest heart in the world,” you said. “When I talk to Gojo-san and Geto-san, they love talking about you to me. You’re so caring to the young sorcerers. You make me proud that you are one. You get to be their mentor and they get to fight in battle like you. And I know I never seen you fight, but I don’t have to see to know that you’re one of the best.” Nanami felt a burst of happiness when you said that. “And I love that you’re true to word and actions. You’re honest and loyal. Everything about you is just amazing.” You couldn’t keep his eyes off of him. Something about them sparkled. Nanami rested his forehead on yours, gently caressing your one cheek.

“Thank you,” he said and kissed you softly.

#nanami x reader #nanami x you #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jjk x you #jjk x reader #nanami jjk #jujutsu kaisen nanami #nanami kento #jujutsu nanami #jjk nanami #nanami fanfic #nanami #nanami fluff #jujutsu kaisen fluff #jjk fluff #jjk fanfic

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tutyayilmazz · 1 year

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The sheer number of older and more experienced professionals involved in Måneskin introduces a tension between the rock conventions that characterize their songwriting and the fundamentally pop circumstances under which those songs are produced. They are four friends in a band, but that band is inside an enormous machine. From their perspective, though, the machine is good.

The American visitor to Rome arrives with certain preconceptions that feel like stereotypes but turn out to be basically accurate. There really are mopeds flying around everywhere, and traffic seems governed by the principle that anyone can be replaced. Breakfast is coffee and cigarettes. Despite these orthopedic and nutritional hazards, everyone is better looking — not literally everyone, of course, but statistically, as if whatever selective forces that emerge from urban density have had an extra hundred generations or so to work. And they really do talk like that, an emphatic mix of vowels, gestures and car horns known as “Italian.” To be scolded in this language by a driver who wants to park in the crosswalk is to realize that some popular ideas are actually true. Also, it is hot.

The triumphant return to Rome of Måneskin — arguably the only rock stars of their generation, and almost certainly the biggest Italian rock band of all time — coincided with a heat wave across Southern Europe. On that Tuesday in July the temperature hit 107 degrees. The Tiber looked thick, rippled in places and still in others, as if it were reducing. By Thursday morning the band’s vast management team was officially concerned that the night’s sold-out performance at the Stadio Olimpico would be delayed. When Måneskin finally took the stage around 9:30 p.m., it was still well into the 90s — which was too bad, because there would be pyro.

There was no opening act, possibly because no rock band operating at this level is within 10 years of Måneskin’s age. The guitarist Thomas Raggi played the riff to “Don’t Wanna Sleep,” the lights came up and 60,000 Italians screamed. Damiano David — the band’s singer and, at age 24, its oldest member — charged out in black flared trousers and a mesh top that bisected his torso diagonally, his heavy brow and hypersymmetrical features making him look like some futuristic nomad who hunted the fishnet mammoth. Victoria De Angelis, the bassist, wore a minidress made from strips of leather or possibly bungee cords. Raggi wore nonporous pants and a black button-down he quickly discarded, while Ethan Torchio drummed in a vest with no shirt underneath, his hair flying. For the next several minutes of alternately disciplined and frenzied noise, they sounded as if Motley Crüe had been cryogenically frozen, then revived in 2010 with Rob Thomas on vocals.

That hypothetical will appeal to some while repelling others, and which category you fall into is, with all due respect, not my business here. Rolling Stone, for its part, said that Måneskin “only manage to confirm how hard rock & roll has to work these days to be noticed,” and a viral Pitchfork review called their most recent album “absolutely terrible at every conceivable level.” But this kind of thumbs up/thumbs down criticism is pretty much vestigial now that music is free. If you want to know whether you like Måneskin — the name is Danish and pronounced MOAN-eh-skin — you can fire up the internet and add to the more than nine billion streams Sony Music claims the band has accumulated across Spotify, YouTube, et cetera. As for whether Måneskin is good, de gustibus non est disputandum, as previous Italians once said: In matters of taste, there can be no arguments.

You should know, though, that even though their music has been heard most often through phone and laptop speakers, Måneskin sounds better on a soccer field. That is what tens of thousands of fans came to the Stadio Olimpico on an eyelid-scorching Thursday to experience: the culturally-if-not-personally-familiar commodity of a stadium rock show, delivered by the unprecedented phenomenon of a stadium-level Italian rock band. The pyro — 20-foot jets of swivel-articulated flame that you could feel all the way up in the mezzanine — kicked in on “Gasoline,” a song Måneskin wrote to protest Vladimir Putin’s invasion of Ukraine. From a thrust platform in the center of the field, David poured his full emotive powers into the pre-chorus: “Standing alone on that hill/using your fuel to kill/we won’t take it standing still/watch us dance.”

The effect these words will have on President Putin is unknown. They capture something, though, about rock ’n’ roll, which has established certain conventions over the last seven decades. One of those conventions is an atmosphere of rebellion. It doesn’t have to be real — you probably don’t even want it to be — but neither can it seem too contrived, because the defining constraint of rock as a genre is that you have to feel it. The successful rock song creates in listeners the sensation of defying consensus, even if they are right in step with it.

The need to feel the rock may explain the documented problem of fans’ taste becoming frozen in whatever era was happening when they were between the ages of 15 and 25. Anyone who adolesced after Spotify, however, did not grow up with rock as an organically developing form and is likely to have experienced the whole catalog simultaneously, listening to Led Zeppelin at the same time they listened to Pixies and Franz Ferdinand — i.e. as a genre rather than as particular artists, the way my generation (I’m 46) experienced jazz. The members of Måneskin belong to this post-Spotify cohort. As the youngest and most prominent custodians of the rock tradition, their job is to sell new, guitar-driven songs of 100 to 150 beats per minute to a larger and larger audience, many of whom are young people who primarily think of such music as a historical artifact. Starting this month, Måneskin will take this business on a multivenue tour of the United States — a market where they are considerably less known — whose first stop is Madison Square Garden.

“I think the genre thing is like ... ” Torchio said to me backstage in Rome, making a gesture that conveyed translingual complexity. “We can do a metaphor: If you eat fish, meat and peanuts every day, like for years, and then you discover potatoes one day, you’ll be like: ‘Wow, potatoes! I like potatoes; potatoes are great.’ But potatoes have been there the whole time.” Rock was the potato in this metaphor, and he seemed to be saying that even though many people were just now discovering that they liked it, it had actually been around for a long time. It was a revealing analogy: The implication was that rock, like the potato, is here to stay; but what if rock is, like the potato in our age of abundance, comparatively bland and no longer anyone’s favorite?

Which rock song came first is a topic of disagreement, but one strong candidate is “Rocket 88,” recorded by Ike Turner and his Kings of Rhythym band in 1951. It’s about a car and, in its final verse, about drinking in the car. These themes capture the context in which rock ’n’ roll emerged: a period when household incomes, availability of consumer goods and the share of Americans experiencing adolescence all increased simultaneously.

Although and possibly because rock started as Black music, it found a gigantic audience of white teenagers during the so-called British Invasion of the mid-1960s (the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, the Who), which made it the dominant form of pop music for the next two decades. The stadium/progressive era (Journey, Fleetwood Mac, Foreigner) that now constitutes the bulk of classic-rock radio gave way, eventually, to punk (the Ramones, Patti Smith, Minor Threat) and then glam metal: Twisted Sister, Guns N’ Roses and various other hair-intensive bands that were obliterated by the success of Nirvana and Pearl Jam in 1991. This shift can be understood as the ultimate triumph of punk, both in its return to emotive content expressed through simpler arrangements and in its professed hostility toward the music industry itself. After 1991, suspicion of anything resembling pop became a mark of seriousness among both rock critics and fans.

It is probably not a coincidence that this period is also when rock’s cultural hegemony began to wane. As the ’90s progressed, larger and again whiter audiences embraced hip-hop, and the last song classified as “rock” to reach No. 1 on the Billboard Hot 100 was Nickelback’s “How You Remind Me” in 2001. The run of bands that became popular during the ’00s — the Strokes, the Killers, Kings of Leon — constituted rock’s last great commercial gasp, but none of their singles charted higher than No. 4. Let us say, then, that the era of rock as pop music lasted from 1951 to 2011. That’s a three-generation run, if you take seriously rock’s advice to get drunk and have sex in the car and therefore produce children at around age 20. Baby boomers were the generation that made rock a zillion-dollar industry; Gen X saved it from that industry with punk and indie, and millennials closed it all out playing Guitar Hero.

The members of Måneskin are between the ages of 22 and 24, situating them firmly within the cadre of people who understand rock in the past tense. De Angelis, the bassist, and Raggi, the guitarist, formed the band when they were both attending a music-oriented middle school; David was a friend of friends, while Torchio was the only person who responded to their Facebook ad seeking a drummer. There are few entry-level rock venues in Rome, so they started by busking on the streets. In 2017, they entered the cattle-call audition for the Italian version of “The X Factor.” They eventually finished as runners-up to the balladeer Lorenzo Licitra, and an EP of songs they performed on the show was released by Sony Music and went triple platinum.

In 2021, Måneskin won the Sanremo Music Festival, earning the right to represent Italy with their song “Zitti e Buoni” (whose title roughly translates to “shut up and behave”) in that year’s Eurovision Song Contest. This program is not widely viewed in the United States, but it is a gigantic deal in Europe, and Måneskin won. Not long after, they began to appear on international singles charts, and “I Wanna Be Your Slave” broke the British Top 10. A European tour followed, as well as U.S. appearances at festivals and historic venues.

This ascent to stardom was not unmarred by controversy. The Eurovison live broadcast caught David bending over a table offstage, and members of the media accused him of snorting cocaine. David insisted he was innocent and took a drug test, which he passed, but Måneskin and their management still seem indignant about the whole affair. It’s exactly this kind of incongruous detail — this damaging rumor that a rock star did cocaine — that highlights how the Italian music-consuming public differs from the American one. Many elements of Måneskin’s presentation, like the cross-dressing and the occasional male-on-male kiss, are genuinely upsetting to older Italians, even as they seem familiar or even hackneyed to audiences in the United States.

“They see a band of young, good-looking guys that are dressing up too much, and then it’s not pure rock ’n’ roll, because you’re not in a garage, looking ugly,” De Angelis says. “The more conservative side, they’re shocked because of how we dress or move onstage, or the boys wear makeup.”

She and her bandmates are caught between two demographics: the relatively conservative European audience that made them famous and the more tolerant if not downright desensitized American audience that they must impress to keep the ride moving. And they do have to keep it moving, because — like many rock stars before them — most of the band dropped out of high school to do this. At one point, Raggi told me that he had sat in on some classes at a university, “Just to try to understand, ‘What is that?’”

One question that emerged early in my discussions with Måneskin’s friendly and professional management team was whether I was going to say that their music was bad. This concern seemed related to the aforementioned viral Pitchfork review, in which the editor Jeremy Larson wrote that their new album, “RUSH!” sounds “like it’s made for introducing the all-new Ford F-150” and “seems to be optimized for getting busy in a Buffalo Wild Wings bathroom” en route to a score of 2.0 (out of 10). While the members of Måneskin seemed to take this review philosophically, their press liaisons were concerned that I was coming to Italy to have a similar type of fun.

Here I should disclose that Larson edited an essay I wrote for Pitchfork about the Talking Heads album “Remain in Light” (score: 10.0) and that I think of myself as his friend. Possibly because of these biases, I read his review as reflecting his deeply held and, among rock fans, widely shared need to feel the music, something that the many pop/commercial elements of “RUSH!” (e.g. familiar song structures, lyrics that seem to have emerged from a collaboration between Google Translate and Nikki Sixx, compulsive use of multiband compression) left him unable to do.

This perspective reflects the post-’90s rock consensus (PNRC) that anything that sounds too much like a mass-market product is no good. The PNRC is premised on the idea that rock is not just a structure of song but also a structure of relationship between the band and society. From rock’s earliest days as Black music, the real or perceived opposition between rocker and society has been central to its appeal; this adversarial relationship animated the youth and counterculture eras of the ’60s and then, when the economic dominance of mass-market rock made it impossible to believe in, provoked the revitalizing backlash of punk. Even major labels felt obliged to play into this paradoxical worldview, e.g. that period after Nirvana when the most popular genre of music was called “alternative.” Måneskin, however, are defined by their isolation from the PNRC. They play rock music, but operate according to the logic of pop.

In Milan, where Måneskin would finish their Italian minitour, I had lunch with the band, as well as two of their managers, Marica Casalinuovo and Fabrizio Ferraguzzo. Casalinuovo had been an executive producer working on “The X Factor,” and Ferraguzzo was its musical director; around the time that Måneskin broke through, Casalinuovo and Ferraguzzo left the show and began working with the stars it had made. We were at the in-house restaurant of Moysa, the combination recording studio, soundstage, rehearsal space, offices, party venue and “creative playground” that Ferraguzzo opened two months earlier. After clarifying that he was in no way criticizing major record labels and the many vendors they engaged to record, promote and distribute albums, he laid out his vision for Moysa, a place where all those functions were performed by a single corporate entity — basically describing the concept of vertical integration.

Ferraguzzo oversaw the recording of “RUSH!” along with a group of producers that included Max Martin, the Swedish hitmaker best known for his work with Backstreet Boys and Britney Spears. At Moysa, Ferraguzzo played for me Måneskin’s then-unreleased new single, “Honey (Are U Coming?)” which features many of the band’s signature moves — guitar and bass playing the same melodic phrases at the same time, unswung boogie-type rhythm of the post-Strokes style — but also has David singing in a higher register than usual. I listened to it first on studio monitors and then through the speaker of Ferraguzzo’s phone, and it sounded clean and well produced both times, as if a team of industry veterans with unlimited access to espresso had come together to perfect it.

“There’s hundreds of people working and talking about you and giving opinions,” De Angelis said at lunch. “So if you start to get in this loop of wanting to know and control and being anxious about it, it really ruins everything.” Here lies the conflict between what the PNRC wants from a band — resistance to outside influences, contempt for commerce, authenticity as measured in doing everything themselves — and what any sane 23-year-old would want, which is to have someone with an M.B.A. make all the decisions so she can concentrate on playing bass.

The other way Måneskin is isolated from the PNRC is geographic. Over the course of lunch, it became clear that they had encyclopedic knowledge of certain eras in American rock history but were only dimly aware of others. Raggi, for instance, loves Motley Crüe and has an album-by-album command of the Los Angeles hair-metal band Skid Row, which he and his bandmates seemed to understand were supposed to be guilty pleasures. But none of them had ever heard of Fugazi, the post-hardcore band whose hatred of major labels, refusal to sell merchandise and commitment to keeping ticket prices as low as possible set the standard for a generation of American rock snobs. In general, Måneskin’s timeline of influences seems to break off around 1990, when the rock most respected by Anglophone critics was produced by independent labels that did not have strong overseas distribution. It picks up again with Franz Ferdinand and the “emo” era of mainstream pop rock. This retrospect leaves them unaware of the indie/punk/D.I.Y. period that was probably most important in forming the PNRC.

The question is whether that consensus still matters. While snobs like Larson and me are overrepresented in journalism, we never constituted a majority of rock fans. That’s the whole point of being a snob. And snobbery is obsolete anyway; digital distribution ended the correlation between how obscure your favorite band was and how much effort you put into listening to them. The longevity of rock ’n’ roll as a genre, meanwhile, has solidified a core audience that is now between the ages of 40 and 80, rendering the fan-versus-society dimension of the PNRC impossible to believe. And the economics of the industry — in which streaming has reduced the profit margin on recorded music, and the closure of small venues has made stadiums and big auditoriums the only reliable way to make money on tour — have decimated the indie model. All these forces have converged to make rock, for the first time in its history, merely a way of writing songs instead of a way of life.

Yet rock as a cluster of signifiers retains its power around the world. In the same way everyone knows what a castle is and what it signifies, even though actual castles are no longer a meaningful force in our lives, rock remains a shared language of cultural expression even though it is no longer determining our friendships, turning children against their parents, yelling truth at power, et cetera. Also like a castle, a lot of people will pay good money to see a preserved historical example of rock or even a convincing replica of it, especially in Europe.

In Milan, the temperature had dropped 20 degrees, and Måneskin’s show at Stadio Giuseppe Meazza — commonly known as San Siro, the largest stadium in Italy, sold out that night at 60,000 — was threatened by thunderstorms instead of record-breaking heat. Fans remained undaunted: Many camped in the parking lot the night before in order to be among the first to enter the stadium. One of them was Tamara, an American who reported her age as 60½ and said she had skipped a reservation to see da Vinci’s “Last Supper” in order to stay in line. “When you get to knocking on the door, you kind of want to do what you want,” she said.

The threat of rain was made good at pretty much the exact moment the show began. The sea of black T-shirts on the pitch became a field of multicolored ponchos, and raindrops were bouncing visibly off the surface of the stage. David lost his footing near the end of “I Wanna Be Your Slave,” briefly rolling to his back, while De Angelis — who is very good at making lips-parted-in-ecstasy-type rock faces — played with her eyes turned upward to the flashing sky, like a martyr.

The rain stopped in time for “Kool Kids,” a punk-inspired song in which David affects a Cockney accent to sing about the vexed cultural position of rock ’n’ roll: “Cool kids, they do not like rock/they only listen to trap and pop.” These are probably the Måneskin lyrics most quoted by music journalists, although they should probably be taken with a grain of salt, considering that the song also contains lyrics like “I like doin’ things I love, yeah” and “Cool kids, they do not vomit.”

“Kool Kids” was the last song before the encore, and each night a few dozen good-looking 20-somethings were released onto the stage to dance and then, as the band walked off, to make we’re-not-worthy bows around Raggi’s abandoned guitar. The whole thing looked at least semichoreographed, but management assured me that the Kool Kids were not professional dancers — just enthusiastic fans who had been asked if they wanted to be part of the show. I kept trying to meet the person in charge of wrangling these Kool Kids, and there kept being new reasons that was not possible.

The regular kids, on the other hand, were available and friendly throughout. In Rome, Dorca and Sara, two young members of a Måneskin fan club, saw my notebook and shot right over to tell me they loved the band because, as Sara put it, “they allow you to be yourself.” When asked whether they felt their culture was conservative in ways that prevented them from being themselves, Dorca — who was 21 and wearing eyeglasses that looked like part of her daily wardrobe and a mesh top that didn’t — said: “Maybe it turns out that you can be yourself. But you don’t know that at first. You feel like you can’t.”

Here lies the element of rock that functions independently from the economics of the industry or the shifting preferences of critics, the part that is maybe independent from time itself: the continually renewed experience of adolescence, of hearing and therefore feeling it all for the first time. But how disorienting must those feelings be when they have been fully monetized, fully sanctioned — when the response to your demand to rock ’n’ roll all night and party every day is, “Great, exactly, thank you.” In a culture where defying consensus is the dominant value, anything is possible except rebellion. It must be strange, in this post-everything century, to finally become yourself and discover that no one has any problem with that.

#måneskin #maneskin #i had a free nyt article so here you go #the article is so painfully a middle aged american perspective #which the author admits #and like thinking the fans on stage is staged?!??#or like how there can be no more authentic rebellion - maybe that's what it's like from your cushy position #but doesn't go into tdi at all #the stuff about the industry surrounding them i agree and its worth the read though

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